Father Mother Sister Brother

 

Writer/director Jim Jarmusch

Jarmusch at Venice

Jarmusch on the set

MOTHER FATHER SISTER BROTHER                B+                                                         USA  Italy  France Ireland  Germany  (110 mi)  2025  d: Jim Jarmusch

If too many people like a film I make, I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

I don’t know where the hell she came from in this case, but I generally bring an idea with me for about a year, sometimes more than one, until I finally start writing, very quickly.  In this case it took me three weeks.

My favorite thing is to wake up and have no plan.
—Jim Jarmusch

This is Jarmusch’s version of an Ozu film, exploring the personality-driven intricacies of complex family dynamics, where it’s all about the silences between the characters, as the emotional weight of the film is the exploration of that undiscovered interiority, creating a quietly contemplative aspect to the viewing experience, which seems like an anti-action, puzzle-piece counterpoint to what we’re used to seeing, funny, tender, and astutely observed, yet more than anything it feels personal and refreshingly honest, told in a triptych style, a technique often used in both cinema and literature, and a device he has used before, which is difficult to pull off as invariably some episodes are stronger than others.  In this case they are brilliantly blended together by editor Affonso Gonçalves, while shot in New Jersey, Dublin, and Paris by two extraordinary cinematographers, Frederick Elmes, who shot the first chapter, and Yorick Le Saux, who shot the second and third.  Like all Jarmusch films, this is an experience where nothing and everything happens all at once, where the key is deciphering the many clues hidden between the lines, as there’s plenty of deception or hidden secrets with parents who are protective of their children.  Strangely rejected by the Cannes Film Festival, many have dismissed this as a minor film, in much the way Haiku poetry is derided in the poetry world, too small, abstract, yet it still paints a vivid picture, suggesting there is something noble about the power of art, which can also be terribly deceptive.  This is indisputably the work of a mature artist growing older, grappling with their own sense of mortality, as this is simply where the mind wanders when you get older, feeling spacious and ponderous and completely unpretentious, where there’s something so ordinary and believable about it, with the filmmaker stating his goal, “We wanted to make a small, quiet film.”  Among the earliest and more memorable discoveries of this filmmaker came with the hard-to-find Mika Kaurismäki documentary film, TIGRERO: A FILM THAT WAS NEVER MADE (1994), with Sam Fuller bringing Jarmusch deep into Brazil’s Mato Grosso rain forest jungle, interacting with the Indigenous Karajá people, a group Fuller met and filmed in the mid 50’s for a film that was never made.  The hip modernism Jarmusch brings to such an isolated and secluded region is hard to fathom, as this presents him in a uniquely different light, seeing him in such a remote area wearing a Ramones T-shirt, literally expanding our conception of an artist.  Singer Tom Waits has been part of Jim Jarmusch’s regular cast since the utterly hilarious jailbreak-on-the-bayou movie, DOWN BY LAW (1986), while other notable films include the three-act STRANGER THAN PARADISE (1984), an example of plotless, low-budget, independent filmmaking, Mystery Train (1989), another triptych, a musical pilgrimage to Memphis, Tennessee, home of Sam Phillips and Sun Records, Night on Earth (1991), with five interconnecting, chance encounter stories involving a taxi cab driver and passengers in five cities, Dead Man (1995), an acid western, and still, arguably, his best film, GHOST DOG: THE WAY OF THE SAMURAI (1999), a samurai assassin gangster flick, COFFEE AND CIGARETTES (2003), eleven vignettes connected by the titular theme, BROKEN FLOWERS (2005), a cross-country road trip reconnecting with former lovers, THE LIMITS OF CONTROL (2009), an immersion into the haunted, surreal atmosphere of a paid assassin, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), a vampire flick, Paterson (2016), a tribute to New Jersey poet William Carlos Williams via a modern day bus driver, and The Dead Don't Die (2019), another absurdist zombie movie.

