Evangelion Sticks
Shinji Ikari just wanted to see his father. That’s the whole hook, and it’s perfect because it’s so ordinary. He gets the summons, he shows up, and instead of a reunion, the world’s ending and he’s being handed the controls to a giant robot.
I first watched Evangelion when I was way too young to understand it, and even then something about it stuck—not the plot exactly, but the feeling of it. The atmosphere Shiro Sagisu’s music creates, this sound design that makes a broken future feel intimate and real. The characters are impossible to look away from: Shinji scared and trying, Asuka furious and drowning, Rei unknowable and alone. Misato caught between them, trying to hold everything together with wine and charm and a broken moral compass. Even Pen Pen, the penguin just there in the apartment, existing quietly while the world disintegrates.
The show isn’t afraid of being ugly about it. There’s theology and symbolism and all that, but underneath is just the raw fact of three teenagers piloting giant robots because no one else can, and it’s destroying them. Slowly at first, then faster. The last few episodes don’t even try to maintain narrative anymore—it just dives into Shinji’s head and stays there, watching him come apart.
What gets me is how honest it is about failure and suffering without ever offering comfort. There’s no redemption arc waiting. The ending just stops, or spirals, or resets—depends which version you watch, but none of them feel like victory. They feel like waking up in a room you don’t recognize and deciding what comes next anyway.
I can’t really explain why it matters to me so much. It’s not beautiful in a way that makes sense. It’s jagged and painful and sometimes ridiculous, and there’s something in that refusal to smooth itself out that feels true about being alive. It’s available on Netflix now, and I guess that’s how the world works—these brutal, strange, generations-defining things eventually make it to the streaming menu. But watching it again, I still feel that same thing breaking inside me. Some part of the show doesn’t let go.