Darkness looms over Misato’s apartment as we return to Shinji’s caretaker, now cocooned in the repetition of a painful, desperate ritual. Instant ramen cups lie unattended and spoiling on the floor, beer cans stack up around her bed, and a familiar voice hangs in the air: Kaji’s final message, Misato’s last connection to the man she loved. His encouragement to “go forward without any hesitation” rings bitterly hollow as Misato hunches over her desk, happier to hunch in this loop of familiar feedback rather than strike out into the cold, lonely world.
Even Kaji, who seemed so close to figuring out a fulfilling path through life, was ultimately unable to recognize his own value. It is a curse that has haunted all of Evangelion’s lonely players; seeking hopelessly for validation and affection, yet unable to articulate how much the people around them mean to them in turn. Shinji, who is desperate for connection yet flees every possible confrontation. Asuka, who wants so badly to be loved, yet can only assert herself through anger and defiance. And Misato, whose pretensions of adulthood extended even to the hopes of being a surrogate parent to Shinji and Asuka, yet who now can only wait for a phone that will never ring.
The exhaustion is palpable in the dissolution of Misato’s would-be family, a series of closed doors and defensive explanations that Shinji solemnly examines one by one. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad – who would have guessed that Shinji, out of all of them, would be the only one still willing to bridge human connection? Shinji, whose sense of self was always fragmentary at best, has outlasted the ultimately brittle identities of his once-confident rival and caretaker. Perhaps that is the great strength hidden within Shinji’s alleged weakness – that because of his lack of confidence, his essential absence of a meaningful AT field, he is always willing to reach out and try again. Yes, he has fled in the past, but his desire to do right by the people he cares about always drew him back. For the boy who never had anything to lose, there is nothing for it but to accept failure, gather your strength, and quietly try again.
Defeated again in battle and with her repressed memories cruelly exposed, Asuka’s response is as relatable as Misato’s: she hides out in Hikari’s bedroom and plays videogames all day. In a game, you can never fail so badly that you disappoint the people you care about; you can simply start over and try again, repeating tasks until your proficiency matches the demanded skill level. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t it be a comfort if life were similar, if we were always afforded the chance to stumble and try again, proceeding at our own preferred pace? And wouldn’t it be special if we were always appreciated for that effort, if our eventual victory was always greeted by a “knew we could count on you” from characters that have no knowledge of our previous failures, or at least don’t hold them against us?
Previously, it is certain that Asuka would have considered such pastimes a cowardly triviality, an escape from the intense pressure and profound thrill of testing yourself against another human being, of fighting with everything you’ve ever cared for on the line. But failure has a way of tempering us; in the wake of failing to embody our highest ambitions, we come to appreciate that a world measured in winners and losers is a callous and lonely place. As such, it is a very different Asuka who inquires gently if Hikari wants to sleep, and who apologizes into the darkness, saying “I’m sorry. Am I a bother?”
Unfortunately, Asuka still possesses no alternative motivation, no sense of self beyond her will to be the best, and therefore not be ignored by – her mother? Her rivals? Her lover? Regardless, the system of value that was her only defense against her mother’s rejection has now failed her, leaving her adrift and worthless, hating everyone and hating herself most of all. Her tragedy is all the greater because it is now of her own making; having found personal value only in excellence as an Eva pilot, she is now condemned by the system she herself created. As such, she cannot find solace in commiserating with Shinji, who has been equally abused via the chaining of his worth as a person to his efficacy as a pilot. Can you imagine how she might react to him sympathizing, to him seeing himself in her? Better to hide here, in the company of someone whose opinion could never have any bearing on her sense of self-worth.
Hikari tries, though. Responding to Asuka’s alarming litany of failure and fury, she says “I think it’s okay to do whatever you want and I won’t say anything, because I think you did your best, Asuka.” Hikari cannot “fix” Asuka, cannot hope to make up for the scarring her past has inflicted on her. But she can say she cares, and hope that Asuka interprets that as a comfort. We cannot save the world, and can only hope to save ourselves – but we must tend to the watermelons when we can, and leave the world a little bit kinder than we found it.
