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Radio Shimo-Kajiro: The Songs that Led Us Here Today
Komori Haruka (Director)

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Origins of the film production

Kawakami Atiqa (KA): This was your first time to make a film on commission, and there was a kind of distance between you and the subjects that felt different from your films to date. Until now I felt like you showed the questions you were pursuing, so we got to see your personal relationships with the people in the film. But this time it seems like you were taking a more distanced perspective. You’re close to the Radio Shimo-Kajiro project members, but it didn’t feel like you were a participant. How did you go about deciding to accept the commission to make this film?

Komori Haruka (KH): The background was that Asada Wataru’s team had started the Radio Shimo-Kajiro project two years before I joined them. My friend Kawamura Yoko was editing the text-based documentation of their activities, and she thought it was difficult to communicate the entirety of the project through text alone and that it would be better to capture the spaces and people’s facial expressions with video. She suggested that I would be a good person to do the filming and they called me in. I was really grateful. Before going to film, they let me listen to the radio program and explained the circumstances of the residents and the housing complex, and I felt very fortunate that I could get involved in the filming through joining a project that had already taken root in the Shimo-Kajiro housing complex. So I wanted to join the project too. As I talk, my voice keeps getting quieter . . .

KA: I wonder why (laugh).

KH: When I’m thinking, I forget that I’m talking. I lose track of how loud my voice should be when I speak.

KA: Speaking of your voice, at the screening you talked about being really interested in “voices.” Is there a connection between your interest in voices and listening to people’s stories?

KH: I think they are connected. There are aspects of both the “voice” and the act of “listening” that aren’t just about the content of what someone is saying. I think there’s an act of “listening” that encompasses how someone speaks, their facial expressions and physical movements, and feeling that person, which I’ve always hoped to capture in my films. I think the filming of Radio Shimo-Kajiro was like that too.

Rather than being a so-called disaster relief endeavor or an art project, Radio Shimo-Kajiro valued people spending time together, listening to their stories, and the residents themselves reconnecting through their “voices,” which I’ve cherished in my interactions with residents at Rikuzentakada until now. So I shot this film because it connected with my personal interests, not just because it was a commission.

Another reason is that I hadn’t been able to go to Fukushima in the aftermath of the Great East Japan Earthquake, which always bothered me. I was in the same Tohoku region, but my base was Rikuzentakada in Iwate Prefecture and later Sendai in Miyagi Prefecture, so I didn’t have many direct interactions with the communities impacted by the nuclear power plant disaster and the people who were forced to leave the land where they lived. Of course, I felt like I couldn’t just go there casually.

“Songs” for people in the housing complex

KA: Losing your hometown. Even if your hometown exists as a place, you can’t go back. Given those conditions, the pop songs sung in the film remind me of “Hometown,” the classic children’s song that everyone knows and can sing together. While shooting the documentary, how did you come to understand the meaning of songs for the people living in the housing complex?

KH: One thought was that the songs are memories of hometown, but they don’t necessarily need to be that way. I think it’s significant that in connection with music, people remembered their hometown as the place where they experienced things like heartbreak or struggles as a new bride. Probably those stories wouldn’t have come out without the songs as the entry point. Their stories get played back while listening to the melodies. Even though everyone knows the pop song, it gets tied to someone’s personal memory, and everyone can sing it together. It was my first time experiencing something like that, so I don't know quite how to put it in words, but I thought it was remarkable.

KA: Watching the film I understood that songs provide comfort, but at the same time, during life’s toughest moments even singing a song becomes impossible. It seemed like you were also documenting the process of recovering the voices and songs that the Shimo-Kajiro housing complex residents were deprived of.

