Monster – A Quiet Masterclass in Heartache

Hirokazu Kore-eda has spent the better part of three decades making a successful career out of nuanced explorations of the bonds we choose to make with each other; those special, unspoken bonds that keep us close together and become necessary when the ones we expect to rely on snap beneath the weight of our lives. It’s a tried and tested path that the Japanese filmmaker has mined for tears time and time again, but with Monster, Kore-eda finds himself working with someone else’s script, and with that change comes a new angle on his tested formula: what happens when those around us, those who could never understand these bonds, make an active effort to do just that?

Minato Mugino (Kurokawa) is a typical fifth-grader living with his single, fiercely protective mother Saori (Andō). When the young boy begins acting strangely at home, a series of revelations point to a dispute at school with his new teacher, Hori (Nagayama). As Saori probes into the matter, audiences learn along with her that Minato’s disturbing behavior is in some way connected to a conflict with his fellow student, the timid Yori (Hiiragi). From that point on, Yuji Sakamoto’s twisting script picks the situation apart from three different perspectives: the mother’s, the teacher’s, and finally, that of Minato himself.

Sakamoto’s script proves itself to be a particular point of challenge for the experienced Kore-eda; not only is this a narrative built on a cryptic structure, this is also the first time since his debut that the director is working with a screenplay that isn’t his own. As a result, there are moments in Monster where audiences can tell that the director is having trouble balancing the three points of view in a way that lends equal depth to all of them, but in a way, that’s the point. Part of the beauty comes from the fact how one experiences the story from the outside in, as the mother’s perspective is the one with the least knowledge on the situation, allowing one to gradually work our way towards the truth of the matter, with each new point of view becoming more detailed—and richer—than the last.

As is typical for a Kore-eda film, the true heart of Monster lies in the naturalism of its performances. Andō marks her role with a motherly ferocity fitting that anyone who would want on their side, while at the same time, expressing a believable level of worrying doubt at her son’s situation. Essentially, Andō makes it clear that this is a woman willing to go to hell and back for her child, if only she knew how he got there in the first place. Nagayama is no slouch either as a man who isn’t as despicable as one may initially think (even if he should probably be as far away from young children as possible), but really, it’s the children who carry the film on their tiny shoulders. Another of Kore-eda’s strengths as a filmmaker is his unusual skill for believably directing children (a skill that should never be underestimated), and sure enough, Kurokawa and Hiigari carry the key to the film’s heartbreak with their soft curiosity and innocent confusion at the world around them.

While its structure may prove to be more rewarding for repeat viewers, and its pacing may be somewhat tiring in parts because of it, first-time watchers of Monster will still find in its weaving story a single common viewpoint: that of a storyteller who cares deeply about his characters and the effects they have on each other on a greater level. That storyteller is Hirokazu Kore-eda, and Monster is yet another home run in his immaculate catalogue.

still courtesy of Photon Films

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Julian Malandruccolo

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