By now I’ve lost all hope of witnessing a miraculous transformation of Strike Witches‘s leitmotiv with its second season. It was, is, and will remain a panty fest. It’s hard to argue with a successful franchise, but man, it’s gone beyond dead horse-beating at this point; the dead horse has been reanimated by necromancy and shot in the head just so they could beat it again.
More crotch action after the jump. He said with a shudder.
Here’s a summary of the second season of Strike Witches so far:
- I’m a peace-loving, animal-healing school girl. I don’t want to fight aliens! No wait I do.
- HAI GANG
- The broom episode.
What? “Broom episode”? Pfff, doesn’t sound too scary. Until you remember that these here be witches we’re talking about. Witches who don’t wear pants. And what do witches do with brooms? That’s right, they ride them. Can you imagine an inconvenient side-effect of having a young girl in her panties stick a long, hard, throbbing I mean wooden handle between her legs?
On the positive side (there’s always one, goddamnit, always) the old lady who provides training with the aforementioned brooms is a no-nonsense grandma who yells at everyone and who even made Major Sakamoto cry back in the day. A breath of fresh air, really, when the rest of the cast consists of vapid teenage girls who haven’t yet figured a use for pants, skirts, dresses, and the like.
The one exception to this above characterization is the delightful Hartmann, who I’ve already mentioned before, the sole reason I’m still sitting here and subjecting my frontal cortex to a weekly Strike Witches torture session.
For one, Hartmann takes no prisoners and makes no compromises: in a show where the girls’s personality vacillates between boob-obsessed maniac and super-serious soldier full of genuine pathos, Hartmann has firmly picked her camp and is established as the squadron’s space cadet. She had all the best jokes of the first season: the wake-up routine with Trude in episode 07 (titled “Nice ‘n Breezy”; I’ll let you imagine the ramifications), the deliriously funny hitchiking attempt in episode 11… She’s like an oasis of unadulterated, colorful spazziness in a sea of half-and-half milksops. It helps that she’s based on the most badass World War II flying ace and that her breasts are a reasonable size for a sixteen-year-old girl. Not that I’ve gone out and conducted a survey.
Oh well. I still chuckle when I go back in the archives and read that I’d picked Strike Witches as an early favorite when its first season started airing. You live, you learn, and you have your crotch violated by sadistic brooms, I suppose.