Original Research

‘We Leave the Future to You’: Memory, masculinity and victimhood in Godzilla Minus One

Rhiannon Griffiths

Received: 21 Apr. 2025; Accepted: 02 July 2025; Published: 27 Aug. 2025

Copyright: © 2025. The Author Licensee: AOSIS.
This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution License, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original work is properly cited.

Abstract

Godzilla Minus One (2023) became the most successful Japanese instalment in the franchise’s 70-year history, grossing over $100 million globally. Set in the war-torn remnants of US-occupied Tokyo, the film follows a kamikaze pilot grappling with shame, trauma and the challenges of post-war reconstruction. While the story has been rightly criticised for portraying former soldiers as sympathetic victims, omitting the Japanese military’s involvement in sexual slavery, massacres and forced labour, this article argues that the film provides a valuable portrayal of post-war masculinity that engages with debates on collective wartime sacrifice, individual rights and accountability. Using visual analysis and Japan’s constitutional context, this article examines how the film critiques the glorification of sacrifice through death, and instead emphasises themes of agency and rights. Considering ongoing debates over Japanese war memory, the analysis demonstrates how Godzilla Minus One reflects the shift from state power to individual autonomy in post-war Japanese identity.

The findings highlight Godzilla Minus One as a critical artefact that challenges traditional narratives, contemplating the intersection of memory, rights and definitions of masculinity. This study contributes to ongoing discussions about the denial of war crimes in Japanese politics and its discourse in popular media, ultimately showing how exploring victimhood from multiple perspectives can enrich the debate.

Contribution: The article contributes to the growing literature on monster films and war films by interrogating the historical and constitutional backdrop of postwar Japan. Viewing Godzilla Minus One through this lens raises new reflections on a controversial product of socio-political and cultural identities.

Keywords: Japan; Asia Pacific War; Godzilla; masculinity; constitutional law.

Introduction

Godzilla Minus One (gojira-1.0) was released in 2023, along with a painstakingly processed black-and-white version titled Godzilla Minus Color (gojira-C). Earning over $100 million at the global box office, Godzilla Minus One and Godzilla Minus Color garnered critical and audience acclaim (Hughes 2024). The film follows Shikishima Kōichi, a tokkō (or kamikaze) pilot who deserted his suicide mission, as he transitions from disgraced veteran to the indispensable hero who must take down Godzilla.

The stunning performance of special effects, monstrous battles and human stories emerges from a contradictory and layered artefact, ranging in interpretation from anti-authoritarian struggle to pro-nationalist propaganda (brilliantly explored by Tsutsui 2024). The film’s narrative of individual and collective victimhood and redemption is compelling, but it exists in a fraught historical and modern context characterised by denialism and a lack of accountability for Japanese war crimes. The Asia-Pacific War (1937–1945) remains at the core of a discursive metaconflict, where victims of the Empire of Japan’s colonial designs continue to seek acknowledgement and apology (Hein 2020; Lee 2024).

Godzilla first wrought destruction in the 1954 film Gojira, directed by Ishirō Honda and produced by Toho. The ‘King of Monsters’ has since spawned 38 films, television shows, toys, games, comic books and spin-offs, with each ranging vastly in success and quality. Honda is himself representative of the heady mix of shame, masculine violence and complex redemption arc often explored in the franchise. Writing for Movie Art Magazine in 1966, Honda spoke of his work at a ‘comfort’ station during the Asia-Pacific War (Ryfle & Godziszewski 2017:28), one of the thousands of locations where women were kept as sex slaves to ‘service’ the Japanese military. Like Godzilla Minus One’s protagonist, Honda returned to Japan with nightmares and derided the blind loyalty expected of soldiers (Ryfle & Godziszewski 2017). However, also like the characters in Godzilla Minus One, Honda never faced accountability for his role in the system.

While this analysis ultimately argues Godzilla Minus One can offer a nuanced reflection on masculinity in post-imperial Japan, the film has also been criticised for reinforcing gender stereotypes (Jones & Trefalt 2024) and promoting right-wing nationalism (Tsutsui 2024). Notably, director Yamazaki Takashi’s previous works, such as his 2013 The Eternal Zero, similarly focused on the sympathetic portrayal of tokkō pilots and is a favoured director for nationalist public figures (Sakamoto 2016).

Rawle (2024) commends the growing academic interest in kaijū media, a genre focused upon (often huge) monsters, recognising the socio-political commentary and cultural narrative beyond the special effects. Building on this scholarship, this article examines the themes, characters and narratives in Godzilla Minus One and analyses how they engage with identity and rights in postwar Japan. After outlining the methodology, the article delves into the historical backdrop of Japan’s postwar identity. This provides the context for analysis of Godzilla Minus One, focusing on three characters who embody this transformative period: Shikishima, Noriko and the Japanese people. In doing so, this article contributes a fresh interpretation of a controversial film by arguing that, despite its allusions to nationalism and revisionist history, it can open essential dialogues on postwar masculinity, agency and rights and victimhood.

Research methods and design

Using an integrated framework for visual social research, the article first situates the film in its temporal and socio-political environment (Pauwels 2010) focusing on Godzilla Minus One’s setting of the immediate postwar and its release in 2023. The article then identifies three characters from Godzilla Minus One to be analysed through this context. The film’s recent release and the delayed pace of academic publications resulted in there being little in the way of secondary literature on Godzilla Minus One. This, and the relative lack of Japanese language sources available through my institution, limits access and types of analysis. Therefore, influenced by McDonald’s (2006) approach in Reading a Japanese Film, I present internal and external perspectives on the narratives and Godzilla Minus One as a contained product. The internal perspective highlights the characters, semiotics, events and other ‘arrangements of basic elements’, whereas an external approach reflects on the audience or viewer as critic and meaning maker (McDonald 2006:15).

