Every year, there comes along that one film that sneaks up on you. The kind that starts small, feels sweet, sentimental, maybe even a little too simple, and then before you realize it, you’re wiping your eyes and quietly rooting for it to go all the way come awards season. Rental Family is that movie for 2025. It’s the obligatory heartfelt, charming crowd-pleaser that could very well follow in the footsteps of CODA — a film that reminds us that warmth, sincerity, and a beating heart can still cut through cynicism and find a universal audience.
Directed by Hikari (37 Seconds, BEEF), Rental Family tells the story of an American actor, Phillip (Brendan Fraser), who finds himself adrift in Tokyo, struggling to find both work and meaning. He stumbles upon an unusual job: working for a “rental family” agency that hires actors to play the roles of loved ones in the lives of strangers — fathers, husbands, sons, even friends. As Phillip begins to embody these stand-in parts, the lines between acting and reality start to blur, and what begins as a quirky cultural setup slowly reveals itself as a deeply emotional exploration of connection, loneliness, and the human need to be seen.
The film works because it never looks down on the concept of “rented relationships.” Instead, Hikari treats it with quiet empathy and curiosity, showing how these artificial arrangements can sometimes lead to genuine human moments. There’s something disarmingly relatable about that. Who hasn’t, at one point in life, wished for someone to fill a void, even temporarily? Someone to stand in for the love, the care, the validation we’ve lost or never had? I know I have. Even knowing it’s not real, the pretense itself can still hold real emotion. Some days, I’d pay anything to feel it again.
Brendan Fraser is, unsurprisingly, the emotional core of the film. There’s a reason everyone loves him — he radiates warmth. He’s one of those rare actors whose face seems incapable of hiding feeling. Here, his performance is quieter, softer, and even more lived-in than in The Whale. His Phillip is gentle and endlessly kind, yet you can see flickers of something deeper in his eyes: regret, displacement, and that aching sense of not belonging. You can almost sense that Fraser, the man, has lived through the same isolation as his character. There are scenes where you catch a hint of the actor’s own struggles over the years — the pain of being sidelined, the gratitude of finding a second chance — and it hits you all the harder because of that truth bleeding through.
It’s such a tender story of fatherhood and loneliness that it’s hard not to be swept up by it. The storyline involving Mia, one of Phillip’s young clients, stands out as the film’s most emotionally resonant thread. It highlights a uniquely Japanese cultural phenomenon while exploring universal themes of family, love, and the need for connection. The tears, when they come, are earned, and even if the film doesn’t fully sustain its emotional highs throughout, those quiet moments of truth more than make up for it.
That said, Rental Family isn’t a perfect film. There are stretches where the plot feels a bit too predictable or too standard in its storytelling. The screenplay touches on several subplots — Phillip’s career struggles, the inner workings of the rental agency, the loneliness of its clients, but doesn’t dive as deeply into them as it could. You sense there’s a richer, more complex movie waiting beneath the surface. Still, even when it feels a bit thin, it remains emotionally genuine and unfailingly sweet.
Hikari’s direction is simple yet beautifully expressive. There’s a warmth and patience in her storytelling that mirrors the film’s themes. She never forces emotion; she lets it arrive naturally, often through small gestures, a glance, a silence, a shared laugh. Her eye for visual composition is stunning. Shot entirely in Japan, the film makes extraordinary use of its locations. The cinematography captures both the vast, bustling sprawl of Tokyo and the enclosed, sometimes isolating quiet of its apartments. There’s a sequence of aerial shots — tiny people moving through an enormous city, that wordlessly conveys how lonely modern life can be, even when surrounded by millions.
Visually, Rental Family is breathtaking. It’s one of those films where every frame feels like it could be printed as a postcard. The city’s neon glow reflects against rain-soaked streets, and warm lanterns illuminate faces in quiet, intimate moments. At times, it feels like a love letter to Japan itself, with a sense of stillness and beauty that elevates even its simplest scenes.
Akira Emoto, as one of Phillip’s clients, is the film’s secret weapon. His performance could have easily fallen into the trope of the grumpy old man, but Emoto brings such humanity and tenderness to the role that he ends up being one of the most affecting parts of the movie. Shannon Mahina Gorman, who plays Mia, is a revelation. She’s adorable, yes, but also heartbreakingly sincere, grounding the film’s emotional beats with her natural presence.
The movie does flirt with sentimentality. Some might find it too sweet or too saccharine for their liking. But you’d have to be a cold soul to hate this movie. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a warm hug, the kind of film that reminds you of decency and kindness at a time when the world feels increasingly transactional. Yes, it’s a bit formulaic. Yes, it occasionally feels like a Japanese tourism ad. But it’s also so earnest, so full of heart, that those flaws hardly matter.
There’s an underlying melancholy that lingers even after the credits roll, a reminder that we’re all playing roles in our own lives, performing versions of ourselves for others. We wear different masks for different people, but somewhere in those performances lies a kernel of truth. Maybe it’s not the authenticity that matters most, but the connection we feel while pretending.
Watching Rental Family in a packed theater, surrounded by strangers, I was reminded of why I love cinema in the first place. The laughter that ripples through a room, the quiet sniffles during the tender moments, the collective heartbeat of an audience feeling something together — that, too, is a kind of rented family.
Rental Family might not be groundbreaking, but it is
deeply, sincerely moving. It’s a film that speaks softly, but from the heart.
And Brendan Fraser, once again, reminds us why we fell in love with him in the
first place. This might not just be the feel-good movie of the year; it might
also be one of its most human.
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