In The Colour Purple, Alice Walker famously wrote: “Time moves slowly, but passes quickly.” The passage of time, and more especially, how to immortalise fleeting moments, has worried humankind since our very beginning. Kei Chika-ura’s new film, Great Absence, is another example of how we aim to capture the things we’re about to lose, as well as it is an exploration of loss in all its senses — of opportunities, of memory, of people we love.
“While this film is entirely fictional and not based on true events, it was the first project I embarked on that drew inspiration from my own roots and family,” Chika-ura explains. The idea first came to him during the Covid-19 pandemic, when he got a called from the police as his father, who was suffering from dementia, had caused some trouble in his hometown — the place where the Japanese director grew up and where Great Absence takes places in. He was planning on shooting something entirely different, but after being so affected by that, he started writing a new story that tackled family relationships, the elderly, and the struggle to face the inevitable. “There’s a profound joy in discovering the genuine beauty of vitality within the elderly,” Chika-ura says.
In his second feature film, the Japanese director works once again with legendary actor Tatsuya Fuji, who was awarded Best Actor in last year’s San Sebastián Film Festival. He’s starred in dozens of films and has taken on some risky, career-defining roles. Now being eighty-three years old, one can appreciate what an incredible star he is thanks to his portrait of Yohji, a retired university professor who suffers from dementia.
After several months travelling from film festival to film festival, and having garnered great critiques from the Japanese audience, Great Absence is finally hitting the big screen in Spain. Thus, we sit down with Kei Chika-ura to discuss the best and worst of being a filmmaker, the struggle to find financial aid to produce this film, and whether or not prizes are important.
Hello Kei, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. To get to know you better, what does a ‘normal’ day in your life look like when you’re not filming?
Hello Arnau, thank you for having me. On days I’m not involved in filmmaking activities like research for scriptwriting, planning, shooting, editing, or promotion, I rarely meet people. You could say I’m quite introverted. Typically, I’m either going to the cinema, reading books in my room, or watching classic films from my Blu-ray collection.
I’m also a big coffee enthusiast. There’s a shop near my studio in Tokyo that roasts coffee beans every morning. I buy beans there, grind them at my studio, and meticulously brew drip coffee with great focus and care. Occasionally, I look up the negative health effects of drinking too much coffee, but I tend to quickly dismiss those concerns.
I’m also a big coffee enthusiast. There’s a shop near my studio in Tokyo that roasts coffee beans every morning. I buy beans there, grind them at my studio, and meticulously brew drip coffee with great focus and care. Occasionally, I look up the negative health effects of drinking too much coffee, but I tend to quickly dismiss those concerns.
You’re presenting Great Absence, your second feature film. Tell us a bit more about how did it come to be.
In April 2020, as the Covid-19 pandemic began to sweep across the globe, I received a phone call from the police in my hometown of Kitakyushu, far from Tokyo. They informed me that my father, who had developed dementia, had caused some disturbances and had been taken into protective custody. I immediately traveled the 1600 km by bullet train to see him. I was struck by how much he had changed and deeply regretted not having spoken to him more before his dementia progressed, as well as my lack of attention to my hometown.
At that time, I had already completed a script for my second film. Had the world not been halted by the pandemic, I believe I would have been shooting that film. However, the pandemic transformed the world and deeply shook our values. Amidst this turmoil and facing my father’s transformation, I realised that my connection to the original script was waning. Deciding to write an entirely new story that resonated with the changed world and my personal experiences, I began writing Great Absence. This story was significantly inspired by my personal events and the pervasive sense of absence brought on by the pandemic. It is, of course, a complete work of fiction.
At that time, I had already completed a script for my second film. Had the world not been halted by the pandemic, I believe I would have been shooting that film. However, the pandemic transformed the world and deeply shook our values. Amidst this turmoil and facing my father’s transformation, I realised that my connection to the original script was waning. Deciding to write an entirely new story that resonated with the changed world and my personal experiences, I began writing Great Absence. This story was significantly inspired by my personal events and the pervasive sense of absence brought on by the pandemic. It is, of course, a complete work of fiction.
As you comment, the world was put on hold. When did you film, and how long did it take?
The filming took place over about a month in March 2022, following six months of various preparations, including set design.