As Mikos (2014) highlights, films are subject to the active interpretation of their viewers and thus contain multiple layers of meaning constructed and co-constructed by the creators and audience. It is therefore essential to identify how the researcher’s positionality impacts the analysis and I sought to acknowledge this throughout the article. I am a white British woman who is ultimately – despite many years of studying Japanese history, politics and language – an outsider looking in. In addition, I grew up experiencing firsthand the impact that war can have on veterans, their families and gendered discourses. This personal history means I am often sensitive to portrayals of masculinity, vulnerability and the effects of conflict. During my research, I purposefully use a reflective approach to reveal when my background may influence my analysis, striving for a balanced perspective while acknowledging the deeply personal framework through which I engage with these narratives. What I seek to do in this article then is use visual ethnography informed by contextual socio-legal research to reflect on my interpretation of Godzilla Minus One. Recognising that my experience is not an ‘objective […] account of reality’ yields insights to provoke deeper discussion beyond the controversy the film has created (Pink 2007:22).

I used the Japanese language version of Godzilla Minus One available on Netflix UK for most of the film analysis, checking Japanese and English subtitles for unclear audio and discrepancies in meaning, and all time stamps refer to this copy. Japanese names are written surname first, but characters are referred to by the name most used in the film, and I use macrons for long vowels. Finally, although the English subtitles are a generally faithful translation, I used my own translations for analysis and included any key Japanese words in this text for readers who may be interested. Any errors in translation are my own.

Responsibility and rights in postwar Japan

While there is no regional human rights mechanism in East Asia, Japan has readily ratified international treaties and its courts regularly cite them, to the extent that ‘Japanese judges have evolved as disseminators of international law [and] frequently apply its provisions’ (Webster 2010:266). It is the constitution however that forms the backbone of human rights norms, democracy and peace in Japan, capturing the socio-political imagination beyond its role as a legal framework. Since it came into effect in May 1947, the Constitution of Japan has been at the core of national and international debates on remilitarisation, government responsibility and citizen rights. The document provides an expansive conceptualisation of human rights protections (De Oliveira Mazzuoli & Ribeiro 2015) that led a radical transformation in Japanese society. Going beyond what was the norm globally (Creighton 2014), Japan’s constitution enshrined ‘the intrinsic equality between the sexes’ [ryōsei no honshitsuteki byōdō], Article 24, and claimed ‘all fundamental human rights’ [subete no kihonteki jinken], Article 11 to be guaranteed in perpetuity. In addition, its famous renunciation of war clause – earning it the moniker of ‘peace constitution’ – provides a vital lens to Godzilla Minus One. To effectively analyse the film from this perspective, it is first necessary to contextualise two time periods relevant to Godzilla Minus One and constitutional discourse: its late 1940s setting and its 2023 release:

‘The alternative for Japan is prompt and utter destruction.’ (Para. 13, Potsdam Declaration, 26 July 1945)

Issued by China, the US and Great Britain, the Potsdam Declaration clearly set out the terms for Japan’s surrender: their empire would be dismantled, their military disarmed and fundamental human rights would be secured. It is thus a defeated Japan to which Godzilla Minus One’s protagonist, Shikishima, returns. The scenes of his home devastated by fire, people starving and desperately searching for loved ones is reflective of the reality of the home front in 1945. Indiscriminate firebombing across Japan saw, in just one attack, ‘15 square miles of Tokyo’s most densely populated area […] burned to the ground’ (Ralph 2006; The United States Strategic Bombing Surveys 1987:85). It is in one of these attacks that Shikishima’s parents are killed.

Although not depicted in Godzilla Minus One, the US occupation haunts the film’s themes and characters. In the ashes of a defeated empire, General Douglas MacArthur and the US occupation – commonly referred to in Japan as ‘GHQ’ (General Headquarters) – oversaw widescale reforms of Japanese politics and society. The occupation years, 1945–1952, were tumultuous and often contradictory. Universal suffrage came with strict censorship (Jun 2020), secularisation with GHQ proselytising (Okazaki 2010), death penalties with amnesties (Pan 2020) and strict demilitarisation to hurried rearmament (Lee 2004). Underlying this was a deliberate policy of the occupation to impress upon the population that it was ‘militarism and militaristic institutions which [had] brought disaster on the Japanese’ (State War Navy Coordinating Committee 1945:4e). GHQ tried numerous methods to do so, such as through the selection of defendants at the International Military Tribunal for the Far East, which laid the blame for Japan’s devastation on a ‘criminal and militaristic clique’ (Indictment 1946). Dividing Japanese society into those responsible and, by implication, those not responsible is a foundational narrative in Godzilla Minus One and threads throughout the themes discussed in this article. This fault line also directly connects to the importance of the postwar constitution.

Enduring to this day, and unamended as of writing, the Constitution of Japan was ostensibly a product of a penitent post-war government, but in reality retained much of the character of earlier GHQ drafts (McNelly 1962). The preamble reads:

We, the Japanese people, […] resolved that never again shall we be visited with the horrors of war through the action of government, do proclaim that sovereign power resides with the people and do firmly establish this Constitution. (The Constitution of Japan 1946, preamble)

The Japanese people are situated as the victims of a deviant government in what is, essentially, a legally codified narrative of war. Complementing this is Article 9, one of the most contentious provisions enforced by GHQ, even among the Allies (Inoue 1991). It states:

Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes.

