Monster

Monster (怪物) – An Exploration of Human Misunderstanding, Vulnerability, and Redemption Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster begins not with exposition or a quiet prelude, but with chaos: a fire consuming a building in the darkness. This visceral, elemental image is more than a dramatic opening - it is a thematic cornerstone, foreshadowing the emotional, psychological, and societal conflagrations that are to come. Like the fire, the emotional intensity that drives each character in Monster spreads uncontrollably, fueled by fear, guilt, love, and misunderstanding. At the heart of the film is Saori, a single mother, portrayed with aching nuance by Sakura Ando. Saori is a woman gripped by anxiety over her young son Minato’s changing behavior. Her fear, magnified by trauma and social isolation, leads her to make a series of emotionally charged decisions. She suspects that Minato is being bullied at school - by his teacher, no less - and her inability to get clear answers from the school administration only deepens her distrust. Her love for her son is undeniable, but it is a love clouded by the desperation of a person who sees herself as a victim of a callous system. From her perspective, everything is clear: the teacher is the problem, the school is protecting itself, and her son is the victim. Her maternal instincts are fierce, but her vision is limited. This chapter explores how fear and love can blind even the most well-intentioned people. Saori’s actions, while motivated by care, often cross boundaries. She pushes Minato to open up emotionally when he’s not ready, such as the scene where she encourages him to speak with his deceased father, only to remain hidden nearby, hoping to eavesdrop. Her desire to connect is palpable, yet misguided. When Minato asks her to leave, she initially resists - wanting to be there for him - but ultimately respects his wish. However, this pattern of overstepping continues. She invades his privacy by entering his room despite a sign that says “Keep Out” and rummages through his belongings. Though these actions stem from worry, they inadvertently deepen Minato’s feelings of alienation. Saori’s belief in a “normal” life - shaped by society’s expectations - becomes a quiet form of oppression, one she doesn’t recognize until it’s too late. Sakura Ando’s performance is nothing short of masterful. She captures the fragility of a mother trying to protect her child in a world that seems increasingly hostile, walking a delicate line between strength and collapse. Her face, often tight with restraint, holds a tension that explodes in subtle, heartbreaking moments - when she whispers apologies, when her eyes dart with paranoia, or when she watches her son slip further away. Minato, the child at the center of this storm, is portrayed brilliantly by Soya Kurokawa. Minato is a quiet, introspective boy, still in the process of understanding himself and the world around him. After jumping out of a moving car in a moment of panic - terrified that a phone call from his friend Yori might reveal a secret to his mother - he is taken to a hospital for a CT scan. He fears that the scan might reveal something horrific: that he has "pig brain," a cruel nickname. This is not simply a child’s misunderstanding of biology; it is a reflection of deep-seated shame instilled by society. Minato is terrified that his feelings - especially those he might harbor for Yori - make him defective. Throughout the film, Minato is misunderstood. He is suspected of bullying Yori, when in truth, he is trying to protect him. His missing shoe is seen as evidence of abuse when in fact, he gave it to Yori as a gift, a silent apology and a gesture of affection. His silence is not defiance but self-preservation. When he tells his mother, “I can’t be like Dad,” a truck drowns out the crucial word “can’t,” rendering his emotional confession tragically incomplete - yet another example of communication lost in the noise of assumptions. One especially poignant visual metaphor added by Kurokawa himself is the moment where Minato almost knocks over a cup of water - a quiet symbol of emotional overflow, of the fragile balance he struggles to maintain. It is in his trumpet lesson with the principal, where he produces a dissonant, broken sound, that he finally releases some of his bottled emotions. The music may be flawed, but it is authentic, raw - an auditory parallel to his inner life. Through sound, he speaks. Yori, his closest friend, is a small sunbeam in a bleak landscape. With his gentle smile and encyclopedic knowledge of flowers, Yori radiates warmth and innocence. Yet behind that light is a child carrying enormous pain. His home life is harrowing: his mother abandoned him, his father is abusive and possibly alcoholic, and his home is in disarray. Still, Yori defends his father, calling him a “good man.” This contradiction is heartbreaking. Yori’s