Poverty and Gender through the Lens of Shoplifters and I, Daniel Blake: A Comparative Study

Introduction

Cinema serves as a powerful medium for societal exploration and artistic expression, enabling filmmakers to highlight pressing issues, challenge norms, and offer nuanced perspectives on human experiences. Among the notable figures in contemporary cinema, Ken Loach and Kore-eda Hirokazu are recognised for their commitment to depicting social realities, particularly issues related to unemployment, poverty, and family structures. Their shared thematic concerns were highlighted in an NHK documentary aired in October 2019, in which Kore-eda expressed his admiration for Loach, underscoring a connection shaped by mutual influence. This study critically examines their films I, Daniel Blake (2016) and Manbiki kazoku (Shoplifters, 2018), focusing on how they portray poverty through a gendered lens.
 
Understanding the socio-economic context in which these films were produced is crucial to analysing their portrayal of poverty and marginalisation. Both I, Daniel Blake and Shoplifters were released during a period of intensified neoliberal reform in the UK and Japan, reflecting shifting attitudes toward welfare, family, and state responsibility. The 2010s saw a significant shift toward neoliberalisation and welfare retrenchment in both the British and Japanese economies, largely as a response to the 2007–2008 global financial crisis (Fujita 2016; Lehtonen 2023). These changes, which included welfare cuts and a focus on self-reliance, were influenced by earlier neoliberal policies in the UK under Thatcher and welfare reforms introduced in Japan by Prime Minister Nakasone in the 1980s. Both countries saw a diminishing role for the state in addressing poverty. In the UK, the David Cameron administration (2010–2016) implemented policies that emphasised personal responsibility for economic hardship, reinforcing the narrative that poverty stemmed from moral and cultural deficiencies. Simultaneously, media discourse contributed to the stigmatisation of welfare recipients by perpetuating notions of “deserving” and “undeserving” beneficiaries (Nakamura 2016; Suzuki 2018). Reality TV shows such as “Nick and Margaret: We All Pay Your Benefits” (2013) and “Benefits Street” (2014) further shaped public perceptions of poverty and morality within an austerity-driven framework (Barton and Davis 2018).
 
While similar shifts occurred in Japan, they were shaped by context-specific cultural and institutional factors. Despite increasing family diversification in the 2010s, the state shifted social welfare responsibilities onto families, reinforcing traditional caregiving structures (Kingston 2013, 60–61). The reluctance of the state to intervene in family matters, including cases of domestic violence and child welfare, exacerbated socio-economic inequalities (Kingston 2013, 70–71). Following the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, the second Abe Shinzō administration promoted kizuna (unity) and strong family bonds as key national values (Koikari 2020). Concurrently, mainstream media heightened public scrutiny of welfare recipients, portraying them as burdens on the system and fuelling concerns about benefits fraud. The 2013 welfare law reforms introduced stricter eligibility criteria and harsher penalties (Yoshinaga 2015). Across both the UK and Japan, poverty came to be framed as an individual or family issue rather than a structural problem requiring state intervention.
 
Lister (2021) defines poverty as both material deprivation and social exclusion, shaping public perceptions through narratives of the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor. This distinction influences how impoverished individuals are stereotyped, stigmatised, and classified based on economic status. These classifications shape societal explanations for poverty, which either emphasise systemic factors or personal agency. The concept of classism further elucidates these dynamics, encapsulating “the network of attitudes, assumptions, beliefs, behaviours, and institutional practices that maintain and legitimatize class-based power differences that privilege middle- and higher-income groups at the expense of the poor and working classes” (Bullock 2004, 190). The dichotomy between the deserving and undeserving poor reinforces how the non-poor categorise the impoverished and frame poverty’s causes. 
 
Cinematic portrayals of poverty are frequently shaped by the perspectives of the non-poor, influencing public perceptions and attitudes toward impoverished individuals. Rather than simply reflecting reality, films selectively highlight or obscure certain aspects of poverty, shaping audience understandings. This selective representation aligns with the broader debate between structure and agency in poverty discourse. As Lemke (2010) notes regarding documentary photography, filmmakers often navigate a balance between depicting systemic constraints and individual agency. Attfield (2020) highlights how neoliberal ideology, which prioritises individual responsibility over structural issues, manifests in films depicting precarity and the working class. Many such films emphasise personal choices while minimising systemic influences, inadvertently reinforcing class stereotypes. Even well-intentioned narratives may align with neoliberal austerity discourse, limiting their capacity to challenge dominant assumptions about poverty. By navigating the tension between concealment and revelation, films can offer a complex commentary on poverty’s sociopolitical dimensions. This interplay shapes how audiences interpret poverty and its causes, reinforcing or challenging prevailing narratives about economic hardship and social inequality.
 
The intersection of classist stereotypes and gender biases further shapes cinematic portrayals of poverty. Gendered power dynamics frequently shape cinematic portrayals of poverty, with female characters often subjected to sexualisation or cast in caregiving roles that reinforce traditional gender norms. While numerous films—including Burning (2018), Us (2019), Joker (2019), Parasite (2019), and The White Tiger (2021)—have explored poverty in recent years, gender remains an under-examined dimension of these narratives. Addressing this gap, this study offers a comparative analysis of I, Daniel Blake and Shoplifters, examining how gender intersects with classist stereotypes in representations of poverty and whether these films challenge or inadvertently reproduce dominant ideological frameworks. By comparing these films, this study highlights how different national and cultural contexts shape the portrayal of poverty and gender. This comparative approach allows for a deeper understanding of how gendered narratives operate within broader discourses on poverty, while also shedding light on the underlying social and ideological structures—such as patriarchal norms—that shape cinematic representation.
 
Both Ken Loach and Kore-eda Hirokazu are recognised for their socially conscious filmmaking, yet they depict economic hardship through markedly different narrative strategies. Loach’s films often adopt overt political critique, as seen in I, Daniel Blake, while Kore-eda addresses socio-economic issues more subtly through intimate, emotionally driven storytelling, exemplified in Daremo shirenai (Nobody Knows, 2004) and Shoplifters. As Marc Yamada (2023) observes, both directors portray the dehumanising effects of neoliberal policies, albeit through distinct cinematic styles. However, while Yamada briefly compares their approaches to neoliberal critique, he does not engage with the role of gender in shaping their representations of poverty.
 
