The interview was conducted through the good offices of Total Stage Produce Inc.
Isao Yukisada is a prominent Japanese film director, screenwriter, and producer, born in 1968, in Kumamoto, Japan. He began his filmmaking career after studying at School of Imaging Technology in Japan (TOHO Kakuen) where he developed his craft. Before stepping into the role of a director, Yukisada worked as an assistant director under Shunji Iwai, a highly respected filmmaker known for his poetic, emotionally rich films such as ‘Love Letter’ (1995) and ‘Swallowtail Butterfly’ (1996). His time working with Iwai helped him gain valuable insights into visual storytelling, pacing, and emotionally resonant character development, which would later become a hallmark of his own directing style.
Yukisada made his directorial debut with ‘Open House‘, a romantic drama about a woman navigating complex emotional relationships. The film was a relatively low-profile start to his career but set the foundation for his future works, which would feature themes of love, loss, and self-discovery. His breakthrough came in 2001 with ‘Go‘, an adaptation of the novel by Kazuki Kaneshiro. The film explores the story of a young Korean-Japanese man struggling with issues of identity, racism, and his relationship with his family. ‘Go’ was widely praised for its compelling narrative and the depth of its characters, propelling Yukisada into the spotlight as a director to watch. The film’s success helped establish him as a master of storytelling with emotional resonance and social relevance.
In 2003, Yukisada directed ‘Crying Out Love, In the Center of the World’, a deeply emotional adaptation of Kyoichi Katayama’s bestselling novel. The film, which centers on a man reflecting on the love he lost to tragedy, became a huge box-office hit in Japan and received critical acclaim for its heart-wrenching narrative. This film, alongside ‘Go’, cemented Yukisada’s reputation as a filmmaker who could evoke powerful emotional responses from his audience. Yukisada continued to explore emotional and romantic themes in his subsequent works: ‘Spring Snow‘ (2005), ‘The Cornered Mouse Dreams of Cheese‘(2020), ‘Theatre: A Love Story’ (2020). River’s Edge (2018) was screened in the Panorama section at the 68th Berlin International Film Festival. ‘Letter from an Unknown Woman‘ is the director’s consecutive attempt to adapt Stefan Zweig’s novella to stage.
‘Letter from an Unknown Woman’ (1922) is a poignant and deeply emotional novella by Austrian writer Stefan Zweig, first published in 1922. The story unfolds through a heartfelt letter written by an anonymous woman to a famous, unnamed man (presumably a writer) —once her lover, but a man who has forgotten her entirely. The woman reveals her lifelong, unrequited love for him, recounting the details of their brief, yet transformative, encounter years earlier. Told through her perspective, the narrative is a profound exploration of love, obsession, and the passage of time. It is a meditation on the disparity between fleeting encounters and the lasting imprint they can leave on a person’s soul. The woman’s letter, rich with longing and resignation, unveils the emotional complexities of her devotion, as well as the powerful impact of memory and desire on one’s identity. With his trademark psychological insight and delicate sense of irony, Zweig masterfully portrays the tragic beauty of a love that remains unacknowledged, leaving the reader to reflect on the meaning of love, loss, and the silence that can persist between two people. In this short but compelling work, Zweig captures the universal and timeless nature of longing and the heartache of love that is never fully returned.
What was particularly stunning about your adaptation was its cinematic vision. It felt like looking at old, faded slides, with the lighting being the core gradient of the narrative. Could you please reveal more about the creation process and epistolary structure (at times resembling ‘Love Letter’), as well as your theater methodology?
I’ve been a film director for many years, but I often find myself more inspired by watching theater than by watching films. The reason for this is that theater invites you to imagine the world beyond what’s happening on stage. I believe that’s what art is about. In film, you need to make the outside world concrete and directly link it to the image, which is something I’m always thinking about. However, the things that are left unsaid, the things that aren’t depicted, are the essence. Film tends to focus on one thing, and this focus makes it easier to enhance the impact, but the way reality is portrayed is different. ‘Letter from an Unknown Woman’ originally started as a small performative reading project. The novella itself has a strong resemblance to Japanese junbungaku (‘pure literature’). The fact that it’s structured around letters was also very effective. Letters are a one-sided form of communication. When someone else reads them, it makes you question whether they’re true because human emotions are so vividly exposed. The events described in the letters are often exaggerated, creating an imagery that feels much more inflated than the actual events.
I found it fascinating to experience this kind of imagery through words alone. It’s different from simply reading aloud. Since this is in the form of letters, the woman who wrote them and the man who reads them. When they come together, what is man’s presence? It’s different from what the woman wrote, and as the man reads, he experiences something fetishistic in the words, something that stirs something inside him. I believe this is also what the movement expresses. When the body moves, it becomes visible, and sometimes it retreats. But as the work progresses, the man enters into this zone, and this core part of the human experience is revealed. This is where it connects to the woman’s sorrow and even to joy. Truly speaking, for me it feels like a lifelong work, something that ties everything together — creating a love story between men and women. In that sense, I’m really glad it has ripened to this stage.
