The following contains minor spoilers of Attack on Titan up to season two.

I started and ended high school with Attack on Titan: well, I technically binged its first season in seventh grade but dropped it because a) its bravado and bizarre subject matter didn’t fully resonate with me and b) liking anime was still wholly stigmatized then. But during one monotonous freshman-year afternoon, I stumbled upon the show’s source material, which manifests itself in the form of monthly manga installments—and I was hooked. 

After nearly four years of my consistent reading, Attack on Titan’s manga is finally drawing to a close, culminating at its 139th chapter, which is set to be released in April. Additionally, its fourth (and final) 16-episode season is airing now on Hulu. And although we’re only eight episodes in, season four is already transcending the niche scope of anime into the mainstream—nearly snagging IMDb’s #1 TV episode title rank from Breaking Bad’s “Ozymandias” and attracting a significant amount of new, non-anime-fan viewers, effectively corrupting my Twitter timeline: they haven’t dubbed it ‘the Game of Thrones of anime’ for nothing.

Season four is also Game of Thrones-y in the sense that Attack on Titan’s plot has somehow evolved into a needlessly-complex, multi-faceted commentary on political power struggles—a long, long way from its first season, which allows for mindless but enjoyable consumption. The premise, back then, was simple: an isolated walled society with virtually no knowledge of the outside world exists on an island, protected from man-eating ‘titans.’ Then one day, the wall is broken, and our edgy, loud (and, quite frankly, annoying) protagonist Eren witnesses tragedy and makes the decision to join a quasi-military organization set on fighting the titans: a very binary ‘us vs. them’ mentality, something I wasn’t too immersed in when reading.

But, of course, there’s a twist. Eren unknowingly has the ability to ‘shift’ into a titan (whaaaat, never seen that done before), a fact that has something to do with his dad, who leaves him with the enigmatic promise to show him what’s lurking in the family basement (but a promise, unfulfilled, as a result of the attack). Furthermore, other characters in our main cast have Eren’s shifting ability as well, but in a particularly cinematic scene, they admit that they used this ability to carry out the breaching of the walls. This seemingly cements them as antagonists—a plot point finalized in the second season. 

Then in the third season, our cast finally completes the expedition to the basement. 

For the sake of not spoiling anything past season two, I’ll try to be very general here. The basement reveal sets up season four, and it is what I consider to be simultaneously the best and worst plot twist of all time. 

Best, because Attack on Titan’s true colors finally surface: season four employs a massive shift in perspective over to that of the antagonists, spinning a narrative about breaking cycles of violence. The series’s merit as a whole lies in that it wants you to experience bias, making you root for one side and then peeling back the curtain to show the full, impartial picture.

Worst, because Attack on Titan’s true colors have some ugly undertones. 

While the story’s text explicitly, in my opinion, puts forth a gripping message of overcoming generational hatred and promotes anti-imperialism, it somehow manages to undermine itself at the same time. Plagued with sloppy metaphors, carelessly insensitive imagery, and stupidly ambiguous real-world implications, Attack on Titan had me wondering at times: is this just lazy writing? Bizarre World War II fanfiction? A subtle vessel for Japan’s reactionary talking points? Or, at worst, a veiled endorsement of nationalism paraded as subtext? Only its pivotal ending will tell… 

That’s why this isn’t exactly a review. As a long-time reader, I will recommend watching season four of Attack on Titan, but never unreservedly—as I can’t bring myself to rave about a series of which I doubt the authorial intent. Because while it somehow manages to gloriously overdeliver plot- and production-wise, Attack on Titan suffers thematically from the fact that it conflates its obvious real-world influences in a somewhat problematic manner: the story itself does not seem to know what it is. 

Okay, rant over. Here’s where you say, “It’s not that deep, Iris. It’s just a cartoon.”

Well, yeah. It is just a cartoon. But it’s also an entryway into a fascinating debate on fiction’s effect on the real world and, in turn, whether art can be separated from the artist. 

Like, for example, here are some questions I’m still grappling with: is a fictional work’s power derived entirely from the reader’s interpretation? Is it an outlet for its readers, where anything goes, or an influence from its author, of which real-world ethics should extend to? Does the bigotry of J.K. Rowling, which unfortunately does seep into the Harry Potter universe at moments, overshadow the merits of her work?  

But from this reflection, one thing is for certain: if we refuse to engage with the potentially problematic, there is no way we can effectively call it out. Or advocate for bettering ourselves. And it is, in fact, possible to enjoy a series like Attack on Titan and critique it at the same time.

I won’t make my final judgment on Attack on Titan until I read its 139th chapter, but I will say in an effort to maintain its ultra-complex, morally-gray status, the affirming moments of what I’ve gathered to be its ‘true’ message are few and far between. But when they are present, they are compelling. And for that, I keep coming back. 

So, do you have something to gain from watching Attack on Titan? The long-time reader in me definitely thinks so. Back in 2018, I genuinely enjoyed reading the story arcs now covered in season four because they were so subversive—totally repudiating the juvenile ‘rah rah let’s-fetishize-the-military’ fantasy of season one and embracing themes that are fascinating, nuanced. It’s admittedly got everything I love: queer representation; 19th-century architecture; a captivating, character-driven plot; and a devastating dichotomy of bitter and sweet—all set in this macabre fantasy world. And beyond its virtues, Attack on Titan’s glaring flaws forced me to think critically about the media I was consuming, redefining my relationship with fiction and fueling my passion for storytelling.

All that being said, should you watch Attack on Titan? 

Huh. I’ll get back to you on that one in April.

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Edit: It’s April, and in the words of one fabulous Letterboxd review: “If you’ve never swum in the ocean, then, of course, a pool seems deep.” In another analogy to Game of Thrones, Attack on Titan’s final chapter was not its saving grace, nor was it the particularly meaningful or deliberate end I was anticipating. 

I suppose it is the journey that matters.