‘Rental Family’ movie review: what we risk when life becomes a role

Rental Family questions many tenets of human existence. It asks what it truly means to be alive—is it to be seen, to be loved, to be needed or to be useful? The film unveils themes often reserved for moments of silence with oneself, yet renders them beautifully accessible through poetic storytelling and equally enigmatic cinematography.

Japan’s cityscapes, scenes of nature and temples are more than enough to captivate any viewer, but writer-director Hikari carefully employs the country’s landscapes as a character in their own right. Japan is not merely a backdrop to the wants and hurts of those on screen; it represents the never-ending push and pull between tradition and modernity, past and future, intimacy and anonymity—tensions that make rental family companies a relevant business in the country. Hikari dissects the act of acting (or playing a role), while leaving room for humour, pain and deep contemplation throughout the film’s intricate narratives. Through Phillip, the director poses questions to viewers, the answers to which can only be found deep within ourselves.

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Phillip finds genuine enjoyment in his role as a father to the young girl, Mia, and as a friend to the ailing actor Kikuo. At many points, he even confuses the joy of these pretend moments as his own. This brings to mind a quote from Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things: ‘If you're happy in a dream, does that count?’ This complexity lies at the heart of the film’s portrayal of heartache. In a world filled with endless pressures, Phillip finds liberation in make-believe. And just like him, aren’t we all performing in some way or another?

Rental Family is a definite must-see, bringing to the fore the very best of what cinema can offer. Immersive and emotionally precise, it captures not only the eye but also the heart.

In a world that increasingly trades intimacy for convenience, the film reminds us that even borrowed connections carry weight. It lingers because it asks what we so often avoid confronting: whether connection must be real to be meaningful. In watching Phillip perform intimacy for others, we are compelled to examine the roles we play each day and to question whether, beneath them, we are truly seen.

All in all, Rental Family’s greatest triumph lies in its refusal to judge. Instead, it quietly observes, asking whether love, care and belonging lose their value when they are performed—and leaving us to sit with the answer.

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