home reflects his father’s neglect - always messy, cluttered, and dim. Drunk most of the time, the man pays little attention to his son, who still wears old, worn-out clothes. The house lacks even basic necessities; when Minato’s mother visits, Yori can only offer her water in an empty pudding cup. Despite his pain, Yori is not defined by tragedy. He writes backward in his school essay to protect his and Minato’s identity, a brilliant and subtle act of rebellion. The title of the essay, “My Future,” becomes a coded message of hope: Yori dreams of a future where he and Minato can be safe, happy, free. Their moments away from school - laughing, exploring, simply existing—are fleeting glimpses of a world untouched by cruelty. In those scenes, they are just children, and it is painfully beautiful. It is only much later in the story - almost as a quiet revelation - that we discover that it was Yori who set fire to the bar. When he sets fire to a local bar, it is not an act of delinquency, but a desperate cry. That bar, to Yori, is not just a building; it is the place that swallows his father whole, night after night, through alcohol and apathy. By setting it ablaze, Yori is not lashing out at society - he is trying, in the only way he knows, to keep his father from returning. It is not destruction for its own sake - it is grief, protest, and a child’s misguided attempt to reclaim someone he has already begun to lose. There is a moment - brief, quiet - when the two boys embrace. It is not dramatic, nor meant to shock. It is simply two children, worn down by fear, misunderstanding, and loneliness, reaching for warmth in the only place they can find it: each other. Their hug is clumsy, almost instinctive, as if their bodies are trying to say what they cannot yet put into words. In that closeness, there is comfort. Safety. A fleeting sense that maybe, just maybe, they are not alone. But then, something shifts. Minato’s body reacts in a way he doesn’t expect - an involuntary, physical response that frightens him. He pulls away, confused and ashamed, as if the moment had suddenly become dangerous. Not because Yori did anything wrong, but because Minato no longer understands what is happening inside himself. Seeing his panic, Yori gently tells him that it’s okay - that it’s just a natural reaction, and that he, too, has sometimes felt the same. His voice is calm, almost casual, not making too much of it, but not dismissing it either. Just enough to make Minato feel seen, and less alone in his confusion. It is a deeply human scene: tender, painful, and real. It captures the terrifying edge of adolescence, where emotion and sensation collide, where even innocent gestures can blur into confusion. And without the words or guidance to make sense of it, Minato does the only thing he knows - he runs. The performance of the young actors, particularly Hinata Hiiragi as Yori, is astonishing. Their chemistry is authentic, their emotions genuine. Their silences are heavy with unspoken truths, their small gestures more powerful than any dialogue. The adults, however, struggle in their own ways. Mr. Hori, the school teacher, is himself a product of a single-parent home. His judgment of Saori as “overprotective” reveals an unconscious bias—a belief that his own survival under hardship must be universal. He misinterprets Minato’s actions, labels him a bully, and enforces rigid expectations of masculinity. Even though he is a well-meaning man, he fails to understand the complexity of the children in his care. His version of events is quiet, awkward, and filled with silent suffering. Far from being a villain, he is an isolated figure burdened by both his own insecurities and the expectations of the school system. We see how easily he is misunderstood, how quickly people are willing to cast blame, and how his silence becomes his undoing. This section reveals the cost of institutional cowardice and how damaging it is to assume the worst without truly listening. One clever motif reinforces this: in a scene with his girlfriend, he tries to explain the difference between two kanji characters, only to be silenced by a piece of candy in his mouth. Later, during a tense parent-teacher conference, he does the same - placing a candy in his mouth, as if subconsciously censoring himself. It’s a subtle but effective metaphor for how his voice - his truth - is stifled, just as the institution stifles nuance. When Kida, a classmate of Minato’s, leads Mr. Hori to the woods and points to the carcass of a dead cat, she says she saw Minato “playing” with it. Her words are strange, unsettling, but vague. She does not say that Minato killed the cat - only that she saw him interact with its body. And yet, in that instant, Mr. Hori draws his own conclusion. Without questioning further, he internalizes the belief that Minato is the one who killed the animal. Later, in a tense confrontation, Mr. Hori revisits