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Rating: If someone asked me why Maboroshi no Hikari / Illusion (1995) is my favorite movie, I would find myself in serious difficulty, and probably the answer would fade into a gloomy silence. Yet, for me, it wouldn't be very complicated to utter a few words about the films that have most struck me over the years: whether they are by Lynch, Bergman, Von Trier, Coppola, Kubrick, Tarantino, or (moving to the East) Ozu, Kobayashi, Kurosawa, Mizoguchi, Oshima, Teshigahara, Wong Kar-Wai, Lee Chang-Dong, Kim Ki-Duk, and so on. Even Koreeda himself has made other wonderful films after debuting with this one (I mention Wandafuru Raifu, Aruitemo Aruitemo, and Daremo Shiranai, or even the more recent and sunny Kiseki), but in no case did I leave with my heart so shattered, and with the same sense of emptiness prolonged for days.
The fact is that in Maboroshi almost nothing happens, just like in the masterpieces of master Ozu (a clear inspiration for Koreeda); but if at least in Ozu we could rely on the loquacity and chatter of the characters, here we will have to do without words due to the sparsity of dialogues, which are not negligible for this reason. The few salient moments of the plot are shown to us, if not only transmitted, with what I would call a "magnetic detachment", an approach not very different from that of Tsai Ming-Liang, although not at the same levels of autism: Koreeda represents distances and misunderstandings on an individual level, for Tsai the whole of humanity is alienated, but both depict the external reality with an immobilization that is nothing short of fascinating.
Indeed, for those who are able to fully breathe in the atmosphere of this film (and it takes well-trained lungs!), it is even possible to perceive a background calmness, a silent but immanent poetry, almost epiphanic, in every space and object: from the flickering light of a level crossing to an empty room, from a bicycle ride to a gaze lost in the void, from the roar of waves to the simple sound of a small bell. The story develops following an emotional thread, laden with symbolism and a tension towards a "something" that only rarely surfaces defining the main turning points (if we can call them that), and that for all the time, without a particular reason, leaves a great lump in the throat.
The slender plot can be summarized in a few lines: Yumiko, following the inexplicable suicide of her husband, remarries the widower Tamio and moves with her young son to a coastal village in Ishikawa. However, the arranged marriage, after a first period of apparent calm, suffers a fracture: the memory of the deceased Ikuo continues to torment the protagonist, who just can't get to the bottom of it. By retrieving Mizoguchi's "feminine" anguish, Ozu's imperturbable sobriety, and even a bit of Tarkovsky's proverbial slowness, Koreeda brings to life an impalpable, shadowy drama, exquisitely intimate in content as much as essential in form and settings. If cinema is the art of sculpting time, this is a monument planed with exceptional rigor: memories and dreams still vivid and rooted, the present slipping away without reason, the future uncertain but accepted with resignation in an unbearably delicate finale; it is in light of all this that Maboroshi is defined no longer just as a film about incommunicability and the mystery of death.
From a "technical" point of view, there isn't much to say. The shots are perfectly natural, fixed, essential, and contemplative (again, Ozu teaches); Koreeda's eye often becomes distant almost like that of a hawk, but nothing escapes him. The views of the suburban neighborhoods are suggestive, as are the wonderful ones of the village and the sea, which mirrors Yumiko's inner turmoil. The photography may initially bewilder, but the low lighting helps give that touch of more realism and at the same time indefiniteness, always in harmony with the general mood. The actors remain composed, the acting is deliberately contained. The pace noticeably lags, especially in the middle part of the story, which for many risks collapsing into boredom; this is because, for better or worse, it's a film that takes its time to let every emotion transpire. Special mention goes to the music: sporadic but perfectly placed, delicate yet devastating.
Although the narration proceeds without jolts and twists, there are quite a few images that immediately stuck with me. The last fleeting meeting between Yumiko and Ikuo, separated by the echo of a small bell; Yumiko's departure; the memory/dream of her grandmother, who ran away from home for no reason when the protagonist was a child; the deserted factory; the finale that arrives quietly; but the one of the funeral procession and the consequent emotional collapse of Yumiko (and also mine) is certainly the most heartbreaking, and the most beautiful, I have ever seen: how to make the incommunicable manifest, how to crumble the heart in two minutes with a fixed shot on the sea. There are no words.
As perhaps has become clear, Maboroshi is not for every taste. It requires calm, patience, and a few more viewings to catch details perhaps previously overlooked. It's the typical film that reveals itself once the viewing is over, insinuating itself into the spirit only in the hours/days/weeks following. It's true that we are used to very different rhythms, to immediate perceptions, to sure or rushed conclusions. But every now and then it's worth pausing and taking the time to let the thoughts run without a precise goal, just like Yumiko.
So, if someone asked me why this is my favorite movie, I would find myself in serious difficulty, and probably the answer would fade into a gloomy silence. Or I could give them a long, boring, and dispersive review... But I still couldn't give the vaguest idea of how much I'm attached to this masterpiece.
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