‘Dear Stranger’ finds a couple at their breaking point

The term, of course, has its roots in ‘60s political activism as a response to violence, but its usefulness ends at such a granular level, when the brewing conflict between Taiwanese American wife Jane (Gwei) and Japanese husband Kenji (Nishijima) is so linguistically rooted. The couple speaks English in their daily lives—their only common language—though Jane is far more comfortable doing so. The movie’s opening scene finds Kenji, an architecture professor, giving an ambitious lecture that starts with the Tower of Babel myth and extends to modern ruins as the ideal reflection of the human story. This tale of human beings divided by dialects falls under the aforementioned “obvious” label, as Mariko signals in bright lights what his film is truly about, but this transparent groundwork doesn’t stop Dear Stranger from taking concrete form.

Jane, a director of abstract puppet theater, spends most of her days looking after her ailing father’s corner store while keeping a watchful eye on her and Kenji’s preschool-aged son Kai (Everest Talde). After having put her career on hold so Kenji can pursue a tenured track, Jane returns to work, forcing the parents to split childcare duties, and making nearly every day a bring-your-son-to-work day. This stressor is further exacerbated when the store falls victim to a gang robbery while Jane and Kai are still inside, forcing Jane to procure an illicit firearm for her protection.

Bit by bit, the couple’s festering dissatisfaction comes to light, usually through calmly observed domestic scenes wherein the cracks of their ideal family façade begin to show. When they visit Jane’s parents, for instance, nothing initially seems amiss, but mild arguments over whether or not Kai should be allowed ice cream soon become the status quo, rather than the norm. Jane and Kenji are a couple at loggerheads, whose refusal to tackle their problems head-on leaves them vulnerable to explosion when Kai goes missing from Kenji’s college one afternoon, raising questions about whether they might’ve been nefariously targeted. They both suspect a figure from their past, but their inability and unwillingness to confront open wounds (let alone paint a complete picture for the cops) sends them each down individual, isolated paths to trying to solve the crime on their own.

Gwei and Nishijima are tremendous screen performers who can fit effortlessly into any scenario, but Mariko plays with boundaries of culture and language to make them awkwardly shaped jigsaw pieces in a larger puzzle. Jane, having either been born in the United States or having moved when she was young, seems much more comfortable moving through the world, and her grasp on English (although her second language) is noticeably more commanding than Kenji’s, who moved to New York to study. While the Japanese architect is erudite and enlightened, using complex, free-flowing sentences to express his philosophies, his emphasis on syllables feels practically alien. Nishijima, despite his emotional honesty throughout the film, makes the very act of speaking a belabored process, one that leaves him isolated more often than not. In fact, the rare moment that feels most naturalistic involves Jane and Kenji in a gridlock argument that goes from stilted to rhythmic when they begin yelling at each other in Mandarin and Japanese, respectively. Neither one understands the other’s words, but there’s an emotional purity to their angst, which English is incapable of encompassing.

They also each rely on their chosen careers and art forms as a means of expression. When the walls close in around Jane, she turns to her gorgeous life-size puppets (whether in rehearsals with her troupe, or behind closed doors at home) in order to channel her feelings through intensely emotional acts of performance, in scenes that are as discomforting as they are mellifluous. The smallest choices in Dear Stranger feel meaningful, like when Jane decides to wear her hair open and neatly combed—during domestic scenes in which she’s expected to fit a traditional mode of maternal responsibility—versus when she ties it in a messy bun during rehearsals, practically taking on a new, more liberated identity. Kenji, when he isn’t letting his frustrations simmer on long car rides—Nishijma appears to have been typecast for the better—similarly funnels his thoughts and feelings through his controversial lectures on ruins, and grows more eerily romantic about the detritus of human society the more his personal life seems to shatter. 

The Tokyo-born Mariko, who briefly studied at Harvard University, appears to draw on the experience of being an outsider to the United States, but without the didacticism of direct confrontations with racial bias. These remain firmly in the background, and even play second fiddle to moments of genuine connection. Kenji, for instance, has a lively dynamic with his Hispanic auto worker, who he reunites with when the couple’s car is on the fritz. And yet, his interactions with the cream of the academic crop contain a lingering discomfort. No one objects to his presence, but held breaths and awkward glances make him feel unwelcome.

Mariko’s conception of New York feels particularly unique in the way it informs the story. It’s framed as a hostile place—not physically, but emotionally. Walking down the street is mostly safe (the movie’s violent incidents notwithstanding), but cinematographers Yasuyuki Sasaki and Rikuo Ueno paint it with dim streetlights and deep browns and greys, imbuing even its most wide-open avenues with a sense of constriction. For Jane and Kenji, a city of bright lights has become a prison of their own making.

The movie’s emotional and physical architecture lend themselves to riveting drama that takes advantage of the way American English dialogue is often written, by American writers, for foreign actors and characters not accustomed to the idioms or sentence structure. It can have a forced quality, but in the case of Dear Stranger, this uncanniness becomes a central focus, as the couple—especially Kenji, who feels a few degrees off from assimilating—are forced to exist within hostile social parameters that prevent them completely being themselves. As the movie morphs into a tale of intense guilt, it forces both leads into uneasy confrontations at the end of their rope, resulting in an enrapturing family drama with cultural dimensions seldom seen on screen.