A family is living in a small house in an obscure corner of a certain city—in that house lives the family’s spoiled four-year-old boy Kun-chan. When Kun-chan gets a little sister named Mirai, he feels that his new sister stole his parents’ love from him, and is overwhelmed by many experiences he undergoes for the first time in his life. In the midst of it all, he meets an older version of Mirai, who has come from the future. – ANN
Release: Limited Theatrical Release. Available to pre-order on Blu-ray and DVD.
Source: Original
Review: Please be aware that this review contains some plot and thematic spoilers for the film.
Change is difficult for us all, but as adults its inevitability is already mostly a known quantity even if its specific form almost never is. For young children, though, each change, no matter how small, can seem like a drastic upheaval. Just when they’re starting to learn their world’s rules, that world might change and transform into some new state of existence. As we grow older we begin to forget how unfamiliar and drastic these feelings are, and this is something that I think about quite a bit. Though we might grumble at the toddler throwing a tantrum in Target, we ought to consider the tools we’ve developed to handle the negative emotional waves that crash over our psyche, and understand that we didn’t always have access to those when we were their age.
Mirai is a film that demonstrates deep compassion and empathy towards children who are beginning to embark on the exhilarating and terrifying “firsts” that many of us encounter early in our lives. Kun-chan, the little boy at the center of the movie’s story, undergoes a very strenuous emotional journey during which he comes to realize the importance of the role he plays in his family, as well as the connections he has with its various other members, some of whom he never had the chance to meet.
Writer/Director Mamoru Hosoda’s films are almost always focused around some aspect of familial relationships. The challenges of single parenthood are expressed beautifully in Wolf Children, and adoptive families and relationships are a thematic focal point in The Boy and The Beast. Even the complicated (and sometimes tense) relationships that can arise within large, multi-generational families are explored (partly as a clever analogue with social media) in Summer Wars. I consider all of those films to be pretty exemplary in their own right, but none of them feel as focused or as personal to me as this one, built around a little boy, his sister, and their parents.
Kun-chan’s life as a doted-upon only-child is disrupted by the birth of his younger sister, Mirai. While Kun is initially fascinated by the baby, the fact that his mother and father have to devote so much of their energy to her well-being quickly brings out all the jealousy and bad behavior he can muster. When he’s upset, he sometimes goes outside to cry by the lone tree standing in his house’s courtyard, and it’s there that Kun begins to have some truly amazing encounters. First, he meets the family dog (in human form) who like Kun-chan is feeling a bit on the outs from the lack of attention he’s been getting lately. Later he encounters his sister Mirai, who appears to him in teenage form to scold him about his treatment of her, and to ask him for a little help with a highly unusual task. As the days go on and Kun’s emotional struggles continue, he starts to meet other family members in this way; he rides a horse with his great-grandfather, then a handsome young man back from the war. He tears through his grandmother’s house with his mother as she was when she was his age, both of them leaving a kid-sized path of destruction. Kun even encounters a sullen teenage boy, who warns him not to get onto a passing train; it’s only when Kun reaches the bustling station that he’s finally forced to understand and acknowledge his identity within his family.
Kun and his family live in a very non-traditional, modern house, its rooms arranged like stair-steps down a hill with an open-air courtyard situated at its halfway point. The family itself is also non-traditional, especially by Japan’s standards; after Mirai’s birth, Kun’s mother returns to work outside the home while his father takes on the household duties and child care while working from home. There’s a temptation to look at these things and marvel at how progressive they are, both socially and architecturally, and it’s true that they ought to be celebrated. I think that the biggest takeaway from these visible, visual choices is the suggestion that, even as times change and society progresses, a family (in whatever form that takes) is an important foundation of how we learn and grow.
Kun’s magical encounters with his relatives, which may sometimes seem a bit meandering or disconnected when taken separately, are delightful in how they reveal the frustrating consistency of certain life experiences. Kun’s father was unable to ride a bicycle when he was young, and he inadvertently passes his fears to Kun, who’s currently trying to learn so that he can keep up with the bigger boys at the local park; it’s through Kun’s experience riding a horse (and later a motorcycle!) with his great-grandfather that Kun gains the confidence he needs to keep his bike upright. Though Kun’s mother nags at him to keep his toys cleaned up, meeting her as a child reveals that she was a mess-maker, too (incurring her mother’s wrath in much the same way). Though children rely on their families for their basic needs and sense of well-being, I think they (and heck, even adults) can sometimes feel the burden of their own individuality, as if their problems are singular and unique to their own experience. It’s often a very lonely feeling, to be honest. Kun’s adventures are whimsical and magical, but they also drive home the point that life’s challenges are rarely unique nor insurmountable, and in fact are shared experiences with those who are closest to you.
While I would say that this film is typical for a Mamoru Hosoda production in that it’s entertaining for both children and adults, I think that despite its magical, almost fairy-tale-like aspects, it expresses somewhat weightier feelings for adults and/or individuals who are or hope to become parents. Returning to the image of the child thrashing around on the department store floor, weeping inconsolably over a lost opportunity for a treat or a toy, I think a frustratingly typical reaction for many adults is to complain about the situation, comment on the “ineffectual” parenting, and treat the episode as an annoyance brought about by a child who’s been spoiled or coddled. The real magic of the movie is in the way it empathizes with both Kun, who doesn’t yet have the tools to deal with his very mixed emotions about the new baby and his role as a big brother, and the parents, who are clearly trying their best but have clearly forgotten the feeling of being in Kun-chan’s shoes. I ask again, who among us really remembers what it’s like to have the stormy emotions of a little kid? I think, after years of “sucking it up” and “dealing with it,” we’re left ill-equipped to empathize with children in our lives, even our own, unless we make a conscious effort to to do so.
Through Kun-chan’s experiences, we re-gain a little of that insight. Through his parents’ experience, during which they wonder aloud (like many in their position do) whether or not they’re doing a good job raising their children, we discover that we’re not alone in wanting to do the best we can in guiding the young people in our lives. In the grand scheme of things, every choice we make has an effect, but perhaps it’s the intention behind those choices that has the greatest potential to steer the course of ours and our children’s lives. And, of course, chance has its part to play, too. If Kun-chan’s great-grandfather had met a more final fate during the war, never gotten hurt when he did, or had a less-robust sense of humor, Kun may never have had a little sister to complain about, nor even come to exist in the first place. There’s something both terrifying and kind of beautiful to me about that realization. Even if some of our familial relationships turn out to be painful, complicated, or even unsalvageable, there’s a profoundness in knowing that we are the sum total of our family’s choices, successes, and mistakes. We are all someone’s son or daughter, and yes, perhaps even someone’s sibling, too.
Pros: Does an excellent job of presenting the various ways that family ties contribute to our sense of self. Shows empathy towards both young children going through times of emotional growth, and the parents and other adults who are tasked with guiding them.
Cons: Some of the narrative feels meandering at times, which captures a Kun-chan’s childishness but might not sit well with those looking for a stronger plot thread.
Grade: A