KH: That’s something that I realized too. It was unbelievable to me that someone who loved singing so much had forgotten how to sing, although maybe that scene doesn’t stand out in the film. When I heard that she couldn’t sing because she didn’t speak with anyone, I could imagine that the five or six years after the disaster were an incredibly tough period in her life. One reason is that in terms of material possessions, people had to evacuate their homes and couldn’t bring their records, CDs, and playback equipment. Everyone left those things behind. Music plays an important role in life but they had to leave those things behind, and after the disaster they had far fewer chances to experience music. Songs were more integrated into their lives, and the fact that songs disappeared entirely is an impact from the nuclear power plant disaster that no one really pays attention to. I realized that songs and music are part of the things that people were deprived of.

KA: Imiko, who moved six times, and Aoki said “I stopped using my voice since I didn’t have anyone to talk with.” After that, they were singing and looked like they were in great health. The film drove home for me that using your voice is energizing. Did you think about the relationship between the body and singing when you were shooting the film?

KH: Yes, I did. It wasn’t just singing, but also how she started talking the instant music played. I feel like I saw many instances when people started talking, maybe from the elation of singing or physical stimulation from hearing music, and not just the direct effects of song and music. When people played a song with the Radio Shimo-Kajiro project members, there was a physical reaction beyond the enjoyment of listening to a favorite tune. I feel like there were a lot of situations where memories were triggered that might have nothing to do with the song. Like, bringing up some story. Listening to the song “Aoi Sanmyaku (Blue Mountains)” suddenly brought up episodes that we hadn’t heard amidst the repetition of the same story. The songs lead to her remembering the story, little by little.

KA: Maybe the song took her back to her youth and gave her the feeling of wanting to give it a go once more, since her youth is a source of emotional support.

KH: It was a song she heard after the war, so maybe it coincided with her feelings of making a big effort in life back then. After the disaster there were lots of songs in support of recovery, but maybe this was her personal support song.

KA: I think this film provides audiences with a great opportunity to understand the current situation and think about what they might be able to do, but I also felt like the filming itself gave something back to the subjects of the film. What do you think?

KH: Several of the people who appeared in the film were known figures in the housing complex, but I thought that their wonderful inner qualities weren’t really known and didn’t come across in the housing complex gatherings. I wanted people to understand the aspects beyond them singing their hearts out. Other residents didn’t know about those people’s past experiences, especially since they were cut off from their former lives, so the other residents only knew the person they saw in the housing complex. I wonder if that has something to do with it. During the filming I was thinking that it would be nice if they could gain a kind of respect from the other housing complex residents.

KA: Is that why you screened the film for the housing complex residents?

KH: Yes, the very first screening was in the housing complex. Quite a few people who weren’t living there anymore appeared in the film. I edited the film during COVID when I couldn’t visit the housing complex. First, I needed to let them know that the film was completed, so I had the strong desire to have them see the film. And, the vibe was really lively with everyone chatting away while they watched the film. It was really a rowdy screening with people joining in to sing and wondering how people in the film were doing (laugh). But that is how I wanted people to experience the film, and we pulled it off with the very first screening, so I felt like making the film was worth it.

KA: Did residents who usually kept themselves isolated at home come to the film?

KH: Maybe such people didn’t come to the screening, but there were a lot of people in the audience who weren’t in the film. They seemed to be having a blast talking about so-and-so’s taste in music. Or, how someone in the film got applauded and became really popular. I was delighted to hear everyone’s feedback.

KA: I also sang along with the people on screen during the final scene. It’s like magic that makes viewers feel like we want to join in and sing with the people in the film. Was that your aim with the ending of the film?

KH: I definitely hope people sing along. COVID-19 was underway when we shot the final scene so we filmed each person individually at their own home. In part I shot it because everyone couldn’t sing together as a chorus. When I saw it again I thought how great it would be if everyone could sing together.

Continuing relationships after the project ends

KA: What happened to the people who appeared in the film? You finished the shoot and did the screening at the Shimo-Kajiro housing complex, and the COVID-19 lockdown period came to an end, so did people start getting together again?

