Chainsaw Man Review Why This Anime Feels Empty Brutal and Wrong on Purpose
Rushabh Bhosale
There's something profoundly uncomfortable about watching Chainsaw Man. Not because of the gore—though there's plenty—but because it refuses to let you feel good about any of it.
Most shonen anime give you catharsis: the hero grows stronger, bonds deepen, evil gets punched into submission. Chainsaw Man gives you Denji, a teenager whose greatest dream is to touch a breast, standing in pools of demon blood wondering if any of this matters.
This isn't accidentally disturbing. It's intentionally hollow. And that's exactly why it works.
Denji's Psychology: When Survival Replaces Dreams
The Protagonist Who Wants Too Little
Denji chainsaw man begins the story with desires so small they're almost insulting. He wants food. A bed. Maybe jam on toast. After living in poverty so extreme that his own body became collateral, these aren't aspirations—they're biological imperatives dressed up as dreams.
When Makima offers him stability, employment, and the vague promise of intimacy, Denji doesn't hesitate. He doesn't negotiate. He just says yes, because saying yes means not starving.
Why Denji Isn't Like Other Shonen Heroes
What makes Denji fascinating isn't his power or his potential for growth. It's his complete lack of internal narrative. He doesn't have a tragic backstory that motivates him, a dead parent whose honor he must restore, or a philosophical belief system guiding his choices.
He has needs. When those needs are met, he moves to the next one. Touch a breast. Kiss a girl. Have sex. Each desire is immediate, transactional, and almost pathetically human.
This is where Chainsaw Man diverges sharply. Denji isn't suppressing his desires in service of a higher calling. He wants them openly, desperately, and without shame—because shame requires the kind of social conditioning that poverty stripped away. He's Maslow's hierarchy of needs given a chainsaw and told to fight demons.
Damage, Not Purity
The series never romanticizes this. Denji's simplicity isn't portrayed as purity or noble ignorance. It's portrayed as damage.
He's a person so thoroughly brutalized by deprivation that he can't conceptualize wanting anything beyond immediate gratification. When he does start forming attachments—to Power, to Aki—it's almost accidental, like muscle memory from a self he never got to develop.
Makima: The Architecture of Control
Seduction vs. Engineering Dependency
Makima chainsaw man operates on a frequency that's easy to misread as seduction. She's not trying to seduce Denji in any conventional sense. She's engineering dependency.
Every interaction is calibrated: the right amount of attention, the right tone of voice, the right implication of future reward. She treats Denji the way a trainer treats an animal—with patience, consistency, and the understanding that affection is a tool, not a feeling.
Why Makima Is So Effective
What's insidious about Makima isn't that she's evil. It's that she's effective. Denji doesn't just want her approval—he needs it, structurally, because she controls access to everything that makes his life bearable.
Food, shelter, purpose, belonging. She's not his love interest. She's his entire survival apparatus. The series understands that this isn't romance—it's Stockholm syndrome with paperwork.
Control as Intimacy
Makima's power isn't supernatural domination, though she has that too. It's emotional precision. She knows exactly how much warmth to give before withdrawing it, how much hope to offer before dangling the next carrot.
She's what happens when manipulation becomes institutional, when someone with absolute authority decides that people are resources to be optimized rather than beings to be respected.
Power and Aki: Accidental Family in a Hollow World
The Emotional Anchors Denji Didn't Know He Needed
Power chainsaw man and Aki chainsaw man function as Denji's unintentional support system. Neither is trying to save him. Power is selfish, cowardly, and loud. Aki is exhausted, traumatized, and barely holding himself together.
But they're present. They occupy the same space. They tolerate each other's existence long enough that something resembling family starts to form—not through grand gestures, but through the mundane repetition of shared living.
Why Their Relationships Feel Real
What makes these relationships compelling is their lack of sentimentality. Denji doesn't have heartfelt conversations with Aki about trauma. Power doesn't give inspiring speeches about friendship.
They're just three broken people living in the same apartment, gradually becoming each other's default setting for normalcy. It's intimacy born from proximity, not purpose.
Loneliness Exposed
This is where Denji's loneliness becomes visible. He's spent his entire life alone, even when surrounded by people. He doesn't know how to ask for connection, so he settles for proximity.
Denji’s emotional emptiness mirrors the kind of existential stagnation explored in Welcome to the NHK, where survival replaces ambition.
When Power or Aki show him even basic decency—helping with chores, remembering his preferences, existing consistently—it registers as profound kindness because he's never experienced the baseline of being cared for.
