Small, Slow But Steady review – meditative boxing tale as deaf fighter rethinks life | Film

The title is presumably meant to refer to the film’s fine-boned heroine Keiko Ogawa (Yukino Kishii), a scrappy boxer who has just turned professional, but it just as aptly describes the film itself: a delicate, atmospheric study that’s quite unlike most other fight movies. Based on a memoir by boxer Keiko Ogasawara, this very internal story unfolds during the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic, with a locked-down Japan adding a further layer of isolation to Keiko’s life. Thanks to Kishii’s luminous performance, Keiko comes across as a very self-sufficient but lonely figure, completely deaf since birth, who finds in fighting some kind of release and sensory thrill, even though her lack of hearing creates very specific challenges in the ring given she can’t hear shouted instructions from her coaches or even the bell.

Keiko’s family – mum (Hiroko Nakajima) and brother Seiji (Himi Satô), with whom she communicates mostly via sign – are supportive but don’t really get the sport’s appeal, and that sort of goes for the co-workers at her day job as a hotel housekeeper. The only person who really gets her is the “chairman” (Tomokazu Miura) of the gym where she trains; he is a man now not in the best of health, considering closing up shop as his other regular trainees gradually jump ship, some grumbling that Keiko is the one who gets all the attention now.

Director Shô Miyake keeps the focus on Keiko as she starts having a crisis of confidence in her fight skills, despite early wins. She keeps getting told she has to want to win, want to fight, otherwise it’s disrespectful to her opponent, but the killer streak doesn’t seem to be there any more. The film builds outwards from her island of silence to a larger world where everyone is rethinking their priorities in the light of the pandemic, and the crepuscular cinematography makes this feel almost like a documentary. But slow it is also indeed, and probably best savoured in a darkened room with as few distractions as possible.

The title is presumably meant to refer to the film’s fine-boned heroine Keiko Ogawa (Yukino Kishii), a scrappy boxer who has just turned professional, but it just as aptly describes the film itself: a delicate, atmospheric study that’s quite unlike most other fight movies. Based on a memoir by boxer Keiko Ogasawara, this very internal story unfolds during the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic, with a locked-down Japan adding a further layer of isolation to Keiko’s life. Thanks to Kishii’s luminous performance, Keiko comes across as a very self-sufficient but lonely figure, completely deaf since birth, who finds in fighting some kind of release and sensory thrill, even though her lack of hearing creates very specific challenges in the ring given she can’t hear shouted instructions from her coaches or even the bell.

Keiko’s family – mum (Hiroko Nakajima) and brother Seiji (Himi Satô), with whom she communicates mostly via sign – are supportive but don’t really get the sport’s appeal, and that sort of goes for the co-workers at her day job as a hotel housekeeper. The only person who really gets her is the “chairman” (Tomokazu Miura) of the gym where she trains; he is a man now not in the best of health, considering closing up shop as his other regular trainees gradually jump ship, some grumbling that Keiko is the one who gets all the attention now.

Director Shô Miyake keeps the focus on Keiko as she starts having a crisis of confidence in her fight skills, despite early wins. She keeps getting told she has to want to win, want to fight, otherwise it’s disrespectful to her opponent, but the killer streak doesn’t seem to be there any more. The film builds outwards from her island of silence to a larger world where everyone is rethinking their priorities in the light of the pandemic, and the crepuscular cinematography makes this feel almost like a documentary. But slow it is also indeed, and probably best savoured in a darkened room with as few distractions as possible.