I don’t quite remember what drove me to put A Cruel God Reigns on my to read list, a few months back. I remember it being grouped alongside other works classified as “psychological,” and having some CWs but the particulars hadn’t stood out to me. But I was itching for just something new to read, and it seems I got to tackle at least one pre-2000s shoujo manga a year for my own personal enrichment, so I picked it up again. Anyway, after the first volume I was utterly entranced, but before I share anymore details I want to refer to another moment from a different story.
In Ghibli’s Princess Mononoke, the main character states his goal in observing the main conflict of the movie, is “to see with eyes unclouded,” and I feel any reader must approach this work with a similar resolve. If you’re going to read A Cruel God Reigns, then Moto Hagio implicitly is asking you to watch the full experience of a teenage boy’s sexual abuse at the hands of his stepfather without flinching.
The full summary goes as follows:
The story follows Jeremy, who is sexually abused by his stepfather. Mentally disturbed by this, Jeremy goes down a path of murder; however, he accidentally finds himself the murderer not only of his stepfather, but also his own mother.
Soon his stepbrother Ian begins to suspect him as well as discover the twisted truth about his own father.
This is far from my first time encountering the topic of abuse in manga, especially in shoujo. In fact, Moto Hagio and her fellow Year 24 mangaka are probably the reason the topic has been allowed to become such a key part of the demographic’s identity. Still there are many ways to approach the subject, and considering we start in media res at his mother’s funeral, Jeremy’s sexual abuse could have been a provocative twist at the end of a whydunnit narrative for a teenage murderer.
Instead we flashback to before he met his stepfather. We get a sense of what his daily life is like, the causal affection he has for his mother, how he’s excited to have his first time with his girlfriend. He’s happy for the whirlwind romance his mother gets swept up in and rides with his soon-to-be stepfather, Greg, in his car without a worry until he leans over and kisses him.
I don’t think there is necessarily anything wrong with writing about abuse through the POV of someone who is not the victim. Many stories I love take this approach and still communicate strong truths, but weaker narratives can end up othering them, turning them into a sideshow freak to gawk at. With ACGR, you are with Jeremy every step of the way, seeing how he tries to make every choice he can. He feels responsible for protecting his mother’s happiness when a break-up with Greg leads her to attempt suicide. When Greg apologies and begs for forgiveness, he mistakenly believes he has leverage he can use to stop any further abuse. When searching for help, he is desperate for a way to escape that won’t lead to everybody who knows looking at him in utter disgust like the first time he confessed the truth.
A big theme of the narrative is perspective. Other characters live in a heartwarming family narrative about healing, completely unaware of how their narrative crosses paths with Jeremy’s horror story. As the abuse worsens and Greg’s control grow tighter, Jeremy becomes more withdrawn and acts out in ways that surprises those around him. But we the audience have to live with the dramatic irony of knowing what is behind ever random outburst of tears, why he starts to seek out prescription painkillers to relieve the ache of being alive. What is unbelievable to the rest of the cast is the normal we the readers come to understand.
I think anyone interested in abuse narratives with the stomach for this level of explicitness should read the first eight volumes. However I want to also talk about the second-half of the narrative and how it expands upon the initial premise so spoilers from here on out.
Ian, Jeremy’s step-brother, having to grapple with the truth of his father’s nature as the evidence seems to his crimes seem to “disappear,” is genuinely compelling stuff. Amidst this grappling, Jeremy himself seems to disappear, having moved back to live in Boston until Ian finally gets the nerve to track him down for himself. It’s a really great trick, but it also means he lose some of the closeness we had with Jeremy before. Since their parting, Jeremy has continued to spiral and make difficult choices and while the narrative doesn’t shame him for his continued drug use and sex work, it can’t communicate as effectively why Jeremy felt such decisions were unavoidable.