Winner of the Golden Lion (1st place) at the 2025 Venice Film Festival, carefully constructed to allow small details to accumulate, reminding viewers just what it is to be a film poet, it opens with a hauntingly personalized, bass-heavy jazz performance of “Spooky” by British-German singer-songwriter Annika Henderson (aka Anika), Spooky YouTube (2:11), an original Classics IV song from 1967 that essentially establishes the mood and sets the stage for what follows.  Six years since his last feature, the first thing we notice is that Ozu’s pillow shot transitions (The enigmatic 'pillow shots' of Yasujiro Ozu) have been replaced by abstract flickering light passages between episodes, giving us some time to reflect upon what we see happening onscreen, with each of the three sections taking place in the home of a parent where their estranged children come to reconnect.  Opening on a windy, countryside road filled with bare trees and fresh snow on the ground, two siblings, Jeff and Emily (Adam Driver and Mayim Bialik, apparently catching the eye of Jarmusch as his favorite Jeopardy host) chat amiably on their way to visit their widowed and reclusive father at his lake house, sharing their assessment that he’s not a very trustworthy figure in their lives, turning out to be none other than a grizzled old, confusing-looking Tom Waits, who provides the film’s most powerful performance.  Jeff seems concerned about his financial situation since the death of their mother, wondering how he’s getting by, leading a hermetic life, where everything appears run down, offering assistance when he can, bringing along a box of groceries, while Emily is more skeptical about just how dire his situation is.  The setting of the house, situated right on a lake, is to die for, where anyone would dream of living in a house like that, with the camera lingering on the giant-sized window overlooking the lake.  Nonetheless, the father mentions there are a multitude of needed repairs, but suggests he’s doing as well as he can, but seems to be playing the sympathy card.  Jeff falls for it hook, line, and sinker, while Emily is rather amused by it all, pointing out that he’s wearing an expensive Rolex watch, which the father quickly claims is a fake, where the real drama comes only after they’ve left, placing everything we’ve seen before in a different light.  The truism that Jeff reveals is that you can pick your lovers and friends, but you can’t choose your own family, which more than ever rings true in these interconnected segments.  Written by Jarmusch, this episode sets the tone for spare, minimalist dialogue, with plenty of embarrassing and uncomfortable pauses in between to convey emotional distance, balancing wry, offhanded humor with a steady drip of information, while always remaining understated and moody, with something of an abstract, rhythmic flow about it.  A choreography of interpersonal relationships, pondering whether we ever really know the people closest to us, it shares the methodology of South Korean director Hong Sang-soo films, the maker of small, minimalist dramas, as both filmmakers rely upon the power of observation, with no sentimentality and no false drama, devising intimate scenes with powerful performances where awkwardness prevails, replete with lies, resentment, and love, where this is like the antithesis of a Mike Leigh film, where so much of this would otherwise be so wrenchingly despairing.  What’s most amusing is that Waits has always had something of a subterranean Beat poet vibe, where even at this late stage in his life (age 76), he’s still got a rebellious streak.    

While this is something of an actor’s showcase, with the filmmaker allowing plenty of empty space and room to breathe, remaining subtle and impressive, with a keen eye for detail, yet it begs the question, when was the last time we really talked to our families?  The moving presence of skateboarders is a recurring motif, seen in slow motion directly in the middle of the country road in the opening, while darting in and out of the streets of Dublin and Paris in the next segments.  A contrast between this youthful endeavor and ruminations on mortality is immediately evident.  Two sisters who couldn’t be more diametrically different, a punkish, pink-haired Vicky Krieps as free-spirited Lillith and the much more uptight, conservatively-repressed, almost invisible presence of Cate Blanchett as Timothea reunite with their imperial mother (Charlotte Rampling), a successful novelist who refuses to speak about her work, for their annual afternoon tea, the only time all year when they actually get together, though they all live in Dublin.  Their relations are nothing less than strained, where it all feels so terribly formal, as the host mother has impeccably arranged finger food with an assortment of delectable pastries in an immaculate house where everything is in place.  The conversation feels distant and camouflaged, a chamber piece of passive-aggressiveness, with each daughter vying for attention while struggling with insecurities in their personal and professional lives.  All dressed in the color red, as if pre-arranged, Father Mother Sister Brother Exclusive Movie Clip - Color ... YouTube (2:07), the domineering mother, offering a sense of cold authority, appears to be very high maintenance, while her children come to represent unfulfilled expectations, which may have led to uncomfortable childhoods, so they fidget around nervously at the table, expressing some disquieting tension, where the picture of perfect décors hides what’s simmering underneath, leaving viewers undoubtedly perplexed by what’s not being said.  The final chapter is notable for the parents not being present, as Indya Moore as Skye and Luka Sabbat as Billy are twin black siblings cleaning out a Paris apartment following the mysterious death of their parents in a tragic airplane crash.  Their closeness is immediately evident, seen hugging, kissing, and holding hands as they meet in a café before visiting a now-empty apartment that Billy has taken great care to save all the belongings, seen in an excursion to a local storage locker, but it’s unclear what they plan to do with it all.  These American émigré parents led extremely private yet unorthodox lives, perhaps involved in some spy stuff with multiple identities, and their unconventional lifestyle has left an imprint on their children, both raised in Paris, inquisitive and extremely well educated, where after going through some old photos, childhood drawings, and multiple fake documents, they both become aware of how little they actually knew about them.  There’s even a cameo appearance from the building landlord, Françoise Lebrun from Jean Eustache’s revered magnum opus The Mother and the Whore (La Maman et la Putain) (1973), who reveals that the parents died owing three months’ rent, and that she personally prevented the insurance company from seizing their belongings, an act of kindness that suggests she may have known more about them than her own family.  In their memories there is warmth and tenderness, still learning little secrets about their parents while browsing through their things, discovering small unexplained mysteries.  Blending humor and melancholy, capturing the frustrating yet essential nature of family bonds, the film relies heavily on subtext, recurring visual cues, and uncomfortable silences to convey deep-seated emotions and complex histories, with Dusty Springfield singing a riff on the opening song, Dusty Springfield - Spooky (Just Dusty) - 04 02 1971 • TopPop YouTube (2:39), while a musical collaboration between Jarmusch and Annika Henderson creates a haunting soundtrack, Father Mother Sister Brother | 2025 | Jim Jarmusch & Anika | Original Motion Picture Soundtrack | Original Score | OST, with the Jackson Browne song These Days YouTube (3:35) playing out over the end credits, with the delicate voice of Anika sounding like a reincarnation of The Velvet Underground’s Nico.

