Watch To the Ends of the Earth with film summary and movie review

I could also tell you that “To the Ends of the Earth” is a movie where gorgeously lit and framed exterior photography, as well as consummately precise body-language-centric performances, often convey more than most dialogue could. This is the sort of arthouse drama that’s complimented in its press notes with praise for director Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s “mise en scene,” or the arrangement of objects within the camera’s frame. Trying to explain how this movie works as well as it does, without using excessive jargon or some kind of audiovisual aide, is tricky since “To the Ends of the Earth” isn’t about anything less than its heroine’s uncertain relationship with her foreign environment, and what she chooses to communicate simply by being seen and heard. Which is often thrilling to behold, but not so much to explain.

And when Yoko is on the job, she’s often tamping down her emotions for the sake of performing as an enthusiastic, engaged travel host. She smiles and remarks about the “crunchy” flavor of uncooked rice in a bowl of “plov,” a local dish—the chef didn’t have time to properly cook the rice before an unannounced shoot—and pretends to casually shake off intense nausea after she takes three consecutive turns on a fun-park pendulum ride (the camera crew couldn’t get enough B-camera footage of Yoko’s face after just one or two takes).

Yoko also studiously avoids men and other locals when she sneaks out of her hotel room to get food or sight-see. Her mind sometimes wanders, like when she visits a concert hall, and she fantasizes about performing on stage with a small orchestra sitting in front of her. The staging, lighting, and pacing of this unusually whimsical sequence (it’s all a dream!) reveals its character: the camera follows Maeda from behind in medium close-up as Yoko enters and prepares to exit a series of rooms that are decorated with gorgeous arabesques at the end of each hallway. In this scene, Yoko is never shown leaving a room; she approaches the end of one hallway, and then re-appears at the far side (or in the middle) of another room. She finally appears on stage, and sings a moving version of Edith Piaf’s “Hymne a L’Amour.” The theater’s stage seems broad enough that the orchestra pit below appears to us like the outside of a zoo cage; for one rare moment, we are on the inside with Yoko looking out.

All of this consummately pared-down style brings things back to Yoko, who internalizes so much that when she does ultimately try to express herself, it’s understandably not an intuitive process. She tries to free an underfed goat during an improvised travel segment, but only winds up leading the poor animal to its doom (There are wild dogs in the area, and the animal’s neglectful owner has to be paid to stay away). There’s also some discussion about what the sea symbolizes, though it’s ultimately inconclusive: “I hear it’s a dangerous place. Nothing to do with freedom.” This line is especially funny given how deeply felt and often stunning “To the Ends of the Earth” is as a days-in-the-life portrait of a young woman who’s struggling to enjoy her own freedom. That sentiment may be hard to explain in the abstract, but Kurosawa and his collaborators make it easily understood.

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