The 22nd episode of Neon Genesis Evangelion features, ten minutes in, one of the most infamous scenes in anime history. For a whole minute, nothing appears to happen, simply two characters enclosed in an elevator, backed only by the subtle drone of its own machinery. This is only periodically disrupted by Asuka's sniffs, as she attempts to remain composed in the presence of someone who represents an antithesis to her way of living. All this arrives at a time when the source of her happiness, identity, and pride — piloting an Eva — is slipping away, whilst the other pilots are receiving praise that she believes she is entitled to, and is deeply envious of. For that entire minute prior to Rei's advice, this silence provides an emotional crescendo. My eyes begin to dart around the frame and stare at either character on the screen, becoming quite intimate with the frame. I begin to analyze the composition in the frame, and too, subconsciously, begin to wish for it to change, all until the eventual outburst. Evangelion has cultivated an immense following of people arguing over its contents in an attempt to discover its ultimate meaning and message, the latter being generally agreed to be, and earnestly stated in the anime itself, the necessity of connections in life. Yet, it is the manner in which the anime leads its audience to realize such a thing, that being the numerous times it breaks its own rules to transmit emotions to the viewer, that makes it so utterly enthralling.

Honestly, for however interesting it is to read people's theories on what Evangelion ultimately meant; what certain elements pertained to the plot of the series; trying to extract the "correct" takeaways from Hideaki Anno interviews; applying their knowledge of philosophy, theology, psychology, history, and any other thing they felt was applicable; I am not going to add another log to the fire. I am simply going to follow the show, and what it does, specifically to me, emotionally. For much of Evangelion's first half, the anime is largely formulaic. The plot of episodes generally revolves around solving problems, fighting the Angel and ingeniously defeating it, all commonly by the end of the episode, interleaved by personal sequences, drifting towards the tradition of slice-of-life anime. This is not to say that the deep, introspective psychological contents of the show suddenly appear with episode 16, but the show manages to mask such things with the vocabulary it builds within these episodes. The intro, for instance, is upbeat and optimistic, and provides a tonal contrast to the contents of the show, as they darken throughout the episodes. Battle music is consistently the same ('Angel Attack') and conventional, brass-heavy, competent, but not emotive in any other way than to provide a generic sense of tension in battle. The bossa-nova soundtrack that revolves around adult characters ('Barefoot in the Park' and 'Misato' are such examples), particularly Misato in meal-time scenes, masks the psyche of the characters it backs. Scenes that themselves hold comedic value, and seemingly push such things toward funny quirks rather than anything strictly psychological. The elevator scene is not a one-off, and cases of the show breaking its own rules only become more common throughout the show. As problems become more abstract and less solvable, and the world of all characters slowly breaks down, there is no more room for comfort in such situations, and therefore, no more comfortable situations to fall back upon.

Episode 24 is one such example. Late into the series, all characters have suffered tremendous hardship and, at this point, are arriving at rock bottom. Shinji has just lost Rei, to be replaced with a clone. Asuka has continued her downwards spiral. Misato has lost Kaji. Ritsuko is in custody, and the Human Instrumentality Project is looming ever closer. Shinji is lost, empty, and alone in this current time. Coincidentally, in one of his monologue sessions, there is Kaworu, humming Beethoven's ninth, introducing himself as the Fifth Child, replacement to Asuka, and immediately is the warmest character that he has encountered in the entire series so far. All following scenes between the two are uniquely intimate, Shinji slowly exiting his shy shell as Kaworu appears genuinely interested in him, earnestly stating that he likes him. Unfortunately, Kaworu is an Angel, the last stand by SEELE to get their way, and when his mission starts, catching NERV by surprise, so does Beethoven's ninth, suddenly, in the midst of its climax. Shinji is tasked to destroy him, and with it, the only source of true happiness he has had throughout the entire history. Lauren Berlant describes cruel optimism as the attachment to something which hinders your progress, or alternatively, your flourishing. In this very moment, Shinji's deep attachment to being praised for his work, the only reason he has remained an Eva pilot, goes directly against his newfound attachment to Kaworu. To be useful, he needs to destroy the single relationship he has had that hasn't required him to be such. And for the next seven minutes, Beethoven's ninth will remain in the background, continuously as it ebbs and flows after its massive climax. It's ironic, really, Beethoven's ninth is an anthem for brotherhood and unity, and here it is the background for the destruction of it. It is a massive contrast to the rest of the established battle soundtrack present in the series, wherein tracks would be massive by virtue of loud drums, wall-of-sound brass and rhythmic compositions, here it is massive by virtue of it being performed by an army of musicians. It is progressive, constantly moving and evolving. Where the battle soundtrack had no sense of space in a very clean mix, here the space of a large concert hall makes everything feel ever more momentous. Shinji moves from initial disbelief, to hatred, to a minute-long hesitance to kill him, despite receiving Kaworu's approval to do so. As the chorus winds down, the only sound in an otherwise entirely static scene, my eyes once again dart between Shinji's Eva and Kaworu's stoic stare. His character is introduced with him humming Beethoven's ninth, the most intimate way to perform music, he falls to that same symphony winding down. Present within me, throughout this scene, there is a sense of pity towards Shinji, as they get ever lower and closer to Lilith and become isolated from the rest of NERV, this pity becomes a sense of pain. Shinji's mission is clear, yet there is no constant outside pressure anymore. It is his desires, his principles, and his happiness, all pushing against each other, ultimately, his desire to be praised wins out.

