Recently, in celebration of his victory of winning the Palme d’Or at the 2018 Cannes Film Festival, I chose to watch a film by Hirokazu Kore-eda, a filmmaker I have been very aware of but had not had the opportunity to explore for myself yet. The film I opted to watch was Still Walking (Japanese: 歩いても 歩いても). Since then, I have spent the past few days meditating on this film, mulling it over in my mind and trying to form some coherent thoughts on what to say about it. To say that Still Walking is anything less than a profoundly moving and utterly extraordinary piece of masterful cinema would be nothing short of astoundingly incorrect. Kore-eda has made something with Still Walking that very few filmmakers can attest to having achieved: he has made a film that is visual poetry, a chronicle of humanity and all its flaws and hidden beauties, reflected in a single, unassuming and utterly stunning film. A film that focuses on the intricacies of existence, the aspects of our lives that make us so relentlessly human, and tragically beautiful in all of our humble faults and towering personal victories derived out of just being present in time. There are few filmmakers like Kore-eda, an artist whose unquestionable heartful warmth for his characters are reflected in every frame of Still Walking, which is a melancholic, hilarious and nostalgic story about the power of family and the relentless force of home. It strikes you with an emotional force that cannot be described in mere words, and it is moving beyond what is expected. Like any remarkable piece of poetry, Still Walking manages to say so much through saying so very little, and the result is quite simply breathtaking, and something quite close to being nothing short of a nearly perfect film.

The Yokoyama family has an annual tradition, whereby everyone gathers at the tranquil home of matriarch, the feisty and caring Toshiko (Kirin Kiki) and her husband, Kyohei (Yoshio Harada), a respected but unsociable doctor forced into retirement, both because of his advancing age and because the march of technology made the need for humble but antiquated doctors like him somewhat redundant. Their children, Ryota (Hiroshi Abe) and Chinami (Yū) arrive with their families, and they collectively commemorate the passing of their third sibling, Junpei, who died an untimely death many years previously when he saved someone from drowning, but he himself ended up dying. Over the course of a single day, the family spends time together, coming to terms with the uncomfortable memories of the past and looking forward to the uncertainties of the future. Ryota, a man obsessed with his work, has recently married a widow, Yukari (Yui Natsukawa) who has a son, Atsushi (Shohei Tanaka) who struggles to accept Ryota as the new male influence in his life, seeing him as more of a friend than someone he can look up to, especially considering his own father died years before, leaving Atsushi without a father figure to help him through his formative years. Everyone has to adapt to the additions to their close-knit and intimate family, and Yukari and Atsushi themselves have to grapple with the fact that they are not merely guests in that house, but members of the family, as difficult but comforting as that is to accept. Grievances are expressed, insecurities revealed but more than anything else, there is a tangibly strong bond shared between the people gathered there, and it is clear that nothing can challenge the deep adoration they have for each other, with affection and endearing emotions of familial joy being the primary force that consistently draws the family together, year after year.

Still Walking is a film that is driven by characters, focusing on the individuals in the family as they come together and then break apart again after their time together has ended, both literally and metaphorically. Therefore, considering the character-driven nature of the film, it is hardly surprising that Still Walking is inundated with extraordinary performances. The film is led by Hiroshi Abe, who plays the character of Ryota exceptionally well. A gifted actor, armed with a set of extraordinary skills, Abe evokes truly resonant emotions with his performance as a man detached from reality, living life through the screen of his mobile phone, rather than pausing to see the beauty of life around him. Abe is a terrific lead, and does exactly what is required of an ensemble, character-driven piece like Still Walking – he is as charismatic and endearing as any leading man should be, but does not demand enough attention to detract from the plethora of wonderful performances occurring around him. Amongst these are his sister, Chinami, played by tremendous enthusiasm and sweet sincerity by the adorably charming Yū, who is responsible for some of the most endearing and heartfelt moments in the film. Her gusto and lovely demeanor layers this film with a certain nostalgic empathy, a delightfully powerful sense of the tragically beautiful. Her character may not be the focus of much of the film, but her contributions are undeniably pivotal. Shohei Tanaka threatens to overpower the film with his moving performance as Atsushi, the young but world-weary step-son of Ryota, who is the audience surrogate, the vessel through which we see the traditions that govern the Yokoyama family. Fiction, especially Japanese fiction, has never been averse to child protagonists, with their innocence and youthful naivete offering a refreshingly unique perspective of the events we are presented with, showing us the hidden beauties of the world through the eyes of someone who sees it very differently from how others would. Tanaka is an endearing force in the world, and the complex nuances he imbues this character with is astonishing.

