658km, Yôko no tabi
For me, this is a story about acceptance—of oneself, of the past, of life itself. The road in the film becomes a metaphor for self-discovery and transformation, a journey toward facing reality rather than running from it.
“At some point, I realized. Everyone else has managed to struggle through life, absorbing what they need and building their lives. But I never made an effort, and I was always running away.”
Yoko is at a turning point. Her father died at the same age she is now, making this journey not just a physical one, but an emotional wake-up call. She sets off with her cousin, but when her cousin suddenly abandons her at a gas station, Yoko has no choice but to start hitchhiking—forcing her to interact with strangers if she wants to reach her destination. Her goal is simple: to hold her father’s hand one last time.
At first, she barely speaks, keeping her words short and her emotions locked inside. But as the journey unfolds, she gradually opens up. By the end, she is able to share her story. And because of that, people go out of their way to help her. The film subtly shows how, even in a world where people are constantly moving forward, pushing through their own struggles, human connection is inescapable. We need each other.
Each person Yoko encounters represents a different part of this theme. The first driver she meets does most of the talking—sharing her own struggles while Yoko listens in silence. And yet, it’s enough. They both take something from that moment. Then, she meets a young girl who is also running away. When the girl says, “It’s too complicated to explain why,” it feels like Yoko is staring at a reflection of herself—another person escaping rather than confronting.
Later, after losing all hope in the freezing cold, she meets a driver who seems kind at first but then demands that she either has sex with him as payment or gets out of the car. I was surprised when she initially agrees, as if she’s so exhausted, so desperate to reach her goal, that she’s willing to give in. But in the next moment, she fights him off and escapes, running until she collapses on the cold sand, completely drained.
This, to me, felt like her rebirth. As the icy waves wash over her, she describes the feeling: “It’s so cold, almost like dying.” But she survives.
From here, the journey shifts. She walks for hours until she meets an old couple who offer her warmth and kindness. The older man scolds her, just like a father would, warning her about the dangers of hitchhiking. They take care of her in a way she hasn’t allowed anyone to in a long time. And in a deeply moving moment, she asks if she can hold their hands—to feel their warmth, to feel something real.
Her transformation is complete when she finally begs strangers for a ride. Compared to the silent, passive Yoko at the start, this is huge. She speaks, she pleads, she connects. A man with a child agrees to take her, and as they drive, she shares her story.
She arrives too late for the funeral. But something extraordinary happens—they pause it for her. They let her say goodbye. She gets to hold her father’s hand.
And that’s when I cried.
Maybe it hit me so hard because my own parents are aging, and I don’t know how much time we have left together. Watching Yoko’s journey reminded me—don’t take time for granted. Be present. Spend time with the people you love. Tell them how you feel while you still can.
In the end, Yoko (658km, Yoko no Tabi) is about owning your life, facing your past, and embracing connection. Because no matter how much we try to run, we can’t go through life alone.
