Medalist

The Friction of Dreams

In the crowded pantheon of sports anime, the narrative arc usually bends toward a singular, glistening peak: victory. The protagonist wants to be the best, the fastest, the strongest. But *Medalist*, the 2025 adaptation of Tsurumaikada’s manga, begins in the valley of the discarded. It is not initially a story about winning gold; it is a story about the desperate, clawing need to obtain permission to exist. Directed by Yasutaka Yamamoto, this series defies the skepticism that plagued its announcement—specifically regarding Studio ENGI’s involvement—to deliver a profound meditation on failure, pedagogy, and the brutal beauty of figure skating.



The visual language of *Medalist* is a high-wire act, balancing the perilous gap between traditional 2D animation and 3D CGI. For years, anime fans have been conditioned to flinch at the sight of computer-generated models in motion, often viewing them as a cost-cutting shortcut that robs scenes of their soul. However, Yamamoto weaponizes this technology. The skating sequences, built on motion capture from professional skaters, possess a terrifying fluidity. When Inori Yuitsuka cuts across the rink, the camera doesn’t just pan; it swirls and dips, mimicking the centrifugal force of a triple axel. The CGI allows for a level of technical precision—the edges of the blades biting into the ice, the physics of a spin—that hand-drawn animation often struggles to sustain. Instead of breaking immersion, the shift in visual style emphasizes the isolation of the skater: when the music starts, they enter a hyper-real dimension where only the physics of their body matters.



Yet, the show’s true power lies not in its physics, but in its psychology. At the center is Inori, an eleven-year-old girl whose self-worth has been eroded by the well-meaning but crushing pragmatism of her mother, and Tsukasa Akeuraji, a failed ice dancer engaging in a proxy war against his own regrets. This is where *Medalist* transcends the "underdog sports" trope. Tsukasa is not simply molding a champion; he is saving a life, and in turn, Inori is saving his. The writing treats Inori’s ambition not as a cute childhood hobby, but as a burning, almost existential necessity. In scenes like the tense Badge Test, the stakes feel apocalyptic, not because of the medal, but because Inori believes that without the ice, she is nothing.



There are moments where the production’s limitations show—static conversation scenes that lack the kinetic energy of the rink—but these flaws are eclipsed by the narrative’s emotional intelligence. The series understands that talent is not a gift, but a burden that requires a witness. Tsukasa becomes that witness, offering Inori the technical tools to articulate the scream trapped in her throat. *Medalist* argues that the greatest tragedy is not failing to win, but failing to try. In a medium often obsessed with the supernatural or the superhuman, this series finds the divine in the sound of steel carving through ice, proving that the most spectacular special effect is simply the human spirit refusing to stay on the ground.