The Crippled "Afterimage"

The Crippled "Afterimage"

I hope that when I die, it will be quiet. I hope my death will resemble a falling leaf, drifting unnoticed into the soil, and then, imperceptibly, being consumed by the world. What people notice might only be the east wind. My death is merely a fleeting scene passing by, but the east wind truly embraces you. You don’t need to look; just leave an inch of space for me in your chest.

While filming SUPER HAPPY FOREVER, Kohei Igarashi also shot a short film, Two of Us, in a hotel facing the Pacific Ocean. Using the same location, and filming the short as a natural extension of the feature, this production method isn’t unprecedented in film history. However, as an emphasis on a certain “way of seeing,” Igarashi wrote his own sense of self-awareness: facing the same stretch of scenery, in the same building, with the same group of lively people, answering similarly themed questions... This pathway for viewing the two works becomes so clear. Within the same expansive space, two different sets of characters emerge (Sano Hiroki and Yoshinori Miyata, with only subtle changes in their appearances, nearly trick us), and two different stories unfold. In the same hotel that claims it’s about to close, accompanied by the same emotion that must disappear.

I must point out that the ostensibly melancholy postures and rigid, even inexplicably strange movements of the characters in SUPER HAPPY FOREVER may lead to misinterpretations by the audience, who might see it as a stale “zombie movie.” However, it is precisely this stiffness of body and melancholic tone that draws our attention to the true protagonists of the film: the sea, the hotel, and the peculiar emotions of this peculiar time. These same ghostly presences also haunt Two of Us. Within the shared dialectic of “same-different” that runs through both works, Igarashi nurtured a purpose within his films that is ineffable: to film people’s “afterimages,” rather than to film people “standing” anywhere.

It’s important to stress that “afterimages” are not ghosts. Ghosts choose to “stand” in certain parts of films, dispassionately appearing as the tone or scenario shifts. We’ve encountered many ghosts before; they are, after all, our old friends. Sometimes, they appear in Asako I & II, carrying Torii Mai’s business card all the way to a dinner table; sometimes, they speak words like “unattached” and gradually retreat in Journey to the Shore. Other times, they transform into red-eyed monkeys in Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, the ancient princess in Cemetery of Splendor, or the tiger brushing against the treetops in Tropical Malady. Ghosts like to stand deep within a scenario, eliciting true “astonishment.” It is as if, only when the ghost manifests here, the meaning from elsewhere can be summoned back with the body’s presence.

But afterimages do not attempt to summon anything, because what is “elsewhere” has never reached the other shore. They linger in people’s footsteps. Unlike ghosts, afterimages do not deal with the concept of “here” and “there.” Instead, as we watch people’s ordinary activities, they move from here to there, and meaning follows closely behind, deeply rooted in their steps, in the “paths they have walked.” On one hand, the “paths walked” measure the space people have shared with one another. And it is not only our eyes that see every inch of this space but also the slow, deliberate footsteps of each character. On the other hand, the “paths walked” always mark the passage of time, as people's every step counts specific moments. In any case, this is the afterimage.

Previously, we found an excellent example of this in Goodbye, Dragon Inn. A torrential rainstorm decorates Tsai Ming-liang’s cinema. I always remember this as a memory from not so long ago: Yang Kuei-Mei limping along a wall, hobbling toward the camera/audience. “This wall is about as long as Yang Kuei-Mei’s steps”; “This staircase is about as tall as it takes Lee Kang-sheng a few steps to climb”; “The distance between Mitamura Takashi’s left push and right leg is about as wide as one urinal.” You sense that as people move from corner to corner, it is not just their physical actions but the camera measuring every brick and tile of the room—until Yang Kuei-Mei suddenly disappears into a “crack” in the wall, and we glimpse the fleeting image of Dragon Inn. Only then do we realize that both the film and nostalgia are tonight’s themes. Thus, in Goodbye, Dragon Inn, people do not walk roads of sentimentality or melancholy; every step they take retraces the paths of nostalgia and those who have passed. The people of the past walk behind Yang Kuei-Mei and Lee Kang-sheng. The past overlays every wall like a ruler’s markings. Every step people take clarifies the geometry of the present space, just as Igarashi’s camera makes clear the impending closure of the hotel and the unsettlingly blue sea. I am not saying Goodbye, Dragon Inn and SUPER HAPPY FOREVER are the same type of film. It’s like how rainy days and sunny days rarely share anything in common, especially Tsai Ming-liang’s lively, vibrant rainy days versus Igarashi’s melancholic, sorrow-laden sunny days. What I mean is that the afterimages in SUPER HAPPY FOREVER are incomplete. Kohei Igarashi films crippled afterimages. They are afterimages tripped up by something, limping.