“Living in the digital age, we often feel that any action can be undone with a simple ‘Command+Z’ shortcut, creating an illusion that nothing is irreversible. However, in reality, everything in this world may very well be irreversible.”
As its title says, it is about absence, but to me, it spoke even more about loss — the loss of trust, of family members, of human connection, of memory, of missed opportunities. It tackles many kind of losses, and that’s what makes it equally painful and relatable. Was it always your intention to approach the subject matter from these many points of view?
Yes, absolutely. In Japan, there’s a saying, "覆水盆に返らず" (fukusui bon ni kaerazu), which translates to “spilt water will not return to the tray,” meaning what has been done cannot be undone. I believe this proverb captures a profound truth. Living in the digital age, we often feel that any action can be undone with a simple ‘Command+Z’ shortcut, creating an illusion that nothing is irreversible. However, in reality, everything in this world may very well be irreversible. What is lost cannot be reclaimed or returned.
This film revolves around the themes of time and memory, emblematic of irreversible time and the attempts to counteract this through memory reconstruction. Paradoxically, it is precisely because everything is irreversible that there’s a kind of beauty in human efforts to repair loss. When viewed from above, these efforts resemble a spiral staircase, which, though ascending in an irreversible spiral, forms a beautifully perfect circle when seen from above, continuously winding around itself.
This film revolves around the themes of time and memory, emblematic of irreversible time and the attempts to counteract this through memory reconstruction. Paradoxically, it is precisely because everything is irreversible that there’s a kind of beauty in human efforts to repair loss. When viewed from above, these efforts resemble a spiral staircase, which, though ascending in an irreversible spiral, forms a beautifully perfect circle when seen from above, continuously winding around itself.
I like how the storytelling is fragmented, and as we travel from the past to the present, all the pieces of the puzzle start to make sense. What prompted you to tell the story like this instead of in a linear way, and what do you think contributes to the final result in terms of feeling/sensation?
In this film, my goal was not only for the audience to empathise emotionally with one of the characters but eventually to lead them to a kind of divine perspective, as if they were looking down on the characters from above. Although the story is not set up for a traditional happy ending, I hoped it would ultimately be a hymn to humanity. To achieve this, I decided to employ a specific narrative trick.
As the film begins, viewers feel as though they are experiencing the world through the perspective of the protagonist, Takashi, sharing his confusion and distress. The story starts in the present timeline, and when it FIRST shifts to another timeline (the recent past) it does so in a manner that intensifies the sense of reliving the protagonist’s perspective, almost like a flashback. However, by the middle of the story, the information available to the audience begins to exceed what Takashi knows, gradually introducing aspects of the recent past that he hasn’t witnessed.
As the film begins, viewers feel as though they are experiencing the world through the perspective of the protagonist, Takashi, sharing his confusion and distress. The story starts in the present timeline, and when it FIRST shifts to another timeline (the recent past) it does so in a manner that intensifies the sense of reliving the protagonist’s perspective, almost like a flashback. However, by the middle of the story, the information available to the audience begins to exceed what Takashi knows, gradually introducing aspects of the recent past that he hasn’t witnessed.
Exactly. It is very enriching as a viewer to gather more and more information from different points of view or sources as the film goes on.
This shift from a first-person to a third-person perspective in the film happens subtly, elevating the viewpoint and thus transforming the narrative structure. The sensation of puzzle pieces coming together, which you mentioned, is cultivated through this change in perspective, ascending to a broader view. This was crucial because if the story remained confined to Takashi’s viewpoint, it would have been a traumatic, personal complex extended only to judge or forgive his father’s ‘foolishness’. Instead, I wanted to elevate it to a higher level of insight.
During the theatrical release in Japan, I conducted Q&A sessions in numerous theatres across the country. Repeatedly, I heard similar sentiments from the audience, such as, ‘I don't know why, but I was moved to tears,’ or ‘I still can't pinpoint what moved me.’ These reactions are precisely what I aimed to achieve with this film.
During the theatrical release in Japan, I conducted Q&A sessions in numerous theatres across the country. Repeatedly, I heard similar sentiments from the audience, such as, ‘I don't know why, but I was moved to tears,’ or ‘I still can't pinpoint what moved me.’ These reactions are precisely what I aimed to achieve with this film.
