Japanese Director Sho Miyake on Cinema That Defies Explanation

It’s a Monday morning in late April, and while the rest of the world is scrolling through the latest AI-generated blockbusters or algorithmically curated streaming queues, a quiet revolution is unfolding in the heart of New York City—one that might just redefine how we think about storytelling, resilience, and the unspoken language of cinema. Sho Miyake, the Japanese director behind the critically acclaimed film Minor, Gradual But Steady, isn’t just making movies; he’s crafting meditations on human fragility that refuse to be neatly explained. And if you’re a New Yorker who’s ever felt the weight of isolation in a city of eight million, or wondered how art can bridge the gaps between us when words fail, his function might just hit closer to home than you expect.

Miyake’s film, which premiered at the 55th edition of New Directors/New Films—a prestigious festival co-presented by the Film at Lincoln Center (FLC) and the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA)—follows a deaf female boxer navigating the physical and emotional toll of her sport while grappling with the loss of her gym during the pandemic. It’s a story that feels eerily familiar to anyone who’s watched their own community spaces shrink or vanish in the wake of economic upheaval. But what makes Miyake’s approach radical isn’t just the subject matter; it’s his refusal to spoon-feed audiences answers. In a recent Q&A with Washington Square News, he described his process as one of “dreaming into the unknown,” a phrase that feels particularly resonant in a city where the line between reality and aspiration is often blurred.

For New Yorkers, this kind of cinema isn’t just entertainment—it’s a mirror. The film’s protagonist, played by Yukino Kishii, moves through the world with a quiet intensity that echoes the way so many of us navigate this city: relying on instinct, adapting to loss, and finding strength in the spaces between words. It’s a theme that’s especially poignant in a place like New York, where the pandemic accelerated the closure of beloved institutions—from indie theaters to neighborhood gyms—and left behind a landscape of boarded-up storefronts and unanswered questions. Miyake’s film doesn’t offer easy resolutions, and that’s precisely why it resonates. In a city that’s constantly reinventing itself, his work reminds us that some stories defy neat conclusions.

The Unseen Language of Resilience

Miyake’s approach to filmmaking is rooted in a philosophy that prioritizes atmosphere over exposition. In Small, Slow But Steady, the silence isn’t just a narrative device—it’s a character in its own right. The film’s protagonist, a deaf boxer, communicates through gestures, expressions, and the raw physicality of her sport, creating a visual language that feels both universal and deeply personal. This choice isn’t just artistic; it’s political. In a world where disability narratives are often reduced to inspiration porn or tragedy, Miyake’s film offers something far more nuanced: a portrait of a woman whose identity isn’t defined by her deafness, but by her resilience.

This theme of unspoken communication hits particularly hard in New York, a city where diversity isn’t just a buzzword but a lived reality. According to the Mayor’s Office for People with Disabilities, over 1 million New Yorkers live with a disability, and nearly 200,000 of them have hearing impairments. Yet, despite these numbers, the city’s cultural landscape often fails to reflect the full spectrum of its residents’ experiences. Miyake’s film challenges that erasure by centering a protagonist whose story isn’t about overcoming adversity, but about existing within it—something that will feel achingly familiar to anyone who’s ever felt invisible in a crowd.

The film’s setting—a small, struggling boxing gym—also serves as a metaphor for the precariousness of community spaces in New York. Over the past decade, the city has lost hundreds of small businesses, from historic theaters to family-owned diners, to rising rents and corporate consolidation. The gym in Small, Slow But Steady isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a lifeline for its members, a place where people come together not because they have to, but because they demand to. For New Yorkers, this will evoke memories of the countless neighborhood institutions that have disappeared in recent years, from the iconic CBGB to the beloved Greenwood Cemetery’s chapel, which was demolished in 2023 after years of neglect. Miyake’s film doesn’t just mourn these losses; it asks what happens when the spaces that bind us together start to fade—and how we rebuild them, one slow, steady step at a time.

Why This Film Matters in a City of Noise

New York is a city that thrives on noise—honking cabs, subway announcements, the hum of construction at all hours. But Miyake’s film reminds us that some of the most profound moments happen in silence. The protagonist’s deafness isn’t a barrier; it’s a lens through which she experiences the world, one that forces those around her to pay attention in ways they might not otherwise. This idea of “listening differently” is something that New Yorkers, in particular, could stand to embrace. In a city where everyone is talking but few are truly hearing, Miyake’s film offers a masterclass in observation.

This theme of quiet resilience is also reflected in the film’s pacing. Unlike the high-octane, plot-driven films that dominate mainstream cinema, Small, Slow But Steady unfolds at a deliberate, almost meditative pace. It’s a choice that feels intentional, especially in a cultural moment where attention spans are shrinking and algorithms prioritize content that delivers instant gratification. Miyake’s film is the antithesis of that—it asks audiences to sit with discomfort, to linger in the unanswered questions, and to find beauty in the spaces between action. For a city that’s constantly moving, this approach feels like a necessary corrective.

The film’s reception at the New Directors/New Films festival underscores its relevance. Critics have praised its “tender heartbreaker” of a narrative, with Variety calling it a “knockout without punching hard.” But perhaps the most telling response has come from audiences themselves. In a post-screening Q&A, Miyake shared that many viewers—particularly those who are deaf or hard of hearing—have told him that the film’s portrayal of its protagonist feels authentic in a way that most mainstream media does not. This kind of representation is rare, and it’s exactly what makes Miyake’s work so vital. In a city as diverse as New York, where over 800 languages are spoken, the idea that cinema can transcend verbal communication feels not just revolutionary, but necessary.

