What a beautiful film. This was another Jenny movie, part of a series we’ve been watching of films by Hirokazu Kore-eda. Jenny picked these movies since Kore-eda returns regularly to the same theme -- suicide or loss. The first, Mabaroso, follows a woman whose boy friend might have killed himself, and Hana is the story of a samurai who has to deal with the death of his brother. And we’d both seen Nobody Knows, the story of a group of children who have lost their mother, before we even knew Kore-eda was the director.
But I love this film. It’s a completely engaging portrayal of a family that has gathered to honor the memory of a lost son though there is practically no story in it. Instead, the various members of the family interact and talk, and through their interaction, we come to know and understand each of them. All have a mix of good and bad, all act justifiably and unjustifiably, all excite our affection and criticism. And while this doesn’t sound like a compelling film, Still Walking is fascinating through all 115 minutes of its run, and I came out of the movie feeling as if all the members of the family were people I knew well. It reminded me a little of the family portraits in Assayas’ Summer Hours, Desplechin’s Christmas Story and even Techine’s My Favorite Season, but there is even less story here than in those French films, each of which seems to have a least a modicum of plot and climax. Still Walking has no character conflicts that rise to a resolution; it’s a gradual revelation of some people who have a lot of history and who love each other in their own way. This insight is keen, revealing and yet warm. And there is none of the irony or comic distance that seems so necessary to films today. We simply see the characters in a direct way.
And there is a lot to be said about the production, too. Much of the frame had an off-center composition like you see in Japanese prints, and there was noticeably little camera movement. I loved it when the camera framed a composition, and then the actors (or a red train!) moved into and around the frame, putting all the visual emphasis on the moving object in the frame rather than calling attention to the camera with movement. Voyeuristic, yes….but that technique brings the viewer into the intimacy of the family. There’s one scene that stands out in my mind – the one of the boy lying on a mat. At first, the boy is cramped in the bottom of the frame, in fact, only half in it. During the dialog, the boy turns over on his back, rolling into the frame and into engagement with his step-father. That simple little gesture was incredibly aesthetic to me. In rolling, the boy realized the potential of the original image, and he could just as easily roll back out. The beauty in that realized frame is under constant threat of destruction by something as
simple as the boy moving out of the frame again. There’s something richly Japanese about it…and about the many similar shots.
The lighting is marvelous, too. It looks like it’s all done with reflective umbrellas that illuminate all the actors and interiors softly evenly. There are no sharp lines on the actors or the sets, but the viewer can see everything. It’s a visual analog to our access to the characters’ actions and words, and the light also creates a sense of calm, refinement and beauty. I could enjoy this movie with no sound at all just by watching the visuals. However, that would be a loss because the sound plays such an important role here. Kore-eda repeatedly creates off-screen space with the sound, so while you’re looking at one thing, you’re hearing another. And the sonic and visual spaces might not even be interacting; they’re just co-existing. In one elegant moment, there’s a conversation in the bedroom, and while the conversation continues, the film cuts to a small vase on a table with the crape myrtle sprig one of the kids has brought in, the shot composed, of course, with an off-center aesthetic. The shot has lingering memory and beauty.
But I love this film. It’s a completely engaging portrayal of a family that has gathered to honor the memory of a lost son though there is practically no story in it. Instead, the various members of the family interact and talk, and through their interaction, we come to know and understand each of them. All have a mix of good and bad, all act justifiably and unjustifiably, all excite our affection and criticism. And while this doesn’t sound like a compelling film, Still Walking is fascinating through all 115 minutes of its run, and I came out of the movie feeling as if all the members of the family were people I knew well. It reminded me a little of the family portraits in Assayas’ Summer Hours, Desplechin’s Christmas Story and even Techine’s My Favorite Season, but there is even less story here than in those French films, each of which seems to have a least a modicum of plot and climax. Still Walking has no character conflicts that rise to a resolution; it’s a gradual revelation of some people who have a lot of history and who love each other in their own way. This insight is keen, revealing and yet warm. And there is none of the irony or comic distance that seems so necessary to films today. We simply see the characters in a direct way.
And there is a lot to be said about the production, too. Much of the frame had an off-center composition like you see in Japanese prints, and there was noticeably little camera movement. I loved it when the camera framed a composition, and then the actors (or a red train!) moved into and around the frame, putting all the visual emphasis on the moving object in the frame rather than calling attention to the camera with movement. Voyeuristic, yes….but that technique brings the viewer into the intimacy of the family. There’s one scene that stands out in my mind – the one of the boy lying on a mat. At first, the boy is cramped in the bottom of the frame, in fact, only half in it. During the dialog, the boy turns over on his back, rolling into the frame and into engagement with his step-father. That simple little gesture was incredibly aesthetic to me. In rolling, the boy realized the potential of the original image, and he could just as easily roll back out. The beauty in that realized frame is under constant threat of destruction by something as
simple as the boy moving out of the frame again. There’s something richly Japanese about it…and about the many similar shots.The lighting is marvelous, too. It looks like it’s all done with reflective umbrellas that illuminate all the actors and interiors softly evenly. There are no sharp lines on the actors or the sets, but the viewer can see everything. It’s a visual analog to our access to the characters’ actions and words, and the light also creates a sense of calm, refinement and beauty. I could enjoy this movie with no sound at all just by watching the visuals. However, that would be a loss because the sound plays such an important role here. Kore-eda repeatedly creates off-screen space with the sound, so while you’re looking at one thing, you’re hearing another. And the sonic and visual spaces might not even be interacting; they’re just co-existing. In one elegant moment, there’s a conversation in the bedroom, and while the conversation continues, the film cuts to a small vase on a table with the crape myrtle sprig one of the kids has brought in, the shot composed, of course, with an off-center aesthetic. The shot has lingering memory and beauty.
I love moments like this in Still Walking.