This study builds on Yamada’s comparative insights by analysing I, Daniel Blake and Shoplifters through a gendered lens, attending to how national and cultural contexts influence portrayals of marginalised individuals. It examines whether these films challenge or inadvertently reinforce dominant ideological frameworks, contributing to broader discussions of how cinema shapes public understandings of poverty and gender. While Loach’s films have been examined from gendered perspectives (Bindel 2014; Thornham 2019; Deleyto 2022), substantial gender-focused analysis of Kore-eda’s work remains limited, aside from a few studies on Air Doll (Lewis 2019; Choo 2020). Addressing this gap, the study explores how gendered narratives in I, Daniel Blake and Shoplifters shape audience perceptions of class, care, and vulnerability. By critically exploring themes of authenticity, realism, privilege, and representation, this research examines how narrative elements and cinematic techniques like framing, mise-en-scène and symbolism contribute to representations of poverty and gender. Rather than examining poverty and gender per se, this study focuses on how cinematic representations shape societal understandings, reflecting and reproducing power structures and ideological assumptions (Mulvey 1973; hooks 1992; Hall 1997). With a focus on gender, the paper investigates how these cinematic narratives reinforce or challenge dominant discourses on poverty and social welfare. The paper is structured into two sections: the first contextualises I, Daniel Blake within Loach’s broader body of work, while the second situates Shoplifters within Kore-eda’s cinematic landscape, interrogating the interplay between poverty, gender, and representation.

I. Gender Representation in Ken Loach’s Cinema: Situating I, Daniel Blake

I.1 Male-Centred Narratives in Loach’s Work: Gender Dynamics and Character Hierarchies

Director Ken Loach, originating from a working-class background, has achieved a level of relative class privilege through his pursuit of a higher education. His father’s family worked as miners, and his father himself was employed in a machine-tool factory. Loach’s unique journey led him to acquire a middle-class education and eventually enrol at Oxford University. His career began in television, and he gained acclaim for creating fictional dramas with a documentary-style approach, most notably Cathy Come Home (1966), which eloquently portrayed the hardships of unemployment, poverty, and homelessness. Subsequently, Loach embarked on a prolific journey, directing numerous feature films focused on the lives of working-class individuals, shedding light on the disparities perpetuated by the class system. Among his acclaimed works, Kes (1969) and Ae Fond Kiss (2004) stand out as remarkable examples. Loach remains dedicated to his socialist filmmaking principles, illustrating characters fighting discrimination within institutions and navigating bureaucracy. Kes, which revolves around 15-year-old Billy Casper’s life marked by poverty and despair, portrays key institutions like the school, youth employment office, and public library, where Billy encounters severely limited opportunities. This approach serves to depict the broader social structure rather than solely focusing on individual characters. Loach blends fictional and documentary methods, valuing realism, documentation, and the conventions of melodrama to advocate for social change. To capture unmediated authenticity, Loach typically shoots on location and employs a combination of professional and non-professional actors with regional and class accents (Leigh 2002, 70). As stated by Forrest (2010), Loach’s films “rejected artifice and ambiguity by focusing on a direct and frank means of highlighting the perceived ills of social and political institutions via authentic protagonists, while consistently maintaining a clear environmental verisimilitude” (2010, 33). Loach portrays the resilience of individuals from working-class backgrounds while illustrating the challenges and difficulties they encounter in their daily lives, providing nuance and realism in naturalist terms.
 
Despite his undisputed body of work, it is widely acknowledged that Loach predominantly centres on cisgender heterosexual men as the central characters in his films. This often results in relegating female characters to secondary roles and offering limited representation of transgender and nonbinary identities. In Loach’s films, female characters frequently function as companions, often lacking the same level of depth and intricacy as their male counterparts. Critics such as Bindel (2014) have pointed out that Loach’s female characters often conform to stereotypes, primarily serving as love interests for the male characters. In most cases, with the exception of Ae Fond Kiss, women occupy subordinate positions in their relationships with dominant male characters. According to Deleyto’s analysis (2022, 156), the primary focus in the majority of his films lies in idealising the British working-class male protagonist. Films such as Riff-Raff (1991) and My Name is Joe (1998) follow a comparable pattern, where female characters play a supportive role by reinforcing the moral integrity and virtuousness of the male leads. Although several female protagonists have been featured in his films, such as Poor Cow (1967), Ladybird, Ladybird (1994), and It’s A Free World (2007), Loach often depicts his female protagonists as less sympathetic than their male counterparts, with their psychological portrayal appearing less intricate compared to that of the male characters. For example, as Thornham (2019) points out, in Poor Cow (1967), the protagonist Joy is depicted as “not only [a] hapless victim but peculiarly characterless, an embodiment of disconnected but stereotypical ‘feminine’ character traits—passivity, unreliability, consumerism, narcissism, and maternal love” (151). Although these films feature single mother protagonists as victims of an oppressive social system, they are often portrayed as vain, selfish, self-interested, and unfit for motherhood, reinforcing a dichotomy between the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor based on gender norms. Women’s issues are not central in Loach’s filmmaking, and the intersection of being low-income and being a woman tends to make women less visible in his narratives. I will provide a more detailed examination of gender dynamics in I, Daniel Blake in the subsequent section.
 
I.2 Navigating Gendered Expectations: Care Work and Emotional Labour in I, Daniel Blake

I, Daniel Blake, directed by Ken Loach and written by Paul Laverty, became a significant film upon its 2016 release. It was a critical success, winning the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, the César Award, and the British Academy Film Award for Best British Film. The film follows Daniel, a skilled carpenter and recent widower living in Newcastle. After a heart attack, Daniel struggles to navigate the bureaucratic system to obtain disability benefits. His experience with the appeals process highlights the flaws in the welfare system, particularly its digitisation and the requirement to search for work despite being medically unfit. His journey also explores his friendship with a young single mother, emphasising resilience amid adversity. I, Daniel Blake offers a critique of austerity policies and job insecurity, particularly under the Cameron government’s workfare reforms (Ninomiya, 2019). These reforms placed more stringent work requirements on benefit recipients, including disabled individuals and single parents. The film critiques these policies, shedding light on the systemic challenges that individuals like Daniel face, rather than solely focusing on personal responses to poverty. Loach’s portrayal of Daniel as a proud, hardworking, older white man who has dedicated his life to caring for his wife reinforces traditional masculine values. The film’s title reflects its focus on the individual, presenting Daniel as a symbol of working-class masculinity amid a society shaped by neoliberal economic policies.
 
