Eat, Eating, Eaten, Ate: A Tokyo Ghoul Review
This article contains spoilers. If you don’t wanna be spoiled, don’t read.
Listen, I love anime as much as the next weeb, and when I first stumbled across Tokyo Ghoul, I was certain I’d found something special. The premise was gripping, the visuals promised intensity, and the opening theme song ("Unravel") is still an absolute masterpiece. But as I made my way through the series, my initial excitement fizzled out into disappointment. In this breakdown, I’ll explore the three main areas where the show fell short for me: Concept, Characters, and Charm.
Concept: A Great Idea That Lost Its Way
The core idea of Tokyo Ghoul is what pulled me in to begin with: humans and ghouls, two species coexisting in the same world but locked in violent conflict. Ghouls are essentially monsters who look like humans but can only survive by eating human flesh, forcing humanity to confront its own dark fears about morality, survival, and identity. It’s such a compelling premise. Who wouldn’t want to explore themes of humanity’s monster-like nature and the blurred line between "us" and "them"? Shows like Parasyte or Attack on Titan have tackled similar ideas and succeeded. So, I went into Tokyo Ghoul expecting something nuanced, horrifying, and thought-provoking.
The first season started strong. Ken Kaneki’s transformation into a half-ghoul after his fateful encounter with Rize was gripping. The horror of his first meal as a ghoul—the revolting need to consume human flesh—was visceral. Scenes like him crying while trying to eat his friend Hide’s cooking struck a powerful emotional chord. For a brief moment, it seemed like the show was going to dive deep into the existential crisis of a boy torn between two worlds.
But by the time we reached the first season finale, I was already sensing cracks in the concept. The series began to lose its footing, leaning more into flashy action and power scaling rather than exploring the moral and psychological weight of the premise. Ghouls, who had been presented as tragic figures forced to live on the fringes of society, quickly became little more than weapons of war. Kaneki’s transformation from a meek bookworm into a white-haired, tortured badass in the face of Jason’s torture was visually cool, but the storytelling felt rushed. The series abandoned its initial identity in favor of a typical "dark shonen" formula, sacrificing its originality.
And then there were the quinques—the weapons used by the CCG to fight ghouls. These tools, made from ghoul body parts, were initially fascinating. They reflected the show’s central theme of blurred identities, as humans were using ghoul organs to destroy ghouls. However, instead of exploring the ethical implications of such a concept, the show turned them into standard power-up weapons. The fight sequences became repetitive, and the moral ambiguity of the CCG’s methods was sidelined in favor of flashy battles. By the time I got to the finale of Tokyo Ghoul √A, the concept felt hollow, as though the show had forgotten its own potential.
Characters: A Mixed Bag of Missed Opportunities
Character writing is the backbone of any good story, and sadly, Tokyo Ghoul stumbled here as well. Let’s start with the protagonist, Ken Kaneki. He begins as a relatable, meek college student, the kind of character you’d expect to grow and evolve in compelling ways. His initial struggles as a half-ghoul—his rejection of his new identity, his refusal to hurt others, and his deep internal conflict—had me invested. But then the pacing went haywire.
Kaneki’s transformation into his white-haired persona after enduring Jason’s brutal torture was dramatic, sure. Who doesn’t remember the iconic "counting backwards from 1,000 by sevens" scene? But it felt like the writers skipped over key moments of his growth. Instead of seeing him grapple with his trauma, we were presented with a near-instantaneous shift from timid bookworm to stoic, brooding antihero. Don’t get me wrong—White-Haired Kaneki is definitely the coolest version of him. But his development felt more like a plot device than a natural progression.
And then there’s Haise Sasaki. Season 3 (Tokyo Ghoul:re) introduces us to Kaneki’s new persona, a kinder, more nurturing man who has no memory of his past self. On paper, this should have been a brilliant opportunity to explore themes of identity and healing. Haise’s interactions with the Quinx Squad—the young investigators under his care—had some heartfelt moments. For example, his dynamic with Shirazu, a troubled but determined member of the squad, offered glimpses of a caring mentor figure. But once again, the pacing worked against the show. When Kaneki’s memories returned, the transition from Haise back to Kaneki felt abrupt and unearned, as though the writers were trying to cram too much into too little time.
