It’s a performance that balances mystery, regret and pain perfectly, and that hinges on nuance rather than histrionics. The film gets a much-needed jolt when Mashiro arrives, and Cocco brings an empathetic and complex humanity to a role that could easily tip into cliché. Admittedly Kuroki possesses an innocent, anonymous demeanor that serves Nanami well, but too often the character seems simply inept at life rather than emotionally aimless. Kuroki lays on the insecure naivete too thickly, but Iwai is lucky to have Okinawa singer-songwriter Cocco to pick up the slack in the charisma department. This manifests best in the easy intimacy between Nanami and Mashiro as they come to know and accept each other for who they are, an intimacy that never teeters into lascivious or prurient.īut too much of the film is too long, and scenes like Nanami’s protracted (and dead-dull) wedding, her departure from the marital home (we get it, we really do) and Amuro and Nanami’s cathartic meeting with her mother feel like rookie missteps rather than a veteran in control of his narrative. Minor beats become revealing comments on how social media is redefining how we construct an identity and then willingly realize it, and on Japan’s continuing social rigidity despite a new power to reinvent the self. Iwai is a master at allowing seemingly meaningless moments to blossom into much more, and he does that frequently here. It soon becomes clear that Nanami and Mashiro’s chance meeting was anything but chance, but the two women form the kind of genuine bond each was seeking nonetheless.īride is the cinematic equivalent of writer Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84: rambling, often infuriating, frustrating and fleetingly brilliant. After a gig as a wedding guest thanks to Amuro - again - she meets Mashiro ( Cocco), the Rip Van Winkle of the title, a terminally ill porn star, desperately lonely and looking for some sort of human connection in her final days. This sets up the more engaging second and third acts, or parts, starting with Nanami’s second career as a housekeeper at a cheap hotel, then a vacant mansion. Amuro reappears to help when Nanami suspects Tetsuya is cheating, and again when her guest ruse is discovered and her marriage collapses. Trouble arises when, having no family, friends and divorced parents, Nanami hires Amuro ( Ayano Go, The Snow White Murder Case), a mysterious jack-of-all-trades and wedding fixer who provides guests for brides and grooms who need to fill seats. She thinks her life takes a turn for the better when she meets another teacher, mama’s boy Tetsuya ( Jibiki Go), online and eventually marries him. A part-time teacher who fails to find any middle ground with her students - they can barely hear her when she talks - Nanami also works at a convenience store to make ends meet. Iwai served as his own editor and it shows.īride can be portioned into three parts that trace the glacial, baby-step growth of Nanami ( Kuroki Haruo, Silver Bear-winner for The Little House), a painfully blank slate wallflower with zero personality. At other times the pic is simply self-indulgent, allowing scenes to slip from emotionally naked to embarrassingly overwrought in a flash. The three-hour runtime seems justified when Iwai lets his characters fragile, burgeoning relationships develop at a leisurely pace and revel in the little details.
Bride relies heavily on repressed feelings and Japanese reticence to carry it forward, though it does so with hit-and-miss efficacy. Returning to feature filmmaking for the first time since 2004’s Hana and Alice (the exception being 2011’s English-language curio Vampire), Iwai proves he hasn’t lost his lyrical, emotionally understated touch.
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A full 60 minutes longer than the standard theatrical release, the director’s cut would have been best suited to Blu-ray, where Iwai completists will be able to pore over every extra frame. However, Bride also embodies the idea that less is more and isn’t waiting for DVD to showcase the three-hour director’s cut, if its release in both formats in Hong Kong is any indication. Weaving heady subjects like the breakdown and remaking of the Japanese family, the continuing rigidity of Japanese social mores and how identity and human connection are created, maintained and evaluated in the Internet age, the latest from lyricist Iwai Shunji, A Bride for Rip Van Winkle, blessedly bears all of the hallmarks of the filmmaker’s most popular work, chief among it 1995’s Love Letter.
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