This review is spoiler-free.

As silly and goofy as it may sound, I've never been able to get along with history, astronomy, and other so-called serious, deep subjects. Either my teeny-weeny brain does things differently, or I just have a natural gift for excelling at things nobody really gives a shit about; it's hard to say. Whatever the case, no matter how desperately I tried, I could never seem to memorise momentous historical events or make sense of the mind-boggling laws of the cosmos. That being said, in spite of these problems, the older I got, the more these topics started to pull me in like a black hole. There's something irresistibly wonderful about them; something that makes them worth studying. Sure, I still have trouble recalling even the most basic of facts, events, or natural phenomena, but I do my best to stay mindful of the incredible forces that have created, shaped, and governed our cheeky little planet for aeons. So, when Orb: On the Movements of the Earth began airing, I was hooked from the get-go. A historical fiction set in an alternate version of my homeland, tackling one of the most fascinating turning points in human understanding: the rise and development of heliocentrism? Say no more and count me in. Week after week, I found myself glued to the screen like a doe-eyed toddler, eager and hungry to see what the show had in store for me. While I had my reservations at first, the more I watched, the more I realised that this anime wasn't just extremely gripping, moving, and chock-full of delicious food for thought; it was a passion project and a labour of love filled with intense passion, insane talent, and an intimate appreciation for the world we live in. It took me a while to admit it to myself, but Orb was everything I could've asked for in a historical drama... it was tailor-made for me. And once that clicked in my brain, I fell head over heels in love with it, utterly and absolutely.

Before I attempt to break down what makes this series the astonishing masterpiece that it is (without spoilers, naturally), there's something that needs to be said out loud; something obvious, yet not immediately apparent to everyone: ***Orb* is by no means a historically accurate tale, and you don't have to be a history buff or a born-and-bred Pole to notice the multiple inaccuracies peppered throughout the story. Things like characters wielding weapons that did not exist in the 15th century, American date format appearing in a notebook, letters and book covers written in Polish that, more often than not, read like they were run through an awful translation tool, the Church being an unforgivable evil entity that loved indiscriminately burning people at the stake as if it were their hobby (it did happen, but not to such an extent), inquisitors making use of anachronistic torture devices, and scientific breakthroughs being either simplified or streamlined; these things might raise an eyebrow or two, but they're not in any way, shape or form detrimental to the watching experience.** Orb was never meant to be a squeaky-clean history lesson or a perfect recreation of the Copernican Revolution, which took place a century later.

No... at the core, Orb is an anime about something far grander and more intangible, something you can't exactly pin down with dates, facts, or timelines; it's about life. Throughout those twenty-five episodes, we witness both the beauty and ugliness of humanity, the highs and lows of a bygone era. Though dramatised and exaggerated for the sake of creating a compelling narrative full of thrill and excitement, the Kingdom of P, the events that transpire within its borders, and its people are a sobering reflection and a sad reminder of the struggles that have defined and moulded our species for centuries. And it's precisely because of its divine-like writing and devilish originality that Orb doesn't merely stand out from the crowd; it lingers, burrows its robust, thick claws deep into your flesh, refuses to let go, and forces you to ponder and reflect on the world around you. And make no mistake; this world is a brutal, unforgiving place. Orb is one of those exceedingly rare anime that take place outside of Japan, let alone in an epoch of knights, peasants, swords and arrows. But, unlike the cold, harsh landscapes of the northern parts of Europe we see in Vinland Saga—a comparison that gets thrown around a lot—this story takes place in a fictionalised version of Poland. The real place, after its Baptism, gradually became a deeply religious yet unusually open-minded nation, where faith and science coexisted in harmony rather than constantly clashed. Plenty of scholars were connected to the Church—Copernicus himself was a Catholic canon—and intellectual pursuits weren't automatically perceived as heretical acts of defiance. But in the Kingdom of P, everything is turned upside down. Here, gossipy whispers travel farther than stern shouts, and the stars above are less terrifying than the men who claim the ground beneath their feet is the centre of the universe. Science and faith are no longer two sides of the same coin; they're sworn, fierce enemies. Thus, when an idea begins to take shape—an idea that challenges the very fabric of religious dogma—the balance of society is thrown into question and seemingly at risk. And so begins a long, strenuous process of unmasking the truth, making the blind see, and turning the deaf into listeners; it's time to inform the masses about the movements of the Earth.

