Cosmic Princess Kaguya!

Moonlight in the Server Room

There is perhaps no act of cinematic hubris quite like deciding to adapt *The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter* in the shadow of Isao Takahata. His 2013 masterpiece, *The Tale of the Princess Kaguya*, feels like the final word on the folktale—a brushstroke of tragic inevitability. Yet, Shingo Yamashita’s *Cosmic Princess Kaguya!* (2026) dares to reopen the book. It does not try to out-paint Ghibli; instead, it uploads the myth into the cloud. Yamashita, making his feature debut after years of redefining anime’s visual language through high-octane openings (*Chainsaw Man*, *Jujutsu Kaisen*) and the web-gen masterpiece *Pokémon: Twilight Wings*, has delivered a film that is less about the tragedy of leaving Earth and more about the desperate, glitchy joy of connecting with it.



The film’s brilliance lies in its visual schizophrenia, a deliberate clash of aesthetics that serves its narrative perfectly. Produced as a collaboration between Studio Colorido and Yamashita’s own Studio Chromato, the movie operates on two distinct frequencies. The "real world"—where our protagonist Iroha toils in a cramped, sun-drenched Tokyo apartment—is rendered with the soft, photorealistic lighting Colorido is known for. It is heavy, grounded, and suffocatingly mundane.

Then there is "Tsukuyomi," the virtual reality sphere where Iroha and the lunar runaway Kaguya perform. Here, Yamashita unleashes his signature style: untethered camera movements, flatter "web-gen" character designs that prioritize kinetic energy over anatomical rigidity, and a color palette that screams in neon. When Iroha discovers the infant Kaguya not in a bamboo stalk, but inside a glowing, humming telephone pole, the film signals its intent: this is a story about how technology has become our modern folklore, the conduit through which we experience miracles.



At its core, however, *Cosmic Princess Kaguya!* is a character study of Iroha. While Kaguya is the catalyst—a chaotic ball of lunar energy who wants to become a top streamer to "conquer Earth"—Iroha is the emotional anchor. She represents a very specific, modern form of teenage burnout: talented but paralyzed by the fear of being perceived. The film treats the VTuber ecosystem not as a dystopian satire (as a lesser script might have), but with a surprising amount of empathy. It posits the avatar not as a mask to hide behind, but as a necessary instrument of amplification, allowing the silent Iroha to finally scream.

The relationship between the two girls avoids the trap of simple "odd couple" dynamics. Kaguya’s manic "idol" energy is a frantic attempt to consume life before her inevitable return to the moon, while Iroha’s reticence is a defense mechanism against loss. When they perform together, backed by a score that seamlessly blends traditional Japanese instrumentation with aggressive Vocaloid-style synth, the film achieves a rare kind of transcendence. It argues that the digital space is not "fake"—the emotions felt there are the most real things these characters have.



If the film falters, it is in its reluctance to fully embrace the devastating sorrow of its source material. The "rocky landing" in the third act feels like a concession to the genre's need for a climax that can be resolved with a concert rather than the quiet, crushing departure the folktale demands. The narrative propulsion sometimes gets lost in the "vibes," drifting like a mesmerizing screensaver rather than driving toward a conclusion.

Yet, to criticize *Cosmic Princess Kaguya!* for not being a tragedy is to miss the point. Yamashita has crafted a fable for the streaming generation, suggesting that even if our time together is temporary—destined to be deleted or archived—the signal we broadcast in the meantime still matters. It is a vibrant, electric daydream that asserts, quite loudly, that even a virtual life is a life worth living.