And then we have Touka, Kaneki’s love interest. Their romance, which culminates in marriage and a child by the end of the series, felt rushed and hollow. Touka starts as a fiery and complex character, someone who embodies the ghoul community’s struggles with survival and prejudice. But as the series progresses, her development takes a backseat. By the time she and Kaneki fall in love, it feels like the relationship came out of nowhere. Sure, there are sweet moments—like Kaneki eating Touka’s cooking despite knowing it’s tasteless to him as a ghoul—but these small gestures don’t compensate for the lack of build-up. Their romance simply wasn’t fleshed out enough to feel believable.
The one bright spot in the character department was Kaneki’s relationship with the Quinx Squad. His role as a "den mother" to these young investigators felt genuine, offering a rare glimpse of warmth and humanity in a story otherwise steeped in darkness. His bond with Shirazu, in particular, stood out. Shirazu’s death—one of the most emotional moments in the series—hit hard because it showed Kaneki’s vulnerability as a leader and the cost of the violence surrounding them.
Charm: Where Did It Go?
When it comes to charm, Tokyo Ghoul initially had an unmistakable, haunting beauty that set it apart from other anime. It was the kind of series that could hook you with a single frame or line of dialogue, resonating deeply with its emotional weight and chilling atmosphere. However, as the show progressed, much of that unique allure unraveled (pun intended), leaving behind a shell of what it could have been.
The Atmosphere: Where Darkness Meets Elegance
One of the most charming aspects of Tokyo Ghoul was its ability to mix horror and elegance, particularly in the first season. From the opening shot of the first episode, with its haunting, rain-drenched cityscapes and unnerving score, you’re immediately immersed in a world that feels both familiar and alien. The city of Tokyo is dark and oppressive, with a cold, industrial feel that reflects the harsh lives of both humans and ghouls. Yet there’s a strange, melancholic beauty in this world, whether it’s the eerie stillness of the 20th Ward or the intimate warmth of Anteiku Café.
Anteiku itself was a brilliant piece of world-building, acting as a sanctuary for ghouls trying to coexist peacefully with humans. Its cozy, old-world charm provided a sharp contrast to the grim realities of the ghouls’ lives, creating a bittersweet tone that became the emotional core of the first season. You couldn’t help but feel connected to the café’s small, tight-knit family: the kind and fatherly Yoshimura, the fiery and strong-willed Touka, and Kaneki himself, who desperately wanted to cling to the last shred of his humanity while working there. Small moments, like Kaneki reading books with Hinami or Yoshimura giving him advice over a steaming cup of coffee, captured a fragile hope that things might somehow get better. These quiet, reflective scenes gave the show a contemplative charm that elevated it above other horror anime.
But as the series progressed, this atmosphere was lost. The introduction of new factions, constant battles, and sprawling storylines shifted the focus away from the emotional core of the series. By the time Tokyo Ghoul:re rolled around, Anteiku was gone, replaced by sterile, impersonal settings like the CCG headquarters. The world no longer felt intimate or grounded—it felt like just another battlefield in a war anime.
Symbolism and Themes: Deep and Poetic (At First Glance)
Another element of Tokyo Ghoul’s early charm was its poetic use of symbolism. The show was rich with metaphors, often delivered through quiet, introspective moments. Take, for example, the recurring imagery of masks. The masks worn by ghouls weren’t just tools for anonymity; they were symbols of identity, both hidden and revealed. Kaneki’s mask, with its single exposed eye and sharp teeth, perfectly captured his dual nature as both human and ghoul. Similarly, characters like Uta, the enigmatic mask-maker, represented the creative and destructive duality of their world. His work was not only practical but also a form of self-expression—a way for ghouls to claim their identity in a society that wanted to erase them.
