Pacifism in Rubber Suits; Running through Godzilla Part 1: the 1950s


Villain. Reluctant anti-hero. Beloved hero. The variables change. What remains constant: an indestructible force of nature. His appearance can send an entire nation weeping for their lives, or cheering from the sidelines, and every combination in between. Godzilla (called Gojira in his native country) is a Japanese icon, a reminder of a horrifying past, and one of cinema's most fascinating and enduring film franchises.

Produced by Tomoyuki Tanaka, with writing and story contributions by Takeo Murata and Shigeru Kayama, the original Godzilla production took recognizable form when Toho Studios hired Ishiro Honda to finalize the script and direct the picture. There have been countless monster movies made before and after Godzilla, but perhaps none as devastatingly tied to the real world. This 50-meter-tall sorta-reptilian sorta-dinosaur resembling monster (designed by Teizo Toshimitsu, Akira Watanabe and Eiji Tsuburaya) is a physical manifestation of humanity's contempt for itself to grow so tragically severe to allow the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to occur. Described by scientists in-film as an ancient sea monster that had been hibernating for centuries, Godzilla is woken up by the nuclear fallout, and his own biology is impacted by the bombs.


Fantasy, horror and science-fiction media don't usually concern themselves with subtlety; it's often an endearing trait of genre fiction. Some of the all-time great works are known to preach their social and political criticisms to the audience (I'm looking at you,
Twilight Zone), with Godzilla among them. Blatancy vs Subtlety shouldn't be a debate, with the former works of art being derided for choosing to address real world concerns under the guise of easier-to-digest genre mechanisms. Some people would label this film (or if not this film specifically, then almost certainly the sequels) a b-movie; a movie with a visibly low budget and tells a relatively familiar story that falls under a genre such as horror, fantasy, or science-fiction. There's a sort of unwritten formula to them, that you only pick up on once you watch so many movies of any specific genre. Genre films have a harder time earning the praises of critics than “real-life” dramas, so-called arthouse films, or films directed by established directors with auteuristic qualities. You can tell a sweeping, emotional story about the effects of the atomic bomb on Japanese society, but if you throw in a 150-foot monster (or some other fantastical element) then all of a sudden people will approach it from a critical distance. Even among people who enjoy genre films, a lot will not even admit to taking them seriously. There is the so-bad-it's-good label, the shut-off-your-brain-at-the-coming-attractions argument. There are those who come into these films with an ironic distance, which hurts genre cinema. If its fans can't even take it seriously, then why should the critical community? By refusing to take b-movies/genre films as seriously as other movies, we are depriving film criticism of some much needed variety, and limiting the types of discussions that can be had about certain movies. As post-war reflections on life in Japanese cinema go, Godzilla is the real deal, and it shouldn't be out of place to be brought up in the same discussions as The Human Condition, for example. Fortunately, critical consensus has lately been giving this film its deserved respect, possibly helped in part by the Criterion Collection's decision to add it to their Blu-ray library. Godzilla has earned its place in the film canon, but none of its sequels are given the same consideration. It's not even a question of if these movies are actually good, or how good they are, because the type of criticism they receive is so dismissive of them at first glance that they are not even given a chance to succeed. Critics and wider audiences alike should be more open minded about experiencing genre cinema, and not feel the need to disassociate them from other areas of film.

The human plot-lines in Godzilla films have a tendency to be less interesting than whatever the monsters are up to. This is a problem more-so with the sequels than the original, which works as a straight laced drama for much of its duration. There is a compelling mystery in the first act, as villagers are shocked by their sunken fishing boats and destroyed land. Even loss of lives. There are rumblings of monster talk, but the beast remains unseen. There is a growing anticipation in his debut, with a payoff that's a little more gruesome than todays generation of viewers might expect. The towering figure grazes the city streets, lumbering, but destructively. Each step shattering the buildings and roads beneath his feet. Telephone poles stripped from the ground. Fires nearly as high as the monster itself blazing behind him. In the foreground people are manic, running as fast away from the chaos as possible. The film occasionally cuts from the action to close-ups of people, in packs and individually, looks of horror painted on their faces, some huddled in corners; too close to the monster to escape in time and accepting their cruel fate. The accompanying sounds are an overlap of composer Akira Ifukube's doomsday score, and the screams of everyone across Japan, afraid for their lives. Godzilla's reputation in the West tends to lean towards his campier exploits of the 1960s and 1970s. It doesn't help that the original film was released in the United States in mangled form in 1956, as Godzilla, King of the Monsters!, eliminating 16 minutes of footage from Godzilla and including newly shot exposition scenes. The truth of Godzilla, however, is one of horror brought on by the atomic bomb.