Yet, the emotional core of Still Walking is present in two characters, the parental figures. I have noticed a trend in films that focus on families, the elders are usually used as comedic relief, or placed in the background in a diminished role, which is often very unfortunate. Kore-eda, if it is not obvious already, cares too much about his characters to ever underuse them, and considering he garnered two astounding actors for the roles of the matriarch and patriarch of the family allowed the filmmaker to construct beautiful characters around their talents. Kirin Kiki, who I was introduced to through her astonishing performance in Sweet Bean (another brilliant piece of melancholic Japanese realism), is the emotional anchor of the film. Playing the feisty but loving mother and grandmother, Kiki is utterly terrific. Her performance is simple but layered with hidden complexities. She is far more than just a caring woman, but also one who has her own real emotions that she needs to work through, such as her insistence on inviting the boy whose life her son traded for his own, simply to remind him that he lives while his savior died, being particularly striking. Kiki’s performance is beyond stunning, and there are moments of genuine fragility in her performance that I have rarely seen conveyed with such relentless honesty. Yoshio Harada, playing the humble but ill-tempered father of the family, is wonderful. He finds the empathy in a man that does not naturally come across as charming and endearing. Under the capable care of Harada, Kyohei is a brilliant rendering of the effects of aging – not only does it cause someone’s body to become frail, but it causes the respect they earned throughout their career from those in their community to morph into well-meaning but dismissive friendliness. Kyohei is not an unlikable character, but rather one who is as flawed as everyone else, it is just that his bitterness is manifested more clearly in his behavior, and his approach to others lacks the subtle social graces one would expect. He is growing older, and his mind is fading, but the deep love he holds for his family is still very clear, and Harada is dedicated to providing the beautiful nuances that can be observed in his performance.

Still Walking is a melancholic film, and it approaches the subject of loss with such delicate care. It is not necessarily a film about death, but rather something that foregrounds grief as a major theme, but not specifically the theme that informs the entirety of the narrative as a whole, serving as a device to frame the events of the story. I would not call Still Walking a particularly sad film, but rather one that directly focuses on the aftermath of a loss, especially one that is not too recent, which allows for a detachment of the feelings of loss from the experience of being in mourning. The character of Junpei, while only appearing in a photograph, is one of the most pivotal figures in the film. Junpei has been dead for fifteen years, yet his presence is still felt tangibly, a wound seemingly unable to be sutured by the passing of time, memories of his life and tragic death lingering on all these years later. In considering the character of Junpei, we need to look at his significance. His death is not merely a narrative device used to justify the characters coming together, but rather an instance of the convention of the present absent, the figure that appears as an intangible narrative specter, a presence that is felt, even if the character himself is absent from the film. He does not merely represent the deceased son, but rather suggests something much larger, the concept of memory as a ghost, haunting these characters like an uncomfortable but necessary phantom of the past. Junpei’s untimely death is a motif for the unpredictable nature of life, and the loss of innocence that occurs throughout it, whether literally or figuratively. Memory is an important element of Still Walking, with  remembrances of the past being constant reminders of what has happened before, souvenirs of the faults and merits of the living, which echo the consequences and rewards they reap as a result of what has occurred in the past, as they move towards a livable but uncertain future, where anything can happen (as the ending of Still Walking suggests). One of the most over messages that can be observed in Still Walking is that despite the passing of the years since the death of their son and brother, the family is still working through the trauma, and the statement made throughout Still Walking is that despite the fact that everyone works through trauma in their own individual way, the most healing comes in the form of the collective mending of family.

