Movies usually try to shout. They want you to notice the CGI, the twist, or the loud orchestral swells. But Naomi Kawase doesn't work like that. Honestly, when Still the Water (or Futatsume no Mado) premiered at the 2014 Cannes Film Festival, it felt like a quiet ripple in a very noisy pond. It's a film about the Amami Islands, about the cycle of life, and about how humans are basically just tiny specks compared to the ocean. If you haven't seen it, or if you only remember the lukewarm critical reception it got back then, you're missing out on something visceral.
The plot isn't a "plot" in the Hollywood sense. It’s more of a vibration.
Set on the subtropical Japanese island of Amami-Oshima, the story follows two teenagers, Kaito and Kyoko. They find a dead body floating in the sea. That sounds like the start of a gritty crime thriller, right? It isn't. Instead of a "whodunit," Kawase gives us a "why-are-we-here." The body is just a catalyst to talk about the things we usually avoid: death, sex, and the fact that nature doesn't care about our feelings.
The Raw Energy of Still the Water 2014
Kawase is famous for her documentary background, and it shows here. She doesn't use a lot of fancy lighting. She uses the sun. She uses the wind. In Still the Water 2014, the island itself is the lead actor. You can almost smell the salt and the decaying hibiscus.
Kaito, played by Nijiro Murakami, is terrified of the sea. His mother is seeing other men, and his father is living a disconnected life in Tokyo. Then there’s Kyoko (Jun Yoshinaga), whose mother is a shaman—a yuta—who is slowly dying. While Kaito is repelled by the water, Kyoko is drawn to it. She sees the ocean as a spiritual force, something that gives and takes in equal measure. This isn't just "coming-of-age" fluff; it’s a heavy, existential meditation on what it means to be part of an ecosystem.
The cinematography by Yutaka Yamazaki is incredible. It’s handheld but steady, like a breathing person. There’s a specific scene involving a goat—it’s famous, or maybe infamous is the better word—that captures the brutality of life. It’s a real slaughter. No trickery. Kawase caught flak for it, but for her, it was essential. If you eat meat, something dies. If you live, something passes away. That’s the core of the film. It’s about the lack of separation between us and the world.
Why the Critics Were Divided at Cannes
When the film debuted in 2014, some critics called it "self-indulgent." They said it was too slow.
I think they missed the point.
In the West, we often want movies to solve problems. We want a beginning, a middle, and an end where everyone learns a lesson. Still the Water 2014 doesn't do that. It’s cyclical. It moves like the tide. If you go into it expecting a narrative arc with a climax and a resolution, you’re going to be frustrated. But if you watch it as a sensory experience, it’s overwhelming.
The film explores the concept of Mappo or the end of the law, but it does so through the lens of Shintoism and the specific indigenous beliefs of the Amami people. It’s about the "second window" (the literal translation of the Japanese title). It’s that space between this world and the next, between childhood and adulthood.
The Connection Between Sound and Silence
The sound design is something you’ve got to pay attention to.
Often, the characters stop talking. The waves take over. The rustling of the trees takes over. It’s a bold choice because it forces the audience to sit with their own thoughts. Kyoko’s mother’s death scene is one of the most beautiful things put on film in the last decade. It’s not a tragedy; it’s a transition. The family gathers, they sing, they celebrate the life that was. It’s so different from the sterile, hushed tones of Western hospitals. It feels ancient.
Kawase grew up being raised by her grandaunt and granduncle, and her biological parents were largely absent. That sense of searching for a "source" or a "root" is all over this movie. Kaito’s trip to Tokyo to see his father is a perfect example. Tokyo is portrayed as gray, cramped, and noisy—a stark contrast to the blue and green expanse of Amami. It’s the classic "urban vs. rural" trope, but handled with much more nuance. The father isn't a villain; he's just lost. He’s forgotten how to listen to the water.
A Masterclass in Naturalism
Nijiro Murakami was just a kid when he did this. It was his debut. His performance is so raw because he wasn't "acting" in the traditional sense; Kawase has a habit of putting her actors in real situations and letting them react.
- Real locations: No soundstages were used.
- Physicality: The actors actually had to learn to swim and interact with the environment as locals would.
- Improvisation: Many moments feel like they were captured by a fly on the wall.
This approach gives the film an E-E-A-T (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, and Trustworthiness) factor that's rare in fiction. You trust the world she’s built because it’s not built—it’s documented.
How to Appreciate Still the Water Today
Look, the world has changed since 2014. We’re more distracted than ever. Our attention spans are basically nonexistent. Watching a two-hour film where "nothing happens" (according to some) is a challenge. But that’s exactly why you should watch it.
It’s a palette cleanser for the soul.
When you watch Still the Water 2014, you’re not just consuming content. You’re engaging with a philosophy. The film argues that we are not separate from nature. We are nature. The same salt in the ocean is in our blood. The same rhythm of the moon affects us. It’s a pagan, earthy, beautiful realization.
People often compare Kawase to Terrence Malick. I see the comparison, but I think Kawase is less interested in "God" and more interested in "Energy." Malick is looking up at the sky; Kawase is looking at the dirt and the sea foam. There’s a tactility to her work that he sometimes lacks.
Making the Most of the Experience
If you're going to dive into this movie, don't do it on your phone during a commute. You'll hate it.
- Find the biggest screen possible. The scale of the island is part of the story.
- Use good headphones. The layering of the natural sounds is intricate.
- Research the Amami Islands. Understanding their unique history—being caught between Okinawa and mainland Japan—adds a lot of context to the "outsider" feeling Kaito has.
- Watch it twice. The first time is for the story. The second time is for the feeling.
The film ends with a storm. A massive typhoon. It’s the ultimate expression of nature’s power. It’s scary, sure, but it’s also a cleaning process. It washes away the old to make room for the new. That’s the takeaway. Life is a series of waves. You can fight them and drown, or you can learn to float.
To truly understand the impact of this film, one should look into the "Amami" series of documentaries Kawase made before this. They provide the factual backbone for the fictional elements in the movie. You'll see the real shamanic rituals and the real relationship the islanders have with the sea. It’s not "folk horror" or "exoticism"; it’s their reality.
Next Steps for the Interested Viewer:
- Watch "The Mourning Forest" (2007): This is Kawase’s other big winner (Grand Prix at Cannes). It deals with similar themes of grief and nature but in a dense forest setting.
- Explore Nijiro Murakami’s later work: He’s become a huge star (you might know him from Alice in Borderland), but his work in Still the Water remains his most vulnerable.
- Read up on Shintoism: Specifically the concept of Kami (spirits) residing in all things. It will make the "conversations" the characters have with the trees and ocean make a lot more sense.
- Check out the soundtrack: The music by Hasuken is sparse but haunting, perfectly complementing the environmental sounds.
Ultimately, Still the Water 2014 is a reminder that cinema can be more than entertainment. It can be a prayer. It can be a meditation. It’s not for everyone, but for those who "get" it, it’s a film that stays in your system long after the credits roll. Stop looking for the plot and start looking for the pulse.