Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time - Hideaki Anno
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Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time, directed by Hideaki Anno in 2021, is more than just the conclusion of a saga begun in the 1990s. It is a complex, emotional, often brutal yet luminous farewell letter — to a generation that grew up with Shinji Ikari’s pain, and to the creator himself. As the final entry in the Rebuild of Evangelion tetralogy, this film doesn’t just end a story: it seeks liberation.
The film opens with stark contrast: the heavy silence of a ruined world and the flicker of life still beating in its characters. Shinji is broken, mute, almost erased. Yet in a small rebuilt village, he finds quiet, care, and reprieve — no pressure, no expectations. This pause is perhaps one of the film’s most beautiful moments, giving breath and flesh to a character long crushed by symbolism.
But Evangelion, true to form, does not linger in comfort. Chaos returns: Evas, trapped souls, temporal doubles, fractured memories, collapsing technologies. The apocalypse overlaps with the end of narrative. Yet something has shifted — the chaos is no longer a dead end. It becomes a chance to rebuild.
Shinji, long a spectator of his own life, finally chooses. Not to fight or flee, but to understand, to speak, to act with calm resolve. The confrontation with his father Gendo is a key moment — not a battle, but a mutual revelation. A void passed down from father to son — and finally, a new kind of bond forged from that silence.
Visually, Thrice Upon a Time is a unique object. It moves between ethereal beauty and stylistic rupture, with near-abstract scenes and imploding settings. The film unfolds, deconstructs, reinvents itself like a mental stage — each backdrop a state of mind, each frame a portal into emotion.
Shiro Sagisu’s music accompanies this journey with lyrical depth. Silences are as powerful as orchestral swells — not dressing emotion but revealing it.
Beyond its visual and sonic richness, this film is deeply intimate. It speaks of rebuilding after trauma, of finding peace. It glorifies neither war, nor sacrifice, nor suffering — it puts an end to them. And in Evangelion’s language, that is an act of rebirth.
The final images abandon Evas, monsters, ruins. We see a train station. A boy now grown. A world beginning again. It’s simple. Almost ordinary. But it is here that Evangelion’s true revolution lies: in accepting reality.
It is not a sad farewell. It is a peaceful one.
And for those who’ve walked alongside Shinji since the beginning, it’s a rare moment of power. Because it’s no longer about understanding. It’s about healing.