Station (1981)

Icy beauty

Underneath all its gorgeously cold and snowy landscapes lies a film designed to make you feel warm inside even with the uncomfortably cruel realities and melancholic tone it proudly parades. Despite being so innocently titled, Station from the get-go doesn't just tug at your heartstrings, it grasps them firmly in its hands and refuses to let go until you've wept multiple times. Director Yasuo Furuhata utilises Daisaku Kimura's photography with such wickedness, piercing deep into your psyche through a cosy sense of atmosphere; combing a quiet, emotional drama with a gritty and exciting detective thriller, all the while Ryudo Uzaki's stunning musical score mesmerises and dances gently throughout the film's runtime. It's with Station we find the insurmountable Ken Takakura once again on top form, a man of unchallengeable masculinity who still manages to project great sensitivity beneath his stoic outer surface. As professional and fatalistic as it is subtle and cryptic, Station lights up the screen with a glow comparable to that of a warm log fire.

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