Godzilla

IS GODZILLA A METAPHOR FOR AMERICA?

A few years ago Hollywood came out with one of its big budget, low-quality remakes that attempted to bring the Japanese monster legend Godzilla to the shores of America (and, specifically to the streets of Manhattan.) Predictably, the movie bombed despite some impressive special effects and a multi-million dollar advertising blitz (demonstrating for the umpteenth time that lots of money and state-of-the-art effects cannot save a lame story.) But what I found even more unusual about the flick was not the response of the American movie-going public—which was tepid at best—but those of the Japanese.

It seems Hollywood hit a nerve with our Asian allies by daring to remake their monster in our image. So incensed were they by this obvious affront to what has become a Japanese movie legend that they did their own remake. Again, not surprisingly, it also bombed (even with somewhat updated special effects) but what’s curious is why the Japanese felt it necessary to make their own remake in the first place. After all, Godzilla was hardly an award winning movie when it premiered in 1954, and the numerous sequels it spawned have been laughably bad ever since, so why would the Japanese care if we unwisely burrowed their unlikely zoological monstrosity and let it chew on New York instead of Tokyo for a change? It seems their response hardly matched the heinousness of the ‘crime’ Hollywood committed in daring to reintroduce the tired old beast to a new generation of apathetic teens.

Was there more to this monster than meets the eye? Is there something about it that speaks to the Japanese psyche we do not appreciate? Obviously, there is, and I think I know what it is.

For those not versed on the Japanese epic, Godzilla was a fire breathing, 400-foot tall radioactive reptile that was supposedly either released or created as a result of American hydrogen bomb testing. It appears quite suddenly (and, some might surmise, unexpectedly) off the coast of Japan one day, wades ashore without invitation, and generally lies waste to the Japanese countryside. He especially enjoys crunching cities—particularly Tokyo—and leaves in his wake burning buildings, toppled electrical towers, and melted tanks wherever he ventures. Of course, the reconstituted and fledgling Japanese Air Force and Army tries to stop the critter repeatedly, but despite going through a year’s worth of ordinance in a few minutes, nothing seems to even faze the beast. In the end, after finishing its attempts at urban renewal, it finally lumbers back off to the Pacific and vanishes beneath its churning waters, a poignant reminder of the danger that science represents, at least insofar as atomic research is concerned.

Now there are several elements of the story that I find curious. First of all, the creature, despite being a mere animal after all, is impervious to everything the Japanese throw at him. Missiles, artillery, machine gun fire, even strafing by fighter jets—nothing stops this bad boy or, for that matter, even seems to hurt him; all they do is apparently make him madder. Second, he burns entire cities to the ground (unlike most Hollywood monsters of the genre, who simply knock things over and generally make a nuisance of themselves) leaving behind the hulks of smoldering ruins that resemble nothing so much as the burned out cities seen in the aftermath of WWII in both Japan and Germany. And, third—and even more significant—the creature is radioactive; those it doesn’t kill by incinerating or crushing, it kills with radiation poisoning, not unlike what happened in a couple of Japanese cities in August of 1945.

Obviously, Godzilla is no mere animal. Instead, it is a super, irresistible, almost God-like entity capable of and intent on wanton, wide-spread death and destruction. Now ask yourself, what comparable force has Japan faced in its long history? What entity came from the sea to level its cities and appeared impervious to the best efforts of the Japanese military to stop it? Does anything come to mind?

How about the United States Air Force, circa 1945.

Clearly Godzilla is a metaphor for the B-29s that brought so much death, misery, and destruction to the island nation. Curtis Lemay’s bombers managed to, in the course of just a few months, level most of Japan’s cities (killing millions of civilians in the process) and even introduced the horror of the atomic bomb and the resultant radiation poisoning it brought with it. It was a horror so overwhelming in scope that the Japanese people to this day remain traumatized by it (as I imagine any people would be if similarly afflicted.) Godzilla, then, in being the only thing capable of such carnage on a comparable scale, is the perfect metaphor not only for the United States Air Force, but for the overwhelming strength of the United States itself. Godzilla is America, at least in the Japanese psyche.

Nonsense, some will claim. Godzilla is simply an imaginary movie monster; a product of the fertile imagination of some Japanese writers and directors and realized in the guise of a guy in a goofy rubber suit stomping on model cities and battling toy tanks and planes. To read anything more than that into it is unwarranted.