the incident. His voice rises, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, when Kida now denies having said Minato “killed” the cat. To him, this sounds like a lie. He believes she’s trying to protect Minato. But the painful truth is that she never said those words in the first place - only that he “played” with it. The rest was filled in by Mr. Hori’s imagination, fueled by stress, judgment, and perhaps his own fear of missing signs of a troubled child. This moment speaks volumes about adult fallibility. Mr. Hori, though not malicious, becomes a symbol of how adults - even well-meaning ones - can misinterpret, overreact, and impose narratives on children that don’t belong to them. In his effort to act responsibly, he ironically does harm: not by what he does, but by what he believes. It is a subtle, tragic misstep - and one that the film never loudly condemns, but quietly lets us sit with, uncomfortable and complicit. The principal, too, is a layered figure. Having lost her niece, she clings to the school as her final tether to meaning. When scandal threatens its reputation, she sacrifices individuals - like Hori - to preserve the greater whole. She is both victim and perpetrator, and her duality embodies the gray moral palette of the film. Yet even she shows humanity, in her musical sessions with Minato, in her quiet moments of reflection. Her line, “If only some people can be happy, then that isn’t happiness,” is one of the film’s most devastating truths. And the father of Yori - an undeniably abusive man - also exists in this moral limbo. His actions are inexcusable, but not entirely incomprehensible. We glimpse, in a deleted scene, him enjoying ice cream with Yori - a normal, even loving moment. The scene where Yori is submerged in the bathtub isn’t necessarily one of torture - it may, in fact, be a form of hydrotherapy meant to soothe his wounds. Perhaps, in the past, the father himself was once a child subjected to the same harsh punishments. Now, he repeats the cycle, not out of cruelty alone, but because it is the only way he was ever taught to care. Yori’s father represents the lasting scars of generational trauma - his absence, silence, and violence are not isolated acts, but echoes of pain passed down. In hurting his son, he continues a cycle he never escaped himself, leaving Yori to bear wounds that were never truly his. In the end, the film doesn’t give us easy answers. It gives us the storm - literal and metaphorical. As the typhoon rolls in, washing away the fire that began the film, Minato and Yori find a fleeting peace. The elements of fire and water serve as visual anchors: fire, the violence and chaos that spreads from misunderstanding; water, the release, the cleansing, the acceptance. The contrasting colors of Minato and Yori’s clothing - one dressed in cool blues, the other in warm oranges - further symbolize their duality and ultimate balance. Together, they are not destruction and salvation, but two halves of a whole: struggling, breaking, healing. Throughout Monster, the idea of rebirth or starting over quietly haunts the emotional landscape of both Minato and Yori. It is not spoken about in grand philosophical terms, but lingers in gestures, silences, and in the choices they make - each desperate, each tender in its own way. For Minato, rebirth seems to take the shape of escape: from the weight of shame, from the confusing stirrings of his own body, from the quiet guilt he carries for things he cannot name. His longing to run away, to disappear into the forest, and eventually his silence toward his mother - all point toward a desire to shed his current self, to un-be who he is. At such a young age, the concept of death and rebirth blurs with that of identity and disappearance: to vanish might be to become something new, something less monstrous in his own eyes. Yori, on the other hand, embraces rebirth more actively, almost ritualistically. He speaks of becoming “something else” as if it were a promise. He burns down the bar not just out of resentment, but as a symbolic gesture - to sever his father from the toxic cycle of drinking, to purify something broken with fire. Inside the wagon, he envisions a world where he and Minato can start again. To him, rebirth is not just an escape - it is a cure. Together, the boys create a fragile, imagined world where they can become new creatures: untouched by cruelty, untouched by misunderstanding. But even within this fragile paradise, their bodies betray them, their pasts creep in. The idea of rebirth, then, becomes a double-edged sword - both salvation and illusion. They yearn to be born again, but are still tethered to the pain they’re trying to leave behind. It is this yearning - so innocent, so tragic - that makes their story resonate long after the film fades to black. The film’s final scenes are steeped in ambiguity, refusing to offer a clear resolution. Some viewers