Turbo Granny and the Profane Grace of Evil

Dan Da Dan: Evil Eye is a collective exorcism in a dark room where the laughter turns nervous, and the color palette begins to rot.

Let’s make one thing clear right out of the cursed, dripping gate:

If you haven’t seen Season 1, do not watch this.
The so-called “recap” is a jagged, barely coherent Rorschach test of madness—less a narrative, more a PTSD flashback stitched together by yokai-fueled panic. It’s not for newcomers. It’s not for explanation. It’s a fevered reminder to the initiated. An emotional breadcrumb trail back into a universe that’s as horny as it is haunted.

But once the recap limps offstage like a wounded kaiju, something glorious happens.

The movie stops pretending it cares about plot summaries and begins to plunge you, gleefully, into the necrotic abyss of its next chapter.

This isn’t just Dan Da Dan getting darker. This is Dan Da Dan cracking its own bones to show you what was festering underneath all along.

Themes of suicide, rape culture, and predatory power emerge—not clumsily, not for shock value—but as part of the architecture of this story. They are the teeth beneath the charm, the demon behind the dance.

And that brings us to Turbo Granny.

Yes.
The freakish, goblin-faced, speed-demon pervert from Season 1.
She returns.
But not how you think.

Smuggled inside a stuffed animal like some occult contraband, Turbo Granny’s presence becomes the film’s most genius narrative sleight-of-hand. She is a former antagonist turned reluctant protector—morally ambiguous, spiritually grotesque, yet somehow the one force that made me feel the kids were safe.

Why? Because she has a code.

Because in the original tunnel where she reigned, she was not haunting for fun—she was guarding the souls of rape victims.

She’s a predator, yes. But not that kind.

And in Dan Da Dan: Evil Eye, that distinction matters.

This duality, this ability to wring grace from filth, is the film’s philosophical core.
Not all evil is equal.
Not all monsters are enemies.
Sometimes, it’s the devils who keep the worse demons at bay.

Turbo Granny becomes a symbol of profane guardianship, and her presence in this hellish journey is a constant tension wire: she may be disgusting, but she’s ours.
She is the crucifix we clutch while descending into the abyss.

The animation? Sublime.
The humor? Still razor-sharp.
But it’s the visual externalization of suicidal ideation that steals the show.
Think Dark Souls boss fight.
Think Elden Ring swamp cathedral.
Think abysmal beauty—a realm of decay and despair that is not just seen, but felt.

It doesn't hold your hand. It doesn't sanitize.
It dares you to laugh and then smacks the laughter out of your lungs with a scene so personal, so raw, you question why you're even there.

That’s the power of this film.
It shapeshifts.

One moment, you're vibing with absurdly animated dances and horny ghosts.
The next, you're staring down the maw of Japan’s real-life cultural trauma.

But.
They forgot the intro song.

The iconic, bounce-in-your-seat, serotonin-charged dance track that defines the tone of the show was absent.
No pre-roll. No post-roll.
And for those of us who don’t skip intros (because this is one of the very few anime that earned that), this was a miss. A felt absence. A ritual left undone.

Still, the theatrical experience was a triumph.
Anime has always been a personal, couch-bound communion for me.
But watching this with a crowd—laughing, gasping, unhinged in sync—it felt like a collective ritual, like being among kinfolk who also worship at the temple of the weird.

This movie (or whatever hybrid mutant form it claims) was not a complete story.
But it didn’t need to be.
It gave me hunger. It gave me terror. It gave me anticipation.
It felt like a curse I was happy to receive.