[#MovieReview] "Gremlins" Cats, Gizmo, and Roomba by Oma [#Podcast Episode Introduction]
"Reel Friends in Tokyo" is a movie introduction podcast presented by personalities "Mako" and "Oma." In this note, we delve into the hit movies, classics, and even cult favorites featured in the podcast episodes, exploring them from our unique perspectives to provide behind-the-scenes stories, personal deep dives, and supplementary information for all our listeners.
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Today's note article is filled with a lot of self-contradiction.
But I can't help it, that's what I thought about after watching the movie.
So, when I write this, I'll put myself on a shelf for a moment, and towards the end, I'd like to think about it while reflecting on myself.
Prologue: When the common sense of "keeping" something quietly cracks
Since when did we start believing that "keeping" something is such a natural act? We wake up in the morning to put food in the cat's bowl, water the plants before heading to work, and when we get home, we check how well the robot vacuum cleaner has cleaned the room. Not just animals like dogs and cats, but houseplants, stuffed animals, and even smartphone assistants—we name everything, cherish them, and keep small "worlds" that fit in the palm of our hands in our daily lives. In this world, the other party's life rhythm, whereabouts, and range of permitted actions are almost entirely left to our discretion. Yet, we tend to believe without doubt that this act is a "form of kindness."
"Gremlins" (1984) is a work that quietly illuminates the cracks hidden in this "common sense of keeping," all while wearing the skin of a Christmas movie. Little Gizmo is cute, obedient, and even has an adorable voice. He possesses all the traits we believe without question that we can "keep." However, the three rules presented to make him viable—don't expose him to light, don't get him wet, and don't feed him after midnight—do not look like conditions for a pet, but rather like warnings that say, "You can't actually keep him." What Gizmo symbolizes is the sense of control that ignites secretly the moment a human feels something is "cute." While it looks like we are caring for the other's safety and happiness, what is actually there is the desire for the security of wanting to hold the order ourselves.
The 1980s in America was an era where the ideal of the nuclear family was mass-produced, and home appliances and new technologies began to permeate households. Homes were managed, made efficient, and comfort was praised as a value. Into this landscape of a "perfect home," monsters come crashing in. Light, water, and late-night meals. All are symbols of elements that humans cannot fully control. From within the home, they instantly turn into a runaway situation. This "collapse from within" goes beyond the feel of a monster movie and looks like a subtle shaking of a society filled with management.
Gizmo and Stripe, and the three elements that transform them—following these five symbols, the work goes beyond a mere horror-comedy. The cuteness as a pet, the ruffian as an other, the violence of trying to understand, uncontrollable life, and unsuppressible desire. These are all things that humans usually "think they have tamed" appearing in a different form.
It is sometimes said that keeping something means accepting the other's freedom and fluctuations. But how much do we really accept those fluctuations? Perhaps, in the act of "keeping," we are quietly hiding our own anxieties and helplessness.
"Gremlins" puts a quiet crack in such a common landscape. It leaves a question for us who believe too much in cuteness: "Can that relationship really be called love?"
Chapter 1: Gizmo—Cuteness is an "indulgence" that permits control
When many viewers see Gizmo for the first time, the emotion they probably feel is "I want to protect him." Round eyes, a body size that makes you want to hug him, and gestures of chirping in response to our voices. Among the creatures created by 1980s movies, it is rare to find an existence that wears the symbol of "cute" as extremely as Gizmo. But this cuteness might be the most quiet and easily overlooked trap. When we see "cute things," we automatically have the impression of "harmless," "obedient," and "easy to take care of." It is the baby-face effect in psychology. The younger the facial features look, the easier it is for humans to view the other as a controllable existence.
Gizmo embodies that effect almost perfectly. His voice is weak, his words are fragmented, and his emotional expression is gentle and reserved. The accumulation of these features has the power to make one think, "This creature fits in my hands." The culture that places importance on animals "looking obedient" at pet shops cleverly utilizes this cognitive trap. Cuteness is a label that humans arbitrarily attach as a premise for establishing a relationship of control.
However, "Gremlins" instantly betrays that illusion. Gizmo is certainly cute. But he splits after getting just one drop of water, and that copy appears as a completely different existence. The "obedience" that cuteness was supposed to guarantee is exposed as being merely superficial. When people get something cute, they unconsciously assume, "I can control this." But Gizmo shows an extreme change to demonstrate that such an assumption is arrogant.