The beast's on-screen appearances are the most memorable moments. This is a horror film, and its scenes of Godzilla laying waste to buildings and people, grazing through cities as they burn to the ground behind him, still leave a deep impression. In one later scene, the camera pans right to left in one long take to illustrate the damage that's been done; what appears to be an entire town, no more. Godzilla's screams a harbinger of death, they echo throughout the film, and burrow in the subconscious.


Godzilla doesn't just reflect on the past bombings on Japan, but on the state of weapons of mass destruction. The film's eccentric and reclusive character Dr. Serizawa has created an Oxygen Destroyer, a device which breaks down oxygen atoms surrounding an area, causing any organism nearby to die of asphyxiation. An invention which could prove to be a miraculous tool for science, or a civilization destroying weapon. Serizawa repeatedly refuses offers by the military to use it against Godzilla, afraid of creating another weapon and repeating a chain of events that saw Godzilla arise in the first place. Dr. Serizawa's scientific breakthrough would always become a weapon. A sorrowful truth of humanities inward destruction. He eventually agrees to use his discovery to save Japan, but in an act of self preservation, he destroys the beast, as well as himself, burying with him the secrets of this potential weapon. In Rod Serling fashion, a final monologue warns against nuclear weapons testing and how it could lead to the creation of other Godzillas and other creatures like him.

Godzilla
was a box office hit, and Toho rushed a sequel, putting Godzilla Raids Again (1955) in cinemas not even six months later. Motoyoshi Oda's only directed Godzilla film, Raids Again is fascinating in parts though not cohesive as a whole. It is partly a retread of the predecessor, hitting the same beats and meditations on violence and war but lacking in Honda's humanity. Honda's work is undeniably pacifistic. Oda seems either unsure of his political leanings, or unwilling or unable to put his own self into the series like Honda did. The rushed production put a rather low glass ceiling on the potential of the Godzilla sequel. While it partially carries over the previous film's pacifism, it introduces a second monster, Anguirus, pits both it and Godzilla in battle, and almost revels in their mayhem. As the two creatures do battle in civilized territory, the human causalities and loss of homes is prevalent, but Godzilla Raids Again is hardly concerned. This movie creates the monster vs monster set-up of the kaiju genre/movement that swept Japan in the 1960s, with Godzilla at the forefront of it all. Those movies all do a better job conveying monster-on-monster battles than this one, which has some of the weaker kaiju action scenes in Toho's Godzilla series. When Godzilla and Anguirus battle, they grapple each other like wrestlers, and pummel each other with left and right hooks, grapple some more, with shoving back and forth, and back to punches again. They repeat this formula, and they move much too quickly. The actors inside the monster costumes are unsure on how they should be moving, and prance with the agility of lucha libre wrestlers. It doesn't work at all considering the shape and perceived size of these beasts, and they fight at such a speed that none of their moves leave an impression. They appear to take no damage from each other, and don't even slow down from exhaustion as you would expect opponents to do in battle. To make matters worse, the footage appears to be sped up during these fights, suggesting the film wanted to illustrate these monsters exhibiting supernatural speed, an idea that is dropped in the 1960s films. The later sequels improve on the fight choreography exponentially, with the actors smartly playing to the camera, and making every move matter.

The most interesting thing about Godzilla Raids Again is the carefree attitude the human characters portray throughout this movie, especially in regards to the cities-wide destruction caused yet again by our title villain. They're laughing and joking in the face of Godzilla news, and simply trying to live their lives to the best of their ability, around this recurring nightmare. Once is a tragedy, twice is a statistic. Japan has already become desensitized to their giant destroyer. And if you think that's poor or unrealistic writing just look at America's mainstream reactions to daily mass shootings. You can only mourn the loss of life for so long. Even when it continues, at some point you become numb to its effects, as horrifying as that sounds. Who knows if this was an intentional aspect of Godzilla Raids Again, but it certainly strikes a chord nonetheless.

Toho didn't follow up Godzilla Raids Again for seven years, the franchise experiencing its first of several lengthy hiatuses. While Godzilla lay dormant, other monsters sprang up, with Toho keeping Ishiro Honda to direct monster movies for them: Rodan (1956), Varan the Unbelievable (1958) and Mothra (1961). These movies kept the kaiju genre alive, and it exploded in popularity throughout the remainder of the 1960s as Honda crafted his own monster movie universe, with Rodan and Mothra becoming recurring fixtures in the Godzilla franchise, and popular characters in their own right. Japan was no longer home to just one giant monster, but many. Capitalism refused to let the King of Monsters die, morphing the anti-war sentiment into Japan's very own - and very profitable - antihero. And with a host of other colourful creatures to both oppose and assist him, Godzilla grew into a family friendly blockbuster series.

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