In our world, we are very good at creating illusions. We make ourselves look beautiful to be desired. We edit our photos and videos to appear perfect. We laugh, we have fun, we stay on the surface — anything to avoid listening inward, sitting with ourselves in silence, and asking the difficult questions: Who am I really? What do I truly want? And what do I actually need? Instead, we lie to ourselves. And in doing so, we often feel deeply alone. In Japan — a country often perceived as being ahead of the rest of the world — even loneliness can be temporarily outsourced. People can be hired to fill emotional gaps, to play roles, to ease the ache of emptiness. At least, that is the premise of Brendan Fraser `s newest film Rental Family.
Where the Film Meets Real Life
However, Rental Family is not really about Japan. It is about all of us. The film tells more than a fictional story. It reflects a truth we often try to avoid: We fear honesty because it exposes our vulnerability. Our flaws. Our mistakes.
Truth means admitting when we are wrong. Truth means finding the courage to speak openly with those we may have hurt. Finally, truth also means telling others what feels right to us — and what doesn’t — instead of hiding behind silence or distraction. So instead, we disappear. We build worlds where we believe we are safe. We chase fun to distract ourselves.
We surround ourselves with many people so we don’t have to face the one person who might actually matter most. Openness takes courage. It isn’t easy. But it is the only way we grow. After a misunderstanding or a conflict, isn’t it actually easier to embrace each other than to walk away in anger? To block, to ghost, to never speak again — what does that bring, other than a deep loneliness we feel even in the middle of a crowd? A restlessness that keeps us searching endlessly, because we couldn’t — or wouldn’t — hold onto something real.
Rental Family
In a materialistic world, there are always convenient solutions. We can buy comfort. We can rent a connection. This is where Rental Family begins. A single mother needs a “father,” so her child can attend an elite school. Someone wants to apologize to a partner but doesn’t know how. An aging film star is slowly losing himself — both in the eyes of the public and in his own fading memory.
Phillip Vandarpleog
And then there is Phillip. Phillip is a struggling actor who has lived in Japan for seven years. He speaks the language — but still doesn’t fully understand the people. Not because of words, but because of what remains unspoken. Through his work, he finds himself employed by Rental Family. Ironically, he doesn’t need to act at all. His greatest strength is his heart.
Phillip doesn’t want to pretend. He wants to see people. To truly be there for them. To help — even if it costs him his own dream. Therefore, he becomes a hero not by playing a role, but by choosing honesty and compassion in a world built on performance.
Brendan Fraser
There may be no actor better suited for this role than Brendan Fraser. From the very first moment, his presence draws us in — his eyes, his gentleness, his openness. He doesn’t perform emotion; he carries it. He represents goodness. A person who gives instead of taking. Someone who takes responsibility for others, not for money, but because it feels right.
Brendan Fraser’s own life echoes deeply within this role. Once known primarily for comedy and action films, Fraser disappeared from Hollywood for years. In 2003, he was sexually assaulted by Philip Berk, then president of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association. Fraser chose not to go public at the time, but he later spoke about feeling quietly pushed aside, as if his career had been slowed without explanation.
At the same time, his body was breaking down from years of physically demanding stunt work. Surgeries followed. Pain followed. And then depression.
Not because he was weak — but because he was unheard. He felt discarded. Because a system that values power and money over heart and humanity turned its back.
His personal life also unraveled. A painful divorce drained him emotionally and financially. The man known for warmth and kindness retreated — exhausted, ashamed, deeply sad. But years later, Fraser chose honesty. And that honesty brought him back — not as a traditional comeback story, but as something far more meaningful: the return of a human being.
Why This Story Matters
In many ways, we are all Brendan Fraser. We lose people. We get ghosted. We give from the heart and learn that the world doesn’t always respond kindly or honestly. We are told to close our hearts to survive. But if we all did that, the world would grow unbearably cold.
That is why Rental Family feels so important. It reminds us that real connection — honest, imperfect, sometimes painful — is worth more than any carefully constructed illusion.
Final Thoughts
Rental Family and Brendan Fraser’s own story touch the same nerve: We live in worlds designed to function — socially, professionally, emotionally. But when truth has no place, the cost is immense. When we confess that we need help or a place to rest, love, a real friend – someone to hold us, we are too often abandoned or exploited. Our softness is labeled as weakness, even though it is the truest expression of our humanity.
The film gently reminds us that real closeness must come before artificial substitutes. That we don’t need to fear intimacy. That rented connection is never the solution — only a symptom. The most touching moment comes when little Mia asks: “Why do adults lie?” Phillip’s answer holds the heart of the film — and of life itself: “Because lying is often easier than telling the truth.”
Not out of cruelty, but out of fear — fear of loss, fear of loneliness, fear of facing ourselves, of taking responsibility, of growing… and of so many other things. Rental Family shows how connection without honesty remains hollow — and how painful, yet necessary, truth can be to build something real, deep, and lasting. This quiet, tender film deserves a heartfelt 10 out of 10.
And maybe, for those who are listening closely, it carries a softer message too: That it’s okay to stop running. Talking doesn’t hurt. And that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is reach back instead of walking away.
Text: Marco Kokkot
Images: Starlight Pictures. All Rights Reserved.