This "betrayal of expectations" can also be superimposed on the era's background. The 1980s in America was an era where "cute existences" characterized as products were widely circulated amidst the prosperity of a consumer society. Ewoks, E.T., Care Bears. Cuteness was mass-produced as a commodity and entered people's homes. The commercial appeal of Gizmo's design strongly reflects the atmosphere of that era. But the movie does not depict that cuteness only as a "symbol of commodified security." He plays the role of faintly reflecting the desire for control that lurks on the side of humans who believe in that cuteness.
And we are made to realize. Is the kindness we feel when facing something cute really kindness for the other? Or is it our own convenient expectation that we want them to be an "easy-to-handle other"? What Gizmo breaks might not be the world turning into monsters, but rather the "premise of control" deep inside the human heart.
Chapter 2: Stripe—The other who failed to be a pet turns into an "order destroyer"
Why do Gizmo's copies transform into "rebels" so rapidly? Even though they should be born from the same existence, one is obedient and the other runs wild. This disconnection does not end with a mere monster setting. Rather, it quietly brings up a somewhat unsettling question: "How have humans treated others?" In other words, it is the problem of how the other behaves when the "premise of control through cuteness" that Gizmo symbolized collapses.
In psychology, there is a concept called reactance (psychological rebellion). When people are excessively managed, they harbor an impulse to break through it. The stronger the pressure to be obedient, the more intense the rebellion becomes. The pattern where children become rebellious the more they are scolded, where binding a lover leads to a breakup, or where employees quit as management tightens in the workplace, is a standard pattern of this reactance.
Gizmo's copies, the so-called Mohawk Gremlins, can be read as an extreme manifestation of this reactance. They betray the desires of the human side—the wish for things to be a certain way—in the most intense form possible. They are expected to be obedient but run wild; they are expected to be cute but are hideous; they are expected to be quiet but multiply like noise. This is also a reflection of how the 'other' looks when they fall out of the 'management narrative' of pet ownership.
When layered with the cultural background of the 1980s, this structure becomes even clearer. During this era, American society was filled with images of rebellious youth. The punk movement, slasher films, resistance to school rules, skepticism toward family education—the voices of young people saying, 'I can't breathe within these frames,' were erupting as culture. 'Gremlins' seems to have compressed the distortions of that era and exploded them within the home.
What the Mohawks symbolize is not a threat from the outside. Rather, it is like a shadow that spilled out from within as a result of humans seeking 'cute, obedient, and easy-to-handle beings' too much. The stronger the pressure to demand cuteness, the more violently the other betrays those expectations. This exists within the same structure, whether it's a pet, a child, a lover, or a junior colleague at work.
We sometimes feel 'betrayed' when others push back. But was that betrayal really caused by the other person? Or did our own 'idealized image of the other' simply collapse? The rampage of the Mohawks does not let us avoid that question. Behind the wish for obedience, there is always a rebellion on the verge of exploding. This is not just about pets; it is the very dynamic lurking in all human relationships.
The Mohawk is an existence that shows the 'original other' that remains after the skin of cuteness is peeled away. When control fails, the other appears as a destroyer of order. But perhaps that wildness was actually the very crampedness of the framework humans created.
Chapter 3: Light—When the good intention of 'wanting to understand' turns into violence
The setting that Gremlins are weak against strong light might look like a horror movie trope. But if we change our perspective slightly, this light emerges not just as a weakness, but as a symbol of the 'gaze of trying to understand' that humans direct at others. Wanting to understand, grasp, and put the other into an explainable form—these seem like good intentions at first glance, but the moment they go too far, they can turn into something that hurts the other person.
In psychology, the phenomenon known as labeling effect is well-known. When you label someone as 'this type of person,' the other is pushed into that frame and finds it difficult to behave freely. Just as when parents keep telling their child, 'this child is shy,' the child may start to act out that shyness, classification in the name of understanding often possesses the 'power to deprive freedom'.
The light in 'Gremlins' can be read as a metaphor for that excessive understanding. Light illuminates the darkness and makes the invisible visible. However, living things need a realm of 'unknowability' or 'ambiguity.' In human relationships, the fact that you cannot fully understand everything about the other person is what provides the margin to maintain distance and freedom. The fact that Gremlins die when exposed to light is like a fable that says, 'When something is fully understood, a living thing can no longer be a living thing.'
