Ichigatsu no Koe ni Yorokobi o Kizame

Although it was overlooked at the few film festivals it played in, Yukiko Mishima's latest work, Voice, is a unique addition to this year's Japanese cinema catalogue, with a third act that you do not want to miss. Voice is an anthology film offering three separate vignettes about coping with loss, trauma, grief and guilt, where Mishima uses characters so distinct from each other to explore how these feelings affect the human mind, regardless of the body. There is an almost depressing tone to Voice due to a lack of background music and an abundance of quiet, longer takes where not much is verbally spoken. All characters have nihilistic views of the world and isolate themselves from human connection and relationships, likely due to their traumatic experiences. Voice offers a calm, introspective journey of healing and escaping from the demons of the past, and a deep examination of the way the inevitable passage of time changes people.

The first chapter of Voice, set in Lake Toya, Nakajima Island, follows Maki, a transgender woman who was formerly a man, living all alone in a fancy cabin by the lake where her daughter's body was found, 47 years ago. Reiko was her name. This quick story sees Maki celebrating the New Year with her daughter Masako and her family, when feelings of prejudice arise. Yukiko Mishima shows great talent while playing with spaces and distances between people in a near-empty house, at the backdrop of natural sounds and moments of utter silence, which make for quite a relaxing experience. Though arguably the weakest segment of the three, this 30 minute short presents the delicate unfolding of a past trauma that continues to affect Maki nearly half a century after its occurrence. Actress Maki Carrousel gives an admirable performance, which reaches its boiling point during a creative exposition scene that Mishima handles beautifully. Maki finds herself in a surreal underwater room and re-enacts exactly what happened for Reiko to die as a child and how that motivated her gender transition. Two very important pieces of information that could've simply been dropped in a conversation. But that wouldn't be anywhere near as impressive and imaginative as the path that Yukiko Mishima takes. However, the slow scenes don't amount to much and the short runtime isn't enough to fully explore how Maki is dealing with grief. The transgender commentary also feels a little surface-level, and though there are some themes of alienation in one's own family, it's all addressed very lightly and quickly. So, by the time the chapter ends, Maki's story ends up feeling underdeveloped.

The second chapter is set in Tokyo, Hachijojima Island, a place where criminals used to be exiled to. Similarly to Maki's segment, Yukiko Mishima fills this story with gorgeous still shots of nature, capturing the peaceful lifestyle of living in a rural setting surrounded by animals and green vegetation, while also exploring the loneliness that comes with that peace. This second 30 minute part of Voice follows a farmer named Makoto, who is visited by his daughter Umi after 5 years apart. She shows up pregnant, with divorce papers, and refuses to explain it, which sends her father on a detective quest to find the man behind it. However, the mission is ultimately sidelined as Makoto's past trauma begins to affect him again. Like the underwater room of the first chapter, Mishima approaches Makoto's backstory in a creative manner, with a car drive scene where actor Show Aikawa exceptionally impersonates a young Umi and relives his character's memory of telling his daughter about the accident that took her mother's life. This chapter may seem unrelated to the other two, but it is an essential part of the film, with the core message that the best thing you can do after losing someone to death is to let go and keep on living, for them, if not for yourself. Once again, guilt and grief are explored, now in a more personal perspective as it was Makoto and Umi themselves that made the decision to let go of their wife and mother, by switching off the life-support machine. As in the first chapter, their story features an abrupt ending, but with a hopeful final shot that will put a smile on your face.

Set in Osaka, Dojima, the third and final chapter of Voice is also by far the strongest, following an adult Reiko who, like Maki's daughter, was raped at the age of 6 and in a strangely similar way. Clocking in at nearly one hour in length, this segment feels more fleshed out and compelling than the previous two. It is also shot in black and white, which adds an additional layer of sadness and melancholia to the story as images turn monochrome. Seemingly shot before the other chapters, during COVID-19, the third part of Voice feels like the very heart of it. Not only because Atsuko Maeda gives an unbelievable performance as the standout of the film, but also due to Mishima's more artsy approach, which uses longer takes, a shaky camera and a fantastic sequence of unbroken shots that will bring tears out of you. Reiko's story is also the most emotional and complete of the three. Once again, Yukiko Mishima adds a light surrealism, creating a sort of spiritual connection between Maki's Reiko and the adult Reiko, as if she were a future version of Maki's daughter in an alternate timeline, had she not died. Reiko's quest is one of healing, self-forgiveness, letting go of guilt, regaining trust in humanity, and being able to love again. And through human connection, she is shown how to live again. Atsuko Maeda's portrayal of Reiko is incredibly authentic and heartfelt, and coupled with a beautiful song at the end, it solidifies the final part of Voice as a masterpiece.

Yukiko Mishima is no amateur. Voice is not only the work of someone who understands and has experienced grief, guilt and trauma, but also that of a very talented filmmaker. Each shot is as beautiful as the previous and the next, with clever camera placements, vivid colors and a superb image quality. Credit must also be given to her writing, which is more layered than it seems in how she connects the three stories, either by theme or by subtle clues and details, like a name, a place, or a description. Again, Atsuko Maeda's segment is genuinely perfect, and it is enough to blind you from the somewhat messy and underdeveloped first two chapters. Had Voice been just the one-hour black and white film, the project would have been a million times stronger. But still, a three-part anthology gives Voice a unique touch of identity and is arguably necessary to achieve the theme that Yukiko Mishima is going for-how feelings such as trauma and guilt affect every human being, no matter who they are.

Lastly, the film becomes a little more special and meaningful once you learn that Yukiko Mishima herself was raped at the age of 6. Her own trauma is reflected in the character of Reiko, and it is what inspired her to write Voice, a film that may not be entirely perfect, but one that gives a voice to victims of sexual abuse and to those who suffer at the hands of death.