Monster is an impressive, sympathetic and engaging Japanese psychological mystery directed by Kore-eda Hirokazu from an award-winning screenplay written by Yuji Sakamoto.
Monster centres around an unfolding school drama, as single mother Saori Mugino (Sakura Andō) pleads with an apathetic school board to do something about the dejected and deteriorating condition of her son Minato Mugino (Sōya Kurokawa) following reports of severe misconduct and abuse by Minato’s homeroom teacher, Mr Hori (Eita Nagayama). All is not what it appears, however, as the film explores deeply complex humanistic themes of perspective, bias, lies and the power of assumptions through the use of multiple perspectives. Utilising a building engulfed in flames as a central anchor through which the story repeats and a raging typhoon in which it ends, the film follows Saori, Mr Hori and Minato on a journey through each character’s story as their involvement, interpretations, and blind spots in the drama unfolds, slowly but surely unravelling the central puzzles and questions posed by the film.
Now, I must confess that I am an absolute sucker for deviations and distortions to linear storytelling in films. I am a die-hard fan of novelty, like a cat that will always be bamboozled, enamoured and enchanted by a laser pointer, and I am entirely unapologetic about it. Assuming an air of critical thought however, repeating perspectives aren’t exactly new with Kore-eda’s own legendary countryman Akira Kurosawa, utilising the same storytelling device in Rashomon (1950) almost three quarters of a century ago.
Can the storytelling device be easily considered a cheap tactic that lives and dies by its own misdirection? Yeah. Can it be used to manipulate an audience? You betcha. Can it be subtle as a sledgehammer in saying “It’s about perspective!”? Absolutely. Do I care? Not one bit. Because none of that exists in Monster. There is no trickery here, just the best presentation of what is an incredibly beautiful and human film, carefully crafted to ensure the material serves to elevate the concept instead of hoping the concept elevates the material.
It helps that the material is sold convincingly by a full house of excellent performances. Sōya Kurokawa as Minato and Hinata Hiiragi as Yori, Minato’s classmate, are fundamentally astounding. Hiiragi plays Yori, an effeminate child bullied and ostracised by his peers. This doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest, however, with a disposition as cool and collected as someone with wisdom far surpassing his age. Most things seem to bounce off him, where conversely, Kurokawa as Minato a more self-conscious kid, is a child in crisis struggling to navigate the social order of school and wrestling with the concepts of life and death.
There is a feeling that, I assume, is universal while watching child actors. It’s that internal monologue echoing in the back of your mind as wooden line after wooden line is unnaturally delivered, the suspension of disbelief exiting your body as you subconsciously begin judging a literal child thinking “Wow this kid stinks”. This is usually followed by “let it go, they’re 9 years old”. There is a reverse to that, when you think “Wow this kid actor is incredible” and you can’t help but be aware of the existence of the performance.
Throughout the entire run Monster, I was never struck with either of these repeating thoughts. The naturalistic performances, with which praise to the writing and directing must be given, never forced me to consider the performance because I never really felt like I was watching one. I was temporarily invited into the interior lives of two kids as they navigate friendship, social order, and life, which is nothing short of a miracle, considering the depth of content in the third act. Safe to say, you won’t find yourself thinking, “Oh yeah, this is a film and kid actors suck”.
Sakura And as Saori also deserves some flowers. Sakura is a caring and involved mother who absolutely sells the internal turmoil of a single parent trying to balance unconditional love with the physical and psychological burden of watching a child fall down a wayward path. This contrasts with the anger, fury, and disbelief in the face of a system that appears completely indifferent to her plight.
On one hand, her performance is like a warm, inviting hug and on the other, she becomes the Shakespearean definition of a woman scorned. Eita Nagayama as Michitoshi Hori is also excellent, and while equally complex, I find his character typically has less to do and doesn’t get the chance to shine quite as bright. He still turns in a wonderful performance, transforming completely between the beginning to the end of the film.
Monster is also gorgeous to look at, and the director and cinematographer deserve praise for their beautiful depiction of regional Japan. The moments of childlike wonder that are captured throughout the final act are a particular standout and are the sort of visuals that can make you want to live inside a singular frame and the feeling it gives, forever.
Unfortunately, one downfall of an ever-evolving plot that unwinds throughout a film is that, by building upon itself, the plot is inherently unreviewable in nature. Any discussion of perspectives past the first act tends to ruin the evolution of the story. This is difficult because the real beauty and crux of the film really comes in the third act, and as such:
MINOR SPOILERS to follow.
Following the perspectives of Saori and Hori, which might be a little slow unless you’re particularly gripped as I was (but not the gentleman who left never to return during the second act), we now observe the story through Minato’s eyes. It is here that the story changes from the perspective of adults to children, and we are given a more beautiful and creative slice of film. It is here where most of the setups begin to pay off, from poorly played brass instruments blaring out of a hallway to the significance of a lighter.
As the title might suggest, each character has their turn in being persecuted as the monster by the jury and memory of their peers. However, towards the end of the film, there is a fundamental sympathy that hovers above the motivations, choices, and actions of each character that challenges the audience’s assumptions almost instantly after they were formed. It is a deeply humanistic film that explores several interesting avenues of human nature, behaviour, and decisions. There is a significant theme and reveal that emerges in the final act, but I refuse to spoil the reveal on principle.
Minato is the embodiment of the saying “kids can be cruel”. At one point, telling Yori “You can talk to me, just not in front of the others”, while being equally enraged to see him bullied and basking in his friendship. Mr Hori is a man who truly cares for the children in his class, and we witness a kind and caring nature that contrasts with the portrait of him built in the first act. Additionally, Saori is simply doing everything with the information she has to maintain her son’s welfare, as any parent would be expected to do. But then again, that’s just one perspective.
What culminates is an ending that builds on and satisfies what was established, paying off across the board but denying you the easy answer. What happens in the end will be dependant entirely on, well, you guessed it: your perspective.
Despite the title of the film, it is a wonderfully human story that is equally thrilling, complex, engaging, and thought-provoking. There are many things this film says both overtly and, in its subtext, but I think the heart of the film can most aptly be summarised by Yori himself. As he finishes stumbling his way through a verbal class book reading involving a few stutters and stalls, without skipping a beat or beating himself up, he turns to a classmate and says: “I think I made mistakes” to which she replies: “Yeah. It’s okay”.
Fun Fact:
Hirokazu Koreeda revealed that writer Yûji Sakamoto wrote the story of Monster from his own experiences. Sakamoto had a friend at school with whom he couldn’t communicate his feelings, much like in the film, and he always carried that with him.
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