What can one make of Tsuyoshi Inoue's After the Quake? Is it shallow or deep? Is it, like a man named Komura (Masaki Okada), devoid of substance—a mere "chunk of air"? Or is there something profound, something of great value, present in its four tales?
The first segment (1995) follows Komura, who, after his divorce, travels to Kushiro, Hokkaido, to deliver a package. The second segment (2011) centers on a young clerk, Junko (Yui Narumi), and her friendship with a middle-aged man named Miyake (Shinichi Tsutsumi). The third story (2020) features Yoshiya (Daichi Watanabe), a "child of God," who encounters a mysterious man on a train. Finally, in 2025, we meet a former banker, Katagiri (Koichi Sato), who teams up with a Frog (Non) to save Japan from another earthquake.
Earthquakes are a common phenomenon linking the four segments. The first story begins just after the Kobe earthquake—an event whose effects ripple into the second timeline, as Miyake, a survivor, still suffers from nightmares. Yoshiya, as a child, belonged to a Christian sect that provided relief to victims of the Great East Japan Earthquake (which occurred in 2011, the year in which the second story is set). And then there is Katagiri and Frog, who embark on a mission to avert yet another disaster.
These segments, however, are also connected through shared moods and emotional states. Komura, for instance, remarks after arriving in Kushiro that he feels as if he hasn't come far enough. This is echoed by Junko, who feels the same way when she leaves home and steps off the train. We are told that Junko has a strained relationship with her father. Yoshiya, too, has a troubled relationship with God, the Holy Father. A character mentions a UFO sighting in the first segment, and one could even argue that Yoshiya himself might be an alien. He was born despite birth-preventive measures—his mother used condoms during sex, yet still became pregnant—which is why he is referred to as God's child.
One can also, if they want, establish visual connections. A red-colored corridor in the opening segment is shot in a way that makes it appear to move sideways. Later, the compartments of a train are filmed in a similar manner. What's more, the Worm that Frog seeks to defeat is depicted as a red train.
What does the Frog represent? Nothing—if we take the creature at its word, when it declares itself to be merely a frog: no metaphor, no analogy, no grand meaning attached to this bizarre creation. And if Inoue and writer Takamasa Oe have indeed tucked hidden meanings into this brain-scratching affair, they went straight over my head. As far as I am concerned, the film feels thin—almost empty, and often tedious. Why did Mimei (Ai Hashimoto) leave her husband? Why is Junko distant from her father? How does Miyake earn his living? Doesn't Katagiri feel even a flicker of anger or hurt when he is insulted?
Inoue, I'm afraid, is not interested in the practicalities or logic of real life. He allows only those elements that make the film ostentatiously surreal. The conversations are deliberately meandering, casual, and vague, yet they also feel overly self-conscious (though the actors make them bearable). Inoue doesn't merely create something dreamlike and strangely ordinary; he also wants you to notice that he has achieved the desired effect. In other words, he doesn't design an immersive experience—he keeps the viewer conscious of his craft and intentions.
He does, however, maintain solid control over the film's tone, allowing him to subvert it in the fourth segment by leaning into absurdist humor. Whatever the film's and filmmaker's flaws, they ultimately produce something that feels tonally unified. It may not be much—but it's... something, I guess.
Final Score- [4/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
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Publisher at Midgard Times