The film’s opening scene features Daniel undergoing an unsympathetic and robotic interview for his Work Capability Assessment with an unseen female “health professional” named Amanda, a representative from a United States outsourcing firm. The conversation takes place against a black screen, effectively rendering Daniel invisible and symbolising his marginalisation within the system. Loach’s use of this black screen, coupled with Amanda’s rigid questioning style—limiting responses to simple yes or no answers—not only underscores the dehumanisation embedded in neoliberal Britain, but may also gesture toward a destabilisation of traditional masculine roles. Daniel, a 59-year-old craftsman who had prided himself on self-reliance, now finds himself unable to work and dependent on government assistance for the first time in his life. Amanda’s strict adherence to protocol and apparent lack of empathy reflect a bureaucratic system that treats claimants as data points rather than as individuals with complex personal circumstances. The depiction of female authority figures—Amanda, a Job Centre officer named Sheila, and the Job Centre floor manager—tends to emphasise institutional rigidity. With the exception of Ann, a compassionate Job Centre employee who is reprimanded for showing leniency, these women are portrayed in ways that foreground the impersonal and disciplinary dimensions of the welfare state. While this portrayal may reflect the structural constraints imposed by austerity policies, it also raises questions about how gendered expectations—particularly those surrounding female empathy and care—interact with institutional authority.
 
The film’s portrayal of Daniel as a skilled and hardworking individual reinforces the notion of the deserving poor, promoting a divisive distinction between those deemed worthy of sympathy and support based on bourgeois ideals of respectability and those considered feckless due to their perceived moral and cultural shortcomings. As Collins (2017) points out, the film’s message is weakened by unambiguously presenting Daniel as a member of the deserving poor without challenging this concept. Daniel is characterised as stoic and self-sufficient, displaying a willingness to provide aid while being hesitant to receive it. This portrayal perpetuates a nostalgic and idealised representation of white, working-class British masculinity. Ultimately, the film encourages audiences to identify with Daniel, a common man who embodies uncommon goodness, but it also raises concerns about reinforcing divisive rhetoric surrounding this concept of being deserving or undeserving based on societal norms.
 
Undoubtedly, Katie’s character is portrayed with considerable depth and resilience. Her experiences as a single mother navigating the welfare system underscore systemic shortcomings rather than personal failings. The film offers a nuanced depiction of Katie, steering clear of reducing her to a mere sexual object and instead presenting her as a multifaceted individual. However, the narrative still aligns with traditional gender binaries, often casting her in a role that emphasises dependence. Katie, a young white single mother of two who recently relocated to Newcastle from London under the council’s arrangement, is depicted as a loving and nurturing mother. However, her characterisation often portrays her as helpless and passive, requiring male protection and rescue. Daniel encounters Katie at the Job Centre, where she faces sanctions for arriving late to her benefits appointment. He steps in to offer moral support, leading to the development of their friendship as they navigate the welfare system together. Despite his own struggles, Daniel selflessly supports Katie, helping with groceries, childcare, and repairs around her flat. Their bond evolves into a platonic, quasi-paternal relationship, given Daniel’s older age. Katie’s portrayal primarily serves as a foil to the male protagonist, with her role being characterised as supportive rather than central to the narrative.
 
This dynamic is particularly evident in the food bank sequence, filmed at the Venerable Bede Church on West Road—the actual location of the West End Foodbank. The scene blends documentary realism with fictional storytelling, incorporating real food bank volunteers and users to heighten its authenticity. Accompanied by her two young children and Daniel, Katie arrives at the food bank, beginning with a sombre walk toward the entrance, where they join a long queue of individuals awaiting assistance. The mise-en-scène—featuring a cold institutional setting and an extended line of people—emphasises the bleakness and emotional weight of the moment. Once inside, the camera documents a series of interactions that underscore both systemic procedures and personal dignity. Katie checks in with a volunteer, who confirms her identity and the presence of her children, while the children are offered refreshments and biscuits. Katie is then assisted by Jackie, a volunteer, in assembling bags of essential groceries. Meanwhile, Daniel remains near the doorway, declining help when approached by another volunteer, his physical distance and inaction subtly conveying a sense of dislocation and redundancy within this gendered space of care.
 
As the camera alternates between Daniel and Katie, the focus returns to Katie as she continues collecting canned food items. When Jackie briefly leaves to retrieve pasta, Katie’s hunger—resulting from her repeated decision to forgo meals for her children—compels her to open a can of baked beans and eat with her hands. This quiet but jarring moment exposes her vulnerability and leads to visible shame. Daniel enters the frame in response, kneeling beside her to offer words of reassurance: a gesture of compassion that simultaneously affirms Katie’s moral worth and reinforces the emotional labour of male support. The staging of this interaction foregrounds Daniel’s role as a source of empathy and stability, positioning him as a validator of Katie’s pain.
 
The food bank sequence thus operates on multiple levels. On one hand, it marks a narrative turning point, capturing both personal vulnerability and broader systemic injustice. Katie’s visible distress and Daniel’s empathetic response foreground a moment of communal solidarity, subverting the trope of the “undeserving poor” and inviting audience sympathy. On the other hand, the scene reinforces traditional ideals of maternal self-sacrifice and gendered morality. Katie is portrayed not only as a struggling mother but also as a “deserving” figure—morally legitimised through her visible suffering and her reliance on male support. While the scene’s documentary aesthetic enhances its realism, it also subtly reinscribes familiar narratives of caregiving, gendered dependency, and class-based worth.
 
