Why Sonny Boy Confused So Many Viewers on Purpose
Rushabh Bhosale
If you've ever sat through an episode of Sonny Boy and thought, "What on earth is happening right now?"—you're not alone. This 2021 anime series from director Shingo Natsume has left countless viewers scratching their heads, rewinding scenes, and diving into discussion forums trying to piece together what they just watched.
But here's the twist: that confusion wasn't an accident. It was completely intentional.
The Anime That Broke All the Rules
Sonny Boy isn't your typical isekai anime. When 36 middle school students suddenly find their school drifting through an alternate dimension, you might expect a straightforward survival story. Instead, what Madhouse delivered was something far more experimental and deeply philosophical.
This deliberate refusal to comfort the viewer mirrors how Why Zankyou no Terror Is Beautiful but Deeply Flawed uses ambiguity and emotional restraint to force the audience into reflection rather than resolution.
The series aired from July to October 2021, and from the very first episode, it was clear this wasn't going to hold your hand. There were no exposition dumps, no convenient narrator explaining the rules of this strange new world. Just students, supernatural powers, and a whole lot of existential questions.
Like Sonny Boy, From Old Country Bumpkin to Master Swordsman quietly subverts genre expectations by rejecting spectacle in favor of introspection and understated character growth.
Director Shingo Natsume's Bold Creative Vision
Shingo Natsume, known for his work on One Punch Man and Space Dandy, was given something rare in the anime industry: complete creative freedom. Producer Motoki Mukaichi essentially told him to make whatever he wanted, and Natsume seized that opportunity to craft what he himself called a "selfish" work.
In interviews, Natsume revealed several deliberate choices that made Sonny Boy so challenging to follow. The most striking? His decision to eliminate all internal monologues.
"I've felt that lately, characters tend to say anything at all that's on their mind through monologues, and I don't think that's very entertaining to watch," Natsume explained. "Since this was going to be my own original series, I wanted to do away with that."
This single choice fundamentally changed how viewers experienced the story. Without characters spelling out their thoughts and motivations, you had to pay attention to body language, facial expressions, and the spaces between dialogue. The anime demanded active engagement rather than passive consumption.
The Philosophy Behind the Confusion
Sonny Boy explores heavy themes that don't have easy answers: capitalist exploitation, social isolation, individual freedom versus collective order, and the struggle of adolescence. The confusion viewers feel mirrors the characters' own disorientation as they navigate bizarre parallel worlds without a roadmap.
Natsume described his main objective as showing "the friction between maintaining order and individual freedom." The story draws inspiration from "the illogicalities that can sprout through rules"—a reflection of Japanese society's rigid structure and the pressure teenagers face to conform.
The protagonist Nagara represents someone constrained by expectations, drifting through life without agency. His journey through these surreal dimensions becomes a metaphor for finding purpose and learning to engage with the world proactively.
Non-Traditional Storytelling Techniques
What makes Sonny Boy genuinely unique is how it tells its story. The anime frequently skips over major plot events entirely, choosing instead to focus on characters' reactions to things that happened off-screen. Episodes jump forward in time without warning. New characters appear without introduction. Entire storylines are left deliberately unresolved.
The second half transforms into something almost anthology-like, with episodes functioning as semi-independent vignettes exploring different philosophical concepts. One episode examines war through the lens of a talking dog's backstory. Another uses baseball-playing monkeys to comment on hierarchy and absurdity.
Critics have noted how the series presents philosophical questions "not so much answering any questions as much as asking and then pondering on them." This open-ended approach frustrated some viewers but captivated others who appreciated the ambiguity.
The Power of Visual Storytelling
Sonny Boy's animation style reinforces its themes of disorientation. The anime uses simple character designs without the typical colorful hairstyles and exaggerated features common in anime. Yet each character remains distinct through their movements and expressions.
Art director Mari Fujino created backgrounds inspired by painter Henri Rousseau, using complementary colors that, in her view, matched the uncertainty in Natsume's writing. The show even broke technical rules, using pure RGB black to depict the void—something you're typically advised against on television.
