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:

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.

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:

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.

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:

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):

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):

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:

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):

Scene (00:45:42):

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:

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.