Perfect Days

 

Director Wim Wenders

PERFECT DAYS         B                                                                                                         Japan  Germany  (124 mi)  2023  d: Wim Wenders

Next time is next time.  Now is now.                                                                                                —Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho)

While this contemplative existential study has the imprint of a Wim Wenders film, known for his meditative explorations of alienation and longing, and for making extremely literate films with carefully chosen rock ‘n’ roll music, and a lifelong love for the Kinks, as his graduation thesis film, SUMMER IN THE CITY (1970), shot on 16mm by longtime Wenders collaborator Robby Müller, was notable for its continuous use of Kinks music.  Many are proclaiming this is a return to form, a throwback to his earlier films, and while there are obvious parallels, it lacks the freedom of movement of his earlier 70’s and 80’s films, where an endless landscape became a central character that dominated the screen.  With its more compressed Tokyo setting, it recalls the Japanese odyssey explored in Tokyo-Ga (1985), an observational travelogue that pays tribute to the unhurried ruminations of Yasuhirō Ozu.  A graduate of the University of Television and Film Munich in 1970, Wenders worked as a film critic for various publications while he was still in school, and while he is a major figure in the New German Cinema movement from the 60’s to the 80’s, an era when most German films were subsidized by state television, Wenders is perhaps less known than his towering compatriots Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog, and while his films may be less radical, they have an equally distinctive style, coming closer to the everyday, while also more alienated and detached.  The protagonists in Wim Wenders films tend to be on the literary side, like Bruno Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) from Kings of the Road (Im Lauf der Zeit) Road Trilogy Pt. 3 (1976), who periodically can be seen reading William Faulkner’s 1939 novel The Wild Palms, with its infamous closing line, “Between grief and nothing I will take grief.”  In Wenders’ new film starring Kōji Yakusho, long associated with the works of Kiyoshi Kurosawa, the protagonist is also seen reading Faulkner’s The Wild Palms, along with other books, including Aya Kōda’s Ki, and a collection of Patricia Highsmith’s short stories.  Amusingly, the used bookstore owner (Inuko Inuyama) always offers her own expository comments about the author of each of books he purchases, where her brief yet revelatory insight mirrors the internalized reflections of this film. Wenders exposes how modern life is stressful and degrading, how we disconnect from culture and social relations by transforming everything into a commercial transaction, whether it’s work, love, or friendship.  Wenders honors a traditional aspect of Japan which has a strong culture of respect and duty, including a respect for cleanliness and the environment, but also for serving the common good.  The knock on the film is that it does occasionally veer into cliché’d moments of sentimentality, where the music is used to provide the emotions the film discreetly avoids, becoming a nostalgic lament for the days when people routinely took pride in their work, while offering an overly optimistic take on class equality, honoring the value of menial labor, but it also accentuates the often overlooked transient moments of our lives, creating a cinematic tone poem of ephemeral beauty.  

