lasttimeisaw
MABOROSI, which means "phantasmic light", is Japanese cinema gradualist Hirokazu Koreeda's feature debut, a minutely restrained drama charting the aftermath of abrupt bereavement. At first glance (and with some acquired taste), Ozu's influences writ large in the picture, from inanimate pillow shots, natural light (or no ancillary light at least) setting, to its medium-shot, static camera angle, perpetually at a remove, but often lingering longer than usual, with the story's dramatis personae, and Koreeda goes ever further, defiantly ghettoizes our protagonist Yumiko (former volleyball player Makiko Esumi's screen debut) in taciturnity, while the narrative languidly ambles around a nearly ritualistic, quotidian quietness. In the preamble, Yumiko's grandmother decides to die in her hometown and leaves by foot, never being found again, Yumiko is guilt-ridden because she didn't stop her, and it actualizes as a recurring dream following her into adulthood, contentedly married with Ikuo (Asano), they have just welcomed an infant boy into this world, supposedly it should be a new chapter in their placid but convivial life, yet as augured by an earlier scene where Yumiko meets Ikuo for the first time on the night of her grandmother going missing, Yumiko comes for in another unanticipated bereavement when Ikuo commits an apparently unpremeditated suicide, leaving no explanation behind, which vehemently shatters Yumiko to the core, yet pertaining to Oriental philosophy and decorum, grief and perplexity are seething all too quietly under her outwardly collected mien. Koreeda circumspectly rams home that it is an inward process, time might heal her, or not. A few years later, when the bicycle Ikuo stole and rode is covered with verdigris, it is the time when Yumiko marries into a new family with her son Yuichi (Kashiyama), transferring themselves to a sleepy coastal village, Yumiko's new hubby Tamio (Naitô), a widower with a young daughter (there is kindred spirit one can bank on) welcomes them to the household and domestic bliss restarts in a routine orbit with formality/intimacy (the latter is contingent on seasons) and bucolic/seaside idyll, all in an unperturbed pace under the adornment of Taiwanese composer Chen Ming-chang's lyrical, dirgeful incidental music. Only a return visit to attend her brother's wedding insidiously compounds Yumiko's discomfiture, she cannot find a closure to let go of the past. In view of that Japanese is a people who has a perverse propensity of mythologizing suicide, Koreeda's answer to Yumiko's ingrown quest (culminating in a stunning sequence when she follows a cortège near the mudflat, and betrayed by the film's title) predictably partakes of a numinous slant through Tamio's mouth, and, to a certain degree, it leans to an arbitrary placebo aiming for a sigh of resignation in face of the unknown, one wonder whether Yumiko can come to terms with it, as cool as a cucumber she is, Esumi's performance often belies a trace of self-imposed effort. Alas, to all intents and purposes, Koreeda's maiden work is a laconic but poetic essay, a tasteful if none-too-absorbing artifact, but mostly confidently, a resolute harbinger of a promise that the best is yet to come, which in retrospect, is indubitable.
Pierre Radulescu
The story is told with a large economy of words, of actions, of images: it is a supremely ascetic film. The people are always in the distance, the images always in the dark. The only images that are clear are the scenes remembered by the protagonist: the woman that lost her first spouse.It is a very radical cinematographic approach. I would say that it cannot be more radical than that. It is the movie from the mind of the protagonist.But if you have the guts to follow this ascetic movie you'll be generously rewarded. Because it is actually an exquisite artwork. Yes, many images are left in obscurity: it is actually a great play of light and obscure. As for the images that have meaning for the protagonist, the camera is in such moments like caressing the whole: the scenery becomes then pure visual choreography.
crossbow0106
This is a story originally about a young couple with a three month old son living in a working class area of Japan (Osaka). They seem very much in love till he gets hit by a train and dies. The wife, Yumiko, played by the pretty, piercing eyed Makiko Esumi, is devastated. A second marriage is arranged for her, and now she'll live with her son, new husband & stepdaughter in a remote, windswept village by the Sea of Japan. Will she find happiness again? This is the film's central theme. This movie is filled with dramatic pauses, long shots and is full of atmosphere. Style wise, it feels like an Ozu film, which is a lofty goal, but it is admirably reached. There are parts I especially like in this film, especially when Yumiko questions why her husband died (it was a suicide). That is where the title of the film is explained. I highly recommend the DVD, as it contains written comments by the Director, which explain the concept of the film even better, especially how he came to choose the fairly perfect Makiko Esumi to play Yumiko. Reminiscent of the masters like Mizoguchi, Naruse & especially Ozu, it is well worth your time.
kazoetarinai
This film strikes the viewer with long static, yet wonderfully moving scenes. Just one example: Yumiko is standing in front of a large window. She is inside an old Japanese house where an orange color reflects warmth and security. Outside a tempestuous wind is blowing. It's getting dark and the window grates are trembling from the wind's pressure. The house and its inhabitants are protected against the dangerous storm only by a thin line. Nobody talks! Koreeda holds this scene for a seemingly long time, just enough to become unforgettable. This is only one example how Koreeda talks through the silence ... In my view, a masterpiece.
