The secret life of piano players sings in Sonata.
By Anthony Buchanan
Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Tokyo Sonata is defined by its subtlety.
The story consists of a Japanese family whose increasing secrets threaten to tear it apart. At its center is the father, Ryûhei Sasaki (Teruyuki Kagawa), who suddenly finds himself unemployed. He can't bear the reality of his situation, which he shamefully hides from his loyal wife Megumi (Kyôko Koizumi) by returning home every day dressed in his office clothes. In reality, he spends his days in unemployment lines that lead nowhere.
Kurosawa is restrained in his evocation of the man's humiliation; it just takes a few muted scenes to make the viewer truly feel his anguish. In one scene, a cruel employer asks the confused Ryûhei to sing karaoke into a fountain pen as part of his interview. The lack of expressed gesture speaks emotional volumes.
The family dynamic is a tight and dignified one. The household itself is photographed with grace and visual symmetry. Kurosawa presents the characters as stereotypical Japanese, who obey and accept their circumstances, and yet there is an obvious struggle underneath. Megumi's isolation is emphasized through cinematic poetry. She repeatedly appears in the top left corner of the frame, always in her place. A strong woman, she expresses genuine love for her sons Kenji (Kai Inowaki) and Takashi (Yû Koyanagi). When she reaches for Ryûhei, however, he absentmindedly wanders off, leaving her waiting in vain.
Ryûhei is consumed by his embarrassment; his hidden humiliation is felt in every frame. Tension rises when Kenji, who harbors a secret desire, expresses it at the table one night: He wants to study piano. Absolutely forbidden. Luckily, his mother gives him lunch money, which he can use to secretly pay for private lessons. Until the lessons are discovered, he finds release from the growing tension in the family. Kenji's older brother, Takashi, who is rarely at home, wants to join the American army, another source of angst for Ryûhei. Traditional Japanese forms of structure and authority don't appear to hold the family together anymore.
Kurosawa has compassion for his subjects; he does not seek preference for any family member over another. His passive and distant camera observes the family and its actions with tenderness and acceptance. The family's struggle is collective, and Kurosawa foregrounds its members' lives as a reflection of a larger picture. Ryûhei speaks for an entire generation of desperate Japanese men, and Kurosawa emphasizes this through small and painful haiku-like gestures. In one scene, an unemployed man still has his cell phone set to ring every five minutes in order to hide his unemployment and loss of importance. Scathing pity is felt for the man and many like him. Yet the scene is so simple.
Less says so much more here. Like Kenji, who convinces his parents his pursuit is worthwhile through a brief but brilliant performance, Kurosawa's light touches make Tokyo Sonata a subtle triumph.
Tokyo Sonata
Directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Written by Kiyoshi Kurosawa, Sachiko Tanaka and Max Mannix
With Teriyuki Kagawa, Kyôko Koizumi, Yû Koyanagi, Kai Inowaki and Kôji Yakusho
The Screen
120 min., NR