At the heart of this film are tiny architectural marvels, backed by the non-profit Nippon Foundation, where the Tokyo Toilet project was responsible for the creation of 17 new public bathroom facilities across Shibuya, Tokyo (a major commercial and finance center featuring two of the busiest railway stations in the world), each one designed by leading architects intent on transforming the perceptions of public rest room facilities in Japan, where according to a 2016 government survey devised by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism, a mere 1% of participants reported frequently using toilets at parks and public areas, while 90% insisted they rarely or never used them due to the belief they were unclean, unsanitary, and unsafe, which is fairly typical of most large cities, where this depiction feels more like a dream oasis than a reality, as these futuristic designs are so appreciably welcoming.  Award-winning architect Ban Shigeru came up with the idea of see-through toilets with glass walls so potential customers can see for themselves how astonishingly clean they are, with the otherwise clear walls turning opaque if they are occupied, while also introducing high-tech devices with heated seats and a built-in bidet with adjustable water temperature.   Using colorful modernist designs that perfectly blend into their urban environment, PERFECT DAYS - Clip 2 YouTube (45 seconds), the key to their success is maintaining them in a pristine state, with a dedicated cleaning staff dressed in recognizable uniforms keeping regular cleaning schedules, where the maintenance status can be posted online.  With this in mind, Wenders and co-writer Takuma Takasaki have concocted a near wordless rumination on the experiences of a middle-aged toilet cleaner in Tokyo, as the self-contained reserve of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho, winner of the Best Actor award at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, also an executive producer on the film) is seen going through his methodical routine each day, reading bargain-bin paperbacks before bed, neatly folding his futon mattress in the corner of his cramped apartment each morning, lovingly tending to his plants, hand-picked from parks when they are small sprigs blocked from the sunlight, overshadowed by larger trees, which he transplants to his home, drinking a can of coffee out of a vending machine before heading to work where he mops and scrubs toilets, keeping them spotlessly clean, showing extreme diligence in his work ethic as guardian of the facilities, where it’s ten minutes or so before a single spoken word is uttered.  Instead the camera holds tight to Hirayama, who is in nearly every frame of the film, with viewers seeing what he sees, experiencing what he experiences, visiting public baths frequented by middle-aged and senior men while also routinely having meals in modest establishments where they cheerfully greet him as a regular customer, becoming an immersive journey into the existential soul of a single, solitary man who is part of society’s invisible class, low-wage workers who are ignored by the larger public as if they don’t exist.  But we quickly learn what’s so appealing about him in the early morning light, playing a cassette tape in his minivan stocked with supplies on the way to work, as we hear Eric Burdon and the Animals in all their glory sing the 1964 classic, The Animals - House Of The Rising Sun (Music Video) [4K HD] YouTube (4:20).  The music sets the tone for what follows, as despite his meticulous routine, there’s something uniquely different about this man of few words. 

