Godzilla vs. my attention span … FIGHT!

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV on weekdays, even during the summer. Still, when my family had gone to sleep, I’d sneak into the kitchen and precariously climb onto a tall wooden stool so I could reach the height of our countertop Toshiba. 

I’d push the power on button with as much precision as I could muster, but still — zzzz —  the quiet crackle of the TV warming up was enough to make me look over each shoulder twice. Before settling in, I skillfully balanced on tiptoes, with arms stretched for that familiar yellow box of sugary goodness atop the fridge. Then, finally, wrapped in a princess blanket, I sat, eyes glued to the glowing screen, crunching on an overfilled bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats.

At six, I was first introduced to Ishirô Honda and his spectacular world of monsters. “Destroy All Monsters” (1968), like other Godzilla movies, was featured on the Turner Classic Movies channel. I still remember the moment I saw the glittering characters appear over an orange sunset: “怪獣総進撃: Destroy All Monsters.” 

At the time, I felt like an adult watching a real monster movie instead of the usual “Camp Rock” (2008). There, I made my first astute cinematic analysis: the red, blue and green military base looked like the PlayPlace at McDonald’s, the she-alien race, Kilaaks, were creepy, and the yellow spandex space suits were cool as hell. Mix that with a plot to take over the world and a giant goofy lizard? I was in.  

As I watched the movie, one question stuck in my mind from the initial narration: If the Kaiju — giant monsters in Japanese — were never freed by the Kilaak, would they have stayed trapped in Monsterland — the high-tech remote island built to trap them — forever? The scientists gave them all the fish they could eat, and the barriers were designed to withstand the Kaiju’s greatest attempts to escape. Wouldn’t they have gotten tired eventually? Given up? The island seemed pretty nice, and, me personally, I — King Ghidorah is slammed to the ground by Godzilla — WOAHHHHH!!

Years passed, and “Destroy All Monsters” became a kitschy lost world of my childhood. It was tucked away collecting dust along with my princess blanket and my mild addiction to dry Honey Bunches of Oats. Long past were the days of late-night kitchen screenings of the Classics channel. I got my first taste of the internet in elementary school when my parents purchased an iMac desktop computer. Then I got my first smartphone in fifth grade, and as my access to media became whenever and wherever I wanted, I couldn’t bring myself to care about Godzilla’s next level up or increasingly menacing foe. None of it compared to the terror I could access at my fingertips. 

I went from sneaking TV time on the weekdays to a constant stream of media during my waking hours. As soon as I wake up, I listen to the news to get myself up to date. Then, I scroll on TikTok for a bit, see four to five edits about BRAT-coded Kamala Harris and homoerotic edits of Donald Trump and Joe Biden set to Chappell Roan’s “Casual,” followed by a video detailing the devastation in Gaza — back to BRAT summer. I listen to Kendrick Lamar in the shower. A YouTube video essay with my breakfast. A podcast for my walk to class where we watch a three-hour noir from the 1950s — jeez, my attention span is messed up. 

Class ends. In my headphones, I  blast Doechii all the way back to the dorms. Over dinner, I watch a couple of episodes of my show of the week — yes, I go through a show a week. I doomscroll on TikTok a bit more before starting my homework, listen to jazz in the shower and then go to sleep with the consoling whispers of an ASMRtist making some strange concoction called Wood Soup or roleplaying a 16th-century doctor treating me for the bubonic plague. 

I indulge in media from all directions, and slowly but surely, my capacity to truly engage and think about the content I’m reading, watching and hearing dwindles to nothing. I am simply consuming. Just as my attention splinters, the Godzilla franchise morphs to match the changing demands of a constantly overstimulated audience. 

Throughout the years, Godzilla has taken 44 different forms across 44 films. The 1970s saw a funky, psychedelic, almost avant-garde Godzilla in “Godzilla vs. Hedorah” (1971). “All Monsters Attack” (1969) prioritizes physical comedy and is told through the perspective of a young boy as fan demographics shifted to younger audiences. “Shin Godzilla” (2016) features a hyper-realistic depiction of the monster. Bug eyes, countless rows of razor-sharp teeth piled in its mouth and thick black scales with crevices that expose deep red muscle. A style akin to “District 9” (2009), a reflection of the grotesque apocalyptic monster movies of the late 2010s. Over the last 70 years, Godzilla has paid close attention to what the people want, starting from the original “Gojira” (1954).

