Loss
never comes alone. It always brings an empty space with it—a space that
suddenly appears inside someone without invitation. Humans can’t really make
that space heal; more often than not, all they can do is try to fill it, even
if only for a moment.
This
is something we often find in stories about loss. The characters need time to
learn how to let go. They seek closeness not because they are ready to move on,
but because they are not yet able to accept being alone.
In Norwegian
Wood, closeness is portrayed through physical intimacy. The characters seem
to be looking for new love, when what they are really seeking is temporary
warmth—the fastest way to signal that they are still alive, still capable of
feeling something. Touch becomes a symbol that replaces words that are no
longer able to explain grief.
In
contrast, Zinnia Flower presents a much quieter escape. Traditions and
prayers at the temple are not merely religious rituals, but attempts to
maintain a bond that has already been severed. Within those prayers lies a
message of an inability to let go, as if the departure has not yet fully become
real.
Meanwhile,
in Wenny Has Wings, escape appears in the form of an illusion of
communication through letters. Writing to someone who is no longer there
becomes a way to keep the dialogue alive. There is no hope for a reply—only a
refusal to accept the silence that feels too cruel to face outright.
All
three films reveal the same pattern: grief pushes humans to seek different
forms of closeness. Some choose the body, some choose God, some choose words.
Yet the purpose is similar—to delay a farewell that feels like it came too
soon.
Is
this a weakness? Psychologically, the human brain is not designed to accept
sudden loss. Closeness, in any form, functions as a buffer so that the mind
does not completely collapse. A pause is needed, allowing the inner self time
to adjust before standing on its own again.
Interestingly,
none of these films judge these forms of escape. The pause is accepted and
validated. No character is forced to “heal” quickly. Instead, the stories allow
them to walk at their own pace—until, at some point, they realize that the
closeness they were seeking is not a replacement, but a bridge.
The
endings share a similar tone as well. Acceptance does not arrive as a grand
revelation, but comes quietly, almost unnoticed. Not because the wound
disappears, but because the characters are finally able to stand without having
to keep holding on to something.
Perhaps
that is how humans truly make peace with loss: not by forgetting it, but by
allowing themselves to seek support—as long as that support is not meant to
last forever, only until we are strong enough to move forward again.
(aluna
uwie)
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