Violence Without Glory: Why the Action Feels Empty
This cycle of suffering without growth echoes Tokyo Revengers Season 4 and the Final Arc, where repeated violence never heals trauma—it only traps characters deeper inside it.
Chainsaw Man's Refusal to Glorify Combat
In most shonen anime, violence is redemptive. The hero fights, gets stronger, and earns their victory through determination and moral clarity. In Chainsaw Man, violence is just violence—messy, grotesque, and meaningless.
Denji doesn't grow stronger through training arcs or philosophical breakthroughs. He rips things apart because that's what he's been told to do, and the series never pretends there's honor in it.
The Mechanical Nature of Denji's Fights
When Denji transforms and starts shredding demons, there's no triumphant soundtrack, no slow-motion heroics. It's brutal, mechanical, almost industrial. He's not a warrior. He's a weapon being deployed.
The series strips away the aestheticization of combat, showing it as the grim, necessary ugliness it actually is within this world. There's no catharsis in watching Denji win because winning doesn't solve anything—it just delays the next fight.
Why This Matters
This refusal to make violence heroic is central to what makes Chainsaw Man disturbing. It denies the viewer the comfort of thinking that suffering has purpose, that pain leads to growth, that destruction can be beautiful if framed correctly.
Violence here is a job. And like any job performed under duress, it's draining, repetitive, and ultimately hollow.
Is Chainsaw Man Misunderstood or Overrated?
The Discomfort Is the Point
Chainsaw Man resonates with modern audiences precisely because it refuses to comfort them. It presents a protagonist who's been failed by every system meant to protect him and asks: what does a person become when survival is their only ambition?
This is why Chainsaw Man divides audiences so sharply. Some see emptiness. Others see honesty. The difference comes down to what you expect anime to give you.
The answer isn't pretty. But it's honest.
Why It Feels Different
Unlike anime that use darkness as aesthetic flavoring, Chainsaw Man's bleakness is structural. The world isn't dark because demons exist—it's dark because the humans exploiting Denji are indistinguishable from the monsters he fights.
Where most anime defuse despair with humor—like KonoSuba Season 4, which turns failure into comedy—Chainsaw Man refuses that release, leaving discomfort unresolved and intentionally raw.
The series understands that poverty, manipulation, and institutional abuse are slower, quieter forms of violence. And it refuses to look away.
Common Questions About Character Fates
Viewers often search "does aki die in chainsaw man" or "does power die in chainsaw man" because the series creates genuine dread about its characters' survival. Unlike typical shonen where plot armor is assumed, Chainsaw Man treats death as inevitable rather than narratively convenient—a reflection of its unflinching worldview.
The Final Verdict: Shallow or Honest?
Chainsaw Man's Greatest Strength
Chainsaw Man isn't shallow. It's brutally honest in a way most anime aren't willing to be. It refuses to assign meaning to suffering, refuses to pretend that good intentions guarantee good outcomes, refuses to let you feel good about watching a traumatized teenager be weaponized by adults who should protect him.
This honesty makes it uncomfortable. And that discomfort is precisely why it matters.
What the Series Actually Says
At its core, Chainsaw Man is about what happens when someone is denied the foundational experiences that make people human—safety, connection, choice—and then expected to function anyway.
Denji isn't a hero. He's a victim with a chainsaw, navigating a world that treats him as a resource rather than a person. The series never forgives this. It never justifies it. It just shows it, clearly and without flinching.
Why That Resonates Now
In an era where economic precarity, emotional exploitation, and institutional indifference are common experiences, a protagonist who just wants jam on toast and doesn't get to have even that feels uncomfortably relatable.
Chainsaw Man doesn't offer solutions or hope. It offers recognition. And sometimes, that's enough to make something unforgettable.
The series asks a simple question: If you were raised in deprivation, manipulated by authority, and taught that your value exists only in your utility—who would you become?
Denji is the answer. And the fact that we can't look away says more about us than we might want to admit.