In order to accomplish the aim of the preceding paragraph, land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained. The right of belligerency of the state will not be recognized.¹ (The Constitution of Japan 1946, art. 9)

Although the various phases of Article 9’s reinterpretation are too extensive for this article (see instead: Auer 1990; Lummis 2013; Richter 2016), the two time periods under consideration illuminate three relevant stages. The first, and strictest, implementation justified the wholescale dismantling of Japan’s military-industrial complex and prohibited even self-defence (Auer 1990). This is reflected in Godzilla Minus One, which references the scuttling of warships and shows soldiers being disarmed and transported home. What is conspicuously missing from the film, as noted by commentators (Kelts 2024; Tsutsui 2024), is the large presence of US troops in Tokyo after the war.

The second phase was triggered by growing Cold War tensions and the onset of the Korean War. The perceived Communist threat prompted US approval of a National Police Reserve – later becoming the National Safety Force and finally the Self-Defense Forces in 1954 – to compensate for the redistribution of US resources (Hughes 2005). This period is alluded to in Godzilla Minus One when a radio broadcast states that GHQ will not be able to help fight Godzilla because of the potential Soviet threat. The US-Japan Security Treaty was signed in 1951 and officially ended the occupation (although US troops retain a presence in Japan even today); since then, the Self-Defense Forces have steadily become one of the best equipped militaries in the world (Liang & Tian 2023).

This third phase reflects a wrangling in Japanese society of how the Self-Defense Forces fit within a supposedly pacifist nation. Despite the broadening scope of the military, Article 9 has gained significant meaning in the socio-legal imagination. Teraya (2019) explains how:

[C]onstitutional lawyers have been so strenuous in their endorsement of human rights, democracy, and peace that it has produced a distinctive ethos called goken, literally meaning ‘protecting the Constitution’ … (p. 514)

He aptly describes the extent to which peace and human rights are intertwined in relation to the constitution not just by lawyers but also in the public debates on constitutional revision (Teraya 2019). Centred on Article 9, revision has long been a divisive topic in Japan but was particularly intense in the years around the release of the film as global geo-politics served to justify increased military spending (such as the invasion of Ukraine and increased hostility from North Korea and China: Japan Ministry of Defense 2023).

What Le calls Japan’s ‘anti-militarist ecosystem’ (2021:6) has worked to restrain government progress, however – grassroots groups, non-governmental organisations and various others who protest and advocate against revision. Article 9 is considered to be ‘Japan’s unique contribution to global peace’ (Chan 2016:444). Indeed, the constitution’s preamble, Article 9, and human rights protections have been used in Japanese courts to assert the right to live in peace, although its concrete protection remains debated (Dixon & Baldwin 2019; Hudson 2010).

The proposed revision of Article 9 also garnered outrage internationally because of the unresolved legacy of war crimes committed by Japan in the Asia-Pacific War. The realities of the ‘Comfort Women’ system of military sexual slavery, human experimentation, brutal colonisation policies and others is – perhaps predictably – not so much as alluded to in Godzilla Minus One. The film’s release was thus criticised for reinforcing ‘a narrative the revisionist right in Japan has been spouting for years’ (Gerow 2023, cited in Tsutsui 2024:7). Gerow is here referring to decades of denialist rhetoric, wherein public figures, often members of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party, claim that such crimes did not take place (Kowner 2023; McNeill 2005; Selden 2008). This narrative is often complemented by nationalist and militarist nostalgia, which some fear will be resurrected should Japan regain its war potential (Flores 2017; Narita 2024). Although a return to militarism after 75-years of peace and a vibrant civil society seems hyperbolic, it is nevertheless the environment in which Godzilla Minus One was produced and received.

This section outlined the historical backdrop that is essential for understanding how Godzilla Minus One reflects, internally and externally, narratives on identity, rights and war. The profound impact of the occupation and prevailing debates over the constitution construct parts of Japan’s postwar framework and explain the division of responsibility often referenced in the film. The proceeding analysis of Godzilla Minus One demonstrates how three characters – Shikishima, Noriko and the Japanese people – manifest this historical and contemporary discourse.

Results and discussion

Shikishima’s identity

The first character that provides a rich space for analysis is Shikishima Kōichi, the deeply troubled pilot, who embodies elements of postwar Japanese male identity. Godzilla Minus One’s depiction of masculinity is a layered contribution to Japanese cinema, although I am somewhat of an outlier in this view. As scholars have rightly pointed out, parts of the film celebrate a militarised masculinity, wherein disgraced soldiers are able to ultimately triumph (Alt 2023; Jones & Trefalt 2024; Tsutsui 2024). As one character says just before the final battle: ‘This time, they’ll make a difference [yaku ni tatsu]. We all came through the war, this time, we’re making it right’. I argue that, as a whole artefact, aspects of Godzilla Minus One complicate this message when analysed through the lens of Article 9 of the constitution via the discourse of de- and re-masculinisation.

The punishment enacted by the US occupation in Japan is a potent symbol both in the immediate postwar and in modern debates over Article 9. Prior to occupation, the Japanese population had decades of government-taught gendered ideology that centred the emperor-loyal fearless soldier as the pinnacle of masculinity (Frühstück 2014). The abrupt dismantling of the entire military system and criminalisation of military leaders was thus a seismic social shift. The upending of an established masculine ideal, echoing the themes of cultural humiliation and symbolic castration explored by novelists such as Ōe Kenzaburō and Shimada Masahiko (Marran 2009; Yamada 2014), offers a different lens for understanding the anxieties and identity struggles present in Godzilla Minus One. The emasculation of soldiery is present in Shikishima’s character from multiple perspectives: the audience’s, his own and the supporting character’s.

