While experiencing the work of underground Japanese director Seijun Suzuki at the Melbourne Cinémathèque during their season ‘Appetite for Deconstruction: Seijun Suzuki,’ I became fascinated by his protagonists’ manic trajectories and the minor characters who witness their unravelling. Suzuki’s bar scenes struck me as crucial moments in which key characters reveal their motivations, often highlighting the absurdity of their impulses. I found myself drawn to the quieter observers in the background, however—those who see everything but are granted little screen time. The contrast between Branded to Kill’s (1967) wild assassin, Gorô Hanada (Jô Shishido), and his bystanders reminded me of recent conversations with friends about perceived autonomy, and how choice paralysis is often masked by either reckless action or the urge to delay resolving issues. This piece explores that dynamic through the eyes of one of Suzuki’s marginal characters, examining what he and the film’s antihero might share despite their superficial differences.

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Here lies a man, comforted by his self-imposed confinement. A man who would rather pay the price of crying in silence than pursue intimacy, an unfamiliar and troublesome alternative. His uniform, crisp and white, is a jarring divergence from the internal world he has created: a pseudonym for the life he has failed to actualise. His struggle to pull himself out of bed is identical each morning—this one being no different.

It requires all his concentration to plant his feet onto the ground. He traded in the spring in his step long ago in exchange for a firm night’s sleep. He peers into his closet. The one opportunity he has each day to carve out an identity instead renders him blank. Perhaps there was a time when he may have experimented with the cloth on his back. Now, all that lies before him are neatly folded shades of white that he cannot distinguish between. He retrieves a shirt from the stack and slips it on. The others remain neatly folded, ready for their turn in the rotation. His face is the only aspect that changes in his reflection. It has been whisked by time, which has etched deep lines into the surface of his skin. For this reason, he ensures never to look too closely in the mirror.

The chef blends in with the swarms of bodies on his commute to work. The kitchen that he dedicates the majority of his week to is contained in the mammoth structure of a bar. He slides on a final adornment, a tall chef’s hat, indicating the start of his shift.

Patrons rarely remember to take notice of the appetisers on the menu. Often, they are lost in the intoxication of forging forgettable memories. This means that for the chef, his waking hours are mostly spent thinly slicing desires that no one will touch. The menu has remained the same for a lifetime: palatable platings of mundane sea life and botanics. The crushed mackerel and miso never fail to combine into a paste that mimics his own lifeless attire. The side dish remains an invisible accompaniment to the menu’s brighter counterparts. His weeks pass by rotating meals from knife to plate. Tonight should have remained the same, the chef peeling oranges over a grey bin, meticulous enough to ensure their sputtering juice won’t attach itself to his uniform. He moves from fruit to fruit, intricately repeating the process.

Because tonight should have remained the same, it is a shock to hear three identical sets of knocks appear at the kitchen’s door. Disgruntled, the chef places his tools down, waddling over to the entrance. The achievement of avoiding the contamination of his uniform awards his hands with the vigor of being drenched in orange juice. A bartender is cordially waiting at the other side of the door, his uniform also meticulously intact.

“Are you in need?” The chef raises a brow.

“He is requesting white rice, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

The bartender avoids eye contact. He keeps his focus on twiddling his fingers. “A patron has requested white rice.”

The chef swats a hand in the gap between their interaction. Flecks of orange pulp adhere to the doorframe. “He is just drunk; plenty of our dishes on the menu contain rice. Tell him to order off of that.”

The bartender leans closer, his face obscuring to reveal a twisted horror. “I would advise us not to ignore this request.”

For a moment, both workers stand hanging in space. The chef’s broad stance against the doorframe contrasts with the bartender’s meek nature. These are the moments when he desires a different life. Where he pleads with past selves to choose a different path. Instead, his indecisions have led him to this exact point in time. The bartender continues to lean inwards, searching for an answer in the chef’s blank stare.

The chef shakes his head and proceeds to retreat. The door gently closes on the bartender’s bewildered expression. He has successfully avoided making another decision. He has let the course of life unravel without his input. He listens out for fleeting footsteps as a signal that he can resume his routine. To his dismay, what the chef thought were footsteps scattering away from the door were those dispersing to make room for heavier strides. The door flings open. A man adorned with wooden sunglasses stands before him. His uniform, crisper and darker than the chef’s, neatly hugs the intruder’s body. A drop of orange juice descends from the chef’s hand onto his shoe, splashing against his hemline—the first stain. The chef watches this interaction, profoundly disgusted at his body’s misjudgment. He clicks his tongue, swiftly turning to the impatient man. “You need something?” The chef frowns.

