"Two Seasons, Two Strangers" (Miyake, 2025) - Review

Some films arrive at exactly the right time. Two Seasons, Two Strangers feels like one of them.

Written by Mariane Tremblay

Written and directed by Sho Miyake, Two Seasons, Two Strangers is based on the manga short stories A View of the Seaside and Mr. Ben and His Igloo by Yoshiharu Tsuge.

The 89-minute feature premiered at the 78th Locarno Film Festival, where it won the Golden Leopard, the festival's top prize. It later screened at film festivals around the world, including San Sebastián, in Spain, and São Paulo, in Brazil, before opening in Japanese theatres last November. Canadian audiences will finally get the chance to discover the film on June 19.

Some films arrive at exactly the right time. Two Seasons, Two Strangers feels like one of them.

In a world that constantly asks us to move faster, do more, and think about what's next, Miyake does the opposite. He slows everything down. The film has barely any plot in the traditional sense; instead, it is built around conversations, everyday encounters, and the kind of moments most films would overlook entirely. Some are between people who have known each other for years, others between strangers whose paths just happen to cross. Some conversations stay on the surface while others quietly expose loneliness, uncertainty, and the simple desire to be understood. Some are awkward, some feel more natural, but little by little, those moments and conversations become the deeply human film that Two Seasons, Two Strangers is. 

The film is built on a story within a story structure. At the beginning, we follow Lee (Shim Eun-kyung), a screenwriter, and then we slowly slip into the story she's writing,  before returning to her own life as she struggles to find inspiration for what comes next. The transitions between fiction and reality feel seamless, almost as though Miyake is suggesting that they are impossible to separate. But after all, every story comes from somewhere.

What I love the most is the film's use of sound. There is almost no score for much of its runtime. Instead, Miyake lets nature do the work. Waves against the shore, birds singing, footsteps on the pavement, the wind moving through the trees, people snoring... Those sounds become the soundtrack of the film. But then, when music is finally heard, it doesn't interrupt that atmosphere — it blends into it so naturally, it only feels like an extension of all those sounds.

The cinematography by Yuta Tsukinaga follows the same minimal approach, whether it's the warmth of summer or the stillness of winter. It's as if the camera is only there to observe, letting the moments unfold as they are. It's beautiful in a way that feels effortless, putting on screen some of the most stunning images. And I never thought I'd say this, but Miyake and Tsukinaga almost made me miss winter.

Two Seasons, Two Strangers is slow cinema in every sense of the term, and I think it's important to know that going in. If you're looking for a plot-driven film where something is constantly happening, this probably won't be for you. And those 89 minutes might feel much longer. But if you're willing to embrace its rhythm, the experience becomes surprisingly comforting. Ironically, films like this usually make me anxious. I'm always thinking about what's next, always moving from one thing to another. When a film asks me to slow down, I often struggle to meet it where it is. But strangely, this film had the opposite effect. For 89 minutes, it gave me permission to stop. To breathe. To simply exist alongside these characters for a while. 

My only criticism, although it's very personal, is that I found myself much more invested in the film within the film. There was something that felt more compelling [to me] about that first connection and the possibility that it could become something more. The second half isn't weaker by any means, but I was never as invested as I was in the first part. In fact, I think the two stories are distinct enough that they could have worked as separate films.

Still, it's remarkable how much Miyake accomplishes in just 89 minutes. Without any spectacle, he creates a film that feels unexpectedly soothing. Sometimes, all it takes is a conversation, the sound of the sea, and two people sharing a moment to remind us what cinema can do.

Two Seasons, Two Strangers opens in theatres tomorrow, and if you're in Montreal, you can see it at the Cinémathèque Québecoise.