Reviews

We always think that following our hearts will lead to a successful escape. Perhaps what we really want is not about healing, but the ability to love again. That's why we can keep clinging to that awkward, pretentious romance, pouring our love into another relationship once more.

This film perfectly captures the emotional turmoil of love when faced with difficult choices—being indecisive, being conflicted, and experiencing the substitution effect. It has a strong Éric Rohmer vibe, reminiscent of The Bakery Girl of Monceau.

I have two lovers—one is called "The Ideal", and the other is called "Reality".

This is definitely the least engaging film in Shōhei Imamura’s early works. It’s basically a thesis!

The best Japanese directors are Yasujirō Ozu and Shōhei Imamura. They’re like two sides of the same coin—one represents the good, the other the dark! Yasujirō Ozu’s films are filled with warmth, showcasing the beauty of human nature. Shōhei Imamura’s films, on the other hand, are dark and twisted, filled with all sorts of bizarre and supernatural elements.

Some movies are made for the general audience, some for film lovers, others for filmmakers—Robert Bresson's films are made for directors.

The male lead isn’t a professional actor, but I can always see the passion in his eyes.

This film marks the director’s late-career masterpiece. While it still explores the primal instincts of both humans and animals, it moves away from the brutal, dark tones of his earlier works, evolving into a more tender story of self-redemption. The eel carries two symbolic meanings: one, explored in the film’s final monologue, represents the male protagonist’s sexual desire; the other, seen with eels trapped in bags or aquariums, symbolizes imprisonment and sexual repression.

Aside from the director's signature touch of darkness, the whole film was so heartwarming it almost made me cry. By the time I reached the final scenes, I almost felt like I was watching a Yôji Yamada film. I was truly moved! The music is a highlight, though the use of eels felt a bit dragged out.

While watching the movie in theatres, I couldn’t help but wonder if the film was lagging, because there were even snoring sounds all around.

The director’s intention is pretty clear here. To really capture the endless stretch of time, he uses long takes—most shots clock in at around three minutes, and some even feel a little repetitive or excessive. But that’s kind of the point. It imitates the endless cycle of daily life, where there’s still something captivating about the routine even without anything new happening.

Sunhi is no one's girlfriend.

Hong Sang-soo is really bold in this one! He uses three different men to try to piece together who Sunhi really is, and we, the audience, are the fourth man in the mix. We see many versions of Sunhi through their eyes, but even that isn't the real Sunhi.

This documentary is less about visiting Ozu's hometown and more about exploring the quiet, introspective nature of Japan. Beginning and ending with Tokyo Story, the film intertwines the director's personal experiences in Japan with interviews of Ozu's collaborators. The most striking moment comes when the director revisits a pinball hall, where he observes the staff adjusting the track, piece by piece, with a hammer. He remarks that tomorrow, all the steel balls will follow a completely new path, and the machine that brings you glory today may lead to your downfall tomorrow.

If this documentary is a tribute to Yasujirō Ozu, I’d say it feels more like a Western director’s exploration of unique Eastern culture. Sadly, in the face of modernization, Tokyo is no longer the calm, peaceful, and orderly world Ozu once captured through his lens. The director doesn’t impose any judgment through the camera—he simply documents, choosing to step back and leave the interpretation to the audience.

Money is just a tangible form of measure chosen by the world in this era, revealing the emptiness in people's souls.

In this film, the director explores the contagious nature of morality, delving deep into its complexities. He conveys a strong sense of formalism through techniques such as deliberately avoiding key events, omitting crucial actions, and using close-ups to freeze moments within the narrative. These choices reflect his unique cinematic vision and distinctive storytelling style.

This doesn’t feel like a typical Japanese film at all. The story is really interesting and, honestly, probably pretty rare for its time. In the end, it all comes down to the selfishness of the main character. But in a way, it’s about the right to pursue happiness. The film introduces a kind-hearted geisha, a gentle heroine, and a weak man. As the conflicts unfold, it’s hard to blame any of them.

The director’s storytelling and cinematography were already highly refined from the start, and the exploration of the husband-wife dynamic was groundbreaking for its time. The two women are like red and white roses—one proud and self-absorbed, the other gentle and caring. The husband makes a choice, truly following his heart, and rejects the conventional idea of staying with his wife forever. This plot alone showcases the film’s unique approach.

The director strikes a delicate balance in a religious film that explores the clash and struggle between divinity and humanity. He uses a humorous tone to depict the bishops who have lost their sense of mystery, while at the same time portraying the fugitive Pope with a serious demeanor, capturing the loss of faith and the internal conflict with their own identities within religious institutions.