“If I am alive, I must live.”

It is an achingly powerful statement from Dear Tomorrow – but one only truly understood after journeying through the streets of Tokyo.

The most populated city in the world streams with bright lights, flashing colours, and constant movement, yet remains one of the loneliest places on the planet. As such, Japan even appointed a Minister of Loneliness to combat rising depression and anxiety as modern pressures compound on everyday existence.

Dear Tomorrow captures just two personal stories within that crisis, delivering a portrait that is captivating, honest, and raw. Yet, confronting this kind of subject matter is notoriously difficult for any filmmaker – so to have it done so masterfully is astounding.

Director Kaspar Astrup Schröder’s documentary follows two subjects dealing with extreme isolation, alongside the government bodies and a non-profit working to combat the epidemic. The battles are less physical than an interior struggle with mental health – territory notoriously hard to capture on film for obvious reasons.

Yet Schröder does an exceptional job translating that weight to the screen without exploiting it.

The framing across busy Tokyo streets exposes isolation without relying on exposition. A couple walking down the pavement holding hands becomes almost antagonistic rather than a tender display of human connection – an indictment felt through the lens rather than a celebration. Elsewhere, businessmen passed out on sidewalks blur into city life through deliberate, creative compositions. Dear Tomorrow does not just document two individuals navigating depression and suicidal ideation; it profiles the metropolis that magnifies their alienation.

Schröder’s restraint allows genuine emotion to breathe without heavy-handed editorialising. Scenes featuring Buddhist monks offer quiet wisdom amid a hopeless outlook. In another thread, a blossoming friendship has you rooting for one subject as she rediscovers purpose through creative musical outlets. Crucially, the film avoids tidy resolutions – perhaps a key victory it’s trying to drive home.

However, it never pretends buying a pet or reconnecting with an old friend cures deep isolation. Instead, it respects the messy, non-linear reality of confronting one’s own mind and finding peace with ones self.

What resonates most is the sheer honesty of the dialogue. The subjects are not performing for a narrative arc; they are opening up with profound trust. While putting that vulnerability on screen naturally raises ethical questions, giving these individuals a safe, non-judgmental space to externalise their thoughts feels genuinely constructive.

The film handles a complex crisis with appropriate gravity. It does not shy away from questions lacking easy answers, showing both the promise and limitations of support systems both available and developing. While connection is undoubtedly vital, Dear Tomorrow masterfully demonstrates that mental health recovery is rarely a simple binary choice.

Schröder captures a vibrant, buzzing metropolis while evoking an overwhelming sense of solitude. From the unique framing of train arrivals and apartment interiors to sprawling night cityscapes, the visuals mirror the subjects’ internal states. Paired with precise pacing, the imagery pulls the viewer straight into their headspace.

Dear Tomorrow also resists the urge to oversimplify. It presents two distinct paths through loneliness and depression without judgment, allowing Tokyo to function as a living character carrying the same emotional highs and lows.

A heavy watch, but an important and beautifully realised one.