This review contains spoilers.

A sprawling city razed by war and rebuilt from the ashes now craves self-destruction as a means of escape from its decaying state. In the wake of a revolution, uncontrollable forces are on a collision course, verging on the upending of a system whose stability might have never been concrete in the first place. The interests of the governing classes are stifled by financial strain linked to megalomaniac techno-scientific endeavors, which in turn were both impelled and indulged by those very same elite classes that sought control, civilizational supremacy, and limitless innovation, even at the expense of humanity. When advancements in technological and political fields fail to serve the purpose of benefiting humanity, it becomes only a matter of time until their structures begin to crumble—either due to their leaders stumbling over their aberrational greed or by being knocked down by forces emerging from beneath their towering skyscrapers; the city slums, the desperate voices of the undernourished, unheeded or silenced for far too long by those who promised to protect their dignity.

Akira is presented as a cataclysmic spectacle of cyberpunk megalopolis proportions, fully committing its top-quality apparatus and top-talent staff to showcase the causes and effects of urban destruction in maximum detail; from the small-scale motorcycle gang quarrels on an abandoned highway to the psychokinetic battles between human weapons—figures that seem to bend the visual medium to their will, filling the multilayered compositions with high-density particles and debris as they gradually devastate the meticulously constructed cityscape. Aside from its focus on structural damage, the film’s vivid and many-framed displays of gory violence are heightened through the juxtaposition with its sterile scenery; the brutal depictions of death seem to serve as expressions of ephemeral rebellion against Neo-Tokyo’s pervasive artificiality that imprisons its inhabitants’ bodies and creeps into their souls like an infectious disease.

The power dynamics within the cast are a crucial facet that adds dimensionality to a conflict that could otherwise feel pointlessly bombastic. While the boisterous, capsule-design red jacket-wearing Shoutarou Kaneda is Akira’s poster child—immortalized with his recumbent motorcycle on one of the most recognizable covers in animation history—his power lies in his personality and leadership qualities, particularly his courage (though his skirt-chasing tendencies also drive his actions). On the other hand, his childhood friend, Tetsuo Shima, lacks charisma but is granted dreadfully destructive powers, becoming the film’s primary antagonistic presence and the epicenter of its most staggering set-pieces.
Officer Shikishima Taisa represents the military force, and as a soldier, his duty is limited to choosing whether or not to ‘act.’ However, in the face of the overwhelming events that unfold throughout the movie, he’s relegated to a mere observer, witnessing the men and war machines under his command get reduced to flaming piles of bloody shreds and metal scraps. The politicians are quick to impose force by shouting, but just as quick to shut up and cowardly run when things spiral out of control. The religious sycophants use the image of some false prophet to manipulate the neglected masses. The scientist is lost in delusions of grandeur, obsessed with a mystery likely designed to destroy anyone who dares try to unveil it.
Except for Kei—the rebel who draws Kaneda to the spotlight—the few named resistance members are just that: named disgruntled faces amidst a nameless mass of flesh and wrath that marches through the chaotic streets, writing their truth on the asphalt as they chant for times of change.

Finally, the psychic-powered children are the most tragic figures in the story. Raised as tools by order of inhuman technocrats, they were robbed of their childhoods and kept under constant surveillance in a place that visibly mocks the idea of a proper ‘home.’ Their dangerously powerful abilities sharply contrast with their shockingly deteriorated bodies, and even more so with their pitiable, innocent voices. Their fate, like Tetsuo’s, is one no one deserves but was forced upon them for others’ gain. And what makes their condition even more heart-wrenching is that, despite everything, they still want to help.
Regardless of whether they’ve been chosen due to their innate potential or sheer convenience, they are living, breathing evidence of a city gone sick, its leaders drunk on their own pride and lofty desires to fulfill promises of better days.
“Better days for whom?” is the unuttered question that can be heard over the city’s blustering disputes. For the populace that is oppressed and overtaxed to death? For the children who were weaponized, denied freedom, and stripped of their names in exchange for numbers? Or perhaps for the disenfranchised youth, beaten down and sent to be “educated” inside decrepit institutions? None of these answers is correct, because the root proposition is rotten.

When the interests of individuals entrusted with leading a nation clash with the vital needs of the people who placed that trust in them, the ensuing nuclear fission sends shockwaves in all directions, first hitting marginalized groups already plagued by society's ills, but ultimately shaking the governing structures that tower over them. The fall is as inevitable as causality can be, and as they say, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Analogous to the developments it fervently critiques, Akira itself was a humongous endeavor—a fiercely kinetic, near-unhinged depiction of societal self-destruction that rose to the highest peaks of admiration for many, yet fell out of favor for some. It is only natural that a project this ambitious, puzzling, and seasoned would harbor every possible reaction over the years. But within its scope as an unadulterated audiovisual piece, Akira was a monumental success, its exploded diagram-like, suspended disintegration of dystopia a portrait arguably more discernible and relevant today than thirty-six years ago. And unlike Neo-Tokyo’s decaying state, its relevance may only grow in the years to come.

Yet, we know something shall rise anew from the rubble—grandiose, overambitious dreams, mistakenly brought to life as nightmares, will be shattered either by their disillusioned creators or by those deprived of sleep, their broken pieces becoming the foundation for new dreams of the next generation. Just like the beginning of everything resulted from a bang, history shows humanity’s new beginnings often spawn from tragic demise.

I do not use scores; the number below is a mystery.