If Chainsaw Man’s hollow violence, broken characters, and emotional discomfort resonated with you, these reads dive deeper into anime that challenge comfort and expectations:
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Why Made in Abyss Is Beautiful and Horrifying | Studio Ghibli Meets Body Horror
Made in Abyss (2017) weaponizes the contrast between its childlike Studio Ghibli-inspired art style and its brutal body horror to create uniquely unsettling storytelling. The series follows children Riko and Reg descending into a mysterious pit called the Abyss, where cute character designs collide with graphic violence, psychological trauma, and existential dread. The beauty—hand-painted backgrounds, whimsical creatures, wonder-filled exploration—makes the horror hit harder. When characters suffer horrific injuries or transformations, the contrast between what you see (adorable kids) and what happens to them (dismemberment, body horror, death) creates cognitive dissonance that haunts viewers long after watching. This isn't accidental—it's the core of what makes Made in Abyss both a masterpiece and deeply controversial. Since its 2017 release, Made in Abyss has maintained an 8.6+ rating on MyAnimeList and won the 2018 Anime of the Year award at Crunchyroll, proving its impact despite—or because of—its controversial content. The Deceptive First Impression Made in Abyss draws viewers in with delicate, storybook visuals and a childlike sense of wonder. The first episodes feel cozy—quirky interactions, whimsical creature designs, and soft character expressions that give off a sense of safety and innocence. The chibi-style animation reminds viewers of Studio Ghibli's warmest works. Hand-painted backgrounds rival theatrical productions. Sunlight hits the town of Orth beautifully, rivers weave through districts, and everything looks meticulously crafted. Then episode 10 happens. When the Mask Falls Off What appears at first to be a cutesy adventure story evolves into a claustrophobic, disturbing fable of single-minded determination and a desperate struggle against overwhelming odds that portrays both brutal violence and severe bodily mutilation involving children. The tonal shift doesn't arrive gradually. It lands with disturbing force—sudden violence, brutal injuries, psychological trauma, and body horror creep into the narrative, shattering any expectation of a fun adventure. Similar to how Evangelion uses mecha to explore depression, Made in Abyss uses its genre trappings (adventure anime) to smuggle in much darker themes about human cost and sacrifice. The Studio Ghibli Aesthetic Hiding Cosmic Horror The comparison to Studio Ghibli isn't superficial. Made in Abyss deliberately evokes that aesthetic—the organic, curvilinear art style, the fantasy environments, the attention to environmental detail that makes worlds feel lived-in. But where Ghibli uses that style to create comfort and wonder, Made in Abyss uses it as camouflage. Art Style as Weapon The art isn't just beautiful—it's strategically beautiful. The cuter the characters look, the more disturbing it becomes when terrible things happen to them. The Puni Plush aesthetic can be misleading. Made in Abyss is in fact a full-throated Cosmic Horror Story with a caliber of body horror and ultra-violence comparable to some of anime's most uncompromising dark fantasy. This creates cognitive dissonance. Your brain sees adorable children with big eyes and soft features. Then those same children suffer injuries depicted in agonizing, unflinching detail—bones breaking, flesh tearing, bodies transforming into something unrecognizable. The contrast makes both elements stronger. The beauty emphasizes the horror. The horror makes the beauty feel fragile, temporary, a thin veneer over something monstrous. The Abyss Itself: Beauty That Kills The Abyss is the series' central metaphor—a massive, mysterious pit filled with ancient relics, strange creatures, and otherworldly beauty that hides its grim nature. No one knows how deep it goes or how it came to be. It's an Eldritch Location that causes phenomena by sheer proximity. Time moves strangely in the depths. Trying to ascend causes life-threatening symptoms called "the Curse." The Descent as Metaphor Going into the Abyss is a one-way journey. Each layer down increases danger. The Curse ensures that returning becomes progressively impossible—mild nausea at shallow depths, intense pain deeper, hallucinations deeper still, and eventually death or transformation into something no longer human. This "no going back" motif solidifies the horror. You're stuck in your pursuit, trapped in Dante's Inferno's downward spiral with no escape route. This connects to how Mushishi shows problems that can't be fixed—some journeys don't have happy endings, some costs can't be undone. When Body Horror Happens to Children The series' most controversial aspect is its willingness to depict graphic violence and body horror involving child characters. The Poison Scene That Changes Everything Episode 10 features Riko being poisoned by an Orb Piercer. The poison works fast—her hand balloons grotesquely, blood pours from her eyes and ears. To save her life, Reg must break her arm with a rock, then amputate it while she screams in agony. The scene is brutal, extended, and unflinching. Smashing, screaming, and shredding fill the soundscape with disturbing vibes. It's rough and ugly in ways that would benefit from leaving