KH: Well, last year I was finally able to visit for the first time in quite a while for a screening of the film. Most of the residents are senior citizens, so it was hopeless for people from other prefectures to get permission to visit the housing complex, just like nursing home facilities. I think it was tough for Asada because quite a bit of time passed before he could get permission to visit from Tokyo. Some people who appeared in the film don’t live in the housing complex anymore, and some have passed away. Also, Iwaki City suffered heavy typhoon damage in 2019, and people displaced by the typhoon began moving into vacant apartments. So it’s no longer a housing complex just for people impacted by the Fukushima nuclear power plant disaster. The community itself has changed a lot, and the vibe feels a little different.

KA: Has Asada’s team continued the Radio Shimo-Kajiro project?

KH: They aren’t making regular visits. The Radio Shimo-Kajiro project was part of Arts Council Tokyo’s Art Support Tohoku-Tokyo, which came to an end in 2021. Without public funding, maintaining the same scale isn’t feasible. This year volunteers started handling the screenings, so they are continuing the project in other ways without making regular visits to the housing complex. I’m talking about accompanying them, even once a year. But, I feel regret about not being able to visit like before, even though I’d like to. I could go on my own, but we created relationships there through group visits, so going by myself feels wrong, and it’s not a place where you can just show up on a whim.

KA: When I made a documentary about rokyoku traditional singing, I was asked if I would stop coming after the shoot, and I replied that’s right, I won’t come all the time like this, and I was told, you’ve got a sad job. That’s a sticking point, right?

KH: That hits home for me. This felt like sad work. Especially for this project, we thought it would continue a bit more and we could keep filming, but then COVID-19 happened. Asada and his team kept the project going so it’s not like it came to a sudden end, but we weren’t able to go to the housing complex. Also, once the film was all wrapped up, there was no longer a need to visit for filming. All those factors came together in one fell swoop. I felt sad and had a lot of regrets about it.

KA: Is there anything you want to do in the future regarding the guilt of not being able to continue those relationships? You’ve spent a decade in Rikuzentakada, and in the films you’ve shot the disaster victims have looked forward to you coming as a filmmaker, and people have stories to tell when you appear as a third party. As a filmmaker, I’m wondering what you think about continuing relationships over a lifetime.

KH: I want to keep individual relationships as long as possible, even if there are gaps. I want to maintain the relationships in some capacity, and I try to, even if I can’t go in person. It could just be keeping in touch since the films are still being screened. Living on the River Agano (1992, YIDFF 1993) cinematographer Kobayashi Shigeru told me that “After finishing the film, you have to maintain those relationships for at least a decade.” I remember initially thinking “a decade, wow . . . ” It doesn’t have to be a decade, it could be twenty or thirty years. The time after making the film is that important. That’s where I want to focus my attention, even while having regrets about not being able to go in person.

I didn’t exchange contact information with many of the individuals who we filmed, so I didn’t stay in close contact, and it does feel like I just showed up and shot the film. But in editing the activities of Asada’s team, I realized that even a single encounter can be wonderful. It’s not like I completely changed my opinion, but we can both keep our memories of meeting, and it could be okay if we don’t meet again. That really saved me. I could finish this film feeling okay with the situation, which was different from the regret that I felt with my previous films. I hope the audience can see the film that way too.

KA: When you couldn’t go in person anymore, perhaps it opened up a gap, as well as the possibility for a new kind of energy. I had the idea that maybe the Radio Shimo-Kajiro project could open up new doors if you could teach the residents and people in the community the skills so they could continue the project on their own. In the film the little girl Minori prays to the Buddhist altar. Perhaps she could be the next generation storyteller.

KH: Minori did impressions of the residents, right? (laugh) It’s true that I don’t have to fill in those gaps myself. Because I really don’t know how things will turn out. Maybe I’ll start saying that I want to go again. I sense that possibility.

Compiled by Kawakami Atiqa
Translated by Yamamoto Ann

Photography, Video: Oshita Yumi / 2023-10-11