The Man Between Masks
Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives have taken different directions.
He wonders whether they are happier. Or whether they navigate their daily lives just as lonely as he does. But his life changes rapidly when he is unexpectedly drawn into the depths of Japanese interpersonal relationships.
You have a wedding invitation, but no one to call your plus-one. Your new boyfriend wants to meet your mother, but you’re afraid she’ll embarrass you. You’re tired of going to the cinema alone every weekend, but none of your friends are film lovers.
Who hasn’t wished for an ideal companion in situations like these—someone to fill our emotional voids in uncomfortable social situations? This longing for connection is at the heart of Rental Family.
Philipp is a middle-aged American actor who moved to Tokyo after landing a big gig in a toothpaste commercial. Seven years later, the acting work has dried up, and when his agent sends him on short notice to a job requiring a black suit, he jumps at the opportunity.
When he arrives at the location, however, he discovers he has been paid to appear as a mourner at a funeral—for a man who is still alive and lying in an open casket. As the service concludes, Phillip learns that the man had hired a company to stage his own funeral so he could listen to moving eulogies about himself.
After overcoming his initial shock that such a service even exists, Phillip agrees to meet the owner of the company Rental Family and shortly afterward begins working for the firm. What follows is a journey between hopeful wishful thinking and a reality that keeps pulling him back down to earth. >The deeper Philipp immerses himself in the artificial worlds of his clients, the more genuine bonds emerge—blurring the boundaries between performance and reality.
The longing for human connection represents a central social phenomenon of contemporary society, one that has found a particularly distinctive commercial expression in Japan: the so-called "rental family industry." This is a well-documented phenomenon with its origins in the 1980s, which has attracted increased academic and cultural attention.
There are currently an estimated 300 such companies in Japan, whose employees—trained actors—take on the roles of parents, friends, spouses, or other close figures for an hourly fee. Particularly in urban centers like Tokyo, but also in rural areas, social isolation can be a defining experience of everyday life.
Notably, the demand for these services is primarily driven by a need for human closeness: despite the commercial nature of the interaction, clients frequently report that genuine friendships develop within the two to three hours spent together. The growth of this industry can be attributed to structural factors such as increasing loneliness, social isolation, and the persistent stigma surrounding mental health care in Japan.
Compared to Western countries—particularly the United States—mental health services in Japan are significantly less accessible, especially in terms of telehealth options. As a result, many people turn to informal support services: while rental family agency employees are not licensed professionals, they offer a form of low-threshold emotional support through empathetic listening and personal perspective.
It’s almost unsettling how much Philipp reminded me of my loneliest moments in Japan. When no one had time for me. When I was too tired to leave the house. When I was no longer sure why I was sitting here at all—alone at the other end of the world—jealously watching people become one with the city around them.
But Philipp also embodied a possible future version of myself, and my fear of becoming someone who has realized their dream of moving to Japan and building a better life there—only to end up completely alone. And how every day spent in this illusory world, corroded by false hopes and shattered dreams, costs him whatever happiness might exist somewhere else.
As Phillip begins working in the rental family industry, he quickly realizes that the relationships he enters into with his clients are far more than mere business transactions. As he becomes aware of the emotional impact of his work, he is forced to grapple with the ethical implications of his new career path.
His moral compass is put to the ultimate test when he meets Mia. Mia is being raised by a single mother who wants her daughter to attend a prestigious private school. The school’s admissions committee initially rejects the girl, however, because she does not come from a two-parent household.
Mia’s mother turns to the rental family agency to hire an actor—Phillip—to play her father in meetings with the school. But the assignment demands more from Phillip than simply appearing before the admissions committee. He must build a genuine relationship with Mia so that their connection appears authentic. And so Mia, who grew up thinking she was abandoned by her father, suddenly believes she has one—and quickly begins to form a deep attachment to him.
At its core, Rental Family is an odyssey in search of ourselves: a question of what we want, who we are, and what makes us happy—and a constant series of decisions about whether to follow the rules or break them in order to bring happiness to ourselves and others. For every new path taken offers both opportunities and risks in equal measure.
Brendan Fraser as Phillip can safely be called the perfect casting choice. His deeply emotional presence carries the film and moved me to spontaneous tears more than once. And yet, even by the end, it remains unclear who Phillip really is. He seems to perpetually stumble from one role to the next—like a man between masks.
Rental Family is a film that could only be set in Japan, serving as a mirror of that specific society. Tokyo as a stage-like diorama is a backdrop for people who hunger for fulfillment in the depths of this concrete jungle and take curious detours along the way. And not infrequently, even the providers of these wishful worlds embark on that same journey themselves.
Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings used to consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives had taken different directions. Because now he is one of those people who has dared to take an unfamiliar path—and will hopefully be rewarded for it.