“What am I if I don’t play music?”
With Plastic, director Daisuke Miyazaki examines how one’s pursuit of passion is connected to the core of his self-worth and sense of purpose. As a slow-burn that touches upon how dreams and youthful passions are challenged by adulthood, the film is a heartfelt, melancholic coming-of-age story that uses music as both a narrative driver and emotional metaphor. Inspired by Japanese artist Kensuke Ide’s 2021 concept album Strolling Planet ’74, the film explores how music shapes identity, connects people, and ultimately serves as a refuge for the dreams and passions of youth.
Plastic follows the lives of Jun (Takuma Fujie) and Ibuki (An Ogawa), two teenagers who meet by chance one afternoon when Ibuki rides her bike and passes by Jun busking at an abandoned mall. Realising they are singing the same song, Ibuki strikes up a conversation with Jun, revealing their shared love for Exne Kedy, a fictional 1970s glam rock band, whose album Strolling Planet ’74 was their favourite.
The band, long-disbanded after their final concert four decades ago, serves as the spark that ignites the pair’s youthful romance. Jun, a transfer student who arrives in Nagoya after failing to secure a record deal, wishes to start anew, with big dreams of playing not only in Tokyo, but also London and New York City. Their relationship blooms through their mutual obsession with the band, but as the pressures of adulthood creep in, they begin to drift apart.
As the film spans a ten-year period, we see Exne Kedy announcing a surprise reunion tour, the band’s first in 50 years. What the characters referred to as fate at the beginning may now be in play, as the reunion tour offers Jun and Ibuki a chance to make sense of who they’ve become and whether they have remained true to themselves—and, more importantly, to each other.
What Plastic does exceptionally well is capture the essence of youth—the confusion, idealism, and emotional storms that come with it. Miyazaki’s direction is tender and understated, allowing the characters to live in the quiet spaces of their relationship. Jun and Ibuki’s early interactions, filled with long conversations in cafes, bike rides through Nagoya, and tagging underpasses with the band’s logo, feel genuine and nostalgic. There is a warmth in these moments, amplified by the film’s melancholic tone, that speaks to music’s power to forge deep, lasting bonds.
At the heart of Plastic is the music of Kensuke Ide, whose band, Kensuke Ide With His Mothership, becomes the fictional Exne Kedy and the Poltergeists in the film. It’s his songs that become an integral part of the story. In fact, they are as much a character in the movie as Jun and Ibuki.
In particular, Ide’s concept album Strolling Planet ’74 provides a rich sonic backdrop that reflects the emotional landscape of the characters. The album boasts of having a retro sound punctuated by energetic and catchy riffs. Having said that, one can’t help but hear the music also having an undercurrent of longing, mirroring the characters’ search for meaning and connection in their lives. Whether it’s Jun busking in the street or the pair stumbling upon a surreal impromptu performance in a forest, the music creates a unifying thread that ties their journey together.
However, while Plastic succeeds in portraying the emotional connection between Jun and Ibuki and the music, it stumbles when it comes to developing a compelling romantic arc. Granted, the initial spark between the two, rooted in their shared fandom, feels authentic. But as the story progresses, their relationship doesn’t evolve beyond this surface-level connection. As real-life pressures—Ibuki’s college plans, Jun’s dream of pursuing music—begin to mount, the romance fades without much emotional depth.
In one particular heated exchange outside the movie theatre, Ibuki tells an adamant Jun that, “Whether it’s good or bad and whether it’s a living are two different things.” This scene hits hard, especially for those who have always viewed their pursuit of their passion as a be-all and end-all of their existence. And yet, despite some semblance of a deeper connection, the film leaves audiences feeling that the relationship was never meant to be more than a fleeting attraction due to their shared interests.
This shortcoming is particularly noticeable as Plastic shifts through time, moving from the couple’s early romance to their adult lives marked by distance and missed opportunities. The screenplay uses the metaphor of a radio message sent into space—one that might take 25,000 light years to reach its destination—to symbolise their emotional separation. While this metaphor is thoughtful and aligns with the film’s themes of longing, it feels forced. And without a stronger emotional arc, the eventual suggestion of reconciliation feels underserved.
Having worked under directors such as Leos Carax and Kiyoshi Kurosawa apparently grew on Miyazaki, with the use of music and a restrained visual style fully on display here. I am certain that Plastic’s deliberately quiet emotional subtlety won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay. For what it’s worth, this reflective style encapsulates what makes Japanese cinema a meditative exercise, even if the pictures in question ultimately don’t deliver on their promise.
Plastic is a film that understands the power of music to connect people and articulate the inexpressible feelings of youth. Miyazaki’s direction, coupled with Kensuke Ide’s eclectic, nostalgic soundtrack, captures the universal longing for something more—whether that’s a meaningful relationship, artistic fulfilment, or simply the hope of finding someone who shares the same skies. The movie’s romance may not fully deliver, but maybe it’s just me looking in the wrong direction. Colour me romantic, but I needed a payoff that feels resolved. Nevertheless, its portrayal of youth’s fragility, the passage of time, and the enduring role of music stays with you, even if for a while. And in this case, maybe that’s enough.
