Children, teenagers, and, to a lesser extent, college-age students are the younger populations that mainstream anime primarily targets and features. I’ve been an anime fan for my whole life, so I’ve progressively outgrown these labels and now have a small family of my own. I love showing my children age-appropriate anime, but where are the shows that cater to the, hmm, more… “mature” anime fan? (And no, I’m not talking about hentai.) Growing up is unavoidable, but it doesn’t mean we have to give up on our childhood loves in order to become dull adults. I wish to never stop appreciating anime since it’s such a great, emotive art form. For someone like myself, what options are there?
Regardless of one’s inclination towards his films, Mamoru Hosoda’s oeuvre undoubtedly embodies his own vision as a director. His directing career started with a few Digimon short films, which were remade and repackaged as Digimon—The Movie in the West, not exactly the most promising start. His One Piece film Baron Omatsuri and the Secret Island followed, which was never translated into English. He became one of the primary foundations of current cinematic anime after making his breakthrough internationally with 2006’s The Girl Who Leapt Through Time. His name recognition is on par with Makoto Shinkai. Hosoda has made the genre of familial drama his own, while Shinkai’s primary interest is thwarted adolescent romance, with yearning protagonists separated by time and/or space. As a husband and father, I can relate to and like a lot of Hosoda’s writings. I sense being noticed.
While The Girl Who Leapt Through Time has a more traditional high school anime setting with fantastical time-travel elements, Hosoda delves deeper into how our upbringing and family ties—or lack thereof—shape our personalities in his next, and best—yet unarguably—film Summer Wars (2009).
In Summer Wars, seventeen-year-old Kenji Koiso plays a nerdy student who is tricked into going to a special extended family party with his naughty eighteen-year-old buddy Natsuki Shinohara, who poses as her pretend fiancé. Kenji’s fear of meeting Natsuki’s large, boisterous family is eerily reminiscent of my own first impressions, at the age of seventeen, of my girlfriend’s (now wife’s) similarly large traditional Roman Catholic family. When forced into the heart of a large family, it can be daunting for people who are not used to the noise, nosiness, and total lack of privacy.
The intriguing and recognizable qualities of the Jinnouchi family, of whom the Shinoharas are but a small branch, are masterfully captured by Hosoda. The elderly great-grandmother of Natsuki is a strong, strict matriarch who is revered by all for her straightforward, no-nonsense demeanor and who seems to be the glue holding everyone together. She makes me think of my own granny. The extended ensemble is shocked by Granny’s death halfway through the movie, but they pull together despite her passing, showing that strength does not come from a single too significant family member. I especially like how Hosoda depicts the variations in responses from each family member; each has their own method of coping with loss, and none of them is inherently “wrong.”
Conflict exists in all family connections by nature, and the larger the family, the more likely it is that there will be resentment, silent arguments, wounded sentiments, or even outright emotional warfare. The Jinnouchi family is no different, with the others’ impression of the nomadic “black sheep,” Wabisuke (Natsuki’s enigmatic and mysterious but gloomy uncle), being influenced by multigenerational trauma. Even with the combined cyberspace/real-world disaster raging in the background, his admittedly manufactured linkages to the larger plot concerning rogue artificial intelligence and societal collapse allow the family drama to remain in focus.
Summer Wars looks at families as a whole, but Hosoda’s next film, Wolf Children (2012), is solely about a small nuclear family that is trying to make ends meet without the help of a large extended family. Hana, a student in her early twenties, meets and falls in love with an unidentified wolf-man; as a result of their relationship, she becomes pregnant with twins. After a tragic and pointless accident robs Hana of his life, the wolf-man abandons her to raise two infant hybrids who alternate between their human and wolf forms at random. After being harassed by social services and refusing to even use medical assistance, Hana moves out of her little flat in the city to buy a secluded farmstead away from prying eyes. The development of her children from early childhood to adolescence is then seen by us. I disagree wholeheartedly with criticisms of Wolf Children that portray Hana as some kind of idealized, saintly mother. She is portrayed by Hosoda as a frail, nervous, yet determined lady who puts her peculiar children’s needs first. Even though she battles to rein in her semi-feral children and makes mistakes, she manages to overcome her fear by finding an extraordinary amount of inner strength and perseverance. Even with her selfless love for her kids, she finds it difficult to relate to them as they get older, especially her son who prefers to embrace his wolf character over his human side.