In Complicity (2018), your debut feature film, you worked with actor Tatsuya Fuji, who was happy to star in your new movie again. Tell us a bit more about this relationship, and what is it like to work with him.
When I was a teenager, I watched Nagisa Oshima’s In the Realm of the Senses, a film that had been released over fifteen years earlier. While the film itself was shocking, I was even more captivated by the lead actor, Tatsuya Fuji. I wondered about the resolve it took for him to accept such a role, especially in the conservative Japan of that time. I learned that appearing in that film cost him job opportunities for about two years, and he knew this would be the case when he accepted the role. Later, I heard from Mr. Fuji himself that when Director Oshima offered him the role, he thought, ‘If I run away from this, I’ll regret it as an artist for the rest of my life.’ He truly is an artist in every sense, which is why he is a special icon in cinema to me.
I actually watched that movie earlier this year and it’s nuts — the nudity, the violence, the toxicity of their relationship, but also the extreme beauty of it all. But sorry, please go on.
Five years before my feature film debut, when I made my first short film, I didn’t hesitate to send the script to his agent and ask him to participate. He liked the script and agreed to act in my short film, Empty House, which was an obscure project with uncertain prospects for screening. After that, I directed two more short films before making my feature debut with Complicity in 2018, where Mr. Fuji’s performance was instrumental in defining the film’s success. The same goes for the shooting of Great Absence; we barely talk on set, and I rarely have to direct him on his acting.
There’s a sense that we deeply understand each other. Behind the camera, I watch his performance as if I were a teenager again, deeply immersed in the magic of cinema. For many years, perhaps presumptuously, I’ve harboured the hope of creating what could be considered a definitive work for Tatsuya Fuji. With his performance in Great Absence, he won the Best Actor award at the 71st San Sebastián International Film Festival, the first Japanese actor to do so. I felt more joy for this recognition than for any award I had received myself. I believe Great Absence, alongside In the Realm of the Senses, will endure as one of the defining works of Tatsuya Fuji’s illustrious career.
There’s a sense that we deeply understand each other. Behind the camera, I watch his performance as if I were a teenager again, deeply immersed in the magic of cinema. For many years, perhaps presumptuously, I’ve harboured the hope of creating what could be considered a definitive work for Tatsuya Fuji. With his performance in Great Absence, he won the Best Actor award at the 71st San Sebastián International Film Festival, the first Japanese actor to do so. I felt more joy for this recognition than for any award I had received myself. I believe Great Absence, alongside In the Realm of the Senses, will endure as one of the defining works of Tatsuya Fuji’s illustrious career.
As you just mentioned, Tatsuya was awarded Best Actor in last year’s San Sebastián Film Festival, and Great Absence was nominated as Best Picture as well. Do you give any importance to awards? Or obsessing over them can be detrimental to artistic expression?
First and foremost, it’s important to recognise that awards are external to the film itself. As filmmakers, we need to focus our energies not on external accolades but on the film itself. Even the finest films receiving awards can be considered a product of chance. Thus, while receiving an award is certainly pleasing, it provides an opportunity to celebrate with the team involved in the film’s production. However, if one falls into the illusion that receiving an award signifies personal excellence, it can be the end of the road for an artist. It’s as absurd as attributing rolling a six on a dice to one’s talent or effort.
“True beauty does not reside solely in youthful bodies. There’s a profound joy in discovering the genuine beauty of vitality within the elderly.”
I remember speaking with Gaspar Noé about Vortex, which also tackles the struggles of elderly couples — in his movie, she has Alzheimer and he’s the one taking care of her. He said that the audience can watch very painful movies about almost anything but, for some reason, our final years are where we draw the line. And he was also very vocal about how it’s extremely difficult to enroll producers in such movies because we don’t want to deal with growing old (despite it being the only certainty in our lives). So I’m wondering, was it difficult for you to find the financial means to make Great Absence?
I agree with Gaspar Noé. During the fundraising phase for this film, I presented the script to a producer who shockingly commented that ‘no one wants to see a love story about an old couple.’ It seems there is a significant misunderstanding about aging, possibly due to a misguided view of life and death.