The original “Gojira” was a horror film — not an action blockbuster or slapstick comedy with a latex-suited Kaiju. Honda, the writer and director of the original film, served in World War II and saw the rubble of Hiroshima upon his return to Japan. Horrified by the devastation of war, Honda wanted to reflect the anxieties of the time and point a mirror in the face of Japanese bureaucracy. 

Released to the public in Japan Nov. 3, 1954, audiences reacted not with laughter or with expressive fear, as Honda intended, but with pain. Japanologist and author William Tsutsui emphasized the significance of Godzilla’s first audience — the people who witnessed the destruction of Tokyo in 1945. In “Gojira,” viewers witnessed the decimation of a city that, in reality, was still being pieced back together. It was a traumatic hit. For the citizens of Tokyo, this was far from fiction.

Post Hiroshima and Nagasaki, fear engulfed Japan. Anxieties were high, and questions about the long-term effects of exposure to radiation pervaded. “Hibakusha” — a Japanese term used to refer to the surviving victims of atomic warfare —  faced immense discrimination and alienation from the rest of the population. 

In 1945, rumors that radiation exposure could spread from one person to another, like an infectious disease, were widely accepted as fact. After surviving an unimaginable trauma, survivors were neglected by the very institutions and communities that were supposed to protect them. The Hibakusha were shunned by their own neighbors and even made ineligible for employment and marriage. 

In a dark theater, almost 10 years after what many call the “unforgettable fire,” Gojira’s shriek broke Japan’s painful silence. The monster uprooted what was considered taboo at the time and connected with the civilian victims’ deep loss and guilt. 

Seventy years later, the film’s content still rings true, but unlike earlier generations, Gen Z consumes without pausing. This threatens to leave us uninterested and detached from what we care about most. Whether Godzilla was fighting off aliens, a robot version of himself or every Kaiju ever created, I didn’t care. Once, the idea of Monsterland fascinated me to no end, but as the years went by, I struggled to keep my focus on any Godzilla film, no matter the outlandish premise.

 Revisiting “Destroy All Monsters” at 18 reminded me of what I lost. That silver screen held all my attention and care at a time, even when I was away from it. An hour and a half of monsters and a full bowl of crunchy granola cereal was all I needed for weeks of self-questioning, pondering about the world and wondering about my place in it as a kid among monstrous forces. That very cage of comfort I once questioned is the place I find myself now. 

Our generation’s constant consumption of media is our Monsterland. We are fed here with all the entertainment we could want. The barriers of our media cycles have adapted to us. With each scroll, new series, next episode and outrageous edit, we get close to silencing our inklings of reflection. We numb the questions that pervade our minds about the world around us and fill every silence. We refuse to think too much. We refuse to lean into grief or loss. We pretend this remote island is home. 

Escaping from Monsterland is as simple as acknowledging what I knew at six years old.  If you sit with a Godzilla film, I mean really sit with it, you can see it. Beyond the many forms, hyper-commercialization or psychedelic aesthetics, Godzilla has a soul. That allegorical intuition that makes war Godzilla’s only true adversary and moral lessons that reveal themselves if you take the time to question.

No, “Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla” (1974) isn’t just about fighting a robotic clone, but a face-off between nature and advancing technology that makes us question our control over our creations. Yes, “Godzilla: Final Wars” (2004) is the sequential battle between Godzilla and every kaiju ever created, but its town-by-town destruction makes us question the true cost of “victory.” “Gojira” makes us confront the possibility that we are responsible for the monsters that torment us. “Shin Godzilla” (2016) reflects how our institutions fail us in times of disaster.  Some of these films are absolutely ridiculous. Some are more solemn. Not all are as personally beloved as “Destroy All Monsters,” but all remind us to question.

Everyone should pick a Godzilla movie to watch, and not just watch it, but really give it a chance. Delete the apps for an hour if you have to. Grab a snack, perhaps some Honey Bunches of Oats, and wrap yourself in a warm blanket. Really relish it. 

When the movie finally has your full attention, don’t let it go so easily. Reflect for a week, or two weeks or a lifetime. Take a break to remind yourself of what you’ve lost to constant consumption. The space to ponder. The freedom to think. The world outside the constraints of Monsterland.

If you asked Godzilla what he wants for his 70th birthday, he’d probably tell you to take a much-needed break. Well … okay, he would probably say something about breaking stuff (but don’t do that). 

Sundiata Enuke is a staff writer for the Daily Trojan Magazine. Enuke is a freshman at USC majoring in film and television production.