From its very first appearance in 1954, Godzilla, the hulking, fire-breathing, skyscraper-sized monster, has represented national trauma. In his earliest incarnations, he was an avatar of nuclear destruction, stomping and smashing his fat legs through Japan's urban landscapes. A man in an awkward lizard suit became the embodiment of a wounded country's lingering psychic pain.
In the decades since, Godzilla has become a sillier figure, pitted against various other goofy-looking giant monsters, and refashioned, at times, as a hero, defending little people from even worse threats. Some incarnations—particularly Gareth Edwards' 2014 big-budget Hollywood blockbuster Godzilla—have tried to return to the awe-struck terror of the original. But the sequels have been romps, playfully ridiculous in tone and bordering on camp.