As the survivors of NERV take their uneasy rest, it is Ritsuko who stays awake through the night, her labors counted in lipstick-garnished cigarette butts. As it turns out, even Ritsuko had something left to lose: that cat Misato only just mentioned, who her grandmother informs her has passed away. She promises that “I’ll call next time,” a quiet indication that if not for her grandmother’s insistence, even this personal connection would have been severed years back. Is it better then to reject personal connection, lest you risk the despair into which Misato has now succumbed? If Ritsuko is any example to go by, it doesn’t seem like a happy way to live.
With the overall mood of NERV’s operatives thus established, Evangelion offers a simple yet comprehensive title drop: “Tears.”
The next angel appears almost immediately, a glimmering ring hanging above the earth, like a halo in search of its destined brow. Unit 00 is launched to intercept, and Unit 02 follows, a choice Gendo callously acknowledges is simply for the sake of a decoy. His words echo NERV’s exhaustion and desecration; from their initial framing as glorious saviors of humanity, the Eva units and their pilots are now understood to be sacrificial lambs, useful only so long as they can stave off one more battering from the heavens. For her part, Asuka feels ashamed to have so easily returned to the Eva unit, stating that “I’m so bad at letting things go.” Yet even as she condemns herself, her words reflect both her intelligence and a promise of the future: for now she knows that Unit 02 is one more source of validation that she must ultimately grow beyond.
Meanwhile, Rei holds in stoic position, rifle at the ready, having unexpectedly come to be the sole reliable pilot of our original trio. Her martial prowess serves as an echo of Shinji’s psychological endurance: as the two who always had the least to lose, they have maintained their strength through all the cruelties of NERV’s operations, forever fighting to take one inarguable step forward. Of course, Rei has changed since we met her: she’s come to respect Shinji perhaps even more than Gendo, to feel shy in the presence of those she cares for, and to hope a better life might be possible, if only she continues to fight her hardest. It is precisely Rei’s tentative, hard-fought personal growth, the humanity that she has found alongside her fellow pilots, that makes this angel’s ensuing actions such an intolerable cruelty.
Once again, the angels’ primary interest seems to be not violence, but connection – an intimate union with the Eva pilots, whether through their minds or physical bodies. Of course, as human beings defined by the barriers we erect, such connection is bound to imply violence, as our fearsome, often self-defeating individuality rallies against this demand for total mutual awareness. Rei’s counter against this angel’s rapid attack embodies the awkward disconnect of these perspectives; as the glowing thread of the angel pierces and corrupts Unit 00, Rei grabs whatever segment of the beast she can, firing her rifle into a creature that seems to defy physical definition. There is an inherent thrill in watching powerful titans do battle, but this fight is something else entirely; assaulted by a force with no stable form, Rei’s fight evokes more a nightmare of drowning, a constriction of the breath by a force too alien to understand it is hurting her.
And so Rei at last joins her fellow pilots in suffering a psychological intrusion by the unknowable other, a clumsy shuffling of memories like a lineup of potential criminals, the alien presence persistently asking “do you recognize this figure? Do you see this as yourself?” As with Shinji’s near-total dissolution, this foreign presence asks Rei to fuse with itself, to which she replies “No. I am me. I am not you.” Her words might seem obvious, but they are nonetheless a crucial act of defiance, rejecting not just fusion, but subservience to the will of others. If Shinji or Asuka believed they might be fully understood, might be able to return to the adoring arms of their absent mothers, it is difficult to imagine they would reject such a call. But Rei is not seeking a return to oblivion, at least not anymore. Rei is defiantly, proudly herself.
The angel cannot understand such an instinct. Why would you want to be separate, when separation implies loneliness? Isn’t loneliness painful? Why would you invite such pain? “That is your own heart, overflowing with sorrow,” the foreign entity instructs. But the angel has miscalculated – for in considering her own sorrow, Rei’s eyes fill with tears. This is her pain, no one else’s. These are the tears she has learned to shed, in acknowledgment of her own precious feelings. This is the suffering that proves her humanity – and after so long being treated as a doll for the use of others, she will not let anyone strip her humanity again.
