When Adult Swim first announced that it was working with director Shinichirō Watanabe, Jujutsu Kaisen studio Mappa, and John Wick director Chad Stahelski on a new anime project, Lazarus already had the cards stacked against it. In the rollout of its stylish and musical trailers, the anime hewed close to Watanabe’s Cowboy Bebop aesthetics, setting it up to live up to a standard from a bygone era of animation that it would never be able to satisfy audiences with, and never tried to.
Set in 2052, Lazarus imagines a near future world lulled into euphoric peace by Hapna—a wonder drug that erases all physical and emotional pain. But three years after its global adoption, its elusive creator, Dr. Skinner, resurfaces with a grim truth: the miracle cure will become lethal within 30 days unless he is found. With the countdown to extinction ticking, a ragtag team of outlaws is assembled under the Lazarus task force to track him down and save humanity from self-inflicted doom.
Despite its setup as a globe-trotting mystery fueled by red herrings and dramatic intrigue, Lazarus quickly settles into a rhythm that feels more like watching pins drop on a GPS than experiencing a suspenseful manhunt. After the premiere, plot twists arrive with uncanny timing but land without weight, and emotional payoffs barely register. Efforts to deepen the ensemble fall flat—most characters remain tethered to their archetypes, with only fleeting early-episode monologues offering glimpses of humanity before the urgency of the endgame takes over.
By its final stretch, the anime veers from meditative to messy. A last-ditch assassin showdown featuring its free-running lead, Axel Gilberto (a clear nod to the Spike Spiegel archetype), tries to spark momentum, but its climax lands more frantic than fulfilling. Key revelations arrive not through its protagonists, but via side characters delivering exposition that sidelines the main cast, leaving them adrift in their own narrative.
Lazarus isn’t without its flashes of brilliance. When it slows down (which it often does), detaching from the mission’s ticking clock, the series finds a comfy rhythm set to lo-fi beats and paired with lush animation that lets characters breathe. Whether drifting across the ocean or crashing influencer raves as the world quietly crumbles, these reflective interludes elevate the vibe. And when action kicks in, it’s a visual feast tricked out in fluidity and weight and choreographed with precision, reminding viewers what Watanabe and Mappa can still do when the mood and momentum align.
Watanabe’s towering legacy casts a long shadow—and for Lazarus, that proved more of a burden than a blessing. It was never built to be another Cowboy Bebop, yet Adult Swim’s nostalgia-heavy marketing framed it as such, fueling expectations the show never intended to meet. Instead of pushing boundaries, Lazarus finds itself caught in the machinery of modern anime production—forced to swap introspection for momentum and nuance for scope—ultimately hoisting itself by the weight of comparisons it didn’t ask for.
Watanabe told io9 that comparisons to Bebop were never his intent. His original pitch was closer in spirit to Space Dandy. But when Adult Swim requested a more serious tone, that evolution led to Lazarus. From there, the deck was stacked. Each week, it became harder to ignore how the weight of Bebop-sized expectations left little room for the show to stand on its own merits.
Pacing issues aside, for fans who only see Watanabe through the lens of Bebop, Lazarus was never going to satisfy. One of the most significant strikes against it was simply structural: it’s a modern anime confined to just 13 episodes, worlds away from the breathing room Cowboy Bebop had across its 26-episode run. In today’s landscape, original anime rarely get the luxury of extended runtimes—unless they’re backed by a hefty source material that justifies a two-cour rollout. That doesn’t excuse Lazarus’ clunky finale, but it does help explain how it ended up rushing to the finish line the way it did. The comparison was unfair from the start.
There’s still something undeniably admirable in Lazarus. Like André 3000 trading rap verses for flute solos, Watanabe isn’t chasing the ghost of Cowboy Bebop here. Yes, the show carries echoes of his signature style—jazzy undertones, tight choreography, a cool cast—but this time, he’s riffing in a different register. Lazarus doesn’t aim for spacefaring spectacle; it leans into post-covid introspection, using stillness where others sprint. If nothing else, it plays like a love letter to a lost era of anime—much like Netflix’s Pluto—when creators with decades in the game could still imprint singular, prescient, inimitable vibes. Filtered through MAPPA’s modern polish, it’s less a revival than a requiem.
Maybe Lazarus plays more like the B-sides of Watanabe’s discography—echoing the rhythms of Bebop, Samurai Champloo, and Space Dandy without pushing into new territory. It doesn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with those genre-defining hits but settles instead into the quieter company of Carole & Tuesday and Terror in Resonance—less a reinvention, more a reflective coda.
While its legacy may align more with Watanabe’s quieter works, Lazarus is far from disposable. It’s a brief but intentional canvas—one where a storied creator pauses to reflect amid an industry sprinting toward spectacle. In an era obsessed with instant payoffs, it dares to linger in mood and meaning, wrapping wellness paranoia in slick choreography and a soundtrack that hits harder than the plot ever endeavors to.
Lazarus is streaming on HBO Max.
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