Director Spotlight: Hirokazu Kore-eda

Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore‑eda is one of the few writers and directors whose work makes me feel instantly at home. Revisiting his works evokes a sentiment on par with speaking to a beloved family member or a childhood friend – someone who knows me deeply and embraces me for both my strengths and flaws.

Being able to talk about the natural world and the most fundamental aspects of human existence should come naturally to people. Yet, the truth is, most of us rarely take time to reflect on the ordinary things that make up our days. In particular, we take our relationships with family for granted, seeing them as normal and unremarkable; we seldom stop to consider what it actually means to have a family – whether “ordinary” or not – and all the emotional baggage that comes with that unit. 

Still from Shoplifters (2018) via IMDb.

Sometimes we feel sad or empty, and instead of trying to understand why we feel that way, our instinct is to overcompensate with habits, vices or distractions that only treat the surface of the problem. We all experience loss in life – whether through broken relationships or bereavement – yet we live at such a fast pace, always looking ahead to the next big thing, that we rarely pause to process these moments unless they directly impact our plans. Too often, we realize too late which small, everyday moments will become our most precious memories; we never truly understand, while they are happening, that we are experiencing something that will leave us nostalgic and sentimental for the rest of our lives. 

This feeling is exactly what Kore‑eda’s cinema captures. It is about life. It is about those fragments of life that may seem brief or episodic, but which change us, warm our hearts, and stay with us, even if we remember the the feeling far more vividly than the event itself.

As I write this, I have now watched every one of Kore‑eda’s features, as well as some of his works made for television. Not once did a film of his fail to leave me reflecting, not only on what I had just seen, but on my own life, identity and relationships. Even though his stories are deeply rooted in Japanese society and culture, they speak to universal human experiences that everyone, everywhere, can recognize.

Still from Shoplifters (2018) via IMDb.

I came to Kore‑eda’s work quite late – or perhaps, at exactly the right time. I suspect his films might have less impact on a younger person who has not yet lived enough to grasp all he has to say. My first encounter was with Shoplifters (2018), the film that won the Palme d’Or at Cannes in 2018. Like every Kore‑eda film I have seen since, it made me cry. It has unforgettable dialogue and a portrait of unusual, tender relationships that will stay with me forever.

The film follows a found family who primarily makes ends meet by training their children as thieves. One of the most fascinating things about this masterpiece is how it navigates the morally grey areas of human behavior – stealing is illegal, and the central clan’s way of life is unconventional, to say the least – yet it earnestly depicts the pathos of family: not always a matter of blood, but a matter of choice, mutual growth and an aspiration for safety against the harshness of the outside world.

After that, I sought out two other works that shows just the centrality of family to his filmmaking: Like Father, Like Son (2013) and Still Walking (2008). Both place the relationship between parents and children at their core, and explore how deeply that relationship shapes who we become. Like Father, Like Son explores one of life’s most difficult dilemmas. As a father to a six‑year‑old boy myself, this story struck me especially hard. In the film, a couple discovers that their child was swapped at the hospital six years prior, meaning that their biological son grew up with strangers.

Still from Like Father, Like Son (2013) via IMDb.

The first family we meet is wealthy and successful, headed by an arrogant father convinced he has everything figured out. That is, until his parenting is subject to scrutiny. Why do the children seem happier, and more attached, to the poorer, less educated, less “successful” family? Once again, family, and what it means to be family, is at the heart of it all. There are no easy answers – only an honest exploration of how our experiences and relationships form our identity.

That same sensitivity runs through Still Walking. It tells the story of a patriarch who lost the son most like him years ago, and who has spent a lifetime feeling disappointed in the other child who remained – one who disapproves of his career choices and his decision to marry a widow who already had a child (something still frowned upon in traditional Japanese society). Tensions build throughout the film, but as always with Kore‑eda, there is a quiet sense of growth and resolution by the end. 

His films rarely have a perfect, happy ending, but they always bring some kind of comfort, and always leave us feeling like we have embarked on an emotional journey away from the conflict that usually peaks in the second act towards something softer and more true. It is a film about expectations, dreams, paths that differ from what we imagined, and the courage to accept the hand that life deals us.

Still from After the Storm (2016) via IMDb.

We see similar themes in another wonderful film, After the Storm (2016), which explores how divorce affects every member of a family – mother, father, and child – the feelings that remain long after a relationship ends, and how love alone is sometimes not enough to rebuild what was lost. It also looks back, connecting the father’s struggles to his own relationship with his late father, and the memories and lessons that shaped him forever.