Igarashi never films people “standing” somewhere; instead, he films people “passing through” a place, while leaving behind traces of attachment. Traces of something. When Sano Hiroki moves forward, it is the already-dead Nairu Yamamoto holding his hand. When Nairu Yamamoto walks along the coast, it is Sano Hiroki from the already-passed future tugging at her sleeve. This is a sorrowful film. For this reason, the film stumbles over its own melancholy. It staggers through the hotel, along the seashore, and through every corner they once walked together in the future’s past. In Igarashi’s panning shots, it’s impossible to see only a single posture: sadness, joy; future, past. Afterimages permeate the entire film because sorrow permeates us. I love you not because I truly see you, but because in every moment I cannot see you, I truly “see” you. Afterimages entangle us. In Two of Us, Sano Hiroki walks into a secluded part of the hotel and examines the scar on his brow in a mirror. Behind him is the stammering past. In SUPER HAPPY FOREVER, Sano Hiroki walks along the coast and sees a little boy in a red hat. Nairu Yamamoto walks along the coast and meets a Vietnamese woman eating lunch. Behind them are each other's pasts and futures. Furthermore, as a question of tense, Sano Hiroki is living in a future that exists in the past, while Nairu Yamamoto is experiencing a past that exists in the future. The firm stance of telling a story is this: when I read the beginning, everything that happens afterward becomes possible. Films depict “what comes next,” even if “what comes next” has already occurred. When I realize that such a future must exist, it’s because my past is even farther away than my future. The film's narrative structure is a complex dance of temporalities, where the characters' present is constantly haunted by the echoes of what has been and what is yet to come. This intricate weaving of time is not just a narrative device but a profound exploration of human experience. It suggests that our lives are not linear but are instead a tapestry of moments, each one carrying the weight of the past and the anticipation of the future. The characters in Igarashi's films are not mere actors on a stage; they are vessels through which the audience can feel the palpable presence of time's passage. Their movements are not just physical but also emotional, as they grapple with the memories and possibilities that shape their existence. In this way, the film becomes a meditation on the nature of time itself, and how it both separates and connects us to those we love and the moments that define us.

Once, to confront the sadness brought by inevitable death, Jun Murakami carved past tenderness into the motions of skateboarding (Playback), while Lee Hye-young, in the face of impending death, devoted her sorrow and faith in life to words and blessings (In Front of Your Face). Death brings nearly infinite sorrow, but it also becomes an  secret. Death is Jun Murakami’s secret, Lee Hye-young’s secret, and the secret of the Vietnamese woman in SUPER HAPPY FOREVER. Or perhaps, the Vietnamese woman herself is the secret. She only converses with Nairu Yamamoto. Sano Hiroki listens to her singing as he quietly falls asleep. In the end, she wears that red hat as if carrying some undeniable truth, and leaves. She becomes an open secret.

Perhaps, as Igarashi himself revealed in a director’s commentary, SUPER HAPPY FOREVER is “a film about everlasting love and the joy of people meeting each other.” This seems like a sad yet hopeful comment, full of faith in reality. But no matter how it’s described, in Igarashi’s seemingly calm and indifferent panning shots, crippled, deeply melancholic afterimages walk before the scenery. The serene camera work of Igarashi captures the essence of these characters' emotions, allowing the audience to feel the weight of their experiences. The red hat, a recurring motif, symbolizes the connection between the past and the future, a tangible link that transcends time. It is as if the hat carries the memories and dreams of those who wear it, a silent testament to their existence. The film's narrative structure, with its non-linear storytelling, invites viewers to piece together the fragments of these lives, to understand the depth of their joys and sorrows. In this way, SUPER HAPPY FOREVER becomes not just a story about individuals, but a universal exploration of the human condition, where love, loss, and the passage of time are interwoven into a tapestry of shared humanity.

written by Wei Wei