There’s something inherently fascinating about the premise of Rental Family: an American actor, adrift in Tokyo, makes a living by pretending to be someone’s father, friend, or relative — a job both bizarre and poignantly human. In the hands of director Hikari, this setup becomes less a clever gimmick and more a window into loneliness, identity, and what it means to belong — even if the film doesn’t quite decide how deeply it wants to look beneath its charming surface.

Brendan Fraser leads as Phillip Vanderploeg, an underemployed American actor who has been stuck in Japan longer than he’d planned. Desperate for purpose (and money), he takes a job at a “rental family” agency — part social service, part performance troupe — where clients pay to have actors fill emotional gaps in their lives. It’s a concept rooted in real Japanese businesses that supply everything from stand‑in relatives to faux partners for social occasions, and the film uses it as both dramatic engine and cultural metaphor.

Fraser’s performance is the heart of the movie. He’s warm, earnest, and visibly vulnerable in a role that could have easily become overly whimsical or lightweight. As Phillip moves from one assignment to the next — from a grieving friend or surrogate companion to a girl’s pretend father — Fraser navigates emotional shifts with a sensitivity that keeps the character grounded. His portrayal is neither flashy nor cliched; instead, it’s rooted in small gestures, haunted expressions, and a palpable quest for meaning in what feels like a performance‑driven life.

The supporting cast is strong, particularly Mari Yamamoto, whose character Aiko offers both a foil and a moral compass for Phillip’s increasing entanglement in his clients’ lives. The ensemble brings a sense of cultural specificity and lived‑in nuance that helps the story avoid feeling like a Western fish‑out‑of‑water fantasy. The film’s bilingual dialogue and Tokyo setting are lived‑in rather than exoticized, giving the city itself a presence that is textured and relatable.

Yet despite these strengths, Rental Family never quite finds a firm tonal balance. The film wants to be a gentle, feel‑good dramedy about human connection — and at times it succeeds beautifully, offering genuinely touching moments of laughter and unexpected warmth. Scenes that explore Phillip’s bonds with his clients — especially a heart‑tugging storyline involving a single mother and her daughter — can be genuinely affecting. The movie also engages with themes of alienation and belonging with sensitivity rare in mainstream cinema.

But the narrative also rarely digs below the surface of its own premise. Critics have noted that the ethical complexities of emotional outsourcing — the discomfort of faking intimacy, the moral murk of manipulating vulnerable people — are acknowledged but seldom interrogated with real bite. Many of the film’s scenes feel like vignettes tied more by thematic similarity than by dramatic propulsion, which gives the overall effect a sometimes patchwork quality.

This unevenness extends to how the film handles its emotional peaks. A few moments land with genuine force, but others veer toward sentimentality that feels engineered rather than earned. Some reviewers and viewers have found the movie’s sweetness cloying or its emotional cues heavy‑handed, while others embrace the very warmth its detractors decry. This divergence speaks to Rental Family’s tonal tightrope: it wants to be both a profound exploration of connection and a light, cozy crowd‑pleaser — and those aims don’t always align.

Visually and structurally, the film opts for simplicity rather than spectacle. Its cinematography is functional rather than flashy, letting performances and dialogue carry the emotional weight. Tokyo appears as an everyday city rather than a glamorous backdrop — an intentional choice that emphasizes the universality of the characters’ emotional journeys rather than their cultural otherness.

In the end, Rental Family is a film that feels like its own premise: an earnest attempt to create something real out of performance. It doesn’t fully resolve the tensions it introduces, and its emotional arcs can sometimes feel gently improvised, like a scene lifted from a rented life. Yet its heart is unmistakable, anchored by Fraser’s affecting lead turn and a story that gestures toward something larger than itself.