Maborosi, dir. Hirokazu Kore-eda (Tokyo: TV Man Union, 1995) tells the haunting story of Yumiko (Makiko Esumi).
At the beginning of the story, her husband Ikuo (Tadanobu Asano) is hit by a train, and she’s left alone to grieve without understanding why he died. It appeared to be a suicide: he had ample time to get out of the way, but he refused. The weight is heavier, as Ikuo’s three-month old son, Yuichi, is left without a father. Years after the tragedy, she moves from Osaka to a remote village (stunningly filmed in Wajima, Ishikawa Prefecture) and remarries a widower (Takashi Naito) with the assistance of a matchmaker. Things improve for Yumiko until she takes a brief trip to Osaka, reminding her of what had happened to Ikuo.
In spite of these core details, Maborosi is hardly unified by its plot. The story is better understood as a series of discrete images held loosely together with the story above. It is a quiet reflection on grief, and coming to terms with the loss of loved ones. Rather than focusing heavily on the characters (there are few close shots of any of them), Kore-eda’s shots emphasize spatial harmony and the passage of time: autumn blends into winter, which thaws into spring, and summer is only recognizable by the family eating watermelon.
Throughout the story, Yumiko is contrasted with Yuichi, who never met his father. As a result, he does not feel the same pressures as his mother, and we see him coming to love the remote, provincial town where most of the story takes place.
The film is defined by its contemplative, melancholic tone. There is little movement: Kore-eda’s camera lingers on a given space, and the characters move within it. This is an excellent choice, slowing down the pace and giving viewers the opportunity to reflect. Moreover, the piano themes that echo throughout the film further deepen our affective engagement with the quiet, haunted lives.
While there are no supernatural elements, Maborosi is ultimately a ghost story. There is absence when there should be presence, and Yumiko’s feels this at the deepest levels. She can’t help but ask herself, “Why? Why did this happen?” Instead of sorrow, tormented by unanswered questions. Rather than mourning, she is overcome by melancholia: the object of her desire has not left her, although his physical flesh has.
The climax of the movie is a quiet moment when Yumiko joins a funeral procession. Afterwards, her husband Tamio finds her on the beach. She, once more, asks “Why?!” Tamio’s response is breathtaking:
The sea has the power to beguile. Back when dad was fishing, he once saw a maborosi–a strange light–far out at sea. Something in it was beckoning to him, he said. It happens to all of us.
Tamio’s father was called by archetypal Neptune, as was Ikuo. I’ve commented elsewhere that archetypal (and astrological) Mercury shapes, Venus blends, and Mars separates. Archetypal Neptune dissolves. Death, and suicide, is part of this. However, there are many other forms of dissolution: any sort of addiction does the same work (including alcoholism, drug abuse, and workaholism), as does personal isolation, sex, mystical experiences, and much more. Neptune, in classical mythology, was the god of the sea, and he looms over the entire narrative. In Yumiko and Tamio’s small town, we see him lapping at the shore.
The sea is beautiful, it’s dangerous, and it calls to us. Unfortunately, when we desire our dissolution, it affects not only us, but everyone around us. It can have tragic consequences, and Maborosi deals effectively with the aftereffects of dissolution.
Ultimately, the film is required viewing for those seeking out a contemplative, melancholic, and quietly emotive experience. I give it my highest recommendation.
