Writing - Elvin

There is always a poetic nature to Hirokazu Kore-eda's films. Many emotions and events are displayed, rather than explicitly explained. Nobody Knows is the film that made Kore-eda famous, which also demonstrated his proficiency at combining literature and film. His works are characterized by nuanced details and restrained emotions, dissecting the intimate and authentic nature of human conditions. Kore-eda often puts a stronger emphasis on screenwriting, which is not surprising since he initially aspired to be a novelist. This permeates through the style of cinematography, acting, and plot, which is different from directors who don’t write their own screenplays.

An interesting problem should be addressed first before entering an in-depth analysis of the film itself, as it is more about the ethics of and behind filmmaking. Nobody Knows is predominantly a drama, but at the same time, it is also based on the true events of the Sugamo child abandonment case in 1988. However, Kore-eda's depiction of this event in the movie is much less cruel than reality. In reality, which is far more cruel, the young sister is intentionally killed by the big brother's friend and buried. The big brother is portrayed as much more responsible in the film than in reality. There were also the bones of another young infant found in the apartment, which died of illness after its birth. The infant was stored in a box by the mother years before. The character Saki is entirely made up for plot purposes. These are the major disparities between reality and the film adaptation. The ethical question is to what degree an event can be changed based on reality, and to what degree this should be acknowledged to the audience. Is this film adaptation an oversight of the actual event, in which it hides many of the darker elements? Or, from another perspective, is it successful in revealing a social problem of that era, in which rapid economic development left some families lost? It depicts the lack of parental responsibility in a parent’s search for a better life for herself. There is also a sense of social indifference to providing help and educational or growth opportunities. Most importantly, it reflects the cultural and psychological factors in Japanese society—an avoidance and face-saving mentality. The event is a direct consequence of the accumulated, restrained issues behind the prosperous Japanese economy at that time.

Interestingly, the act of forgetting trauma, past actions, and misfortune is depicted in both Nobody Knows and Like Father, Like Son. This is analyzed from the mother's perspective in the film. Keiko leaves her children with a suitcase of cash and a promise to return, but her disappearance is deliberate. Her letters grow increasingly sparse, and she eventually cuts contact—a form of emotional erasure that mirrors the children’s invisibility in society. Her "love" is conditional on not confronting the reality of her failure, being self-deceptive. "Loving" the children is simply a way to avoid guilt. For Keiko, forgetting the past is a means to avoid accountability.

Kore-eda is a writer-first director, and this trait might not be as obvious as it seems. Kore-eda's visual language is far from immature; it is simply not a highlight of the film. Most of the shots are ordinary, and the artistic design of sets, characters’ clothing, locations, lighting, and color grading are all designed to be as normal as possible. This could, in some way, reflect that the director evokes thinking about why the shots are placed as such and why the images are presented as they are. Some may argue Kore-eda's cinematography lacks personality and style, making it artistically plain and uninteresting. In some ways, this is also caused by his initial training in participating in documentaries. Many of the shots in his films are long takes, fixed-lens, slow-movement shots, as opposed to a dynamically changing rhythm. The lack of interest in visual language makes the audience unintentionally focus more on the information rather than the presentation, in a documentary style.

I would also argue that Kore-eda does not emphasize dramatic events, structurally complex narrative structures, or all of the more technical storytelling skills. Some directors might strive to use intellectually stimulating plots to entertain educated audiences. He does not show a strong interest in controlling audience emotion or forcing them through an emotional journey. Rather, thematically, he tends to focus more on the details of normal life, the so-called "Shomin-geki" (common people’s drama). Technically, he focuses more on the presentation of subtle emotions. It is not a plot-driven story; rather, events only serve to power the emotional experience. In some ways, the aesthetics mirror the essence of a prose (散文), a form of literature without special plot design but rather to express personal feelings about life, which has no accurate English translation. This is a big difference in style compared to a novel. Prose often focuses more on the choice of language, raw presentation of the author's thoughts, and textured observation of life. It is hard to describe how this mindset translates to filmmaking, but in more sensitive audiences, it is reflected in a few key traits.

Using "texture" to describe literature and film is vague, but it might be the most accurate wording to reflect the feeling it presents. In prose, a writer selects words for the tactility of narration and emotional weight. Likewise, Kore-eda's films use long takes, minimal dialogue, a focus on a cold style of acting, repetitive events (e.g., going to the convenience store), and mundane gestures (e.g., counting money, folding laundry).

