The film's title tells us, even before we experience the opening scene, that the story will be one of dissipation and impermanence. Japanese film-goers are accustomed to tragic endings, because it mirrors our lives: happiness is fleeting, grief is inevitable, and death awaits us all.

The slow pace of Floating Clouds, especially the scenes where it feels like nothing really happens, are deliberate. Yes, it may feel uncomfortable for film-goers more familiar with the traditional arc, climax, and resolution that Hollywood writers follow. But, like a landscape painting, we are invited to put ourselves into the frame, to explore its outer bounds, and to test its confines. If we were one of the main protagonists, how would we deal with such limits?

The film's allegorical aspect deserves mention. Try seeing Yukiko as a stand-in for old pre-war Japan, and Tomioka as a stand-in for the new post-war Japan. The two appear to be compatible, but are destined to split, as the old way must recede, and the new way must find its own path.

Admittedly, Japanese films take some adjustment to appreciate their beauty, but if you open yourself to the possibilities, you may find yourself agreeing with Kurosawa and Ozu that Floating Clouds deserves praise.