The Humour and Nostalgia of Tokusatsu in Gamera: Guardian of the Universe

Some thirty minutes into Gamera: Guardian of the Universe, the titular giant turtle stomps past buildings and power lines in Fukuoka. Civilians evacuate the city and soldiers scramble at the sight of the creature, amid news reports warning viewers of the monster.

And yet, I was laughing. 

I laughed at the absurdity of the fire-breathing, jet-propelled bipedal turtle, but also at the fact that an actor had to choreograph, rehearse, and emulate the movements of a massive creature — not to mention the resulting image of a giant turtle clunkily wreaking havoc in a miniature replica of the city, en route to protect humans from the pterodactyl-like Gyaos. This practical technique, called suitmation, was first developed for use in Godzilla (1954) by special effects artist Eiji Tsuburaya. He was also the co-creator of the franchise, and later dubbed the “Father of Tokusatsu”, or practical special effects, for laying the foundations of the industry in Japan.

The Gamera franchise was started by Daiei Film to compete with Toho’s Godzilla series. And while Godzilla embodied post-war nuclear anxieties with a brooding, destructive presence, Gamera took a lighter tone, becoming a protector of humanity and an almost childlike hero, especially in the later films. 

Although the 1995 Gamera reboot marked my first full viewing of a kaiju (monster) film, my first encounters with suitmation date back to the 2000s. I remember jumping across the L-shaped sofa in my childhood living room with my younger brother, mimicking masked heroes as they yelled wacky battle moves like “Savage Spin”. I hadn’t known it then, but the many generations of Power Rangers that played on the now-defunct Kids Central were part of an American adaptation of Japanese tokusatsu franchise Super Sentai. If I’d known it was someone’s job to wear a Megazord costume and fight villains on a miniature set, I would have been well prepared.

Gamera: Guardian of the Universe

In today’s media landscape dominated by flawless computer-generated imagery (CGI), the artifice of Gamera’s and Gyaos’ monster suits becomes more visible. Although the use of suitmation emerged out of the technological limitations of the time, the resulting aesthetics add an inevitable playfulness to its creatures, unlike the hyperrealism of today’s computer-generated monsters. The physicality of every exaggerated movement holds palpable weight and reveals the limitations of their rubber costumes. A certain charm emerges out of these visible constraints — each hefty, lumbering step, and every slow-motion swipe feels deliberate, as though Gamera and Gyaos are locked in an all-out brawl. In veering away from a pursuit of seamless realism, the film’s earnestness shines even more strongly. The visible artifice of the rubber suits of Gamera and Gyaos almost becomes an invitation to the modern-day viewer to participate in the spectacle, and to indulge in an act of imagination with the suit-wearers and filmmakers — like children playing make-believe.

This knowledge of a handmade world, and of the hours of labour, draws me into the film more. This sense of sincerity that emerges from the film’s tactile imperfections is exactly why my laughter at both Megazord fights and giant Tokyo-defending turtles comes not from a place of mockery, but affection and nostalgia for a time when imagination came before precision. 

Nostalgia is a longing for a time and place that no longer exists, a longing for a home in the past, and it’s a fantasy fuelled by a sense of loss. Gamera, then, evokes nostalgia doubly in me: a longing not just for the lost simplicity of childhood, but also a longing for imagined worlds where giant monsters wreak havoc and the ground turns into lava. Tokusatsu films like Gamera thrive in this overlapping space between memory and fantasy, where the imperfection of effects become an essential part of the experience, as reminders of a time when our imagination filled in the gaps. These practical effects are less about realism and more so an invitation to remember a time when we cheerfully and cheekily suspended our disbelief.

Instead of pivoting to more advanced technologies — like its contemporaries and rival Godzilla franchise — all 12 films of the Gamera series (1965 to 2006) continued to breathe life into the titular turtle with suitmation. And so Gamera has become more than just any onscreen kaiju, but a reminder that stripping away visual perfection can instead accentuate the fun in a film. Gamera reveals that the magic of cinema lies in our collective imagination — and I know exactly how I’d want to celebrate that magic: putting on a monster suit and tearing across a miniature city.

About the Author

Wayne Lim is a final-year Communication Studies undergraduate. He is an arts writer, photographer and documentary filmmaker. Drawn to themes of family, identity and memory, he uses film to engage with existential questions.