As the story is broken up into three (four if you count the wholly distinctive epilogue) pieces, throughout the journey, we meet, befriend and follow multiple protagonists—brilliant minds, idealists, sceptics turned believers, even men of the cloth—each of whom has their life turned upside down beyond recognition by the falsely dreaded "heresy" of heliocentrism. Their personalities, ambitions, backgrounds, circumstances, and worldviews couldn't be more different, yet they, one by one, fall victim to the system that refuses to loosen its ironclad grip. Their voices are silenced, their names erased from history, their lives forgotten to time, yet the one force that binds them all—the idea that, in a way, is the real protagonist of the story—can't be executed, outlawed, or burned to ash. With every thwarted breakthrough, each passing of the colloquial torch, heliocentrism's potency seems to flicker, fade and dim... only for another one of its champions to step forward and reignite the flame. Truth is like fire; it spreads. Just as a flame is sustained by fuel, heliocentrism is carried and maintained by those willing to suffer and sacrifice themselves in its name. But these folks are neither mere mouthpieces and vessels for this scientific insurrection nor straightforward cogs in the metaphorical machine of change and advancement. They're authentic, flawed, and relatable individuals you grow attached to, whose lives you cherish, whose outlooks you admire, whose victories you celebrate, and whose suffering you agonise over. They have their own lives to live, dreams to chase, burdens to bear, battles to fight, tales to tell, and missions to carry. And it's the process of watching them expand their wisdom, reach groundbreaking conclusions, perfect a theory that could change everything, and piece together the truth that I find to be nothing short of spellbinding. In the same vein, the antagonists are more than just harrowing boogeymen or faceless oppressors. To them, this isn't enlightenment but destruction. Heliocentrism is a direct attack on order, stability, and the power structures that have kept the world in check for centuries. However, in spite of their apparent cruelty, they're not cartoonish, one-dimensional bad guys twirling their dapper moustaches from morning till dawn. Whether we like it or not, they're mere human beings, just like the heroes we root for and cheer on. The lower ranks of the Church and the inquisitors are driven by blind faith, by righteousness so intoxicating it leaves no room for doubt or negotiations; they truly believe that knowledge of this magnitude can do more harm than good. On the other hand, the shrewd figures at the top recognise that controlling knowledge is as crucial as controlling faith; it's about maintaining authority by any means necessary. These men carrying out God's supposed "will" simply embody the nastiest, most abhorrent side of humanity in a way that feels all too real and terrifying. There are no caricatures or black-and-white morality here; only the beauty of knowledge and the brutality of oppression locked in a battle as old as time itself.

As you've probably gathered by now, the clash between scientific discoveries and religious doctrine is the most glaring and immediate conflict in the series, essentially fueling and serving as the foundation of every major and minor event and happening. To acknowledge and recognise a heliocentric universe as the true and correct one is to undo centuries of belief, dismantle authority, and throw divine order into disarray. In this world, the only truth allowed to exist and thrive is God's will, and those who claim to be His messengers and speak on His behalf have the final say in every matter and debate. And yet, for all the horrible and horrifying deeds committed in the Church's name by its avatars, faith itself is never presented as wicked, malicious, or the natural enemy of free will. Belief, for many, is a source of strength and meaning, the same way knowledge and research are a source of enlightenment and reason. Nevertheless, the real tragedy comes from the moments when these two forces collide and clash, since, within the Kingdom of P, they can't peacefully coexist, no matter how much they could or should. That's, unfortunately, how human nature is: limited, stubborn, and often resistant to change. Revolutionary concepts or discoveries like the titular theory compel us to question, second-guess, and rethink everything we thought we knew about the universe, how it operates, and our place in it, and that kind of realisation can be exceptionally tough to swallow and process. In a way, knowledge in Orb is a liberating though disruptive force that reshapes, transmutes, and even, in a convoluted manner, destroys. If the Earth isn't at the centre of the universe, if everything revolves around the Sun and not our funky space rock, what does that say about us? Does that mean we're not special, not chosen, not divinely placed by the Creator at the very heart of His creation? Are we, when all's said and done, nothing more than a tiny pebble on an enormous, boundless cosmic roadway? Knowledge, in other words, is never neutral. Yes, it's freeing, yet it can be just as crushing. In the right hands, it's a tool that uplifts, supports, and opens the door to a better, brighter future; in the wrong ones, it's a deadly weapon, a set of aching shackles, or a closely guarded secret only a select few can see. Although truth must always be pursued regardless of the price, is it entirely wrong to want to control how it's introduced and how it evolves, to safeguard society from chaos?