elements implied rather than displayed. But that's the point. Made in Abyss refuses to look away. The series argues that if you're going to show children in danger, you have to show the actual consequences—not sanitized action-hero injuries that heal by next episode. This parallels the dark side of competition shown in 100 Meters anime—both series refuse to prettify suffering. Bondrewd: The Monster Who Loves The character who embodies Made in Abyss's thematic horror is Bondrewd, a White Whistle explorer who conducts human experimentation in the Abyss's depths. He's polite, articulate, even gentle in manner. He seems like a stand-up character. But he's responsible for atrocities carried out under the guise of progress and paternal care. The Mitty and Nanachi Tragedy Bondrewd tells two children—Mitty and Nanachi—that he'll send them deep into the Abyss then bring them back up to study the Curse's effects. When they ascend, Mitty takes the full force of the Curse. Her body transforms into a blob-like creature in constant pain, unable to die, screaming as Nanachi is forced to watch helplessly. Bondrewd then experiments on Mitty's immortal body, destroying and regenerating her organs repeatedly. The horror isn't just the body horror—it's that Bondrewd genuinely believes his work is righteous. He's the most memorable villain in recent memory, in the worst way. Despite the horror of his actions, he genuinely believes that his work is for progress, even as it destroys countless lives. The series questions whether intent matters when the outcome is monstrous. The Curse of the Abyss: Consequences That Matter Unlike most adventure anime where injuries heal conveniently, Made in Abyss enforces permanent consequences through the Curse system. How the Curse Works Each layer of the Abyss has a "Curse"—symptoms that occur when ascending: Layer 1: Mild dizziness and nausea Layer 2: Heavy nausea, headache, numbness Layer 3: Vertigo, hallucinations, balance loss Layer 4: Intense pain throughout body, bleeding from every orifice Layer 5: Complete sensory deprivation, self-harm, loss of humanity Layer 6: Death or loss of humanity/transformation into something monstrous This creates constant dread. Every step deeper makes returning more impossible. Characters can't just decide to leave—physics itself prevents escape. The Curse turns adventure into trap. Similar to why Monster feels more terrifying than horror anime, the horror comes from inevitability, not jump scares. Why the Beauty Makes the Horror Worse The series maintains visual beauty throughout its darkest moments. Even in the deepest, most dangerous layers, the Abyss remains stunning. Bioluminescent creatures glow softly. Underground ecosystems burst with color. Ancient ruins inspire awe. When Reg and Riko share quiet moments discovering new creatures, when they laugh together despite everything, when they create temporary safety in hostile territory—these moments make the horror that follows unbearable. You care about these characters. You want them to be okay. The series gives you reasons to hope, then systematically destroys that hope in ways that feel earned, not exploitative. For viewers seeking similar tonal whiplash, 10 underrated anime you probably missed includes other series that balance beauty with darkness. The Music That Shouldn't Work But Does Composer Kevin Penkin created a soundtrack that matches the visual contrast—beautiful, sometimes playful orchestration accompanying horrific scenes. The song "Underground River" begins slow and quiet, builds to sharp and blaring intensity, then mellows out. It contains meaningful lyrics highlighting themes of descent and discovery. "Hanezeve Caradhina" plays during tragic moments with haunting vocals that sound both ancient and alien. The music treats the Abyss as sacred, not evil—a place of wonder that happens to kill people. This creates emotional whiplash that reinforces the series' core tension: beauty and horror aren't opposites here. They're the same thing. Who Should (and Shouldn't) Watch This Watch If You: Appreciate anime that takes creative risks Can handle graphic content if it serves thematic purpose Enjoyed other "cute exterior, dark interior" series like Madoka Magica Want fantasy adventure that respects consequences Can separate art style from content maturity Skip If You: Can't handle body horror or child endangerment Prefer sanitized adventure stories Need happy resolutions to justify dark content Are sensitive to graphic depictions of suffering Expect art style to indicate content rating This connects to how Chainsaw Man feels wrong on purpose—discomfort can be intentional artistic choice. What Made in Abyss Actually Achieves The series succeeds at something rare: making beauty and horror inseparable. Most anime separate them—beautiful moments provide relief, horrific moments create contrast. Made in Abyss refuses this separation. Despite its heavy themes, the series maintains delicate balance through pacing that alternates between wonder, tension, and horror—preventing darker elements from becoming overwhelming while never sanitizing consequences. Nearly a decade after its 2017 premiere, Made in Abyss remains both celebrated and controversial. Its refusal to look away from the costs of adventure created something that haunts viewers in ways typical horror anime can't achieve. Because when horror wears the face of wonder, you can never look at wonder the same way again.