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“An,” a Japanese word meaning “sweet red bean paste,” is used as filling in dorayaki, which are small circular pancake sandwiches. Much as an serves as the basis of dorayaki, so too does it play a central narrative role in director Naomi Kawase’s new film of the same name. Rhythms and repetition—among them the daily creation of an and dorayaki—form the basis of everyday life in the film. On a macro level, Kawase uses beautiful shots of cherry blossoms or other natural scenery to mark the turning of seasons and passage of time in the film, while every individual day is set against the routine of protagonist Sentaro (Masatoshi Nagase), who awakens early every morning for a rooftop cigarette before opening his small, street-corner dorayaki shop. We see him methodically drip batter onto a flattop stove to form the pancakes, we see him serve the same gossipy schoolgirls every afternoon, and we see him kindheartedly save each day’s rejected pancakes for Wakana (Kyara Uchida), a financially troubled teenage customer.

The first act of “An” is reminiscent of another film about an elderly Japanese restaurateur—the documentary “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.” Upon receiving an application for part-time work from a 76-year-old woman named Tokue (Kirin Kiki), Sentaro initially turns her down because of her age and weak, deformed hands; however, she eventually convinces him of his error through the high quality of her handmade an. Sentaro had been using factory-produced, bulk-ordered tins of low-quality an, but Tokue’s extensive, intricate home-production method yields a much more delicious result—which ultimately brings long lines of customers to Sentaro’s store and reinforces the age-old adage of hard work.

The film, which could easily stop at this feel-good moment, ultimately transforms into something else—a commentary on the importance of following your dreams in finding true happiness. Characters are not what they initially seem: It turns out that Sentaro runs the shop for reasons other than a passion for sweets; Tokue’s misshapen hands hint at a serious illness in her past; even Wakana’s future is in doubt as she contemplates foregoing high school to support her family. When the characters converge, they learn something more about themselves, and even past the film’s bittersweet denouement, the rhythms of the seasons still relentlessly continue. Kawase’s slow-burn drama ultimately teaches important lessons—and like the titular dessert, they are never too sweet.

—Staff writer Alan R. Xie can be reached at alan.xie@thecrimson.com.