Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy

While everyone was busy losing their minds over the three-hour grief-marathon that was Drive My Car, Ryusuke Hamaguchi quietly dropped another masterpiece in the same year that almost nobody saw. Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy is like the cool, understated B-side to a hit record—the kind of film that doesn't need a massive runtime or a red Saab to break your heart. It’s an anthology of three short stories, and honestly, it’s the cinematic equivalent of eavesdropping on a conversation so juicy you miss your train stop.

I caught this film on a Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was aggressively power-washing their driveway, and the contrast between that mindless suburban roar and the film’s surgical, quiet precision was bizarrely perfect. It’s a movie that asks you to sit still and listen, rewarding you with the kind of human friction that big-budget cinema has largely abandoned.

The Art of the Unexpected Pivot

The film is split into three movements: "Magic (or Something Less Assuring)," "Door Wide Open," and "Once Again." Each one starts with a simple premise that spirals into something profoundly messy. In the first segment, Kotone Furukawa plays Meiko, a model who realizes—during a long, hypnotic taxi ride—that her best friend Hyunri is falling for Meiko’s own bitter ex-boyfriend, played by Ayumu Nakajima.

Hamaguchi has this uncanny ability to make a conversation in a car feel more dangerous than a high-speed chase. He uses long takes where the camera barely moves, forcing you to watch the micro-expressions on the actors' faces. Kotone Furukawa is a revelation here; she plays Meiko with a mix of playful mischief and deep-seated regret that keeps you guessing about her motives until the very last frame. Most modern blockbusters have less tension in a city-leveling explosion than Hamaguchi finds in a woman slowly deciding whether or not to ruin a friend’s happiness.

The Eroticism of a Half-Open Door

The second story, "Door Wide Open," is perhaps the most daring. A student, Shouma Kai, fails a class and convinces his friend-with-benefits, Katsuki Mori, to "honey-trap" the professor who failed him. The core of this segment is a prolonged scene in an office where Katsuki Mori reads an erotic passage from the professor’s award-winning novel back to him.

It sounds like the setup for a cheap thriller, but Kiyohiko Shibukawa, playing the professor, turns it into a study of integrity and loneliness. The way he insists on keeping his office door open—a literal and metaphorical stance on transparency—is a brilliant piece of character work. It’s a masterfully uncomfortable scene, but not because of the sex; it’s uncomfortable because of the intellectual intimacy. This segment reminds me that in our current era of "content" and "engagement metrics," we’ve forgotten how powerful a single, well-written scene between two people in a room can be.

A Glitch in the Matrix of Memory

The final story takes place in a world where a computer virus has essentially nuked the internet, forcing society back to snail mail and face-to-face interaction. It feels incredibly "now," capturing that post-pandemic hunger for connection while also mourning the things we’ve lost to technology. Two women meet on an escalator, each thinking the other is a long-lost friend from high school. When they realize they are both mistaken, they decide to play-act the roles of the people they thought they were meeting.

It’s a beautiful, surreal conclusion that emphasizes the "fantasy" in the film’s title. It’s about how we use our imagination to heal the holes left by reality. Hamaguchi is basically the Japanese Eric Rohmer but with better haircuts and a sharper sense of the absurd. He understands that life isn't a series of scripted character arcs, but a chaotic sequence of "what ifs" and "if onlys."

Why This Gem Got Lost in the Shuffle

So, why did this film earn a fraction of the box office compared to Hamaguchi's other 2021 work? It’s partly the format. General audiences tend to be allergic to anthologies, viewing them as "lesser" than a unified narrative. It also suffered from a limited theatrical release during the tail end of the pandemic, relegated to the festival-to-streaming pipeline where things often vanish without a trace.

Because it lacks the "prestige" branding of an Oscar-winning drama, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy has become a bit of a hidden treasure. It’s a film that doesn't rely on CGI or franchise lore; it relies on the fact that humans are consistently, hilariously, and tragically unpredictable. It’s the kind of movie I want to shove into the hands of anyone who says "they don't make movies for adults anymore." They do—you just have to look for the ones without the capes.

This is a film that values the weight of words. It proves that you don't need a massive budget to create a world that feels completely lived-in and dangerously real. By the time the third story ends, you aren't just watching characters on a screen; you're reflecting on your own missed connections and the "magic" of the people you chose not to talk to. It's a quiet knockout that lingers in your mind long after the neighbor stops power-washing their driveway.