On the surface, Chainsaw Man and Attack on Titan look like two distinct kinds of violent anime: Chainsaw Man marries urban capitalism and shonen energy, while Attack on Titan evolves into a bleak, genre-questioning study of power and human cruelty more commonly associated with seinen stories. Yet beneath those differences the shows share striking structural and emotional parallels.
Both narratives unfold in brutal settings that mirror contemporary anxieties, and both center on adolescent protagonists whose formative trauma leaves them emotionally arrested. They turn extreme worlds into mirrors for the anxieties of young people today.
[Ed. note: spoilers for Chainsaw Man and Attack on Titan follow.]In Chainsaw Man, Devils—personifications of fear like war, mold, or loneliness—coexist with humans in a gritty marketplace where Devil Hunters commodify danger for pay or power. The series reads as an allegory for a social order in which survival and self-interest corrode empathy. By contrast, Attack on Titan begins with humanity sheltered behind colossal walls and believing itself alone; slowly the fortress reveals itself as both literal and ideological confinement, exposing lies, systemic oppression, and the cyclical violence that breeds more violence.
Both shows function as social metaphors for a generation shaped by precarious economies and the isolating architecture of modern networks. But they diverge in outlook: Chainsaw Man leaves room—however slim—for redemption and repair, while Attack on Titan ultimately sketches a darker, more fatalistic worldview.
Denji and Eren are different expressions of the same emotional damage: both crave freedom and affection but have had their moral bearings skewed by trauma. Eren morphs into a vengeance-fueled avatar of a male power fantasy—his urgency and rage give him a perverse clarity and purpose. Denji registers the same wounds more vulnerably: a simple, longing boy who confuses obedience and attention for care. Together they expose a troubling facet of modern masculinity and loneliness—some answer suffering with fury, others with resignation and self-betrayal. See also commentary on the rise of male loneliness and its cultural effects. Psychology Today.
Denji’s origin is rooted in poverty and exploitation: saddled with his father’s debts, he scavenges a living as a Devil Hunter alongside Pochita, his loyal companion who is secretly a Chainsaw Devil. After the yakuza betray and kill him, Pochita fuses with Denji, resurrecting him with chainsaw powers in exchange for a promise: that Denji will pursue a modest, comfortable life. Makima’s arrival—her first kindness and the promise of belonging—gives him an illusion of family and purpose, but it also replaces one form of manipulation with another. He conflates control and care until the truth destroys his illusions.
Eren grows up behind the protective walls, dreaming of the wide world beyond. The Titans’ assault shatters that safety and redirects his longing into a singular mission: destroy the enemy. The later reveal that he himself can become a Titan flips his identity inside out and redirects rage toward entire societies that once condemned his people. Betrayal, revelation, and a collapsing moral landscape turn Eren’s quest for freedom into an all-consuming drive that ultimately consumes him.
Denji’s English-language voice actor describes him as “a soft, broken child who didn’t have a chance,” and that sense of distorted innocence explains why he sometimes behaves recklessly or amorally; his choices spring from need more than ideology. Ryan Colt Levy interview.
Romantic dynamics in both series further expose how emotionally stunted the leads are. Denji’s attachment to Makima is tangled with dependency and naiveté; when he learns she engineered the suffering around him he briefly loses his will to live, yet his love ultimately enables him to make a morally painful but correct choice. That decision opens a new path—caring for another life—which suggests the possibility of growth and a kinder, steadier form of attachment.
Eren’s relationship with Mikasa is more tragic: she loves him openly while he masks his feelings as camaraderie. As his choices grow darker, Mikasa cannot follow him, and Eren, either out of pride or conviction, pushes her away rather than risk showing vulnerability. He becomes incapable of the renunciations that love sometimes requires, and his single-minded pursuit of freedom turns into the very thing that enslaves him.
That many fans find Denji and Eren compelling is a worrying sign of our cultural moment. In an era marked by geopolitical instability, the amplification of cruelty online, and social isolation that can stunt emotional development, it’s unsurprising that audiences gravitate toward characters whose responses to trauma are extreme and unfiltered.
Still, the two protagonists point in different directions. Denji, for all his faults, ultimately moves toward connection: he doesn’t surrender to despair or to destiny. That fragile possibility—learning to care for another person and accept a different kind of love—offers a sliver of hope. As Denji’s voice actor puts it, “A lot of his choices and actions resonate. That kind of loose, free energy is so cathartic and inspiring.” Ryan Colt Levy interview.
Source: Polygon
