by Io
Slice of life has always been a misunderstood genre. At its most textbook definition, a slice of life story depicts a character or group of characters’ quotidian lives. The plot does not lie in journeys to save the world, murder mysteries that need to be solved or love interests to be won; rather, its aim is simply to present mundane life. For many, the familiar settings found in these shows tend to be boring and it’s no wonder that most people often disregard this genre and the merit it brings. However, in this current age, I think it is time to give a deeper appreciation for this genre and the stories it tells.
While the slice of life genre is seen most commonly in East Asia, media that depict their characters’ everyday life can also be found in the West. Since the 1950s, shows like I Love Lucy and The Goldbergs sparked the emergence of an immensely popular genre of Western television now known as sitcoms. The basic formula of a sitcom revolved around the same recurring group of characters (usually families) navigating through their daily lives, and the comedy was evident through their often larger-than-life interactions and reactions. Now in the 20th century, shows like The Big Bang Theory, Friends and Brooklyn Nine-Nine that both adhere to and innovate this formula have only garnered more interest in the sitcom genre.
Unsurprisingly, shows that depict a quotidian life need a strong cast of characters to carry a somewhat non-existent plot as episodes tend to have their own self-contained stories and conclusions. Brooklyn Nine Nine’s comedic writing, for example, helps it build a cast of complex yet funny characters who all have their own goals and identities within the story. An example is Rosa Diaz, who puts on a tough exterior but shows her compassion towards those she cares about in subtle yet meaningful ways. We see as the series progresses that the outward confidence she portrays is a symptom of a strained relationship with her parents and a mounting pressure to be perfect. While Rosa initially seems emotionally distant from her coworkers, she gradually accepts others into her personal life and grows more comfortable in reaching out to them as we follow the precinct through the years. So how would this differ in Asian media’s slice of life genre?
The key difference between sitcoms and the slice of life found in Asian media can be seen in its depictions of the characters. This defining formula is especially evident in Joji Matsuoka’s Midnight Diner. A group of (somewhat) recurring characters frequent a nameless izakaya—an informal Japanese bar—known only as the ‘Midnight Diner’, whose doors are only open at that time of night. While the show does find its comedic moments in the interactions between the peculiar customers, unlike a sitcom, comedy takes a back seat to explore individual character stories, of how they are each drawn to the diner. While B99 underlies its characters’ development with an almost fantastical comedy, Midnight Diner doesn’t shy away from the realistic grit and grime of life.
In a review of Midnight Diner, critic Hua Hsu writes about a “simple pleasure to eating with strangers, and swapping stories, in a small room full of people who can be alone together.” The experience the viewer has when watching Midnight Diner is akin to that of the very characters drawn to the diner itself. As they enter seeking a simple reprise from the societal pressure that surrounds them, we too are seeking warmth in the comfort of people who are just like us. Food is the vehicle for community, family and conversation, and as we learn more about each character’s struggle, we grow closer to them as well. Marilyn, a stripper at an old school cabaret bar who, despite many failed relationships, still wistfully dreams of finding a perfect partner who loves her; Kosuzu, owner of a local gay bar who develops an innocent but unrequited crush on Ryu, the stoic but kind yakuza boss; Katagiri, a mysterious man who poetically compares the lives of the diner guests with various rivers, and who also holds tragedy in his past. These descriptions don’t do their intricately personal stories nearly enough justice, and I implore you to watch the show to delve deeper into the extensive list of stories showcased.
Despite this, the show’s only constant entity is the diner itself. Once the characters leave in the early morning, there is no promise that they will come back. Midnight Diner shows us the intimate moments where people’s lives intersect at a crossroads before continuing wherever life chooses to lead them. As the characters mingle and interact with each other, if only for a single night, we are reminded of our own lives and the people we meet as well. Especially in the age of self-quarantine, isolation has become a huge problem that all of us have had to deal with. The beauty of fleeting moments and impermanence of life itself is a quality of Midnight Diner that truly shows the importance of human interactions in our lives. As each person’s journey leads them away from the diner and towards their dreams, it leaves a bittersweet feeling of wanting to stay while knowing their departure is inevitable. In a fast-paced society like ours, we often come across these types of meeting-departures and, as painful as they may be, the slice of life depicted in Midnight Diner comforts us with the reminder that our journey will never be taken alone.
