Film Name: 狼的孩子雨和雪 / Okami kodomo no ame to yuki / The Wolf Children Ame and Yuki
After watching Mamoru Hosoda’s latest film and reading numerous reviews—especially Xuefeng_Shine’s piece “The Weight of Life, The Pain of Growth”—I realized that truly great films hold immense textual and emotional value, allowing so many people to experience and interpret them from different details and perspectives.
Personally, I believe Mamoru Hosoda’s films—whether exploring the fantastical time-travel concepts of The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, the surreal gaming world of Summer Wars, or the mythical wolf-human hybrids in The Wolf Children Ame and Yuki—ultimately all return to the essence of Japanese life. While the settings and worldviews change, what remains constant is his celebration of the simple, ordinary Japanese spirit.
I vividly recall how a Japanese family in “Summer Wars” united under the guiding spirit of their matriarch—even after her passing—to fight together. In “The Wolf Children Ame and Yuki,” I also urge viewers to pay special attention to the seemingly old-fashioned “long-suffering mother” character, Hana, and the simple-hearted villagers surrounding her in the countryside. Compared to city dwellers in cramped apartments who constantly complain, blame, and criticize, rural folk living in spacious country homes clearly possess broader horizons. What matters to them isn’t your wealth or status, but whether you possess the perseverance and courage to see things through.
I also urge everyone to pay special attention to the depiction of Japanese campuses in the film. For instance, the location where Xiaohua and her boyfriend first meet at the beginning is actually my alma mater in Japan—Hitotsubashi University. This century-old institution specializes in economics and business studies, featuring buildings that are rustic on the outside yet modern within. One scene particularly stirred my memories: the film deliberately included a shot looking out from the academic building onto the grounds, where mothers played with their children. A toddler who had just learned to walk fell down, and his mother helped him up. Hitotsubashi University is like that—though not large, it welcomes many local residents daily for walks and relaxation. It isn’t an ivory tower enclosed by high walls, but a community deeply connected to society and everyday life. Some Japanese housewives, whose husbands work during the day, bring their children to the campus for walks. Though Kohana later joins these mothers in bringing her child, she clearly lacks a husband’s support, making childcare far less idyllic for her. Additionally, the film’s portrayal of Japanese elementary schools, though utterly ordinary, provokes deep reflection—from solemn entrance ceremonies to emergency response protocols. Undoubtedly, the film’s montage contrasting Xiao Xue and Xiao Yu’s simultaneous school experiences is a masterpiece!
While those from Miyazaki Prefecture may consider Miyazaki the most beautiful place, I find the scenery of Toyama Prefecture arguably more stunning. This is especially true for the film’s depiction of Toyama’s Tateyama Town and Japan’s tallest waterfall, Shōmyō Falls. Naturally, the film faithfully captures Toyama’s renowned tourist attractions nestled within the Tateyama peaks, such as the Murodō Plateau and the summit lake “Mikurigaike.” Interestingly, in the film’s middle section, when Kohana first accompanies Sayu deep into the mountains, Shōmyō Falls is portrayed as hidden deep within the mountains, accessible only after a strenuous climb. Yet by the film’s conclusion, the waterfall is depicted as visible even from the mountain’s base. Kohana, watching Sayu leap joyfully into the falls, feels a sense of release and fulfillment. This might be seen as an understandable “contradiction” in the narrative.
Let us turn our attention back to Xiao Hua. She makes me can’t help but indulge in this extravagant wish: if only I had a wife like her…
Anyone who has seen “Drawer Hobbs” must remember that ancient wooden chest housing six magical children. Her mother gave her such a chest, hoping it would help her grow into a capable woman swiftly. Both stories depict a girl’s journey to becoming an outstanding homemaker—a woman who can manage household affairs and run a family with skill—and both feature a wooden chest. The symbolic value and profound significance of the chest in Japanese culture for the family are abundantly clear. Remarkably, the chests in both films share identical specifications—a five-tier structure with four drawers below and two on top. This alignment is likely no coincidence.
If the film chose werewolves as its representative animated fantasy element, this choice offers two advantages. First, the frequent transformations of the child and the wolf create a unique sense of wonder for the audience. Second, the werewolf symbolizes two paths in life: becoming a wolf or integrating into society like the father. Two children, two genders, two personalities, two life paths. While we ponder how different genders and personalities incline toward distinct life choices, we should reflect more deeply on the fact that their mother—Xiao Hua—has only one path. When her husband, daughter, and son can all actively choose their own paths, she is left with only one: the mother’s path, shouldering all life’s burdens alone and sacrificing everything for her children’s growth.
Against this backdrop of emotion, the scene where Xiaohua runs through the snow with Xiaoyu and Xiaoxue—that rare sense of release—and the moment at the film’s end when Xiaohua falls from the cliff and sees her husband in her final moments, experiencing a sudden, profound relief from her physical and mental exhaustion, cuts straight to the heart. Perhaps for a fleeting moment, she truly wished to die then and there, to join her husband. Yet the profound responsibility of a great mother ultimately dispelled even the slightest hint of such resignation, pulling her back into reality. Despite all she had done for Xiaoyu, she still declared she hadn’t done enough for her. What kind of mother is this?
As the film unfolds, it skillfully weaves several compelling themes: The stark contrast between the boy’s timid nature and the girl’s bold spirit, which also defies their genders—will this change later? Will others discover the werewolf’s secret? How will the children’s paths unfold? This echoes Xiao Hua’s mother’s persistent question: How do werewolves grow up? The film answers most questions well, balancing suspense with plausibility. Personally, however, one question I care deeply about remains unanswered: Xiaohua’s constant fear that someone might uncover the children’s secret stems from her core worry that they’ll face discrimination. I expected the film to eventually reveal this secret within a small circle, allowing such discrimination to occur, then giving Xiaohua space to confront and resolve this discriminatory predicament—thereby fundamentally altering the social status of werewolves. Yet the film doesn’t take this path. Of course, the ending is already sufficiently satisfying.
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