Kurosawa Kiyoshi, director of 2008’s Tokyo Sonata, is unfortunately — or fortunately, perhaps — a man with a lot to live up to, and a lot to gain. With a name like Kurosawa preceding you, the expectations among those not in the know are always going to be high. This particular Kurosawa does, in fact, hold no relation to the acclaimed director Kurosawa Akira, but that doesn’t mean his skill in filmmaking is any less worthy of critical praise. What’s more, he does not allow the aegis of the Kurosawa name to give him room to rest on his laurels, and his most recent offering, Tokyo Sonata, is an undoubtable achievement in visual style and narrative.
As a kind of shomin-geki for the modern age, Tokyo Sonata is a sober, yet beautifully contemplative look at the vagaries of family life, and one family in particular. It tells the very topical and very familiar story of the Sasaki family’s response to crisis as it enters their lives one hit at a time, in several different forms. The first to be hit is Ryûhei, father and businessman, who is abruptly laid off from his job due to downsizing. This incident becomes the catalyst for several pre-existing tensions within the rest of the family to come to a head, starting with the eldest son Takashi; the stereotypical absent, rebellious young adult, who after several failed attempts at finding a meaningful job decides to volunteer in the U.S. Army. Simultaneously, the younger son Kenji is in the midst of his own adolescent rebellion — of a rather different kind, however –, and rounding out the quartet is the mother Megumi who tries furiously to keep everyone together but ultimately reaches her boiling point in a violent, dramatic display of catharsis. As the film progresses, the family members attempt to negotiate around each other’s sore spots, with varying success, and seek to find a way to mend their delicate, fractured unit.
The visuals in Tokyo Sonata are one of the things that allow the film to tell its story with all the due weight and penetrating consideration it both deserves and requires. The most persistent visual theme is that of claustrophobia, achieved through shadows, tight sets, and an anemic, leeched colour palate. The family’s house is ground zero for the tensions experienced by all four family members, and this is reflected through the lighting and architecture of the set piece, not to mention its location. Characterized by cramped dining areas, rooms that encroach on each other, staircases and latticework that obscure and demarcate the visual space, it creates a setting for some of the most explosive dramatic moments within the film. Similarly, the neighborhood around the house is shot in such a way as to emphasize the uncomfortably crowded nature of their urban lives, showing narrow streets flooded by be-suited crowds of men and women as they depart en-masse to work each morning. Just to add to this already-stifling environment, the Sasaki’s house is bordered by train tracks, meaning that more often than not the rattle and whistle of trains going by intrudes on several scenes within the home, turning the private family space into a quasi-public one from which they can never truly isolate themselves.
Due to the effectiveness of these deftly crafted sets and locations, the film’s central themes are given the perfect conditions in which to flourish. The crises which emerge among the characters, while seemingly different, all ultimately circle around the same issues — those of personal roles, authority within the family and professional spaces, and how overturning previously accepted relationship structures affects the people within those structures, for good and bad. Ryûhei getting laid off from his job throws him into a tailspin, struggling to reconcile his place as patriarch, provider, and highest familial authority when he has been forcibly removed from the position which has allowed him to occupy that role unquestionably. Kenji’s rebellion stems directly from Ryûhei’s response to his own situation — having lost his power elsewhere, he overcompensates among his family and unjustly denies Kenji’s desire to learn to play the piano, a request which is about as far away from dangerous adolescent rebellion as could be possible. Caught between the opposing forces of son and father, and having seen how easily they can either remove themselves, or be removed, from their previously occupied roles, Megumi is forced to question her own role as mother — whether or not she gains satisfaction and fulfillment from it, or is merely slotting herself into the role expected of her. Forced into such simultaneous moments of change and rebirth, the end result is nothing any of them could expect.
Because of all these factors, Tokyo Sonata is a simmering, thought provoking, and unexpectedly explosive powder keg of a film. The situations experienced by the Sasaki family are ones that resonate across cultures, and reflect concerns that many of us can easily identify with. Although it is a long film, I feel its length is absolutely necessary for the proper building of tension, and does not in any way detract from the effect that Kurosawa wishes to create. As in real life, events can often compound on each other over a great length of time before exploding in any sort of meaningful, cathartic fashion, and this is exactly what happens in Tokyo Sonata. For this reason, I would heartily recommend this film to anyone. It’s a rare opportunity to see an honest, emotionally true depiction of the universal human condition on film, and not one to be missed.