I appreciate that Jeremy gets to exist beyond the specific events of his stepfather’s abuse. We actually spend more page-count on the aftermath and who Jeremy is beyond these harrowing months of his life. But as Jeremy and Ian return to England together, what would be the start of a healing journey in a more optimistic series turns into something more chaotic. The cast expands to include more characters with melodramatic problems that can’t be communicated as extensively as Jeremy’s can. The English scanlation takes a noticeable dive in quality as an admirable team mostly fueled by one person’s passion rather than their skill picks up the series. (To make it even more clear, for all my criticism I cherish this person dearly. Without them I wouldn’t be writing this or nearly as enriched.) But the biggest change is how Jeremy and Ian’s relationship takes a sexual turn.
To be honest, it doesn’t come out of nowhere. I didn’t know this series was marked as BL, or that Moto Hagio was considered the grandmother of the genre itself, but the signs are there. Jeremy and Ian keep getting in sexually suggestive situations before the murder plan, with Jeremy expressing flashes of attraction. Then after the murders, when Ian is determined to force a confession out of Jeremy, their interactions start to bleed into the sexually violent in a way that really emphasizes the desire for power and control above all else.
But for me, following Ian’s decision and desire to sleep with Jeremy was much more difficult. Like I think I’m pretty open to seeing characters make choices I wouldn’t agree with or desire things that are bad for them. I don’t engage with art for morality lessons. But considering his new caretaking role for Jeremy, it is hard not to see this as a repeat of Greg’s abuse.
This is something both Hagio and Ian are fully aware of us as well. The cycles cycling is the point. Still while there are compelling elements to Ian grappling with what it truly means to be his father’s son, I could never really immerse myself in it because my boy Jeremy is right over there, and I have so much more investment in his problems more. Like why should Ian’s struggle to break up with his girlfriend after starting this really matter to me.
Jeremy also wavers in either regarding their sexual relationship as either an extension of his sex work or a punishment for his crimes. He does initially confess his earlier attraction to Ian alongside a declaration he will never love again, but I was dreading the notion that Ian might be the one to “teach” him to love again. Outside of the obvious ethical concerns, Ian is controlling, insistent on making Jeremy “heal,” the way he thinks he should heal and be sexually available for him while never truly listening or understanding Jeremy.
And yet, Jeremy does heal, slowly and painfully. Even as their problems bleed into his, he makes friends and revives connections outside of Ian. Despite his declaration to never love, it is clear from the care and compassion he shows others, he never stopped loving in the first place. We hear about the history of sexual abuse other characters have gone through, the ways they recovered and the ways they didn’t.
I finally came to peace with the narrative choices in the final two chapters. Jeremy has made a point to try and clearly state what he wants from Ian, and he says as much as he needs him emotionally, he doesn’t want them to have sex anymore. On a vacation, Ian kisses Jeremy and tries to sleep with him anyway. Jeremy asks to return home after Ian disrespected his wants, and they do. They debate the differences between love and violence and if children are their parents’ sacrifices. They stop living together and follow different paths.
By the end of the narrative I’m not convinced that Ian can ever be a good man. Ian is most likely the reason Jeremy reaches eighteen, has friends, and a passion for art. There is never a moment where the heavens open up and Jeremy is declared, “healed.” The narrative never expects that of Jeremy or for him to be or do anything. Instead he gets to live. He gets to have someone in his life who knows both his worst wounds and his worst mistakes.
As optimistic as I want to be about their growth, we can’t even rule out the idea that sexual relationship continues off and on due to to way Ian confesses the relish he feels when Jeremy reaches out to him in December. Yet for all his many flaws, I have to admit that he manages to be a better man than his father and that matters.
It’s a tough pill to swallow. I’m not immune to wanting the catharsis that wraps everything in a bow, but knowing that Jeremy’s life has improved made all the messy confusion of the second half worth it for me. I don’t know if it will be worth it for everyone else. Still if there’s anything this series encourages, it is to not look away from hard truths, and I can’t help but find truth in the struggle to carve out an imperfect life.
I remember when it was a big shared sentiment in the queer community that "sex =/= gender =/= pronouns =/= physical appearance or expression" and. I feel like everyone even other trans people have forgotten about all that except the first part. and in many cases people forget the whole thing entirely
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