But then again, the truth is never set in stone. What's considered heresy or factually incorrect in one era becomes common sense in the next. Theories and ideas that once shook the foundation of civilisation and posed an actual threat to the status quo eventually became its concrete cornerstone. The march of progress is like an ever-ongoing book; each advance is a new chapter, and our interpretation and utilisation of its content are always in a state of flux, never absolute. The past and the future are in constant dialogue, and the heart of the cycle of discovery and innovation never truly slows down or stops beating altogether. Meanwhile, the universe continues to operate on its own terms, totally indifferent to human belief or opinion; yet we, time and time again, insist on shaping it to fit our worldview. The main characters desire to align human knowledge and understanding of the world around them with reality, while their opponents seek to bend reality to their will so that it fits humanity's fragmentary logic. This constant strife between man and cosmos far exceeds the realms of religion or science, for it practically pervades every facet of life, which is why courage and sacrifice mean so, so very much. Every character—whether they be a scholar, a commoner or a mere child—must weigh their convictions against the very real and fatal consequences of standing by them and acting upon them. Is your cause worth dying for? Is it worth agonising for, even though you may never get to see the world you've envisioned and dreamt of? Do your aspirations and ideals really merit the ultimate price? And yet, despite these painful, ghastly questions and doubts hovering above their heads at all times, these remarkable figures press on. They choose willingly to give up everything for what they believe in, only to be swept away by time, erased from collective memory, and scrubbed out from the inexhaustible pages of history. Such, however, is the uncompromising, ruthless temperament of our reality; scores of untold, unnamed visionaries and pioneers are persecuted, condemned, or even executed for their life's work, and their findings are either eternally entombed or attributed to someone else. And still, they stubbornly and defiantly refuse to lose hope and spirit. They push through the despair, confidently believing that something—anything at all—of what's being left behind will precipitate change, no matter how insignificant or trivial. But what's legacy really about? Is it about being vividly remembered, or is it more a matter of making a palpable impact? These individuals never get to experience and relish the fruit of their labour, yet they keep the torch lit, which time hardly acknowledges or takes any cognisance of.

This is why, in the end, what I said at the start of this review holds true; this tale is so much bigger than science, history, religion, or even individualism. It's about the tragic yet awe-inspiring human drive to understand, learn, advance, and move forward. It's about staring into the gaping, terrifying maw of the unknown and choosing to venture into the depths to chase after the answers to life's mysteries and reach the truth. And within that valiant search, that heroic quest is both magnificence and ruin, revelation and repression, enlightenment and oppression, and humanity continues to keep its collective head high and march on as it always has done.

Alright, enough of that. It's time to stop stargazing and bring our feet back to solid ground: we need to talk about the audiovisuals. First things first: Orb's soundtrack is a bloody phenomenal project. Kensuke Ushio is my favourite anime composer of all time, and every time his name pops up in the credits, I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that, at the very least, the music will be top-tier, even if everything else soils the bed. Naturally, the same applies here. The more subdued, sombre tracks work hand in hand with silence to produce a sense of serenity and respite. At the same time, the faster, more dynamic pieces that accompany skirmishes or tense confrontations send a shiver down your spine and fill you with excitement and awe. Finally, the compositions reserved for some of the most pivotal moments of the show not only feel out-of-this-world but also fully sell the importance and exquisiteness of the events transpiring on the screen. In sum, every single track fits its assigned scene like a glove and infuses said moment with so much personality, verve, and grandeur that it's impossible not to get a horde of goosebumps crawling up your arms. And then there are the openings and the endings, which I love even more. Yorushika's "Aporia" and "Hebi" work wonders as the perfect farewell to each episode; they're delicate and gentle-sounding, and neatly symbolise both the eerie calm before the storm and the invigorating energy of every development. However, when it comes to the anime's music, nothing comes even remotely close to Sakanaction's "Kaiju" in terms of poignancy, replayability, and sheer magnificence. At this point, I've listened to it probably hundreds—if not thousands—of times, and it consistently makes my throat tighten and my eyes well up. It knows exactly where to hit you to land that emotional sucker punch, and it hits you hard. It fills you with this indescribable feeling of longing and sentimentality, while, at the same time, verbalising the heart and soul of Orb and its vivid reverence for the planet, the stars, and us. Whenever I'm feeling down or hopeful, I know this song will be there for me, ready to make me feel what I need to feel at that moment.

