At this point, most Godzilla movies end on Godzilla’s terms. The much-rebooted, oft-revisited universe of giant monsters attacking various countries and each other has expanded enough so that the idea of a single kaiju posing a threat and inspiring humans to figure out a way to defeat it can seem a little quaint; just think of the 1998 American Godzilla versus the 2014 version of the same name that kicked off the current American-based MonsterVerse. In the former, Godzilla is a mostly-malevolent force that a scrappy quartet of Matthew Broderick, Hank Azaria, Jean Reno, and Maria Pitillo attempt to defeat. (The four humans survive, with the possible exception of poor Pitillo’s movie career.) In the 2014 version, Godzilla wreaks unimaginable horror upon multiple American cities, but ultimately becomes a sort of cantankerous hero-protector figure often seen in the Japanese movies, with Ken Watanabe issuing a now-timeless suggestion when Godzilla and another massive creature square off: “Let them fight.” Fans of the Japanese series will have seen multiple movies where Godzilla heads off into the ocean or toward the horizon, rather than suffering genuine defeat.

So it feels like a throwback that the newest Toho-produced installment Godzilla Minus One, which is currently stomping all over the Netflix Top 10, returns to pitting a genuinely scary and antagonistic Godzilla, as in the original 1954 film and some of its back-to-basics franchise pivots. And though the movie is clearly situated in Japanese history, taking place largely in the immediate aftermath of World War II, it does (probably coincidentally) share some notes in common with that misbegotten 1998 version: Once again, a scrappy group of humans must stop Godzilla’s reign of terror. But while the central characters in Godzilla ’98 are ultimately backed up by U.S. military mite (after a period of failing to heed the scientist’s warnings, of course), the effort in Godzilla Minus One is somewhat more egalitarian, with a large military-affiliated crew recruited in the face of government inaction.

Some have called Godzilla Minus One a nationalistic movie because of its focus on the people of Japan pulling together and achieving a sort of redemption for the devastation of the war – in a framework that elides any American occupation of the country that would have likely been more visible in the late 1940s. The movie’s ending, where the anti-Godzilla forces receive a last-minute reprieve from a fleet of tugboats who help execute the plan to destroy the monster, is an uncomplicated triumph set at a complex time in the country’s history. This critic isn’t particularly qualified to analyze the historical context in detail, but it seems inarguable that the movie’s happy ending is peddling a fantasy more subtle but no smaller than a giant monster emerging from the sea to attack Tokyo.

Yet the specifics of Godzilla Minus One are also deeply moving – and, to outside eyes, also rebuke one particular form of national pride. The movie’s lead character, Kōichi (Ryunosuke Kamiki), is a kamikaze pilot who feels guilt and shame over faking a mechanical problem to avoid his pointless suicide mission. The military base where he takes his detour is then attacked by Godzilla, his survival at the expense of other soldiers further compounding his guilt. It follows, then, that Kōichi volunteers for a back-up plan, in case the sea-based attack on Godzilla fails. He will redeem himself by flying his plane into Godzilla’s mouth and detonating an explosive that will kill both him and the monster.

But when that plane does hit Godzilla (resulting in some satisfyingly gnarly destruction of his beautiful face!), we see that Kōichi has actually bailed out of the plane before impact, courtesy of an ejection feature engineered by Sōsaku (Munetaka Aoki), who we see in flashback, encouraging Kōichi not to let guilt drive him to a suicide mission, but instead gather the strength to continue living – and caring for Akiko (Sae Nagatani), the adoptd daughter he has raised over the last few years with Noriko (Minami Hamabe). Noriko has been presumed dead in an earlier Godzilla attack, further exacerbating Kōichi’s survivor’s guilt. But following his victory over Godzilla, he receives a telegram informing him that Noriko is, in fact, alive and in a hospital, recovering from her injuries.

It’s the kind of feel-good finale that could be described as a Hollywood ending (or, in the parlance of Wayne’s World, a “mega-happy” ending). But American films also tend to see value in plots where heroes sacrifice themselves for greater good or honor, too; recall Independence Day, the cornball classic from the filmmakers behind the 1998 Godzilla, where Randy Quaid goes from crackpot to hero by flying his biplane into the alien ship and blowing himself up. It’s rare for a blockbuster-scale movie to explicitly reject the idea of militaristically conferred honor, and that is essentially what Godzilla Minus One does: It reveals that Kōichi doesn’t actually need redemption in the form of fulfilling the duty assigned him by the military. A life well-lived, in other words, is more valuable than a life mindlessly sacrificed in battle.

Going further, you could even take the movie’s final moment, where the camera travels into the depths of the ocean to reveal some form of classic Godzilla regeneration taking place, as a conciliatory admission that the experiences of war will continue to haunt Japan for years to come, even as the citizens try their best to move forward. Or maybe it’s just a nod to the inevitability of Godzilla – the knowledge that though it stands alone as its own film and ends with an unequivocal victory for the humans, Godzilla Minus One is not the last we’ll see of this magnificent beast. If the movie sometimes feels like it’s trying to have it both ways – an expression of national pride that also rejects a traditional notion of honor; a stand-alone Godzilla story that promises the return of Godzilla – well, that’s Godzilla for you. He is, as ever, a destroyer and a protector, a force of nature that refuses easy classification.

Jesse Hassenger (@rockmarooned) is a writer living in Brooklyn. He’s a regular contributor to The A.V. Club, Polygon, and The Week, among others. He podcasts at www.sportsalcohol.com, too.