The film aims to portray a narrative of economic precarity resulting from class and state welfare practices, with Daniel’s story taking centre stage. Despite also depicting the experiences of women and people of colour like Katie and Daniel’s younger neighbour China, the film’s characterisation hierarchy reinforces the deserving/undeserving binary under austerity conditions and inadvertently perpetuates sexualised and racialised stereotypes of welfare claimants based on static models of social class. The film emphasises the intersection of gender and race by contrasting the experiences of Katie and China with those of the central white male character, Daniel. This juxtaposition illustrates how these characters are differently affected by the socio-economic system, highlighting the way gender and racial hierarchies influence their access to resources and their perceived deservingness. This is exemplified in Katie’s scene of desperate shoplifting and the earlier scene in which Daniel reprimands China for not adhering to the correct waste disposal regulations. As argued by Gibbs and Lehtonen (2019), the film’s focus on Daniel’s journey and moral judgments perpetuates problematic notions of deservingness, reinforcing gender and racial disparities in the portrayal of welfare recipients. The deterioration of Katie and Daniel’s relationship is intricately tied to his disapproval of her involvement in sex work, which he views as a source of shame and degradation (Gibbs and Lehtonen 2019, 58). Similarly, Daniel judges China for resorting to an illicit sneaker smuggling business to supplement the declining support provided by the welfare state (Gibbs and Lehtonen 2019). Katie and China’s engagement in criminalised activities depict them as the “less deserving” poor. The characterisations of Daniel, Katie, and China are rooted in a classist distinction between the worthy and the unworthy, intersecting with gender and race.
 
I, Daniel Blake deserves commendation for its refusal to demonise low-income communities and for inviting empathy toward those facing economic hardship. However, the film also tends to idealise the solidarity among individuals in economically precarious situations. Set against the backdrop of contemporary challenges to the welfare system, the narrative emphasises the importance of cross-class solidarity, particularly through Daniel’s relationships with Katie and China. Daniel takes on a surrogate paternal role for Katie’s children and forms a meaningful friendship with China, who helps him navigate the bureaucratic hurdles of the online benefit application process. These reciprocal relationships among Daniel, Katie’s children, and China underscore the value of mutual care. Yet, despite the film’s affirmative message, Gibbs and Lehtonen (2019, 57) warn against an uncritical acceptance of the depicted care and reciprocity, particularly among minors. They argue that such representations risk reinforcing neoliberal agendas that seek to shift caregiving responsibilities away from the state and onto individuals. The romanticised portrayal of mutual aid among marginalised individuals may inadvertently deflect attention from the state’s obligations and legitimise its retreat from addressing structural inequalities.
 
Throughout the film, Katie’s role primarily revolves around highlighting Daniel’s kindness and compassion. Despite her occasional acts of support toward Daniel, such as sending her daughter with couscous when he is depressed or accompanying him to his appeal hearing, she remains mostly characterised as a foil for the main male figure. Toward the end of the film, Daniel tragically collapses and dies in a restroom just as he is about to attend his appeal hearing. The stress of dealing with the stringent bureaucracy, harsh realities of financial insecurity, and navigating the income support system is depicted as a contributing factor to his fatal heart attack. During the poignant final scene at Daniel’s funeral, Katie reads aloud his handwritten note prepared for the appeal, expressing his deep disappointment in a welfare system that treated him with indignity rather than acknowledging his contributions to society. While the film captures the complexities of the characters and the challenges they face within the welfare system, it also reflects a gendered dynamic in its narrative structure. As Trifonova (2023) argues, although I, Daniel Blake is often celebrated for its critique of austerity, it frames Daniel’s struggle primarily as an individual fight for dignity, reaffirming narratives of the “deserving” poor. Katie, rather than asserting her own voice, is ultimately positioned to speak Daniel’s words, reinforcing gendered representations of precarity and centring male subjectivity even in moments of shared vulnerability.
 
In summary, the film prominently addresses the discourse surrounding the categorisation of the impoverished into the deserving and undeserving categories. This cinematic work draws upon an established historical tradition that has perpetuated the differentiation between these groups, a distinction historically entrenched with gender and racial biases. The film’s narrative is intricately woven through the dichotomy of deserving and undeserving, as well as race and gender connotations. While ostensibly critiquing capitalism, the film’s focus on reasserting traditional gender norms inadvertently relegates the structural complexities of poverty to the background. By centring its storyline around a male protagonist and portraying unity between marginalised communities in an idealised manner, the film risks diverting attention from systemic issues. In doing so, it can be interpreted as resonating with aspects of neoliberal ideology, which may, in some readings, obscure the structural challenges faced by those experiencing poverty.

II. Gender Representation in Kore-eda Hirokazu’s Cinema: Framing Shoplifters
 

II.1 Gendered Narratives and Familial Structures in Kore-eda’s Films 

Kore-eda Hirokazu, a prolific filmmaker renowned for his extensive body of work encompassing more than a dozen TV documentaries, drama series, and commercials, has indisputably emerged as one of the foremost critically acclaimed and extensively recognised directors in contemporary Japanese cinema. His familial history is intricately intertwined with the backdrop of World War II, particularly through his father’s repatriation from Siberia in the postwar era, which played a significant role in shaping his family’s history. Owing to bias against Siberian returnees associated with Communism, his father faced job instability, while his mother supported the family through part-time work, including scrap collection and a position at a local cake factory (Minumura 2019). Born and raised in Tokyo, Kore-eda emerged from a working-class background, gaining a degree of social advantage through his educational attainments. After graduating from Waseda University, he began his career in the late 1980s as an assistant director at TV Man Union, an independent Japanese television company, where he worked on documentary productions. Following his first feature film, Maboroshi no hikari (Maboroshi, 1995), Kore-eda has depicted an increasing diversity in working-class and middle-class family structures in the face of social change and economic uncertainty. In films such as Nobody Knows (2004), Aruitemo aruitemo (Still Walking, 2008), Kiseki (I Wish, 2011), and Soshite chichi ni naru (Like Father, Like Son, 2013), he has portrayed various family structures, including divorced and blended families, where blood ties are not a defining factor. 
 