The 1980s was also an era when 'light' shone unusually brightly. Home appliances permeated households, electronic devices illuminated daily life, and information became bright and quickly accessible. The light of science gradually shaved away the margin of embracing darkness as 'something unknown.' Ambiguity and uncertainty lost their value in the speed of the era, and only what could be understood was prioritized. In such an era, the existence of Gremlins, who die just by touching light, plays a role in highlighting the violence of understanding.
Light is more abundant in our daily lives than we think.
'Because you are this kind of person'
'If you do this, it will work out, right?'
'This child has this kind of personality'
These seem helpful at first glance, but they can actually give the other person a 'suffocating feeling of being too understood.' Light can also become management wearing a mask of kindness.
The light that the Gremlins run away from is the very impulse we have to try to understand others. Understanding is a means for peace of mind, but it is also a precursor to control. So, how far should we understand the other person? Where does it become overstepping?
Chapter 4: Water—Life grows while carrying 'unpredictability'
The moment water touches him, Gizmo splits, and copies are born one after another. It is one of the most vivid scenes in 'Gremlins,' but this does not end as a mere bizarre transformation. Here, the truth that we usually pretend not to see—that 'life is inherently unmanageable'—is exposed. Raising pets, raising children, and gardening are all ultimately in the fluctuation between the desire for 'how I want things to be' and the 'reality that cannot be helped.'
In psychology, there is the idea that development is influenced by contingency. Environment, genetics, small coincidental events—all of these are intricately intertwined, and people grow in unpredictable directions. Just as parents wish for their children, 'I want you to go to this school' or 'I want you to have this personality,' we unconsciously create a 'management narrative' for life. However, life does not always follow that narrative. There are dogs that suddenly start acting out, and houseplants bought at a store that wither overnight. The 'control' that humans seek over life is often just an illusion.
Water in 'Gremlins' destroys this illusion at an excessive speed. Even a single drop of water—even as an act of well-intentioned care—becomes the trigger that breaks the world. This depiction seems to show that the closed space of the home is a structure vulnerable to slight changes. In 1980s America, the image of the perfect nuclear family was repeatedly broadcast in television and advertisements, and the home was spoken of as a place symbolizing 'stability.' However, the film breaks down that ideal image with sticky speed. The more one tries to protect perfection, the more the anxiety one was quietly holding onto swells. Water is the trigger that instantly makes that anxiety visible.
Water also symbolizes the 'duality of life,' which contains both growth and destruction. Life is precious because it multiplies, but it also becomes uncontrollable because it multiplies. It is essentially impossible to confine life within the range of 'just right' that the owner desires. Even so, we cannot let go of the feeling that we want pets, plants, and human relationships to 'grow in the shape we desire.' The Gremlins that run wild the moment they are touched by water represent this conflict between 'wanting to raise' and 'not going as planned' in an extremely exaggerated way.
So, how much of life's unpredictability can we accept? The act of growing inherently involves uncontrollable fluctuations. Perhaps we use the 'feeling of being in control' as a support because we are too afraid of those fluctuations.
Chapter 5: Midnight Feeding—Humans cannot even tame 'their own desires'
The rule of "don't feed them after midnight" might sound like just another monster trope at first glance. However, if you look deeper, this condition doesn't seem to be for Gizmo's sake, but rather a rule put in place to highlight the precariousness of the "human side." The nighttime hours have a unique psychological quality where reason fades, judgment wavers, and impulses that are usually suppressed suddenly emerge. It is a time when our internal brakes are less effective.
In psychology, the night is considered a time when self-control declines. Due to factors like fatigue, decreased alertness, and a reduction in social monitoring, people are more prone to impulsive behavior than during the day. Eating ramen in the middle of the night, writing unnecessary things on social media, or clicking 'buy' on something you didn't intend to—all of these symbolize human weakness head-on.
The midnight feeding in "Gremlins" is a monstrous visualization of this "time of impulse." After passing through the desires of the night, the Gizmos transform into something else. This can be read as "the self that cannot suppress its desires creates a different personality within itself." In fact, after we succumb to an impulse, we sometimes feel a sense of regret as if someone other than ourselves had acted. The midnight meal is a symbol of that very sense of fragmentation.
