My Year In Tokusatsu

A little over a year ago, I started watching a tokusatsu show from the 1970s. I had pretty much blind bought the entire series, because what little I knew about it made me confident I’d love it. I loved tokusatsu as a kid. Ultraman gave me the gift of fantasy, Godzilla taught me empathy, and The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers gave me the gift of hope. For those of you unfamiliar, “tokusatsu” is the genre of live action TV and movie that makes heavy use of practical special effects. It is most recognized by the rubber suit monster-era in TV and film.

This particular tokusatsu show, Kikaida, had a guitar playing android dressed in head to toe denim, who would change into a superhero.

Also known as 人造人間キカイダー, Jinzō Ningen Kikaidā, Kikaida, Kikaida: Android Of Justice, and Android Kikaider, Kikaida is a Japanese television series from 1972 that found extraordinary popularity in Hawaii. It had wild monsters, bizarre supporting characters, and the most evil flute playing metal god as lead villain.

After hearing one of my friends share his passion for it, I was sold. I knew it was special. I had an intuition that this was going to be important to my life. So even after I bought it, I waited for the right moment to start watching it.

There had been an initial discussion with my pal about watching the show together, episode-by-episode. We would trade emails about each installment and stay on pace with each other. He would be revisiting it. I would be experiencing it for the first time. By sharing each other’s perspective, we hoped to get the full magic the show had to offer. On July 22, 2021, the journey of Kikaida and two friends started. It was magic from day one.

“Yes, please melt my 8 year old face off some more because this is my shit.”

(The last line in my first email about it. )

“First things first. My heart melted tonight.”

(My friend’s comment on what it felt like to revisit something he loved.)

A lot can happen in a year. A year under COVID feels even longer. There were and still are severe waves of depression. There was cancer. There was continued grief and loss. But, no matter what, there was always the bliss of emails about Kikaida (and later Ultraman) to save the day. There remained this untouchable pure joy in sharing these shows together that no darkness could ruin.

When I hit send on the emails, I immediately got excited like a child on Christmas Eve, waiting for my mythical and jolly friend from an exotic land.

Each episode’s electronic discussion felt like talking in secret code, and only we could comprehend how great the power was of what we had just seen. We weren’t just trading emails about a kid’s show. These series were tied to our deepest memories of joy and childhood. They were sacred to us. We were sharing our trust in another, an unspoken promise to support and celebrate a vulnerable and private part of each other’s heart. We introduced each other to a piece of ourselves through our favorite childhood television superheroes battling insane odds and bizarre monster.

For me this was a HUGE step in opening up to the world again. I am hesitant to share things I deeply love with people anymore. Most of the time it feels like finding the Holy Grail and then watching the other person toss it in the garbage because to them it’s just a cheap and plain carpenter’s cup. I hold my most fragile dreams closest to my chest. It’s the same reason that I rarely watch anything with anyone besides my children. I am not a bored person. I have plenty of things I love to do, and I’m perfectly happy alone. If I’m taking the time to watch something, then I’m doing it with everything I got. For me, inviting someone into that world is a tremendous act of love and trust.

Watching Kikaida and Ultraman over the past year and sharing that experience through detailed emails has not only made the familial bond between my friend and I grow tighter, it has made me a healthier and more open person.

It has given me the confidence to expect more from all of my relationships and provided a safe space to practice self-care and setting boundaries. Even when I didn’t watch anything, I’m still sending emails.

As important as the shows are in all of this, they are merely the symbol, the invitation, the expression that says, “I care about what’s important to you and am committed to being a part of your life.”

I am writing this because I am surprisingly distraught over approaching the very end of the Kikaida series. Much like Jiro always coming to the rescue in the face of desperation, so did this television show rescue me in times of great suffering. I know I can watch it again as often as I please. I also know that my friend and I still have plenty of Ultraman to work through which is MY childhood hero and new to him. I even know that after Ultraman ends that the emails will not come to a stop. He is my brother and my friend. But I am still going to mourn that the time of Kikaida being brand new to me is gone. On the flip side, that also means I get to celebrate that he is now my old friend. There is magic in change if you know where to look.

I am thankful to my friend for his patience, boldness, honesty, and passion in watching an entire series with me over the last year. I am thankful for him making space for me. I am thankful for the experience, because it made me grow as a person. I am thankful to myself for doing that self-improvement work. In a way, I discovered how to fall in love with new things again. I’m so excited about the next series on my watchlist. I’m so excited that I have a better sense of who I am and what I like now.

But most of all, I’m so excited that I can feel excited again. It’s been so long.