Only Yesterday

In the early 1980s, a quiet Tokyo office worker feels the pull of a slower rhythm that lies beyond the city’s neon pulse. Taeko Okajima embarks on a solitary train journey to the remote fields of Yamagata, hoping the countryside will offer a space for the inner questions that have long lingered beneath her routine. The film opens with the gentle hum of a nighttime sleeper, setting a tone that blends melancholy with the promise of quiet discovery, as the landscape outside the window begins to echo the memories she carries.

The world of the film moves between the crisp, lacquered streets of the capital and the soft, earthy textures of rural life. As Taeko travels, the narrative drifts fluidly between present moments and vivid recollections of a ten‑year‑old girl in 1966, a time when school trips and simple family rituals felt like the world’s biggest adventures. This lyrical back‑and‑forth creates a contemplative atmosphere, inviting the audience to feel the weight of time without ever rushing toward a conclusion.

Along the way, Taeko reconnects with her eldest sister Nanako, who lives amid the safflower harvest, and meets Toshio, a distant relative of her brother‑in‑law who has returned to the farm. Their quiet interactions act as a bridge between eras, offering a gentle counterpoint to Taeko’s inner dialogue. Even the presence of her grandmother, Chie, adds a generational echo, hinting at the ways family history subtly shapes personal longing.

At its core, the story is a meditation on the space between who we were and who we have become. Through soft scenery, understated conversation, and the steady rhythm of a journey, the film asks whether the aspirations of a child can still be heard amid the adult world’s clamor, leaving the viewer with a lingering sense of wonder about the paths we choose and the ones we leave behind.

Last Updated: December 03, 2025 at 23:34