MONSTER

"If only some people can have it, that's not happiness. That's just nonsense. Happiness is something anyone can have." - Fushimi

Japanese indie filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda focuses on broken families. As a writer, director, and editor, the multi-talented industry staple injects precise emotional currents throughout his films like raging storms. The ebb and flow of these stories crash in waves as an answer to an equation only he knows. Tender glimpses of bliss framed by the weight of oppression give Kore-eda’s films a surreal insight into human longing. His new film Monster encapsulates a community divided by fragmented realities in order to shed light on the monstrous capabilities of blind assumptions.   

Perspective is everything. Using The Rashomon Effect, the film devolves into three different vantage points, each character’s experience alluding to a piece of a puzzle, one increasingly more tragic than the last. Secrets and guilt are used like currency as each developing narrative forgives previously misinterpreted actions and motivations. The proverbial conclusion jumping inevitably transpires, as is Kore-eda’s wish, while the audience is driven to discern its own blame for the events witnessed on screen. Separately, each character holds a compelling argument to feign innocence and bolster support, easily pointing fingers at others for their misfortunes. But as the entire picture comes to light, as each event and motivation for all the decisions made finally settle, the only person you hold responsible is yourself. Monster forces you to remove personal bias from human experiences and react with patience toward a perpetually incomplete picture. 

The film starts pointing fingers right off the bat, single mother Saori Mugino starts noticing alarming changes in her son Minato after he cuts his hair off and starts coming home with one shoe. The duo seem close after the death of his Rugby playing father, living by simple means off of Saori’s dry cleaning salary. But things start taking a turn for the worst when Minato voices he has a pig brain instead of a human one and is found late one night in a tunnel screaming “Who is the monster?” Minato claims his teacher, Mr. Hori, physically hit him and verbally berated him in his classroom. Her son looks obviously troubled by what we assume are Mr. Hori’s actions, going as far as jumping out of a moving car and ending up in the hospital. She meets with the school’s faculty and is met with cold, automated responses and disingenuous apologies. Begging them to be human and understand the severity of her son’s mental health, Saori’s frustration becomes palpable at the school’s reluctance to take further disciplinary measures and the audacity to numbly sweep the issue under the rug. 

Emotions run high as seeds of information are planted during these meetings to discuss Mr. Hori’s actions. The teacher claims Minato was a bully to fellow student Yori and a general menace in class and deserved being punished. Adding to his aloof disregard for sincerity in apologizing to Saori, the principal's inability to de-escalate the situation makes further sense when it's noted that she just lost her granddaughter to a car accident. The powers that be seem hell bent on keeping the issue contained and quickly resolved during this disciplinary impasse with tensions running high at each faculty member’s stoicism and regurgitated HR jargon from the school’s handbook. We succumb to Saori’s feelings of frustration at Mr. Hori’s smugness and the principal's indifference for student safety. The staff create a veritable protective bubble around each other in dismissing their comrades' actions, and Saori’s alienation to seek justice punctures a deeper resonance with the single mother raising her troubled son. Her desperation to save her son grows further as his mental health declines and we wonder how we protect Minato from monsters like Mr. Hori. 

Time resets, unfolding events occur in the same order, but this time through Mr. Hori’s point of view. A kind, reserved man who lives alone takes pride in his job at an elementary school and goes out of his way to create a positive learning space for his kids. Kore-eda’s web of myopia vindicates its first victim as pieces of information explain previously scrutinized actions. What vilified him and his counterparts to Saori are in fact what shift our perception of him entirely from a privileged abuser to a misunderstood, innocent protector. And while Kore-eda grants us the knowledge of truth, he blames neither party for the conclusions made from their experiences; a caring mother whose son experiences neglect and physical harm and a blameless man advised by the school board to placate accusations for the sake of their reputation. Mr. Hori’s eyes see a different version of Minato throwing fits in the classroom and locking Yori in bathroom stalls. Anger previously felt for the school administration now transfers to Minato, a boy who seems to be torturing poor Yori and making his teacher take the fall for it. But did we learn our lesson? Are we so enraptured in our guilt for assuming the worst of Mr. Hori and demanding his justice that we blindly take his side as reality and condemn Minato as a liar? Kore-eda’s design might teach us to look at the bigger picture, but we fall right into his trap, unable to remove our emotions from the equation and truly see who to hold accountable. 

Kore-eda has us backed into a corner when the last perspective restarts, demanding answers for misguided anger and shame. His keen direction convinces us of both Saori and Mr. Hori’s reality regardless of the truth. Minato’s story unfolds, the dam of unresolved emotions waiting to burst at his flippant disregard for the people who care about him. But we don’t see an evil child tormenting his classmate, we see a beautiful friendship between Minato and Yori, whose father is emotionally and verbally abusive. The two boys have a secretive friendship, built around a fantastical abandoned train car they visit in the woods. While other students bully them, Mr. Hori’s ill-timed judgements finally fill in the blanks. The two boys scream and sing ‘Who is the monster,’ to no one in particular, as if the universe will answer and save them from themselves and the horrors of the world. They bond over the otherness they feel, and the people around them conclude what they want morphing half-truths into judgmental accusations.  

The emotional whiplash may sting for several days. Monster isn’t really about right or wrong, lies or truth, it's more so the understanding that all coexist. The devolving scraps of information create a viewing juxtaposition; the audience casts its own judgements and trudges alongside the emotional burdens of characters until the end, when it is scolded for warping its perception based on pieces and not the whole. The accusatory nature of the film feeds on first impressions and symptomatic information, establishing a heightened sense of protectiveness and emotionally charged reactions during each portion. Kore-eda’s triumph lies in his ability to manipulate awareness, weaving gut-twisting villainy on one hand and delicate compassion on the other. Everybody has the ability to translate as a wrongdoer or a good samaritan based on what parts people are privy to.     

The abject reality is far more devastating. Evil, we realize too late, exists within everyone. Society is the monster, leeching poison that estranges those who live on the outskirts; a single mother, a shy school teacher, a pair of bullied friends. The viewers are the perpetuated villain in our society of speculation and mob mentality. The results of such an epiphany weigh heavily as the credits roll. Monster mirrors our own shortcomings, inching toward a world where we no longer swear fealty to omitted truths and established loyalty.