First, as a viewer, Shikishima is not a very likeable character (as Kelts agrees 2024). We are introduced to him as he lands on Odo Island in the final days of the war, pretending to have a mechanical fault and thus avoiding certain death as a tokkō pilot. The audience might commend his decision not to carry out a suicide attack, as an Odo engineer voices, but may be less understanding in the subsequent scenes. Godzilla attacks the island that evening and lead mechanic Tachibana urges Shikishima to run to the plane and use its 20 mm gun. Once in the cockpit, Shikishima (understandably) freezes in terror and his hands shake. One mechanic begs him to shoot as he attempts to draw Godzilla closer to the plane, only to be killed. During this scene, it is Tachibana – pointedly not a combatant – who tries to save his colleagues, even through drool-inducing fear. As the only other survivor, Tachibana blames Shikishima for his inaction and later gives him family photographs of the mechanics that will haunt Shikishima for the rest of the film.

Returning to Tokyo [00:11:29], Shikishima gazes at the burnt ruins of his family home when his neighbour Sumiko grabs him in shock: ‘Kōichi-san? Weren’t you a tokkō? Am I mistaken? You have the nerve to show your face!? You disgrace!’ She uses her flannel to hit Shikishima as she calls him a coward, blaming those who did not do their duty for the deaths of her children. The scene’s audiovisual cues heighten the gendered social context that underpins this interaction. Satō Naoki’s haunting soundtrack is barely audible, peaking intermittently with high-pitched tension reflecting Shikishima’s uncertainty about what he has returned to. Swapping between intense close-ups and adversarial medium shots, the two characters are juxtaposed against each other and the devastation behind them. Shikishima is dressed in khaki military-style, but unadorned, clothing with a neat shirt and tie. He looks tired but otherwise uninjured and sports only a little stubble. Sumiko’s dirty face and unkempt appearance are in sharp contrast, and she is wearing a shoddy kappōgi, a full-body apron designed to cover kimono when cleaning or cooking. As the camera lingers on Sumiko clearing rubble besides her improvised shack, she tells Shikishima that her children died in the bombings. These elements highlight her identities as a housewife, mother, woman and survivor. Thus, for a third time, we see Shikishima’s gaze lower as his militarised masculinity is stripped away: for failing to carry out his orders, for not shooting Godzilla and for not protecting the women and children at home.

From here on, Shikishima is often petulant, angry and self-absorbed (also noted by Kelts 2024). None of this is surprising considering he has lived through such traumatic events, but whereas soldiers may be expected to bear ‘invisible wounds’ to maintain masculinity (Moss & Prince 2019:167), Shikishima’s psychological state is in clear sight. As a viewer, it is uncomfortable to find him to be both quite annoying and an extremely sympathetic character.

There is a striking similarity between Shikishima and another protagonist of immensely popular kaijū media: Ikari Shinji of Neon Genesis Evangelion fame. (In)famous among the audience for his ‘whiny’ personality, Shinji is a traumatised young boy who runs from his duty to fight huge world-threatening monsters. The show’s questioning of Shinji’s masculinity and themes of sexual repression and loneliness (Napier 2001; Smith 2023; Stojnic 2021) no doubt colour my reading of the film, as it may for the substantial overlapping fanbase. Shikishima’s relationship with Noriko, the female protagonist, illuminates this. Shikishima fights an internal battle against his clear affection for Noriko and desire for them to be a family. This repression is voiced in several scenes, such as when the Shinseimaru crew ask why he has not married her yet and accepted this family, Shikishima recoils at his own unworthiness. In another scene, as he watches Noriko and the child Akiko cook, Shikishima hopefully asks the photos of the Odo fallen if he can live again. Shikishima’s metaphorical impotent masculinity is here derived from his masochistic shame.

This vulnerable depiction of an identity in crisis is distinct from that shown in FX’s global sensation Shōgun (2024). The historical fiction series is set in 1600 and shows a broadly traditional view of samurai masculinity steeped in stoicism and honour. Martial skill and sacrifice are frequently emphasised through the heady violence, ritual suicide and large-scale battles. Unquestioning loyalty to the feudal lord and the shōgun is starkly different from Godzilla Minus One’s derision of blind nationalism.

Second, Shikishima’s masculinity, guilt and development are narrated through his interactions with the supporting characters. As the film transitions to March 1946, Shikishima has found a job clearing mines laid in the ocean by the US and Japanese during wartime. He justifies this dangerous job to Noriko as necessary to provide for the family, saying ‘We can even buy American powdered milk!’, reflecting traditional Japanese (and often global) gender roles. It is then that we meet the supporting male cast aboard the Shinseimaru, a rusted old boat, where Shikishima is to start his new ‘government approved’ job. The four-man crew are almost parodies of male archetypes. Captain Akitsu Seiji is the gruff but fiercely protective father figure who frequently questions the government’s policies. His use of emphatically informal and rough language contributes to an overtly masculine and paternal image (King et al. 2022). In contrast, Noda Kenji is a bespectacled former Navy weapons engineer nicknamed ‘gakusha’ [doctor or scholar], who wears a crisp white shirt and speaks in polite Japanese. The naïve and fresh-faced Mizushima Shirō is affectionally called ‘kozō’ [kid] by the captain, much to his frustration. Finally, Shikishima completes the group as the reserved and underestimated former pilot.

Shortly after their introductions, we follow the Shinseimaru into open waters where Captain Akitsu demonstrates how to handle the 13 mm machine gun but fails to hit the target. Shikishima surprises the crew by swiftly exploding the floating mine, showing his skills to the audience for the first time. Shikishima is complimented for his skills, and the following interaction takes place:

Shikishima: It’s the same as taking down enemy planes. Well, not that I was in any real fights.

Mizushima: Huh? You’ve not got real battle experience? Then me and Shikishima are the same.

Akitsu: Idiot, it’s totally different. You can’t control a plane right.

Mizushima: If I’d gone to war, I would’ve been a great success! Ah, if only it had lasted a little longer.

[Shikishima grabs Mizushima aggressively and makes close eye-contact.]

Shikishima: Do you really mean that?

