We Need To Talk About Masculinity In 'Berserk'
The death of Kentaro Miura has left an aching, buster sword-shaped-dent in the world of dark fantasy - hell, for fiction writing generally.
If you’ve picked up a Final Fantasy game, you’ve picked up Berserk. If you’ve banged your head against a wall getting through Dark Souls, you’ve undergone similar frustrations and tests of fortitude as Miura’s protagonist, Guts. Hell, if you’ve watched any episode of Games of Thrones, Berserk’s influence stealths itself amongst certain scenes. In short: Berserk has become nothing short than a canonical hallmark of fictional prowess. It has indirectly impacted the mainstream ventures into flight and fantasy we see today - even if the original source remains unspoken as a comic book store gem; a cultural hallmark of whispering subreddits.
Despite such an untimely death, Miura’s legacy remains everlasting. No doubt one thing fans of the series will look back on fondly is the vying anticipating of chapter release month. Unlike other mangakas, Miura was notable for his long pauses between chapter releases. Being a Berserk fan meant playing Storyteller Roulette: one could wait a couple of months or a couple of years until seeing Guts’ tale unfold further. This was a double-edged sword. Obviously, nobody likes to be ghosted by their brooding, mercenary hero. So Berserk created what any other cultural zeitgeist would: a borderline maniacal community. The gaping voids in our hearts was filled by connection with other fans, haphazard reading interpretations, wild plot theories, and unsavoury meme reposting.
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD & CONTENT WARNING, S*XUAL ASSAULT DISCUSSION
Some discussions became somewhat wearied, but were still welcome by veteran and newbie fans alike. Will Guts finally manage to give Griffith what for? Will he venture out on his own, leaving the party behind? Is Femto Griffith or a separate entity? These are all pretty cool things to prattle on about.
Other subject matters require more sensitivity; fewer hypotheticals. Berserk is a story which dare not shy away from the abject horrors of its - and implicitly, our - world. Events such as the rape of Casca, and managing mental illnesses like PTSD and depression, are portrayed with such rawness and pain, one begins to question how Miura managed to mine out this richness, this honesty, from the recesses of his psyche.
What makes Berserk so beautiful, even when its pages are splattered with gore, grief and galvanising despair, is its unique take on masculinity through the depiction of Guts. Berserk is one of those rare gems of a story that centres a stereotypically “strong” man trying to overcome PTSD and trauma through various methods, some attempts more successful than others. In a culture where “red pill males” might worship a physically strong warrior typified by Guts’ visual design, it is both refreshing and compelling to see the same persona grapple with mental illness and his own perceptions of being “manly”. Guts is a fantastically subversive character; indeed, Miura purposefully gives him a background often attributed to fragility and femininity, ironically by the same types of men who’d eschew the notion of vulnerability or emotional validation for the “manly chad”.
Guts’ journey acts as a foil what we’re told to believe about these ultra masculine men - yet ironically because of this rawness, this bravery imparted in the face of his suffering, he is terrifyingly “manly” at the same time. Just not in the way those redpillers might first think.
Even if you haven’t read any of Miura’s story, it’s not hard to see that Guts’ visuals are designed to get us thinking in terms of “toughness”. A young man draped in black leather and shining armour, he is brash, pretty rude, and not afraid to get stabby-stabby on the battlefield. For a lot of first time readers, and even upon retrieval, his portrayal is jarringly “edgy” - easily mistaken as a two-dimensional trope, rather than masterful character building. It’s not until the Black Swordsman Arc that the readers are exposed to a simmering glimpse of Guts’s deep-seated pain and trauma.
A wordless pane evokes a thousand feelings. The reader sees a downtrodden swordsman, a quivering brow, and eyes stinging with tears. The contrast from the Guts we knew prior is devastating. At last, we have evidence that there is something more to this man than meets the eye. The transition or back-and-forth between angry edgelord to vulnerable, weeping man is what makes Black Swordsman the most intriguing arc of the series. Readers are now exposed to the truth of the matter: that Guts’ bravado is a fragile facade to help him survive his inner (and literal) demons.
This added character dimension if further explored within the Golden Age Arc. The reader sees his childhood traumas explained all whilst Guts makes his mark in the mercenary world. The face Guts puts forth for others is not the same as his internal, consistent strife, with which he must deal with in a manner that causes him more strain than dispatching hundreds of soldiers in one go. It’s almost hard to believe that this Herculean figure who slaughtered demons and played witness to the death of his many comrades was once a helpless child, abused and discarded. Based on what we know in psychology today, however, in many ways, it makes sense.
Through Guts’ character, Miura has not only created a foil to the ultra-masculine, “red-pill chad” archetype; he has challenged the simplistic take much of the media uses to describe the concept “masculinity”. For a warrior who hones such dominance and aggression on the battlefield, it appears contradictory that he is a survivor of rape and child abuse, a victim of betrayal from his close comrade, and a man haplessly in love and starved of companionship. Yet despite navigating the treacherous, blood-soaked world in which he lives, managing bouts of PTSD and depression alongside what it means to be human, Guts sticks a middle finger up towards the unrealistic and unhealthy depictions of “manly men” in mainstream media. His journey is unexpected, yet one we all root for: what was once a character who was apt at the ol’ slash-and-hack is now an individual who becomes aware of his own emotional pain.
Even better, Miura manages to cultivate a sensitive, delicate discussion on what it means to be “masculine”. He doesn’t condemn those who choose the stoic, reserved route. Instead, he simply leaves the door open for a man like Guts to express and feel. In other words, masculinity becomes a fluid concept; yielding according to what nourishes Guts and provides him with strength. In these instances, sometimes it’s owning the battlefield; in others, it’s reflecting on thoughts and feelings. In the world of Berserk, masculinity carries neither pressures nor stigma. It is a source of strength, but that strength can look like emotional intelligence, companionship, human connection, and self-awareness as much as it represents the sword.
We are influenced by the media we consume, it goes without saying. For readers everywhere, Guts is a positive influence, countering the unhealthy depictions of masculinity and mental illness we are bombarded with on a sociocultural level.
Miura created a masterpiece. One that has changed - and will continue to change - the way in which we lead our lives. Undoubtedly, the pang of grief we feel for his passing feels all the more painful, as a result.