This Is I

The Architecture of Becoming

Cinema has long been obsessed with the "reveal"—that climactic moment where the mask falls and the truth is laid bare. But in Yusaku Matsumoto’s poignant biographical drama *This Is I*, the reveal is not a single scene, but a slow, agonizing, and ultimately radiant architectural process. Moving away from the procedural tension of his previous work (*Winny*), Matsumoto here constructs a delicate study of self-creation, tracing the life of Japanese transgender icon Ai Haruna not as a tabloid sensation, but as a human being painstakingly building a home within her own skin.



The film’s visual language is immediately striking. Matsumoto and his cinematographer trade the chaotic handheld camerawork often associated with "gritty" realism for something more composed and suffocatingly symmetrical. In the early scenes set in Osaka, young Kenji (a revelation in Haruki Mochizuki) is often framed within doorframes, alleyways, and school corridors that feel too small, emphasizing a physical and spiritual cramping. The color palette is initially desaturated, dominated by the greys of concrete and the dull blues of school uniforms, making the sudden bursts of "idol" pink on television screens feel like transmissions from a different galaxy. When Kenji finally finds sanctuary in the underground cabaret scene, the film doesn't just change locations; it changes physics. The lighting softens, the frame opens up, and the suffocating symmetry gives way to a fluid, handheld intimacy that mimics the erratic beating of a heart waking up.

At the center of this transformation is Haruki Mochizuki. Casting a newcomer to embody a national celebrity is a gamble that pays off with devastating returns. Mochizuki plays Kenji/Ai not with the broad strokes of impersonation, but with a terrifying stillness. The tragedy of the early acts is not just the external bullying—which is depicted with a frank, unblinking cruelty—but the internal silencing. Mochizuki conveys oceans of longing through the micro-movements of his hands as he practices dance moves in secret, terrified of taking up space. It is a performance of subtraction, making the eventual emergence of "Ai" feel earned rather than inevitable.



However, the film’s emotional anchor lies in the unlikely duet between Ai and Dr. Koji Wada (Takumi Saitoh). This is not the typical "savior doctor" trope. Saitoh plays Wada with a weary, haunted gravity, a man whose own scars allow him to recognize the wounds in others. Their relationship is the film's moral spine—two outcasts finding a shared language in the clinical yet deeply spiritual process of transition. The surgery scenes are handled with a respectful, almost reverent distance, focusing on the emotional weight of the threshold being crossed rather than the medical mechanics.

If the film falters, it is perhaps in its third act, where the narrative rush to cover Ai’s public success feels slightly hurried compared to the meditative pacing of her youth. The gloss of celebrity threatens to flatten the texture established in the Osaka cabaret scenes. Yet, Matsumoto wisely keeps the focus tethered to the private cost of public existence.

*This Is I* is a necessary correction to the often sensationalized narratives surrounding transgender lives in media. It refuses to treat gender identity as a plot twist or a tragedy. Instead, it presents it as a form of art—a lifelong performance where the goal is not to deceive the audience, but to finally introduce oneself to them. In a world that often demands we shrink to fit, Matsumoto’s film is a towering argument for the bravery of expanding.