‘Still Walking (2008)’
The movie takes its title from a song from 1970:
How beautifully the lights of this city burn,
don’t they,
tell me?
Yokohama………..
Blue-lit Yokohama………..
Look how blissfully time passes alone with you!
………………………………………………………..
………………………………………………………..
I’m still walking,
still moving on foot……..
Like a little boat that rocks,
I’ve swayed just the same
in the gentle breeze
tied to the cord of your arm,
behind us follow only our footprints,
Yokohama………..
Blue-lit Yokohama…………
In your gentle, sweet kiss………….
I’m still walking. Still Walking. Birth or death—this journey never stops. It pauses, yet never truly halts. ‘Still Walking’ tells the story of a middle-class family in Yokohama, Japan. One of the most exquisite family dramas I’ve ever seen. From Ozu’s time to today, no one can tell family stories with quite the same delicacy and precision as Japanese filmmakers. They possess an uncanny ability to portray the unique characteristics of their characters and the human relationships between them with striking realism, while simultaneously creating a masterful atmosphere both within and beyond the home. The generation gap between family members, the distance in their ways of thinking, the exchange of love and affection, certain human conflicts and reconciliations—all set against the backdrop of tensions and harmonies between old and new—this extraordinary interplay is most vividly evident in Japanese cinema. In capturing family traditions and customs through the camera lens, Kore-eda has been the most successful since Ozu in making the everyday crises and beauty of living the central elements of film. In this regard, Kore-eda is Ozu’s most worthy successor. His films are less cinema than they are paintings—as if we’re watching a series of pictures arranged side by side in sequence. Each frame carries forward the story of the one before it. The film’s story feels like the story of our own family, and the cinematic play of emotions and feelings draws us in—we become part of that play without realizing it. This 24-hour story by Kore-eda evokes the same feeling as watching Ozu’s Tokyo Story, made 66 years ago.
In the film, we see an elderly mother who manages all the household tasks wonderfully. Cooking, cleaning the house, feeding everyone at the right time, chatting, and above all, caring for her retired doctor husband—she does everything with a smile. Her constant companion in the film is her daughter Chinami. The daughter has come to visit her parents’ home with her husband and two sons. We also see the younger son with his new family. The elderly mother in the story is neither a saint nor a sage. She has certain prejudices at work within her, yet in some areas she is open-minded. Sometimes she is generous, sometimes narrow-minded. She is exactly like ordinary mothers tend to be. The emotional dimensions between family members in the film are shown in such a way that while there are complexities in relationships, their presentation is gentle, simple, and easy. The movie can be watched in a light mood; you don’t have to make any extra effort to absorb the film’s message. The cinema tells a story of family bonds, love, and sense of duty. It speaks of the regret and pain of being unable to fulfill parents’ dreams.
Fifteen years ago, the eldest son of this family, Junpei, drowned while trying to save his friend. He was utterly devoted to his parents, the beloved elder brother of his two younger siblings. The family members gather together around the anniversary of his death. On that day, flowers are placed at his grave, prayers are offered. There are also some homely arrangements for food and drink. The younger son of the family is Ryota. He hasn’t accomplished much in life. He’s marrying a widow of his own choosing, who has a son from her previous marriage. Ryota follows his own whims and fancies. He has never been able to fulfill any of his parents’ dreams. His father often says, “Why didn’t you drown instead of my Junpei?” He harbors great resentment toward his father. And toward Junpei as well. It’s precisely because his elder brother was so wonderful that he always has to face humiliation! But his life is his own—how he’ll live it is also his personal decision. Why should his parents interfere? Does everyone have to accomplish something great? What’s the point of that? He’s getting by just fine doing something small and ordinary, living a simple life. If neither he nor his family objects to this, why should everyone else have such headaches about him? He doesn’t depend on anyone’s help; he lives according to his own means within his limited capabilities. When such thoughts occur to him, he doesn’t even want to stay with his parents. The father still hasn’t been able to overcome the grief of his eldest son’s death; he repeatedly thinks, why did Junpei have to die? Why not Ryota? He often spends his time irritable and lonely.
The day arrives. The person Junpei died trying to save is also invited. Every year. His name is never mentioned in the film. He’s a man who has failed in his personal life, quite corpulent in physical build. He constantly apologizes to everyone for Junpei’s death. A deep sense of guilt works within him, and he feels that he is responsible for that death. Every year on that day, he must spend time with Junpei’s family members carrying intense shame and sorrow. Seeing him, the father repeatedly thinks, Junpei gave his life to save such a worthless person! However, Ryota feels a kind of sympathy for him. His embarrassed state also touches Ryota. Both are failures in life, thus both are disliked by the father—whether this attraction exists because of that, or because Junpei is gone because he exists, is difficult to say. Ryota requests his mother not to invite that man on the anniversary of his brother’s death—why increase the poor man’s suffering? But the mother says he will certainly be invited, and reminded that he is the cause of Junpei’s death. Precisely because he suffers, he is invited very cordially. Every year! The mother wants the guilt of survival to constantly haunt the man her son died trying to save. The boy was going to commit suicide. Junpei died saving him. How difficult and agonizing it is to spend time with the family of the person whose death is the reason for his survival on that person’s death anniversary—he is invited precisely to make him acutely feel this. This subtle and ‘justified’ vindictiveness of the mother in the film makes us think, moves us.
Among the films that will survive fifty years from now, ‘Still Walking’ seems likely to be on that list. Suppressed anger, sensitivity, nostalgia, guilt, longing, regret, love—these human elements that modern people generally try to conceal as much as possible behind masks of politeness. The silent presence of these elements within the family circle in this film takes us into such a psychological spell that it lingers long after the movie ends. Some films make us want to talk about them; some films come up for discussion at the dinner table. This film is one such cinema. ‘Nobody Knows’ by the same director had left a deep impression on my mind; after watching ‘Still Walking,’ I had to tip my hat in reverence as well.