Finn Morse
Godzilla is a franchise with no shortage of sequels and spinoffs. To date, the property has yielded 38 films, 8 television series, countless comic book stories, and a remarkable cultural following. The “King of the Monsters” continues to meet the moment, representing not only nuclear devastation, but a variety of themes and subject matter. Nowhere is its metaphor simultaneously more divergent and reverent to the original than in 2016’s Shin Godzilla.
Modern blockbusters share a central mindset: properties sell. Original works are hard to get off the ground, let alone sell to a huge studio willing to take a chance on it. The 2010s were the pinnacle of this school of thought, with the “legacy” sequel auditioned on numerous dormant franchises, from Tron: Legacy and Creed to Star Wars: The Force Awakens. To refrain from being just another revival piece designed for profits and nostalgia, a property revival needs to justify its existence with a bold new idea. Shin Godzilla fits that aim.
Shin Godzilla is one of the most popular and highly regarded entries in this prolific series. The movie was highly anticipated at the time of its release and maintained its cultural relevance over the 10 years following its release. Godzilla can represent subjects ranging from military devastation to climate change to family entertainment. The cosmic nightmare in Shin Godzilla represents a scared world coming to terms with its imminent mortality. By re-contextualizing its pop-culture namesake, Shin Godzilla proves that telling new stories with old properties can still be valid.
Shin Godzilla follows the Japanese government navigating the sudden appearance of an unknown gargantuan creature as it breaches Tokyo’s seaboard. National officials — namely Rando Yaguchi (Hiroki Hasegawa) and Yusuke Shimura (Kengo Kora) — advise Prime Minister Seiji Ookouchi (Ren Osugi) on how to deal with the threat in the public eye. The country is thrown into panic as the creature seems to evolve into increasingly more dangerous forms, causing international distress. In a matter of hours, the U.S. will be permitted to launch a nuclear attack to destroy the creature. Before the time is up, Japan’s top minds must come together to defeat the monster with a concentrated plan of attack.
Unlike every other Japanese Godzilla movie (with the exception of Godzilla Minus One), Shin Godzilla exists in its own timeline. It does not credit the original Godzilla from 1954, save for a quick reference to its initial setting, Odo Island. This allows the story to represent something entirely different in execution. The characters in Shin Godzilla are trivial, often acting as mouthpieces for the film’s message of coexisting with the untamable.
The devastating events of the Tohoku earthquake in 2011 left Japan’s eastern coast in shambles. The effects were disastrous and claimed thousands of lives. Additionally, nuclear waste from Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant leaked into the Pacific Ocean because of the disaster. There was no way of anticipating the earthquake’s scale, nor how to recover from it. Art is oftentimes created to process and heal from traumatic events like these. Where 1954’s Godzilla was a response to dropping the atomic bomb, Shin Godzilla is a response to this earthquake.
To further anchor the story in the modern day, Shin Godzilla uses technology and communication as a major plot device. Changes in cinematography act as a visual switch between the two storylines –government bureaucracy and citywide destruction. The cinematography sees Godzilla through handheld and dynamic shots, mimicking helicopters and newscast footage. The lack of an omnipotent camera suggests that the public is watching this beast alongside the audience. There is footage of people running from the beast and the flood it brings, echoing real disaster footage from 2011. Instead of being blind and confused like in 1954, the government in Shin Godzilla constantly talks to the public using technology. The humans are made capable by their advancements, but their threat is hitherto unimaginable.
Shin’s form is constantly evolving. With its initial design, its fishlike eyes suggest that it’s just a brain-dead animal, crashing through buildings mindlessly. Its next form has its stand on two legs, slowly gaining consciousness. In its final form, it reigns over the city. In its final design, the kaiju tends to sport a familiar look from movie to movie: a bipedal reptile. It has reptilian scales, dorsal spikes, a long tail, and nuclear breath. Shin Godzilla takes these ideas and reimagines Godzilla as a sinister, eldritch titan out of an H.P. Lovecraft story. Godzilla’s scales resemble molten lava or radiation burns. His claws and teeth are jagged and sinister. His tail reaches an unprompted vertical height. By reforming Godzilla in visuals and dramatic lyricism, director Hideaki Anno totally recontextualizes the character.
