2つ目の窓 AKA Still the Water

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• Nuwan Anuradha 2025-09-24 06:48:39

  On the remote subtropical island of Amami, embraced by the endless ebb and flow of the ocean and the whispers of ancestral traditions that stretch back centuries, the story of Still the Water (2014) begins not with loud proclamations but with the subtle rhythms of life and death colliding in quiet inevitability. The summer festival fills the humid night with drums, chants, and the swaying of bodies caught in ritual movement, but beneath the firelit celebration lies a chilling discovery that instantly grounds the film in its themes of mortality and impermanence — a lifeless body drifting in the waters surrounding the island. This death, treated without spectacle, marks the tone of the narrative: not horror, not melodrama, but an acknowledgment that death and life are inseparable parts of the same oceanic current that carries every living being forward. The islanders respond not with shock alone but with the instinctive rituals of their culture, signaling that death is not an alien intrusion but a recurring presence, woven deeply into their spiritual understanding of existence.
  
  At the heart of this vast and intimate tapestry are two teenagers, Kyoko and Kaito, whose delicate bond provides the central thread of the narrative. Kyoko, a young girl rooted in her community’s spiritual traditions, carries the weight of knowing her beloved mother is gravely ill. Her mother, a revered shaman, embodies the continuity of life and death, guiding spirits through rituals that bridge the world of the living with that of the unseen. Kyoko’s love for her mother, mingled with the fear of losing her, shapes her tender yet quietly resilient outlook on life. In contrast, Kaito, who has recently moved from Tokyo with his mother, struggles with the island’s spiritual practices and with the absence of his own father, who remains distantly in the city. His skepticism, born from urban disconnection, clashes with the island’s acceptance of mortality, leaving him adrift in an emotional space where fear and confusion dominate.
  
  Kyoko and Kaito’s relationship blossoms not with the fiery drama of young romance but with the tentative intimacy of two souls seeking meaning in a world shadowed by mortality. Their bicycle rides through lush forests, their silent walks along the shore, and their moments of shared vulnerability become reflections of the greater cycles surrounding them. Their love is awkward yet profound, a fragile bloom amid the inevitability of death. For Kyoko, love is infused with acceptance of life’s impermanence, shaped by the lessons she absorbs from her mother’s wisdom. For Kaito, love becomes a confrontation with his deepest fears, forcing him to reckon with loss and absence in ways he has long avoided. Through Kyoko, Kaito is exposed to another way of seeing the world — one that recognizes death not as an enemy but as part of the same cycle that gives meaning to life.
  
  The death discovered in the opening becomes a haunting metaphor for Kaito’s unresolved turmoil. He resents his father’s absence, fears the void of loss, and recoils from the spiritual rituals that define island life. Kyoko, on the other hand, gently embodies the possibility of acceptance, balancing grief with love and ritual. Her relationship with her mother is both heartbreaking and transformative, as she witnesses firsthand the gradual decline of the shaman’s body and learns that death is not only an end but also a sacred transition. The scene where Kyoko tenderly bathes her mother is among the most intimate and sacred moments in cinema, capturing the essence of love expressed not through words but through acts of care. The film frames this not as despair but as a ritual of continuity, where the daughter becomes both caregiver and inheritor of her mother’s spiritual legacy.
  
  The island itself becomes more than a setting; it is a living character, shaping the rhythms of human existence with its forests, storms, and ceaseless tides. The ocean, in particular, carries the weight of symbolism throughout the film. It is where life begins and ends, where bodies float and lovers swim, where silence and chaos coexist. Kawase’s meditative cinematography lingers on the water as though it were both mirror and abyss, reflecting the fragility of human life while reminding us of the vastness beyond individual existence. When Kyoko and Kaito swim together, the ocean envelops them as a metaphor for love itself — fragile, fleeting, yet connected to something greater and eternal. The island’s shamanic rituals further reinforce this idea, binding human existence to the natural cycles of tides, winds, and seasons, teaching that death is as natural as the rising of the sun or the blooming of flowers.
  
  As Kyoko’s mother’s health declines, the inevitability of her passing becomes the axis around which the story turns. The community does not shield itself from this death but prepares to embrace it through ritual and reverence. Kyoko’s grief is softened by the acceptance she has inherited from her mother, but it is Kaito who undergoes the most profound transformation. Witnessing the sacred acceptance of death forces him to confront his own estranged father and his fear of mortality. His mother, though present in body, remains emotionally distant, underscoring his sense of abandonment. Yet through Kyoko’s guidance and her mother’s death, Kaito learns that denial offers no protection; instead, reconciliation with death allows one to live fully. The mother’s passing is not framed as tragedy alone but as an act of continuity — her spirit carried forward by Kyoko, her wisdom embedded in the rituals of the island.
  
  The climax is not marked by loud revelations or sudden twists but by quiet transformations. Kyoko, though heartbroken, finds strength in her bond with Kaito and in the legacy of her mother’s acceptance. Kaito, meanwhile, shifts from a boy who recoiled from mortality to one who begins to see death as part of life’s flow. Their love remains uncertain, fragile, and imperfect, yet it is precisely in its imperfection that it gains truth. In their tender moments — a touch, a shared silence, a swim in the sea — the film suggests that love and mortality are inseparable, each giving meaning to the other.
  
  The final images of Still the Water linger not on resolution but on stillness: waves rolling against the shore, rituals carried out beneath the moon, young lovers walking along paths where countless ancestors have walked before. Kawase leaves the audience not with answers but with reflection, inviting them to consider their own relationship with death, nature, and love. The film’s slow pacing, meditative visuals, and emphasis on silence over dialogue all contribute to an atmosphere that feels less like a story and more like a spiritual experience. It is not entertainment in the conventional sense but a cinematic meditation that demands patience, openness, and surrender.
  
  By the end, Still the Water emerges as a masterpiece of poetic cinema, an exploration of adolescence, mortality, and the eternal cycles of nature. It is not only Kyoko and Kaito’s story but a universal one, reminding us that every love is shadowed by mortality, every death is part of a greater continuum, and every human life is tied inseparably to the rhythms of the natural world.

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