Living (Hermanus, 2022)

My film year was sandwiched by a pair of disappointments. It was marked on the front end by the release of The Batman, a reboot of a beloved character that I found murky and moody. It was marked on the back end by the release of Living, a reimagining of a beloved movie (Ikiru) from a screenplay by the man who should be on anyone’s shortlist for greatest living author (Kazuo Ishiguro). I found it listless; more sad than poignant. I didn’t think it was badly executed, just ill-conceived.

Given the critical acclaim that both films have received, it’s fair to ask what role expectations and anticipation play in critical reception. While I was waiting impatiently for The Batman, I wasn’t aware that Living was in the works I heard some positive early buzz out of festivals, but I don’t think I built up an unrealistic or unattainable set of expectations.

Truthfully, I don’t know that Living fails on its own terms, just that it can’t escape the long shadow of Ikiru. At no point in the remake was I not thinking about the other film, comparing them, and noting similarities and differences. The only real comparable experience I could recall was Gus Van Sant’s Psycho. I think the film craft is better here, but it’s honestly hard to focus on “how well?” when the only question you are asking is “why?”

Readers might complain that this is hardly a critique of the movie proper, and I don’t disagree. Nighy is fine. As a technical exercise, Ishiguro’s screenplay is a masterful work of translating the plot and themes from one location to another. But works of art that are created primarily as technical exercises by the artist often strike me as sterile. I’d rather see Nighy and Ishiguro manifesting their own expressions of the themes. Or, to paraphrase the old Gene Siskel adage, I’d rather pay to listen to them eat lunch and talk about Kurosawa’s film while they are doing it.