There's a very common sentiment among the more amateurish parts of the yuri fandom that Class S is an outdated genre driven by historical compromises and editorial restrictions, rendering it unable to express a 'true' lesbianism because of its focus on symbolism and subtlety. This is a typically boorish and rather Western-centric conception of yuri that views it as a genre whose primary function ought to be the simple documentation and recording of the Japanese lesbian community and nothing else- any attempt to take the genre in more artistic directions, to engage in plays of identity, to experiment with the dynamics of girlhood, to explore dark and speculative quirks of behavior, are all viewed as being failures and distractions that do not reflect 'authentic' lesbianism, even if an avowed Japanese lesbian were to be creating the piece. Good yuri, in the eyes of many of these (usually Western) commentators, must therefore always be a publication of the LGBT movement (assumed uncritically to be both a homogeneous global phenomenon and yet also developed enough in the Western nations to let them dictate the correct line on sexuality to other countries)- anything else would simply be a distraction, a cowardly retreat into a subtext assumed inferior to the mythical 'textual' yuri (as if the avowal of lesbian identity made an artistic piece superior in and of itself), or at worst, a parody of true lesbianism written by the ever-present boogeyman of the secretly male yuri author who was simply exploiting lesbianism for profit and fetishes, obsessed with schoolgirls and either their purity or their sex lives (depending on how the work in question approaches sex), as if the exploration of adolescent sexuality was somehow not a recurring and key approach taken by art about queerness in every context. Thus, Class S becomes, within this vulgar realist critical model of yuri, the embodiment of everything that is wrong with the genre, and therefore something for the modern yuri artist to transcend and move beyond.
I make this digressive observation to emphasize how this story is a perfect example of the opposite argument- that Class S, beyond being a genre of extreme accomplishment and importance in the historical context of yuri, is also a genre that remains evergreen and fertile, filled with the potential for new spins on old formulae. Like all great genres, it was formed in a particular sociocultural and historical context that produced a fascinating network of relationships, ideas and symbolisms, but also truly succeeded because it used these dynamics to say something meaningful about love, relationships and life. The Catholic school, the secret codes, the defined yet supple roles, the play of registers and titles, the intermingling aesthetics of private-school opulence and divine immateriality, the invocations of fate and destiny as both binding and anchoring forces- these are elements that can offer an artist both extreme specificity within a uniquely textured setting while also being flexible enough to accommodate virtually any narrative or archetype from the history and traditions of yuri- one may as easily imagine a Class S Yuni as a Class S Touko, or even an alternate world where Miwa or Asumi might reflect upon their experiences in such an institution as shaping their attitudes in adulthood.
Some of the best yuri being written today takes inspiration from Class S's traditions, from A White Rose in Bloom to Yuri Is My Job to Rock is a Lady's Modesty, to the story we're currently discussing. All of them iterate brilliantly upon the ideas of this storied genre, treating its whispering hallways and mysterious groves and glimmering crucifixes and ardent titles not as rigid aspects of a set or costume, but as the suggestions and poetry they were always meant to be, for that is the brilliance of Class S- it offers freedom within structure, expression within a script, identity within tradition, and secret passages within the bodies of ancient institutions. At its best, the tradition has always carried a touch of the camp, a tinge of smirking irony, a mirthful upturn to the call of onee-sama that winds down the path to the cathedral. It has always been charged with rumors and gossip, the storytelling that teenagers so often use to both make sense of the world and mould it, murmuring their fantasies in moonlit rooms, blushing with glee at the love of ghosts. At the heart of Class S is that fertile contradiction- what is the role would you like to play? Who shall you be to become yourself? Which secrets may dwell in these elaborate letters? Where can we secretly meet in this most storied of places?
Class S, in my opinion, is yuri at its best- not a genre that relies on subtext and suggestion merely because of restrictions, but one that actively thrives and revels in them as a means of creating intrigue and stimulating the imagination. Yuri has always been about feelings that break past language, that stretch past space and time, that transform bodies in the throes of their yearning, and there is no genre that expresses this fusion of ritual and romance better than Class S can. By creating a setting where identities are so heavily assigned, it ironically and cleverly opens up a secondary plane of identification beneath, one that is not avowed or declared like the opening of a resume- "I identity as XYZ, here are my pronouns, this is my flag", but one that is necessarily more elusive, strategic, provisional and metamorphic. The openness and clarity of queer labels and identity are, of course, a perfectly valid and valuable part of daily life, and one that has been attained through significant organization and agitation. But art is not and should not be life, and serves as a place to explore precisely those ways of speaking, thinking and being that are uncommon or mysterious in the range of daily affairs.
Class S is transportive, speculative and deeply inviting of invention- a place where artists can thrive precisely because they can break from the conventions of realism and enter a rich space of alterity, roleplaying, storytelling and transformation. It exemplifies the need for a discourse and critical vocabulary of yuri that is not vulgarly realist, ranking stories based on how well they correspond to the popular image of how a lesbian ought to think, act and present in the year of publication (again, an image that many a Western commentator exports wholesale from their country as a globalized expectation). Discourse on yuri should not approach the topic with stereotypes and hard criteria of what a yuri story should be, for it is always the organic play of material circumstance and cultural storytelling tradition that drives the evolution of a genre. Rather, they should absorb and trace the dynamics of the world, understand the history and traditions that shape the texture and tactics of the story, and speculate on what the author may be trying to convey about a character, a setting or an idea. Yuri must therefore be discussed not strictly in the language of sciences, labels or categories, but in the supple and shifting language of art itself, in symbols and tones and affect. That is, after all, what Class S teaches us, and what this story so beautifully expresses- there's a million ways to be an onee-sama, and the best sisters are not born to the blood, but play for the love of the role.
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