Countless sumimasen (apologies) and deferential bows form the backbone of All the Long Nights, the film that Japan’s cinema magazine Kinema Junpo has named as the country’s best work of 2024. In this latest film by Sho Miyake, Japan’s ubiquitous apology culture is portrayed in all its authenticity. At the same time, a warm and comfortable workplace environment is distilled from it. However, upon closer examination, one finds that despite the protagonist’s endless apologies and the equally endless forgiveness she receives, neither her life problems nor her strange illness is ever resolved. Perhaps this, too, is an inescapable truth of Japan’s highly polite society.
This is a (non-)coming-of-age story about a young woman, Misa Fujisawa. The reason for the “non-” is that, by the film’s end, the premenstrual syndrome (PMS) that has plagued her both in life and at work remains unchanged. Yet, rather than taking the (currently popular) anti-climax approach, the film chooses to depict the little joys valued in East Asian societies. Through an unhurried pace, simple relationships, and a cleverly designed workplace setting, it refines and magnifies the beauty of everyday life. One might recall last year’s Perfect Days, directed by Wim Wenders and starring Kōji Yakusho. It portrays the work and life of a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo with such tranquil elegance that makes it both pleasurable and subtly unbelievable.
Compared to Perfect Days, All the Long Nights presents more struggles—after all, its protagonist, Misa, is a patient, and her days don’t always go smoothly. In the film’s opening scene, she lies on a wooden bench at a bus stop in the middle of a downpour as she suffers an episode of PMS. Passengers boarding and alighting the bus are too busy fiddling with their umbrellas to acknowledge the clearly unwell woman beside them. This is a precise depiction of Japanese society’s tendency to avoid causing trouble for others and refrain from getting involved in others’ troubles. Such an absence of assistance—or even a simple word of concern—would be unimaginable elsewhere. One is reminded of a short film—its title escapes me—in which a man suddenly collapses at a subway door, preventing it from closing properly. Commuters step over his body as if he were an inconvenient obstacle, until a train employee finally intervenes to move him aside. In All the Long Nights, Misa remains lying at the bus stop until two police officers on patrol who have the duty to notice, report, and address suspicious social behaviors in public take action. Only then is she escorted to a police station for help—where she later apologizes for causing trouble upon her release.
In another scene, her illness manifests again, this time seen through the screen of her manager’s electronic tablet: Misa suddenly berates her colleague over a trivial matter in the office because he failed to inform her that she needed to photocopy some documents. And once again, an apology ensues—followed by the colleague’s reciprocal apology: “No, I should be the one apologizing.”
The entire company, and indeed the whole of society, operates like a well-oiled machine. When a problem arises, intervention and targeted solutions are tacitly reserved for professionals. Meanwhile, everyone else naturally assumes the role of onlookers and passively watches events unfold. Aside from offering endless apologies, there seems to be nothing else they can do.
After committing another blunder at work due to her PMS, the protagonist decides to leave the machine-like company. Five years later, she lands a job at a small firm. The film then presents the audience with an almost idyllic workplace scenario: Kurita Science Corp, a small workshop-style company that specializes in educational science toys. Her new colleagues are much like her previous ones—they’re polite and maintain strong personal boundaries that prevent them from interfering in one another’s lives. However, this time, there’s a male colleague, Takatoshi Yamazoe, with a condition similar to hers—he suffers from panic disorder. Despite undergoing multiple rounds of psychological and pharmacological treatments, he still cannot bring himself to enter enclosed public transportation spaces like subways or buses. Their empathetic and kindhearted boss, who lost his younger brother to illness, treats his employees like family and even offers his blessings when someone decide to leave the company.
Misa and Takatoshi eventually become mutual caregivers, supporting each other through their respective conditions, though their relationship never develops into romance. They maintain a cautious distance and are mindful of not overstepping each other’s boundaries. After all, both are highly sensitive young individuals whose conditions make them extremely vulnerable—even a casual joke could easily cause unintended harm. For instance, after Misa helps Takatoshi overcome his panic attack, he subtly attempts to draw a line between their conditions, prompting her to retaliate smilingly: “I didn’t know there’s a ranking for medical conditions. I guess my PMS ranks lower than your panic disorder.” I bet many men have had similar experiences with women who get ticked off by the slightest comment.
Miyake recalled that the film is adapted from a novel of the same name, which explores the idea that people cannot control what happens inside their own bodies. During the adaptation process, he changed the protagonists’ company from Kurita Metals to Kurita Science, which specializes in astronomy-related educational toys. This shift infused the story with celestial imagery, further extending the theme to how people are just as powerless over the external universe. Indeed, in the vast expanse of space, what are our ailments but the smallest of afflictions? If life is inevitably bound for death, and if illness is an unavoidable part of existence, then perhaps the best one can do is find fleeting comfort in the present. This might be the essence of little joys—the survival philosophy that East Asian youth have come to embrace in recent years.