While Kore-eda’s oeuvre is frequently classified as “family films” that question essentialised notions of Japaneseness—often associated with traditional family structures, social harmony, or cultural homogeneity—his narratives consistently centre on male protagonists. These characters are typically portrayed in moments of introspection, aspiration, and emotional struggle, positioning their perspectives as the primary lens through which familial and societal dynamics are examined.
 
As Wada-Marciano (2011) observes in her analysis of Still Walking (2008), Kore-eda employs cinematic techniques—such as “memory props” and acts of mimesis—to convey authenticity grounded in personal memory. However, she also critiques how these private memories are aestheticised and presented as a form of collective nostalgia, potentially reinforcing essentialised images of Japanese identity and family life. In doing so, the film blurs the boundary between individual experience and national memory, suggesting a shared cultural past that may obscure the diversity and complexity of lived realities. Framed as both a home drama and a cultural reflection, Still Walking exemplifies Kore-eda’s ability to evoke emotional resonance and social familiarity, yet it also raises questions about the politics of memory and representation in his work.
 
While motherhood frequently emerges as a central theme in films such as Nobody Knows (2004), Umi yori mo mada fukaku (After the Storm, 2016), and La Verité (The Truth, 2019), Kore-eda does not necessarily idealise maternal figures. Rather, his work often questions the very nature of motherhood or explores its absence. Nevertheless, maternal roles are at times depicted through emotionally resonant yet somewhat conventional imagery—shaped by nostalgia—without critically engaging with the broader structures of gender and the historical marginalisation of women in Japanese society. As a result, such portrayals risk reinforcing the trope of the maternal myth, presenting motherhood as a natural and essential role rather than as a socially constructed and contested one.
 
Female protagonists have found representation in some of Kore-eda’s films, such as Maboroshi no hikari (Maboroshi, 1995), Kûki ningyô (Air Doll, 2009), and Umimachi Diary (Our Little Sister, 2015). However, it can be argued that despite this apparent focus on women and diverse families, Kore-eda’s films tend to reinforce male hegemony while suppressing women and feminist perspectives. For instance, Air Doll, with its unconventional premise involving an animated sex doll, draws both interest and criticism, particularly concerning the casting of Korean actress Bae Doona for the lead role. Scholars, including Diane Wei Lewis (2019), highlight the film’s contemplation of isolation and fractured families as a form of nostalgia for traditional familial constructs linked to Japan’s postwar economic progress. Kukhee Choo’s (2020) analysis adds layers of complexity by raising concerns about how it depicts the consumption of a Korean female body within a postcolonial context. As Choo points out, the film overlooks the historical context of Japanese objectification of Korean women as sexual commodities, a narrative intertwined with the haunting memory of the air doll tied to war time comfort women. The film’s narrative of a sex doll infatuated with a client, along with the casting of a Korean actress in this role, may suggest a limited engagement with the historical and sociopolitical implications such representations carry. Kore-eda’s nostalgic storytelling style is also evident in his optimistic and idealised portrayal of maiko (apprentice geisha) in his inaugural Netflix series Maiko-san chi no makanai-san (The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House, 2023), adapted from a popular manga and centred on the daily lives of a maiko and a cook living in a geisha house. In terms of gender representation, Kore-eda’s films often reaffirm conventional notions of masculinity and femininity, with a tendency to centre male perspectives and depict women in supporting or objectified roles. While his work occasionally explores alternative family structures and gender dynamics, these representations are nonetheless shaped by the enduring influence of conservative and patriarchal norms within the Japanese film industry.
 
In contrast to Ken Loach’s overt political engagement, Kore-eda demonstrates a certain degree of reluctance in explicitly expressing his own political stance. Films like Maboroshi (1995), Nobody Knows (2004), and Air Doll (2009) depict poverty-related circumstances and the dehumanisation inherent in neoliberal Japan. However, as with Loach, Kore-eda’s cinematic oeuvre has largely centred on the experiences of cisgender heterosexual men, with the notable exception of his recent film, Kaibutsu (Monster, 2023). Yamada (2023) contends that Kore-eda’s films critique a neoliberal worldview and highlight “the pressure on the family to serve as a national safety net,” specifically referencing After the Storm (2016) as illustrating “the way Japan placed the burden of its economic development on individual family units that make up the larger nation” (35). In alignment with Yamada’s analysis, which asserts that Kore-eda’s films offer a critical perspective on neoliberalism, my contention proposes that these films predominantly explore themes of gender-based crises and nostalgia. Therefore, while these films may indirectly address critiques of national policies relying on families to sustain themselves, they do not primarily serve as explicit critiques of those policies. 
 
Emphasising family breakdowns and heteronormative gender narratives, Kore-eda’s films sometimes underplay the social structures that contribute to poverty. A case in point is Nobody Knows, which tackles issues of parental neglect by narrating the story of four children abandoned by their mother in a Tokyo apartment, with their father conspicuously absent. The film fictionalises the real-life 1988 case known as the Nishi-Sugamo kodomo okizari jiken (the affair of the four abandoned children of Nishi-Sugamo), where a single mother left her 14-year-old eldest son to care for his younger siblings, aged 2 to 7. According to reports from multiple sources, including Asahi Shimbun (July 26, 1988, 31), one of the eldest son’s friends brutally beat his two-year-old sister, resulting in her death, while the eldest son was partially responsible. In the cinematic rendition, her death is depicted as resulting from an accidental fall, sidestepping the more distressing details of the sister’s demise and portraying the eldest son as naïve, vulnerable, yet also resilient and dependable. Notably, the complexity of his dual role as both victim and perpetrator is omitted in the film. Furthermore, instead of examining the father’s shortcomings, Nobody Knows presents the single mother as immature or irresponsible, emphasising her perceived deficiencies in domestic and childcare responsibilities. Kore-eda’s focus on family instability and a return to traditional gender norms often leads to less attention on addressing the broader systemic inequalities and societal structures that contribute to poverty, which can contribute to a depoliticised view and the subtle reinforcement of neoliberal ideologies. Building on this overview of gendered patterns and familial structures in Kore-eda’s broader body of work, the next section examines how Shoplifters specifically engages with the intersection of gender and poverty through its narrative and visual strategies.

