If you died today, which single memory would you take into eternity? Just one. Everything else—your first heartbreak, the smell of your childhood kitchen, that terrible boss you hated, even the faces of people you loved—gets deleted. You’re left with one loop of film to watch forever. Honestly, it’s a terrifying question. Most of us spend our lives running away from that kind of finality, but in 1998, a relatively unknown Japanese director decided to build an entire cinematic world around it. That film was Hirokazu Kore-eda After Life, and decades later, it still feels like a punch to the gut and a warm hug at the same time.
Before he was winning the Palme d’Or for Shoplifters or breaking hearts with Monster, Kore-eda was obsessed with the thin line between documentary and fiction. You can see it in every frame of this movie. It doesn't look like a Hollywood version of heaven. There are no pearly gates. No clouds. No harps. Instead, we get a drafty, bureaucratic social services building where the heating probably doesn't work right. It’s "The Limbo," a waystation where the recently deceased check in, get assigned a counselor, and have one week to pick their "greatest hit."
The Weird, Wonderful Logic of the Limbo
It’s basically an office job. The caseworkers—who are also dead but haven't moved on for their own complicated reasons—interview the new arrivals. They’re polite, almost bored. They take notes on clipboards. "Hello, welcome to the afterlife, please decide on your eternal soul's final destination by Monday morning." It’s so mundane it’s funny. But then the interviews start, and that’s where the magic happens.
Kore-eda did something really gutsy here. He interviewed hundreds of real people about their memories before filming. He then cast a mix of professional actors and non-professionals, letting some of those real-life stories bleed directly into the script. When you see an elderly woman talking about a red dress or a man recalling the breeze on a bus, you’re often seeing real human reflection, not just a line of dialogue. It makes the movie feel less like a "film" and more like a captured piece of time.
The pressure is real. If you can't choose a memory, you stay behind. You become a caseworker. You spend eternity helping other people move on while you're stuck in the ultimate spiritual waiting room. It’s a metaphor for regret that’s almost too heavy to handle if you think about it too long.
Why Hirokazu Kore-eda After Life Broke the Mold
Most movies about the "other side" focus on the drama of dying or the grandeur of what comes next. Kore-eda isn't interested in that. He wants to know what makes a life worth having lived in the first place. You’d think people would pick their wedding days or the birth of a child. Some do. But many others pick something tiny. A cool breeze. A specific bowl of rice. The way the light hit a certain tree.
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It's about the "smallness" of joy.
Arata Iura, who plays the caseworker Takashi Mochizuki, gives this incredibly restrained performance. He’s been stuck in this limbo for decades. He’s seen thousands of people come and go. But then he encounters a man named Watanabe, and things get messy. Through Watanabe’s files, Mochizuki discovers a connection to his own past life—specifically to the woman he left behind when he died in WWII.
The Low-Budget Brilliance of Recreating Heaven
Once the dead pick their memory, the staff has to film it. This is the part that usually makes people fall in love with the movie. They use old-school film sets, fake snow made of cotton, and simple lighting rigs. They’re essentially making "student films" of these people's lives.
There’s something deeply moving about seeing a bunch of dead bureaucrats trying to recreate a sunset with a spotlight and some colored gel. It argues that art—even "fake" art—is the only way we can actually hold onto the truth of an experience. When the person watches the finished "film" of their memory, they disappear into the next world. They've processed their existence. They've found the "point."
The Complexity of Forgetting
Not everyone finds it easy. Some people are angry. Others are just blank. One teenager refuses to choose because he thinks his life was just a series of events scripted by society. He doesn't want to play the game.
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Kore-eda doesn't judge him.
The film acknowledges that for some, life is a burden they’re happy to put down. It also explores the idea that our memories aren't just ours. They belong to the people who were there with us. When Mochizuki realizes that his "single memory" might actually be someone else's "single memory," the whole philosophy of the film shifts. We aren't islands. We are parts of other people's stories.
Honestly, the cinematography by Yutaka Yamazaki and Masayoshi Sukita helps a lot here. It’s grainy. It’s 1.33:1 aspect ratio (that old-school square look). It feels like a home movie you found in a shoebox in your grandmother's attic. It lacks the polish of modern 4K digital cinema, and it’s better for it. The imperfections make it feel more "real" than a high-definition blockbuster ever could.
Lessons from the Limbo
If you’re looking for a definitive answer on what happens when the lights go out, Hirokazu Kore-eda After Life won't give it to you. It’s not interested in theology. It’s interested in psychology. It’s about the editing process we all go through every day. What do we choose to remember? What do we choose to forget?
The film suggests that "heaven" isn't a place you go, but a state of mind you achieve by acknowledging that your life mattered—even the boring parts. Even the parts where you were just a background character in someone else's "greatest hit."
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How to Watch It Today
For a long time, this movie was surprisingly hard to find in high quality. Thankfully, the Criterion Collection put out a restored version that looks exactly how Kore-eda intended. If you’re watching it for the first time, don't expect a fast-paced plot. It’s a slow burn. It’s a movie that asks you to sit still and think about your own "one memory."
- Watch it alone: This is a private experience. You need space to think.
- Pay attention to the sound: The rustle of paper, the sound of the wind, the silence between the dialogue. It’s all intentional.
- Don't skip the "making of" memories: The scenes where the crew builds the sets are the heart of the movie's message about cinema.
Actionable Takeaways for the Living
You don't have to wait until you're in a drafty Japanese limbo building to figure this out. The film acts as a sort of "life audit." If you’re feeling stuck or like your days are blurring together, try the Kore-eda exercise.
- The One-Memory Test: If you had to choose today, what would it be? If you can't think of one, that’s a sign to start looking for more "small joys" in your daily routine.
- Document the Mundane: The characters in the film rarely choose "grand" events. They choose feelings. Start noticing the way the light hits your living room at 4:00 PM or the specific sound of someone you love laughing. These are the things that actually stick.
- Acknowledge Your Role in Others' Lives: You might be the "greatest memory" for someone else without even knowing it. That’s a massive responsibility and a beautiful gift.
The legacy of this film isn't just in the awards it won or the directors it influenced (though it did plenty of both). It’s in the way it changes the viewer. You don't walk away from this movie thinking about death; you walk away thinking about how to live better. It’s a masterpiece of empathy. It’s a reminder that even in the most boring, bureaucratic version of the universe, there is still room for poetry.
Take a moment to look around right now. Is this a moment you'd want to keep forever? If not, go find one that is.
Practical Steps to Explore Kore-eda’s Work further:
- Watch "Maborosi" (1995): This was his debut feature. It deals with similar themes of loss and memory but with a much more somber, visual-heavy style.
- Compare with "Still Walking" (2008): If After Life is about the dead, Still Walking is about the living family members left behind. It’s arguably his most perfect film.
- Journal Your Choice: Write down your "single memory" once a year. It’s fascinating to see how it changes as you get older and what used to seem "vital" fades away in favor of something more subtle.
The brilliance of the film lies in its simplicity. It doesn't need special effects to show you the afterlife. It just needs a camera, a few chairs, and a person willing to tell the truth. That's the power of the human experience, and that's why we're still talking about this movie nearly thirty years later.