All the Long Nights reinforces a certain perception I have of Japanese society: it values politeness and decorum but often fails to address real problems. Two female friends of mine have both complained about Japan’s healthcare system. One simply had a streak of bad luck—during her two years in Kyoto, she suffered frequent colds and fevers, along with multiple sprains from outdoor activities. “Maybe it was my poor Japanese,” she admitted, “but every time I went to a community clinic, they just bowed and apologized repeatedly without actually providing any treatment. And I could never get an appointment at a major hospital.” In the end, she relied on her own accumulated medical knowledge and translation apps to buy medicine and treat herself.
The other friend pointed to issues in medical technology. Having lived in Japan for years, she visited obstetrics clinics multiple times during her pregnancy, yet it wasn’t until delivery that she was finally exposed to diagnostic equipment like X-rays. Recently, the tragic case of a famous Taiwanese actress who died in Japan from flu complications has further fueled the belief that Japan’s technology—including healthcare and IT—has stagnated or even regressed. However, what people often overlook is that the actress had a severe underlying condition and may have neglected potential complications of contracting the flu. No matter where or who she was, death would have been an unavoidable outcome in her case.
Recently, I happened to be traveling in Japan, so I took this opportunity to observe Japanese politeness and problem-solving efficiency—admittedly, with my own preconceptions in mind. In Tokyo, I met up with some former classmates, who work nine to five at local firms as typical corporate salarymen. After describing the idyllic workplace in All the Long Nights, one of them commented, “The moment I step into my office every morning, it feels like I’m walking into a morgue—silent and lifeless. If a company and boss like the ones in the film existed, I’d switch jobs immediately!”
Later, I went skiing in the Tohoku region. While riding the chairlift, I chatted with a fellow skier about the Japanese sense of discipline and the coldness that sometimes accompanies it. He sighed and shared a recent experience: “I’d booked a small hotel near the Zao Onsen Ski Resort. That day, I wasn’t feeling well and had a slight fever. I knew check-in wasn’t until 3 p.m., but there weren’t any late check-outs that day, so I politely asked if I could check in early—of course, I was willing to pay extra. In China, this wouldn’t have been a problem at all. But the hotel staff just kept bowing and apologizing while pointing right at the 3 o’clock mark on the clock. I had no choice but to wait until exactly 3 p.m., when they finally handed me the room key with great ceremony.”
By late February, heavy snow had blanketed the region, turning everything—from the ski resorts to the cities and even the Shinkansen lines (high-speed railway network)—into a vast winter wonderland. Traveling with a Japan Rail Pass, I’d packed my final day in Tohoku with an ambitious, tightly scheduled itinerary involving multiple train transfers, hoping to make the most of my rail pass. But no matter how reliable the transport system or how strictly enforced the train schedules were, they were powerless in the face of nature’s fury. As expected, my first train after leaving the ski resort was delayed, meaning I had no chance of making my connections and would be unable to reach my hotel in my destination city, And the pre-paid expenses are non-refundable as well. I approached the service counter staff and communicated my problem to them using Google Translate, though I had little hope they could resolve the issue. To my surprise, a young female staff quickly understood the situation and offered a solution. The new proposed route was a long stretch beyond my rail pass coverage that came with an expensive fare. Yet, perhaps as compensation for the train delay or as a part of Japan’s premium service standards , or even some lucky “super national treatment” to foreigns(which I couldn’t quite put my finger on), I was given a free ticket for the proposed route.
Thrilled, I boarded the train—only to realize, to my horror, that I’d made a mistake while communicating with the station staff. My intended destination was Nagaoka, but the ticket was for Takaoka—two places with similar names and pronunciations. At my next transfer, I rushed to the service counter. A male staff, who was just as efficient as the lady before, immediately understood the mix-up and adjusted my ticket—free of charge, again.
That snowy night, I found myself in a yakiniku (Japanese BBQ) restaurant in Nagaoka, celebrating how I unexpectedly turned my luck around with a feast. Seated next to me were a mother and daughter from Tokyo, who were on a holiday there. Having worked in Singapore for years, the daughter spoke fluent English and struck up a conversation.
“So, this is your third trip to Japan? How do you feel about it?” she asked.
“Well, I’ll be brutally honest then,” I replied. “I used to have this stereotype that Japanese people believe any problem can be solved with a bow and an apology. And if it still isn’t solved, you will just continue to bow and apologize. Last year’s All the Long Nights, which was ranked Japan’s top film of the year by Kinema Junpo, only reinforced that impression. But today, my perspective on Japanese society has changed after a long and chaotic train journey, because the train staff were able to efficiently solve my problems despite the language barrier. You guys can be flexible!”
She laughed. “Well, we should thank the snowstorm for giving you this new experience. Wait, what was that movie called again?”
Indeed, as a traveling cinephile, I often find myself knowing more about a country’s films—or even its landmarks—than the locals do.
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