The 1980s was also an era where the "acceleration of desire" appeared strongly on the surface of culture. Consumer society, the expansion of wealth, and material indulgence. The "freedom of desire," like the impulses of the night, began to shine in the media more than the "wholesomeness" recommended by daytime reason. The sight of the Gremlins running wild in the streets at night is almost like the desires of people gathering in the city's darkness suddenly taking off their masks and causing a ruckus. When the light of reason goes out, our desires appear quickly and mercilessly. The chaos reflected in the film resonates somewhat with the restlessness of society at that time.
Another important point here is that "midnight feeding" is not just a "rule violation," but an act that symbolizes "essential human weakness." Whether we are keeping a pet, raising a child, or in a relationship with a lover, we tend to want to "manage" others, but we cannot even fully control our own impulses to begin with. If our own desires don't listen to us, why do we assume we can treat others as we please?
The simple act of eating at midnight awakens an unidentified force called desire and exposes the "limits of human self-management." The monsters in the movie did not come from the outside. Rather, it is as if the impulses lurking within us have been given form.
So, how should we face these impulses? If we tighten our grip on desire too much, the backlash will be greater, and if we leave it alone, it will run wild. What is the appropriate distance? Can desire even be "tamed" in the first place?
Final Chapter: Is keeping something love, or is it control in the guise of peace of mind?
The three rules presented for keeping Gizmo—don't expose him to light, don't get him wet, and don't feed him after midnight. These conditions are presented as "care instructions" at the beginning of the story, but as the story progresses, they emerge not as aids to care, but as a warning that "humans cannot actually handle this creature." The irony that the rules for keeping him are simultaneously "proof that you cannot keep him." It quietly shows that while we think we understand others and life, we actually understand almost nothing.
Light was a metaphor for the desire to understand the other. The desire to understand may look like kindness, but shining too much light on someone robs them of their "unknowability" and creates suffocation. Others may be objects of understanding, but they are not objects of conquest. However, the human gaze often crosses that boundary.
Water symbolized the unpredictability of life. Raising something is also the act of embracing something that does not go as planned. Yet, whether with pets or people, we somewhere seek a "just-right level of obedience." We want to believe that life can be managed. But in reality, the world can easily collapse with just a single drop of water.
And the midnight meal showed that humans haven't even tamed their own desires. We often want to manage others, but we cannot even control our own impulses. Rather, impulses secretly multiply within us and take on a destructive form at unexpected moments. Those who cannot tame themselves trying to tame others—that contradiction is by no means just a story in a movie.
Thinking of it this way, the existence of Gizmo is the very definition of an "other that seems keepable but isn't." Cute, obedient, and seemingly understandable, yet impossible to fully grasp. While it seems like it will follow human wishes, it quietly harbors the fluctuations unique to life. The fact that Gizmo is depicted until the end as an "existence that does not completely side with humans" may be to ensure that the "conditions for the other to be the other" are maintained.
And I recall the 1980s as a historical backdrop. An era where consumption accelerated, cuteness was commodified, and family and pets were treated as symbols of peace of mind. In that context, the story of "Gremlins," where monsters overflow from within the home, exposes how many distortions lurk inside the institutions that are supposed to build "peace of mind." The control hidden behind the label of cute, the intervention in the name of understanding, the management in the name of raising, and the runaway of desire. These overlap directly with various relationships in modern society, not just the home.
Judging others "conveniently" on social media.
Seeking obedience from AI.
Expecting children to "grow up this way."
Demanding ideal behavior from a lover.
All of these quietly harbor the structure of "the one who tames and the one who is tamed."
How much of our own peace of mind have we entrusted to the act of "keeping"? Is keeping truly love? Or is it a story of control wearing the clothes of love?
When you hold this question, "Gremlins" changes from a rampage of monsters into a mirror reflecting our own image.
And while thinking about such things, I pick up Moko-taro (my pet cat) again today and fall asleep while holding onto the contradiction.
Perhaps it is I who am being kept.
The movie discussion that unfolded on the podcast program "#YomoyamaKobanashi" (#Makobana), where podcaster Mako (@_macobana) talks solo about various things that couldn't be covered on the main channel "Pocket ni Numa wo" (#PokeNuma), has finally come to a specialized channel.
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