Chi / Orb: On the Movements of the Earth is a thoughtful, uplifting tale about curiosity and the indomitable human spirit. Its adaptation has earned critical praise among illustrious members of the anime industry, yet at the same time, some equally notable peers have pointed out the friction between its message and the approach to the anime. Ultimately, where does it land?
The appeal of Chi, also known as Orb: On the Movements of the Earth, is incredibly easy to summarize—and yet, it’s also a title that we could be discussing for ages. In short, this series is one of the most compelling pieces of writing I’ve encountered in recent commercial animation. Its story about the budding theories on heliocentrism in a hostile environment, spanning entire generations across 15th-century Europe, serves as a solid basis for a thriller. For all of its thematic purpose and high stakes, it’s not afraid to have fun along the way either, as its author Uoto refuses to take a cold and detached approach to the revolving cast.
For as interesting of a topic as that is, though, claiming that Orb is about heliocentrism fails to capture how rich of a series it truly is. You barely have to scratch the surface to realize that it more broadly encompasses the indomitable human spirit, embodying the force of curiosity altogether. Its convictions are so strong that you can’t help but embrace its optimism, even as its lead characters constantly struggle against seemingly impossible odds; given physical form by the Inquisition equivalent of the Terminator, a character that is both thematically pointed and really entertaining as a chess piece on this sprawling board. Rather than the knowledge that heliocentrism was eventually embraced by society—though that’s reassuring, I suppose—it’s Orb’s unshakable faith in humanity that makes you believe everything will be alright in the end.
The greatest strength of its writing may not even be those lofty goals, but rather how they branch out to increasingly more specific topics that it tackles from interesting and thoughtful angles. That optimistic outlook, for one, is rooted in Orb’s understanding of the communal nature of research as a process that is both convergent and cumulative. Humans are bound to chase similar dreams, even if they’re not aware of their fellow dreamers. Whether they pursue them in parallel or sequentially, they will cross paths at some point.
It’s with this idea in mind that Orb feels so confident in proclaiming that, perhaps not individually but rather collectively, those ambitions will be achieved no matter what. And it states so with a beautiful belief that as people, everything we do builds upon predecessors and will become future scaffolding for others. One shouldn’t confuse that optimism for complete naivete, however; Orb certainly isn’t going to allow you to, considering the tragic fates of so many characters. Given its inquisitive mind, this also allows the story to occasionally tackle related topics like the inequality of opportunities and the systemic erasure of women from history—a particularly merciless, bittersweet example of achievements enduring even when the names behind them don’t.
As you follow those branches of ideas into topics that the series can’t dedicate as much time as it does to its central themes, you’ll notice that Orb’s writing simply refuses to settle on simple answers. The series makes it seem effortless to establish concepts like the way dogma creates taboo through constant, uncritical repetition. A person in a position of power can proclaim that something is dangerous because it’s merely adjacent to forbidden behaviors, leading to ruthless persecution of those associated with it. And yet, even those who have dedicated their lives to enacting that oppression may realize how feeble the ruling was if they’re put in a position to question it at all. In the end, the seemingly irrefutable idea that heliocentrism is heretical that drives the show crumbles as they realize that it was only sustained by vague, broad interpretations of the holy scriptures.
That desire for nuance extends to the various stances that Orb wants to give voice to. It makes a point to separate positions from others that, while being close enough that one often conduces to the other, are not analogous. Simpler stories that paint with broader brushes will often reduce characters to their closest archetype when it comes to their worldviews, but Uoto appears to be far too interested in people to fall for that trap. In more specific terms, it means that for every handful of faithful proponents of the status quo, you’ll also encounter some who (with their own view of God) advocate for revolutionary change. The setting makes it so that separating religion from science would be a rookie mistake, but the breadth of well-developed viewpoints it contains is still quite impressive; especially for a series that is otherwise an accessible, entertaining thriller. While at points it runs the risk of turning characters into mouthpieces for ideologies, its themes make it so that even those moments come across as natural extensions of their roles. After all, pondering the morality, philosophy, and social repercussions of world-shaking discoveries comes with the territory when you deal with researchers and the institutions whose authority may be undermined.
