Film Review #165: WORLDS APART

The passing of her parents forces Asa Takumi (Ikoi Hayase), fresh out of junior high school, into the home of her aunt, Makio Kodai (Yui Aragaki), a shy 35-year-old novelist. Two women, both alone but unprepared, now find themselves bound by circumstance, learning to navigate a life together. 

Based on the manga series “Ikoku Nikki” by Tomoko Yamashita, Worlds Apart even in its title speaks not only of the divide between the living and the dead, but also of the quiet distances that exist between people, including those who share the same roof. In its unhurried storytelling, the film traces the emotional landscapes of women at different stages of life—growth and transformation, solitude and companionship, farewells and rebirth. 

Asa, standing at the fragile threshold of adolescence, is acutely perceptive yet deeply uncertain. She fears loss but craves belonging. She longs for independence but yearns for understanding. A shift in a friend’s demeanor can unsettle her, a passing remark from an elder can weigh on her mind, and even the subtlest change in scent can evoke a sense of unease. 

But growth is not exclusive to youth. Adulthood, too, is filled with uncertainties. Makio, a woman who has built her life around solitude, finds herself suddenly responsible for a teenager. She struggles with closeness, hesitant and awkward in the face of Asa’s unspoken needs. She is not the nurturing figure society might expect, nor is she someone who has fully made peace with her own past. And yet, through small moments, reluctant conversations, and the quiet support of friends, she gradually learns to embrace a different kind of tenderness. 

Director Natsuki Seta inherits the legacy of Japan’s "quiet cinema", a tradition woven through the works of Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story, Hirokazu Kore-eda's Still Walking, and Shunji Iwai’s Love Letter. She does not rely on conventional narrative arcs or dramatic peaks Instead, she allows emotion to emerge through subtle, deliberate details. This perspective makes the storytelling feel personal and familiar—as if these characters could be people we have known, or perhaps even reflections of ourselves. 

Yui Aragaki’s portrayal of Makio is an exercise in quiet depth. She appears distant, even cold, but her silences carry weight, her glances hint at an emotional landscape she struggles to articulate. Meanwhile, Ikoi Hayase’s Asa is the embodiment of adolescent vulnerability and quiet defiance. Their relationship doesn’t unfold through fierce confrontations but rather through quiet, unspoken shifts. Every glance, every change in tone, and even the fleeting illusions reveal the undercurrents of their emotions—subtle, yet deeply felt.

It not only made me think about cinematography, editing choices, or storytelling techniques, but also drew me back into my own memories—of friendships that faded, of family ties that evolved over time, of moments left unspoken between loved ones. Perhaps this is what the director intended: invite audiences, especially women, to recognise a part of themselves in the story

Most of us, at some point, have felt the quiet ache of distance—whether from family, from friends, or from the world itself. But in that space of separation, some emotions take root, some connections quietly mend, and some wounds, over time, cease to hurt.  And maybe, in the end, that is enough.