Farewells in Life, with Memories in Between

Jun Yokotani, a young Japanese man, makes a living driving around the city—navigating through life’s many challenges. One day, he receives a call. His ex-wife, Kaoru, has passed away, and according to her final wish, Jun must be the key person in her funeral. It has been ten years since they parted ways, yet the sudden news leaves Jun shaken. He sets off for Kaoru’s childhood home, where memories begin to surface—how they met, fell in love, got married, and eventually separated.

But that’s not all. As he prepares to bid his final goodbye, Jun learns that Kaoru had a nine-year-old daughter. The child is not his, yet his presence in the grieving household forces him to confront a profound truth: despite knowing that death is inevitable, people remain preoccupied with the trivialities of life.

Through this simple yet deeply moving story, Japanese filmmaker Noriko Yuasa explores human vulnerability, love, and the material calculations that often overshadow our existence. Her film, Performing Kaoru’s Funeral, subtly evokes the spirit of Bengali literature—particularly Antarjali Yatra, the novel by Kamal Kumar Majumdar, which was adapted into a film by Goutam Ghose. Though Antarjali Yatra centers around sati (the practice of widow self-immolation), both Yuasa and Ghose’s films highlight a common theme: despite the certainty of death, humans behave as if they will live forever.

Rather than drawing comparisons, let’s focus on Yuasa’s film. Certain moments stand out vividly. As Jun recalls his days with Kaoru, there is no background music—only the rhythmic ticking of a clock. This intellectual use of sound adds depth, reinforcing the idea of time’s relentless passage. When the film shifts back to the present, Jun is seen lying on a field, gazing at trees swaying in the wind—trees that seem to mirror his wandering thoughts, caught between the past and the present.

Kaoru was a screenwriter, valuing the creative process more than relationships—even more than intimacy. In a striking scene, she abruptly leaves her lover’s embrace to type out an idea on her laptop, sitting down as if entranced. Behind her, Jun watches from the bed, his eyes hollow. This moment alone reveals the roots of their separation.

Yet their story does not truly end with their divorce. With Kaoru’s passing, Jun embarks on an unexpected new journey—one that connects him with Kaoru’s family and, most significantly, her daughter. In a way, Kaoru’s death bestows Jun with the experience of fatherhood. It makes him more socially engaged, more responsible, and leaves the audience contemplating their own mortality.

A recurring motif in the film is a painting depicting the Last Judgment—a vision of hellish suffering, a reminder of human accountability. The film carries a touch of the spiritual, yet its core message remains intact.

Between birth and death, memories are all we truly possess. Everything else is fleeting. Kaoru left Jun twice—first through divorce, then through death—leaving behind only fragments of their shared past, like scenes in a flashback. Humans, after all, live clinging to memories—both personal and collective. In the final shot of the film, an endless expanse of water stretches to the horizon, mirroring the vast ocean of human recollections. As we drift along its currents, we, too, fade into the distance, destined to become memories ourselves.

• বিষয়:
• japan
• noriko
• cinema