Mizushima: Ah, I’m sorry…

Mizushima is used multiple times throughout Godzilla Minus One to contrast against the war-weary and seemingly more mature characters. In several scenes, Mizushima can be seen barely containing his grin as the others discuss defence tactics, looking in awe at the military veterans, and even professing his excitement to face Godzilla. His focus on battle experience appears to subscribe to militarised masculinity as the ideal for how he could prove his worth, and I discuss this in greater depth in a later section. Mizushima is also an example of the film’s contradictory discourse. His obsession and glorification of war and military technology are explicitly critiqued and employed to highlight the maturity of the other characters, those who appreciate the horrors of war and do not wish for its repetition. Yet, Godzilla Minus One also gladly takes advantage of the gunji otaku [military geek] audience with frequent detail on and lingering shots of vehicles, weapons and capability (Tsutsui 2024).

Mirroring the beginning of the film, Shikishima is confronted by Sumiko when he victoriously returns from defeating Godzilla. Sumiko, holding Akiko, runs up to him and hits his arm. It can be inferred from previous interactions that Sumiko is now angry at him for having left Akiko and put himself in danger. On the one hand, Shikishima has regained his masculinity by successfully protecting all of Tokyo against a mighty unnatural threat. On the other hand, what is valued by the characters has shifted: Sumiko is no longer disgusted that he did not sacrifice himself, but relieved that he returned to his family. Shikishima’s eventual ‘redemption’ would read quite differently had he sacrificed himself in the final battle, restoring his honour through the death he so ‘disgracefully’ avoided (to use Sumiko’s words). Instead, he chooses to eject from the plane and returns not as a hero of imperial Japan but to his family and friends.

I largely agree with Kelts in his derision of Shikishima, who seems to act more out of convenience than care for both Akiko and Noriko (Kelts 2024). However, the protagonist’s choice is profound here. He has not overcome his trauma, nor his display of emotion as we see in the final scene where he sobs in front of Noriko, but he is starting to accept that death was never the only option. Some viewers will see his transformation as an allegory for assuaging guilt for the Asia-Pacific War, and this is not invalid. In the context of postwar Japanese masculinity, I read his action instead as more of an acceptance of an identity not based in sacrifice for the nation.

Noriko’s agency

Godzilla Minus One has three named female characters: Ōishi Noriko, a young woman who begins living with Shikishima; Akiko, the orphaned child taken in by the pair; and Ōta Sumiko, Shikishima’s neighbour who helps care for the child. On the one hand, the feminisation of caring responsibilities and Shikishima’s goal to protect them can certainly be read as ‘the gendering of pacifism as female … [and] war as masculine’ (Jones & Trefalt 2024). However, my own reading illuminates how women are not merely victims, nor do they entirely fall into the tropes of the male-dominated kaijū genre.

Noriko is introduced early in Godzilla Minus One as she runs through the market, having stolen something, and she pushes the baby Akiko into Shikishima’s arms. Later [00:15:15], Noriko follows him to his house and she makes rice gruel for Akiko. The scene is immensely dark; only the dim light from the fire and the house illuminate the characters as they sit among the rubble. As Shikishima tells her she will have to leave, the camera slowly transitions from overwhelming darkness to more personal shots focused on the characters. It transpires that the child is not Noriko’s and that she is alone in Tokyo. He questions Noriko’s ability to look after someone else’s child on her own, and the audience, just like Shikishima, notes how young, dishevelled and desperate she is. The focus is on Noriko’s ‘vagrant’ [furōjin] appearance; her bulky patchwork jacket and dirty face covered by messy hair minimise a sexualised femininity and instead highlight her implied ‘natural’ maternal instincts. On the dying wishes of Akiko’s birth mother, Noriko takes the child and resorts to theft to keep them both alive, living not only with the guilt of surviving the air raids but also with the responsibility for another life. While Shikishima remains trapped in his own internal battle and pretends not to care, Noriko bravely moves forward and adapts.

It is somewhat disappointing that as the trio stabilise, indicated by a montage as the home is rebuilt, Noriko transitions away from being brusque and obstinate to soft-spoken and dutiful. Appearing to fulfil the Meiji era vision of ‘good wife, wise mother’ (Shizuko 2014), Noriko is shown diligently looking after Akiko, serving guests and taking care of the household. I argue that Godzilla Minus One layers this image, however, and provides nuance to Noriko’s character as a survivor with agency, albeit still restricted by gender roles.

First, we learn more about Noriko and her backstory than we do about any of the other supporting characters, and she evidently has her own survivor’s guilt to wrangle with. On learning that Shikishima’s family died in the air raids, Noriko says ‘We’re the same then’. Shikishima looks uncomfortable as he glances to where the family photographs from Odo Island lie, as if to say she could never understand. This is expanded on again midway through Godzilla Minus One when Shikishima finally tells Noriko about being a tokkō, Odo Island and his guilt:

Shikishima: I’m someone who shouldn’t be alive.

Noriko: Those people left alive, they’re supposed to live.

Shikishima: [Angrily] What would you understand!?

Noriko: [Crying] I understand! While my parents were being burnt in the fire they said ‘Live!’ That’s why whatever happens, I can’t die! That’s what I think to myself…

The scene quickly shifts back to focus on Shikishima’s trauma, and Noriko’s memories are not mentioned again. However, these two interactions situate Noriko as not simply a love interest but also a survivor with her own share of guilt for living.

