Distance 2001

Three years after a cult sabotaged Tokyo’s water supply, killing hundreds and poisoning thousands, the families of the perpetrators undertake a quiet, heavy pilgrimage to the lake where their ashes were dispersed to mark the anniversary. The story centers on Minoru Kai, Susumu Terajima, and his ex-wife Yorie Yamashita as they approach this fragile ritual with a mix of memory, guilt, and unresolved longing. The mood is somber but lucid, and the actors move through the space with a restrained, searching intensity that invites reflection rather than spectacle.

At the dock, a sudden, almost eerie disappearance—an unused motorcycle that had been there before them—signals that this gathering is not merely performative but tethered to the past they cannot fully escape. The day’s unease deepens when they encounter Sakata, a former cult member who had trained for the attack but defected at the last moment. Portrayed by Tadanobu Asano, Sakata remains distant and reticent, saying little and choosing not to mingle with the families as they confront their memories. He nevertheless becomes a catalyst for the night’s turn, guiding them to a cabin where he and the deceased cult members once stayed prior to the attack.

Inside the cabin, the attendees spend the night in a hesitant, almost ceremonial reminiscence, and the film unfolds through a series of flashbacks that illuminate the fractured past. Those memories reveal the moments when the cult members told their families about leaving the real world to join the movement, Sakata’s own time inside the cult and his eventual escape, and the police investigation that followed the catastrophe. The tone is reflective rather than accusatory, allowing long-buried emotions to surface in quiet conversations and shared silences.

Among the memories, the complex bond between Sakata and Atsushi Mizuhara—Arata Iura—is given particular weight. Sakata speaks of Yûko, Atsushi’s sister, with a vulnerability that hints at a closeness the two never fully reconciled. The film carefully contrasts the memory of Yûko with the present, as Sakata suggests that Atsushi bears a certain resemblance to Yûko’s own spirit, even as he insists that Atsushi looks nothing like her. These moments deepen the sense that the past remains a living, converging force in the lives of those left behind.

On the train back to the city the following morning, a tense, intimate exchange unfolds. Sakata asks Atsushi who he truly is, referencing what Yûko once told him: that her brother had killed himself years earlier. Atsushi’s cautious reply—that she might have been mistaken—leaves a residual chill in the compartment, underscoring how stories about the past can blur, bend, and refuse closure. The conversation lingers as a reminder that truth in these memories is often fragmentary, and that identity itself can feel fragile when weighed against collective guilt and personal grief.

Back on solid ground, the drama shifts to a hospital visit. Atsushi goes to see an elderly man he had been visiting, only to learn that the man has died. A nurse explains that she had assumed Atsushi was the man’s son, since he visited often, until the old man’s own son arrives after the death. The encounter underscores the theme of family ties and mistaken roles, adding another layer to the film’s meditation on kinship, history, and the search for belonging.

The finale returns to the lake, where Atsushi performs a quiet, somber ritual: he places two flowers—one for his father, implied to be the cult’s leader, and one for his sister. Nearby, Sakata burns Yûko’s family photos and memorabilia, the flames growing into a large fire that mirrors the release he seeks. As the conflagration blazes, Atsushi walks away, stepping into dawn with a sense that the past, though acknowledged, can be left behind to make space for the future.

This somber, intimate drama uses restrained performances and a deliberate pacing to explore how communities remember tragedy, how individuals reckon with guilt, and how people attempt to keep living when a single event has rewritten their sense of family and fate. The film’s quiet but persistent cadence invites viewers to reflect on the heavy toll of devotion and the fragile paths toward forgiveness, all while honoring the memories of those touched by the catastrophe.