This is all to say that Orb is such a brilliantly written piece that occasional rough patches like its epilogue couldn’t taint. What about its adaptation, though? The anime’s delivery is a bit of a muddier topic, though following this overarching theme, it’s also a nuanced and fascinating one. I believe that its duality is echoed by the contrasting reactions that two anime legends had to the series: Yoshiyuki Tomino’s harsh criticism and Masaaki Yuasa’s enjoyment of it.
The former expressed his bitter complaints in the April 2025 issue of Newtype, where he shared his love for the original manga—a work so challenging it stood out to him in the current landscape—while ruthlessly putting down an adaptation that he felt hadn’t even considered the cultural importance of what it was tackling. More than any specifics about the anime, Tomino’s belief that they were making light of their duty appears related to the fact that a story that is about radical refusal of compromise bowed down to the fundamental limitations of the production. He’s not a director to demand ostentatious animation for its own sake, nor did Orb necessarily need that, but it’s undeniable that the adaptation was so mindful of its limited resources that even the storyboarding feels timid. A respectable choice from a production management perspective, but also a source of friction with the work’s own spirit, hence why that disappointment doesn’t feel unfounded.
It’s worth noting that this gap in ambition doesn’t translate into a straightforward technical decline in the quality of the artwork. Uoto‘s drawings aren’t always polished in the first place, whereas the anime’s limited production capacity still results in adequate, professional-grade animation; nothing superlative, but what it accomplishes is still out of reach for many TV shows in this day and age. While this sounds like a bit of an upgrade, assuming that the original manga’s delivery is lesser because it’s not traditionally lustrous would be the same (sadly common) mistake as putting down unconventional artists like ONE. If staying on model and increasing the level of visual intricacy is the only pathway to excellence you perceive, you simply will never understand why artists like them can be tremendous storytellers. Not in spite of the way they draw, but largely because of it as well.
If you were to sum up Orb‘s original delivery in one word, it would be striking. It’s not through its illustrative power, or even the notable expressivity that those rougher drawings have. Instead, it’s the paneling and a more intangible sense of daringness that seem to give it so much power. The former is certainly easier to explain. There is no strict sense of temporality to comics—at least not in the way film has built-in timing—and that speaks highly of mangaka who can control the way you read them and thus maximize the impact of every development. Combined with its excellent usage of solid blacks, plenty of panels will stop you in your tracks. What further elevates it, especially given the theme of the work, is the author’s willingness to make each of those panels their honest, unbothered vision. It’s not as if the manga is full of distractingly complicated angles, as visual shock value is not something it’s concerned with, but it also doesn’t shy away from framing perspectives above its technical ceiling. Whereas the adaptation clearly operates within a comfort zone, the manga’s appeal is fittingly raw.
Truthfully, there has never been a clean dichotomy between excellent adaptations and awful ones, between daring projects and unambitious dreck. The largest productions can slip in spots, even when they have very deliberate direction. Overlapping with Orb’s broadcast, you could find a Medalist TV show that surpassed the pessimistic expectations; studio ENGI can’t shake off their management problems and the need for large amounts of outsourcing, but they showed that within their limited ceiling there’s still the ability to capture just enough of the source material magic to win its audience over.
In Orb’s case, I would argue that the anime goes further than that type of merely adequate adaptation. If you were to ask about the highlights of its production, many would point to the opening sequence and its multiple variations. It’s well known that not all anime at studio Madhouse is created equal, especially not nowadays. There are sizable gaps between different production lines, and smaller divides in each project within those. This adaptation belongs to a team captained by animation producer Tsunenari Oka, who has orbited all over the studio but mostly led projects on the limited side of things. His output doesn’t always correspond to the undesirable end of Madhouse’s stick, the projects that are essentially animated by DR MOVIE and other, very barebones support houses, but is decidedly not on a level to compete with the studios’ most lavish side. Right now, that brilliance is best embodied by Yuichiro Fukushi‘s crew in projects like Frieren… or, case in point, in Orb‘s opening.
