[#MovieReview] Mirai - The 'Future' That Was Over-Explained and the 'Growth' That Remained Unspoken by Oma [#Podcast Episode Introduction]
"Reel Friends in Tokyo", is a movie review podcast hosted by personalities "Mako" and "Oma." In this note, we delve into the hit films, masterpieces, and even cult classics discussed in the podcast episodes, exploring them from our unique perspectives to provide behind-the-scenes stories, personal deep dives, and supplementary information for our listeners.
Each article summarizes the key points of the talks and discussions from the podcast, original insights from both Mako and Oma, and personal movie reviews that stem from our often-tangential, honest conversations. Whether you are a listener or not, please feel free to relax and enjoy.
You can listen to the latest episode of the program here ↓
[Prologue]
It should have been a Hosoda world starting from the fluctuations of daily life
When watching "Mirai," that unique atmosphere—the moment when "wonder" blends into the scenery of daily life like a very thin film—is truly alive. The exquisite distance between the tactile feel of daily life and #EverydayMagic, which Director Hosoda excels at, functioned perfectly in the first half. The scattered toys in the child's room, the light falling on the stairs, the small tree in the garden. Everything resonated secretly with Kun-chan's growth.
Kun-chan is still at an age where he believes the earth revolves around his own world. In terms of Erikson's stages of development, he is approaching "Autonomy vs. Shame and Doubt." It is a period where he is stepping into relationships with others while constantly confirming what kind of being he should be treated as. The story follows him as he meets a sister from the future and a great-grandfather who was once a young man, gradually extending his gaze outward. There was a trajectory of gentle growth there.
The first half of the story unfolds strictly within the range of "fluctuations of daily life." It is slightly strange, but not a completely different world. It is close to the vague feeling we all had as children that "there might be an unknown world beyond the garden." It also overlaps with the realm of "symbolic play" as described by Piaget. It is the stage where a child "plays with the world" before they understand it. The soft magic typical of Hosoda's works was close to this sense of play.
However, in the second half of the story—the moment he arrives at that mysterious station—the atmosphere changes. The story, which should have been an extension of quiet daily life, suddenly steers toward over-verbalizing "deep psychology" and "lineage." It shifts from a narrative that implies meaning to one that explains it. There was a sense that the negative space felt through visuals was being filled in by words.
Of course, the themes of family history and intergenerational connections are important motifs that consistently flow through Hosoda's works. However, compared to the delicacy of the first half, I think the second half was a bit too rushed. It is similar to the phenomenon known in psychology as "over-interpretation," where adding excessive explanation to an event actually reduces the depth of the experience.
Yet, the question remains.
To what extent were we able to tolerate the "unspoken negative space" in the story?
And perhaps, by feeling irritated at a story that explains too much, we were seeing our own "habit of demanding too many explanations" through Kun-chan's figure.
[Chapter 1] Kun-chan's developmental stage as depicted by the "wonder lurking in daily life"
Following Kun-chan's story, I am reminded once again of the precision of "daily life" in Hosoda's works. The shoes at the entrance, the toy trains scattered in the living room, the tone of his mother's voice. Everything serves as material that shapes the "contours of the world" for a young child. The first half of "Mirai" reflects the small fluctuations inside Kun-chan by carefully accumulating these details of daily life.
Kun-chan is a child in the so-called "preoperational stage" (Piaget). He is still too young to understand the perspectives of others and tends to place his own desires and emotions at the center of the world. In terms of Erikson's stages of development, he is in the process of moving from "Autonomy vs. Shame and Doubt" to "Initiative vs. Guilt." It is an age where the desire to expand his world and the anxiety and confusion that accompany that expansion intersect.
That is precisely why the "slightly strange" experiences depicted in the first half of the story are perfectly superimposed on Kun-chan's emotional growth. The #FutureSister who appeared in the garden was both an "embodiment of his stolen position" and an "opportunity to peek into the story of his future self." The emotion of jealousy and curiosity swaying simultaneously is a characteristic seen in children at this age.
