Love Letters II: ‘Mirai’
On firstborns and family trees
Eleven months and a pandemic later, I’ve decided to write a following to the ‘Love Letters’ series I began in January with the film Columbus. In that piece I wrote that all a love story needed to be is a manifest form of an expression of care. A few days ago, I had my first viewing — of what would possibly be out of many, I’m sure — of Mamoru Hosoda’s 2018 animated feature, Mirai (Japanese: 未来のミライ, Hepburn romanization: Mirai no Mirai).
The (Oscar-nominated!) film follows a 4-year-old protagonist (always a fun experience), a boy named Kun, as he dipped his toes into older-brother-hood for the first time. As you might possibly predict, he did not have the best reaction to the experience, and even to his newborn sister, the titular Mirai (meaning “future” in Japanese). Acting in stereotypical firstborn fashion, Kun vies for his parents’ attention by throwing tantrums, crying, and even to the point of hurting his baby sister.
However unpleasant Kun’s behavior might seem, he is a kid anyway. And as a kid, especially one who has been spending his entire life (up until the time the film took place) as an only child, we can assume Kun knows how to entertain himself. That assumption might be proven right as an imaginary world — possibly an extensive figment of Kun’s imagination (albeit, it might be slightly too complex for a 4-year-old)— is revealed in the film.
In this fantastical world, Kun encountered an interesting cast of characters, all revealed to be members of his own family — alive or dead, young or old, human or animal — at varying points of their lives and even in different forms. One of them being Mirai herself, but instead of an infant, she’s well into her teenage years. (The literal translation of the Japanese title of the film is actually “Mirai of the future”).
The projections of Kun’s family members were apparently rooted from the tree in his family’s garden. Each visited Kun at certain points of the film to help him resolve problems he’s facing. Think of it as a main character having multiple sidekicks for each of their ventures.
However, as we watched Kun being guided and taught by his relatives, in the end, it was clear he needed to learn things by himself.
It’s very much like learning how to ride a bicycle, something we saw Kun actually do in the film. First, he learned with his father, mirroring both his desparation for his parents’ attention when Mirai was born, and the guidance he received from his imagined relatives. After that first attempt at bike-riding, Kun gave up in frustration.
Eventually, he acknowledged his blindspots and succeeded in riding his bike, all on his own. Turns out, the key to riding a bicycle was to look into the distance. Identical to how his imaginative encounter with Mirai from the distance (future) helped him to realize his love for her and the rest of his family.
Which brings be back to my initial description of love letters. Kun’s “letter” — in this case, for his family — differs from that definition because his is not a straightforward, linear manifestation of love. Taking its place is a back-and-forth, turbulent, internal journey filled with emotions, acceptance, and learning. So much learning.