As Unit 00 blooms into an unspeakable angel-Eva hybrid, the ban on Unit 01’s deployment is lifted, and Shinji takes the field. His AT field attracts the angel’s attention, and it surges towards him, swiftly initiating a corruption of his own Eva unit. With so much of Rei’s humanity now merged with the angel, its entreaties even take her form, thoughtlessly articulating her hidden wish to become one with Shinji. A desire so crucial that Evangelion’s team actually returned to it after the show’s initial release, bolstering her heart’s intent with animation worthy of its expression – but not like this. Not within the cruel, implacable confines of the angel’s powers. And so Rei decides there is only one thing she can still do, only one way to express her human will, her desire to live as an individual and die with an earnest love in her heart.
The Eva unit offers a grotesque imitation of motherhood as the angel is drawn back into its AT field. Rei rises, hoping to the end that a hand might reach out to touch her own. Then, in a cataclysmic act of personal sacrifice, both angel and pilot are destroyed.
Before we’ve even time to process this explosion, the second title card arrives, announcing this second half as “Rei III.” Evangelion has consistently used its double-titling to fantastic dramatic effect, exploiting their in-episode presence much in the way great songwriters or storytellers might create a contrast in tone between a work’s title and content. Such contrasts create an inherent conversation, perhaps even establishing a distinct mindset through which to view the following material. Here, the title card provides a silent answer to a question that was idly prompted by the long-ago “Rei II,” now serving as a final affirmation of our worst fears. To call back to that title nearly twenty episodes on creates a sense of inevitability, a certainty of this story’s scaffolding that neatly aligns with its current sense of inexorable deterioration. To answer that question in this particular way feels like a hand quietly squeezing our own, silently acknowledging our pain. Whatever might emerge from that hospital bed, the Rei we knew is gone.
At least Seele seem pleased with themselves. Callous and preening as ever, they speak with pride of having defeated all but one of the prophesied angels, while lamenting the losses they’ve suffered in the process. What do they know of the terror of facing these beasts, or of the damage they have inflicted? Even Ritsuko, once the bearer of an iron will that seemed only second to Gendo’s, now seems shaken by her complicity in this butchery. Distracted from her work, she calls up a photo from her time at Gehirn, a candid shot of herself, her mother, and Gendo Ikari. Her mother killed herself in despair after destroying the first Rei, all for the want of Gendo’s affection. With the second Rei lying cold on a slab, can she claim to be any different, see any brighter future awaiting her?
We can only hope that in the sharing of grief, once-broken bonds might be mended. Perhaps that is what the angels were attempting, though in their thoughtless discarding of our emotional barriers, they ultimately just conjure terror and grief. Many of us get through the day by compartmentalizing, editorializing, or simply forgetting; full, unmediated understanding of the self can be a horrifying thing, to say nothing of attempting to share that unvarnished self with another. And yet we must try, must learn to forgive ourselves, must attempt to reach out even for all the pain it might bring. For what use is our pain, if even for all we have suffered we cannot take comfort in the concern of another? Though the anonymity of stasis can be a comfort, whether embodied through Shinji’s tape or Asuka’s flight from the apartment, it is only through reaching out that we might hope to become whole.
As such, having swallowed her grief regarding Kaji’s death, Misato at last reaches out to Shinji. As she joins him on his bed, Shinji confesses that “I feel sad, but the tears just won’t come.” Shinji has not learned how to express his grief – and Misato, with no models of motherhood and only Kaji to simulate a “family,” can only offer sexual intimacy to comfort him. Asuka was half-right when she described Misato as a failure of an adult, but never for the reasons she believed. Misato has learned nothing but the signifiers of adulthood Asuka mistook for the real thing; here, when what is demanded of her is a comforting maternal touch, she falters. In spite of their desperate loneliness and desire to connect, Shinji and Misato possess no common knowledge for expressing their sorrow. Misato quietly exits.
But then, a miracle! A call from the hospital, saying Rei is still alive! What a curious twist of fate, that it would be the seemingly inhuman Rei who provides this family’s last hope of salvation, the one emotional tether still drawing them together. Their “reunion” is boarded as a reprise of Evangelion’s second episode, back when Ayanami’s survival was one of the first things Shinji could take pride in, the first positive fruit of piloting the Eva unit. Back then, it was Shinji who saved Rei – now, after all the hard-fought understanding and concern they’ve cultivated, he can thank her for returning the favor. But in response to his thanks, Rei can only acknowledge this feat as the gallantry of another. “I just don’t know,” she admits. “Because I think I’m probably the third one.”
