In Our Day (Uriui haru)

 

Writer/director Hong Sang-soo

IN OUR DAY (Uriui haru)                B-                                                                                  South Korea  (83 mi)  2023  d: Hong Sang-soo

A diptych of two interconnected storylines, in this case two renowned artists, an actress and a poet who never meet, yet have younger visitors who come to visit seeking guidance and advice.  Immersed in the banalities of our everyday existence, this evolves into something more, leading to unexpected complexities that arise from the simplicity of the format.  The filmmaker writes, directs, films, produces, edits, and composes the scores to his films, which are very dialogue driven, with a lyrical orchestral motif opening and closing the film, where each of his movies have a very similar style, with end credits that last only a few seconds.  What this resembles is the Socratic method of using ordinary question-and-answer dialogue to spark critical thinking, to explore larger, more complex ideas, where its deceptively simple structure and unvarnished aesthetic allows quiet, intimate moments to breathe life into unearthing profound truths in the mundane.  Embracing subtlety in the unspoken and the art of the understated, with long dialogues that always seem to revolve around a single point, without ever finding it, as words fail to fill the void between people, often leaving behind an even deeper sense of loneliness, yet this is a very simple premise that produces an elevated discussion on modern existence.  Not exactly riveting cinema, this is low-key, even for this director, but he’s attempting to get at something that is largely ignored in today’s cinema, as the relaxed, informality on display allows for a more personal discussion, as there’s a lot of wisdom coming out of this movie, accentuating how young people seem to want answers now, while an older generation appreciates acquiring a perspective from the experience of actually living a life, where the characters are really trying to get at a better understanding of their own lives, often without success, so they seek guidance.  Hong explores our constant striving to find meaning and how this evolves alongside age and experience.  The structure itself doesn’t always feel natural, often appearing forced, where there’s even a brief moment of melodramatic hysteria that is completely absent from the rest of the Hong repertoire, feeling weirdly out of sorts, as if brought in from another movie, where viewers can certainly question its use, wondering why such a delicately subtle movie exhibits an elevated emotional outburst that has been intentionally absent from the director’s other works.  So that may be what stands out, as it doesn’t fit the mold, but other than that, this is an extremely understated style of filmmaking, shot inside apartments in controlled settings, feeling claustrophobic at times, where just walking out onto the balcony produces an air of freedom and liberation.  There’s also the use of a fluffy cat connecting these two episodes, affectionate and friendly in the first, but it goes missing, producing the over-the-top emotional hysteria, while in the second the poet’s cat is recently dead, but continues to have a lingering influence.  The effect animals have on human owners is something rare and significant, where there’s a special connection, like being part of the family, as it’s life after all, and that matters, in all its iterations.   