Still Walking does, on the surface, tread familiar waters. There are many films that focus on family reunions, particularly those that are centered around a particular family event or commemoration. This is a wildly popular cinematic convention, mainly because they tell stories that are highly-relatable and appear to be relatively common, with many people being about to see themselves reflected in these situations in some way, regardless of how absurd they appear to be. The difference is that Kore-eda is a filmmaker aware of the nuances of the human condition, and he has one of the most rare, valuable skills that he utilizes beautifully: untouchable empathy. The result is a film that is not a portrayal of a dysfunctional family on the verge of breaking down, instead veering towards quite the opposite, showing a well-constructed family that manages to still love each other, despite the challenges they encounter. Despite their differences and how they do not share many of the same opinions and perspectives, there is not an iota of unbearable tension lurking beneath the surface, with the Yokoyama family being built on foundations of humor, care and most importantly, unbreakable love. Kore-eda cares too much about his characters to exploit them in unrealistic ways, and he generously paints a delicate portrait of a family who, through everything, remain deeply dedicated to their roots and to each other. It was astonishing how Kore-eda, when presented with many moments where it would be easy to resort to exploitative, manipulative histrionics, chose to take the subdued, quiet and beautiful path of endearing sweetness and fragile beauty. There are so many reasons to praise Kore-eda, but his remarkable subtlety is certainly indicative of his status as one of the true masters of contemporary cinema.

Personally, what I found most extraordinary about Still Walking was the sense of ‘home’ – the majority of this film takes place in the Yokoyama family home, with most other scenes being transient, such as a character going for a walk, or travelling to their childhood home (perhaps a thinly-veiled allegory for the return to the faded childhood?), representing the journey home. The two final scenes of Still Walking are the most stark and heartbreaking. The penultimate moment is the older couple, walking together (but not quite in sync), lightly bickering but enjoying the moment of simply existing, as Ryota’s narration breaks our collective heart by informing us that his parents both died a few years later, with many missed opportunities lingering above their passing. The final scene sees Ryota and his family, now with their own addition, walking away from a graveyard as he explains how butterflies that survive the winter return the following year as yellow. Despite the simplicity of his stories, everything Kore-eda shows in a film has significance, even seemingly inconsequential motifs such as the graveyard or a yellow butterfly. The graveyard is juxtaposed with the family home, but there are similarities: both are resting places, where one is at peace, and the journey home is not only one of spending time with the living, but also of remembering the dead. The home is where the family physically comes and goes, but their soul remains, constantly traveling to where one’s roots lay, whether in the form of the physical, living embodiment of a person or in the spiritual reincarnation of a simple yellow butterfly. The phrase “home is where the heart is” has never been more profoundly true as it is in Still Walking.

Kore-eda is such a remarkable filmmaker, and I cannot express my astonishment at how he manages to convey so much through so little. Still Walking, like most of his films, is an exercise in restraint, a beautifully subtle representation of life as it truly is. It is an example of astoundingly gorgeous realism, a film that observes life through the most simple means. Kore-eda conveys every nuance of life in his incredible ability to utilize his superb storytelling abilities to elicit authentic emotions, which allow him to meditate, rather than commentate, on life. The focus on the most intricate, delicate minutiae aids in representing the much larger image of life. In telling the story of a normal family, Kore-eda manages to convey the universal nature of humanity, filtering truthful representations of reality in a profoundly resonating way. Still Walking is a measured film, paced and meditative, which prompts the viewer to stand alongside the characters in being reminded that life is not a series of achievements and failures, but rather the multitudes of small moments that may not appear important at the time, but weave together into the complex fabric of being. Still Walking is a stunning reminder to appreciate the beauty of the smallest moments, the elements of our lives that form us into the people we are, through our experiences and interactions. The delicacy Kore-eda handles this film with will never fail to astonish me.

What else is there to say about Still Walking? It is a towering film, an achievement beyond compare. Creatively, it is stunning: the music is astonishing, the filmmaking is superb, and the attention paid to detail is wonderful. However, this film finds its wings and soars the highest with its narrative beauty, telling a transcendent and resonant story of family, through which introspective investigation and self-reflection is facilitated. Still Walking is a heartfelt, warm examination of the human condition, told by a filmmaker known for his empathetic adoration of his characters, and his extraordinary ability to convey the intricate experiences of being human. In the most frank and brutally honest words that I can possibly conjure at this moment, Still Walking is something very close to a perfect film.