You are primarily known worldwide as a film director. Could you tell more about your theatrical experience?
I actually had the opportunity to work on performances based on Kunio Shimizu’s ‘Tango at the End of Winter’, once directed by Yukio Ninagawa ,with Hiroshi Mikami in the leading role. The story revolves around Seiji Kimura, once a famous actor, who suddenly retired three years ago after his final performance in ‘Othello’. Now, he quietly lives with his wife, Gin, who was also an actress, and his brother, Shigeo, who runs the cinema. One day, his former actor colleague, Mizuo Nawa, and her husband, Ren, arrive. Mizuo is then hailed as a hopeful talent in the theater world, but in the past, she had been deeply involved in a passionate love affair with Seiji. Left with feelings for him after he abruptly disappeared, Mizuo began her career as an actress and, in an effort to abandon her past, married Ren. One day, Mizuo receives a letter from Seiji asking to meet, and she goes to see him. However, what she finds is a man completely consumed by a world of madness. In a way, the theater acted as a mirror, confronting the audience.
Ninagawa’s work often draws on Shakespearean elements, where actors spiral into decline, embodying characters caught in a maddening love-hate drama unfolding in a movie theater. It was powerful, but when I first saw it, I found it quite complex and hard to grasp. When I was younger, I was influenced by student movements and social issues, so I assumed the play was referring to them. However, after reading the original piece, I realized it wasn’t at all—it’s actually a love story, with Shimizu’s distinct world unfolding, where characters harbor strange thoughts and clash in ways that are difficult to explain.
I think there is also a strong connection between the unknown woman and the main female protagonist, Ritsuko, in ‘Crying Out Love in the Center of the World’, who expresses the desire not to be forgotten.
I find it beautiful to think of forgetting as both memory and oblivion. What makes memory so fascinating is its uncertainty—there’s no clear-cut truth to it. When people share memories, those stories often evolve into something entirely different from what one originally experienced, and that’s what makes them so intriguing. The people telling these stories usually don’t want to forget; they hold those moments close, almost as if they’re treasures. There’s a gap between how the storyteller sees those moments and how others perceive them. The emotional energy tied to those memories also varies. It’s like with my grandmother—the difference between how someone remembers something and how it’s understood by others. There are parts of that experience that can never fully be shared or understood, and that’s what causes the memory to shift and evolve over time.
That’s what I really love about it. Especially when we think about those who are no longer with us, the emotions and memories they’ve left behind. There’s something beautiful about how those memories are carried, almost like a badge of honor. The same goes for culture. Culture, like personal memory, is built on the idea of ‘learning from the past.’ That’s why nostalgia holds such power for me. I’m from the generation that grew up in Japan in the 1980s, and that era was full of that kind of sentiment. I mentioned the idea of ‘unforgettable,’ and it really resonates with me
I believe that theater offers much more space for ambiguity than cinema.
It’s something hard to grasp, and – indeed – sometimes I find myself questioning what exactly I’m creating. Yet, the imagery feels romantic, fragmented—there’s so much of that kind of thing. I feel deeply influenced by it. However, in the current landscape of Japanese cinema, it seems that such elements are no longer widely accepted. Ambiguity, in particular, is no longer something that is embraced. In response to this, I strive to present something ambiguous. In that sense, I believe theater remains, perhaps, the last stronghold for ambiguity. If it can provoke various interpretations and stir the imagination, it can still exist. On the other hand, I think my future work might involve creating something concrete in theater, and then elevating it to film. It’s about doing it in a minimalistic way, but as a large-scale blockbuster, it would never work.
Could you please tell me how the current adaptation differs from the previous ones?
This piece is a successor to previous adaptations, which were presented as performative readings. From the outset, however, this project felt more like an improvisational process. I was constantly aware of the effect I wanted to achieve in the end. I felt that incorporating movement would make it more engaging. My main question was: How would it look if two people—one reading, the other writing—were to collaborate? This time, it felt much more theatrical, almost as if it had been directed. Rather than just reading, a dancer would expand on the imagery, creating a dynamic and evolving process. That approach turned it into a full collaboration. I aimed to merge dance, performance, the body, and language into one cohesive piece. Although I was deeply involved in the process, I was surprised by how much it impacted me personally. Even while collaborating with the producer and the team to build the space, I found myself profoundly affected by the work itself. One of the central themes we explored was how much we can truly believe in her words, and how much we might doubt the song. This has been a topic we’ve discussed for a long time—the balance between trust and doubt, between the ‘truth’ of what is presented and the skepticism we may feel toward it. I wanted this idea to come across clearly, but for some, it ended up feeling more monochrome—or perhaps even more chaotic than I had anticipated.
