There are few movie characters with as much pop-cultural presence as Godzilla. 60 years as the King of the Monsters and he’s done it all, from serving as a children’s scaly superhero to a recent buddy-cop adventure with his American counterpart, King Kong. Through numerous iterations, from the classic “man-in-a-suit” to the cutting-edge CGI versions, the fear that came with his initial appearance has waned. With its emphasis on how civilians bore the brunt of disaster, the original Godzilla (1954) isn’t a casual experience. In it, Godzilla comes across as divine punishment for man’s atomic transgressions. He is like the biblical depictions of angels, with mortals fearful and awestruck before him. The serious tone of the original is what allows it to achieve a sense of the sublime: the sense of experiencing something so powerful and terrifying through the safe distance of cinema. It’s also a tone that is hard to maintain. It’s much easier to have a good time watching Godzilla as a hero, facing down any number of monstrous opponents. Putting the fear of Godzilla back on-screen required director Hideaki Anno, creator of Neon Genesis Evangelion, to do what he does best: make the monstrous holy. The result was Shin Godzilla (2016).
Even if you haven’t seen a Godzilla movie, you probably know the main beats. A spike-covered pseudo-tyrannosaurus emerges to rain ruin upon Japan, usually with a monstrous friend or two, before returning to the sea. But he’s not all claws and a tail; what Godzilla movie would be complete without his atomic breath? It’s what initially set him apart from so many other rampaging nuclear nightmares of the 1950’s and is one of the biggest draws for fans. We know fire is coming; Hideaki Anno does too. Three months after its release in Japan, Shin Godzilla made its way to Oklahoma for a one-weekend, one-theater run. There hadn’t been a Japanese Godzilla movie stateside in almost over a decade, so I felt more than a little grateful to have been able to get into the sold-out opening night. The theater was packed, its mood that of a fun family outing as kids roared and played with kaiju toys in the aisles. Their parents had likely grown up watching Godzilla stomp victoriously through Tokyo and now wanted to pass on that spectacle to a future generation of fans. I wonder what the ride home from Shin Godzilla was like because I doubt that any parental expectations matched Anno’s movie. We were all there to see guilt-free disaster. After 30-some odd films across six decades, all largely following the same blueprint, fan expectation looms large. Already anticipating the familiar, the full house had no way of knowing what Shin Godzilla had planned.
Hewing closer to the political satire of Armando Iannucci (In the Loop, Veep), much of Shin Godzilla unfolds in boardrooms staffed by various political cabinet members. When the King of the Monsters finally debuts, his appearance is closer to axolotl than titan, a sight that prompted much confused whispering in the rows around me. It isn’t until almost halfway through the movie that we are given something closer to the familiar Godzilla iconography. But gone is the air of regality, his appearance closer to that of a burn victim. As he lumbers through the cityscape, it feels like you are watching an animal move in pain, not so much attacking his surroundings as he is simply trying to navigate them. The feeling of watching a trapped creature is made all the more evident by the film’s centerpiece. As Godzilla makes his way across Tokyo, a trio of U.S. bombers manage to wound him. In the theater, the audience collectively leaned forward in an almost Pavlovian response, anticipating what we knew was coming. We had fallen for a trap promising guiltless spectacle. As if in prayer, a bleeding Godzilla lowers his head, his lower jaw splitting into mandibles while a royal purple glow radiates from within his body. The relative quiet of that split moment amplified the audience reaction, a collective gasp of shock left to hang in the air. This was not our conquering kaiju. This was a tragedy, a Frankenstein’s monster, unsure of why the villagers are waving torches at him. With uncertainty, fear is able to return.
The scene makes good on the expectation of urban destruction but it’s as serious as it is beautiful. As though nauseated from pain, Godzilla belches forth fire that quickly coalesces into a razor-thin laser, razing the Tokyo skyline. The sequence crescendos with multiple beams bursting from his back, neutralizing any further attacks from the sky. As his energy drains, the lasers wane and turn back to thick fire, flooding the city around him. This scene isn’t so much about dominance as it is about suffering, the audience witnessing the reaction of a wounded animal trying to defend itself, possibly not even in control of its body, reacting in pure instinct. In the span of this three-minute scene, the last vestiges of comfortable familiarity are stripped away. Even Godzilla’s iconic theme music is missing, present since 1954, replaced with the swelling of an operatic dirge. Gone is the sense of gleeful destruction as the film presents each surrounding district engulfed in flames to drive home the fact that this was where people lived and worked. The unraveling of expectations started early in the film. Despite the googly-eyed appearance in the beginning of Shin Godzilla, the audience was quickly instructed to take him seriously as he crashes through a family’s apartment, a moment harkening back to his debut film. The scene where Godzilla finally uses his atomic breath is Shin Godzilla doubling down on its thesis that in real life a giant monster attack would not be fun. The reveal of Godzilla’s full capabilities was just as shocking to the film’s government officials as it was to the audience, with more than a few adults having to escort out younger children, distraught at what they had just seen. This spectacle was not just entertainment but also the nature of the sublime, of beauty and terror mingled.
Anno imbues Shin Godzilla with the same element of inspired quasi-religious creature design that was such a hallmark of his mecha vs. kaiju anime. Godzilla’s apocalyptic nature is that of the four horsemen, a creature signifying the threat of conquest, famine, war, and ultimately, death. This broken deity poisons the soils upon which he treads as nuclear energy pours from his mouth and body, leaving a black mark upon the city. Armies are barely recognized by the King until they manage to draw his ire, then they’re gone in the blink of an eye. It’s a disaster of biblical scale but all the more immediate and visceral for those who understand Japan’s history with nuclear power, in particular the Fukushima Daiichi disaster. The goal of any government is to keep as much chaos in check as possible, to protect civilization through the rule of law. Failure to do so frequently leads to death. The movie reinforces this as government ignorance is punished with many key politicians wiped out by what they had underestimated. In Shin Godzilla, neither man-made nor natural laws can easily bind Godzilla, implying that he largely exists beyond such limitations. An existential – even spiritual – crisis seems like a normal response when exposed to this impossible situation.
Despite the vein of dry humor running throughout the movie, there’s no escaping the sense of doom, that humanity has been pushed to the edge of extinction. In the end, Godzilla isn’t so much defeated as stalled, the feeling of triumph wavering as the film ends on a glimpse of Godzilla’s next move. It was exciting to be caught so off guard by the subversion of Godzilla’s design and tone. Shin Godzilla deconstructs the legacy of the “King of the Monsters” down to the foundation, the weight of his past heroics and camp removed. I was able to secure another ticket for the final showing the next day and I got to experience a second round of an audience getting caught off-guard. The destruction of Tokyo was just as captivating then and in every subsequent rewatch, Godzilla’s figure is a towering contrast of black-and-purple against the flames. Shin Godzilla is still spectacle entertainment but understands the gravity of Godzilla’s origins. When a hurricane comes ashore, it is met with precaution and reverence at its might. No one takes it lightly without repercussions. Why should a towering atomic lizard be treated any differently?
