Yamada the impressionist. The shape of her voice is a point of

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Yamada the impressionist. The shape of her voice is a point of light, so it makes sense that she communicates through glows, auras and everyday supernovae. Light is inherent to cinema as a contrast to darkness, but she moves beyond this simple formal tradition by using light in contrast with more light. There is never a point of true darkness; even nighttime scenes glow. Shadows are there simply to provide a place for an illuminating dance. Layers upon layers are built, full control is exercised while the effect suggests that exact opposite. Yamada operates a imaginary camera, and her kaleidoscope of light imitates effects that happen beyond direct human control ordinarily. This implies the incidental, which serves her "creation" of radiant everyday life, but A Silent Voice goes beyond the implication and instead makes an assertion of control and craftsmanship. The full control is exposed at the film's tail ends, leaving everything in the middle as a direct expression of said control. I left the screening feeling a connection with a Yamada I've never truly known before: Yamada the auteur. An auteur who, as I see it, demands to be released from the shackles of narrative so she can express what we can only (day)dream of.