The Origin of Ultraman (Yu Nakamura & Kazuki Yoshida, 2026) [Fantasia 2026]

Ultraman is one of Japan’s most recognisable cultural phenomena. Loved by generations of children, the landmark special effects-heavy drama has proved incredibly influential. Despite its title, Yu Nakamura and Kazuki Yoshida’s documentary The Origin of Ultraman isn’t actually as much interested in the franchise’s history as it is in its reception, focusing on the recollections of filmmakers and creatives from Japan and beyond discussing what Ultraman meant to them.

In fact, the film is largely structured around a discussion between directors Hirokazu Koreeda and Guillermo Del Toro who find unexpected commonality in the reception of Ultraman in Japan and Mexico respectively. Nevertheless, one of the drawbacks of this approach is that it unwittingly adopts a US-centric sensibility in contrasting the lack of cultural impact the series has had in America with that in other areas of the world, while later somewhat contradicting itself in featuring discussions with the American directors of the Netflix-produced US animation Ultraman: Rising.

Though the insights provided by Del Toro in particular are often interesting, the film is at its best when focusing on those who actually worked on the series and were involved with its original run in the mid-1960s. One of the reasons for the franchise’s success seems to have been the determination of everyone involved to create something that felt real and authentic. No one was interested in writing the show off as disposable entertainment for children, but rather precisely because it was aimed largely at a younger audience, the creative team were universally focused on providing high-quality entertainment. 

Nevertheless, despite Eiji Tsuburaya’s admiration for the stop motion techniques he so admired in the Hollywood movie King Kong, the decision to use humans in suits was born of the realities of television production in Japan. Incredibly tights budgets and production schedules simply would not allow for a complex and time-consuming process such as stop motion. Instead, they used Tsubuyara’s iconic talent with miniatures to provide a sense of reality.

The film suggests that this sense of conviction in their work stems from the fact that, Eiji Tsuburaya aside, most of the creatives behind the creation of Ultraman were born in 1930s and had spent their childhoods against the backdrop of the war. They were interested in sending a more idealistic vision to the next generation of children that was about goodness and harmony. Nevertheless, despite their experiences and anti-war stance, they still had an admiration for the machinery of warfare and were attracted to the “coolness” of guns, tanks, and aeroplanes.

This contradiction is apparent in the Buddhist underpinnings of Ultraman’s design and the world that surrounds him. Ultraman then takes on a kind of divine presence representing “cosmos” in a constant battle with the “chaos” of the kaiju to maintain peace and balance in the universe. This duality is also reflected in his merging with the human Hayata and willingness to give up his own life to save him, eventually along with all mankind. Ultraman does not actually like fighting the kaiju and rarely kills them, while kaiju are not necessarily evil so much as just being what they are.

Del Toro suggests these themes as a reason why the show found an audience in Catholic Mexico it evidently didn’t in the predominantly Protestant United States. Monsters in American movies, he says, tend to be unnaturally oversized animals, in contrast to kaiju which often have more complex personalities and humanlike thought patterns. Which is to say they too have a quality of divinity or innocence. On discovering a kaiju graveyard, the decide to hold a Buddhist funeral for the fallen kaiju out of respect for their lives.

In other ways, however, the show was also a counter to the optimism represented by EXPO ’70 reflecting a degree of anxiety about scientific progress and the responsibilities that come with it. These dualities and contradictions seem to have struck a chord with post-war children who were drawn to the sense of safety and certainty Ultraman provided. Hideko Anno describes his encounter with the series as a kind of “curse”, realising that most of his work has just been in one way or another a reflection of Ultraman and that he is creatively unable to escape its influence. This may perhaps go someway to explaining the origin of Ultraman’s appeal as a force of unambiguous good in world that can, in other ways, seem random and chaotic.


The Origin of Ultraman screened as part of this year’s Fantasia International Film Festival.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Firing The Lighter Gun (ピストルライター の撃ち方, Kohei Sanada, 2022)

“Whatever got you here, it can’t be any good” a resident of a flophouse reflects on their moribund circumstances suckered to into debt bondage by exploitative yakuza who force them to risk their lives doing clean up in a nuclear exclusion zone. Kohei Sanada’s bleak indie drama Firing the Lighter Gun (ピストルライター の撃ち方, Pistol Lighter no Uchikata) takes place after second nuclear disaster has left even more of the land unsurvivable. The heroes have been quite literally displaced, left without a place to return to or call a home, but are also emotionally alienated unable to envisage an escape for themselves from this otherwise hopeless existence.

Having recently been released from prison, Ryo (Yu Nakamura) remarks that the area has changed since he’s been away but his friend Tatsuya (Yuya Okutsu) counters that he doesn’t really think so. In any case, Tatsuya lives with a huge inferiority complex most evident on his attendance at a school reunion he didn’t want to go to where he sits sullen and dejected among those who’ve moved up in the world not least his ex, Shoko (Emi Okamura), who left him for a guy with a steady government job but still drops by to care for his ageing mother who suffers from dementia and the legacy of domestic abuse. Tatsuya is not a yakuza but his work is yakuza adjacent in that he drives a van full of equally hopeless men recruited for a dodgy operation offering cleanup services in the nuclear exclusion zone. 

Though the jobs are supposed to pay well with a bonus for the hazardous nature of the work, most of it is being skimmed by the yakuza bosses who deduct vast amounts from the men’s pay-packets for “expenses” such as the right to sleep in a communal flophouse where they charge them exorbitant amounts for snacks and drinks which they have to buy because they aren’t allowed to go out. Nor are they allowed to quit the job, trying to run incurs a 50,000 yen fine on top of any debts they’re supposed to be working off. An unexpected addition to Tatsuya’s van one day is Mari (Anju Kurosu), a sex worker, who’s been forced to work for the gang to pay off a debt incurred by an ex who’s since run off. 

As she later says, it’s a waste of time dreaming about a home, life is easier when you no longer expect one. But despite themselves a gentle bond soon arises among the trio of dispossessed youngsters who each feel trapped by their circumstances but are uncertain if they still have the strength to contemplate escape. Tatsuya’s sense of impotence is embodied by the cigarette lighter he carries around which is shaped like a pistol and realistic enough to cause a yakuza bodyguard a moment of concern but of course of no real use to him. As Ryo puts it, Tatsuya’s problem is that he still cares about those around him and is not heartless enough to treat the flophouse men like the “disposable tools” others regard them to be. He is constantly belittled by grinning boss Takiguchi (Ryoji Sugimoto) who blames him for everything that goes wrong and calls him useless and ineffectual, while the flophouse boss also regards him as soft for refusing to beat one of the men who had tried to escape. 

Ryo meanwhile swings in the opposite direction, giving in to a sense of hopelessness that sees him shift towards yakuza violence but perhaps eventually allows him to bounce back and take a chance on escape even if it maybe short-lived or spent in constant hiding. Tatsuya may feel trapped by responsibility to his mother, but is otherwise psychologically unable to move forward staking all his hopes on the rumour of a new power plant hoping it will ignite the town in the way the construction of the last one did despite knowing its attendant risks. Unlike Ryo, he says there’s no point in running, despite himself still yearning for a home. The flophouse men are no different, the few who escape are soon drawn back to other similar kinds of work because there is no other hope for them. Still, once the final shots have been fired there is a kind of clearing of the air and the light of a new dawn even if few seem to be able to see it. 


Firing The Lighter Gun screened as part of this year’s Camera Japan.

Original trailer (no subtitles)