However, the audience’s reaction exceeded my expectations in its depth and positivity. This may be because, despite any unfortunate circumstances, the elderly characters in the film were portrayed as vibrant and full of life. True beauty does not reside solely in youthful bodies. There’s a profound joy in discovering the genuine beauty of vitality within the elderly, which resonates deeply with audiences.
However, the audience’s reaction exceeded my expectations in its depth and positivity. This may be because, despite any unfortunate circumstances, the elderly characters in the film were portrayed as vibrant and full of life. True beauty does not reside solely in youthful bodies. There’s a profound joy in discovering the genuine beauty of vitality within the elderly, which resonates deeply with audiences.
Was it ever hard for you to shoot some of the scenes?
This film was shot entirely on 35mm film, which meant we had a limited number of film cans. For scenes composed of many shots, such as master shots and close-up reversals, running the camera from start to finish at every camera position would consume a significant amount of film. Therefore, I pre-simulated the editing process, shooting only the necessary fragments. It was as if I was editing the film while I was shooting it.
There were also numerous instances where I had to alter the pre-planned simulation based on the performances observed on set. In this sense, an extraordinary level of concentration and imagination was required.
There were also numerous instances where I had to alter the pre-planned simulation based on the performances observed on set. In this sense, an extraordinary level of concentration and imagination was required.
What would you say is the most important learning you take from making this movie? I mean personally and spiritually, rather than technically or professionally.
While this film is entirely fictional and not based on true events, it was the first project I embarked on that drew inspiration from my own roots and family. The protagonist, Takashi, and I are different individuals, but there are overlapping aspects. Takashi is an actor who stands in front of the camera, while I am a filmmaker who stands behind it. We share some similarities, perhaps akin to the relationship between the sun and the moon.
Most importantly, the filming location of this movie was my hometown, Kitakyushu, the same place where Shinji Aoyama grew up. His trilogy from the late ‘90s to the 2000s (Helpless, Eureka, and Sad Vacation) is known in Japan as the ‘Kitakyushu Saga.’ Growing up there, I never felt it was a place I should look back on. After my parents divorced when I was thirteen, I left the city and never intended to return. I’m often asked if it was a traumatic experience, but it wasn’t. At least consciously, it left no scars on me – it was simply a place I hadn’t considered revisiting for many years.
Most importantly, the filming location of this movie was my hometown, Kitakyushu, the same place where Shinji Aoyama grew up. His trilogy from the late ‘90s to the 2000s (Helpless, Eureka, and Sad Vacation) is known in Japan as the ‘Kitakyushu Saga.’ Growing up there, I never felt it was a place I should look back on. After my parents divorced when I was thirteen, I left the city and never intended to return. I’m often asked if it was a traumatic experience, but it wasn’t. At least consciously, it left no scars on me – it was simply a place I hadn’t considered revisiting for many years.
What was it like going back for the film?
Shooting Great Absence there was, in a way, a quiet return to my hometown. I reconnected with many old friends and acquaintances who were proud of my achievements as a film director. Everyone had aged, and it was evident that they had all lived enriching lives. Calling it nostalgia might seem trite, but it’s true that it reminded me of the last sequence of Cinema Paradiso. This experience might have truly allowed me to reclaim my hometown in a profound sense.
Making a film is a very intensive, time-consuming process; it takes years to materialise an initial idea. What would you say is the best and the worst of being a film director?
Indeed, sometimes I feel that the speed of societal change and the time it takes for my creative process don’t align. The best part of being a film director is the opportunity to see my own work in a large theatre, sitting among other audience. The worst part is not being able to watch my work with a completely fresh perspective like other audience members. I wish I could empty my mind of all the long hours, the struggles, and the memories associated with the filming and production processes, and experience my work anew.
To finish, what are your plans for the future? Do you have another movie in mind, or will you enjoy some time off?
I already have concepts and stories for seven films that I want to shoot. Next, I want to challenge myself to surpass the achievements of Great Absence and see how I can evolve further. For me, taking what is conventionally called ‘time off’ is unnecessary. After completing a film, travelling to film festivals around the world, and touring various cities for Q&A sessions during theatrical releases — these activities might very well be my ideal form of vacation.