As a father, I understand that no matter how rigorously you raise your kids, they’re still autonomous people with their own needs and wants, which might occasionally seem strange or even unfathomable. What some critics dismiss as Hosoda’s “furry fetish,” or his frequent usage of anthropomorphic animal people as metaphorical constructions in his work, effectively portrays this disparity in Wolf Children. Even Hana finds it difficult to comprehend the differences between her children and those who haven’t known them since birth. Wolf Children’s examination of this theme resonates deeply with me as a parent of an autistic child, and Hana’s final farewell to her son is heartbreaking.
The Boy and the Beast (2015) is a whole other kind of film, ranging from a study of single motherhood to a story of foster fatherhood. Hosoda’s worries about parenting and raising children persist despite the fantasy’s more overt elements, such as combat scenes and exotic otherworlds. Ren, nine, loses his mother after his parents get divorced. He is no longer in contact with his father because of Japan’s harsh post-divorce child custody regulations, yet he still declines to live with his mother’s refined family. The terrifying beast-man Kumatetsu hires Ren as an apprentice when he runs away and becomes lost in Shibuya at night. Ren, now known as “Kyuta,” is taken to the Beast Realm, a realm that can only be reached from our own by way of a mystical backstreet maze.
It is impossible for anyone to contest Kumatetsu’s status as the ideal father figure. Kumatetsu is a violent, rude, egocentric, and intemperate man who constantly irritates his unofficial foster child with his frequently unreasonable actions. Since unsheathed swords are prohibited in the Beast Realm, dueling takes place with blunt or sheathed weapons.) Kumatetsu’s main motivation for enlisting Ren is to teach him kendo, a traditionally non-lethal martial art. Sadly, Kumatetsu is a lousy teacher, and Ren can only learn by sneaking around and imitating his teacher’s techniques.
Years pass and Ren lives under the unsatisfactory guidance of Kumatetsu, sharing his food and home as they argue nonstop. Ren receives steady, kind paternal guidance from Kumatetsu, despite his fiery nature and lack of nurturing sensibility. Kumatetsu is always there for Ren. Though Kumatetsu lacks the emotional intelligence to show it, it’s clear that he loves Ren very much and that he displays this by pushing him to improve (mostly in fighting).
Kumatetsu’s adversary Iozen, a noble boar-man who raises two boys together—one his biological offspring and the other a (disguised) human foundling—counterbalances Kumatetsu’s rough-around-the-edges parenting style. Iozen’s parenting abilities are far more in keeping with contemporary human values; he is composed, supportive, and appears wise. But it’s his foster child who turns into a real “monster,” at least in part because Iozen lied about his origins in an attempt to protect him. Ren, who grows up to be an unexpectedly well-adjusted young man and is a credit to his foster father, is never deceived by Kumatetsu.
In The Boy and the Beast, Hosoda delves deeply into the topic of parenthood, highlighting the multitude of variables that impact a child’s normal growth and development. While they don’t have to be flawless, fathers ought to at least be involved in their kids’ lives. Ren’s biological father was deprived of the opportunity to support him due to events primarily beyond his control. When he and his son finally, awkwardly reunite at the end of the film, he gives a sincere thank you to the guy (beast) who raised Ren while he was away. I greatly value the topic matter covered in The Boy and the Beast because, as a professional, it is my responsibility to medically evaluate adults who may be considered as potential foster caregivers and adoptive parents for children who are at risk. Too many kids don’t have parents who are eager and reliable. Kumatetsu might not perform well based on my assessment criteria, but he did a great job, so I can’t really fault him.
Among all of Hosoda’s films, Mirai (2018) is arguably the most contentious. It’s also the most oddly organized of his works. The main focus of Mirai, a film that was clearly written and directed by a guy who has painful experience with the difficulties and disappointments of fatherhood, is four-year-old Kun’s battle to come to terms with the advent of his new baby sister, Mirai. The primary character of the movie is essentially a little shit, as per the majority of the criticism I’ve read about it. That does make him hard to root for, but as a parent, it’s extremely easy to see your own hideous little monsters mirrored in the flighty, vengeful, greedy, and easily distracted Kun. A unique type of filmmaker is required to craft a whole film from the perspective of a small, largely callous sociopath.
