Hind Baytamouni | Staff Writer
“Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere and just want to live in a place where no one knows you?” These are the words of Suzuko Sato, the main character of the movie One Million Yen Girl. Perhaps it sounds cliché, but it is true. Sometimes we find ourselves out of breath from living in this fast-paced world. Ideas of true freedom cross our minds. Sometimes we yearn for a life where nothing happens, and this movie animates the desire to be unknown and run away from a troubled past.
Suzuko is a 21-year-old who prefers avoiding confrontation.That is established in the beginning of the movie, most clearly in her reaction to a last-minute revelation about her living situation: the apartment she is going to rent together with her fellow part-timer Riko will also be shared with Riko’s boyfriend, Takeshi. Despite her clear discomfort, she offers a hesitant smile. When she moves in, Takeshi informs her about his breakup with Riko and that the two of them will be the only flatmates. Again, she withdraws from stirring up a dispute. On a rainy day, while sitting alone in silence, she hears the voice of a kitten at her door. She brings it inside, but to her horror, when she gets back from buying food to feed the kitten, Takeshi has thrown it out. After looking for it and finding it dead, she decides to remain silent, and out of anger, she throws out Takeshi’s belongings. He claims one of the bags had one million yen, which is never confirmed, yet leads to Suzuko getting criminally charged. She gets sentenced to two months in a detention facility for property damage. Now that she has a criminal record, she becomes subject to social judgement from her neighbors and faces family conflict. Resolved to keep her family unimpacted, she decides to move away when she saves up one million yen. Thus, she creates a cycle: every time she settles somewhere, she starts saving up one million yen again to move somewhere else. By the time she had saved the amount, she would have had enough interactions that could lead to revealing her past; thus, she moved somewhere no one knows her. In a way, she’s creating further distance between herself and her past, seeking the closest form of detachment from society.
This is Suzuko’s journey, and really, we just follow her travels to three different regions for the whole two hours. The weight of the movie doesn’t lie in the events, but in their deliberate absence. It is as if the movie has blanks that the viewer fills on their own to create their individual vision of it.
This art of stillness in the film draws its essence from the cultural context. In Japanese culture, silence is a form of communication rather than the absence of noise. It is Chinmoku. Silence becomes essential, carrying emotional depth and a deep understanding of our world rushing past itself. In Japan, Chinmoku is a living principle, captured in Japanese proverbs such as “Iwanu ga Hana – not speaking is a flower” and “chinmoku wa kin – silence is golden”. For instance, conversations are often shaped by pauses and silences, leaving space for reflection. In One Million Yen Girl, Suzuko is very quiet throughout the movie; we can see in her a sense of serenity even when she feels troubled. But Chinmoku isn’t only incorporated in the character building; it’s infused in the structure of the movie. Structurally, Suzuko’s journey is a haiku that unfolds. The haiku poem is a traditional form of Japanese poetry, capturing a moment in three lines, and the omission invites the readers to find their own meaning in it. Each of the three regions Suzuko visits is a line, and the remaining silences are defined with different colors for each viewer.
Suzuko isn’t portrayed as serene from the beginning; at first, she seems extremely hesitant, and her doubtful movements reflect her emotional discomfort. As the movie progresses, she gradually grows out of it, and her unease softens. One parallel that clearly represents that shift is the two dining scenes. When she was having a tense dinner with her parents, early in the movie, she remained visibly uncomfortable through her posture and slow gestures, occupying as little space as possible. In contrast to her second destination, she looked more confident, visually marked by faster reflexes when they were having lunch, manifesting character growth.
The story is mainly a calm journey of personal growth; thus, Suzuko’s confidence and self-acceptance bloom from realistic experience rather than dramatic events. In each of the regions she visits, despite her attempts to avoid confrontation, she is always forced into one. During her first stay, she actively rejects her past by distancing herself from it and lying about aspects of her life. By the end of her second stay, her past catches up to her in the moment of confrontation. Not only is she confronting those who sought to exert control over her choices, but confronting herself as well. She is acknowledging her past for the first time, against her will, to justify her choices. In her third destination, she fully accepts her past as her own, and for the first time, her blank expression falls off. Her sour face occasionally turns into laughter and smiles. This final stay in the movie is also her longest and the one where she falls in love with Nakajima, her co-worker at the gardening center.
It is at that point that the film raises a profound question: what truly controls our lives?
Suzuko initially escapes society’s judgment back in her hometown due to her criminal record. Then she sets her own form of control over her life by saving one million yen to move to a different town, restarting the loop of freedom. The longer she remains somewhere, her freedom starts running out as she develops interactions. Her version of freedom is the belief that “when people meet, they must eventually part,” quoted from her, distancing herself and keeping her connections at a surface level. But now that she allowed herself a deep connection, is she still in control of her life? Or will she let outside factors decide what comes next? It is an individual choice whether control lies in detachment or allowing external forces to shape one’s future, and the film highlights that fact well.
Suzuko’s choice is independence, even if it comes at the cost of shattering her own form of control. Her principal objective is to escape her turmoil. She is determined not to allow disturbances in her personal journey; thus, she leaves without saving one million yen: a refusal to allow external forces to slow down her progress.
One Million Yen Girl is realistic in the events and the way people interact. It is similar to an “ordinary life,” but it is the embodiment of the peace we yearn for. Even the camera work behaves like a silent observer, which plays a role in making the immersion impactful.
The attention to detail renders this movie more immersive.
What I appreciated was the use of colors in this film. The beginning is blue, and it remains so until Takeshi gets rid of the kitten. In that scene, the lighting shifts to green, marking the turning event of Suzuko’s life and the way she will lead it. The blue scenes are melancholic, painting Suzuko’s inner turmoil; however, the green marks the first absence of emotion, a neutrality read in Suzuko’s facial expressions. Most of the movie has green undertones in the camera work, which reinforces the feel of serenity and peace. The numerous shots of nature provide a sense of renewal and self-growth. The colors shift to blue when Suzuko is troubled, and the camera becomes shakier, representing her emotional state. When Nakajima is introduced into her life, the green starts to fade at times, the filter is lifted allowing Suzuko’s world to regain the colors we perceive everyday.
In the end, One Million Yen Girl doesn’t provide closure about Suzuko’s next destination. It doesn’t provide closure about the meaning of freedom either; that would undermine its very essence. The ending is open, steeped in uncertainty and stillness, leaving the viewer sitting in silence while the credits roll.