Hong uses an inner title card like chapter headings, used to describe state of mind as well as catch us up on what’s happening (“Sang-won trusts her friend, but she thinks the only one she can trust is herself”), a technique that was also used by Chaplin and Keaton during the silent era, as it adds greater psychological complexity, but this film lacks the offbeat charm in some of his other movies.  Sang-won (Kim Min-hee) is a successful actress recently returned to Korea, who is staying with her friend Jung-soo (Song Sun-mi) and her cat named “Us,” eventually joined by her cousin, an aspiring actress named Ji-soo (Park Mi-so).  Sang-won takes an interest in Jung-soo’s cat Us, feeding and petting him, getting down on the floor with him, with a large mirror covering an entire wall reflecting what we see, but the camera never intrudes.  While Sang-won is drinking coffee, Jung-soo is sipping wine.  Soon, Sang-won’s cousin Ji-soo arrives bearing gifts in the form of a basket of beauty products, including organic soaps and natural oils.  When asked about acting, Sang-won indicates honesty is the key, as everything is generated from that core value, which is why it is so essential.  But it’s not easy being honest in a predetermined system controlled by others, who write what you say and instruct where you move before the cameras, leaving you little choice but to follow their orders.  This exasperating and suffocating system takes all the fun out of acting, as you must confine yourself to the ideas and values of others, not your own, which makes it extremely difficult to give honest performances.  Based on these contradictions, she’s not really interested in acting anymore, as you tend to lose your own perspective when continually trying to please others.  Cutting to a different scene across town, old poet Hong Ui-ju (Gi Ju-bong) is at a different crossroads (“Hong Ui-ju has belatedly become popular with young people, but all he wants is to live a peaceful life free of pain”), as his health won’t allow him to drink and smoke anymore, yet they were two of his most cherished things in life, as he became recognized as an artist for being associated with taking great pleasure in drinking and smoking, often with meals, where they just seemed to go together.  But his heart is bad, weakened by clogged arteries, so those habits would invite a death sentence if he continued.  Unaware of this recent change, young actor Jae-won (Ha Seong-guk) also comes bearing gifts of cigarettes and alcohol, armed with questions to ask the poet, who has found sudden popularity among young people, yet it’s the temptations that lie in wait that seem to matter.  Sharing connections as the film goes on, using a deeply personal style described as domestic realism, Hong makes slow-moving dramas about everyday dilemmas, relationships, and artistic aspirations, examining the effect it has on our lives, exploring fundamental themes of loneliness, incommunicability, and the search for authenticity.

Cutting back and forth between stories, a young film student Ki-joo (Kim Seung-yun) is finishing up shooting a documentary film about the old poet, so she films him taking great delight in eating ramyun noodles, adding hot pepper paste to enhance the flavor, making it more spicy, mirrored by Sang-won when she eats ramyun in the exact same way, but it reminds him that this would go great with a glass of soju.  Accommodating his desires, she goes out to buy non-alcoholic beer, but this only reminds him of what he’s missing, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re sharing a banquet of fried chicken with soju and cigarettes, which is like a return of all his former pleasures, becoming intoxicated with what he’d been missing, with the three of them taking great pleasure in the drinking game of rock, paper, scissors, with the loser required to drink a glass of soju, where the young apprentices continually finding themselves losing.  Meanwhile, across town, the cat escaped, apparently jumping from the balcony, leaving Jung-soo utterly devastated, left screaming and moaning while writhing on the floor in tears, where she can’t imagine her life without her cat, just like the old poet can’t imagine living a life without soju and cigarettes.  So when these precious things have been taken away, it opens new doors of insight, which are not necessarily welcome or appreciated.  It begs the question about what is the true self, where the pursuit of honesty becomes exceedingly difficult to obtain.  In this light, Sang-won gives an impassioned defense for why she can’t work in the commercialized film industry any more, which may as well be the independent film manifesto for Hong Sang-soo, while the old poet gives an equally passionate treatise on the art of poetry and whether it still matters in this day and age, where people don’t read poetry anymore or pay as much attention as they do the other arts.  While sitting on an outside terrace, he urges them to be careful not to get hung up on big philosophical concepts like love, honesty, and truth, which remain always evasive, and instead concentrate on the little things that matter, encouraging them to “Be thankful for the small things that are right in front of us.”  Unlike the beginning, which took forever to find its footing, the film builds momentum towards the end, becoming a spirited modern day discussion on how people fool themselves into believing things that don’t really matter, finding themselves awkward and empty, and leading meaningless lives.  Part of being honest is knowing what’s limiting you, what’s wrapping over your true self layer by layer and preventing you from being happier with your life.  In making his 30^th film, Hong’s cinema becomes a process of continuous exploration, a place where questions about existence, art, and human relationships can be addressed, though never resolved.  This tension between the need for understanding and the impossibility of achieving it is what makes Hong’s cinema so deeply human and universal.  In the end, according to the poet, life is short, and we’ll never really discover any of the answers, so it’s important to choose wisely how to fill up the time we have for our lives.  “Maintaining a clear vision might be the hardest thing in the world.”

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.