“Monster (2023)” — Film Review
Hirokazu Kore-eda has made a name for himself in the familial drama genre. 2018’s Shoplifters was my first introduction to his work. The film was a breathtaking redefinition of what it means to be a family and how genetics is not the sole means of bringing people together. After the success of last year’s Broker, Kore-eda has returned with Monster. While the title would imply a horror movie, Monster is a multi-layered story about a mother, Saori (Ando Sakura), and her son, Minato (Kurokawa Soya). Seemingly out of nowhere, Minato begins to act strangely and Saori tries desperately to find the source of this change. All signs seem to point to Minato’s teacher, Mr. Hori (Nagayama Eita), and Saori takes it upon herself to confront him.
Monster is Kore-eda’s take on Rashomon. We experience the film’s events from the point of view of Saori, Minato, and Mr. Hori. Each perspective peels back a layer of the truth. Kore-eda masterfully plays on the viewer’s expectations and preconceived notions. Who does the audience inherently trust? The mother? The teacher? The student? What does that say about the viewer? With each change of perspective, the audience is forced to reevaluate what had previously been presented as truth. It’s similar to Justine Trier’s Anatomy of a Fall in the sense that there’s an underlying ambiguity. The audience is forced to actively engage with Monster as events occur, drawing ever-changing conclusions as the film twists and turns.
The title of the movie poses an interesting question that is asked time and again throughout: what does it mean to be human? When someone hears the word “monster,” they likely picture an otherworldly, grotesque creature that bears no resemblance to a human. In the beginning of the film, Minato asks his mother if a person would still be themselves if their brain was replaced with a pig’s brain. Saori begs the elementary school administration to respect her as a person as she confronts them about Mr. Hori. More than an attempt to get to the truth of the situation with Minato and Mr. Hori, Monster is a delicate exploration of humanity. It’s easy to call something or someone a monster, because that strips the soul out of the situation. It allows us to separate the darkness that people are capable of from humanity itself, but that’s not the truth. We all have the ability to be awful and good and cruel, but that doesn’t make us monsters, it makes us human.
“What actually happened doesn’t matter.” It’s a sentiment murmured to Mr. Hori as he tries to explain his side of the story. It’s harrowing to think about life in that way. We’re taught from a young age that honesty is the best policy, but that’s only true if everyone subscribes to that same belief. Even with the best intentions, it’s still easy to misremember things. Soon enough, the misremembrances become the truth. The first two sections of the film are centered on Saori and Mr. Hori and they’re deeply tense. Perhaps that’s because we assume it’s the adults who will have the most logical explanation for the events. Instead, Kore-eda reminds the audience that children have a deep understanding of their own emotions and it’s the rest of the world who doesn’t understand.
Monster’s final act is deeply emotional, the kind of finale that will have you reaching for tissues. In true Kore-eda fashion, there is no third-act gotcha moment, but instead, a desperate plea for all of us to remember the beauty of kindness. The slow-burn essence of the film finally catches fire and Monster becomes a big ball of youthful feelings. Just when you’d think things would turn to a boisterous climax, Kore-eda’s third act fire is the sort of warm, sustaining source that speaks to human connection. It’s a stunning conclusion that makes your heart ache once you realize how wrong you’ve been for the past hour-and-a-half. Monster is nothing short of a masterpiece, a deeply moving damnation of the effects of shame.
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