Still Walking

歩いても 歩いても Hirokazu Koreeda, 2008

 Soon after watching Hirokazu Koreeda’s Nobody Knows, I quickly sought out and watched his 2008 film Still Walking, which, as with much of Koreeda’s work has been likened to Japan’s master drama director Yasujiro Ozu, who I know I keep namedropping and I promise I will get around to having a closer look at one of his films soon, as I’m still quite unschooled in Ozu.

Still Walking establishes one of its primary filmic themes from the very first image: food. The elderly Toshiko and her daughter Chinami are preparing all kinds of Japanese vegetables, for what reason it is not yet known. On the other hand, Kyohei, retired doctor and head of the Yokoyama family sets the films’ title in motion and takes a stroll through his neighbourhood, revealing beautiful scenery and paths that snake through the hills in this surprisingly green neighbourhood that rests somewhere between suburban and country. It is this neighbourhood and the grandparents Toshiko and Kyohei’s home that will be the stage for the film, while the process of food preparation and walking become two important ritual-like activities, particularly when shared.

The Yokoyama house is alive with activity, Chinami, her husband and their two children, constantly running around yelling and playing like kids do, are soon joined by the Yokoyama son Ryota, who has recently married Yukari, a widow with a young son. Ryota is clearly uncomfortable about visiting his parents and introducing his new wife to them, even explaining to his wife that he wants to stay for as little time as possible. Through his trivial complaints and offhand comments such as “If we make it through today we won’t have to see them for a while” a clear sense of family detachment is conveyed. The reason for these small but accumulative tensions slowly become clear through Koreeda’s almost unnoticeable dropping of tiny hints, many of which are visual. It is only until the family and their relationships to one another have been expertly established that Koreeda gently informs us of the reason for their gathering, at which point, it is not so much a surprise as a perfectly natural revelation. Years ago, the eldest Yokoyama son Junpei drowned tragically while trying to save the life of another. Today is the anniversary of his death.

Throughout the course of the day old feelings are remembered, and tensions never forgotten re-emerge. We understand the silent pain behind Kyohei’s gruff, bitter nature, walking out of family photos and telling kids off. And we feel the guilt of Ryota not being able to live up to the promise and standards of his lost brother. Perhaps the most emotionally complex scene comes when Toshiko invites a young man over to visit, not just any man though, the man whom Junpei saved from drowning. His awkward visit is quite painful to watch, but the real punch comes upon his exit, when the family proceeds to make fun of the pitiful, overweight man in order to suppress their overwhelming grief and hurt that this is who their son sacrificed himself for. Toshiko, who is something of a beacon of cheerfulness throughout the entire film, reveals the depths of her hurt as she responds to her son Ryota’s protests that she invites him each year and will continue to do so just to put him through at least some of the pain they went through. This scene is both shocking and overwhelmingly sad; as you can completely understand the conflicting feelings of a woman whose actions paint her as evil and undeniably human at the same time.

Koreeda continues his brilliant working relationship with cinematographer Yutaka Yamasaki, who was responsible for the many shots of quiet detail I so loved in Nobody Knows. Well I’m happy to say they’re back again in Still Walking, along with use of static camera shots that capture the house and its inhabitants in such a beautifully classical way its almost as though they are on a theatre stage. Below are a few of these quiet, painterly moments that convey so much through image alone.

Last but certainly not least, the acting. Actually, I don’t know if you can even call it acting. It verges on documentary realism. It might be better just to call it real. Real life, or truth, or something. Not a single line of dialogue is out of place. All these characters seem completely and utterly real. Toshiko and Kyohei contradict each others’ stories and bicker like the old grandparents they are; the grandchildren are either hyperactive or introverted, and the adults express their exasperation to their aging parents who keep telling the same stories or have developed strange habits, “When are you going to need this many paper bags??” Once again, Koreeda has created a film that is at its most moving in its quietest moments. He managed to do it amazingly well within the confines of a single apartment in Nobody Knows, but it’s nice to get out into the fresh air and take in the beautiful landscape in Still Walking. This film is like exhaling. It just feels so real, and like all the truly classic dramas, it transcends its origins and medium. Yes it’s a Japanese film, but in the end that hardly matters, I can almost guarantee you will see something of your own family reflected in this day in the life of the Yokoyama family.