Even more impressive is the episode with his great-grandfather in his youth. The great-grandfather, full of youth and riding a motorcycle, is a "part of family history," yet he stands before Kun-chan as a young man. Here lies the shift in perspective unique to Director Hosoda. The fact that the person we call "great-grandfather" also once had a "young time when he was running with all his might." He is not explaining the overlap of generations, but presenting it as the "depth of the world."
Thus, the structure of the first half is a gradual "expansion of perspective" in the order of:
Pet (Yukko)
→ Future sister
→ Great-grandfather in his youth
→ Himself in high school.
This is excellent as a depiction of what is called "decentering" in psychology—the developmental process of moving from a self-centered world to the perspective of others. Moreover, that depiction is never explained in words, but occurs strictly as an extension of daily life. The garden tree sways, there is the smell of rain, and in the same house as always, wonder rises quietly. That delicacy supported the charm of the first half of the work.
Kun-chan is at an age where the boundary between reality and fantasy is still vague. Events that look like big adventures might be experiences that disappear in an instant from an adult's perspective. But for a child, that "momentary fluctuation" is what creates the core of memory. What Director Hosoda captured was precisely the "temperature of that fluctuation."
That is why the balance of the first half was comfortable.
Because it depicted the swaying and confusion of a child as they understand the world without relying on words.
So, why did the 'over-explained world' of the second half leave a different kind of discomfort in our hearts?
Where did that transformation begin?
[Chapter 2] 'Family History' and 'Child Growth'
One of the reasons the first half of 'Mirai' felt so comfortable is that the interior of the house was depicted not just as a 'living space,' but as a 'place where memories and time accumulate.' In Director Hosoda's works, there is always a sense that the house itself exists as a 'narrator.' The thickness of time residing in those spaces—like the old house in 'Wolf Children' or the bustling streets of Shibuya in 'The Boy and the Beast'—is a perspective that lived on in 'Mirai' as well.
Small places within this house—the garden, the veranda, the stairs, old photo albums—act as 'fragments of the world' for Kun-chan. For a child with a limited vocabulary and not yet enough power to organize his emotions, changes in space become 'metaphors for changes in the heart.' What psychology calls 'situational cues' have a stronger influence the younger the child is. Even small things that adults might overlook allow a child to read the mood and relationships of the family.
The little sister who came from the future appears as a symbol of the 'time to come' accumulated in that house, and the great-grandfather in his youth rises as a symbol of the 'time that has already passed.' In other words, Kun-chan touches both the past and the future just by being inside the house. This is also a continuation of the theme of 'generational circulation' that Director Hosoda loves to handle. In 'Wolf Children,' it was the boundary between parent and child; in 'The Boy and the Beast,' it was the connection between master and disciple. Hosoda's works have always depicted this 'vertical connection.'
But in 'Mirai,' it is reconstructed on a more micro level and from a younger perspective. The encounter with the great-grandfather in his youth is symbolic. His figure, riding a motorcycle and cutting through the wind with a youthful body, breaks the fixed image of what we call 'family' once and for all. Kun-chan's gaze naturally showed that family is not originally a fixed noun, but a verb that continues to change over time.
Kun-chan does not recognize that young man as his 'great-grandfather.' He simply sees him as a cool young man who appeared before him. This 'lack of distance' is what enriches the view of family in Hosoda's works. It restores the perspective of 'how someone looks as a person' before the framework of family is defined by social roles or blood ties.
The accumulation of these encounters gradually cultivates in Kun-chan the sense that 'I do not continue on my own.' In psychology, this is called 'narrative identity.' When people tell their own stories, they unconsciously refer to the 'time of others' that continues behind them. In other words, the act of Kun-chan being jealous of his future sister, admiring his great-grandfather in his youth, and peeking into his own high school days from afar was the very process of acquiring the 'framework of his own story.'
Up to this stage, the work quietly overlapped family history and child growth without over-explaining, leaving room for interpretation. Just by the swaying of light in daily life, Kun-chan's world was certainly expanding.
