Rabbit — Jojo

The film’s most devastating pivot comes without satire. Rosie, Jojo’s buoyant, life-affirming mother, is the moral center. She dances in the living room, scolds Jojo for his “Führer” obsession, and tries to teach him that love is the strongest force in the world. Her fate—a quiet, horrifying discovery on a town square gallows, her shoes slowly kicking in the wind—snaps the film’s comedic register in half. It is a reminder that in a regime of monsters, being a decent person is the most dangerous act of all.

Jojo’s fervent nationalism is violently disrupted when, in a training accident involving a live grenade and a misguided act of bravado, he is scarred and sidelined. Sent home to paste propaganda posters, Jojo discovers a shattering secret: his seemingly compliant, single mother, Rosie (Scarlett Johansson), is hiding a teenage Jewish girl named Elsa (Thomasin McKenzie) in their attic.

The production of the film mirrored its thematic tightrope walk. Waititi, who is of Jewish descent (his mother is Jewish), deliberately chose to make Hitler a clown. “You can’t reason with a monster,” he explained. “But you can laugh at one. Laughter makes them small.” He cast himself as Hitler to strip the dictator of any monumental menace, reducing him to a needy, lisping toddler with a bad mustache. Meanwhile, the film’s visual language—sun-drenched streets, primary colors, and a soundtrack mixing German folk songs with The Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand”—creates a fairy-tale shell that slowly cracks to reveal the brutal reality beneath.

The story begins with Johannes "Jojo" Betzler, a lonely, impressionable ten-year-old living in a provincial German town as World War II grinds to a desperate close. Like many boys his age, Jojo is indoctrinated by the Hitler Youth, believing that serving the Führer is the highest calling. But unlike other boys, Jojo’s internal conflict is made literal: his best friend is an imaginary version of Adolf Hitler. Played with absurd, goofy charm by writer-director Taika Waititi, this Hitler is a farcical buffoon—a childish confidant who encourages Jojo’s worst impulses while eating unicorn meat and being generally useless.

When it premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in September 2019, Jojo Rabbit was a lightning rod. Critics either hailed it as a brave masterpiece of tonal alchemy or dismissed it as an irresponsible trivialization of history. But audiences embraced its essential humanism. The film went on to win the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay, and Scarlett Johansson and Taika Waititi earned acting nominations.

The final scene of Jojo Rabbit offers no easy victory. As the Allies roll into town and the war ends, Jojo has finally expelled his imaginary Hitler—kicking the pathetic figment out a window. He and Elsa, now free, step outside into a defeated, rubble-strewn Germany. Jojo doesn’t have a grand speech or a political awakening. He simply begins to dance, a clumsy, ungraceful imitation of the dance his mother taught him. Elsa, after a moment of stunned relief, joins him.

That dance is the story’s final thesis: In the face of utter ruin, hatred can be unlearned, but only through human connection. Jojo Rabbit dares to ask whether a ten-year-old Nazi fanatic deserves our compassion. Its bold, uncomfortable answer is yes—because the most dangerous imaginary friend isn’t Hitler. It’s the lie that anyone is beyond saving.

The film’s central irony, and its genius, is that this imaginary Führer is a symptom of Jojo’s desperation for belonging, not of innate evil.