Second, Noriko shows agency and bravery in the face of Godzilla. Writing for The Conversation, Jones and Trefalt (2024) argue that ‘the film depicts women as the monster’s victims, not participants in its destruction’. While the latter is accurate – only men join the strategy meetings and battles – I do not believe women are automatically assigned to victimhood. Around an hour into Godzilla Minus One, Godzilla arrives in Ginza in a spectacular homage to the original Gojira of 1954 – the Nippon Theatre is destroyed, radio announcers are thrown from buildings, and Godzilla turns his sights to the trains (Anderson 2006). On one of these trains is Noriko, terrified as the monster bites into the carriage and raises it high above the ground (00:56:18), she cries out but does not release a high-pitched scream so synonymous with the film’s predecessors. Instead, she scrabbles around for something to hold, but is dropped onto a metal pole, and Noriko hangs desperately as Godzilla swings out over the Sumida River. For a few moments, she looks down into the water before seeming to purposefully let go and thus lives through the encounter.

A little while later, cold and shivering, Noriko is found on the floor by Shikishima who tries to rush them to safety. Godzilla then uses his atomic breath attack, but just as the shock wave is about to hit the pair, Noriko pushes Shikishima to safety, and she is presumed dead. Apart from being a dramatic flair and plot trigger for Shikishima’s transformation, this scene also poses Noriko as the agent of control. She was not ordered to die as the tokkō pilots were, nor did she save herself as Shikishima had; instead, she chose to sacrifice herself that he may live.

Finally, the theme of agency is touched on through how Noriko can make a living. When pushed by Shikishima about how she will care for herself and Akiko, Noriko snaps back ‘So I should be a panpan?’ The English subtitles miss some nuance here, translating it to ‘I’m not a harlot!’ A ‘pan-pan girl’ is a derogatory term for the sex workers in occupied Japan, known for catering to US soldiers. In the background of the early market scene, there are a couple of women coded to be ‘pan-pan girls’ with fashionable Western clothing, red lipstick and smoking (at around 00:13:56). Unlike the shame depicted in other post-war literature (Sakamoto 2010), Shikishima responds to Noriko’s disbelief, saying: ‘You can make that face but, in these times, if you have no one to rely on, there’s not much choice is there’. To which Noriko glares, accepts and returns to feeding Akiko. This scene shows that Noriko would rather steal than sell sex, but concedes the point as they both acknowledge you do what you must for survival. On the one hand, it recognises the difficult situation for women in this period and is non-judgmental. On the other hand, it could be inferred that Shikishima’s help has ‘spared’ her such an eventuality.

Opening in March 1947 (00:30:39), the camera remains on Shikishima’s shocked face as he asks Noriko, ‘What’s with that outfit?’ The scene switches to a medium wide shot centred on Noriko as she announces she has found an office job in Ginza. Her hands are loosely spread in front of her stomach as she nervously pats down her new outfit. Wearing a knee-length green buttoned dress with a sharply pressed white collar and waistbelt, her hair is fashionably up and secured with bobby pins. She is the very picture of the post-war ‘office lady’ [ofisuredii] in a Western-style uniform. A panicked Shikishima asks: ‘But I give you enough money, right?’ Noriko seems to have prepared for this conversation, forcing a smile as she tells him she thinks it’s time she was self-reliant [jiritsu] and that ‘if it stays like this you won’t find a wife’.

The power dynamics are evident here. It was not unusual for women to work before or during marriage, ‘as long as they could balance paid work with their domestic duties’ (Shizuko 2014:94). Shikishima reflects this, as he entirely dismisses her reasoning and instead desperately asks who will look after Akiko. Noriko has already thought of this, however, and arranged childcare with Sumiko. It is clear from Shikishima’s scrabbling that he is terrified she will leave, presumably giving no thought to her marriage prospects and hoping things would stay the same. He tells Noriko, ‘This is so sudden’, and she responds, ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a long time’ [zutto kangaetetan desu]. The scene is also infantilising of Shikishima in tone and aesthetic. Noriko’s voice is calm and explanatory; she has thought through all eventualities and sees the broader context of their life together. Her modern clothes identify her as an independent working woman; her poise and bright smile seek to comfort Shikishima, whose own body language is turbulent and child-like. Noriko is clearly struggling, however, fiddling with her hands and making jokes, perhaps hoping this change would encourage Shikishima to admit his feelings for her and let her in. It is essentially an ultimatum: things must change in their relationship. Noriko’s job in Ginza, which she highlights is ‘rebuilding’, could also be read as symbolic of revival, new hope and a woman’s changing role as the constitution is about to come into effect.

Although these scenes indicate Noriko’s independence and agency, it is true that her character is predominantly seen caring for Akiko and indeed for Shikishima. In contrast, Shin Godzilla (2016) includes several female characters who hold high-powered jobs, including the Minister of Defence and the Special Envoy for the President of the United States. The latter, Kayoco Anne Patterson, wearing tight pencil skirts, high heels and teasing, seems the obvious love interest at first, but the film manages to steer away from this trope. Instead, she is portrayed as an ambitious intellectual powerhouse and an integral part of saving Japan. Compared with Godzilla Minus One, the 2016 instalment is deeply and explicitly political, not least in its depiction of lone women battling a room of men in suits.

Noriko is not a radical depiction of Japanese femininity and could be seen as merely propagating stereotypes of caring responsibilities; however, Shikishima’s lack of care is informative context for the viewer’s interpretation. There are several scenes where other characters are reproachful of Shikishima’s attempts to emotionally and physically abandon Akiko, and the audience is encouraged to share in this. For example, Mizushima’s disgust when Shikishima coldly tells Akiko not to call him daddy (00:29:54), and the discomfort of everyone hearing Akiko’s piercing cries as Shikishima walks away (01:04:12). Towards the end of the film, Shikishima finally comforts a crying Akiko by saying it will be okay ‘because I’m not going anywhere’ [doko ni mo ikanaikara], 01:31:32. The very next shot is of Shikishima leaving a note next to her, sleeping peacefully, and he rides away potentially to his doom. While there is sympathy for Shikishima and the clear impact of his trauma, I propose that these events can be read in tandem with the love shown by other characters – including the men – towards Akiko and highlight their resilience. The disparity highlights less a woman’s caring responsibility and more the neglect shown by Shikishima.

