There are moments in life when a stranger can make you feel more understood than someone you've known for years - and sometimes that connection comes from the most unexpected places.
That's the feeling this film left me with.
Rental Family dives into Japan's rental-service industry-something that often gets misunderstood or written off as "strange" by people who aren't familiar with Japanese culture. But instead of treating it like a curiosity, Rental Family shows something deeper: the quiet emotional needs people have, the parts of themselves they can't openly reveal, and how rental services become a safe space to express those hidden truths.
There are situations where people can't show their true selves - not because they're emotionless, but because the cultural pressure to maintain harmony or meet expectations is incredibly strong. And when you can't openly express who you are or what you need, it becomes hard to feel seen or understood, even by the people closest to you.
Rental Family shows how these services can sometimes offer a rare, quietly powerful alternative - a way for someone to experience honesty, support, or connection in circumstances where they simply can't reveal the full truth to their real family or community. It's not about deception. It's about finding comfort, dignity, or emotional safety in a world where not everyone has the freedom to live openly, the way they wish for or is expected of them.
Brendan Fraser plays a foreigner living in Japan who speaks the language yet still doesn't quite fit in-a feeling many expats know all too well, including myself. He's unfulfilled at work, chasing purpose without even realizing what he's actually looking for. And then he's presented with a job he doesn't understand, nearly rejects, and ultimately discovers himself through. The fulfillment he finds doesn't come from success, money, or accolades, but from emotional connection in one of the most unconventional places. And that's the beauty of the movie.
It also reminded me of my own time in Japan. When I first arrived, new to the country and with very few friends, I actually looked into renting a boyfriend for my birthday-not as a joke, not out of desperation, but because the idea felt comforting. As someone who couldn't celebrate with anyone, it sounded like a brilliant way to create a meaningful memory. The agency told me the guy I chose wasn't available on the actual day, so it didn't happen. But I still think the concept is wonderful for people who need connection when they don't have access to it.
And then there are host clubs. They get a bad reputation, and I'm not promoting them, but taken the right way, they can give people a sense of warmth or companionship they may be missing - whether they're single, far from home, or simply craving connection in a safe, controlled environment. It's another one of those very Japan-specific situations that looks unusual from the outside but makes a surprising amount of emotional sense once you understand the culture.
Because the truth is this: everyone wants to feel seen, accepted, and understood - but in Japan, expressing those needs openly isn't always easy. Cultural expectations, social harmony, and family pressures can make honesty complicated. So these rental services become a rare, structured space where people can access feelings they can't show in their everyday lives. A quiet bridge between what they can't reveal and what they still deeply need.
That's what the film captures so beautifully: that beneath the surface - beneath the politeness, the social expectations, the silence - people still carry the same longing for connection that all of us do.
And that's why this film is worth watching.
By the way, I saw this at the pre-premiere screening - and the full release is on November 21st.
If you want a nuanced, heartfelt insight into a uniquely Japanese corner of human connection, go see this movie.