Long takes might be a flaw in terms of efficiency in conveying information, yet his films are intentionally edited in such a way that emotional depth and atmosphere gradually sink in. Long takes might be worsened by the fact that there is little direct plot progression. Minimal dialogue is used to propel events forward and is a crucial trait in this film, particularly directed at certain characters. The mother obviously does most of the talking before the abandonment, but the children's replies seem vague. For example, when they arrive at the new house and the mother makes rules, the children fail to give direct replies. There are no in-depth conversations initiated; they always remain at surface level. Perhaps the director wants to use their physical actions, plots, and facial expressions to convey more information. A memorable scene that demonstrates this perfectly is when the mother returns late at night, drunk, and Akira expresses his feelings without any verbal reply. The mother, Keiko, applies finger paint to Kyōko, the elder daughter. She shows a sense of affection for grown-up things and, therefore, for the mysterious grown-up life. On the other hand, Akira, the big brother, is bothered by how the mother is influencing his sister. In a sense, showing her the grown-up world, in his mind, is what leads to the abandonment. Further along, Kyōko tries to apply the finger paint herself but only spills it on the floor, and the mother takes away the paint. This shows her realization of seeking beauty, reflecting her naivety to maturity, as she connects her dream of being a singer to being grown-up. Finally, the dried paint is given a close-up shot later in the movie. By that time, Kyōko might have lost her naïveté, realizing that it is grown-up life that made the mother abandon her. She might not understand why the mother did this but eventually gives up the money to buy a piano to support the family. At the same time, Akira continues this inner conflict with his mother. Partly, he blames her for abandoning them, but he also needs and loves her desperately. At first, he tries to confront her, asking her directly before their last separation in the McDonald’s why she keeps going away. The cold reply is that the mother thinks there is no wrong in seeking her own happiness. Day by day, this turns into a stronger emotional battle. When he telephoned the mother and realized she had changed her surname, he no longer sought help from her. A particular scene is when he abandons clothing for money. All that said, these emotional tensions are all created without characters vocalizing their inner world; there are no in-depth dialogues saying these things out loud. Actions, performance, and plot contribute to the emotional effects. There are no direct confrontations for the characters, but the audience can still feel the emotional depth of the film once given time to fully develop. Akira and the three children's relationship with Saki shows a lack of vocalization. They don’t talk much in the movie; rather, their relationship is represented through physical events. At first, Akira finds out Saki is being bullied and alienated from the other girls. The moment in the film is unspoken when they cross eyes, but it is the nature of silence that makes the connection powerful. Further along in the film, Shigeru breaks the silence by asking a question, but the director cuts away any further development of dialogue, directly to them playing games. It showcases a different kind of bond, one that may perhaps originate from sympathy for each other, turning into a deeper reliance and trust in their alienated state, which society seems indifferent to. Akira disapproves of Saki using enjo kōsai (a transactional relationship) to earn money to support their family. Akira despises her action of starting down the path of his mother. All of the scenes are done without dialogue; instead, Akira silently watches and hits away the money when Saki offers it. The audience only knows what needs to be known. The audience investigates, observes, and then contemplates, rather than being manipulated into having a strong emotion. This adds texture to the film by creating ambiguity. Characters are given full interior space, and the audience only knows their thoughts based on their actions. Perhaps this space and dislocation exist between the characters themselves and the audience.

Kore-eda’s genius lies in turning absence into meaning. What is left out and ambiguous is where key insights occur. The film’s "coldness" is not a lack of feeling but a compression of emotions. The acting of the children might have seemed numb and not dramatic, but I believe it is the opposite of stage drama—one is more exaggerated, while this film is intentionally subdued. The eldest brother’s blank stares and monotone voice are not signs of poor acting but a portrayal of a child who has internalized hopelessness, making occasional outbursts more eruptive. When the youngest sister Yuki, dies, the children’s muted reactions—staring, shuffling, whispering—strip away performative grief, making for a more brutal confrontation with the tragedy. Subdued reactions make the film feel colder, encouraging the audience to observe carefully. Observational empathy is a catalyst. The lack of dramatic cues (sweeping music, tearful monologues) demands that viewers lean in to notice small details of desperation. Interestingly, the form mirrors the theme of exposing the ugly quietness of neglect.

In Nobody Knows, the director uses closeup shots to highlight key symbolisms, and reoccurrences and micro gestures in the film demonstrate the characters’ emotions. For example, the closeup of the suitcase when carrying it is a reoccurring symbolism. Initially, it is revealed to be a vessel of hope, carrying them to a new life, when the audience is curious about why the luggage is handled so carefully. Later, it becomes a symbol of entrapment, of the death of the sister Yuki. There is a mirroring of plot and a significant shift in tone and representation because of the abandonment. The close-up of being careful with the luggage adds a different sense of emotion, of pain, and inability. The child’s dirt-streaked hands clutching a candy or Akira’s trembling lip as they count coins are framed in tight close-ups to amplify desperation.

Repetitive events and mundane actions contribute to the texture. Scenes often unfold without obvious dramatic peaks, such as family meals, commuting, or a silent exchange that accumulates into a greater representation of routine. Repetitive actions might be symbolic at times, but most importantly, they differ slightly with each progression, showing how the plot evolves. Time is the rhythm of decay. For example, the path that Akira takes every day to get groceries creates an entirely different atmosphere and feeling through the action. The film plays with the idea of the passage of time in the repetition of these events, with only small signs of its passing, such as the growth of hair. At first, it is cut regularly by the mother; later, it is significantly shortened. The hair grows much longer and becomes more chaotic at the end. The absence of grooming mirrors the disappearance of adult responsibility. The room becomes more and more messy, unorganized, and unsanitized, and the clothes are torn. The apartment externalizes the accumulation of ongoing negligence. Their action of starting to go out on the balcony, which was forbidden at first, to going outside in order to survive shows a gradual change in their behavior. The children’s gradual shift from peering through the door to stepping outside tracks their loss of innocence—from obeying rules to defying them out of survival. Their abandonment is not given a time frame, making it infinitely and desperately long. The fragmentation and lack of continuity in the timeline mirror the children's reality breaking. Scenes unfold in jumps, sometimes with months passing between breakfasts or seasons changing mid-event. It is not to confuse but to reflect the disorienting grind of survival for the kids. Time becomes a blunt, unrelenting force, rendered through these motifs.

The texture of the film, from all of the traits above, contributes to the poetic representation of emotions. It condenses complex social problems into visual storytelling. It is lyrical, inviting the audience to read emotion between the gaps of action. Minimalism in acting and visual techniques demonstrates restraint and simplicity as poetic. The impressionist approach to evoking audience resonance is lingering. Overall, the texture of Kore-eda's films is so unique, helping his emotional explorations feel so powerful.