The opening shots of one-time pink film director Takita Yōjirō's Departures are shrouded in a thick haze of snow flurries, reminiscent of the first scene of Fargo, but switch the flatlands of North Dakota for the scenic valleys of rural Japan. Parting this wall of white is a solitary hearse, the passengers of which we follow along to their destination: an encoffining ceremony for a recently deceased daughter of a local village family. Except that she turns out not to be a female at all. The solemn ritualistic cleansing and enrobing of the corpse is abruptly halted by the younger specialist's discovery, which shatters his image of the otherwise attractive young "woman" and sets the tone for the majority of the movie, reverent but humorous at the same time.
This part of the funerary ceremony in Japan, which cuts across all religious denominations Eastern and Western, requires sensitive and skilled hands. After sponging the body's exposed skin with a sanitized cloth, the clothes are removed from under a silken cerement, and once the rest of the body is cleansed, new clothing and make-up is applied to restore the departed to look as if in their prime, before being lowered into a coffin and transferred to the cremation retort. Our startled handler, Daigo Kobayashi (Motoki Masahiro 本木 雅弘), called an "NK agent" after the Japanese term nōkan 納棺, has recently returned to his hometown and fallen into this line of work after plans to become a symphonic cellist in Tokyo failed to pan out. Though the job is elevated to an artform, revered by all mourning Japanese (the bereaved often tearfully proffer gifts of gratitude to the agents), it is nonetheless beneath an individual's dignity to fulfill this function. While the protagonist, on his journey from resigned acceptance of the position to genuine veneration of its rites, attempts to hide the nature of his business from his dotingly smiley wife (Hirosue Ryoko 広末涼子) , soon word of his profession spreads around town, deflecting old acquaintances and finally driving away his homemaking wife as well.
Though the movie, which won the 2009 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, has its moments, for the most part the sequences develop like a feature-length Japanese soap opera. Despite the stunning scenery of Yamagata, nestled in the shadow of Mount Fuji, our emotions are piqued by little else on the screen. The story develops along largely predictable lines: As Daigo develops an immense pride for the work that previously had driven him to wretch before every meal, he ostensibly has to choose between his ordinarily submissive wife, and his newfound pride for the profession. It turns out he must have known all along how to play his cards, as his wife dutifully returns with only the pretense of a fight. Moreover, when characters pass away it feels more like a familiar plot turn than any great loss to shed tears over. By the end, a longstanding family sub-drama is even resolved, with no outstanding tensions left remaining.
Adding to the semblance of the daytime drama, most characters overplay their roles: at some of his more dejected moments, our leading man pulls faces that remind me of the Korean screwball comedy Sex is Zero. (In the scene where Daigo discovers the symphony he has worked so hard to be a part of is dissolved, he draws a quick face that might have been accompanied by the boing of a burst Slinky.) This makes it hard to sympathize for the character when he is supposed to be duly enduring the down sides of the story. The wife figure, though sometimes charming, is played to bubble-gum effect, so fixated on an overstretched smile and crescent-moon eyes that she grins in her sleep.
The one exception is the other staff at the NK agency, especially Shōei, the proprietor (veteran actor Yamazaki Tsutomu 山崎 努, perhaps known best for his role in Itami Jūzō's Tampopo). Tall and aquiline, his presence exudes at both times a sense of gravity and humanity mostly lacking elsewhere in the story. Aloof throughout most of the film, he plays the traditional sensei role to perfection, all the while appearing to tolerantly guide the actor Motoko as much as the character Kobayashi. The high point may be the private puffer roe dinner shared by the two agents, in which Shōei dryly opines to his apprentice on the themes of work and mortality.
Departures isn't a bad film to relax with after a long day. The long shots of the Japanese countryside are beautiful, and toward the end, most of its shortcomings can be conveniently ignored if one is willing. But in a country famous for Ozu Yasujiro's light-hearted family dramas and Akira Kurosawa's humanistic storytelling, Departures feels more like a spin-off with a mildly unconventional theme. Released the same year, Kore-eda Hirokazu's Still Walking (歩いても 歩いても) is a much greater example of the vibrancy that still flourishes in this great tradition.
