All the Long Night from Shô Miyake feels as heartwarming as a handmade oversized scarf.
Japanese filmmaker Shô Miyake has been slowly and steadily crafting his own distinctive cinematic universe. Following the critically acclaimed And Your Bird Can Sing and Small, Slow But Steady, he returns to Berlinale with All the Long Nights, a heartfelt work that feels like a soothing lullaby for the wounds left by the pandemic. Adapted from Maiko Seo’s novel of the same name, All the Long Nights tells a tender story of ordinary people, resilience, and the quiet process of healing and moving forward.
All the Long Nights begins with the story of Misa Fujisawa (Mone Kamishiraishi), a young woman battling premenstrual syndrome (PMS), a condition that disrupts her ability to meet the expectations of Japan’s rigid corporate culture. Overwhelmed by the pressures of her job and the toll it takes on her well-being, Misa makes the difficult decision to leave in search of a quieter, more forgiving environment.
Years later, she finds a fresh start at Kurita Optics, a modest company specialising in astronomy kits for children. The change proves to be just what she needs, as she settles into a workplace defined by warmth, simplicity, and a slower pace. It is here that she meets Takatoshi Yamazoe (Hokuto Matsumura), a reserved and distant colleague whose cold presence contrasts with the office’s welcoming atmosphere. Once an ambitious young man, Takatoshi’s life has been derailed by panic attacks, forcing him to abandon his aspirations and take a job he considers beneath his potential. His discontent is clear, yet beneath his guarded demeanour lies a shared vulnerability.
As Misa and Takatoshi’s lives begin to overlap in this unassuming setting, a bond quietly takes root. Working together on projects, including a portable planetarium for children, they find ways to support each other, their shared struggles fostering moments of connection and understanding.
All the Long Night concludes with the culmination of their portable planetarium project. Kurita, the compassionate boss whose quiet acts of kindness create ripples throughout the office, is revealed to carry his own grief—he has lost a brother. This brother left behind a tape and a notebook filled with playful commentary about space. In the tape, his voice lingers with a gentle reassurance: “As long as the Earth keeps rotating, all the long nights will end with a new dawn.”
For those familiar with contemporary Japanese arthouse cinema, it’s hard not to draw a parallel between the tape in All the Long Night and the one in Drive My Car. In both films, the tape becomes a symbol about death and live—a vivid remnant of a life once lived. Listening to it can be as painful as confronting a haunting ghost or becoming trapped in the unchangeable past. Yet, beyond its ties to memory and regret, the tape provides the living with courage, strength, and solace, acting as a quiet yet profound impetus to move forward.
Miyake’s characters, like the drifting youth in And Your Bird Can Sing or the hearing-impaired boxer in Small, Slow But Steady, are often labelled as “marginalised.” Yet, on closer inspection, they are far from being defined solely by that label. They are ordinary people, each carrying their own burdens and navigating their own challenges. While it’s true that their struggles—be it an unusual lifestyle or a condition that sets them apart—might make them seem different, one could argue that no one is truly “ordinary.” After all, who among us is without unique struggles or quirks that set us apart from the so-called norm?
Through Miyake’s lens, these characters aren’t defined by their hardships but by their capacity to find connection, to heal each other, and to keep moving forward. Their growth doesn’t come in sweeping, dramatic arcs reminiscent of Hollywood epics. Instead, it unfolds gradually, in small and quiet ways—just like life itself. They change not through grand transformations, but through the steady rhythm of resilience and mutual support.
Yoake no subete · Forum · Feb 21, 2024
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