Review Summary: Experience: reality or illusion?
Japan, 199X. A nighttime bar in the suburbs is having a streak of customers, all aligned on the table, drinking their Sapporo beer. Right next to them, two lovers, hugging tightly. They're not drinking, but the drug which is gluing them together is much stronger than any alcohol. The atmosphere of pleasure and drunk comfort is omnipresent, shrouded with bliss. These clients all know each other: it’s a small bar, with a small community. This is just another night together for all these people. But while they all know each other, there is no real communication.
The lovers are having a peculiar meeting this evening. They hug tightly at times, then release all amorous tension. For a time, they dare not say anything, fearing they will say something wrong. Deep inside, they think of a potential discussion to start. Their faces, strangely distorted, reveal a mixture of stern thought, fearful sweat, intense attempt at love, lukewarm happiness, and red-hot suffering. Finally, after a few awkward hugs, they begin to speak. But, all they can utter is “I love you.” “Me too.” “I wish we could be together forever” “I never doubted that.” “What shall we do?” “I don’t know”. On they go, repeating simple, vapid phrases, in an aura of forced hypnosis and beautiful sadness, fearing any attempt to stray from the words “I love you”, to try and stoke the fire of their promised endless love. They try a couple kisses, which morph into soft headbutts. Once more, the man breathes in his girlfriend’s neck, “I love you”, and longs for a final, dispassionate kiss. It falls flat. It would be funny if it wasn’t so heart-wrenchingly pathetic. Their heads drift opposite each other, their arms loosen their grip to only barely touch themselves, let alone hold themselves. And as it occurs, the two lovers commence one of the longest, most melancholic stares of their relationship as their bodies progressively grow cold from any emotion. An invisible gust of wind leaves their empty shell. Soulless. Depraved. Loveless. Disillusioned.
At the bar table, a man(in his early to mid-thirties, perhaps?) has continuously stared at his drink for the past 44 minutes. Hazy from exhaustion, his mind can’t clearly grasp the concept of drinking the beer in front of him, only putting its owner in a state of complete mental emptiness. Next to him, coworkers and strangers have finally started to drink their beverages, under the tired eye of the barman. The man follows later, his eyes finally having decided his brain. First, a sip. Quickly after, half of the drink. Finally, the whole pint. Shortly afterwards, his body ingests it fully, and urges for more. However, when asking for more, his mouth struggles, tongue twisting everywhere but forming a gibberish instead of words. Slowly, but surely, his jaw becomes functional again, just like how he was at work not long ago. There we go, finally another beer. The man’s mind wanders off, off to where? Who knows. We can only make safe assumptions. Stuck in a world of dreams, he is probably imagining lost hopes, dead passions, unsatisfactory love. His exhaustion has even made him doubt the reality of the present moment, or any moment, for that matter. Remember the promotion day? A day of unaltered joy at the perspective of a higher place in the hierarchy, for more money; settled into a routine, aware the change was minimal. When did he take his wife to the seaside again? A pure moment of warm bliss, love bursting out of every pore when they sensually embraced each other naked on the vacation house’s balcony; turned glacial by a bleak present, marked by nothing but boring humdrum. Past memories phase in and out, consciousness lingering off a tight rope. After almost an hour, our man descends back to earth. As he does, so do his neighbours, all connected in this collective (dis)illusion. And there they all are, hands on the table, drunkenly staring into the void again.
A snapshot is heard. A picture promptly comes out of a Polaroid, old model. So old, in fact, that the image printed is distorted, unclear. Perhaps the Polaroid is the embodiment of time, sensing the mellow atmosphere, and befitting it with an image which perfectly suits the situation: a lost, banal moment, almost unreal due to its forgettable nature.
