You ever watch a movie where almost nothing happens, yet somehow, by the time the credits roll, you feel like you’ve been through an entire lifetime of emotional exhaustion? That’s basically the vibe of Their Distance. Released back in 2016 and directed by Rikiya Imaizumi, this film isn’t your typical high-octane J-Drama or a flashy anime adaptation. It's quiet. Really quiet. Honestly, if you aren't in the right headspace for a slow burn, you might find yourself checking your phone ten minutes in. But if you stick with it? It’s a masterclass in how humans suck at talking to each other.
The movie—originally titled Ren'ai Toppo (which translates more to "Love's Light" or "Love's Peak" depending on who you ask)—is a strange, beautiful beast. It was actually a vehicle for the K-pop group NU'EST. Usually, when a boy band stars in a movie, it’s a cringey, low-budget marketing ploy. This wasn't that. Ren, JR, Minhyun, Baekho, and Aron actually had to act. And they did it in Japanese, which adds this extra layer of hesitation and distance to their performances that works perfectly for the plot.
The Messy Web of Their Distance
The story is a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. We’ve got Leon (played by Ren), a guy working at a shoe repair shop who is basically haunted by guilt. He saw something traumatic, or at least something he thinks was his fault, and now he just exists in a state of perpetual apology. He meets Suna, a girl who falls asleep on a park bench, and instead of a "meet-cute," we get a series of awkward, silent encounters.
Then there’s Kokone, who works with Leon and clearly likes him, but she’s being pursued by someone else. And Akiko, and Sang-soo... look, it’s a lot of names. The film weaves these seven people together in a way that feels less like a script and more like overhearing a conversation at a rainy bus stop. It’s about the spaces between people. The "distance" in the title isn't about miles; it’s about the five inches between two people on a couch who both want to say "I love you" but talk about the weather instead.
Rikiya Imaizumi is the king of this stuff. If you’ve seen his later work like Just Only Love (2018) or Little Nights, Little Love (2019), you know his style. He loves the "unrequited" angle. He loves characters who are slightly pathetic but deeply relatable. In Their Distance, he uses long takes. Sometimes the camera just sits there. You’re forced to watch a character think. It’s uncomfortable. It’s real.
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Why NU'EST Actually Worked Here
Most people forget that NU'EST was struggling back in 2016. They weren't the "Produce 101" superstars they became later. They were a K-pop group trying to find their footing in the Japanese market. This reality bleeds into the film. There is a tangible sense of displacement. When Minhyun’s character, Nam-sang, is trying to navigate his feelings while living in a foreign country, that’s not just acting. That’s the K-pop idol experience in Japan circa 2015-2016.
Leon is the heart of the film. Ren plays him with this fragile, porcelain-doll quality. He barely speaks. He fixes shoes. He watches people. There’s a specific scene involving a broken heel that serves as a metaphor so on-the-nose it should be cheesy, but because the pacing is so glacial, it actually feels profound.
The Art of Saying Nothing
What most people get wrong about Their Distance is expecting a resolution. Western audiences, especially, tend to want a "The End" where everyone holds hands. This movie doesn't give you that. It’s a "slice of life" in the truest sense—a slice that is somewhat jagged and doesn't fit back into the loaf.
Imaizumi’s direction avoids the melodramatic "crying in the rain" tropes. Instead, he focuses on:
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- The sound of a shoe being buffed.
- The way someone looks at the back of someone else's head.
- The awkward silence after a confession that isn't returned.
- The mundane reality of working a retail job while your heart is breaking.
The cinematography by Hiroshi Iwanaga is chilly. Lots of blues, greys, and pale lighting. It feels like a winter morning where you can see your breath. It reinforces that theme of isolation. Even when the characters are in the same room, they feel miles apart.
A Note on the "Japanese-ness" of the Film
While it stars Korean idols, this is a Japanese film through and through. There’s a concept in Japanese aesthetics called Ma (間). It’s the "gap" or "space." It’s the silence between notes in music. Their Distance is built on Ma. It’s in the pauses between lines of dialogue. If you’re used to fast-paced editing, this will feel like a slog. But if you appreciate the tension of what isn't being said, it’s captivating.
There’s also the subversion of the "Idol Movie" genre. Usually, these films are bright, poppy, and designed to make the stars look like gods. Here, they look tired. They look like regular twenty-somethings dealing with unrequited love and shitty jobs. It’s an incredibly brave way to market a boy band.
Where to Watch and What to Look For
Finding Their Distance (or Awasete) today can be a bit of a hunt. It popped up on various streaming services like Viki or specialized Asian cinema platforms over the years, but licensing is a nightmare. If you can find the physical media or a legit stream, pay attention to the sound design. The ambient noise of Tokyo—the distant hum of traffic, the chime of a shop door—is essentially a character itself.
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It’s also worth noting the costume design. Everyone wears these oversized, muted clothes. It’s very "mori girl" / "city boy" aesthetic. It makes the characters look small, like they’re being swallowed by their own lives.
Why It Still Matters in 2026
We live in an era of instant connection, yet we’ve never been worse at actually communicating. Their Distance feels more relevant now than it did a decade ago. We text, we DM, we like photos, but we rarely sit in a room and tell someone how we feel without a screen acting as a buffer.
The film challenges the viewer to be patient. It asks you to sit with discomfort. In a world of TikTok-length attention spans, a two-hour movie about people failing to talk to each other is practically a radical act.
Moving Forward With Slow Cinema
If you’ve watched Their Distance and found yourself surprisingly moved, you’ve stumbled into the rabbit hole of Japanese "Slow Cinema." This isn't just a movie; it's an entry point.
- Check out the rest of Rikiya Imaizumi’s filmography. Specifically, Under Your Bed (2019) if you want something darker, or Call Me Chihiro (2023) on Netflix for something more heartwarming but still deeply grounded.
- Research the NU'EST discography from the "Canvas" era. The aesthetic of their 2016 album Canvas (especially the track "Love Paint") is the musical equivalent of this film. They were at their creative peak during this collaboration.
- Learn the term "Mono no aware." It’s a Japanese term for the awareness of impermanence. Everything in this movie is fleeting. The relationships might not last, the feelings might fade, and that’s okay. Understanding this concept will change how you view the "unsatisfying" ending.
Don't go into this expecting a romance. Go into it expecting a study on human fragility. Turn off your phone. Dim the lights. Let the silence do the talking. You’ll find that the "distance" isn't something to be feared; it's just a part of being alive.
To dive deeper, look for the making-of interviews where the cast discusses the difficulty of acting in their non-native Japanese. It adds a whole new level of respect for what the NU'EST members achieved here. After that, look for independent Japanese films from the "Enbu Seminar" program, which often produces these kinds of raw, character-driven stories.