The first episode contains no music whatsoever. Later episodes use minimal background music, relying instead on natural sounds. This absence of musical cues removes another familiar guide for viewers, intensifying the sense of emptiness and isolation.
Why Leave So Much Unexplained?
By the finale, Sonny Boy leaves numerous questions unanswered. Who was War and why did he die? What did it mean for the principal to be "God"? Why did certain events happen the way they did?
Natsume's answer is refreshingly honest: it doesn't matter. The anime embraces the idea that sometimes things happen without deeper meaning. There's no grand explanation for why the students drifted into parallel worlds—it just happened, like a package sent to the wrong address.
What matters isn't the "why" but the "how"—how the characters respond, how they grow, and how they choose to live despite uncertainty. Nagara's subtle smile at the end signifies more character development than a thousand words of explanation could convey.
The Intentional Ambiguity
When asked about his goals for the series, Natsume said he wanted to create "an anime that, depending on your angle, you could form many different ways of looking at it." The confusion isn't a flaw—it's a feature that encourages viewers to think, discuss, and form their own interpretations.
The ending deliberately feels mundane. Nagara and Mizuho return to ordinary high school life. There's no triumphant homecoming, no magical transformation of reality. Just two teenagers who went on a strange journey and came back slightly changed.
Some viewers found this deeply unsatisfying. Others recognized it as a profound statement about growing up: most life changes don't come with dramatic revelations. They're quiet, incremental, and easy to miss if you're not paying attention.
A Deconstruction of Isekai Tropes
While Sonny Boy fits the isekai genre technically, it functions as a critique of the escapism that defines most isekai anime. Unlike series where being transported to another world is a fun adventure or wish fulfillment fantasy, Sonny Boy's alternate dimensions trap the characters in stasis.
The students can't age or truly change. Some choose to stay in these worlds rather than face the challenges of real life. The anime suggests that escapism, while tempting, prevents genuine growth and development.
Only Nagara and Mizuho—the two characters who struggled most in the real world—choose to return home. This choice to confront reality rather than hide from it represents true courage.
The Literary Influences
Natsume packed Sonny Boy with references to literature and philosophy. The series draws heavily from Kazuo Umezu's manga The Drifting Classroom, William Golding's Lord of the Flies, and works by J.D. Salinger and Jack Kerouac.
The tension between control and individual freedom echoes themes explored in Yhwach Is the Most Dangerous Villain Bleach Ever Created, where ideology and absolute order become more terrifying than chaos itself.
These references aren't just easter eggs—they inform the show's themes. Like Lord of the Flies, Sonny Boy examines what happens when young people try to create order in chaos. Like The Drifting Classroom, it explores isolation and the loss of familiar structures.
Why Some Viewers Loved the Confusion
For anime fans tired of formulaic storytelling, Sonny Boy was a breath of fresh air. Its willingness to be difficult, to resist easy interpretation, and to trust its audience created something genuinely original within the isekai landscape.
The confusion forced viewers to engage more deeply. Online communities dissected episodes, debated symbolism, and shared interpretations. The ambiguity became part of the experience, transforming passive viewing into active participation.
Critics praised the anime as "the best modern anime overlooked by audiences" and "one of the best anime of its year," noting how it "encapsulates the allure of anime's more bizarre and experimental side."
The Takeaway: Embracing Uncertainty
Sonny Boy confused viewers on purpose because confusion is part of being human. We don't have all the answers. Life doesn't come with exposition or clear explanations for why things happen. We navigate uncertainty with whatever tools we have—just like Nagara navigating parallel dimensions with only a compass and his friends.
The anime suggests that this uncertainty isn't something to fear or solve. It's something to accept and move through. Growth happens not when everything makes sense, but when we keep moving forward despite the confusion.
Natsume himself considered the ending "an incredibly happy ending," even though his sound director thought it was "too sad." That disagreement perfectly captures what makes Sonny Boy special—it means different things to different people, and that's exactly the point.
Should You Watch Sonny Boy?
If you prefer anime with clear plots, definitive answers, and straightforward character arcs, Sonny Boy might frustrate you. But if you're willing to embrace ambiguity and think deeply about what you're watching, it offers a uniquely rewarding experience.
