The work of Sho Miyake has always seemed to be hiding from me. I’ve missed three of his films in Berlin over the years because their screenings happened either after I’d left or before I’d arrived, and whenever his work has played in London the timings have been awkward or unmanageable without either great expense or a very late night (often both). Most recently, I had the chance to see his newest film in Locarno thanks to a lucky piece of scheduling, but my trip fell apart for logistical reasons right at the last minute and I never even made it to Switzerland — of course, he went on to win the Golden Leopard.
With this recent success, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands and fill in the gaps myself. Well, not all of them, but as many as I can. As far as I can tell, there are (currently) no English subtitles available for any of his early features, which is a shame, and I just don’t have the stomach for his (somewhat inexplicable) Netflix miniseries Ju-on: Origins (2022), an endeavour I suspect will remain a curio for only the most ardent of auteurists in the years to come. That leaves me with three films to catch up on. An incomplete view, but a view nonetheless, and one that I hope will hold me in good stead when I eventually get another chance to see his latest. It’s certainly better than nothing.
In Hakodate, it rains in the summer. You always need an umbrella with you. Three aimless twenty-somethings, two men who share a bunk-bed in a tiny flat and an indecisive woman who falls into their orbit, spend all of their spare time together. Night after night they drink in bars, playing darts and pool and table-tennis, avoiding the responsibilities of adulthood while reveling in its freedoms. All three of them are at a crossroads. They drift through their lives, working part-time jobs they don’t care about or borrowing money from family members to keep the lights on, and they can’t seem to break the monotony. Empty time passes slowly. Miyake captures the mundanity of these long nights and bleary-eyed mornings with a gentle naturalism, quietly observing the minutiae of their interactions as this routine repeats itself over and over and over again. The only signs of clouds starting to form come through in brief gestures. A lingering glance across a room. A brief flash of recognition. The pretence of being asleep. They all tiptoe around their feelings, keeping things to themselves and hoping the rain will hold off a little longer. And yet their umbrellas are always close at hand, just in case. A warm film about how much you stand to lose from waiting. And how much you can gain by making something happen for yourself.
In the first pandemic winter, boxing matches unfold to a few masked fans scattered around an empty arena. There’s no glory to be found here, but Keiko, a hearing-impaired young fighter, persists all the same. She trains every day at the boxing gym near the small home she shares with her brother, and works as a hotel cleaner to pay the bills. But the toll of fighting is becoming too much, and the gym’s finances have been decimated by Covid. This chapter of Keiko’s life is coming to an end, and as change approaches Miyake contrasts the comfort and familiarity of her routine with the unknowns and chaos away from it. The gym is a safe space for her, a precious one, where she’s surrounded by people who have found ways to communicate with her, whether by learning sign language, writing notes on little whiteboards, or miming the actions they want her to perform. But outside of it, she’s a small figure alone in the crowd, facing up to the challenges posed by a bustling city that has no time to make space for her. Masks make it impossible to read lips, and people loudly repeat their questions when she has no way to respond to them. Tokyo is a city filled with hurdles, but for Miyake all that can be gained from standing still is more of the same. However uncomfortable, moving forward is a question of embracing change and taking that leap into the unknown. Anything else is lost time.
Looking in and looking out. A haughty man, Yamazoe, whose panic attacks have forced him to leave behind a high-flying corporate career, and Fujisawa, a meek woman whose life-long struggle with severe PMS has made it hard for her to hold down a steady job, fall into each other’s orbit while working for a company building microscopes and telescopes for classrooms. The public manifestations of their conditions, be it outbursts of frustration or physical collapses, have drawn the concern of friends, families, and co-workers, much to their own embarrassment, but in this hilly suburb of Tokyo they’ve each found the space and the patience they need to rebuild their lives. They come together through connections made by others at a grief support group, where a former colleague of Yamazoe has built a friendship with Fujisawa’s boss, and it’s this idea of reaching out for help instead of suffering alone and keeping it all inside that Miyake seems most interested in. Apart, they endure their conditions as best as they can, but together, following the gradual development of their relationship, they help each other lay a foundation for a healthier life. Fujisawa gives Yamazoe her bike when she sees the difficulty he has using public transport, and he removes her from a potentially explosive situation at work before it becomes a problem. These moments of recognition can only happen in a safe space, with people looking out for one another. There will always be pain, but it doesn’t have to be endured alone. Given the right environment and the right people, there’s always a way to manage it. And then you can move forward.