‘Kaneko’s Commissary’: Busan Review

Dir. Go Furukawa. Japan. 2024. 125mins

The opening stretch of writer/director Go Furukawa’s redemptive drama Kaneko’s Commissary establishes the particulars of Japan’s prison visitation system: deliveries and visits are only allowed during working hours on weekdays, making it difficult for people to see incarcerated relatives or friends, while the lack of a reservation system means that any attempt may be all for nought. This is where prison commissaries step in by dropping off packages and visiting inmates on behalf of others. It’s a service that is often frowned upon by a collectivist society that does not consider those who have violated its rules to warrant such privileges.

The suitably raw Maruyama is credible throughout.

Kaneko’s Commissary receives its world premiere in Busan’s New Currents strand; well-acted, sincerely intentioned but ultimately rather plodding, it may well gain entry to further Asian focused events – particularly those with an emphasis on social issues. Further travel is less certain.

A prologue finds Shinji Kaneko (Ryuhei Maruyama) behind bars for violent behaviour, and expressing anger towards his wife Miwako (Yoko Maki) during her visits. Yet a time jump sees this contemptible individual apparently reformed thanks to the healthy influence of his family. Shinji now operates a commissary that supplies items to inmates and acts as a liaison for their families. Some prisoners deeply appreciate Shinji’s service, while others serve as reminders of his vitriolic former self. Either way, he’s happy to have his life on an even keel.

Unfortunately, Shinji’s newfound domestic bliss is disrupted when his son’s young classmate goes missing, and everyone’s worst fears are confirmed when her body is found. Nihilistic youth Takashi Kojima (Takumi Kitamura) is swiftly arrested for the crime. However, Shinji finds himself in a difficult position when the murderer’s mother (Toshie Negishi) requests his services while the neighbourhood is still reeling from the tragedy.

In dramatising a stigmatised profession, Kaneko’s Commissary recalls Yojiro Takita’s Oscar-winning Departures (2008) wherein a mortician experiences prejudice due to social taboos against those who deal with death. Here, though, the protagonist is cursed with a short fuse which makes it especially challenging for him to rise above the unjustified scorn.

A member of the idol group Super Eight who has only made sporadic film appearances, the suitably raw Maruyama is credible throughout. His approach to suggesting a dual nature often echoes Viggo Mortensen’s complex performance in A History Of Violence (2005) with subtly jarring facial twitches and shifts in vocal register as politely understated monotone gives way to a fierce snarl. Although the narrative omits the details of Shinji’s positive transformation, Maruyama’s unvarnished portrayal not only effectively fills in the blanks, but illustrates how sudden events make it all too easy for such individuals to backslide.

Although Maruyama is surrounded by a strong ensemble, subplots involving Shinji’s troubled family background and a grisly murder committed by a recently released yakuza (Goro Kishitani) mean that Kaneko’s Commissary is almost as weighed down as its protagonist. Furukawa’s previous credits include episodes of the television series Madoromi Barmaid (2019) and Cooking For My Imaginary Girlfriends (2021) and his feature debut often evinces an episodic feel, with Shinji’s ongoing inner struggle dovetailing with the cases of the various inmates that he encounters. 

Furthermore, conversations with the remorseless Takashi briefly and unconvincingly take the film into psychological thriller territory (minus the actual thrills) as the murderer questions whether Shinji has truly changed. Sadly, flat coverage of the confined visitation space by cinematographer Tomoo Ezaki and a lack of incisive verbal exchanges means these scenes fail to provide the intended heft that comes from forcing a flawed man to stare into the abyss. Elsewhere, the graphic luridness of the yakuza strand is at odds with Furukawa’s realist examination of incarceration and rehabilitation.

Furukawa is on surer ground when depicting Shinji’s neighbourhood as a microcosm of Japanese society in terms of its adherence to the group model. He also succinctly illustrates the national shame culture that sees the relatives of criminals being treated as if they are also responsible for the crime when Takashi’s mother is besieged by enraged citizens and the media. Furukawa’s screenplay does not call for prison visitation rules to be reformed, but it does express a staunch rebuke to those who criticise commissary services with the ever-practical Miwako declaring, “We’re not the ones that are wrong! It’s this society that’s messed up!” There are certainly some impactful moments in Kaneko’s Commissary, but a tighter and more consistent storytelling would have made it infinitely more compelling.