Imagine interacting with an artificial intelligence robot. Except it looks exactly like a lost loved one. It talks like them and even acts like them. It offers you a chance to cling to your last memory of them and to confess messages you never got to say. In Sheep in the Box, director and editor Hirokazu Kore-eda blends science fiction and fantasy to examine whether technology can fill the absence left by a loved one. Consistently showing films at the Sydney Film Festival from 1996, Kore-eda once again delivers a deeply touching story, this time asking the audience: can technology help us heal, or does it prolong our grief? 

The film follows a grieving married couple, Otone Komoto (Haruka Ayase), an intelligent yet emotionally fragile architect who normally works from home, and Kensuke Komoto (Daigo Yamamoto), a grounded and resilient carpenter who prefers a simple lifestyle. Their suffering comes from a hit-and-run accident two years ago, where they tragically lost their 7-year-old son Kakeru. However, their sadness ends when they are approached by REbirth, a company that offers them an identical humanoid replica of their late son directly to their house. And when the Kakeru humanoid announces he’s home, I could not help but shudder – something was unsettling about his presence, his emotionless responses, and robotic mannerisms.  

Both parents welcomed this differently. Otone is more emotionally invested in the Kakeru humanoid as she tries to reconnect with her long-lost son, while Kensuke is more dismissive, telling the humanoid during their first meeting not to call him father but to call him 'mister'. With all the small subplots and laughter from some humorous moments, the Kakeru humanoid somehow develops a mind of its own and searches for its freedom. 

What this film does well is capture the family dynamics during the complicated stages of processing loss. Ryûto Kondô’s cinematography immediately captures the paralysis of loss. Lingering shots of Kakeru’s room, with its untouched toys, belongings, and clothes, serve as stagnant monuments to the parents’ grief. The film’s quiet visual storytelling often communicates more than the dialogue, and paired with the ambient sounds, this creates an atmosphere that feels both intimate and emotionally authentic. 

Haruka Ayase delivers a strong performance as Otone. She convincingly portrays a mother torn between hope and denial, desperately believing the humanoid can somehow preserve her connection to her son. Through subtle facial expressions during tense moments, Ayase captures the conflicting realisation that while the humanoid may be a replica of Kakeru, it cannot truly replace him. 

Kensuke’s character shows a transformation as his initial neglect softens after spending time with the humanoid. In one of the film’s most emotional scenes, Kensuke brings the humanoid to the location of the hit-and-run accident and persistently asks the robot if it remembers any details of the perpetrator’s face. When the humanoid cannot remember anything, Kensuke confronts the guilt he has suppressed for 2 years and asks a robot for forgiveness. But perhaps it wasn't emotional enough, the couple behind me left because apparently they 'weren't feeling anything'

Ultimately, Sheep in the Box forces us to examine the ethical consequences of using technology as a substitute for grief. Were the parents selfish for trying to replace their son? Perhaps. Yet the film’s greatest tragedy belongs not to Kensuke and Otone, but to the humanoid itself. With the initial rejection from Kensuke and unable to fill the empty void in Otone’s heart, the humanoid realises it exists only as a replacement for someone else, and even that purpose was not achieved. Its search for freedom with other discarded surrogate humanoids transforms the family drama into a search for identity. The film challenges the audience to think about what makes us human and whether memory alone is enough to define a person. 

Although I was initially confused at the ambiguous ending, it does conclude on a harmonious note, leaving me to ponder all the possibilities for the humanoid’s future. For a futuristic film, it feels uncomfortably close to reality, and Kore-eda invites the audience to reflect on its larger questions about memory, artificial intelligence and what it truly means to be human.

Stella is a third-year Commerce and Media student who always has her AirPods on, either listening to music or a new unsolved-murder podcast.