December 11, 2000 CURRENT RUMBLE Ceci n'est pas un Getta Lemel 12.11.00 It shouldn't be here. No one ever even thought it was possible, let alone attemptable. Medicom engineers walked away dumbfounded, unable to contemplate a reduction of design that would be feasible. There is no way in hell that this box should contain what it proposes on it's glossy cover: Perfect Change Getter Robo 123. I've owned the Halfeye Studios Perfect Change Getter Robo for about two months now, and I'm still trying to come to grips with its existence. For those of you unfamiliar with this piece, it is a hand-assembled resin kit designed by Studio Halfeye, which is basically one man, Mr. Hajime Takahashi. To quote Hobby Link Japan: "He designs and tools all of the kits in the line-up of this still-young firm. Unlike the work of other companies which often strive for perfect realism, his policy is to make 'kits that you can play with' and it shows in his designs. These are almost more like toy assembly kits than models. He's not afraid to have screws visible all over the finished item, as long as that makes them sturdy and fun to play with after completion." Not that the man himself assembled each and every kit, but that he is the ultimate designer of all the studio's pieces. His rendition of the perfectly transforming Escaflowne dragon was generally considered to be the studio's masterwork...until now. o v e r v i e w This is a fully assembled color-molded resin kit of the three Getta ships, Eagle, Jaguar, and Bear (1, 2, & 3) which, per the series, can be transformed into the three Getta Robos. The kit is assembled with machine screws, and comes in an wonderful box which can be folded out into a hangar scene complete with three flatbed transports for the Gettas. A minimal sticker sheet is included along with the expected thick black book of transformation instructions. m a t e r i a l s Resin is used in many garage kits because it is easier to work with in small production environments, but lacks the level of surface detail that can be achieved with plastic because it is harder, more brittle, and cannot be cast as thinly. As such, this kit's parts are a bit thicker than they would be if molded in plastic, and the resin has a bisque-like appearance compared to plastic's shininess. The old school Gettas have no surface detail to speak of, so things like panel lines, rivets, etc are not an issue design-wise. As said, the kit is assembled with screws, which represent the only non-resin parts. The screws thread straight into the resin, so I imagine that over time, the resin holes could strip making for a number of loose connections. On the other hand, the bare-threaded resin may create a firmer negative of the surface of the screws, making loosening a non-issue. Only time will tell, but I suppose a cue can be taken from the fact that a magnetic screwdriver is thoughtfully included. There are six transformations possible: The three ships, and the combination of the three ships into the three Robos. Because the Getta transformation is impossibe, compromises are made. Primacy is given to the form of Getta One. After this, perhaps Getta Two, the three ships, and lastly, the fairly derivative but no less compelling Getta Three. Those of us versed in the particular childhood eye squints necessary to make misshappen blobs of plastic look like heroic skyscraper-sized titans will find our skills applicable. t r a n s f o r m a t i o n s I decided that in order for this review to be in any ways authentic, I should transform the toy. Given that each transformation requires roughly 10 pages of instruction, I assumed that one transformation should be sufficient in the interest of expediency. And Getta One appeared most satisfying. The structure of this kit is like ancient Native Americans with a buffalo, or Eskimo with a whale - no part, however tiny, goes unused. Every bit of resin is in some way integral to the transformations. There is no room left in the engineering of the Gettas for any functionality except transformation itself, a great strategic disadvantage on the battlefield. And the various twists and turns are innumerable, incredible and ingenius. One can feel the creative process, the love that went into devising each move, and the forsight and sweat of having to consider the ramifications of each move across five other transformations! Accuracy of the silhouettes of the Gettas notwithstanding, it is an awesome feat. I anchor down the pages of the book appropriately with worry stones and start in on the Eagle. In turn, the book requests one impossible motion after another. Black and white photos make the task even harder. The moves are so numerous and often so small, one strains to see any perceptible difference from one picture to the next. Yet, 23 pages later, there is pictured a finished grinning Getta One, so faith moves the pilgrim forward. After flipping this bit, turning that bit, and sensing no real progress, I suddenly realize exactly what I am doing: I am unfolding Getta Two's legs ever-outward into the thin sheaves that will form Getta One's cape. I pause for a moment of respectful silence. But so far, the transform is buttery. The moves are not difficult in themselves, and I feel no fear of breaking the toy. (As long as I remember to grasp only the two parts being twisted, so that torsion