Mark Reviews Movies: NINE DAYS

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Review by Mark Dujsik | July 29, 2021

There's a house in the middle of the desert, which goes on and on without any end in sight. Within that house, there's a stack of old tube-based televisions, each one showing some ordinary, everyday scene in someone's life. Watching those monitors and recording the images on a VCR, there's a man—quiet and attentive—looking at those screens, jotting down notes of what he sees, looking to another TV, jotting down more notes, and continuing that process over and over again.

That's our introduction to Nine Days, writer/director Edson Oda's remarkable debut feature. It's that simple—a man, some televisions, a house, a great expanse of desert. There's a mystery here, but Oda doesn't waste too much time maintaining some puzzle for us to solve. He has other, far greater mysteries in mind for this story—about the origin and foundational elements of the consciousness or (if one is so inclined to call it as such) the soul, the notions of morality and ethics, grieving both the way of the world and certain people's feeling of not being part of it, and what, if anything, actually constitutes a good life, lived well and with some form of goodness.

The central gimmick involves a kind of pre-life, which also serves as something of an afterlife for souls such as the man we meet. His name is Will (Winston Duke), a soul that once experienced life and now is tasked to follow the experiences of others who have been granted the "amazing opportunity" of living. He is primarily an observer, but at times, when there is a "vacancy" in the mortal realm, Will's job is also that of an interviewer, who questions and watches and tests newborn souls.

He will select one of them at the end of a period of nine days, and that soul will be born again within a corporeal form. For the unchosen, though, it is "the end"—or, to give it the metaphysical weight that it deserves, "the End."

The premise here is inventive, but it's Oda's approach to this central idea that makes it ingenious and gives the entire film its undeniable sense of philosophical, psychological, and emotional vigor. Another filmmaker might see this setup as an opportunity to wow us with visual effects or to create some generic conflict, either between the competing souls or against whatever system is in place to turn the precious commodity of life into some kind of game.

Oda, though, takes a route that is wholly counterintuitive to the notions of spectacle and external, plot-driven conflict. His design style is completely minimalistic, and his dramatic aims, which run directly counter to the fantastical/metaphysical/spiritual terms of this tale, are fully set within realism.

There is no explicit conflict, except that which this universe has made unavoidable. Instead and with an overwhelming sense of thoughtfulness and compassion, Oda allows these characters—their inherent beliefs, their intrinsic personalities, their outlooks on existence, their feelings of fear and wonder, of despair and joy, and of sensing meaninglessness and/or finding some purpose—to define this story.

The thin plot, if one can even call it that, begins when there is a "vacancy" among the people Will is observing (Duke's performance is stunningly internalized, gradually revealing depths of regret and anguish). This woman was—as we see in a montage of a life, which begins in fuzzy, subjective shots that become high-definition clear—a promising violinist. Will and his occasional assistant Kyo (Benedict Wong), a soul who has never experienced life, are preparing to watch her latest concert.

Hours before the show is to begin, the car she's driving crashes into an underpass. After a long period of darkness on her screen, color bars appear. She is dead.

It's Will's job to fill that screen with a new life, so souls, only a few hours old, emerge from the desert and begin coming to his home. Will sets up the rules: They have nine days to answer his questions and do assorted tasks, and at the end of that, one soul will be chosen. The others will disappear into, as far as anyone knows, nothingness—a fading shadow or evaporating into the desert dust.

Several of these souls take focus within the tale, and it's most impressive how succinctly and firmly Oda establishes them as more than archetypes and as fully formed characters. There's fun-loving Alexander (Tony Hale), who looks for a joke in everything and just wants to relax with a few beers. There's the sad case of Mike (David Rysdahl), who quickly proves himself to be a talented artist, overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy. Maria (Arianna Ortiz) develops a crush on Will, and Kane (Bill Skarsgård) is tough-minded and certain that he will be a real fighter in life, unlike a kid being bullied on one of those televisions.

A wild card of sorts is Emma (a wonderful Zazie Beetz), who arrives late to her first interview and spends most of her time trying to figure out what makes Will tick. The interviewer doesn't take too kindly to that. He doesn't want to speak of his experience in life. His fears of what likely happened to the violinist (He keeps watching the crash and the woman's earlier life, desperately hunting for clues) certainly—and, later, definitively—tell us who he was and why he wants to escape all thought of that.

There are, then, still mysteries to be deduced and revealed, but the key is that, with all of the world-building kept simple and divulged quickly, all of those mysteries have to do with these characters—who they are, who Will was, what will become of them and why Will eliminates certain souls as the process unfolds. The characters discuss assorted ethical questions and dilemmas, as presented by Will. They also find certain moments, within the lives of those Will is watching, that give them a sense of meaning, purpose, happiness, or anger.

Everything on the surface of this film remains simple, from the story to the aesthetics (that never-ending desolation of the desert, the quaintness of the house, images projected on screens or walls, and, in a couple scenes of particular catharsis, some theatrical touches whenever Will, granting a soul coming to his or her end a final request, tries to recreate some moment in life with props, clever lighting, and more images projected on one screen or more). The complexity and compassion come from Oda's unwavering belief in the reality of these characters, in what their distinct personalities and viewpoints tell us about people and life, and in what they and especially Will can learn, even when all seems to be lost.

This, then, is a film of subtle and specific power—an allegorical fantasy that transcends both allegory and fantasy. Nine Days does so by fully investing itself in its characters, allowing them to become the story, the message, and the meaning of this inspired, empathetic film.

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