Hyperion Cantos is a four book set. Hyperion gets a lot of press because of its device of a Canterbury Tales structure: tales of the main protagonists as told by themselves. As a single book that is remarkable, unusual, and stands as a testament to Dan Simmons’ skill at characterization and plot-by-indirect narration. But in its sequel Fall of Hyperion, we see why he made that choice. Having crafted beautiful sci-fi dollies with backstory and motivation and conflict, he puts them into an Armageddon doll house with a boogeyman called The Shrike.

So while the second book is more of a plot-driven sci-fi story (and, to be fair, it’s a really interesting plot), the book gets to ride on the rich characters established in Hyperion. Simmons originally wrote the first two novels as one book, and it shows. I can see the cut-and-paste operation that must have turned a single manuscript into two well-wrought books. Hyperion loads potential energy into the universe by winding the springs of the principal characters; Fall of Hyperion lets loose the sweep of history and then releases the characters whose kinetic actions can, hopefully, master events.

I’m in a Japan moment.

Maybe it’s the influence of the cherry blossoms of New York’s parks and botanical gardens in April, but Perfect Days, “Shōgun,” and a recent replay to the Platinum trophy in From Software’s ronin epic, Sekiro, have me visiting Japan daily. The latest voyage happened this weekend when Lauren and I watched Hikari’s Rental Family.

Phillip (Brendan Fraser) is a struggling working actor in Tokyo who was once an iconic commercial character (effectively, Toothpaste-Man).

But the good times have faded, and now he’s hustling subways and shinkansen for his daily bread ramen. After some light exposition, he’s invited to join an agency that sends out rental familial roles: a missing father, a contrite mistress, a reporter, a claque for a child’s recital, etc.

The premise of a rental family agency could be another moment of “Japan so crazy” à la penis festivals, take-out everything, or Lost in Translation’s wince-worthy beats like “Lip [sic] my stocking.” Director Hikari’s experience living abroad among westerners gives her a directorial edge. Her direction shows perplexing foreignness (love hotels, a corporate apology culture that looks like sadomasochism, etc.), but not at the expense of showing shared humanity. The film never gawks and thus creates a study in character. It is a movie that hinges on characterization with the beauty of both urban and rural Japan as sumptuous set. Says Shinji Tada, the agency owner: “You can live here a hundred years and still be left with more questions than answers.”

As a young man I wanted to know what happened to people; now, I want to know who they are. This is the goal of Rental Family as well.

I’ve been loving Neko Case for nearly a quarter-century now. Possessed of a voice whose key verb is “reverberate” and which sounds like John Bonham playing drums at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Her reverb-soaked songs have always spoken to me. It’s like the Pacific Northwest feel of Twin Peaks relocated to Roy Orbison’s home of Wink, Texas. Roy sang into the black, nighttime void of the Lone Star State; Neko’s voice tries to lift the oppressive cloud deck. Last February, I received a copy of her memoir after Lauren and I went to see her in conversation with Samantha Bee at Symphony Space. It took me ’til now to get to it in my book stack.

Case’s music has always had a stripe of autobiography running through it, but she’s never been confessional. She’s always felt aloof and her music allusive and referential. Consequently, she’s always been unapproachable and fascinating. But in Case’s telling, it’s not that she’s too cool to talk to you, but rather the soft, wispy tendrils of approachability and bonding that “normal” people walk around projecting in hopes of snagging friendship or romance had been abused, battered, and cleft away by the isolation and neglect she was forced to survive.