I’d be curious to sit down with whoever at Disney was in charge of marketing Jojo Rabbit. The film, in which Kiwi writer-director Taika Waititi (Thor: Ragnarok) plays an imaginary Hitler, reportedly made the family-friendly studio nervous after it was acquiredwith the rest of Fox Searchlight’s slate earlier this year. The posters began touting it as an “anti-hate satire” — a vague, almost apologetic phrase that sands down the film’s anti-white-supremacy edges — and the trailersmade it seem like an extended comedy sketch that might overstay its welcome.

As it turns out, Jojo Rabbit isn’t really the film Disney was selling. The trailers are honest about the premise, sure — it’s about a young Nazi boy who finds a Jewish girl hiding out in his house — but they don’t quite capture the film’s tone or emotional scope. 

I’d struggle to really call the film a “satire” at all, though its fantasy Hitler is certainly hilarious and bizarre. He speaks with modern affects at rapid-fire pace (and barely departs from Waititi’s New Zealand accent). If you’re familiar with the naturalistic, tongue-in-cheek cadence of Waititi’s characters, you’ll know what to expect; think Viago from What We Do in the Shadows, but more blood-thirsty. Waititi, who dons blue contact lenses for the role, is a filmmaker of Jewish and Māori descent, so he knows a thing or two about white supremacy. He certainly knows how to jab at its vulnerabilities; the hallmark of Kiwi comedy is deflation of grandeur, and what better target than Nazis?

The film’s soul, however, is that of a coming-of-age story. It’s also the kind of film Joker wishes it were: an incisive, empathetic, intimate portrait of isolation and the ways one’s traumas can be made to intersect with violence and ideology. It’s graceful, sweet and strange, and despite its twee exterior, it manages to stare social malaise right in the eye, giving it the kind of dressing-down that doesn’t simply preach to the choir.  

Johannes “Jojo” Betzler (Roman Griffin Davis) is all of ten years old, but he’s excited to put on his Hitler Youth uniform and serve his country (and eventually, serve as Hitler’s personal guard). He’s a Nazi-in-training and a Hitler fanboy, and while his ludicrous proclamations about Jewish horns and mind-reading feel uncomfortably jagged (they’re meant to; some of these stereotypes somehow still prevail), it’s apparent from the get-go that young Jojo isn’t a monster, but a gullible, susceptible child, and a product of his environment. Hitler, the boy’s imaginary friend, struts around with all the pomp and circumstance of the real Adolf Hitler. He’s the Devil on Jojo’s shoulder, constantly reminding him of the tenets of Nazism to which he must adhere — but he’s also an extension of Jojo himself, so he’s wildly insecure. 

At his small-town Hitler Youth camp, Jojo is taught by fed-up, one eyed war hero Captain Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell) and his compatriot Finkel (Alfie Allen), whose relationship seems more than friendly, but obviously cannot evolve under the circumstances. They’re joined by Rebel Wilson’s gossipy Fräulein Rahm, whose stories of friends and family being mind-controlled by Jews into alcoholism and other vices cut to the heart of Nazi propaganda, and of authoritarian propaganda in general: blame your problems on “the other.”

The scenes in the youth camp feel a lot like the recent works of Wes Anderson; the diorama feel and the frolicking, uniformed children can’t help but evoke Moonrise Kingdom, while the stiffness of movement and emotion (and, you know, the Nazis) feel ripped right out of The Grand Budapest Hotel. The major difference, however, is that while Anderson sugarcoats his stories — it’s not a knock against the man; The Grand Budapest Hotel is arguably his best work, and filtering Nazis through a children’s storybook aesthetic is part of its charm — Waititi doesn’t shy away from the real-world implications of Nazism, despite his initially whimsical tone. Comedy about Nazis is a challenge to pull off — even Mel Brooks’ The Producers used a layer of theatrical artifice to take them down a notch — but my only real complaint about Jojo Rabbit’s comedy is that the fat jokes feel kind of retrograde. As far as Nazism goes, Waititi tackles it head on, exposing it for the ridiculous façade it is — but he also makes sure to take it seriously.

Waititi occasionally breaks through the initial whimsy with brief but meaningful edits, each of which shifts the film’s perspective and offers a glimpse of uncertainty. The results vary from dryly comedic — trumpets bearing the S.S. flag are raised just as Rockwell’s Klenzendorf, who detests his job training Nazis, takes a swig of whiskey — to tragic, and almost disturbing. As the kids excitedly burn books in a bonfire, Waititi breaks from the childlike mayhem, shot from a distance, and cuts to a closeup of a scared, uncertain Jojo, who seems to recoil from the fiery ritual. 

After being made fun of by Nazi teens for refusing to kill a rabbit, Jojo has a derisive nickname thrust upon him: “Jojo Rabbit.” In order to prove his mettle, Jojo — at the behest of imaginary Hitler — gets in over his head during a grenade-throwing exercise, and ends up with a leg injury and severe facial scarring. As someone ostensibly disabled, Jojo has now become an object of Nazi scorn. In what might be the film’s most difficult turn (portrayed with heartfelt gravitas by eleven-year-old Davis), ten-year-old Jojo begins to loathe his very existence.