Интересно, анимация тоже будет скакать от "у нас качество анимации одно из лучших в индустрии на сегодняшний день" к "мы украли себе аниматоров ответственных за тв ван писа" как в геях на льду?
Как раз пару недель назад наткнулся на сайт этой анимы. Тян понравилась, нашел мангу, прочитал все главы что были на английском. В итоге кроме этой тян и фейсов, что рисует автор, смотреть там решительно не на что.
AIwass, какой мерзкий актёришка. Хотя в японской экранизации было не лучше, емнип.
Японские мувики это что-то за гранью добра и зла вообще, тут хоть Дефо в роли Рюка есть. Но вообще да, актёр настолько мимо, насколько это возможно, ибо >But Light is supposed to be attractive, it's a fucking plot point >Yup, how is he gonna seduce all the girls with this fucking face ? >Light is supposed to be unironically perfect in terms of looks, personality, and brains to make him a less likely suspect for being kira this one gives me instead the vibe of a high school loser getting his first machine gun about to go on his school shooting
Так, Уоттс уже успел писать от лица биологического компьютера, парня с вырезанным куском мозга замененным на китайскую комнату, клинической психопатки, Нечто из одноименного фильма. А теперь неразумного боевого дрона.
It is smart but not awake. It would not recognize itself in a mirror. It speaks no language that doesn’t involve electrons and logic gates; it does not know what Azrael is, or that the word is etched into its own fuselage. It understands, in some limited way, the meaning of the colours that range across Tactical when it’s out on patrol—friendly Green, neutral Blue, hostile Red—but it does not know what the perception of colour feels like. It never stops thinking, though. Even now, locked into its roost with its armour stripped away and its control systems exposed, it can’t help itself. It notes the changes being made to its instruction set, estimates that running the extra code will slow its reflexes by a mean of 430 milliseconds. It counts the biothermals gathered on all sides, listens uncomprehending to the noises they emit— — —hartsandmyndsmyfrendhartsandmynds— —rechecks threat-potential metrics a dozen times a second, even though this location is secure and every contact is Green. This is not obsession or paranoia. There is no dysfunction here. It’s just code. It’s indifferent to the killing, too. There’s no thrill to the chase, no relief at the obliteration of threats. Sometimes it spends days floating high above a fractured desert with nothing to shoot at; it never grows impatient with the lack of targets. Other times it’s barely off its perch before airspace is thick with SAMs and particle beams and the screams of burning bystanders; it attaches no significance to those sounds, feels no fear at the profusion of threat icons blooming across the zonefile. — —thatsitthen. weereelygonnadoothis?— Access panels swing shut; armour snaps into place; a dozen warning registers go back to sleep. A new flight plan, perceived in an instant, lights up the map; suddenly Azrael has somewhere else to be. Docking shackles fall away. The Malak rises on twin cyclones, all but drowning out one last voice drifting in on an unsecured channel: —justwattweeneed. akillerwithaconshunce.— The afterburners kick in. Azrael flees Heaven for the sky.
