NR | 1h 22m | Drama | 2018
Watanabe’s film centers on Tatsumi (Yuwa Kitagaki), a young man paralyzed by grief after his closest friend’s suicide. Trapped in a loop of guilt and longing, he isolates himself in his childhood bedroom, endlessly replaying VHS tapes as though searching for a way to rewind time.
His parents’ well-meaning but suffocating attempts to reach him only deepen his despair. Then, one day, he simply escapes, both from his house and from his spiraling thoughts, venturing into the labyrinthine backstreets of Osaka, Japan.
This journey leads Tatsumi to a forgotten part of the city, a gritty neighborhood where society’s outcasts have gathered in a fragile, defiant community. It’s here that he collides, quite literally, with Tsuchiro (Takahiro Fujita), an eccentric elder whose mock funeral parade spirals into drunken chaos.
Tsuchiro is a man drowning in regrets, armed with nothing but a bottomless bottle and an irreverent sense of humor. Despite his flaws, he becomes an unlikely guide for Tatsumi, pulling him into a world of ramshackle homes, dark comedy, and a makeshift family of misfits. There Tatsumi meets an oddball police officer, a no-nonsense barmaid, and a melancholic dancer.
On its surface, the film immerses the viewer in the stark realities of depression and alienation. Watanabe soon shifts the narrative into something more imaginative. Absurd set pieces, like the riotous funeral parade, highlight the strange, unpredictable ways people navigate grief. Yet beneath the film’s whimsical moments lies a raw, unvarnished portrayal of loss.
The film’s exploration of grief takes on a symbolic quality. Tatsumi’s VHS tapes serve as more than just an obsession; they’re a tangible attempt to preserve his friend’s memory, to freeze a moment in time. His journey through Osaka’s forgotten streets feels almost like a pilgrimage, one filled with chance encounters and fleeting epiphanies. Through these moments, Watanabe shows how mourning often transcends words. It’s a process woven from the smallest gestures with the quietest acknowledgments of pain.
Like “Continue,” Watanabe’s film probes the enduring scars of suicide with empathy and restraint. But where Croker grounds her story in realism, Watanabe leans into the poetic and abstract, mirroring Tatsumi’s fractured psyche. Disjointed edits and lingering shots create an almost dreamlike quality, capturing the liminal space between heartbreak and healing.
Small Step to Healing
One of the things I most enjoyed about this film is its ability to find beauty in uncertainty. Tatsumi’s path forward may remain undefined, and Tsuchiro’s escapism is far from a perfect guide, but the film emphasizes the importance of taking small steps toward healing.In moments of shared laughter, fleeting connections, and quiet acts of care, Watanabe reminds us that even amidst profound loss, there are glimmers of hope. Grief may not disappear, but it can coexist with moments of joy and connection, slowly allowing the gravity to lighten.
This haunting, unpolished debut firmly establishes Watanabe as a filmmaker to watch. By exploring the resilience of the human spirit, “A Dobugawa Dream” offers a crucial reminder: Even in the darkest corners of life, there is the potential for renewal.
Tatsumi’s journey is far from over, but in continuing to move forward, even haltingly, he embodies the quiet power of perseverance. If this is Watanabe’s starting point, his future promises stories that continue to uncover hope in unexpected places, like a light shining into the shadows.