That is precisely why the 'explanatory structure' that suddenly appears in the second half creates a slight distortion in the audience's heart.
When growth that had been accumulating silently and nameless is suddenly replaced by words, where does that silence go?
[Chapter 3] When the atmosphere changes at the train station scene
In contrast to the first half where the story breathed slowly, the 'mysterious station' scene in the second half felt as if the story had begun to possess a different gravity. The scene where Kun-chan stands on the platform of a station he doesn't know is visually grand and beautiful. However, that grandeur was of a different quality from the 'small wonders that seep into daily life' of the first half. It feels as if the story, which should have been half a step away from daily life, suddenly leaped into a 'theater of the subconscious.'
There are many things this station symbolizes. Tracks, junctions, trains, destinations. All of them can be read as metaphors hinting at life's choices and the flow of family destiny. Psychologically speaking, this is also a space where what Jung called the 'collective unconscious' or 'archetypes' are projected. It is close to the symbolic system adults use when they dream. Therefore, this station looks more like a device built within an 'adult's interpretive system' rather than a 'child's unconscious.'
In fact, the narrative structure of the first half was connected by a single thread: 'respecting the child's perspective.' The feeling of getting lost in the garden, the jealousy of fighting with his future sister, the admiration for his great-grandfather in his youth. All of these were depicted as an extension of the child's gaze. However, in the station scene, the center of gravity of the perspective suddenly shifts away from the child. The subject of the narrative moves to the adult side, and Kun-chan becomes like a 'symbol' wandering through a symbolic system.
The fact that the audience feels this transition 'suddenly became difficult' is by no means a problem of comprehension. Rather, it is a feeling that arises because the 'narrative contract' was rewritten halfway through. In the first half of the story, the work quietly declared to the audience, 'This is a story that depicts a child's inner life within daily life.' Having accepted that 'promise,' we believed in the small miracles that occur as an extension of daily life. That is precisely why, when a 'grand world pushed by symbols and logic' suddenly stands up, we cannot keep up with that leap.
Also, this station space has too much 'intensity that makes one want to explain.' Train announcements, inorganic lighting, spatial structures like giant gears. They make the audience search for meaning. They make them pick up meaning, organize meaning, and follow meaning. The 'wonder with room for interpretation' from the first half transforms into an 'imposition of meaning' in the second half. In psychology, this transformation is called a 'sharp rise in cognitive load.' The density of information increases, and the audience has their energy drained by 'deciphering symbols.'
Furthermore, the self-declaration that Kun-chan makes in this station scene, 'I will become a big brother,' might have been something that should have been realized quietly within daily life. Jealousy, confusion, the anxiety of being left behind. That word, which should have sprouted as a small realization after such emotional fluctuations, is treated as a 'climax line' within the dramatic stage device of the station. The weight of the words increases unnaturally, and it slips slightly out of sync with the tempo of Kun-chan's original growth.
So, was this station just 'over-the-top direction'?
Or were we adults projecting a 'world that seeks too much meaning'?
Perhaps it wasn't just Kun-chan who was lost at the station, but us ourselves.
[Chapter 4] The structure of over-explaining
Watching the second half of 'Mirai,' there are moments when I suddenly feel the presence of an 'over-told story' standing in the background. The first half was so quiet. Kun-chan gets lost in the garden, meets his future sister, and runs with his great-grandfather in his youth. That 'experience with so much negative space' seeped into us slowly without relying on words. However, in the second half, that negative space becomes too filled in. The parts that were left unsaid are suddenly illuminated by the light of explanation, and the ambiguity fades away.
Symbolic of this are the depictions of 'inner desires' at the train station and the narrative style that explains the connections of the family line. Certainly, family history is a core theme of the story. However, there is a big difference between 'explicitly stating' that theme as language and 'letting it seep through' as an experience. What is called 'over-interpretation' in psychology often has the opposite effect on the reception of a story. By explaining the meaning too much, the room for the audience to feel it for themselves is taken away.