In past versions, Tomohito Nakajima‘s involvement stood out, and his mastery with words was impressive. His expressive use of language made the words feel powerful and resilient. This time, however, it was different. The performer (Ryoko Shinohara) embodied the emotions, speaking the sadness with authenticity. It was fascinating to see how much the performance changed depending on the actor. Ultimately, the drama felt even more intense because the transformation between the two actors became richer and more profound.
There is also a significant shift in contrast to the original novella, where the male protagonist is a writer, while in your adaptation, he is a composer.
The image I had from the very beginning was that of a composer repeatedly playing the ‘Moonlight Sonata’, tapping his fingers as he plays. As he reads parts of a letter, the emotions gradually accumulate, intertwining with a particular interpretation of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. For me, the pianist embodies the idea of inevitable connection. Just as the letters repeat, so does the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. The pages of the letter scatter, and the rain continues to fall relentlessly, almost as if it’s crushing the person beneath its weight. In this way, the lightness of a letter takes on a profound heaviness. In this sense, the focus shifts less from the original work itself and more toward the thoughts and feelings of the characters. Their emotions are rooted in the original text, but we live in an increasingly digitized world, where the message needs to be conveyed simply and directly, within a concise time frame. I also believe it’s crucial for young people to be exposed to these kinds of works, to experience timeless emotions, and to realize that feelings like love and hate remain constant throughout time. It’s fascinating to reflect on how emotions—particularly love and hate—are so enduring and universal.
The novella itself presents a true challenge to adapt, much like ‘Hell in a Bottle’ by Yumeno Kyusaku, with its missing pieces and fragments conveyed through a letter.
Reading someone’s letter while embodying that person is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? The act of physically being there and reading is one aspect, but then adding another layer where you enhance the image, making it more vulgar or crude in some way—kind of like categorizing it in a superficial, lighthearted manner. That’s something I feel when I think about it, and when I asked Yasuyuki Shuto what would be good in this context, he said he wanted it to feel like cubism, but that’s a tough ask. I think of them as someone who imagines deeply, but at the same time, they find their own way of doing things—searching for meaning through movement. It’s not just influenced by words, but also about figuring out where you stand and how you express yourself in the present moment. Even so, there’s always an underlying sense of aggression in their work.
It’s fascinating, especially since the story takes place in the 1920s. The world back then was different from today—it was a much more interesting time, culturally speaking. Modernity was slowly taking shape, and the way things changed over time, including universal truths, is something that people today might not realize or even be interested in. But still, when you’re working on it, you really learn a lot. It’s abstract in terms of expression, but ultimately, expression comes from what people feel. As someone whose job is to bring out emotions and make them stand out, when I engage in things like this, I end up feeling inspired and stimulated.
The novella, written in 1922, like other literary works such as Mann’s ‘Buddenbrooks’ or Broch’s ‘The Sleepwalkers’, suggests the twilight of an era. What do you think of it in the current perspective?
I think one major point for me is that when we look at literature from the late 1800s to the early 1900s, it’s easy to draw comparisons with the present. It really makes you reflect on how things are right now, and it almost feels like we’re reliving it. Even when wars happen, it’s clear that human nature hasn’t changed. In that sense, there’s something very consistent. Even when you look at the sense of “smell” or “stench,” so to speak, in that environment, what I notice is that every work is trying to portray humans—real people who lived—and that hasn’t changed. Nowadays, we’re living in a time where simply reading or viewing information can make us feel like we’ve already experienced it firsthand. In this moment, I believe it’s crucial to confront that cultural reality again and engage in meaningful dialogue with those who can approach it thoughtfully. Those who haven’t given up on creation likely share this perspective.
Personally, I find little value in producing something “original” just for the sake of it in the present. In the end, it often ends up as another passing trend—something that doesn’t seem worth investing time or energy in. If that’s the case, then the true value lies in revisiting the past, reexamining it, and having the current generation engage with it once more. There’s something powerful in reconnecting with what came before us, both in terms of content and style. This applies just as much to cinema as it does to any other art form. In fact, the emotions and moods that we’re experiencing right now may be the most important ones we should not let slip away. This might be the defining moment.
As AI continues to advance, new creations are emerging at an astonishing rate. With just a few keywords, we can generate images—just like that. As producers, we see it firsthand: a picture of a starry sky, or even a detailed scene, simply by inputting a location. We get a full house in the blink of an eye. But here’s the thing—AI can produce all of this. We tell it what we want, and it delivers. The danger, however, is that if we simply follow the direction AI sets for us, we risk losing ourselves in the flow of the era. The narratives of human experience, the ones that truly matter, don’t work that way.