The confusion isn't a bug—it's the core feature of an anime that dares to be different. In an industry often criticized for playing it safe, Sonny Boy took risks that didn't always pay off commercially but created something genuinely artistic.
As Nagara says in the final episode: "Our lives are just beginning. What lies ahead will just take a little bit longer." Sometimes the journey through confusion is more valuable than arriving at a neat conclusion.
And maybe that's the most important lesson Sonny Boy has to teach us—that being confused doesn't mean you're doing something wrong. Sometimes it means you're paying attention to something complex and real, something worth wrestling with even if you never fully figure it out.
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Bakugo's Rivalry with Deku Is About Identity, Not Competition
Bakugo and Deku's rivalry in My Hero Academia isn't about who's stronger—it's about who they are when strength stops defining them. Bakugo's entire identity was built on being superior to everyone, especially Quirkless Deku. When Deku gains One For All and starts surpassing him, Bakugo doesn't just face defeat in competition—he faces the collapse of his entire sense of self. The rivalry explores what happens when your worth is tied to being the best, when the person you looked down on becomes your equal, and when you're forced to rebuild who you are from scratch. Unlike typical shonen rivalries driven by power scaling, Bakugo and Deku's relationship asks: if you're not the strongest, who are you? Bakugo didn’t lose to Deku. He lost the story he told himself about who he was. Streaming on Crunchyroll and Funimation. The Rivalry That Doesn't Follow the Rules Most shonen rivalries follow a template: two powerful characters push each other to greater heights through competition. Goku and Vegeta. Naruto and Sasuke. The formula works because both rivals start roughly equal. Bakugo and Deku break this completely. Their rivalry begins when one has everything and the other has nothing—built on the assumption that gap will never close. The Childhood That Set Everything Bakugo gained an inflated ego from being praised excessively for his powerful Explosion Quirk, leading him to bully Quirkless Izuku Midoriya. But the bullying wasn't just cruelty. It was self-defense. When they were children, Deku tried to help Bakugo after he fell into a river. Bakugo was offended that a weakling like Deku tried to save him and assumed he was looking down on him. This moment reveals everything. Bakugo's entire identity rested on being superior. A Quirkless kid offering help shattered that hierarchy—so Bakugo rebuilt the wall with violence and contempt. The nickname "Deku" (meaning useless) wasn't just an insult. It was Bakugo's attempt to permanently define someone who threatened his sense of self. When Your Identity Is Built on Being Better Katsuki started out believing his worth was tied to how strong he was. In My Hero Academia's society, Quirks determine value. Heroes are celebrities. Power equals worth. Bakugo absorbed this completely—his Explosion Quirk made him special, and being special became his entire personality. The Problem With Conditional Self-Worth When your identity depends on external validation—being the strongest, smartest, most talented—you're building on sand. Any threat to that superiority threatens your entire existence. Deku represented the ultimate threat: proof that Bakugo's superiority wasn't inherent. If a Quirkless nobody could become his equal, then Bakugo was never special—he just got lucky with genetics. 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After he loses to Deku, feels he can't measure up to Todoroki, gets kidnapped, and fails his Licensing Exam, he suffers a massive identity crisis that knocks down his fragile confidence. Each defeat chips away at the foundation. If strength doesn't guarantee victory, what does it guarantee? If being talented doesn't make you special, what does? Similar to how Haikyuu explores effort without a promise of greatness, Bakugo discovers that natural talent without growth is a dead end. Why Bakugo Can't Just "Get Stronger" In a typical shonen rivalry, the solution to falling behind is training harder. Get a new technique. Unlock a transformation. Close the gap through effort. Bakugo does train harder. He does get stronger. It doesn't fix anything. The Problem Isn't Power—It's Perspective If he isn't the strongest and he isn't meant to achieve immediate greatness, then what is his role? It's something that Quirkless Midoriya had to evaluate for many years as a child. What is his purpose in a world that seems destined to leave him behind? Bakugo is forced to ask the same question Deku asked his entire childhood: who am I if I'm not what I thought I was? For Deku, that question led to discovering identity beyond Quirks—heroism as action, not status. For Bakugo, it requires dismantling everything he built his personality on. What Deku Has That Bakugo Doesn't The