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

This post marks a new step, the first time I will be looking at a Japanese movie that is currently screening in cinemas, rather than just watching a DVD like I usually do. Hopefully there will be many, many more of these in the future, but it all comes down to what receives a local release. The film is a documentary, Jiro Dreams of Sushi directed by David Gelb, and is currently screening at Cinema Nova in Carlton.

Jiro is an eighty-five year old sushi chef who has dedicated his entire life to his career, making sushi. Operating a tiny ten seater sushi restaurant in a subway underpass, the sushi he creates is world renowned and has earned his restaurant three Michelin stars; the only sushi restaurant in the world to achieve this. The film features extensive interviews with Jiro and his sons as they explain their craft and personal philosophies toward life and most importantly, work. We learn of Jiro’s largely fatherless childhood and how it influenced his work ethic and subsequent upbringing of his own sons, seeing many bittersweet similarities in this decidedly old school and very Japanese approach to life and work. Upon opening his own branch of sushi restaurant, Takashi, Jiro’s youngest son, was told the words his own father had heard many years before, “Should you fail, you have no home to come back to” a harsh yet somewhat rousing push into the real world, Jiro speaks of his own thoughts of the Japanese youth, (most likely the current wave of ambivalent part timers) who want fewer work hours and more free time. Yet the workers we see in the film remain so firmly committed to their work that it is almost scary, apprentices are subjected to rigorous training the likes of which many of us may never experience. One of Jiro’s employees recalls crying the day he finally mastered making egg sushi, after several months of failure. While Jiro’s eldest son Yoshikazu recalls an apprentice who hardly lasted a day.

Even Jiro’s suppliers are on a higher level, acquiring and providing the finest fish and rice with a great loyalty and respect to their friend and his incredibly high standards. The film’s excursions to the Tsukiji fish market work very well in terms of breaking up the film and getting us out of Jiro’s tiny restaurant, showing us yet another microcosmic community’s characters and inner workings. In one such scene, Yoshikazu, buying fish on behalf of his father, casually asks a fishmonger how he has been. The small, elderly man replies “Not good. I want to retire.” Yoshikazu does well to hide his possible surprise at such an honest response, quickly making his exit, yet it really fascinated with me. Like a Yasujiro Ozu film come to life, this man’s simply stated response becomes a quiet confession filled with layers of truth and emotion, only to be flippantly brushed off. A similar moment takes place in a scene where Jiro and Yoshikzu visit the grave of Jiro’s parents. After observing the dead flowers near the headstone, Jiro remarks, painfully casually “I don’t know why I come here. My parents didn’t look after me”. Is this what created such a consuming work ethic in this man? In contrast to the aforementioned fishmonger, Jiro speaks of not being ready to retire and, despite his often cold disposition of absolute professionalism, explains that everyday, making sushi, he feels ecstatic and is completely in love with his job. Jiro admits were he to retire he would be driven insane with boredom. The film makes it clear that his work really is his reason for living.

Towards the beginning of the film, one of the employees explains that the techniques that the chefs are using are “no big secret”, and we hear about many of these in fascinating detail, including the differences of depth in flavour in tuna and also the forty-five minute massage an octopus receives before being served. All of this is wrapped up neatly in a film that runs under an hour and a half and never feels long-winded. Many sections of interviews and conversations are juxtaposed with beautfiul slow motion sequences of the sushi’s creation, likened metaphorically to a musical symphony with its different movements. It is often said that the mark of a good documentary is one that can be entertaining and accessible to people who may have no interest in the actual subject. Jiro Dreams of Sushi is one such documentary. Even though I am not the world’s biggest sushi fan and will probably never eat in Jiro’s restaurant (bookings a month in advance are essential and prices start at $300) the film provides not only a fascinating insight into Jiro and his restaurant, but the network around it and a uniquely Japanese approach to one’s career.