Food was another powerful motif. For ghouls, human food is not only tasteless but also revolting, which mirrors their inability to fully integrate into human society. Kaneki’s attempts to eat Hide’s cooking, despite the pain it caused him, were heartbreaking moments that symbolized his desperate desire to hold onto his human relationships. Even something as simple as the act of drinking coffee—a rare indulgence that ghouls could actually enjoy—was loaded with meaning. Anteiku’s cups of coffee represented fleeting moments of normalcy, a small bridge between two worlds that could never fully coexist.
Unfortunately, as the series progressed, much of this symbolism fell by the wayside. The poetic exploration of identity, humanity, and coexistence was overshadowed by constant battles and rushed plotlines. Themes that had once been central to the story—such as Kaneki’s struggle to reconcile his human and ghoul sides—were abandoned in favor of power-ups and convoluted character arcs.
The Music and Visuals: A Symphony of Emotion
Few anime manage to capture their tone as perfectly as Tokyo Ghoul did with its music and visuals—at least in the beginning. The opening theme, "Unravel" by TK from Ling Tosite Sigure, is arguably one of the greatest anime openings of all time. Its haunting melody and lyrics capture the essence of Kaneki’s struggle: his descent into darkness, his fractured identity, and his yearning to hold onto his humanity. The animation accompanying the song, with its surreal imagery of shattered glass, falling feathers, and Kaneki reaching out to an unreachable figure, sets the tone for the series as a psychological and emotional journey.
The show’s soundtrack also deserves praise. Tracks like "Licht und Schatten" (Light and Shadow) and "Glassy Sky" are stunningly emotional pieces that enhance the show’s darker, more introspective moments. These musical choices gave the first season a layer of sophistication and emotional depth, turning even quiet scenes into something memorable.
Visually, Tokyo Ghoul was at its best when it embraced its horror roots. Scenes like Rize stalking Kaneki in the first episode, her glowing red eyes piercing the darkness, were genuinely unsettling. The animation captured the visceral terror of being hunted by something both human and monstrous. Similarly, the fight scenes in the first season were brutal but carefully choreographed, with a sense of weight and consequence.
Sadly, by the later seasons, much of this artistic charm had diminished. The visuals became inconsistent, with stiff animation and lackluster fight choreography that failed to capture the intensity of the story. The music, while still good, no longer felt as integral to the emotional impact of the series. Even the openings struggled to live up to the iconic status of "Unravel."
The Human (and Ghoul) Connection
Finally, the early charm of Tokyo Ghoul lay in its exploration of relationships—not just romantic ones, but familial and platonic bonds as well. The dynamic between Kaneki and Hide, for example, was one of the emotional anchors of the series. Hide’s unwavering loyalty to Kaneki, even as he realized his friend was no longer human, was a beautiful testament to the power of unconditional love. The quiet scene in which Kaneki, near death, carries Hide’s body away from the battlefield in Tokyo Ghoul √A is one of the few moments in the series that recaptured the emotional resonance of its beginning.
Similarly, the found-family dynamic of Anteiku was deeply compelling. Yoshimura’s paternal guidance, Touka’s tough love, and Hinami’s childlike innocence made Anteiku feel like a real home—a rare safe space in a hostile world. These relationships grounded the story and gave it heart.
But as the series expanded, these connections were replaced by a rotating cast of new characters and factions, many of whom lacked the depth or emotional weight of the original cast. The Quinx Squad in Tokyo Ghoul:re had potential, but they never quite achieved the same level of emotional resonance. The show’s later focus on sprawling conflicts and political intrigue came at the expense of the personal, intimate moments that made the first season so special.
Final Thoughts
In the end, Tokyo Ghoul had so much potential but fell short of greatness. Its concept was brilliant but underdeveloped, its characters had flashes of brilliance but lacked consistency, and its initial charm gave way to disorganized storytelling and over-the-top action. While there are moments and characters I’ll always remember fondly, I can’t help but feel disappointed by how the series lost sight of what made it special in the first place.
If you’re new to Tokyo Ghoul, I’d still recommend giving the first season a try—just go in with tempered expectations. And if you want a more complete version of the story, the manga is widely regarded as the superior experience. For me, though, the anime will always be a bittersweet memory of what could have been.