Viral Hit (or Kenka Dokugaku), based on the webcomic series Ssawoomdokhak by Taejun Park and Kim Junghyun, appears to be about a high-school student, Kota Shimura (Oji Suzuka), who is bullied and later retaliates against various tormentors while live-streaming his fights. Yet the series is ultimately a wake-up call for those who see themselves as weak. Viral Hit argues that in this violent, ugly world, you have to lift your own fist and fight. No one can or will defend you against your enemies. You have to be strong enough to both sustain and counterattack every blow, every punch, every hit. In school, no one saves Shimura from Hamaken (Takuro Osada), an influencer and delinquent. When Shimura confronts Reo Shinjo (Kentaro Maeda), a taekwondo expert, in a bathroom, no one intervenes to stop the fight. Even in the final episode, Shimura himself has to defeat his opponent inside the ring. At best, he gets help from an online video and, eventually, a martial-arts teacher before a major fight. Ultimately, though, it is Shimura who puts his body at risk by participating in every physical conflict.
At its core, the message that Viral Hit conveys is praiseworthy: rather than waiting for and relying on a messiah to fix your problems, summon the courage to overcome your own trials. If a thin, meek wimp like Shimura can do it, then what's stopping you from claiming your place in the world and standing up for your rights? But this is where the compliments end, and the complaints begin. A sound message, alas, does not equal a sound show or film, and there is nothing sound about Viral Hit's filmmaking. At best, it is sensational. At worst, it is pornographic. The scenes in which Hamaken bullies, beats, and humiliates Shimura push your buttons aggressively, presenting the former as a repulsive shark and the latter as an innocuous puppy. Suzuka's face is almost doll-like. It is excessively sweet, a quality the series exploits to win our sympathy, albeit rather cheaply. When Hamaken orders Shimura to strip and apologize, the show becomes obscene. Director Hideki Takeuchi extends the humiliation for so long that you begin to feel uncomfortable not merely because of what is happening, but because of how it is being filmed. Takeuchi does not stop at making you feel sorry for Shimura; he rubs your face in the character's pathetic cowardice. What exactly was the intention? To make the audience angry at Hamaken? What happens, however, is the complete opposite: we become frustrated with Shimura's timidity and disgusted by the show's naked attempt to force a reaction out of us—to rile us up through vulgar means.
Shimura loathes himself for being weak, and we, too, come to loathe him. Whether Takeuchi deliberately manufactures such a reaction is difficult to determine, especially since the material clearly expects the viewer to side with Shimura. I found myself in a curious position: I was neither on the character's side nor entirely with him. Sure, I can appreciate what Shimura and his struggle represent metaphorically (there are many big sharks in the sea, which is why you must be brave, fit, and ready), but Shimura is such an impoverished character that I simply did not care what happened to him. The series makes little effort to establish what his life was like before he became a target for Hamaken's insults and brutality. He remarks that he used to be a normal kid, but what did that actually mean? Did Shimura have any interests? What were they? Did he play any sports? Where did he go to spend time with friends? Was he a good student? Did he have a favorite subject? What videos did he enjoy watching online?
Viral Hit extends this blankness to its other characters as well. They are all reduced to rigid functions within the script. Even their backstories are little more than contrived devices, as evidenced by the way a yellow keychain and a dead body connect certain narrative threads. There is something depressing about the fact that the people in Viral Hit support, demand, and cheer only for violent content. A better show would have turned its gaze toward these viewers and examined their unpleasant tastes and tendencies. Viral Hit, however, rebukes them only briefly, and in such an insignificant manner that the criticism feels skin-deep. Yet these viewers are the very people who, through their donations, run the circus and drive streamers toward recording distasteful videos, whether hand-to-hand combat or (unfunny) pranks on the streets. When the audience itself has poor taste, content creators—slaves to their audiences—will only feed them shit. It is a terrible cycle of mediocrity, one that produces individuals like Rumi (Nana Asakawa), who, in their hunger for more followers, fall into a vicious pit.
There are, in other words, many dimensions to Viral Hit, yet the series concerns itself almost exclusively with the one involving Davids and Goliaths. It chooses vapid simplicity over terrifying complexity. This is apparent in the way it removes all practical obstacles, such as teachers and police officers. Hamaken is never scolded by a teacher or summoned to the principal's office. Shimura is assaulted on the streets, but no one calls the authorities, and no police officers are ever seen patrolling the streets. Viral Hit runs breathlessly through a void. It revels in the sounds of bones breaking. In a way, it is made for the very people who consume the content that Shimura and the other streamers sell within the series. Viral Hit is made for bloodthirsty zombies.
Final Score - [2.5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times