As a director known for portraying vivid portraits of love-entangled female protagonists (portrayed by the likes of Eihi Shiina, Masami Nagasawa, Ko Shibasaki, Fumi Nikaido), this question might be considered a double-edged sword. Were you asked, like the protagonist in your own film ‘Aroused by Gymnopedies‘, ‘What is the essence of love?’, what would you answer?
Perhaps men will never truly measure up to women. No matter how far we go, there’s something about the resolve and conviction women carry with them—something that makes me question whether men possess that same depth. Over time, I’ve realized that I don’t often encounter men with the same sense of conviction. In fact, many men can come across as quite superficial. If I say this openly, some may be offended, but I honestly feel that, in many ways, I have my shallow aspects, as well. I think a lot of it comes down to sexual impulses—these urges drive us, and in many ways, they seem to define who we are. We act on them, check the box, and move on, feeling satisfied. But as we age, and those impulses start to fade or lose their intensity, we begin to feel it more deeply. It’s as though the aging process itself is tied to this drive.
That’s why, for me, love stories or romantic dramas are difficult to separate from this concept. You can see it even in this performance. There’s a kind of connection between bodies, an understanding that’s purely physical. But after that initial connection, there’s often a detachment—a shift in perspective. From a man’s viewpoint, once the physical connection is made, trust and emotional depth become more important. On the other hand, a woman’s desires might evolve into something more spiritual or psychological—a deeper bond that transcends the physical. The situation in modern Japan, especially with all the new tools at our disposal, has become somewhat superficial. In the end, it comes down to having the resolve to face things, to accept them, and how our approach to these things has shifted. That’s why we can no longer rely on a mere contract. Even when we talk about reality, it’s still always tied to desire, which often gets confused with love.
That’s why I’m often asked to create love stories. But what makes a story a love story? I think love stories are the ones capable of creating real change, though the genre is often being underestimated. The more we understand societal changes, the more fascinating love stories become, and that’s why I’ve continued to work with them. I think it’s because we don’t fully understand the reality of love, and that’s why we keep discussing it. We often look at things through our own lenses and think we understand, but sometimes it’s like forcing a smile while saying something we don’t fully believe. Eventually, we’ll probably repeat the same mistakes, and that’s the kernel of truth. Some things emerge and fade away, almost like mist. And if they connect to what we consider melancholic, then in its own way, it can be perceived as beautiful.
As you mentioned, there is something fetishistic in Zweig’s novella, something that could be linked to your film productions
The way sexual impulses can manipulate the deepest parts of our being—that hasn’t changed, no matter how much time passes. It’s one of those universal truths, something timeless that persists through history. And in that sense, I think it’s where we can truly talk about what’s real. When it comes to understanding what’s tangible, women often seem to possess a deeper insight. Men, in contrast, tend to approach things in a more superficial manner. That’s just how it is. Another perspective is that, maybe, everything is an illusion. I think women are more open to this idea—that things can be fleeting, that what we see might not be real. Men, on the other hand, tend to question whether what they’re experiencing was ever real in the first place. This isn’t about romance or idealism. It’s about the understanding that sometimes, hardship and pain are the only ways to truly learn and grow. But as society evolves, the roles of men and women are becoming more blurred, especially in terms of social standing. People who once ascended easily now find it much harder to do so.
Speaking about female leading roles, could you tell me about your artistic relationship with the leading actress, Ryoko Shinohara?
In the 90s, Ryoko Shinohara emerged as a singer, having initially started as an idol. While she had appeared in many TV dramas, her theatrical stage experience was limited, so I had to figure out how to bring that aspect out in her performance. Ultimately, it turned out to be a form of expression she had never explored before. There was some initial adjustment, but as time went on, she truly embraced the experience. It was a completely new process for her, and I believe it gave me a deeper understanding of her, both professionally and personally, including the challenges she had faced in her life. Her ability to grasp concepts was remarkable—she would immediately voice her disagreement when something didn’t feel right. So, we had her first master the small, detailed movements and lines, and then deepen them as we went. In that sense, she was completely different from the Ryoko Shinohara I had envisioned. If the opportunity arises, I would be more than willing to cast her in my next film. Honestly, many actresses take pride in their past achievements, but for me, it’s far more rewarding to break away from that and build something new, rather than sticking to familiar clichés.
Do you hold any projects for the near future that might emerge from this particular theatre experience?
Actually, for my current project, I’m gradually considering turning ‘Letter from an Unknown Woman’ into a film. It’s a very short piece, but I aim to condense it as much as possible while capturing its intensity. I’m also exploring the possibility of taking elements from the film and adapting them for the stage. At the moment, I’m experimenting with various ideas. Ultimately, I believe there’s always a way to approach older works and reimagine them in a fresh, contemporary light.