In the first half, the 'quiet connection' unique to Hosoda's works was growing within us. When his future sister appeared, Kun-chan's jealousy and confusion were conveyed without needing explanation. The sight of his great-grandfather in his youth cutting through the wind also had the power to show family history without speaking of it. Psychologically, these are close to the 'primacy effect.' The impression of the 'unspoken negative space' obtained at the beginning of the story influences how later events are perceived.
However, in the second half, as if to break that primacy effect, the density of symbols rises sharply. The future sister verbalizes meanings and steps too far into Kun-chan's inner self. The 'explanatory atmosphere' that flows in the train station scene even gives the impression that the work has suddenly started presenting an answer sheet to the audience.
This alteration in storytelling is not just a problem of 'too much explanation.' Rather, the root of the discomfort lies in the fact that 'whose perspective the world is being viewed from' becomes shaky. The first half was consistently from a 'child's perspective.' The world was small, close, ambiguous, and sometimes dazzling. But in the second half, the perspective is drawn toward an 'adult's narrative.' Adult psychological structures, adult symbolic systems, and adult views on family. That heavy framework gradually clouded the transparency of the work.
Also, an excess of explanation can conversely rob a story of its depth by narrowing the 'freedom of thought for the receiver.' In psychology, it is said that when 'cognitive load' increases, people are more likely to lose their sense of immersion in the story world. The abundance of symbols in the train station scene and the explanations from the future sister invite this sharp rise in cognitive load, which in some ways drains the audience's 'capacity to feel.'
Perhaps what Director Hosoda intended was to depict Kun-chan's 'trial to become a big brother' in a symbolic space. But ironically, the thickness of those symbols clashed with the quiet and delicate coming-of-age story of the first half, disrupting the breathing of the story.
So, for whom was the over-explaining?
Was it for the director, or for the audience?
Or perhaps, was it a reflection of our own selves, constantly seeking meaning?
[Chapter 5] What if it had continued with the narrative style of the first half until the end?
The first half of 'Mirai' depicted a very small, yet essential growth: Kun-chan 'becoming a big brother.' Jealousy, confusion, bewilderment, and small joys. Grains of such emotions gradually take shape along with the swaying light of daily life. If this narrative style had been maintained until the end, this work might have been a quieter, deeper story that was more closely attuned to 'early childhood growth.'
Kun-chan is a toddler who sees the world centered on himself. When his mother spends more time with his sister, his world is filled with a 'sense of being robbed.' The scene of his father's busy housework appears as an 'unstable daily life.' Such psychological changes do not inherently need to be verbalized. The trembling of facial expressions, the sound of crying, the body that remains unable to move while lying on the floor. Emotions before language are at the center of a toddler's growth.
That is precisely why the encounters with his future sister and his great-grandfather in his youth functioned as 'triggers' to gradually lead Kun-chan out into the wider world. They were not there to explain the 'future' or the 'past,' but existed to broaden the scope of Kun-chan's gaze. What is called 'decentering' in psychology is extremely important for a toddler's growth. The moment one realizes that others also have a heart like one's own. That moment is never abrupt, but sprouts slowly within daily life.
The goodness of the first half lies precisely in the fact that it depicted growth like this 'slowly growing bud.' The process where Kun-chan, who initially only felt disgust toward his future sister, eventually reverses from 'the one being protected' to 'the one who protects.' It does not need to be dramatic. In fact, if it is too dramatic, it drifts away from the realistic movements of a toddler's heart.
With the appearance of the train station as a large stage device in the second half, Kun-chan's growth changed into a structure like a 'trial.' However, early childhood growth does not inherently require narrative trials. It proceeds quietly, slowly, as if one suddenly notices it one day. If there is a scene where Kun-chan says 'I am a big brother,' it could have come in a smaller, simpler way, at the 'edges of daily life.'
For example—
The moment he quietly approaches when his sister is crying, instead of his mother.
The moment he fixes his sister's blanket when his father lets go of his hand.
Or, the moment he gives his toy to his sister when no one is watching.