interpret the ending as symbolic - that the two boys have died, and in death, they are finally reborn, freed from the cruelty of the world that never understood them. In this reading, their laughter in the rain is not of this world, but of another - gentler, kinder, untouched by judgment. But to me, they survived. Their rebirth is not in death, but in the quiet, radical act of accepting themselves - and each other. They do not need the world to change; they create a world of their own. In this reading, the rain does not mourn - it cleanses. The pain of misunderstanding, shame, and fear is not erased, but gently made bearable. The monster is not defeated, but embraced as part of them. And in the end, they are together. That alone is enough. The film’s visual language speaks as powerfully as its characters. The cinematography is intimate and restrained, often favoring still, lingering shots that seem to hold their breath - just as the children do, navigating a world that does not know how to look at them gently. The camera rarely intrudes; instead, it observes. It watches from behind walls, through windows, or from a child’s eye-level. This subtle framing creates a sense of quiet distance and vulnerability, drawing us deeper into the inner world of the protagonists without ever feeling exploitative. The color palette is muted and melancholic - soft greys, dusty greens, and gentle beiges dominate the screen, reflecting the emotional fog that clouds the lives of these children. Even moments of warmth are tinged with sadness, never allowing us to forget that pain and innocence coexist uneasily here. After the storm, the colors feel slightly brighter, but not unrealistically so - just enough to suggest something new is possible, without making false promises. The soundscape is equally deliberate. Silence is used with haunting effectiveness, especially in scenes of emotional tension. But when music does arrive, it does so with purpose. The film’s score is understated and ethereal, often letting the quiet speak louder than melody. And yet, in the final scene - after the storm has passed - the song “Aqua” begins to play. Its gentle piano and ambient tones feel like water itself: flowing, cleansing, alive. The music doesn't proclaim triumph, but it offers peace. It feels like a breath finally released. In this final moment, the children run through the rain. They laugh - not because everything is fine, but because they are no longer alone in their pain. The rain, the music, the light: all of it comes together to cradle them gently, as if the world, for once, has chosen not to look away. Monster is not a story of good versus evil. It is a study in perception, in trauma, in the monstrous things ordinary people do when they are afraid, and the moments of grace that emerge when they dare to listen. Everyone in this film is both victim and perpetrator. Everyone is capable of harm, and of healing. One of the most striking aspects of Monster is its attention to detail. Nothing is wasted. Every glance, every silence, every image is heavy with meaning. Symbolism runs quietly throughout the film: the repetition of fire, the natural landscapes that hold both freedom and danger. The question “Who is the real monster?” is asked repeatedly, not as a puzzle, but as an invitation to reflect. Sometimes the monster is not a person, but the fear, misunderstanding, and loneliness that builds between people. And in that messy, painful, beautiful truth, Kore-eda finds something close to real humanity. Personally, I was deeply moved by the film. It left me reflecting not only on the characters, but also on the systems and silences that allow such tragedies to unfold. What stayed with me most was the idea that not all pain can be resolved, and not all wounds have a clean explanation. The children in Monster are fighting for love, for safety, and for understanding - in a world that often gives them none of those things. I found it particularly powerful how Kore-eda avoids providing a satisfying resolution. Instead, he leaves us in a space of quiet contemplation. The cycle of pain, the way the hurt is passed down, the helplessness of the children - none of it is wrapped up neatly. But perhaps that is the point. Some things in life can’t be solved. They can only be seen, felt, and remembered. So then… who is the monster? No one - and at the same time, everyone. Including us, the audiences. Monster doesn’t present a world of clear black and white, but rather a mosaic of gray - where every action is shaped by fear, pain, and the quiet yearning to be seen and loved. In this world, no one is wholly right or entirely wrong - just people struggling to live in their own way. And perhaps, what’s most terrifying isn’t any one “monster,” but the speed with which we choose to judge. In watching them, we must ask ourselves: when did we last look at someone twice - without judgment, but with understanding?