Joseph SusankaTo say that death has become an unimportant part of our cinematic vocabulary would seem like the height of absurdity. The body count from Sly Stallone's two latest features alone could easily populate a small country, and there are few plot points so frequently used as: "unexpected death of parent/sibling/lover throws protagonist into deep, expressive turmoil."  Yet shuffling off this mortal coil, while omnipresent, is rarely the focus of much cinematic attention; all too often, movie mortality finds itself cast in a limited supporting role.  Death is primarily seen as either the intended-yet-incidental consequence of Our Hero's latest spectacular feats of physical prowess and marvelously unbelievable bad-assitude, or as an important-but-rapidly-receding stepping-stone on the pathway to more emotionally resonant story elements.

This is not unusual. As a culture, we are mightily reluctant to dwell on death. The Grim Reaper walks among us with such alarming and inexorable regularity that we are inclined to pay him no more heed than necessary. The day of reckoning will come to all of us soon enough; why dwell on it before its terrifying arrival? Our films reflect our attitudes—the dreadful specter is ever-present, but we go to great lengths to avoid looking at him directly.

A wonderfully noteworthy exception to this understandable reticence is Japanese director Yôjirô Takita's extraordinary and unexpectedly Oscar-winning film, Departures (Okuribito). It tells the story of young Daigo Kobayashi, an aspiring concert cellist, who finds himself forced to return to his birthplace when the mid-level orchestra which has employed him is dissolved. Accompanied by his wife, Daigo reluctantly searches for work, all too aware that his musical skill is insufficient for regular employment. Responding to a peculiar newspaper advertisement, he finds himself offered the job of a nokanshi (encoffiner)—someone who travels to the homes of the recently deceased to perform the ceremonial, ritualistic burial preparations in the presence of the departed one's grieving family members.

Initially, Kobayashi is overwhelmed and horrified by his new calling. The first corpse he is summoned to encoffin is the body of an elderly woman who passed away a full two weeks before being discovered, and the physical and emotional toll of ministering to her mortal remains are almost too much for him to process. But as he watches the extraordinary work of his employer, Shōei, he grows to more fully appreciate the peace and comfort the cleansing ceremonies bring to those who see them. There is a beauty and artistry to the services he and his fellow nokanshi perform; as he takes a more active role in the business, the instances of grief and bitterness he experiences in the families to which he ministers are gradually replaced by moments of fond farewells and even quiet affection and joy. Unfortunately, his friends and family are less enthusiastic over his new-found work.

Encoffining is looked upon by many as "unclean," and those who perform its rituals are shunned. Daigo's unwise decision to keep his wife, Mika, in the dark regarding his role as nokanshi soon leads to an emotional confrontation. Aghast when she discovers what he has been doing, Mika demands that he either give up his new-found role or risk losing her altogether. Torn between his love for his wife and his recognition of the good he is doing through his labors, Daigo hesitates over his decision, and Mika leaves him. Distraught, he seeks solace in his work, his newly-discovered usefulness, and (perhaps most importantly) his music.