Someday, All Criticism Arrives at “Poetry” — Why Is Alien Baltan Beautiful?

　Isn’t truly great criticism the act of offering a new poem — a new perspective that illuminates a work?

　To express, concisely and beautifully, what exactly “exists” as the unique essence of that work, through poetic sensibility.

　There is a certain book.

　Why Is Alien Baltan  Beautiful?

　What a magnificent title. It’s a collection of essays originally serialized in a tokusatsu magazine, filled to the brim with beautifully written passages discussing the appeal of Ultra Kaiju. But above all else, the sheer force of the title itself is wonderful. At this point, anyone incapable of recognizing Alien Baltan as beautiful simply isn’t invited.

　This is a book that shares “beauty” only with the pitiful tokusatsu otaku possessed by the chaotic monstrosity of kaiju. You could even call it a book of poetry — no, a love letter. A love letter to Ultra Kaiju, to tokusatsu itself, and to Tohl Narita, the man who created them.

　If you read this caption, you’ll understand instantly. The line in the lower left:

　“Like a gigantic firework illuminating a summer night—”

　With just that single sentence, haven’t you already understood why Alien Baltan stands out among countless Ultra Kaiju as overwhelmingly beloved? He’s an artist glowing eerily against the nighttime cityscape. Children looked upon Baltan’s uncanny figure and felt both fear and beauty at once. That’s what Gothic is.

　Of course, the beauty of Alien Baltan — the astonishing perfection of the direction in only episode two — has already been discussed endlessly online. There’s hardly any need to explain it again here. You could trace his roots back to Cicada Human and pile up all sorts of trivia, but ultimately that too is just technique. You could elevate him further by comparing him to the Impressionists, to Manet or Monet, like the essay above does. But more than anything, it’s still that one sentence. That line alone makes me desperately want to rewatch episode two all over again. And instinctively, I feel this is what criticism should aspire to be.

　Ah, how mesmerizing his grotesque figure is, glowing so eerily in the night.

　Our childhood hearts were stolen by a form so obviously, unmistakably “inhuman.” This night unquestionably belongs to him. Children become captivated by a one-night-only firework, falling in love with a creature they ought to fear. And someone once took that fleeting instant and transformed it into poetry.

　“Like a gigantic firework illuminating a summer night—”

　Every summer night from now on, somewhere beyond rows of lifeless buildings, you’ll find yourself searching for the figure of the being who came to Earth carrying the survival of billions upon his back.

　There are people who live solely to convey the beauty of the things they believe in — as concisely, beautifully, and poetically as possible. We write for stories and characters. We are happy slaves imprisoned by works we love, devoted apostles with pen in hand.