Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Netflix series ‘Asura’ is transformative

Sometimes, a great new television series arrives with loud announcements and general heralding; sometimes, one slips in quietly as if on slippered feet, declining to call attention to itself.

I don’t know why there weren’t pronouncements from the hilltops when “Asura,” the new series from the great Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda (“Nobody Knows,” “Our Little Sister,” “Shoplifters” and many more) arrived on Netflix in January, but nonetheless here it is, and we can only be grateful.

Kore-eda, who’s been making feature films since the 1990s, is a master of the quiet moments of family life: a sibling’s unspoken resentments, a boy who dreams of bringing his divorced parents back together, a mother longing for her child, a parent’s slow fading away.

All of these are beautifully in play in “Asura,” and the longer TV format (the series has seven episodes, each about an hour long) gives time for the plot elements to simmer, like the delicious-looking food frequently served during the scenes. (Everyone in “Asura” is always delightfully hungry.)

Set in 1979 Tokyo, and based on an original television series from that year, “Asura” is the story of the four Takezawa sisters: Tsunako (Rie Miyazawa), a widowed teacher of traditional flower arranging; Makiko (Machiko Ono), a homemaker and mother of two teens; Takiko (Yū Aoi), an unmarried librarian; and Sakiko (Suzu Hirose, grown up from “Our Little Sister”), a young restaurant worker in love with a boxer (Kisetsu Fujiwara).

As the series begins, the women have learned something shocking: Their father Kotaro (Jun Kunimura) — “a doddering old fool who can’t shop on his own,” as one of the sisters describes him — is having an affair. But this is far from the only secret among the Takezawa sisters, as we learn over seven hours — and as we become part of the family as well.

Like the March sisters of “Little Women,” the four Takezawa sisters form ever-shifting pairs and alliances, connected by the metallic ring of a ‘70s-era telephone and by their own shared past.

Life-changing events happen: A man calls his wife, thinking she’s his lover; a young woman collapses at work; a fire blazes out of control; a woman points a gun at her husband and his mistress; a young man lies in a hospital bed, unmoving. But, as in real life, the drama exists side by side with the mundane: sisters having tea, or giggling together, or sorting through the belongings of someone who is gone.

Kore-eda’s observational style is simply to drop us into this family and let us figure out the connections, and you might spend much of the first episode, as I did, trying to sort out who’s who. But once you’re in, you’re all in.

Miyazawa, as oldest sister Tsunako, gives a particularly mesmerizing performance; this woman, who has a way of holding her face as if she’s carefully arranged it beforehand, has a rather more complicated life than her traditional clothing and serene manner would indicate.

And Aoi’s quiet Taki, always seeming to be on the sides watching, is gradually revealed to be the heart of the family. “This sister thing is so strange,” she says at one point, reflecting. “The envy and jealousy can be so strong, yet when my sisters are unhappy, in the end, it’s unbearable.”

Watching “Asura” (whose title is only explained in the series’ final scene, so I won’t give it away here) is a gentle and often transformative experience — like Kore-eda’s movies but even more immersive. The cinematography, softly faded as befits the 1970s setting, is particularly artful, with the camera often peeking through windows or around shelves like a quiet observer.

You find yourself disappearing into the shots: Sakiko driving on a wooded road, the trees’ limbs seeming to blend into hers; a bonfire that lights up the faces of those around it as if by magic; the delicate drop of an apple peel as a knife twists away from the fruit.

And I found myself fascinated by one shot of Tsunako’s hands at work, carefully trimming a red-blossomed branch, paring away all excess, until only what matters remains.

Tribune News Service