Taeko (Fumino Kimura) and Jiro (Kento Nagayama) are happily married. They live together in an apartment with Jiro's parents and Kenta, Taeko's son from her previous marriage. A horrific accident disrupts the life of her entire family, and in the process, Taeko is reunited with her ex-husband, Shinji (Atom Sunada), who disappeared when Kenta was two years old.
At first glance, it seems that the characters of Koji Fukada's latest film Love Life speak to each other with relative ease. They apologize for their mistakes and express their feelings to each other relatively freely. In an early conversation, a misunderstanding between in-laws is quickly resolved with little incident. But as the film goes on, it is made abundantly clear that this is an illusion; despite this seemingly transparent setup, there are still many things that are left unsaid between husband and wife, between parents and children. In his previous films, Koji Fukada has used the disruptive energy of an outside force to challenge norms and expectations in Japanese society. In Harmonium (2017,) a family unit is completely deconstructed thanks to a horrible tragedy; in A Girl Missing, the titular vanished girl triggers an intrusion and an unhealthy obsession that tests the protagonists' patience and decorum for far longer than they should.
Fukada's usage of these story tropes is far more benign here: despite being centered upon a horrific tragedy, there is a surprising amount of levity, especially in the film's third act. Yet even in the end, the film's catharsis is not achieved by open and honest communication, but rather the acceptance that there are some things that are simply left unsaid, and that is okay. Fukada gained inspiration for Love Life from Akiko Yano's song of the same name, the final track of her 1993 album, also with the same name. Throughout the song, the singer tells the person they are speaking to that regardless of anything, just their presence will make things okay:
もう何も欲しいがありませんから、そこにいてね。
A small anecdote before I begin: during my last trip to Japan, my cheap hotel was situated right in the middle of Kabukicho, one of Tokyo's red light districts. One night while I was on my way home, a drunken man had scaled up the top of one of the buildings, prompting police to arrive. A large crowd of onlookers had gathered, making it difficult for me to pass through to my hotel. I then noticed a middle aged woman standing outside one of the bars in the area; she caught my eye and tried to bring me to her bar, talking to me in Japanese. I immediately realized that she worked at a Filipino pub. I humored her for a short while and responded to her in kind. After a few minutes I finally switched to Filipino. "Filipino po ba kayo? (Are you Filipino?), I asked. Her face lightened up immediately. As the police pried the drunken man from the rafters of the building next to us, we talked for a while about her job (she'd been there for 20 years), how she supports loved ones back home, and the kinds of customers she encounters. When the crowd cleared up, she bade me goodbye. "Mag-ingat ka pauwi ha, (be careful going home)," she told me, as if I were her son. That's a memory I will never forget.
Angry Son's title befits its main character: Jun (Kazuki Horike) is prone to fits of anger, mostly because of his frustrations towards his identity and his mother, Reina (Maria Theresa Gow), a Filipino pub hostess who is the complete opposite of the stereotypical Japanese mom. As a half Japanese, half Filipino boy, he feels like he doesn't quite belong, wishing he were fully Japanese instead. He also doesn't quite understand why her mother exerts so much effort towards relatives far away, when they have more than their share of problems at home. Add that to the fact that he's gay and in a relationship with his classmate Yosuke (Masafumi Shinohara), in a Japan that is only beginning to accept such relationships. The intersections between Jun's racial identity and his sexual orientation form the majority of the film, as Jun tries to search for his long lost father and tries to understand his mother better.
This is a film about people that are struggling to be heard and seen, sometimes in more ways than one: the Japanese title of the movie is 世界は僕らに気づかない (sekai wa bokura ni kizukanai), "The World Doesn't Notice Us." It is only proper to be angry at a world that barely acknowledges that you exist in the first place. But there is room for love and understanding in this place: Jun and Yosuke's parents are accepting of their situation, with concerns about their sons' future finances being more of an issue than anything else, and the film's denouement makes anger give way to love, understanding, and catharsis. It's a wonderful film, buoyed by strong lead performances.
Raf and Julie are a couple living in France. They are on the verge of a breakup, and from the very first scene of Catherine Corsini's The Divide it's easy to see why: Raf is needy, clingy, and impulsive. In the process of trying to salvage their relationship, Raf slips and fractures her elbow - just in time for the escalation of France's Yellow Vest Protests. There, they meet a collection of characters from all walks of life, all of whom have their own opinions on what's going on outside. In addition, everyone involved either sees or experiences how dysfunctional and overworked some government systems are. Fractures don't only involve bones: as this film shows, relationships between people and society itself can just be as easily divided.
As the film's mostly obnoxious characters interact with each other and gain a tentative understanding, a weird sort of solidarity starts to form. This, despite a cornucopia of varying political beliefs from right to center to left, fueled by discontent, political indifference or disillusionment. A seemingly cold, indifferent system that disregards the working class is how populist movements like the yellow vests gain traction, and as such The Divide's small emergency room becomes a microcosm that emulates society at large outside.
The film ends with its characters trapped in circles, sometimes circles of their own making, and sometimes influenced by the larger sociopolitical milieu. Even when its characters go their separate ways, the rotting systems that fueled their prior disillusionment still remain. Like the central malady of one of its protagonists, fractured bones seldom heal completely and will usually never be the same again.
No comments:
Post a Comment