Every day Hirayama stops to eat lunch in a wooded park setting, eating a sandwich out of a vending machine while reading his book, yet he’s transfixed by the changing light in the trees above, pulling out his old Olympia 35mm film camera to take a snapshot, like Philip Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) in Alice in the Cities (Alice in den Städten) Road Trilogy Pt. 1  (1974), while also observing an elderly homeless man (Min Tanaka) in the park doing Tai Chi movements or collecting a bundle of sticks that he carries tied to his back, something out of the ordinary, appearing out of place, yet there’s something appealing about the way he looks out for him, always acknowledging his presence, showing ultimate respect for those living on the margins.  Even off the clock, Hirayama shows an introspective reserve, yet extreme dedication to every moment of his life, expressed through prolonged silences, as the film slowly peels back the layers of the man, excavating meaning behind the rituals of his existence, finding poetry and purpose in the mundane, where this obsession with cleaning might be a metaphor for cleansing his life, as if atoning for past sins.  Like Jim Jarmusch in his road adventures, Wenders sprinkles in a few oddball characters, where the chatty, hyper-nervous Takashi (Tokio Emoto) is Hirayama’s less dedicated, more easily distracted working partner who needs to scrounge up some cash for his date with Aya (Aoi Yamada), remarking she’s a ten out of ten, a bohemian blond who is different, probably out of his league, which explains his intensifying anxiety, melting down into a moral crisis when he exerts extreme pressure trying to manipulate Hirayama into selling some of his vintage cassettes, mostly music from the 60’s and 70’s, as they’re worth a fortune, fearing this opportunity will pass him by, growing ever more desperate with each passing minute.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the date (which we never see) doesn’t go well, but Aya grows fascinated by tape cassettes.  Arriving out of nowhere, yet planted on his doorstep is Hirayama’s teenage niece Niko (Arisa Nakano), who stays for a few days, no reason given, becoming firmly embedded in her uncle’s routine, helping him on the rounds, eating that same sandwich for lunch, photographing that same tree on her phone, Perfect Days | Exclusive Clip YouTube (1:37), borrowing the same books to read, where it’s clear how fond they are of each other, even if they never formally express it, apparently turning to him when she has troubles at home.  Both obtain gratification from having a structure, from being organized and enjoying the small moments without living in a hurry, where their bike ride together recalls the memory of Setsuko Hara as Noriko in Ozu’s Noriko Trilogy Late Spring (Banshun) (1949), Early Summer (Bakushû) (1951), and Tokyo Story (Tokyo Monogatari) (1953), especially when he reminds her “The world is made up of many worlds.  Some are connected, and some are not.”  In many ways, Hirayama (the last name of the family in TOKYO STORY), resembles a modern day Chishū Ryū from that Trilogy, each exhibiting a masterclass in minimalist screen acting, sharing the same fatherly wisdom, the conventions of comfort and routine, while taking extreme pleasure in minor details.   

The music of Lou Reed figures just as prominently, starting the day with the sunlight bathing his face, PERFECT DAYS | Official Clip | In cinemas now YouTube (1:07), while also languishing in the atmospheric warmth of The Kinks - Sunny Afternoon (1966) 4K YouTube (3:36), where each day offers something new, yet the most stylistic innovation comes from black and white dream sequences, which appear like transitional pillow shots in Ozu films, an abstract blend of images that seem to contrast shadows and light, with the “dream instillations” design credited to Donata Wenders, the wife of the director.  If you stay until the end of the final credits you’ll discover this comes from the Japanese concept of Komorebi (Komorebi 木漏れ日), which translates to “sunlight leaking through trees,” describing the pattern of light that appears when the sun’s rays filter through the overhead leaves of the trees, casting shadows that last only an instant before disappearing forever, creating a moment of fleeting beauty, like a Haiku poem.  Another Lou Reed song seems to encapsulate the entirety of the film, Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground // Perfect Days Edit YouTube (5:44), where memories come back to haunt us, often filling us with regret, yet the compilation of thoughts and reflections over an entire lifetime are what comprise our unique identity, as every moment becomes magnified through the lens of Wenders and his cinematographer Franz Lustig who has worked with him since LAND OF PLENTY (2004), in this case using full-frame lenses from the 70’s.  One of the most heart-wrenching moments of the film comes from a basement noodle bar proprietess known only as Mama (Sayuri Ishikawa), who treats Hirayama with a kind affection, like a long lost friend, but when one of the customers pulls out a guitar, she is persuaded to sing for the house, a reprise of a song we heard earlier, but given a distinct Japanese quality that is truly her own, Perfect Days: House Of The Rising Sun (Japanse versie) YouTube (1:20).  While we’ll never know her backstory, we can only imagine how this song encapsulates her life.  Hirayama’s modest lifestyle appears to be a carefully constructed safeguard against painful family memories that still haunt him, like lingering shadows from the past, resembling the detached life of exhausted traveler Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) in Paris, Texas (1984), or Damiel (Bruno Ganz), the weary angel from Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) (1987), where his avoidance of deep relationships and digital tools speaks to a desire for tranquility through a tightly regulated routine.  There’s a quirky moment afterwards when Hirayama runs into a complete stranger seen giving Mama a hug, Tomoyama (Tomokazu Miura), where their coming together is pure coincidence, with grave implications, yet their interaction is almost childlike, filled with nuanced emotions and a carefree spirit, leading to Nina Simone singing Feelin’ Good in the final sequence, Perfect Days - Ending Scene YouTube (2:50), which plays over close-up images of Hirayama driving his van, an extended scene focusing entirely on the man we’ve been watching for two hours, suddenly jettisoned into our lives, where he sticks with us long afterwards, actually mattering in ways we can’t really fathom.