is not allowed to travel along the toy into other regions.) Finally I am rewarded with a small bit of torso, and a glimpse of Getta One's face. The book congratulates me in a frantic panel of photo and headline text. 10 more pages to go. I am gently persuaded to peel open Jaguar along the back seam, like a lobster tail. It doesn't feel right, but nevertheless, two articulated fist appear and the seams close back upon themselves into a forearm. Another moment of silence is probably in order, but I am already caught up to the third heaven. At many points I am simply lost, but with a photo for every move, I am given assured steps, which I follow blindly. Nothing clicks or locks into place, but rather slides, folds, or tucks into previous slides, folds and tucks. This is robot by way of resin origami. The feeling is like building an intricate model from a kit containing only three pieces...that are infinitely variable. The Bear provides the only true moment of "this can't work" when I have to flip the bottom of the waist around to the opposite side. But, as earlier, a careful retracing of the step by step photos yields results. In the end, the three transposed ships lay before be, awaiting docking. This is achieved by small pairs of metal rods, looking like tiny electrical plugs, that mate the ships into a whole. Docking the head & shoulders onto the torso is easy enough. Fears of rigidity subside as the plug slides into the slots with a satisfying friction. But, for some reason, a fully-seated docking of the legs evades me. I just can't get plug all the way in. And forcing is not an otion because it puts stress on so many other uninvolved parts that something is sure to snap. After some puzzling, I hold my breath, and simply push as hard as my timidity will allow. Although it doesn't get any better, I decide to go ahead and take some pictures. Though a lesser craftsman might be tempted to reward the transformation with a fairly static totem, full articulation is maintained in each of the final forms. Getta One stands very close to 10 inches tall, taller than I expected. Think Medicom T28. The heft is nice; surely all those tiny metal screws add up. Fragility? Well, as long as the joints are as tight as they came, I had no fears while handling it. After a while, I got comfortable, cocky, forgetting about the half-seated plug, and in the midst of striking a pose, the bottom fell out onto the table below with a sickening thud. No damage, but this again drew my attention to the fault. I've decided that some move many steps back was not rightfully executed, and the resulting gap is the amplified product of that. I can only imagine that each transform will result in an ever-slightly different robot. I suppose the true test of my trust is what I do when the pics are done and I have to set the thing aside: I immediately seperate the legs and lay everything flat. I also notice that after much handling, the right ankle has gotten a bit loose, but in all honesty, I think it was a bit loose when I started. Nothing a tiny twist couldn't take care of. s h o u l d   y o u   b u y   i t ? I've had many people ask questions along the lines of "what's the quality like?", and "is it really worth it?" and "how hard is it to transform?" These are basically requests for information about the relative value of the piece compared to some of the other new stuff coming out these days - in essence "should I buy it?" Here is my qualified answer: I recommend this piece to no one. What do I mean by that? That it sucks? No. I mean that I will never try to convince anyone of the value of this item, nor of its value as a collectible, nor of its play quality as a toy. Why? Because if you don't want this with all your heart, if you balk at the price, if you are not in love with the *idea* of this piece, with the process that created it, and with the fact that someone had the *balls* to even attempt such a thing, then you do not deserve it, nor will you be happy with it once received. In other words, if you don't already want it, it's not for you. My own draw to this piece is the mythos aspect of it. Let me explain: Imagine if this toy were released in 1979. Due to the small numbers, the marketing, the impossibility of the design and subject matter, it would take a fair amount of time and research to determine whether the toy actually existed. In our interconnected world, with Rumbles every day, and contacts at Takara, Bandai, and Toycom and a multitude of hobby mags and online resources, new toys generate too much documentation to go unknown. But in the past a piece this exotic and improbable would have been a perfect candidate for fuzzy photos and hazy recollections in the back rooms of dusty antique shops. "A very limited transforming Getta? Made of resin by one guy? Yeah, right! If only I could just see *one clear picture*!" This is what I like about it. This is why I *had* to have it. This is why I've sacrificed for it. It's a little sad that the mythos will probably never develop, but for me that would be the difference between the chance to own one, and the uncertainty if I would ever see one in my lifetime. And I guess, as many of us already realize, both have their charm. I suppose it all comes down to this: I like having a toy that by all accounts should not exist.  RUMBLE INDEX  |  CURRENT RUMBLE