*This piece is part of our Critics In Conversation series, where two writers offer different perspectives on the same film. Read Angie Stroud’s review here.*
Nao, a stagnant college student caught between love and vengeance, stands in the office of her professor, Segawa, reading him an erotic excerpt from his novel. She arrived with one mission and one mission alone––to “honey trap” him. But when her attempts to seduce and expose him fall flat, Segawa offers the misguided Nao some sage advice: “You must make the most of your weaknesses.”
This line, though spoken toward the film’s middle, perfectly mirrors the stream of love, desire, and vulnerability interwoven throughout Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy.
Told in three vignettes, acclaimed writer and director Hamaguchi’s film explores an unexpected love triangle, an attempt to seduce and trap a professor, and a happy reunion born out of a misunderstanding. At first blush, this romantic drama about love and relationships feels sterile and void of all warmth––in dialogue, in color, and in romantic chemistry. But that doesn’t make it any less full of heart.
Taking inspiration from John Cassavetes’s 1970 American dramedy Husbands, Hamaguchi wanted his film to explore the rich inner lives of Japanese women, the pressures imposed upon them, and their struggles in adult relationships.
In “Episode 1: Magic (or Something Less Assuring),” the first chapter of his three-part anthology, Hamaguchi examines Meiko (Kotone Furukawa), a woman who learns her best friend is dating her ex-lover, Kazuaki (Ayumu Nakajima). Through the intensely raw and slow-moving dialogue, the unpolished cinematography of urban Japan, and the natural sounds of life, Hamaguchi manages to make poetry out of the otherwise pale and anodyne cityscape that surrounds his characters.
However, this intricately laid romanticism is tested in “Episode 2: Door Wide Open” when Nao (Katsuki Mori) helps her vengeful fling to seduce and sabotage Professor Segawa (Kiyohiko Shibukawa). But when Nao reads Segawa a detailed encounter of oral sex from his book, the film’s beauty dissipates. In its place is suspense and tension, making every word hang in the air for a little too long; making every horrid moment feel a little too real.
This scene, while beautifully and bravely acted, is painful and uncomfortable––as it should be. But it doesn’t belong in a film about complex female characters since it strays from Hamaguchi’s quest for finding magic in realism, and especially since this scenario is not true to life. According to a survey from the Girl Scouts of Japan in Shibuya Ward, Tokyo, 92% of university female students have met or seen sexual harassment or discrimination.
The choice to cast Nao as the sultry saboteur, then, does more harm than good, as it portrays women as instigators of sexual harassment for power. This feeds into the existing culture of not believing women and invalidates their experiences. For a film that is meant to capture genuine love and struggle, especially where women stand at the forefront, this moment is demoralizing.
But despite its disillusioned middle, the film concludes with its most tender chapter yet––“Episode 3: Once Again.” It follows Natsuko (Fusako Urabe), a woman who is hung up on a past girlfriend. When she runs into Aya (Aoba Kawai), she mistakes her for the one that got away, leading to even more happy accidents and surprises. Not only is this coincidence a testament to female friendships, but it also rejuvenates the viewer, for once not leaving them melancholy and reeling. This Hamaguchi must realize, as a water-colored image of Natsuko and Aya are the face of the film’s movie poster. It’s light and airy in comparison to its narrative predecessor, but it falls right into place with the rest of the anthology.
While each slice-of-life story would be nothing without its characters, perhaps the most poignant character is one who never speaks at all. One that harnesses the ability to separate, entrap, and reveal truths all at once. One that isn’t alive but is always present––glass.
Only confined by a glass office are we able to watch Meiko and Kazuaki argue about their disjointed love triangle and express their lingering affections. Only backlit by an obscured window in a college building are we able to witness Nao’s failure that ends in a heart-to-heart with Segawa. And only sheltered by a glass dome-like escalator are we able to watch the evolution of Natsuko and Aya’s connection––the very location where their paths first cross and where their relationship later culminates. Only under or surrounded by glass is Hamaguchi able to allude to the immense vulnerability that comes with falling in love. And each glass serves as a window into the characters’ souls.
Hamaguchi’s film is not hopelessly romantic. It is neither hopeless nor romantic. Rather, it defines itself as something in between. Something viewers can look through vitreous barriers and peer into each of the character’s lives, if only for a moment. Even with its minor flaws, Wheels of Fortune and Fantasy is a heart of glass––emotional and fragile but beautiful and alluring all the same.