Outlining the progression of bereavement, capturing its subtle meandering, is the complicated task that Natsuka Kusano has set herself in Till the End of the Dream. We’re not far from Hiroshima, where Yoshimi lives alone since the death of her partner. To capture the variations of feelings, the filmmaker focuses sensitively on the young woman’s everyday life and the nondescript, hollowed-out landscapes surrounding her. In a few light strokes, this inner turmoil is portrayed with grace and gentleness. Like so many imaginary offerings, the film reproduces the delicacy of a sip of shared tea, or measures both the weight and the pleasure of a few banal words exchanged over a cake shared across the table. In just a few shots, a few snatches of conversation in a sparse, almost whispered tone, we can make out the mourning in progress in a space haunted by the ghostly presence of the loved one. It’s all about presence, remembrance, in this film whose melancholic languor portrays a certain state of being, a certain attention to others, to what happens and to the passing of time. Time that feels suspended, as shown by the dual interpretation of the final parable, on the movements of hope for the return of a past world and its memory. In a conscience – a soul – scarred by loss and doomed to waiting and desolation…and also to what may come.