II.2 Moral Economies and Gendered Agency in Shoplifters

Shoplifters (2018), scripted and directed by Kore-eda Hirokazu, represents a culminating point in his exploration of family dynamics and has been widely recognised as a landmark work that solidifies his status as a contemporary auteur. The narrative follows an unconventional family residing on the margins of Tokyo society, composed of individuals not connected by blood, marriage, or legal adoption. Held together by the elderly matriarch Hatsue, the family depends on her pension and petty theft to survive. Through its intimate depiction of their everyday struggles, the film offers a critical reflection on widening economic inequality and social precarity in neoliberal Japan. Osamu, a day labourer, supplements his meagre income through petty crimes and theft, while his partner Nobuyo, employed at a laundry, also resorts to stealing when circumstances demand. Aki, the granddaughter of Hatsue’s ex-husband but not her blood relative, fled her family to reside in a shack, making a living as a sex worker in town. Shota, who was taken from a car at a pachinko parlour by Osamu and Nobuyo, is a preteen boy integrated into this unconventional family. Lastly, there’s Yuri, a young girl who joins the family after suffering child abuse.
 
Despite lacking conventional familial ties, the film tenderly portrays the members of the Shibata family. They are connected by the aftermath of broken families, forging a bond that transcends blood. The movie evokes a sense of nostalgia for the traditional Japanese family and closely-knit, mutually supportive communities, evoking a longing for the Showa-era Japanese way of life. This sentiment is particularly evident in scenes illustrating customary Japanese family practices like communal sleeping and bathing, the shared delight in ramune (a traditional Japanese soda with a marble), and visits to neighbourhood dagashiya (traditional family-run candy stores) and amamidokoro (teahouses).
 
During a press conference at Cannes, Kore-eda disclosed that the film’s narrative drew inspiration from real-life incidents in Japan, specifically alluding to reports of individuals committing pension fraud and parents pressuring their children into shoplifting (The Page 2018). Shoplifters starkly portrays the harsh realities of poverty, where Osamu and Nobuyo find themselves exposed and dispensable within the unregulated labour market. Nobuyo loses her job owing to budget constraints, while Osamu suffers a workplace injury without receiving any compensation or insurance from his employer. The film poignantly depicts the precarious nature of employment, the fragmented safety net, deficiencies in social welfare, and the isolation and estrangement experienced by those on the margins of society. It offers a vivid portrayal of the challenges faced by low-income families in Japan. 
 
While Shoplifters sheds light on the struggles of vulnerable communities facing poverty and precarious social conditions, it is not without its flaws and stereotypes. The film’s central narrative revolves around criminal activities such as benefit fraud and shoplifting, as indicated by its title, rather than delving into the structural factors contributing to poverty. The story begins with a shoplifting scene, introducing characters who are already immersed in illicit activities as a means of supporting their family unit. This initial sequence showcases their refined shoplifting skills and technical competence, highlighting their adeptness in this illegal endeavour.
 
Shoplifters portrays the agency of economically disadvantaged individuals as inherently unlawful, contrasting with films such as Ken Loach’s I, Daniel Blake, which focus on how these individuals struggle within institutional and bureaucratic systems. Shoplifters falls short in highlighting the underlying issues, such as the government’s reliance on familial welfare provision and its reluctance to intervene in cases of child abuse and domestic violence. While Shoplifters touches upon the issue of poverty within vulnerable communities, it primarily emphasises the deviant behaviours of its characters, potentially perpetuating damaging stereotypes without fully addressing the root causes of their predicament.
 
Another limitation of the film as a critique of societal structures lies in its reliance on gender stereotypes, ultimately diverting its focus toward individual behaviours and responses rather than addressing systemic failures and inequalities. Despite depicting various members of the Shibata family, the film predominantly centres on the coming-of-age journey of Shota, a preteen male character whose narrative offers insight into the reimagining and reworking of masculinity in contemporary Japan.
 
In one pivotal home scene, Nobuyo occupies a chair in the kitchen while the rest of the family gathers around a table in the tatami room. Kore-eda employs a triangular composition in the mise-en-scène visually to underscore Nobuyo’s centrality within the household. Unlike traditional depictions of male-headed families, this spatial framing subtly positions Nobuyo as the dominant figure. While Kore-eda’s cinema often includes strong maternal characters, Shoplifters distinguishes itself by associating female authority with secrecy and moral ambiguity, as I will discuss in more detail later. This framing sets the stage for Shota’s gradual detachment from the Shibata family, particularly from Nobuyo’s influence. His personal development is presented as a journey toward autonomy and morally grounded masculinity. Spatially, this transformation is symbolised by the small closet he claims as his private space—an enclosed yet self-determined territory within the overcrowded home. There, Shota reads Swimmy, a story about a lone black fish who learns to lead a collective in the face of danger. This moment allegorises Shota’s awakening to moral responsibility and his aspiration to lead a life outside the cycle of dependency and criminality. 
 
The film further privileges his coming-of-age by emphasising emotionally resonant scenes with Osamu—fishing, snowman-building—that centre male bonding as a space of trust and formative development. Ultimately, Shota’s rejection of theft and his decision to distance himself from Osamu marks his evolution into a figure of “responsible” masculinity. In contrast to the morally ambiguous women around him, he is granted narrative clarity, redemption, and ethical agency. This gendered framing reinforces a patriarchal narrative logic in which male individuation is valorised, while female characters serve primarily to facilitate that transformation.
 
Osamu, in his role as a father figure, imparts misleading advice to Shota, such as the notion that only children unable to study at home attend school and that stealing from shops is acceptable as long as the stolen items remain unsold. The film highlights the contrast between these positive ideals of masculinity and the “failed” or “unhealthy” masculinities represented by Osamu. Shota’s character stands out for his remarkable commitment to self-study amid challenging impoverished circumstances, and his subsequently revealed academic competence aligns with middle-class notions of respectability. The film privileges Shota’s personal journey and his coming to terms with the responsibilities of adulthood, which are deeply imbued with notions of masculine strength and leadership. As Shota initially emulates Osamu and gradually distances himself from his influence, the film portrays this masculine defiance as indicative of his deserving of upward mobility.
 