Unfortunately, when it comes to the visuals, I do have a tiny, little bone to pick. There are many instances where the character models are wonky-looking; their facial features are oddly distorted, their faces alter their shapes from shot to shot, and their eyes, noses, and mouths sometimes seem to melt or twist. Combine that with the highly detailed backgrounds and the frequent use of wide shots, and certain scenes start looking noticeably unpolished and rough. Now, don't get me wrong; when the occasion calls for it, the emotions of the characters can and are wonderfully conveyed, but it can't be denied that a lot of the less eventful scenes suffer from a disappointing lack of consistency.

Regardless, that's as far as genuine missteps go, as most of the other issues come down to personal preference rather than genuine flaws. For example, many may deem the lightning to be very hit-or-miss—the anime isn't afraid to shroud its countless night scenes in near-total darkness before bombarding the screen with the intense sheen of stars or celestial bodies—but, in my eyes, this Chiaroscuro-like approach adds a massive, thick coating of seriousness and realism that perfectly complements the story's weighty themes, and beautifully communicates the gravitas of every vital event or impactful line of dialogue. The same applies to the backgrounds; they appear by the numbers at first glance, yet successfully encapsulate both the grit and grace of the Middle Ages/the Renaissance. Both the nature (the expansive meadows, dense forests, and green plains) and the architecture (the rustic, simplistic houses, churches, and whatnot) feel genuinely natural and lived-in. It's all thanks to the muted, desaturated, and atmospheric hues and tints that, in a sense, transport you straight into the setting; you can practically feel the chill of the stone walls and the warmth of the Sun on your skin. In short, despite the occasional inconsistencies, the art style is rock-solid, and when it wants to go all out, it more than delivers. As far as animation is concerned, it faces the same hurdles; it can be terrifyingly stiff, almost lifeless at times, but it does its job well enough. When it decides to pick up the pace—whether in a fierce clash between two fighters, a heated ideological argument, or a simple yet striking spiel—it doesn't just work... it shines like a comet. These bursts of fluidity and dynamism may be brief and short-lived, but they're unforgettable. At its worst, it's passable; at its best, Orb is drop-dead gorgeous. No, it's nowhere near Frieren's level, but it doesn't have to be. It's fine the way it is.

Ultimately, a work's exceptional quality is only a part of the equation. What really matters is whether it clicks with you. After all, why ought we praise something if it fails to resonate with us in any capacity? Why should we be wowed by ingenuity when it fails to hold our attention and bores us to tears? Why must we admire something that never reaches us? Thankfully, in the case of this beauty, we're not forced to choose one or the other; here, thought-provoking content and boundless fun go hand in hand and deliver in spades. Countless scenes are filled with philosophical debates and weighty conversations, yet they're nothing short of absorbing. The fight scenes and acts of violence may not be the talking point of the story, but when they do show up, you can't help but be hypnotised by their intensity, abruptness, and the way they impact the characters' fates. The pacing, time skips, and unconventional structure of the narrative—sure, they might take a bit of getting used to—keep each twenty-something-minute episode infinitely fresh and pleasant. No matter which one I put on, I had an absolute blast, savouring every single second of it. This is entertainment in its purest, most electrifying form.

All in all, for an anime that'd spent months comfortably flying under everyone's radars, Orb: On the Movements of the Earth turned out to be nothing short of a masterpiece of colossal proportions. While it's not without its shortcomings (some of which are glaring and sometimes tough to swallow), this diamond in the rough feels like it was tailor-made for me. Free from the usual gimmicks, tired constraints, and cheap tropes that so often poison the medium, set in a one-of-a-kind setting that's strangely intimate, driven by themes and ideas that stimulate the mind and ignite the imagination, and packed with endless thrill, terror, and tension; though it certainly won't be to everyone's taste, in my eyes, the biggest underdog of 2024 is one of the most exhilarating and emotionally impactful experiences I've come across in my mundane life, and I'll gladly sing its praises for as long as I physically can.

Thank you Uoto, Kenichi Shimizu, Kensuke Ushio, Sakanaction, and the rest of the amazingly talented, passionate staff for making those twenty-five episodes feel like something truly otherworldly; something I'll treasure till I draw my last breath.

Thank you for moving my earth.