Without a single breath of delay, the man thrusts himself into the kitchen. An invitation is of no importance here. Although his gaze is shielded, the man cannot hide his manic salivation as he approaches the rice cooker. He digs his fingers sharply into it, tipping the machine slightly out of place. His mouth teeming with ecstasy. The chef’s rage brews silently, his eyes widening, baffled that his set of quiet contemplation is now being uprooted by a single individual. He is at a standstill with his desire to express his exasperation, then to continue ignoring his dissatisfaction with how his life metamorphosed. The latter wins, as always. But for a brief moment, the chef toyed with the idea of transforming into someone unrecognisable.

The moment is sabotaged by a sharp demand. The man, drooling with excitement, bares his teeth. “Get out!” His spit flings across the room. The chef jolts, startled at the patron’s self-assured demeanour. The fact that the chef towers over the man doesn’t matter here. The ego reigns supreme in this instance. The server is no longer in control of his domain. He is reduced to a face without a voice, blurring into a background vision that no one takes any note of. But, even in this cowering position, he acts as an observer. Through a crack in the door, he glimpses this stranger’s internal world. The chef gently removes his hat to prevent it from crinkling against the frame.

The man leans over the rice cooker, his palms relaxing against the steel bench. Every tool is still, quietly joining the chef as voyeurs. The seemingly mundane preparation of an everyday staple now becomes the protagonist. All eyes are fixed on its purpose. The rice whistles as the man releases a sigh. He bends over its steam, his smile brimming from cheek to cheek. The chef examines this peculiar behaviour. He fails to comprehend this man’s obsession with a dish that only serves as sustenance in his own miserable life. Yet the man is gleaming with joy. How could it be? That this stranger’s life is filled with satisfaction from a simple enactment? The absurdity of it all is evident to both men. Except one is free from the shame of monotony, and the other is rife with it.

Here stand two men who are seeking to fulfil their desires for a meaningful life by swaying on the fringes of society. The chef recognises that his numb dissatisfaction toward life could not measure against the man’s erotic obsession. He fails to see that, from knife to plate, they share food as a tool to relieve their shortcomings. The chef continues to fix his gaze on the man. The man doesn’t let a moment pass without savouring, to his full extent, the gratification of steamed rice. The rice gurgles—a witness caught between their silence. Each man is alone in his position. No outsider is concerned about their whereabouts. The chef continues to linger in this limbo, existing on the outskirts of his sanctuary while another man revels in it.

The chef contemplates: Is this what I look like from the other side of the door? He cannot recall the last time he stood, grinning, full of desire in this kitchen. To him, each day unfolds the same and will continue to for the rest of his existence. What good is a purpose if you have no idea how to claim it? If there is no guidance on how to rise with it? The only aspect of control that exists in his pathetic life is the impeccable condition of his uniform. He glances down, wincing, at how that too has fallen out of his reach. He ponders whether the man is a representation of the alternate life he could be living. Instead of this insufferable state he has built. He, otherwise, could be full of desire and assertions. Like a bullet waiting to be fired.

The rice cooker strikes a chord. On cue, the man twists the lid away, beginning his feast. As the man gorges, the chef remains imprisoned in his observations with no clear exit. The cycle is bound to repeat again. Every day, strangers will rise to the stage, highlighting his defects. The chef will remain motionless, unable to escape his downfall. No matter how he tries to outpace it, the barrier to avoid intimacy will haunt him. The shipment of fruit that arrives at his kitchen’s door will continue to be peeled for the purpose of satiating strangers’ desires.

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This piece was commissioned in collaboration with the Emerging Writers’ Festival—a Melbourne-based festival which facilitates the development of writers’ skills, careers, and connecting with community through a range of participatory events and writing opportunities. The festival commences on Thursday, the 11th of September, and includes both in-person and online workshops. The full program can be viewed here.

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Laetitia Um explores the emotional landscapes of heartbreak, longing, and transformation, capturing the nuances of the human condition. Influenced by her mixed Salvadoran and Timorese heritage, she is inspired by the vibrant storytelling of Asian and Latin American cinema. Her practice merges digital tools with traditional techniques creating a tension between the ephemeral and the tangible. Her work invites contemplation, offering a visual language for personal and collective emotional experiences in an increasingly polarised world.