When the boy first came across Cottontail, the very title for some reason conjured in his mind a sense of deep softness – coming of a certain age tale or perhaps a very sweet kind of nature story. But as he began watching it, it was obvious that Cottontail was something altogether more subtle, more intricate. At 18, he had become accustomed to quite adventurous films that were cruising him through emotional waves, but this one was rather the opposite. It was a subdued study of loss and its aftermath, digging into the grief and healing of unexpected people.
The tale captures Kenji, a Japanese widower who travels to England to comply with the last request of his dead wife and scatter her ashes wherever she wanted to go but was never able to make it. The boy couldn’t help but be captivated by the very straightforward narrative of the film, not because it was action oriented or had grand scenes but a very subtle conflict of a person trying to suppress his inner yearning to weep. Kenji steered out of the bus not only in the real sense but heart as well and the boy could sense that emotionally charged every time Kenji was stepping.
What was surprising to the boy from the onset is how the film did not depend on too much talking for the audience to understand the emotion from the characters. Kenji had a great deal of sorrow, but his sadness did not always need dialogue. The poles of the world Kenji inhabited idealized and lonely English countryside were also pushed into the motion. The kid was truly fascinated with the visuals and cinematography – all the gentle natural light, wide-open spaces, the death of Kenji’s past life in Japan, and the peacefulness of the alien world he was thrown into.
Kenji moved into the village he wished to have his wife’s ashes scattered, and slowly but surely, he tried making friends, if only a little so. Kenji likewise recognized that all these villagers surrounded him were loving people, but why was their concern for him mere cultivation of expectation? The boy who observed these events could see quite well that Kenji’s embrace of the people in the village was socially maladjusted. He was lost in the village and did not seem to understand how to take a step further because his wife was not there with him. In this case, God created the most direct ties between Kenji and the foreigner Mary, who managed the inn where Kenji stayed. Mary too had lost some of her loved ones and even though she and the boy had experienced different types of hurt, he could understand that the two were somehow able to grieve in silence. It was not romantic but reciprocal — they were not lovers but two unfortunate people trying to reimagine their lives.
The boy stated that he was most impressed by the manner in which the film portrayed grief. This is not the loud wails or the volcano type of emotions but something more subdued and not often in the forefront. It was in a scene where Kenji was all alone inside a very small room in the inn that they were staying and was flipping through the old pictures of his wife. The boy understood the significance attached to those lost living moments which were at the same time painful and beautiful especially the way Kenji tried to come back to the present yet his heart remained shackled in the past. The movie did not hurry through these parts. It was through these painful moments that the audience had to witness Kenji and understand that grief was not something which had a cutoff date – it was a state of being that one had to learn to live with.
In Cottontail, the highlights included that part of the story in which Kenji finally got to the place where he had intended to pour his wife’s ashes – a secluded hill with sweeping views of the countryside. The boy’ s gaze was on Kenji who looked like he was fighting with a war of sorts, letting her remains go seemed to mean letting go of a part of her essence. It was a scene that was quite intense, but not excessive in its romantics. The boy thought that this was the time when people have to accept the facts, that love and sorrow coexist and moving on does not constitute forgetting – it means retaining the image of a person in yourself and going on with your life.
The documentary examined the theme of home and the sense of loss, suggesting that loss is painful because it creates a discomfort of being homeless. In Kenji’s case, throwing his wife’s ashes into the sea in England was a loving gesture and also a realization that home isn’t just a location, but that his home was with his wife. This sort of concept struck the boy in a deep manner. He knew that sorrow has a tendency of disorienting people, making it hard for them to ever feel satisfied since they are constantly in search of something partial and seemingly missing. But through Kenji’s journey, the boy also understood that one finds healing in the most surprising of places – in the people you encounter on your way, in the beautiful places that soothe your mood, or in the simple act of keeping a promise to someone dear to you.
As the days of Kenji in the village were counted, the boy was able to see how much he had changed. He did not feel ‘cured’ in the medical traditional form but there was a calmness inside him that was not there before. He had realized that he could still move on without his wife, not because he forgot her, but because he accepted the fact that life had to go on. It was precisely this that the boy understood was the essence of Cottontail: it was not about the person having mourned and then moved on – it was through the mourning and how it transformed over time, welcoming new people, new feelings and new kinds of love.
As the movie progressed, the boy found himself in a comfortable, light, almost peaceful state. Cottontail was not an hour and half motion picture packed with intense situations or the heroine screaming, crying and breaking apart emotionally. It was an internal, slow movement through the process of recovery of one person and, in this quietness, it found its strength. The boy came to understand that sadness is something that is engendered by the attachment that we develop towards other people in our lifetime and when it is all over, it is not the case that people will forget, but that they will have to find a way to move on with that love, and into the next stage of their lives.
The movie healed the boy’s wound with the simple truth that somewhere in the world, even in being bereaved, there is still some beauty to be enjoyed – the warmth of empathy from unknown faces, the clarity of the outdoors, and in the stillness of thoughts where one can contemplate and recover from pain. Cottontail was not only a movie about a person’s bereavement – it was a chronicle on overcoming all odds, on the presence of love, even when everything has been lost, and on the little things that we do to help ourselves feel better.
Watch Cartoon on Kisscartoon
