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Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time poster

Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time

2021 · Kazuya Tsurumaki

For when you want an ending — a big, emotional, everything-on-the-table finale to sit with afterward. Newcomers should start earlier in the series; for those who've made the journey, this is the payoff night.

What it's about

After a cataclysm has ruined the Earth, teenage pilots Shinji, Asuka, and Rei wash up in one of the last pockets of surviving humanity — a village where, for the first time, they live ordinary lives of farming, work, and community instead of war. But the danger isn't over: one final impact looms, and with it a reckoning between Shinji and his father that has been building across the entire saga.

The experience

A film of two temperatures: a long, tender, almost pastoral stretch of healing, then a finale of overwhelming, reality-bending mecha spectacle. It's cathartic in a way blockbusters rarely are — you can feel a creator making peace with his own creation.

The craft

Hideaki Anno and his co-directors at Studio Khara stage some of the most audacious animation of its era, with a final act where the imagery deliberately destabilizes — battles spilling into soundstages and storyboards, as if the film were dismantling its own machinery on camera. It demands the biggest screen and best sound you can give it.

Why it matters

The conclusion of a decade-plus Rebuild project and the definitive farewell to one of anime's most influential and agonized-over franchises — a rare case of a creator ending his life's work on his own terms, in something like peace.

Reception & legacy: how Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time was received, argued over, and remembered →

Hideaki Anno had ended Neon Genesis Evangelion at least twice before, each conclusion more scorched than the last. The finale of his Rebuild tetralogy is something stranger: a farewell made in apparent peace. Picking up after apocalyptic events, it grants its traumatized child-pilots an extended pastoral interlude — rice paddies, communal labor, the radical notion of ordinary life — before plunging into a final act of dizzying mecha spectacle where the imagery grows deliberately unstable, sets dissolving into soundstages and storyboards as if the series were dismantling its own machinery on camera. Anno, the definitive auteur of the anime medium and a founding figure of Studio Gainax turned head of Studio Khara, spent over a decade on the Rebuild project; this capstone became Japan's highest-grossing film of 2021. Its craft synthesizes everything modern anime can do — hand-drawn intimacy, unmoored CG cameras, abstraction bleeding into live-action texture. Twenty-six years of cultural obsession, therapy-in-public, and giant-robot iconography funnel into a single gesture of release. Few franchises have ever been allowed to grow up; fewer still have chosen to let go.

Lines of influence