In Shoplifters, Shota’s journey to break free from Osamu is closely intertwined with his interactions with adult male role models in his neighbourhood, particularly Yamato, the local dagashiya shop owner. When Shota faces the moral dilemma of teaching young Yuri how to steal, his doubts begin to surface. It is in this pivotal moment that Yamato, an understanding shop owner, observes Yuri’s actions and advises Shota not to involve his sister in shoplifting. Yamato, portrayed as an elderly man, imparts valuable life lessons to the young boy, shaping his evolving sense of manhood and responsibility. Yamato’s passing later in the film serves a dual purpose. It symbolises the loss of a local community that traditionally protected and nurtured its children, evoking nostalgia for an older form of Japanese manhood characterised by wisdom and responsibility. Additionally, it deepens Shota’s sense of isolation and vulnerability as he loses a key male figure he could look up to.
 
Following the family’s arrest by the police, Shota develops a rapport with a young male police officer named Maezono. Maezono plays a pivotal role in Shota’s life during a critical juncture. He imparts important life lessons to the young boy, emphasising the significance of schools not just for academic learning but also for social interaction and making new friends. This portrayal of Maezono as compassionate, empathetic, and sensitive stands in stark contrast to the negative portrayal of female police officer Miyabe, who is depicted as indifferent and unfeeling. The contrasting depictions of Maezono and Miyabe underscore a sense of unease regarding women in positions of authority and suggest a preference for a return to traditional masculine traits. The portrayals of Maezono and Miyabe appear to highlight a preference for male leadership, implying a perceived comfort or relief in such roles. In Shoplifters, the central focus on the male character Shota is intricately linked to his journey toward manhood and his endeavour to escape poverty’s clutches. The film illustrates the concept of embodying the “right” kind of masculinity in the face of life’s hardships. 
 
Across Shoplifters, Kore-eda constructs a representational hierarchy in which female characters—Hatsue, Nobuyo, and Aki—are confined to narrow, morally ambiguous roles that reinforce class and gender-based stereotypes. The film invests significant screen time in portraying its female characters as being less deserving than their male counterparts. Hatsue, the elderly matriarch, is portrayed with tenderness, yet her economic desperation leads her to manipulate her late ex-husband’s family for financial gain—an act framed as unbecoming and undignified. Nobuyo, despite functioning as the family’s de facto leader, is depicted in overtly negative terms: she steals customers’ belongings at her workplace, gossips maliciously about former colleagues, and participates in concealing Hatsue’s death by hiding the body in the house’s basement rather than reporting it—actions that align her with criminality and moral ambiguity. Aki, too, is defined not by interiority or narrative closure, but by her sexualised labour and uncertain trajectory, ultimately serving as a narrative device to support Shota’s moral and emotional development. In contrast, Shota’s journey is constructed as redemptive and virtuous. He is granted narrative space to evolve, make moral choices, and assert autonomy. While the women are entangled in cycles of survival and stigma, Shota’s masculinity is affirmed through his eventual rejection of criminality and his capacity for ethical reflection. This dichotomy positions male subjectivity as deserving of growth and rehabilitation, while female characters are utilised to support that arc—emotionally, morally, and symbolically. By relegating women to peripheral or morally tainted roles, Shoplifters subtly reinforces a patriarchal narrative logic in which the agency of female characters is functional rather than transformational. Although Kore-eda’s film gestures toward empathy and structural critique, its representational choices ultimately privilege a gendered hierarchy of narrative worth, leaving female characters narratively and socially marginalised.
 
One of the most emotionally charged scenes in Shoplifters occurs during the interrogation of Nobuyo by the female police officer Miyabe—a sequence that crystallises the film’s engagement with motherhood and legitimacy. The exchange between the two women stages a confrontation between institutionalised conceptions of motherhood and lived maternal experience. Miyabe insists, “Children need mothers,” affirming a biologically determinist view that equates maternal legitimacy with childbirth. Nobuyo sharply counters: “That’s just what mothers want to believe. Giving birth automatically makes you a mother?” This dialogue exposes the inadequacy of legalistic and essentialist definitions of motherhood, pushing viewers to consider the emotional labour and ethical commitment that form the basis of parenthood beyond biological ties. Yet while the scene disrupts normative family discourse, it simultaneously reproduces a narrative structure wherein female characters are pitted against each other. Rather than directing critique toward institutional systems or male figures of authority, the film locates dramatic tension in the emotional clash between women—thereby reinforcing patterns of female antagonism. Kore-eda amplifies the emotional intensity of the scene through a documentary-style approach. Notably, Ando Sakura, who plays Nobuyo, was not given a script; her spontaneous reactions were captured against scripted lines delivered by Ikewaki Chizuru, who plays Miyabe (Yamazaki 2018). This method heightens a sense of psychological realism, especially as Ando had recently become a mother herself. The mise-en-scène reinforces this affective immediacy: a frontal shot isolates Nobuyo’s tear-streaked face, bathed in dim lighting that evokes confinement and vulnerability. Miyabe’s voice, rendered largely as off-screen audio, imposes a spectral authority that compounds Nobuyo’s emotional entrapment. The scene becomes not only a cinematic exploration of maternal legitimacy but also a subtle reinforcement of gendered emotional labour, where women are left to interrogate and discipline each other within the confines of a patriarchal system.