Kore-eda also plays around with perspective by considering children’s views of their parents. 2004’s Nobody Knows is one of the most powerful works in Kore‑eda’s career. Seen through the lens of a young boy, it tells the story of four siblings who were abandoned by their mother, left to fend for themselves and carry the weight of the world on their small shoulders. It is not always an easy watch – it demands patience, but rewards you with one of the most moving, dramatic, and perfectly crafted endings in all his filmography. The other is his massive 2023 success, Monster, about a single mother who fears her son is being abused by his teacher. The story unfolds through three shifting perspectives – hers, the teacher’s, and finally the boy’s – revealing hidden truths about two lonely children, harmful assumptions, and what “monstrous” really means. 

Still from Monster (2023) via IMDb.

Kore‑eda experiments with structure, on something I would call a Rashomon of emotions: it keeps us questioning what is really happening and where it will lead. The ending is more open‑ended than is typical for him, inviting us to examine our own beliefs and convictions, and to imagine a better world, one where everyone can be happy in their own way.

Every part of Kore‑eda’s filmography deserves close attention. His themes feel familiar, yet he never repeats himself. Each film brings something new to the table. You can immediately see this in his early, visually and narratively stunning work Maborosi (1995), a poetic exploration of grief, loneliness and resilience, or in his surprising take on the thriller genre, The Third Murder (2017), wherein his  distinctive compassionate touch carries through. 

Still from The Third Murder (2017) via IMDb.

Broker (2022), one of his more recent films, fearlessly explores controversial aspects of South Korean society. It divided opinion, but for me, it is his most successful international work, in which he adapts his style perfectly to a different culture and language while keeping everything that makes his work unique. One cannot discuss his range without mentioning After Life (1998), a contemplative work about what happens after death, the memories we keep, and the things worth fighting for while we are here. For those who enjoy television, Kore‑eda also gave us a masterclass in how to adapt his style to the small screen with the Netflix series Asura (2024). In this straight-to-streaming production, he reunites with some of his favourite actresses but builds a different kind of structure, pace and storyline specific to long-form, proving his talent translates beautifully to different formats.

There are two films I’ve saved for last. Both mean a great deal to me, and while they share common ground, they take very different creative risks. First is Air Doll (2009), a film about a sex doll come-to-life that feels just as relevant today as when it came out, and one we can easily link to many modern social phenomena. Here, he explores the boundary between the natural and the artificial, making the audience question their own preconceptions about life and society. This is exactly why I still have high hopes for his upcoming Sheep in the Box (2026), despite its mixed reception at Cannes.

Read our review of 'Air Doll' (2009) here

Air Doll may not have resonated with everyone, but for me it is one of his most moving films. Seen through any lens – whether that of fragile, lonely people who use relationships for pleasure without ever giving anything back (a powerful anticipation of what is now called the “male loneliness epidemic”), or through the eyes of the doll herself, played with wonderful sensitivity by Bae Doona – it is extraordinary. It also breaks his usual structure: instead of offering a gentle sense of resolution, it leaves us sadder, perhaps even empty, but also affirms the idea that life always goes on, and that contrast makes it all the more memorable.

Still from Our Little Sister (2015) via IMDb.

The second film I saved for last is Our Little Sister (2015), and for completely opposite reasons. Here, the risk Kore‑eda takes is the opposite: there is hardly any  major conflict. It is the closest Kore-eda has ever come to the warmth and charm of Studio Ghibli, and it’s more of a feel‑good film than most of his work. Yet conflict is still there – quiet, understated, but very real. It tells the story of three sisters who welcome a younger half‑sister they never knew existed – the daughter of their late father from a relationship that ended his first marriage.

Everything is handled with great maturity, even when their own mother returns briefly, and things do not go perfectly. But if there is one director who can tell such a story with meaning and tenderness, it is Kore‑eda. It is a beautiful film I love to revisit, and it sits perfectly within that quiet, captivating space he has made his trademark.

Before I wrap this spotlight, I must confess that it was not easy to write. There’s that famous question: “If you could invite any living person for lunch and a conversation, who would it be?” For me, the answer is always Hirokazu Kore‑eda. I am a huge admirer of his work, of how he reveals both the fragility, complexity, and beauty found in the most ordinary moments of life. He is one of those artists whose work I will always keep exploring, revisiting, and learning from.

Still from Sheep in the Box (2026) via IMDb.

Having written all this, I feel I must return to his world as soon as I can. This year, he gifted two new films. Even if most critics were less enthusiastic about Sheep in the Box, my interest remains undimmed, and I’m even more eager to see what he does with his upcoming adaptation of "Look Back" – Tatsuki Fujimoto’s beloved one-shot manga about two girls who bond over drawing, collaborate on comics, and grapple with sudden loss. It is a heartfelt story that feels perfectly suited to Kore‑eda’s style. 

I will be waiting, Mr. Kore‑eda, hoping that one day you might read these words, and that we might finally share that lunch.

-Pedro