Wherein the series rarely deviates from its established sonic vocabulary, End of Evangelion is unique in the manner where it continually deviates from it. It's slower, more methodical, and far darker. Where the last two Evangelion episodes dealt entirely within the mind of the characters, the events of Human Instrumentality are seen as they happen in the real world. Never is there even the slightest hint of optimism. Humanity's end is nigh, and even the hardest efforts of the characters are not able to stop it from initiating. In battles, End of Evangelion entirely ruptures from that vocabulary. Asuka is liberated from her pain as she learns that her mother's soul is inside of her Eva, and she effortlessly defends against the military, until SEELE deploys mass-produced Eva units. As she explains, she has nine units to destroy, within three-and-a-half minutes. I see her destroy a unit effortlessly before a cut back to Shinji and Misato. Here Misato delivers the most earnest and honest speech of the entire series, the most intimate moment between the two of them. She sends him on his way to battle SEELE's fleet, moments prior to her death. Shinji is left alone in an elevator to reckon with his mission, with the weight of Misato's last words and actions. Bach's Air on the G String segues back to Asuka's fight, the soft gliding strings backing Asuka's actions, her flowing dance between SEELE's Eva units appearing more akin to ballet. As the film switches between closeups and long static shots, Asuka's motion is immensely fluid and natural. All her movements are decisive, with her Eva being an absolute extension of her body. Bach remains in the background throughout all of this, even in the cutbacks to Shinji helplessly listening to Asuka's radio communications. Two forces begin to act upon me. It feels like Asuka's climax, her pain subsiding, this is her finest hour. Yet there is a sense of melancholy underneath all of this, of futility. Throughout her battle, I become ever more aware that what she is doing won't change anything. Everything is already underway, and despite her hardest efforts, those three-and-a-half minutes will not be enough to finish off SEELE's fleet. When Air begins to wind down, its notes becoming longer, its volume becoming quieter, it begins to fall apart.

While End of Evangelion is Baroque in its visual style, the ending of the original series is the opposite of such a thing. The last two episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion live entirely within the characters' minds. Episodes 25 and 26 depict the Human Instrumentality Project beginning. This is a sequence of minimal frames, presented between their personal questions. Here, they confront their fears; they answer to their own psyche. Throughout episodes 25 and 26, shots begin to lengthen, their composition disguising a lack of animation. Characters are placed in voids. Shots get recycled ever more often or are substituted by stills. This arrives at the second half of episode 26, where most of the shots are sketches, crudely colored and drawn. Even Shinji's dream of a normal domestic life, which is the longest bit of unique visual content the duo of episodes presents, deteriorates into rough sketches with no animation. The elevator scene ruptured from the show's vocabulary via withholding a cut; its classical music broke its sonic vocabulary; these two episodes break the show's basic visual grammar — that is, that an episode should provide new animation. With all shots being static and minimal, the visual aspect becomes relatively unimportant. Here, the dialogue is put front and center, the existentialist back-and-forth between the self and the external world. Rei tells Shinji that he cannot know himself without external objects to compare himself to; Misato tells him his fear of failure is centered on failure to be loved. The show rapidly fires questions regarding such topics as purpose, identity, and fears at each character. They are not allowed to simply survive without answering them. Of course, such minimalism wasn't entirely planned, even if it was staged, as both time and money ran out nearing the end of the series. Though, does it matter that what provided me the most emotions was the product of necessity rather than something planned out?

You know, I don't think it matters. Ultimately, these episodes were incredibly effective at providing me lessons that were an exit hatch for a dark period in my life, even if they were ones that I took a while to understand and apply. To truly know oneself, you need something outside of you; your self-perception is ultimately moulded by outside feedback. Therefore, you need contact with others. You need to go out and experience affection, connection, interaction. When first watching the show, I admit I simply nodded to such lessons. I understood that they were perhaps useful to me, but ultimately were ones I didn't act upon immediately. By the time I finished the show, it had been months since I first started watching. By then, when I returned to it for its final stretch, my psyche had considerably changed. Distractions which had masked my underlying sadness had passed. Coincidentally, Evangelion was there; what I took away from it, though, wasn't. In a period of my life dominated by a deep, underlying feeling of melancholy, wherein loneliness, lack of direction and purpose, and regret for my life-long lack of connections, I found something which I not only could relate to, but which provided me answers, external ones, ones that I couldn't simply forget and brush aside. Answers whose continual presence in my mind ultimately led me to search for deeper connections with friends, to look for new people, to go out and speak my mind. In that little elevator at NERV, Asuka held her silence for a minute. Mine lasted far longer.