3,7 I know no other film where posthumous reassessment of a close one's life appears this borderline indecent, infantile, discourteous when it robs the deceased of rudimentary self defense, as if encroaching on foreign intimacy (whoever's!) always exudes an air of immature and impolite scatology. Consanguinity, it seems, is no excuse for any kind of prying abuse. Despite uncomfiness, Joen's never salacious but proper
The most mysterious and magnetic Yoshida film I have yet seen; a film that discards a repetitive, conventional score, for a focus on haunting, natural ambience; the wind howling through small cubby-holes, the sounds of trees in the soft breeze, or waves crashing onto the shore at night. Certainly from the same ilk as Antonioni's oeuvre, but the comparisons are not overt; this film excels on its own merits.