Heartwarming and heartbreaking collide to create beautiful tragedy in Hirokazu Koreeda’s latest film

The word monster has this connotation of inhumanness that can devastatingly alter one’s perception of the humanity both within and around them. Hirokazu Kore-eda, known for his works that speak on the opaque understandings of familial concepts, such as Shoplifters and Broker, dives into an equally intimate space in Monster. With the help of a screenplay crafted by Sakamoto Yuji, he guides a fluid story of two children finding their way in the world, despite the enmity it so cruelly offers. Although I must warn you, it’s almost impossible to offer any intelligible thoughts on this film without revealing some potential spoilers, so please read at your own discretion.

The film is a non-linear story told in three acts portraying different perspectives, each carefully unraveling the dynamic nature of the characters involved. At first glance, one may believe that the film is chronicling Saori’s (Sakura Ando) struggles with caring for her pre-teen son Minato (Korokawa Soyo), who deals  with glaring, unclear mental health issues. From running away in the middle of the night, suddenly cutting his hair, and even jumping out of a moving car, Minato’s actions present blatant signs of distress. Later, you may believe that the film is about the injustices of a corrupt school system against a teacher, Mr. Hori (Eita Nagayama), accused of abusing Minato. However, what remarkably unfolds is a heartwarming story of queer, innocent boyhood, making us question what our eyes have been so deceitfully fed all this time.

The other boy in question, Yori (Hiiragi Hinata), is Minato’s classmate, dealing with his own harmful struggles. The film makes it quite clear that Yori is a victim of bullying from various perpetrators, however, its ambiguity lies within Minato’s role in this scenario. He’s accused of bullying Yori, with some of his actions seeming to prove these accusations, but the truth distorts with each scene, blurring the lines between the relationship they share.

The first two acts are shown through the perspectives of Saori and Mr. Hori, respectively, as they attempt to protect what they hold dear to them; Saori fights on her son’s behalf whilst Mr. Hori protects his career and reputation. Dealing with an educational and societal system with such narrow perspectives and conservative ideals, both characters struggle to see the heartbreaking truth at hand: the boys have been victims the entire time. The beauty and strength in this film are shown through its unyielding and vulnerable third act, where an intimate relationship between Minato and his classmate Yori is evidently revealed, despite its previous misrepresentation. Kore-eda plays with perspective and opens one’s eyes to the countless possibilities and understandings of things we may have thought to be absolute.

The audience is intentionally misled throughout the majority of the film, speaking to the power of perspective and its ability to muddle the truth. We’re not allowed to know what truly is going on between the boys, and our view is blurred with misconstrued information, whether intentional or unintentional on behalf of the characters. What we see is limited to the tapered lenses of others, and this myopic framework creates glimpses of false characterizations of all involved, often causing grave consequences. Is Minato the victim or aggressor of school violence? Is Mr. Hori a serially abusive teacher? What is Minato and Yori’s relationship? Kore-eda withholds and releases information within the story with meticulous expertise, ensuring that the viewer stays informed only at the right moments. It only makes sense that such a delicate relationship between two boys is directed in the same intricate manner. Sometimes such a directing style of purposefully misleading an audience comes across as gimmicky – with no real value other than that of shock – but Kore-eda’s artistry in his ability to represent a bold concept efficiently and practically is second to none.

The film’s portrayal of a monster is represented in two repeating phrases from Minato and Yori that echo throughout the film: “My brain was switched with a pig’s brain” and “Monster, monster, which one am I?” The former comes as a result and byproduct of Yori’s abusive father’s disciplinary actions against his son for being different in terms of societal standards, insinuating the ‘otherness’ characteristic of being a monster. The latter is a charades-like game that Minato and Yori play, where they guess what animal, or monster, the other drew without seeing the picture themselves. In this case, though, it is a bit more interesting as this term that is inherently off-putting and derogatory, instead juxtaposes those ideas with its child-like purity. To them, monster is something comforting. One of the strongest questions proposed by this film is whether a monster ever exists in the first place. But a more compelling question is, whether our perception of a monster, or the act of ascribing such negative sentiment, is naively monstrous in and of itself.

Emotion builds up exponentially, whether it comes from the music or the tragic characters, and it’s released with the same force in a brazen, triumphant manner. Who are we if not creatures of emotion? Perhaps the most captivating scene is when Minato and Fushimi (Yuko Tanaka), the principal, “blow their worries away” with the sound of brass instruments. The raw, almost human-like resonance released from these instruments, from characters who’ve done nothing but hold their sorrows in, served their cathartic purpose in letting go of their troubles. The film’s overwhelming sense of emotion speaks to its innate humanness, whilst at the same time intrinsically monstrous.

The late Ryuichi Sakamoto’s final score is perhaps one of his best works, harmoniously paralleling the film’s complex structure and substance. Working in tandem with the film’s three-act composition, the score evolves with the same accelerating pace. For the first half, the score remains relatively stagnant, with only a few dark, somber notes flooding the screen during scenes of helplessness. Towards the end, the score develops lighter undertones and introduces new notes befitting that of triumph, completely altering its structure and suggesting a rebirth of sorts that deeply ties itself into the thematics of the film.

The film ends in a simultaneously heartwarming yet heartbreaking fashion, mirroring the relationship between the main characters and how they are perceived by those around them. Honored with both the Queer Palm and Best Screenplay at Cannes, Monster is a thrilling tale that captures the innocence, strength, and nuances of love amidst a world set on misunderstanding.