The word “Shin” means three things in Japanese: new, true, and God. As to which definition the movie identifies with is up to the viewer, providing a handful of interpretations on each rewatch. Some audiences might resonate with Shin Godzilla dawning a new era for their favorite monster movie series. Others might identify more with this as Godzilla in his truest form, a being of destruction and terror hitherto unseen.
By its definition, “God” is most likely what director and co-writer Hideaki Anno meant in the title. In this story, Shin is the wrath of God. It is the ultimate being of death and destruction, and the greatest challenge ever faced by the ever-watching world. Shin is a reminder that disaster is imminent. What matters is how we react to it, and how we learn from it. This is not a fun “monster mash” blockbuster. This is a meditation on the human need to survive.
The standout scene of Shin Godzilla — and, perhaps, the entire Godzilla series — is Shin’s decimation of Tokyo. American stealth bombers attempt to strike Godzilla under the cover of nightfall. Not only does the attack fail, but it provokes Godzilla to unleash its full strength. In a manner so alien to the series, Shin’s lower jaw splits into two like that of a snake. Its breath fills the city streets with flammable smoke before being ignited. The city is incinerated. And to end its exhibition, Shin channels its radioactive power into a concentrated laser, cutting through planes and buildings effortlessly.
An ominous score composed by Shiro Sagisu for Shin Godzilla punctuates the emotions of the scene, dozens of voices seeming to salute the dead. The cinematography only works to emphasize Shin’s power, backlighting it with a sheet of fire. This is why properties are revived. In this three-minute scene, Godzilla is redefined to fit the modern day. Yet, what is the only thing more horrifying than the instant decimation of an entire city? The idea that humanity is the one that failed it.
The government characters present a philosophical understanding of this version of Godzilla, and how best to combat the threat. Prime Minister Seiji Ookouchi is a sympathetic leader. For the first hour of the film, he stops attacks on Godzilla when there are possible civilian casualties. He cannot pull the trigger. Every other world nation contests this choice, insisting that a nuclear strike is the only effective method. Even through the devastation, Japan remains its own nation, calling its own shots and choosing its battles. The hierarchy of human life over profit is established by grounding civilian planes and sending rescue helicopters. The government immediately establishes a task force; not exclusive to the government, but the true top minds. Ex-convicts, internet geniuses, nerds, and social outcasts come together to face the challenge.
There is a pervasive undercurrent in Shin Godzilla: the mysterious Dr. Goro Maki and his posthumously written challenge. We never end up meeting him, only his ghost. As the task force collaborates with American representative Kayoko Anne Patterson (Satomi Ishihara), Maki’s research is put under the microscope. Maki suggests that there is no way to truly defeat the beast. Instead, Japan — and the world — must find a way to coexist with it. “Shin” isn’t a being of purposeful devastation; rather a puzzle for the leaders of the modern day to quickly solve. It spawns out of nowhere, and continues to radically change. Much like earthquakes or storms, there will always be a “Godzilla.” We cannot just throw a missile at it to make it go away.
The nerd-driven task force finds a solution hidden in Shin’s temperature, one that can immobilize Shin. The method is nonviolent, feeding the monster a blood coagulant to freeze its entire body. The characters use every trick in the book to defy the odds and pull off the insane stunt. The final fight even takes place during the day instead of night. There is a lack of intense visuals or haunting music, furthering how this is a hopeful resolution, not a retaliation. Hilariously enough, the cheeky defeat of a wrathful god incarnate is the perfect reflection of human persistence. Japan cannot kill Shin without catching civilians in the crossfire, and it cannot leave Shin to its own devices. Stopping the clock reminds the world at large that excessive violence is not the answer. There is always a solution.
Toho Studios holds this franchise close. In every contract for a project including Godzilla, there is a universal clause: Godzilla cannot die. Toho wanting their cash cow to keep kicking makes perfect sense, especially how franchises cling to their fan-favorite characters. General discourse typically mocks these clauses as an excuse to milk intellectual property for all its worth. Godzilla seems to be an exception, because people cannot get enough. The next 12 months will see Godzilla Minus Zero in December 2026 and Godzilla x Kong: Supernova in March 2027. It has never been a better time to be a fan of this series. Godzilla will not die, and for that, I am grateful. More series revivals like Shin Godzilla, please.