Another reason why slice of life has grown in popularity, especially in the context of Japanese society, is due to the mundanity of the characters’ lives. Japan’s strict work culture demands office workers, or salarymen as they’re called colloquially, to sacrifice large portions of their time and energy for the benefit of the company. This often takes the form of countless nights working overtime with no extra pay, withstanding unfair treatment from superiors at work and heavy workloads that threaten their physical and mental health. A study by Behrooz Asgari documenting the rise of a phenomenon called ‘karoshi’ shows how the toxic work culture in Japan has had serious consequences on its citizens. Karoshi, translated literally to mean ‘overwork death’, is a symptom of Japan’s collectivist society that stigmatizes the conversation surrounding work-related stress. Asgari writes about the idea of “loyalty and self-sacrifice” that has caused workers to value company profits over their own wellbeing. With the growth of Japan’s economy since the 1960s, his study showed how work-related suicides in people under 30 have been on the rise, and demonstrated how the country needs major institutional changes regarding work hours and employees’ well being.
While not to the extreme levels of Japan, many of us living in other Asian countries also face these types of societal pressures regarding work and school. For many, the emphasis on productivity has been ingrained since childhood: from being forced to attend extra tuition classes every day in preparation for exams, to late nights spent begrudgingly preparing meeting materials as an adult. We often have childish wishes about a world where we are free of the duties imposed on us. In Netflix’s Samurai Gourmet, recently retired office worker Kasumi has the free time that those still in the workforce don’t, which he spends visiting various restaurants and cafes around Tokyo. However, unbeknownst to those around him, Kasumi’s imagination remains unbridled by conformity and his persona, a free-spirited wandering samurai, embodies his idealised self. Kasumi, who lacks a confrontational attitude and is frankly not very brave, uses this persona to act out in ways he never could, albeit in his own imagination. In a way his daily struggles reflect the many situations we find ourselves in when navigating society, wishing we could have that same courage in our day-to-day lives.
The samurai controls every scene he is in, and while some of the people he encounters regard his unruly actions as rude, he frankly doesn’t care. He epitomises Kasumi’s, as well as the viewer’s, dream to live unburdened by the societal standards that rule life, and through him, we get to live out our fantasies. However, the true bravery comes from Kasumi himself. He creates these scenes in his head and they inspire him to step outside the box society has placed him in. The unspoken rule that commands him to stay in line is, for a moment, broken. Kasumi reminds us that bravery exists within all of us, whether it be through an idealized fantasy or through real acts of courage. Ironically, this form of escapism confronts the reality that we all can be the heroes of our own stories. If this old man can speak up for himself and others, then what’s stopping us?
Slice of Life is not a genre for everyone, but it’s been hugely influential on how I appreciate life. From the memories I made as a child to the ones I make now, it’s comforting knowing that I will one day find myself sharing these stories with strangers and friends alike. Kasumi’s unbridled samurai persona in Samurai Gourmet tells us to have strength in our everyday lives, while Midnight Diner shows the stories of dreamers and failures who push on nonetheless. The moments captured in these shows happen in all our lives, whether we notice them or not. It reminds us to cherish each passing day and dare to continue on no matter what. Slice of life and the mundanity of this genre reminds us that we are not alone in our journeys filled with both joys and regrets. A bittersweet feeling of never knowing the impact someone else has on our lives until they’re gone, and all that is left are memories and a constant reminder of their absence. Whether it be sitcoms or slice of life, these shows heal their audiences with the comforting thought that life is like a river: ebbing and flowing; constantly changing; giving and taking, but pushing forward nonetheless.