The show’s intro is the type of dazzling showcase of animation that the project as a whole can’t aspire to, but far from being content with that extravagance, it also goes out of its way to infuse every shot with meaning. It’s easy to tell that the power couple of Toru Iwazawa (director and storyboarder) and Reiko Nagasawa (animation director) are big fans of the series by how much they were able to pack on the surface and below it; in his words, a way to make it enjoyable both for newcomers and big fans. Even the former will be able to appreciate the clear association between matching spheres, rotation, and the astronomical theme, yet further context will enrich the experience as they realize why certain round forms were chosen. It’s only in retrospect that they’ll notice how many motifs and concepts were elegantly, casually introduced, while avid fans were already able to predict that the whole opening was boarded to accommodate changes in its multiple versions—changes in the world of Orb itself. Being a big fan of the series as well, Oka felt the necessity to take responsibility and might’ve been the one push for this fanciful opening, but I would wager on the connections of a certain series director with these Fukushi representatives instead.
The individual we do know for a fact was appointed by Oka was said leader of the production: director Kenichi Shimizu. In a conversation with Mantan Web, he explained this choice as a way to emphasize the power of word. The excellence of Orb‘s writing encompasses many aspects that we’ve been talking about, and in the animation producer’s view, another one is its density of memorable, resonant lines. The clarity of Shimizu’s expression (and his ability to pull it off with limited resources) stood out to Oka as a way to get those across, hence his appointment. This was likely also a factor when it comes to assembling the voice cast, which was as star-studded as you’ll find on TV; and full of fans of the series, for that matter. The intent of focusing on the admittedly excellent dialogue is as understandable as it is dangerous: there is a fine line between taking a step back to emphasize the writing and delivery that feels barebones and shoddy. Fortunately, Orb was able to manage this situation with finesse beyond its technical limits.
In such an unassuming fashion that it’s easy to take it for granted, the team always finds small corners to reinforce its message in ways that feel unique to the TV show. The purposefulness of the direction by Shimizu & co becomes clear as early as the very first episode. Since the beginning, it draws a clear contrast between the warm, orange light of faith, and the cold, blue one of the night skies and astronogy. The nuance of the show’s positions is somehow compressed into these two colors. We begin the series alongside a highly pragmatic, cynical protagonist who understands that he lives in a world where it’s more comfortable to stay within the light of the Church—hence why it’s so apt to draw a connection between it and the positive emotions that we naturally associate with warm colors. And yet, those same tones just need to be heightened a bit to be reminiscent of more dangerous emotions. Be it the fire that we see burning supposed heretics or the more overbearing orange light when our lead faces an inquisitor, that duality is made clear visually.
The same type of range is exemplified on the other side of the coin. Cold colors can have a calm feeling to them, but are also very prone to darker associations and certainly less inviting than a promise of warmth. In their association with the night skies, their temptation to study forbidden matters makes them inherently dangerous. However, the same protagonist who tells you that no sane man would follow their azure siren songs is the one we see falling for the purity of that light. In a particularly memorable moment, Shimizu’s own storyboards use that blue light to give physical form to the thesis of the show: that the longing for knowledge is unquenchable, that curiosity will still find a way to sneak even into the darkest places. Even as the show embraces other motifs in the following arcs, all of which offering distinct perspectives, Orb still finds a striking way to return to these contrasting lights during the very climax of the series. For one last time, it shows that attempting to silence this curiosity with violence is so pointless it may even backfire; after all, it’s the fire of oppression that makes way for the open skies in that moment.
