All The Days Before Tomorrow

The film follows Wes on a non-linear journey through four settings: the present day, a dreamworld belonging to Wes’s mind, and two memory-filled chapters that illuminate the deep, purely platonic bond with Alison. Crafted in a memoir-like frame, the movie refuses a straight timeline and instead dissolves time into a series of textured vignettes. Across these scenes, the film invites you into a quiet ache—the sense that time has slipped away but the core connection remains stubbornly intact. You feel how Alison is navigating loneliness and distance as she pursues a life with her partner in Tokyo, while Wes holds on to the strongest memories they shared. In one opening image, Alison watches the gleam of light on window drapes, a mirroring echo of hotel curtains from a Utah-desert road trip she once took with Wes, signaling that memory and present moment are inseparably braided from the very start.

Interwoven with the present and the memories are monochrome dream sequences. In these visions, a third ethereal figure—an apparent guardian angel or physician—appears to guide Wes. The conversations that unfold with this figure push him to confront questions about meaning, time, and the peculiar, cosmic ties that seem to bind his life to Alison’s. The dream world is stark and luminous, a counterpoint to the warmth and gravity of the human scenes, and it helps to frame Wes’s longing as something larger than the everyday. The presence of this guardian-like adviser becomes a steady through-line, casting the film’s questions about existence, memory, and connection in a slightly otherworldly light.

The present-day narrative begins with a winter phone call that changes the stakes. Alison, Alexandra Holden herself, reaches out to Wes, almost midnight in a world that feels cold and unspoken between them. She is about to leave Los Angeles to join her boyfriend, Kai, in Tokyo. The two decide to spend the night together at Wes’s apartment, not to rekindle romance, but to re-anchor the deep, long-standing bond they share. What follows is a night of intimate, non-sexual closeness: long conversations about their lives, quiet moments like painting each other’s fingernails, a trip to the store for watermelon, and finally sharing a bed as friends who know each other’s cores all too well. It’s a sequence of honesty and vulnerability that refuses to pretend a romance is possible, yet refuses to sever what they’ve built together.

The film then drifts into memories of the summers that shaped their connection. A couple of summers before, when Kai was away at a conference, Wes and Alison found a natural ease together—the kind of ease born from long friendship and mutual trust. They remember dancing at a bar, sharing laughter, and cruising along a road trip through the Utah desert, a time of quiet beauty and uncomplicated joy. In those memories, they stay in separate hotel beds, the intimacy of companionship more significant than any romance. Alison, in these recollections, expresses a sincere happiness and a wish to keep their relationship as it has become, even as she reiterates her commitment to Kai back home. She phones Kai to reaffirm their love, which complicates Wes’s feelings and tests the boundaries of what their bond means. The emotional pivot comes as they share a drunken moment during a game of strip poker; a kiss happens, brief and charged, followed by sudden guilt on both sides. The moment dissolves before it can become more than it is, and the next morning Alison makes a choice to return home alone, signaling the limits of their close, non-romantic connection.

Throughout these layered timelines, the film continuously returns to the tension between memory and present life. The dream sequences, always in stark monochrome, offer Wes a language to understand his own longing and the nature of the bonds that persist beyond conventional time. The guardian-figure conversations serve as a metaphysical mirror, helping him recognize that some relationships survive not by rewriting reality, but by persevering in memory and shared experience. In these moments, the film suggests that to hold onto a cherished connection is not to possess it, but to allow it to nourish the person who remains.

Among the film’s many scenes there is a Christmas party that feels almost out of sync with the rest of the timelines. This single, atypical moment stands apart from the present-day and the memory-driven sequences, and it punctuates the film with a note of ambiguity. The tone and placement of this scene hint at a larger mosaic of people and moments that have shaped Wes and Alison, even when they seem to be dancing along a path that belongs to their own fragile, timeless bond.

As the story moves toward its close, the memories, the dream logic, and the waking life begin to converge in a gentle, hopeful alignment. The recollection of good moments re-fires a sense of closeness between Wes and Alison, and the film leans into the idea that their connection has endured because it exists on a plane where time does not strictly matter. The current morning in Los Angeles arrives with a soft snowfall, an improbable luxury that delays flights and grants them a rare extension of time together. In that suspended moment, Alison wakes to a city dusted with snow, and the two of them find that they can linger just a little longer in the warmth of their shared history and the fragile possibility of what lies ahead.

Character notes and performances ground the film in a human reality. Wes, played by Joey Kern, navigates the tension between memory and life as it unfolds around him, while Alison, brought to life by Alexandra Holden, embodies a blend of happiness, restraint, and the quiet fear of losing what has become essential. The world’s texture—whether through the light of a Utah-desert road trip, the quiet intimacy of late-night talks, or the stark presence of dream sequences with a mentor-like figure—adds depth to their story without sensationalizing or simplifying it. The supporting figures—El Doctor as a perceptive guardian in the dream world, Hidetoshi Imura as the Tokyo Chef, Yutaka Takeuchi as Kai, Luis Chávez as the Supermarket Cashier, Darcy Halsey as the Christmas Party Woman, and Montré Burton as the Christmas Party Man—thread through the narrative with restraint, ensuring the focus stays on the central relationship and its memory-anchored journey.

Ultimately, the film presents a nuanced portrait of friendship that borders on the metaphysical. It asks how much of life is defined by the present tense and how much by the echoes of what we have shared with someone else. By weaving together present-day Los Angeles, Utah-desert road-trip memories, and ethereal dream sequences, it crafts a mosaic in which time is flexible but longing remains steadfast. The result is a long, absorbing meditation on connection, memory, and the quiet power of staying connected to a person who has shaped your life in ways that never truly fade.

Last Updated: October 09, 2025 at 16:43