My interpretation is perhaps generous, it is afterall true that ‘the endeavour to fight Godzilla is a masculine one’ (Jones & Trefalt 2024). At the same time, it is refreshing to see a kaiju film – or a war film – with female characters that have a modicum of agency and actual character arcs. Admittedly, this is a painfully low bar. Unlike the male supporting cast, Sumiko and Noriko are shown on camera to be survivors with their own struggles with guilt who change and stand by themselves in a male-dominated society. It is also refreshing to see two female characters help each other navigate a desperate situation in which their survival, and Akiko’s, is at stake.

We, the Japanese people

The third, and final, character representative of postwar narratives is more conceptual: the Japanese people. Godzilla Minus One gives much of its writing and screentime to this somewhat abstract notion and establishes the collective as a character worth analysing through the lens of historical discourse. It was demonstrated earlier in this article that GHQ deliberately divided Japanese society into those responsible for the war and those victimised by it. By attributing the devastation to deviant militarism, MacArthur’s refrain of ‘democratise and demilitarise’ framed GHQ as saviours not occupiers. In Godzilla Minus One, unlike Anno Hideaki’s Shin Gojira (2016), Japan is not saved by US resources or its government but by its civilians. Counterintuitively, it is this focus on the collective character of the Japanese public that relates to individual choice, victimhood and the right to life.

The collective victimhood emphasised in the preamble of the constitution – where the government is declared as responsible for the war – is complemented by the individual autonomy and rights codified in Article 13. It reads:

All of the people shall be respected as individuals. Their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness shall, to the extent that it does not interfere with the public welfare, be the supreme consideration in legislation and in other governmental affairs. (Art. 13, Constitution of Japan, 1946)

One scene in Godzilla Minus One that is particularly representative of this dual narrative occurs after the plan to fell Godzilla has been explained to a group of civilians. The crowd of men are a range of ages, some in suits, others in white coats, or military style uniforms, generally looking distrustful of former Navy captain Hotta (01:12:30):

Hotta: To all of you who survived the war, it is incredibly painful to once again ask you take on this life-threatening mission. But I want you to understand. We can’t rely on the Japanese government or US military. We are the only ones who can carve out Japan’s future.

Dobashi: It’s impossible. I have a family. Not just me, most of the people here do too.

Oonishi: Why are we always the ones getting the short end of the stick?

Yamada: We can’t do it like we did during the war!

[Hotta lowers his gaze for a few moments as the room bursts into a commotion]

Hotta: Please be quiet! Please listen carefully. This is not an order. You’re all free to leave if you wish. We have no right [kenri] to stop you.

Several men in the crowd begin to leave, their friends reaching out as they walk away, but there is no sense of judgement in the scene. Those who remain have a look of resignation and understanding. Certainly, the audience is to feel inspired by the men who are left, as they joke to break the tension and take comfort in the scene’s depiction of brotherhood and community. The key to this feeling is that they chose to stay and did not blame the men who left. The dialogue thus emphasises both an identity of collective victimhood and individual autonomy.

Building on the emergence of the individual, Godzilla Minus One’s ‘unmistakably humanistic core’ (Tsutsui 2024:8) reaches a crescendo in the final strategy meeting before fighting Godzilla (01:27:21):

Noda: Come to think of it, this country has treated life far too cheaply. Poorly armoured tanks, poor supply chains resulting in half of all deaths from starvation and disease, fighter planes built without ejection seats, and finally, kamikaze and suicide attacks. That’s why this time; I’d take pride in a citizen-led effort that sacrifices no lives at all.

The camera pans across faces, young and old, some with their eyes to the floor, music starts quietly, and the shot lingers on their faces as each man considers his words. As Noda finishes speaking, the group are fired up. Noda does not stand above the others, and there is no physical hierarchy among the men. Instead, the scene depicts a masculine brotherhood reinforced through nods and knowing smiles, their physical access to the table, equal information on the strategy and verbal consent to what will take place. Through a constitutional lens, Noda’s speech connects to the desire for a future where the right to life and the pursuit of happiness should be paramount. However, this rousing speech is also an excellent example of how Godzilla Minus One selectively narrates victimhood of the Asia-Pacific War. As Sakamoto (2016) writes:

[…W]hile by no means monolithic, postwar Japanese popular cultural treatment of the Asia-Pacific War has generally highlighted Japanese suffering and the desire for peace. (p. 255)

The empire’s wilful neglect led to huge numbers of Japanese troops dying, whether by design or negligence. This powerful reflection on treating life ‘far too cheaply’ is, however, hugely undermined by the complete lack of recognition of the lives that were given even less value: the wanton massacre, rape and suppression of Japan’s colonial victims.

Narrative cues similarly prompt the audience to forget the unspoken reality of the Asia-Pacific War and focus on the irresponsibility of government. Captain Akitsu’s cynical archetype is one such vessel for this. For example, Noda tells his Shinseimaru crewmates that they are not allowed to speak about Godzilla, firstly when they are expected to stall the monster’s arrival, and secondly on their return as Shikishima questions the lack of evacuation. The captain responds with unconcealed disdain in both these scenes.

Scene (00:35:49):

Noda: … and we’re not allowed to talk about [Godzilla] to anyone.

Akitsu: There it is, their favourite gag order. This country never changes. Perhaps it can’t.

Scene (00:45:42):

Noda: No one wants to take responsibility for the expected chaos [of evacuation].

Akitsu: Information control [jōhō tōsei] is this country’s specialty.

