‘Two Seasons, Two Strangers’ review: Further proof of Sho Miyake’s brilliance

Sho Miyake continues to probe the truths of human connection and loneliness in Two Seasons, Two Strangers.

Something playful, yet serious. That is the key feature of what makes Sho Miyake’s Two Seasons, Two Strangers (and most of his work) tick. Miyake, through his understated career, has shown a knack for grasping the most mundane, yet transformative truths of what it means to be alive and the silent significance of human connection.

In his 2024 feature film, All the Long Nights, he took pains to show the growing bond between two co-workers, one of whom suffers crippling anxiety attacks, the other, debilitating PMS. How the two learned to navigate what the other needed through a tremendous, platonic dynamic was a striking and poignant observation of the easy ways we might better someone else’s life. Two Seasons, Two Strangers adopts more of a surrealist, patchwork motif, but still battles with the same pressing themes.

It all boils down to one writer, Lee, living in Japan, who we watch as she tries to both process what’s going on in her life – from the death of a mentor to traveling to a remote location – while working as a scriptwriter. However, it’s the first portion of the film that evokes the visceral tropical winds of a seaside village and the whirling claustrophobia of the ocean that stands out. So much so that, once we transition back to our protagonist who is writing the screenplay the first part derives from, it’s almost a disappointment.

A chance encounter propels the story forward.

Based on the manga short stories “A View of the Seaside” and “Mr. Ben and His Igloo” by Yoshiharu Tsuge, Two Seasons, Two Strangers begins in that seaside village. It’s there that we meet Nagisa (Yuumi Kawai) and Natsuo (Mansaku Takada), both of whom have arrived with little enthusiasm despite the scenic view.

Instead, the two begin to sidestep one another, Natsuo clearly drawn in by Nagisa’s more aloof demeanor. He’s all boyish charm, looking to do whatever he can to impress Nagisa. The scenes where the two simply walk together along the beach or through the weaving roads, the town lighting up behind them, are beautiful.

In just a few opening sequences, Miyake demonstrates his affinity for capturing the isolation of being human. Even as the connection between Natsuo and Nagisa develops, Miyake’s direction reminds us of how small they are in the face of the world, both in the bustling town they’re not interacting with and in the oppressive natural world surrounding them.

Sho Miyake captures isolation through the vastness of nature.

Miyake and cinematographer Yuta Tsukinaga capture the immensity of their surroundings while maintaining focus on the two characters. Some of the film’s more impressive moments are its transitions. From Nagisa walking through a cavernous route that unfolds into lush greens to a train ride that takes Lee through a tunnel and into the snowy depths of winter, the movement between passages of time helps emphasize the film’s thematic core. The editing by Keiko Okawa is crucial in these sequences, keeping the visual movement fluid.

But before we even jump ahead, there’s the trick of Miyake’s story within a story. Because just as we’re fully immersed in the summer story, Miyake yanks us out. In a move very reminiscent of Sophy Ramvari’s Blue Heron, the film picks us up and out of the current story, removing us to a more observational deck.

We knew that Lee was the one writing this seaside story, evident in the opening moments as she begins to write her draft. And yet the entire sequence is so immersive and overwhelming in its natural sensory overload that we immediately forget. And the ending to their story is so ambiguous that even though it’s a story within a story, we want more.

Two Seasons, Two Strangers is effective throughout but strongest at the start.

Instead, Two Seasons, Two Strangers jumps ahead to the second part of its story.  Armed with a new camera and intent to write something new following the death of a former professor, Lee arrives in a snowy village. With no place in the main town to find lodging, she’s forced to climb the mountain and ends up staying in the reclusive Ben-zō’s guesthouse. As their breaths hit the cold air and Lee struggles to find warmth and meaning in their meeting, she learns more about his position, why he lives alone, and succumbs to another form of shared solitude. They have absolutely nothing in common otherwise, and yet sometimes another person to talk to is enough. Proof of existence, and all that means.

While Shim Eun-kyung and Shinichi Tsutsumi share an unusual yet easy chemistry, this portion of the film struggles to find itself. The summer part is so effective, so immediate in capturing our interest and evoking the visceral heat and sweat of filmmakers such as Apichatpong Weerasethakul and Tsai Ming-liang in just a few scenes. And while there’s a scene of such utmost beauty that it had me audibly gasp, the snowy respite is less immersive.

Instead, this portion of the film takes its time, meandering, almost, to find the point. Patience is critical because it allows Lee and Ben-zō the time to get to know one another, even if their interactions and companionship are little more than a fleeting blip in their lives. He will forever be a story for her, while she was just a guest amid his self-imposed isolation.

A character drama that flirts with comedy.

While the back half takes a moment to really gather itself, it’s also where Miyake demonstrates what makes him such a pivotal voice in independent cinema. His work is profound because it captures what might otherwise be seen as mundane. With a writer’s knack for nosy curiosity, he lets Lee drive the narrative, based on her willingness to ask questions others might see as too forward. She wants to know how Ben-zō ended up in a family-style inn on his own, picking apart his cold refuge for the sake of what, in her mind, will make for a great narrative backdrop. And it all amounts to human error, clumsily handled relationships, and petty resentments. There’s nothing grand, just a stockpiling of missteps.

Throughout the film is gorgeous, planting us firmly in each season. And the realism of the characters help transform the overwhelming beauty into something more tangible, as we feel the crest of waves or the chill of winter that leaves our noses and fingertips raw. Between the observational direction, the cinematography that captures the vast isolation of the locations, and the electric score by Hi’Spec, Two Seasons, Two Strangers grapples with an unusual but no less effective tone. Playful, but not too funny. Serious, but not depressing.

The bottom line.

Two Seasons, Two Strangers is an understated stunner that packs a refined yet effective emotional punch. Sho Miyake is a filmmaker who understands and thrives on exploring how we all isolate within ourselves, slowly thawing when given the connection and community we need. In his melancholy latest, he refuses to let the characters have easy triumphs or saccharine displays of comfort. Instead, he focuses on the unusual quirks of others and on how a simple shared meal is enough to warm the soul, despite knowing they’ll be braving the cold again soon.

Two Seasons, Two Strangers played at the New Directors/New Films at MoMA. Watch the trailer below. 

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Images courtesy of Several Futures.