In an interview for Animage November 2024, and in completely unprompted fashion, Uoto goes on to say that they don’t watch much anime at all yet they absolutely adore Shirobako and Euphonium; to the point where the interviewer had to dedicate a separate blurb for the author to explain how much they love Kumiko and Myaamori. Because of that limited experience with anime, Uoto didn’t make explicit requests to the adaptation team… save for requesting Kensuke Ushio as the composer, precisely because of works like Liz and the Blue Bird. In his praise of the show, Yuasa also shouted out the music—of course, from a composer that he’s personally acquainted with as well.
It’s worth acknowledging that at points, these ideas are finer than their execution. After the broadcast of the fifth episode, there was a small controversy over certain scenes being too dark to see anything properly. The discussion around it was, for the most part, very poorly thought out. It doesn’t take much to realize that the episode makes a point about two people being lost in life, purposeless, on the darkest rainy night. It’s only when pure chance brings them closer to astronomy that the stars begin illuminating their path, with perhaps the most straightforward, thematic usage of lighting in the show… which somehow missed many heads. The era of digital compositing has slowly conditioned audiences to think about that aspect purely from a polished beauty point of view, rather than questioning its relationship with the direction and writing. And thus, it also leads to dogmatic, uncurious positions—Orb‘s enemy, in a way. That said, the execution does exemplify that the technical precision isn’t always there, just like some of the most overbearing oranges showcased in the first arc. While a show with such clear ideas is always preferable, it’s hard to deny that the lack of technical mastery rears its head here and there.
Similarly minute (but accumulatively meaningful) choices are associated with every arc that follows. The second one borrows the eye imagery from the source material, but feels richer and more pointed in the way it draws a connection between the metaphorical and literal eyeballs, which allows for them to bookend two people’s entire stories. In its relationship with the third lead, who suffers more than anyone else from the inequality of opportunities in that world, the anime also draws bridges between the blind spots of history and the literal shadows she walks under, unseen even as her achievements remain.
In the end, I believe the third arc to be the one in contention with the initial one for the adaptation’s most effective overarching choices; understated as ever, yet so compelling when you see the full picture. In that earlier Mantan interview, animation producer Oka notes that Uoto had originally drawn the starry skies in the series with the aid of a piece of software that allows you to see the exact skies given the date and location you input. The anime followed suit, and he speculates that the beauty they achieved was due, on top of the skill of art director Yasutoshi Kawai, to the fact that Orb always had that sense of realism. Although I do believe that the authenticity is a solid backbone, I’d point to the occasional lies that he acknowledges as an even more important reason behind their success. While they operate across a range, it’s easy to notice that the skies in each major arc feature entirely different palettes. We’ve already talked about the pure blues of the first one, as well as the predominantly darker tones of the story that follows. All of them have clear significance, so what about the final arc?
As already teased in the opening, Orb‘s story finishes on the dawn of a new era. That idea is fairly explicit in the story, which returns to a younger protagonist and their struggles to navigate a world still ruled (and opposed) by the men of the past. Sunrise and people’s reaction to it become a motif in the story, and the anime chooses to interpret scenes to be bathed with that type of light as much as possible; a light that we hadn’t seen until this point, because only now is the time of change. Through this impeccable focus, the rare exceptions also stand out more as well. One of the highlights in the show comes by the hand of Tomoya Kitagawa, easily among the most capable directors orbiting around Madhouse at the moment. His work in episode #21 regulates the tension with expertise, until everything blows up into a particularly bloody confrontation between relics of that previous era. In arc that has been all about the hopeful dawns, that red evening becomes truly memorable.
It’s the sum of the intangibles in such moments that I believe make Orb’s adaptation a meaningfully different experience; not just a fine enough version of a great story, but one that stands up on its own right. Do its understated creative choices completely make up for the limitations of the project? As we’d brought up earlier, a couple of iconic directors seem to have reached opposite conclusions—but the fact that this series is interesting enough to even spark that debate should tell you that, if you haven’t yet, you should at least give it a try. If you end up preferring the manga and wishing that a more daring director had tackled their work, well, do I ever have exceptionally good news for you.
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