What This Means for New York’s Cultural Landscape

Miyake’s film arrives at a time when New York’s cultural institutions are grappling with their own identities. The pandemic forced theaters, museums, and galleries to rethink how they engage with audiences, and many have struggled to adapt. The Film at Lincoln Center, which co-presents the New Directors/New Films festival, has been at the forefront of this shift, using its platform to amplify voices that challenge conventional storytelling. Miyake’s work fits squarely within this mission, offering a blueprint for how cinema can evolve to reflect the complexities of modern life.

But the film’s impact extends beyond the screen. For New Yorkers, it’s a reminder of the power of community spaces—whether they’re boxing gyms, indie theaters, or neighborhood bookstores—and the role they play in fostering connection. In a city where loneliness is often described as an epidemic, Miyake’s film asks us to consider what happens when we slow down, pay attention, and truly see the people around us. It’s a message that feels particularly urgent in a place where so many of us are rushing from one thing to the next, rarely taking the time to look up.

This idea of “slow cinema” isn’t new, but Miyake’s execution feels fresh, especially in the context of New York’s fast-paced cultural scene. The city has a long history of embracing avant-garde art, from the experimental films of the 1960s to the underground theater scene of the 1980s. But in recent years, the rise of corporate entertainment—think Broadway’s reliance on revivals and Disney adaptations—has made it harder for unconventional voices to break through. Miyake’s film is a counterpoint to that trend, a reminder that the most powerful stories aren’t always the loudest ones.

How to Engage with This Kind of Cinema in NYC

If Miyake’s film has piqued your interest, you’re in luck: New York is one of the best places in the world to explore slow, meditative, and unconventional cinema. Here are a few ways to dive deeper:

• Film at Lincoln Center (FLC): As the co-presenter of the New Directors/New Films festival, FLC is a hub for innovative filmmaking. Their year-round programming includes retrospectives, new releases, and discussions with directors. Check their website for upcoming screenings.
• Museum of Modern Art (MoMA): MoMA’s film department is one of the oldest and most respected in the country, with a focus on avant-garde and international cinema. Their archives include works by legendary filmmakers like Chantal Akerman and Abbas Kiarostami, whose styles share Miyake’s emphasis on atmosphere over plot.
• Anthology Film Archives: Located in the East Village, this nonprofit is dedicated to preserving and exhibiting independent and experimental films. Their programming often includes works that challenge traditional narrative structures, making it a great place to explore the kind of cinema Miyake is a part of.
• Rooftop Films: This summer series screens indie films in unconventional outdoor spaces across the city. It’s a fantastic way to experience cinema in a communal setting, much like the boxing gym in Miyake’s film.

The Local Resource Guide: Finding Your Own “Slow Cinema” Community

Given my background in cultural journalism and my focus on how global trends intersect with local communities, I’ve seen firsthand how films like Small, Slow But Steady can spark meaningful conversations—and even inspire real-world change. If you’re a New Yorker who’s been moved by Miyake’s work and wants to explore this kind of storytelling further, here are three types of local professionals who can help you dive deeper into the world of unconventional cinema and community-building:

Independent Film Curators

These are the people who shape the programming at indie theaters, film festivals, and cultural institutions. They’re the ones deciding which films acquire screened and which voices get amplified. If you’re looking to engage with slow cinema or films that center marginalized perspectives, a good curator can point you toward hidden gems and emerging directors.

What to look for:

• A track record of programming diverse and unconventional films (e.g., documentaries, experimental shorts, international cinema).
• Experience working with nonprofit or community-based organizations, as this often indicates a commitment to accessibility, and education.
• Strong ties to the local film community, such as partnerships with schools, cultural centers, or advocacy groups.
• Examples of past work that aligns with your interests (e.g., if you’re drawn to films about disability, look for curators who’ve programmed work by deaf or disabled filmmakers).

Disability Advocates and Accessibility Consultants

Miyake’s film centers a deaf protagonist, and its success highlights the importance of authentic representation in media. If you’re interested in supporting or creating films that prioritize accessibility, working with a disability advocate or accessibility consultant can help ensure that your project is inclusive from the ground up.

What to look for:

• Experience in film, theater, or media production, with a focus on accessibility (e.g., closed captioning, audio description, sensory-friendly screenings).
• Certifications or training in disability rights and inclusion (e.g., from organizations like the American Association of People with Disabilities or RespectAbility).
• A portfolio of past projects that demonstrate their ability to make media more accessible (e.g., films they’ve consulted on, workshops they’ve led).
• Connections to local disability communities, as this can help ensure that your project is informed by the people it seeks to represent.

Community Space Organizers

The boxing gym in Small, Slow But Steady is more than just a setting—it’s a lifeline for its members. In New York, community spaces like gyms, theaters, and cultural centers play a similar role, offering a sense of belonging in an increasingly fragmented city. If you’re inspired by the film’s portrayal of these spaces and want to support or create your own, a community space organizer can help you navigate the logistical and social challenges involved.

What to look for:

• Experience in nonprofit management, event planning, or grassroots organizing, with a focus on community-building.
• A deep understanding of the local landscape, including zoning laws, funding opportunities, and potential partnerships with other organizations.
• A track record of creating inclusive and accessible spaces (e.g., venues that are ADA-compliant, programs that prioritize marginalized voices).
• Strong ties to the neighborhood where you’re looking to establish your space, as this can help ensure that your project is rooted in the community’s needs.

Whether you’re a filmmaker, a cinephile, or simply someone who’s been moved by Miyake’s work, these professionals can help you turn inspiration into action. And in a city as vast and fast-paced as New York, sometimes the most meaningful connections happen when we slow down and pay attention to the stories that defy explanation.

Ready to find trusted professionals? Browse our complete directory of top-rated film and media experts in the New York City area today.