‘People Who Talk to Plushies Are Kind’: Finding comfort in friendly faces

Today’s Japanese live in a lonely place, if the results of a 2022 survey conducted by consulting hotline Ibasho Chat and Waseda University associate professor Michiko Ueda are anything to go by. Of the 3,000 respondents, around 40% reported feeling lonely, with those in their 20s and 30s suffering more from moderate to serious depression than other age groups.

In her first directorial feature, “People Who Talk to Plushies Are Kind,” Yurina Kaneko examines this isolation and emotional fragility by exploring a subculture I didn’t know existed: People who seek solace in plushies — cute creatures made from soft fabric. (And distinct, as aficionados will tell you, from stuffed animals.) Her stance is a mix of sympathy and objectivity, with no jokiness whatsoever.

Co-scripted by Kaneko and based on a novel by Ao Omae, the story focuses on three protagonists who are members of a college plushies club: Tsuyoshi Nanamori (Kanata Hosoda), a sensitive guy who can’t feel romantic love; Mimiko Mugito (Ren Komai), a depressive girl who befriends him; and Yui Shiraki (Yuzumi Shintani), a cheerfully frank woman whose interest in the club begins as a mystery.

First to enter the clubroom are Tsuyoshi and Mimiko, two freshmen who are expecting a craft workshop but instead find members interacting with plushies, using them as anything from cuddling partners to confidants (while wearing earplugs to keep from eavesdropping on others). Finding a warm welcome, as well as kindred introverted spirits, they decide to join.

What is the attraction of plushies? For Tsuyoshi, who hates the idea of burdening others with his words, they offer a guilt-free alternative to the social norms of human interaction, though, as per club rules, he speaks to them with respect.

For Yui, who belongs to another club where she is sexually harassed, the plushie clubroom is a safe space. Soon after joining, she begins dating the willing if uncertain Tsuyoshi, though she tells him with her usual directness that he doesn’t “feel like a lover.” Meanwhile, Mimiko retreats from school to her room. Tsuyoshi, ever considerate, comes calling with class notes, but she can’t bring herself to open the door.

Despite these complications, the film is no love-triangle drama: Tsuyoshi and Yui’s romance, if that’s what it is, soon ends, while Mimiko’s funk has deeper causes than jealousy. Rather, it is a group portrait of people who find human relationships difficult and human society problematic. Yui sees no hope for change — society, she believes, will always “cater to men,” while Tsuyoshi says that, as a man, he is inevitably “hurting others.” And Mimiko, scarred by the sexual harassment she has witnessed, is scared, period.

Watching their story unfold, I recalled American Boomers’ scorn for young “snowflakes” who supposedly lack the mental and moral toughness of their seniors. Similarly, an elderly audience member reportedly berated Kaneko in discriminatory language at a post-screening Q&A at this year’s Osaka Asian Film Festival, where the film premiered. To this Boomer reviewer, however, the film is getting at something real. Its plushie talkers may be kind, but they are also pained in a way that exists beyond the confines of the clubroom.

Also, the film does not uncritically celebrate that kindness, even suggesting that it can be a cover for less elevated feelings. Finally, plushie talk is not presented as a cure-all: The protagonists finally find their voice and a possible way forward with other flesh-and-blood humans. But plushies are still there, always ready to listen. As is the stuffed cat on my bookshelf, which I long ago rescued from a trash bag. What I tell it, I’ll leave you to guess.