The greatest illustration of this is found in Hosoda’s films, where emotional honesty is prioritized over narrative coherence. It’s an unusual watch, a succession of barely connected vignettes with fantastical sequences that are exceedingly unlikely to be the result of an immature four-year-old’s imagination. The little identifiable moments of genuine humanity, both good and bad, are what make it noteworthy. For example, Kun’s mother faces difficulties when she returns to her full-time job soon after giving birth, leaving her husband, who is not very effective, at home to care for their two small children. Her thinly concealed remorse and reluctance to leave are palpable. In a similar vein, you experience the despair of a parent when Kun, filled with envy and rage, does the unimaginable and hits his defenseless infant sister. Every parent must have had the terrible realization that their own child is capable of such heinous acts against another human being ingrained in their memory.
Though I’ve been there, I really adore the sequences where Kun’s father is trying his hardest to teach him how to ride a bicycle. Family life is often about small victories. It’s challenging to watch your youngster struggle to stay upright for longer than a few seconds due to their lack of coordination! The spectator feels happy for Kun when he eventually succeeds (thanks to a vision of his deceased great-grandfather) because of this seemingly insignificant, uncomplicated moment. In a breathtaking moment of transcendence, Mirai’s jumbled story comes together as Kun discovers his significant place in his (beautifully rendered) family tree. He plays the role of responsible elder brother to his younger sister in addition to being his parents’ child. It helps him to see beyond his own self-serving desires and to find satisfaction in living for others. This is not a bad thing to admit—I cried at this part. It’s possible that this makes viewers without kids feel uneasy, but then again, having kids alters your perspective on practically everything. I wonder if those who have been the harshest critics of Mirai would do well to read it again when they have had some experience as parents.
The animated musical BELLE, which debuted in 2021 and is a huge hit for Hosoda, draws inspiration from both his earlier works and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, most notably the digital universe seen in Summer Wars. Given that Hosoda is returning to a high school setting, BELLE may not seem to be as directly about his concern with families and parenthood, but rather has themes more akin to The Girl Who Leapt Through Time. But if the last movie gave scant attention to the individuals’ personal circumstances, BELLE bases its narrative on trauma in the family. The protagonist Suzu emotionally removes herself from her father and his attempts to bond with her while lamenting the death of her selfless, benevolent mother. The majority of the story and running time of the film is devoted to the everyday world, where sadness, disappointment, and self-criticism are commonplace, despite the trailers for the film heavily promoting the virtual world “U,” where Suzu’s pink-haired avatar “Bell” lives.
It’s quite clearly not a romance between Bell and The Beast, despite the many references to BELLE’s Beauty and the Beast (most notably in the ballroom dance scene). (Warning—huge spoilers ahead.) The inhabitants of “U,” a virtual world with five billion subscribers, like Suzu’s pink-haired avatar Bell, but “The Beast” is despised. Beast is a feral edge lord who is violent, erratic, and out of control. He vents his secret inner suffering by spreading havoc, griefing other users, and attacking the world at large.
It should come as no great surprise that Beast is actually Kei, a gloomy, adolescent. The intriguing aspect of Kei’s past is how far Hosoda is ready to go with it. Kei, who is confined in a household with an emotionally, physically, and verbally abusive father, puts himself in danger in order to divert his father’s attention away from his younger brother, who may be neurodivergent. It makes sense why the child is upset; rather than being his abuser and tormentor, this person is the one who ought to love and support him without conditions. He can release his boiling storm of unpleasant feelings in the virtual world.
Just as their online personas are completely different from one other, so too are Suzu and Kei’s real lives. Suzu knows that her own parents have always loved and supported her, and she fervently hopes that Kei would have the same kind of familial affection. Instead of going for a spooky love affair with a younger teenager, Suzu decides to act like a responsible older sister and goes out to save Kei from his father.
Regretfully, here is where Belle’s plot unravels. No matter how many people sing along, you cannot cure abusive families through an online performance, and you cannot change an abuser’s conduct by only confronting them once. This part of BELLE feels cliched and undeveloped, even with its strong themes and dramatic finale. The film is great overall, but its disorganized ending obscures Hosoda’s message. Even though BELLE’s story ultimately fails, it is nevertheless a crucial work in Hosoda’s repertoire; in my opinion, he hasn’t produced a poor film. With humor and action to keep kids entertained and deep, emotional themes to captivate adults—especially those who recognize themselves mirrored in Hosoda’s imperfect, sometimes agonizingly human characters—his works may truly appeal to a multigenerational audience. With anticipation and Kleenex ready for the probably expected tears, I look forward to seeing his next film.