Furthermore, Kore-eda’s depiction of Aki exemplifies the marginalisation and objectification of female characters within a male-centred narrative framework. The film emphasises Aki’s lack of maturity and emotional dependence to underscore Shota’s growth in these areas. For example, Aki, the granddaughter of Hatsue’s late ex-husband, often sleeps next to Hatsue, and in one particular scene, she even rests in her lap, evoking an image of childlike dependency. Her reliance on Shota to steal shampoo from the supermarket on her behalf portrays her as immature and disconnected from the societal and material aspects of life. Aki, who works at a joshi kosei-themed establishment where young women perform sexually suggestive acts while dressed as schoolgirls, is visually framed through stylised, pink-hued lighting that accentuates eroticism. These aesthetic choices reflect a clear alignment with the male gaze, inviting spectators to consume Aki’s body as a site of visual pleasure. Her presence in the film, while initially suggestive of a deeper commentary on gendered labour and poverty, is ultimately subsumed within a visual economy that prioritises titillation over critique. Moreover, the film situates Aki’s sex work within a neoliberal discourse of personal “choice” and “agency,” portraying her departure from her middle-class background not as economic compulsion but as individual preference. In one scene depicting Aki’s interactions with a client, she embraces him upon discovering a self-inflicted hand wound, showing a romantic interest in him. This idealised portrayal of Aki as a tender, caring sex worker and her client as a victim conceals the subordination of women and the exploitative realities of the sex work industry. This framing not only obscures the structural inequalities that shape women’s participation in sex work, but also shifts attention away from the socio-economic and patriarchal systems that underpin Aki’s position. Rather than interrogating these structures, Shoplifters aestheticises and depoliticises her labour. In doing so, the film risks reinforcing gendered hierarchies while concealing them beneath a veneer of agency and emotional complexity.
 
Kore-eda’s storytelling not only situates Aki within the context of economic disadvantage but also uses her character to explore Shota’s developing awareness of sexuality. Aki’s female body is also framed in ways that suggest Osamu and Shota’s heterosexuality and reinforce their affectionate bond as an unrelated father and son. This is particularly evident in the beach scene, where a close-up of Aki’s bikini-clad chest is shown from Shota’s perspective. This framing encourages the audience to align with Shota’s gaze and adopt his point of view. When Osamu notices Shota staring at Aki’s cleavage, he reassures him that such curiosity is natural, stating, “Everybody likes boobs.” By positioning a preteen boy as the focal point of this gaze, the film intertwines notions of childhood innocence with the normalisation of the female body as an object of male visual pleasure.
 
This analysis reveals how Shoplifters constructs Shota as a figure of moral worth, embodying conventional traits of masculinity such as autonomy, defiance, emotional restraint, academic aptitude, and heterosexuality. Through a narrative structure that centres his moral awakening and ultimate self-determination, the film subtly reinforces patriarchal ideology—often without drawing critical attention to its gendered implications. In the film’s final moments, Shota distances himself from Osamu, silently mouthing “father” from a departing bus as Osamu chases after him. Meanwhile, Yuri remains in her abusive household, and Aki’s fate is left unresolved. Despite its sombre ending, the film devotes substantial narrative space to Shota’s reconciliation and transformation, cultivating a sense of redemption and hope. However, this emphasis on a father–son melodramatic arc sidelines the female characters, reducing them to narrative foils who serve to frame and support Shota’s growth.
 
Shoplifters constructs a gendered representational economy in which male characters—particularly Shota—are positioned as subjects of narrative investment and moral potential. In contrast, female characters such as Nobuyo, Aki, and Hatsue are relegated to ethically unstable or instrumental roles. Although the film gestures toward systemic critique—addressing poverty, familial instability, and the failures of social welfare—these themes are frequently mediated through conventional gender dynamics. Female characters are not positioned as agents of change but rather as devices through which the male protagonist’s emotional development is catalysed. Nobuyo’s maternal care, Aki’s sexual labour, and Hatsue’s economic manipulation all serve to illuminate Shota’s progression from dependency to moral discernment. This results in a gendered hierarchy of narrative function, wherein male subjectivity is expansive, while female subjectivity remains morally compromised, constrained, or unresolved. Shoplifters may succeed in portraying the fragility of life on the margins, but it does so through a familiar cinematic grammar that marginalises female characters and obscures the structural dimensions of gendered inequality.

Conclusion

This study has critically examined the representation of poverty and gender in I, Daniel Blake and Shoplifters, focusing on how both Ken Loach and Kore-eda Hirokazu—directors with backgrounds in documentary filmmaking—construct narratives around economically marginalised individuals. By comparing these works, the analysis has highlighted how each film navigates the moral dichotomy between the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor, and how gender plays a key role in shaping this distinction.
 
While both films gesture toward social critique, they do so through different narrative and ideological frameworks. I, Daniel Blake explicitly confronts systemic oppression through its depiction of bureaucratic violence, digital exclusion, and welfare reform, positioning Daniel and Katie as sympathetic figures at the centre of its critique of austerity and neoliberal policies. The film’s realist style and emotionally charged narrative are designed to elicit empathy for their struggles, foregrounding their vulnerability in a hostile welfare system. In contrast, Shoplifters explores precarity and family instability more obliquely, framing its characters’ experiences through themes of emotional intimacy and moral ambiguity. Though Kore-eda’s film draws attention to the failures of the welfare and labour systems, it often emphasises individual agency through criminality, thereby blurring the lines between critique and complicity.
 
Moreover, while both films examine the intersection of poverty and gender, they also reveal representational limitations. In Shoplifters, female characters such as Nobuyo, Aki, and Hatsue are portrayed through morally ambivalent roles that support the male protagonist’s coming-of-age arc. The film aestheticises female labour—both maternal and sexual—while offering limited critical engagement with the patriarchal structures that shape these roles. I, Daniel Blake, though more direct in its critique, also reinforces certain gendered and racialised hierarchies, particularly through its depiction of agency and victimhood.
 
This comparison suggests that both films, despite their humanist intentions, ultimately reproduce gendered binaries and moral categorisations rooted in patriarchal and neoliberal ideologies. The recurring theme of the “deserving” poor—often aligned with masculine ideals of dignity, responsibility, and autonomy—functions to obscure deeper structural causes of poverty and inequality. In doing so, these films reflect, rather than fully challenge, the dominant social discourses surrounding welfare, gender, and class. By analysing these films through an intersectional lens, this study contributes to broader debates in film studies and cultural criticism about how cinema participates in—and at times resists—the reproduction of social hierarchies. It argues that cinematic portrayals of poverty must be critically examined not only for what they expose, but also for what they obscure or leave unexamined. Future research could further explore the contradictions inherent in socially conscious filmmaking, particularly in contexts where humanist storytelling risks reinforcing the very ideologies it seeks to critique.

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Article copyright Rie Karatsu.

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