Oya: It's Not For Everyone, But It's Something Else.

Alright, so, *Oya*. If you’re looking for explosions or some big, twisty plot, just walk away now. Seriously. This one’s for folks who appreciate a film that just sits with you, demanding your attention not with noise, but with quiet moments. If you love a slow burn, the kind where you feel like you’re eavesdropping on real life, you might just fall for it. Everyone else will probably be checking their watch.

It’s a film that doesn’t hand you anything. You kinda have to piece together what’s going on, who these people are, from their glances and habits.

Mitsuko Takao as the matriarch is just… a force. Not in an obvious way, but in the way she holds herself. There’s a scene where she’s just kneading dough, her knuckles white, and you can almost feel the years of work in her hands. It’s not even a long shot, but it tells you everything you need to know about her quiet resilience.

The kitchen, really, feels like another character. The way the morning light hits the old wooden table. The clinking of ceramic bowls. It’s all so grounded, so *real*.

There’s a moment where Mariko Aoyama’s character, who seems perpetually on edge, spills a bit of tea. It’s such a small thing, but the way she cleans it up, almost aggressively, with her back to everyone, tells you so much about her internal world. The tension in that little movement is palpable.

And the silence. Oh, the silence. It’s not empty. It’s full of unspoken conversations, old hurts, and quiet understandings. Sometimes, it felt a little *too* long, like the director was daring you not to look away.

The pacing is deliberate, no doubt. There are stretches where you just watch someone walk down a narrow path, the sounds of cicadas filling the air. It forces you to slow down, too.

Jun Arai, in a smaller role, has this one scene where she’s hanging laundry, and she just stops, looking out at the distant mountains. For a good fifteen seconds. You don’t know what she’s thinking, but you feel the weight of it. Like, what is she seeing out there?

It’s not a movie with a clear message you can easily package up. It just lays out these lives, these relationships, and leaves you to make sense of them. Which, honestly, is kinda refreshing.

The colors are muted, almost like an old photograph, which adds to that feeling of looking into something ancient and deeply personal. They really leaned into that visual style.

Some of the dialogue felt a bit sparse, but maybe that’s the point. People here don’t always say what they mean, or maybe they don’t need to. Everyone kinda knows the drill.

It reminds me a little bit of the feeling I got from some of the quiet domestic dramas, though I can't quite put my finger on one specific film. Maybe a bit of Vendémiaire's atmospheric pace, but with a different kind of human intimacy.

The ending, well, it just… happens. No grand resolution. No neat bow. It just fades out, leaving you with the impression that these lives continue, unchanged in their quiet complexities.

It's not a film you recommend lightly. It asks for patience. But if you give it that, it might just give you something back.

Little things I noticed:

• The way one of the younger characters (Eiko Takamatsu?) always pulls at her sleeve when she’s uncomfortable.
• The sound of the wind chimes outside the house; it’s almost constant.
• That single, slightly chipped rice bowl that keeps appearing in different scenes. A small detail, but it ties things together.
• The way the older men (Kanji Kawara, Ryôtarô Mizushima) mostly just observe, sitting on the porch, saying very little.
• The almost ritualistic way they prepare meals, every motion precise.
• One shot of a spider web in the corner of a room, shimmering in the sunlight. It just lingers for a second.