Eiji Okuda's A LONG WALK reviewed by Robert J. Lewis@Arts & Opinion

There isn’t one of us who hasn’t at some point in life regretted something done in the past. In most cases, we are owning up to regrets of minor proportion limited to a particular moment or narrow time frame. But in certain cases, what is regretted is a long-term pattern of reprehensible behaviour that has caused significant suffering and sometimes irreversible consequences. For the most part involuntarily, we may one day find ourselves at a crossroads moment where we recognize the persistent misconduct for what it is, and either deny it, remain pat with it, or, in the spirit of the unfinished project each and everyone of us is, resolve to make amends and evolve a more wholesome version of ourselves.

Eiji Okuda’s quietly compelling, deftly crafted film, A Long Walk, which won the coveted Grand Prix of Americas for best film at the 2006 version of the Montreal World Film Festival, begins at this archetypal crossroads moment, just after Matsutaro Yasuda, a retired school teacher and life long abuser, has buried his wife whom he drove to alcoholism.

In his opening act of repentance, Yasuda hands over his sumptuous home to a daughter who wants nothing to do with him, and then, after renouncing all his worldly possessions, moves into a dilapidated apartment building -- the perfect setting for his self-imposed exile and punishment, the perfect metaphor for the self-loathing and ugly person he has been. Yasuda, whose morose gait and defeated posture achieve the radiance of poetry, but who can barely cope with the guilt and regret that are consuming him, desperately wants to redeem himself, but doesn’t know how to coax into existence this better person that has lain stillborn for so many years.

He introduces himself to his attractive next door neighbour who ignores him – a bar girl on a 24/7 high, whose deadbeat boyfriend lives off her and beats her up when either money, alcohol or drugs are in short supply. Together they alternately ignore and abuse her 5-year old daughter, Sachi, whose screams pierce Yasuda’s thin walls at night. During his oft interrupted sleep, he flashes back to the hell and horrors to which he repeatedly subjected his wife and daughter, until his self-disgust hits the fan and he decides he must save little Sachi from further abuse.

In total disregard for the laws of the land, Yasuda, like a man possessed by a higher calling, steals away with Sachi and together they take to the road. And as their long night’s journey into day begins -- not unlike the Australian ‘walkabout’ that marks the initiate Aborigine’s rite of passage to adulthood -- thus begins Yasuda’s rehabilitation and Sachi’s introduction to the solicitations and affections that constitute normal childhood.

As the film follows the protagonists' step-by-step recovery of their long suppressed human dimension, we follow the emotionally volatile Sachi as she gradually overcomes her deep fear and mistrust of Yasuda and learns to accept and cherish the unconditional care and love denied her for so long. In the film’s most heartwrenching scene, just after little Sachi has begun to call Yasuda Grandfather and the latter realizes that their walk and privileged relationship must come to an end, he collapses to his knees in a public square, a broken, inconsolable man, and grieves the inevitable loss of Sachi who has revealed to him the kind of relationship he could have had with his flesh and blood daughter.

If we learn that the price of redemption includes the unavoidable recognition that we cannot undo what has been done, we discover, like an unsuspected brightness in a dark place, that we are always on a journey, and that no matter where we are, we can always choose to remake ourselves according to new values we wish to make explicit.

Kudos go to the wonderfully restrained acting of Ken Ogata who plays Yasuda, the flawlessly understated cinematography of Hirokazu Ishii and the inspired direction of Eiji Okuda, under whose guidance the entire cast and crew are made to serve the highest purpose of film, which is to seize upon those accidents of life that persuade us to become more sympathetic to the sometimes difficult choices people have to make in very difficult circumstances.

Since most film festival films are destined for a short shelf life, and in many instances oblivion, if A Long Walk comes to a theatre near you, make sure you catch it before you’re left wondering why. It is a brave, fully realized film, fully deserving of the modest honours it has thus far garnered.