The accumulation of such small events, so small that they remain in no one's memory, nurtures the realization of 'becoming a big brother.' I think it is in this 'quiet process' that the true breath of the story resided.
Furthermore, regarding 'family history,' it is more powerful to 'have it conveyed' than to be explained. The sight of his great-grandfather in his youth cutting through the wind already held the 'thickness of the time he had lived.' Even without words, the feeling of the family connecting should have reached the audience. A family line is likely not something to be defined, but something that flows in as an experience.
If the story had maintained the tone of the first half until the end, 'Mirai' would have been a story more faithful to the 'toddler's perspective.' Rather than dramatic trials, small discomforts. Rather than a symbolic station, the light in the garden. That is where Kun-chan's true growth was.
Then, why do we seek 'dramatic growth'?
Even though growth is inherently so quiet.
Are we unable to believe in a story without flashy production?
[Final Chapter] Where was Kun-chan's 'unspoken growth'?
The sense of discomfort I felt in the second half of 'Mirai' might not just be a matter of structure. Toward the end, the film grandly depicts the lineage of the family and their subconscious, drawing Kun-chan's growth into a symbolic structure. However, the parts we connected with in the first half were in much quieter places. The pain of falling in the garden, the desire for his mother's attention, the small jealousy he felt toward his sister from the future. I feel those moments touched the tremors inside Kun-chan much more deeply.
So, was our frustration with the 'over-explained world' of the second half because we instinctively craved 'negative space'? In psychology, it is said that when people try to understand another's story, they react more strongly to the 'gaps they can fill themselves' than to explicit information. By gently layering one's own experiences and emotions onto the parts that were left unsaid, the story becomes 'one's own' and settles into the body. That is precisely why, the moment it is over-verbalized, the audience takes a step back from the story.
In the first half, Kun-chan was still facing the world while holding onto the 'murkiness of feelings' that lay beneath his words. Meeting his great-grandfather as a young man, fighting with his future sister, and peeking into his own high school days. Each of these accumulated simply as Kun-chan's experiences, without being explained. Perhaps that accumulation was the true nature of his 'unspoken growth.' Subtle changes he didn't even notice were sinking to the bottom of the story.
On the other hand, the train station scene in the second half confronts us with an 'excess of meaning.' The subconscious, the flow of the family line, the branching of fate. These are by no means wrong interpretations. It's just that they drifted slightly away from the toddler's perspective. Kun-chan's growth was originally supposed to be more mundane, ambiguous, and proceed in that ambiguity. There were things that could be conveyed without words. But because they were spoken, that silence faded.
Still, this wavering leaves us with one question.
'How much of a child's growth are we verbalizing?'
Parents and adults sometimes want to explain a child's changes. They want to give them meaning. Developmental stages, family structure, psychological background. Putting it into words makes it seem like understanding is progressing. But those words do not exist in a child's world. And because they don't exist, a child's time is rich, ambiguous, and precious.
The moment Kun-chan 'becomes a big brother' might have actually been in a place no one could see.
Not on the train station platform, nor in a giant symbolic space, but at the very edges of daily life.
The moment he closes the distance just a little while looking dissatisfied as his mother picks up his sister.
The moment he hesitates and takes a step forward to get closer to his crying sister.
The moment his heart moves quietly, without being praised by anyone.
Perhaps we are always overlooking those small tremors.
And after finishing this story, I find myself wondering.
How much of the unspoken growth can we imagine?
In a story that has been told too much, how much can we listen to the 'structure of silence'?
The movie discussions held on the podcast '#YomoyamaKobanashi' (#Makobana), where podcaster Mako (@_macobana) talks solo about things that don't fit into the main channel 'Pocket ni Numa wo' (#PokeNuma), have finally arrived on a dedicated channel.
There is no end to the movies I want to talk about!
Episodes will be released weekly or bi-weekly.
Please tweet your thoughts with #RilPal #ReelPal.
The tweets we receive may be featured on the show.
Click here for the theme talk submission form↓
Click here to send a direct message↓
Please continue to support the show.