Ottone Degli Ulivi, detto Zazà
Totò
Ottone Degli Ulivi, detto Zazà
Overview
Baron Zazà, always broke due his dissolute lifestyle, decides to con a hefty sum of money out of his wealthy but greedy brother.
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Tao of the Shovel: Unearthing Identity in The OutCast
In the sprawling, often derivative landscape of modern animation, there exists a peculiar friction when ancient folklore rubs shoulders with the cynicism of the twenty-first century. *The OutCast* (or *Hitori no Shita*), released in 2016, serves as a fascinating artifact of this collision. It is a work that feels less like a polished commercial product and more like a raw, energetic scrawl—a series that struggles to reconcile its identity as a Chinese-Japanese co-production while simultaneously narrating a story about a protagonist struggling to reconcile his own fractured heritage. It is a "wuxia" tale stripped of its flowing robes, transplanted into the grime of a modern university and the eerie silence of a desecrated graveyard.
Visually, the series operates in a space of unsettling contrasts. The 2016 animation style, often criticized for its roughness, inadvertently works in the show’s favor during its more atmospheric moments. The mundane world—dorm rooms, city streets—is rendered with a flat, oppressive beige, which makes the intrusion of the supernatural feel genuinely violating. When the "Outsiders" clash, the screen is bathed in electric blues and sickly purples, highlighting the hidden "Qi" that flows beneath the surface of modern society. It is not the pristine, hyper-fluid animation of high-budget contemporaries; rather, it possesses a jagged, kinetic energy that mirrors the protagonist’s own clumsy initiation into a world he wants no part of.
The narrative anchor is Zhang Chulan, a character who defies the typical archetype of the hot-blooded hero. Chulan is defined not by his ambition, but by his desperate desire for concealment. He is a young man who has spent his life hiding his light under a bushel, adhering to his grandfather’s warnings to remain invisible. This creates a compelling tension: we are watching a superhero origin story where the hero is actively fighting *against* his origin. His initial encounters with the supernatural are not moments of awe, but of terror and annoyance.
This reluctance is shattered by Feng Baobao, an enigma wielding a shovel and a kitchen knife. If Chulan represents the anxiety of the modern youth—overthinking, neurotic, and detached—Baobao is the terrifying purity of the ancient world. She is emotionless, pragmatic, and brutally efficient. The scene where she confronts Chulan in the graveyard, amidst the shambling undead, is a masterclass in tonal dissonance. It is terrifying, yes, but also darkly comedic. She does not offer grand speeches about destiny; she offers the dull thud of a shovel against the earth. Their dynamic drives the series, moving beyond a simple "master-student" relationship into something more symbiotic and strange.
Ultimately, *The OutCast* is a meditation on the burden of lineage. The "Qi Apotheosis" that Chulan inherits is not a gift; it is a target on his back. The series asks difficult questions about what we owe to our ancestors and whether "tradition" is a source of strength or a curse that prevents us from living normal lives. The varied factions of the Outsider world—reimagined Daoist sects and martial arts families—function as metaphors for the different ways one can grapple with history: some seek to control it, others to exploit it, and Chulan simply wishes to survive it.
While the pacing occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own exposition, *The OutCast* succeeds because it refuses to romanticize the extraordinary. It suggests that magic, if it existed today, would not be majestic—it would be messy, bureaucratic, and dangerous. In unearthing the secrets of his grandfather's grave, Zhang Chulan discovers that the past is never truly dead; it is merely waiting for the right moment to reach up and grab you by the ankle. This is a gritty, unpolished gem of urban fantasy that rewards those willing to dig a little deeper.
In the sprawling, often derivative landscape of modern animation, there exists a peculiar friction when ancient folklore rubs shoulders with the cynicism of the twenty-first century. *The OutCast* (or *Hitori no Shita*), released in 2016, serves as a fascinating artifact of this collision. It is a work that feels less like a polished commercial product and more like a raw, energetic scrawl—a series that struggles to reconcile its identity as a Chinese-Japanese co-production while simultaneously narrating a story about a protagonist struggling to reconcile his own fractured heritage. It is a "wuxia" tale stripped of its flowing robes, transplanted into the grime of a modern university and the eerie silence of a desecrated graveyard.
Visually, the series operates in a space of unsettling contrasts. The 2016 animation style, often criticized for its roughness, inadvertently works in the show’s favor during its more atmospheric moments. The mundane world—dorm rooms, city streets—is rendered with a flat, oppressive beige, which makes the intrusion of the supernatural feel genuinely violating. When the "Outsiders" clash, the screen is bathed in electric blues and sickly purples, highlighting the hidden "Qi" that flows beneath the surface of modern society. It is not the pristine, hyper-fluid animation of high-budget contemporaries; rather, it possesses a jagged, kinetic energy that mirrors the protagonist’s own clumsy initiation into a world he wants no part of.
The narrative anchor is Zhang Chulan, a character who defies the typical archetype of the hot-blooded hero. Chulan is defined not by his ambition, but by his desperate desire for concealment. He is a young man who has spent his life hiding his light under a bushel, adhering to his grandfather’s warnings to remain invisible. This creates a compelling tension: we are watching a superhero origin story where the hero is actively fighting *against* his origin. His initial encounters with the supernatural are not moments of awe, but of terror and annoyance.
This reluctance is shattered by Feng Baobao, an enigma wielding a shovel and a kitchen knife. If Chulan represents the anxiety of the modern youth—overthinking, neurotic, and detached—Baobao is the terrifying purity of the ancient world. She is emotionless, pragmatic, and brutally efficient. The scene where she confronts Chulan in the graveyard, amidst the shambling undead, is a masterclass in tonal dissonance. It is terrifying, yes, but also darkly comedic. She does not offer grand speeches about destiny; she offers the dull thud of a shovel against the earth. Their dynamic drives the series, moving beyond a simple "master-student" relationship into something more symbiotic and strange.
Ultimately, *The OutCast* is a meditation on the burden of lineage. The "Qi Apotheosis" that Chulan inherits is not a gift; it is a target on his back. The series asks difficult questions about what we owe to our ancestors and whether "tradition" is a source of strength or a curse that prevents us from living normal lives. The varied factions of the Outsider world—reimagined Daoist sects and martial arts families—function as metaphors for the different ways one can grapple with history: some seek to control it, others to exploit it, and Chulan simply wishes to survive it.
While the pacing occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own exposition, *The OutCast* succeeds because it refuses to romanticize the extraordinary. It suggests that magic, if it existed today, would not be majestic—it would be messy, bureaucratic, and dangerous. In unearthing the secrets of his grandfather's grave, Zhang Chulan discovers that the past is never truly dead; it is merely waiting for the right moment to reach up and grab you by the ankle. This is a gritty, unpolished gem of urban fantasy that rewards those willing to dig a little deeper.