Really? Then why is Japan the only country on Earth to suffer widespread destruction from both American air power and from a mythological dragon-beast? Why is Japan the only nation to suffer the ravages of the atomic bomb as well as the radioactively produced destruction meted out by Godzilla? To not see the parallels is to not pay attention. They are everywhere and easily seen by even the most casual observer.

Need further proof? Okay—consider these points:

Godzilla came from the sea; so did the Americans, first by plane and then by ship. The land invasion of the home islands scheduled to begin in the fall of 1945 would have been entirely sea-borne, just as all the island hopping campaigns of the war had been up to that point. The enemy came from the sea, just as it always had.
Godzilla was unstoppable and impervious to the best efforts of the Japanese armed forces; so were LeMay’s bombers. The Japanese threw literally everything they had at the American aircraft but were unable to even dent their ranks. No amount of firepower, determination, or even sacrificial bravery seemed to make any difference; the bombers just kept on coming in ever larger numbers.
Godzilla destroyed Japan’s cities with fire, and especially relished laying waste to Tokyo. Japanese cities in WWII were burned to the ground by incendiary bombs, which found the wooden and paper cities of Japan a perfect and volatile fuel source. Further, Tokyo was a favorite and oft-repeated target, with most of the city eventually being reduced to ash by the end of the war.
Godzilla was radioactive. So were the bombs dropped on Japan in August, 1945. What’s especially telling is that in real life radiation would kill a reptile—even a 400-foot tall one—just as easily as it would kill a 3-inch long mouse. As such, making the monster radioactive made no sense from a scientific standpoint—unless, of course, it’s really a symbol for something else.
Finally, the monster was never killed in any of the Godzilla movies, but usually it simply returned to the ocean after finishing its destructive habits to rejuvenate and ready itself for its next adventure (yes, I know there were movies in which its destruction was implied, but the subsequent torrid of sequels demonstrate that the animal was essentially immortal.) The Americans likewise returned to their homes across the ocean after the end of the war. Could a more perfect metaphor be found?

What is especially telling is that in the later sequels made off the original monster, Godzilla changes just as Japan’s relationship with America does. It was a gradual shift to be sure, but to anyone who followed the Godzilla epics and their many excruciatingly bad sequels, it is apparent the monster began to change from being Japan’s destroyer to her protector. Instead of setting out to lay waste to Japan’s cities, Godzilla eventually shifted his (or her—Godzilla's gender is never made quite clear) efforts towards fighting off other horrific beasts that threatened the Japanese homeland (Rodan, Mothra, and King Kong to name a few)—creatures I believe represented the other regional superpowers (the Soviet Union, Communist China) that threatened Japan at the time (or, in the case of the Smog Monster, represented her own insecurities about her rapid industrialization and the pollution that resulted.) Did Godzilla then come to represent the only force—America—powerful enough to ensure her ultimate safety? It’s something to consider.

It’s interesting to note that in one of the sequels made in 1968 (Destroy All Monsters) Godzilla, after defeating or driving off her foes, was provided an island upon which the beast could live in relatively safety and ease—at least until the next time it was needed. Could this be a metaphor for Japan keeping her protector—America—on hand but at bay? It certainly appears that Japan wants us around, though not too close and, hopefully, not directly on her property if at all possible (perhaps ‘monster island’ was a metaphor for Okinawa, the only substantial piece of Japanese real estate with a still significant American military presence. Recall that at the time of the movie, it was still American occupied territory, and remained so until 1972.) In fact, in some of the final scenes in the movie, Godzilla even seems to wave at the Japanese helicopter circling the island as though perceiving it as some genial toy. What a better metaphor for America’s and Japan’s relationship at the time: a radioactive monster kept on a short leash, but one that might even be looked upon somewhat fondly by its former victims. Notice that the helicopter doesn’t fly too close to the monster, nor does anyone attempt to pat it on the head; it is, after all, still a dangerous creature and not entirely trustworthy, but at least it’s now on their side. What a more appropriate way for the Japanese to describe the country that once decimated it and brought it to ruin but now counts it amongst its closest allies? How else could you see it?

Of course, things have changed since the Godzilla movies first came out. Japan is no longer a beaten foe, but an economic juggernaut and growing world power. It no longer fears America as it once did, but competes against her, which is perhaps the reason the Godzilla genre died out (though they do continue to produce silly spin-offs, the genre has nowhere near the attraction it held earlier.) Japan has outgrown its need for a metaphorical monster to placate and look to for protection. It no longer fears Godzilla, and without that fear, Godzilla could not survive. In the end it died of natural causes. Fortunately.

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