series explicitly contrasts their approaches to All Might, their shared idol. While Deku admired All Might's ability to save lives with a smile, Bakugo admired his strength and ability to defeat anyone. This difference is everything. Two Different Definitions of Heroism Deku sees heroism as connection—reaching people, protecting them, making them feel safe. Bakugo sees heroism as dominance—being strong enough that threats don't matter, proving yourself through victory. Neither is wrong, but only one is complete. Endeavor has a powerful quirk and is skilled at rescuing civilians, but the reason why he's unable to surpass All Might is because he fundamentally does not care about the people he's saving. Bakugo mirrors Endeavor—technically excellent, strategically brilliant, but missing the emotional core that makes All Might irreplaceable. The rivalry with Deku forces Bakugo to develop what he lacks: empathy, collaboration, the ability to see strength in vulnerability. The Fight That Changes Everything Their second major fight—where Bakugo finally admits his feelings—is when the rivalry transforms completely. Bakugo breaks down. He admits he feels responsible for All Might's retirement. He admits he doesn't understand how Deku got his Quirk. He admits he feels left behind. Vulnerability as Strength For someone whose entire identity was built on never showing weakness, this moment is death and rebirth. Bakugo's ceaseless drive forces Midoriya to become more assertive, and he eventually welcomes the rivalry. Meanwhile, Midoriya's attitude forces Bakugo into a previously unforeseen habit of contemplation. They're not just making each other stronger. They're making each other more complete. Deku learns confidence and assertiveness from Bakugo's refusal to back down. Bakugo learns empathy and teamwork from Deku's instinctive heroism. This parallels how Kids on the Slope shows that relationships force us to grow in unexpected ways—growth doesn't require perfection, just willingness to change. The Ending: Choosing to Redefine Yourself By the series' conclusion, Bakugo's transformation is complete—not because he's the strongest, but because he's rebuilt his identity on different foundations. Bakugo has been a proponent in crafting technology that allows Midoriya to potentially take a physically active role in superheroism again, meaning that the boy who once insulted a character without "powers" has now evolved into a man who wishes to find a way to bring those abilities back. From Contempt to Support The Bakugo who bullied Quirkless Deku now dedicates himself to helping Quirkless Deku become a hero again. Not because he pities him. Because he respects him. His identity is no longer built on being superior to Deku. It's built on being Deku's equal—someone who pushes him forward not through competition but through collaboration. The rivalry doesn't end. It evolves into partnership. Similar to how Bakuman shows the hidden costs of creative ambition, Bakugo discovers that identity built on relationships is stronger than identity built on dominance. What the Rivalry Actually Teaches Bakugo and Deku's relationship isn't about friendship conquering all or rivals becoming brothers. It's about what happens when the person you built your entire identity around surpasses you—and you're forced to decide who you are without that hierarchy. The Uncomfortable Truth About Conditional Identity Most people build identity on external markers: job titles, achievements, being better than peers. When those markers shift—when you get fired, when someone younger surpasses you, when your talent stops being enough—you face the same crisis Bakugo does. Who are you when the thing that made you special becomes common? When your worth can't be measured by comparison? The series doesn't offer easy answers. Bakugo's growth takes the entire series. He relapses into old patterns. He struggles with anger management. But he rebuilds anyway—slowly, imperfectly, honestly. This connects to why Eren started the Rumbling beyond just protecting Paradis—real growth is messy, incomplete, and driven by complex motivations beyond simple heroism. The Rivalry That Saved Both of Them Both young heroes look at the world's number 1 hero for inspiration. While their end goals were the same, the two determined they needed different things to get to their goals. However, as the story progresses both begin to realize that they each lack what the other has. Deku needed Bakugo's confidence, his refusal to accept limits, his aggressive drive to win. Bakugo needed Deku's empathy, his collaborative spirit, his instinct to save rather than defeat. Neither could become a complete hero alone. The rivalry forced them both to develop what they lacked—not through competition, but through recognition. By the end, they're not trying to surpass each other. They're trying to become worthy of standing beside each other. That's not a rivalry about competition. That's a rivalry about identity—and it's exactly why it works.