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[ESSAY] “Kore-eda Does Not Direct Life and Death” by Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles

Hirokazu Kore-eda (director). After Life, 1998. 112 min.

Every time I say that I am from Carmen, people assume it is either the town in Bohol or the one near Tagum. No one guesses that I mean a small town in Cotabato Province. For travellers, it is merely a pit stop, not a holiday destination.

In our little town, coffee is prepared as a ritual for meditation rather than consumed as fuel for the body. Birds and trees attract more attentive spectators. Residents have more time to bid farewell to the sunset.

Despite the comfort that this slow-paced life provided, it was never enough for me. Since I was a teenager, I had dreamed of something better. I had not yet figured out what I truly wanted, but I knew I would not find it there.

With that in mind, after graduating, I looked for a job far from home. The quest for a better life began. I left one job for another, one city for another.

Still, I felt far from my goal, whatever that might have been.

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When unemployment forced me to return home and lie low, I had no choice but to embrace my uneventful life. During one of those bed-rotting days, I discovered After Life, directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda.

The film opens with two employees on their way to a meeting, discussing a client who cannot stop rambling about sex. When they enter the meeting room, their team leader briefs them on their tasks for the week. Everything feels like a bureaucratic office.

At first, everything appears ordinary. The workplace resembles a neglected social-services building. Clients arrive one by one and gather in a waiting room before being assigned to different offices, where staff members ask them basic questions about themselves.

A few minutes later, they are told that they are dead and have entered a liminal realm. They will remain there for a week. During the first three days, each person must choose a single precious or meaningful memory from their life. That chosen moment is what they will carry with them for eternity. The workers reassure them that they will recreate the memory on film.

Each story belongs to a different newly deceased person. Every circumstance feels distinct, as though these are real people rather than fictional characters. Some have countless memories from which to choose, whereas others do not enjoy that luxury.

One man considers his childhood the happiest period of his life. He believes he can choose a memory from those years. As I continued watching the film, I realised that I possessed more painful memories than joyful ones, and that I clung more tightly to the unpleasant moments of my life.

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Yet, if I could sift through the sweetest moments of my life, the times when I was genuinely happy, they would probably come from my childhood as well. I remember that my greatest concern then was catching good breeds of spiders.

It was my father who taught me how to catch them. He would not allow me to hunt at night, so he trained me to trace the delicate strands of silk that led to spiders hidden among leaves damp with mist on foggy mornings. There was nothing extraordinary about those moments, yet they still bring a smile to my face.

Eventually, when my father no longer accompanied me on my spider hunts, I found new companions on our street. At night, we ventured into newly harvested cornfields and overgrown patches of vegetation, carrying makeshift cages fashioned from empty matchboxes and coconut leaves.

During one of our expeditions, we climbed over the fence surrounding a private property. We celebrated our discovery because the place was full of high-quality spiders. Then, in an instant, we heard a gunshot. The owner shouted a series of warnings, believing we were robbers. We all ran for our lives. Some fell into burrows, while others became entangled in barbed wire. As soon as we reached the main road, we laughed and teased one another. It had been life-threatening, yet it remains one of my most cherished memories.

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There is a character in Chekhov’s “Gooseberries” who says, “And you know that anyone who at least once in his life has caught a perch or seen blackbirds migrating in the fall, when they rush in flocks over the village on clear, cool days, is no longer a townsman, and will be drawn towards freedom till his dying day.” I agree with him. Despite the thrill that deadlines provide, I would rather remain tethered to the tranquillity of provincial life.

I realised only after living in a city that I preferred the comfort nature provides.

Like any other employees, the staff members in After Life complain about the difficulty of their work. During one conversation, they mention that the most difficult client is an average person. They are referring to an elderly man named Watanabe, who worked for a steel company from graduation until retirement. He has no children and no remarkable hobby. He believes that his life has little value.

Unable to choose a memory, Watanabe asks to watch the videotapes of his life. His caseworker hands him seventy-one tapes, each representing a year of his life. In one recording, he watches himself on his first date with his future wife. His younger self sits in awkward silence, struggling to find the right words. Fortunately, she breaks the silence by asking about his favourite film. From that point onward, they gradually become comfortable with one another.

In another recording, taken late in Watanabe’s life, he sits with his wife on a park bench. She had died five years before he did. She recalls that, on their first date, Watanabe claimed to love going to the cinema. He protests that he never said such a thing. The conversation ends with both of them agreeing to watch films twice a month because, according to him, they now have plenty of time, unlike before.

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I share the same desire. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been to the cinema. I think that is why every one of those visits has stayed with me.

Later in the film, Watanabe chooses the memory of sitting with his wife in the park. He reveals that, throughout their forty years of marriage, they never truly went to the cinema together. After agreeing to watch films regularly, they managed to do so only once.

After Life concludes with the arrival of another group of clients. The staff members discuss those who have already departed. Nothing changes. The routine continues.

I know there is little chance that the afterlife resembles Kore-eda’s film. No one knows what awaits us after death. Yet I think that, as much as the film is about death, it is equally about life. Perhaps it has always been so. Life and death are inseparable. One cannot truly make the most of life without recognising that one’s days are numbered. If I may, I would like to share the lines that a childhood friend, Emily Dickinson, once wrote:

“That it will never come again
Is what makes life so sweet.”

The film did not make me fear death. Instead, it helped me recognise the privilege of having the burden of choosing the finest memory from all those fleeting moments that became little forevers.

^{How to cite: Caibles, Laurehl Onyx B. “Kore-eda Does Not Direct Life and Death.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 8 Aug. 2026. chajournal.com/2026/08/08/after-life.}

Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles is a writer from Cotabato Province. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Language. He has been a fellow in several writing workshops in Mindanao. His work has appeared in Bangsamoro Literary Review, Ultramarine Literary Review, SunStar Davao, and Dagmay. [All contributions by Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles.]