Although the captain berates Japanese censorship multiple times in the film, after 1945, it was the US occupation that heavily regulated everything from newspapers to kabuki plays (Brandon 2014; Jun 2020). Nevertheless, Akitsu’s recurring disgust for government secrecy serves as a narrative device for considering the ideals of individual empowerment and the role of those in power.

Akitsu’s paternal relationship with Mizushima and derision of the state is not unique to Godzilla Minus One and finds purchase in other Japanese war films over the last decade. Gerow (2006:10) identifies how Sakamoto Junji’s films such as Aegis (2005) and Out of This World (2004) ‘often put conflicted male homosocial camaraderie over national allegiances’. In Aegis, Sengoku Hisashi is the exemplar down-to-earth patriarch who puts the lives of his crew above his own, urging them to save lives – not sacrifice them. Despite being a high-ranking officer, Sengoku’s actions frequently show he serves his perceived community, not the chain of command. The similar role taken by the protagonist in Lorelei (2005) indicates how Japanese war films engage in, often contradictory, discourses on masculinity that ultimately augment one another (Gerow 2006).

Finally, Akitsu’s groaning acquiescence that Japan may never change is in stark contrast to his later hopes for a better future. After the final meeting of the counter-Godzilla strategy, the captain and Noda walk authoritatively ahead of Mizushima (01:28:30) whose excitement contrasts sharply with the grim mood. The camera employs a tracking shot, keeping the trio central. They tell him that he will not be joining them in the fight, to which he desperately shouts:

Mizushima: Is it because I have no war experience? You think I’ll be useless?

Akitsu: Kid, not having been to war, that’s a very happy thing.

[Noda and Akitsu walk away]

Mizushima: I want to protect this country too!

Akitsu begins with his usual gruff dismissal, but his tone at ‘that’s a very happy thing’ is soft and wistful. The shot zooms out as they walk away, leaving Mizushima alone in the dark as he pitifully and somewhat quietly states his wish to serve the nation. The camera lingers on the image of Mizushima standing alone, slightly to one side, and just noticeably sways. The music is sombre and growing louder as Mizushima begins shouting again, begging them to take him. A medium shot shows us his pained expression, broken arm and desperate cries. These elements contribute to seeing him as a young boy, without the maturity and experienced gained by the others through war. The older men keep walking away, and Akitsu knowingly says, out of Mizushima’s hearing, ‘This country is entrusted to you’ [kono kuni ha omaetachi ni makasetazo]. The ‘you’ in this sentence is plural, implying that it is the youth or young men who did not fight in the war who are left with the future of Japan.

This scene can be read as the painful severance between wartime and postwar Japan, from military power to constitutionalised peace. Mizushima is left behind – confused, unable to grasp the shared trauma of the other characters, desperate to prove his patriotism on the battlefield. Whereas Akitsu sees his contribution differently, that to protect Japan Mizushima must stay behind and rebuild a future based on peace. Akitsu is the most paternal character in Godzilla Minus One, traditionally masculine in his tone and performance, but here he seems to dismiss militarised masculinity and instead offer a new path. Mizushima does eventually participate in the final battle, however, sailing in with civilian tugboats in a rousing example of the ‘cavalry arriving’. Beyond the cinematic trope, it is notable that Mizushima garnered the necessary support on his own initiative. The image of small, ragtag civilian boats pulling the enormous military ships to victory reinforces the film’s message of community bonds over institutional hierarchy.

The Japanese people can thus be conceptualised as a reoccurring character in Godzilla Minus One, narrating the shift from collective sacrifice for the nation to individual autonomy. This discourse is shadowed by the selective victimhood voiced by Hotta and Noda, revealing a transition significantly influenced by the constitution and GHQ. It lays the crucial foundation for understanding the individual journeys of Shikishima and Noriko as they grapple with changing identity, rights and responsibilities.

Conclusion

My interpretation of Godzilla Minus One is perhaps tinged with optimism. I have not sought to downplay the film’s nostalgia, militarist tropes and dismissal of the empire’s heinous crimes and ongoing denial. This article instead contributes alternative readings that consider how the film’s characters engage in vital narratives around post-war masculinity, autonomy and rights. To choose life and resist (as the film’s tagline tells us: ‘ikite, aragae.’) is the antithesis of the obedient sacrifice glorified and demanded both in the discourse of wartime Japan and today’s military debates. Considering Shikishima’s choices, Noriko’s assertive pursuit of change and the emphasis on government responsibility, the film, despite its many flaws, offers glimpses of agency and rights beyond a revisionist label. Who is and who is not given remembrance is a critical question that continues to be negotiated in postwar societies, and although it is certainly not a bad thing to humanise soldiers, the film is let down by its selective portrayal of victimhood. Godzilla films can never constitute a definitive statement on history, but Godzilla Minus One might be understood as a socio-political and cultural artefact that prompts us to find new meanings in individual autonomy, resilience and identity.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to sincerely thank Dr. Amy Codling for her encouragement and to the anonymous reviewers for such insightful comments.

The author declares that she has no financial or personal relationships that may have inappropriately influenced her in writing this article.

R.G. is the sole author of this research article.

This research received no specific grant from any funding agency in the public, commercial or not-for-profit sectors.

This research does not involve the collection of new data and is based solely on the author’s interpretation of a publicly available film. No ethical approval was required.

Data sharing is not applicable to this article as no new data were created or analysed in this study.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and are the product of professional research. They do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any affiliated institution, funder, agency or that of the publisher. The author is responsible for this article’s results, findings and content.

References

Footnote

1. The English version is not a direct translation of the Japanese text, which has some important changes in nuance. These differences are not relevant to this article’s argument; thus I have used the English version for quotes rather than my own translation. All analysis has otherwise been conducted using the Japanese text.