Despite the gloriously colorful cinematography and heartfelt performance by newcomer Yui Suzuki, death is everywhere in Chie Hayakawa's beautiful but lengthy coming-of-age story.

Suzuki plays Fuki, a troubled young girl who writes essays about dying as her father Keiji (Lily Franky) withers away in hospice care. Her mother, Utako (Hikari Ishida), is lonely as she tries to balance a hostile work environment with the complex emotions swirling inside of her. Everyone knows Keiji will die, they just don't know when.

In a horrific way, there's an unspoken understanding it would be more convenient both emotionally and economically if it were sooner rather than later. Yet who can say something like that out loud, even if we can see it in their eyes?

So, Utako and Fuki dutifully visit Keiji, who clings to every lifeline he sees. He knows, like we do, they're futile, but who are we to deny a dying person their desperation? Fuki watches, silently, as the adult world she can't comprehend spins out of her grasp. She should have a childhood. Instead, she spends her days devising ways to connect with the lives of others, both in the world of the living and the beyond. Like her father, Fuki is grasping at straws because she lacks the ability to express how badly she's hurting.

The story unfolds during the summer of 1987. It moves with the speed youth experiences time. The older we are, the shorter our summers get. For Fuki, the long days feel endless, which proves a blessing and a curse. In a kinder world, she would have all the time she wants to explore and grow. Now, she's stuck between the emptiness of her home and the quiet desperation of the hospice.

Hayakawa has an incredible eye for time and place. She has stated that Renoir is partly autobiographical, which is probably why it feels so authentic. As if she is sharing a deeply personal memory with the audience, one that isn't entirely accurate, but truthful nonetheless.

This is a film that understates things on purpose. It buries great revelations within itself. When a foreigner reacts loudly to bad news, it feels out of place, almost intrusive. For better or worse, emotions are internalized as not to bother others. They have their own problems to carry. In a heartbreaking scene, Utako finally snaps at the unfairness of it all, asking the universe that doesn't she, too, have a right to cry. It's a familiar moment for anyone who has had to carry on against the tide. There's nothing you can do about it, you're going to get soaked anyway.

The glacial pacing and curious asides won't work for everyone, even though Renoir is full of immaculate direction and performances. In the beginning, we witness an act of barbaric violence that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly. Later, Fuki encounters the ugliness of the world in a moment so banal and horrendous, adults won't be able to breathe until it is over. I'm not certain of their inclusion into the story, yet I can't imagine Renoir without them, either. They're a part of its messy fabric in an indescribable, complete way.

It's thanks to Ishida and Suzuki that Renoir works so beautifully. They are remarkable as mother and daughter who can't connect even as they share pain only they can understand. They look outward for someone to talk to, and as an audience we can only stand aside in frustration, hoping they'll finally reach mutual ground. It is a delicate set of performances that feel honest and true, as if we're watching a real moment captured in time.

In the end, as summer fades, Hayakawa refuses to wrap things in neat ribbons. Life doesn't work that way. Instead, Renoir offers hope that one day, far in the future, all of this will make sense one way or another. There is comfort in that.