Rei III returns to a home that is foreign to her, an apartment laden with the memories of another self. Once, this room served as an affirmation of Rei’s irresolvable personal distance, the strangeness which would presumably forever separate her from Shinji’s attempts at connection. But time reshapes us in ways we can never predict, and this room would eventually come to reflect just how close the two of them had grown. Now, she stands equipped with only the felt experience of memories she cannot recall, tears falling on glasses that have lost their conscious significance. At least Rei II was ultimately able to live her life on her own terms, fighting and dying for the sake of the people she loved. Compared to the loneliness of standing in her predecessor’s unfamiliar shadow, Rei II’s fate seems almost a kindness.
If Ritsuko had hoped to escape her mother’s shadow, to be known as the fulfiller of her mother’s promise rather than the inheritor of her mother’s burden, she must surely be reconsidering those aspirations as she stands before Seele, a replacement sacrifice for Fuyutsuki, this time literally stripped naked. Gendo makes her status explicit in his description of this sacrifice, stating that in order to satisfy Seele’s anger over Rei’s reappearance, he “offered the old men something else.” The doctor that has realized his dreams is not even offered the courtesy of a name; and for their part, the men of Seele practically slaver over Ritsuko’s body, insincerely mewling that they “do not wish to subject you to any more degradation and suffering.”
“I do not feel humiliated whatsoever,” Ritsuko replies. What can they take from her that Gendo has not already stolen?
We meet her again after their interrogation has concluded, descending one of those interminable geofront escalators. Though the old men of Seele continue their self-satisfied commentary, it is Ritsuko’s face that dominates the scene; a slow play of emotions made all the more significant by its presence here, in the fatigued final stretch of Evangelion’s production. First, resigned consideration, her standard facade as she realizes her true worth in Gendo’s mind. Her face tilts downward in defeat, then tightens, muscles clenching as she fights to keep the tears from flowing. She strains, brow and lip shuddering as she holds back, silently swallowing the realization of all her worst fears. Then her head rises again, her eyes half-lidded, the fatigue of knowing you are a tool, a replacement now etched into her default expression. Contrasted against the allegedly high-minded strategic discussions of Seele, this poignant progression feels like Evangelion’s priorities distilled into their purest articulation: the world may be in jeopardy, but all that is significant in life is contained within the human heart.
Let them plot. Let these cold men of action scheme their schemes, oblivious to all that makes life worth living, that makes humanity worth saving. Misato is done with them; she is ready to follow in Kaji’s footsteps, and unveil whatever secrets have “necessitated” such unforgivable hardship. Ritsuko is done with them; she will free the pilots of their bindings, and descend with Misato and Shinji to the depths of hell. They pass first the room where Ayanami was truly born, an echo of her sterile apartment pointing to the odd quirks of subconscious, the sense of familiarity that endures even through death and reincarnation. Then the graveyard of the original Eva units, now dumped unceremoniously in a mass grave structured like a Tree of Sefirot, a grotesque sacrifice to human consciousness.
It is a spectacle of revelation embellishing the human core of Ritsuko’s rebellion, but lord is it ever spectacular. The production team’s talent for both coopting and independently envisioning apocalyptic spectacle cannot be understated; for all of Evangelion’s success as an interrogation of human consciousness, it would not be the landmark it is save for its unceasing procession of stark, transcendent, and horrifying imagery. There is power beyond intellectual appreciation in a stunning image, as the revelation of the “dummy plug system” to be a vast sea of alternate Reis well demonstrates. As Ritsuko fills in the cracks regarding our understanding of NERV and Adam, it is those smiling Reis that occupy our attention, the faultless quasi-human creations of mankind’s hubris.
In a grotesque recreation of her mother’s final act, Ritsuko strikes back against the creatures that have supplanted her, destroying these duplicates for the crime of monopolizing Gendo’s love. “I only needed to think of him, and I could endure any humiliation,” she bitterly reflects. There is something worse than being rejected, worse than being despised. It is to reach out to the one you love, and see them react like Gendo or Rei III, with complete and utter indifference.
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