Twenty years ago, two wildly different women with the same name got on a train to Tokyo and changed the lives of teen girls everywhere.
Starring actress Aoi Miyazaki and pop star Mika Nakashima, Kentaro Otani’s 2005 film adaption of Ai Yazawa’s manga ‘Nana’ endures because it captured something rare and radical within Japanese pop culture: female friendship that is messy, intimate and life-changing. Shoujo manga (‘girl comics’) took my peers and I by storm in our formative years. Usually, these were sugary stories about high school girls falling for impossibly perfect men. But Nana was different. Yazawa’s series felt more mature, more honest, and far more emotionally raw than its counterparts.
Yes, it had romance, but its core appeal – both then and now – lies in the bond between its two protagonists: Nana Osaki, a punk rock singer chasing fame on her own terms, and Nana Komatsu (affectionately nicknamed Hachi), who is constantly seeking love, often at her own expense. They become each other's emotional anchor as they try to define themselves through fashion, work, and one another. This is where Nana finds its real love story.
Their journey in Otani’s film begins with a chance meeting on a snowbound train to Tokyo, where they bond over their shared name and cheap beer. When Hachi naively proposes a toast to her boyfriend’s art school acceptance, Nana refuses, choosing instead to cheers to their serendipitous meeting. This subtle declaration that men shall not be the focal point of their relationship sets the tone for everything that follows.
Hachi’s soft narration weaves through the story with the air of someone recalling their first love: “Hey Nana, do you remember the first time we met? I believe in things like fate. So, I think it was fate.” The film lingers in the quiet, wordless acts of care, scenes where the women watch over each other with affection or concern: a silent embrace late in the night; the intimate ritual of applying makeup together; a warm body to lean on in the cold. At one point, Hachi jokes that Nana is more like a boyfriend than a girlfriend, yet Otani never masculinises her to justify the depth of their bond. Instead, Hachi is discovering the well of love that can be found in platonic companionships. The camera often catches them in reflection – mirrors, train windows, glass – as if each woman is both the other’s echo and escape.
As the story unfolds, their personalities bleed into each other drip by drip. Nana’s anger softens; Hachi’s optimism hardens. Nana is a prickly, lonely figure, carrying the residue of a fractured childhood and deferred dreams. Played by Nakashima with an arresting stillness, she moves to Tokyo out of spite, determined to succeed as a singer. In contrast, Hachi is a self-described airhead, yet Miyazaki’s earnest performance imbues the character with warmth, making her insecurities feel painfully relatable. Before meeting Nana, her life orbits around her boyfriend, Shoji. Her only ambition is to be a housewife, and she tries to play the part: apron on, smile fixed, desperate for his validation. But every interaction between the two of them leaves us with the realisation that he only tolerates her presence and is undeserving of her devotion.
After catching Shoji embracing another woman, Hachi’s naivety finally breaks. The neediness that once defined her dissolves and is replaced by a flicker of Nana’s defiance. The man at the centre of her world becomes someone she no longer wants in her sight. Led by Nana through Tokyo’s dark, wintry streets, she stumbles into independence like a deer taking its first uncertain steps.
Hachi confesses that Nana’s friendship allowed her to “dream of a wonderful dream”, articulating the exquisite feeling of finding unconditional love, a safe space to exist as she is. Their intimacy speaks to the current trend of women choosing to remain single. At a time when having a boyfriend can brand you as a loser, women are investing in their community of friends, echoing a truth I carry deeply: platonic love can be just as nourishing as romance.
For Nana, this bond acts as a safety net, allowing her guard to slip. When Hachi takes her to watch an ex-lover perform live, in the dark concert hall, hands intertwined, with Yuna Itao’s bittersweet track ‘Endless Sky’ illuminating their shared sorrow, Hachi can’t help but cry at the rare emotion on Nana’s face. Their friendship continues to underpin every significant moment, propelling Nana’s joy when she receives news of her own first live show. Dropping her mask, she runs to Hachi and embraces her with a kiss.
Having just turned 30, my friends and I often find ourselves drifting into nostalgia, fond memories of our enduring connection that stayed intact even through the many messy misunderstandings and hurt feelings over the years. One summer evening, sitting outside a friend’s house, my best friend asked, half jokingly: “Why did you stay friends with me if I was mean?” The answer was simple: we had enough love for each other to sit in the discomfort and repair the wounds. Like me, Hachi is the more sensitive of the pair. And while Nana can be easily misunderstood, beneath her rough edges lies something softer.
Despite the manga remaining unfinished, both the comic and its film adaptation continue to resonate with young women. Nana finds new life with each generation. The iconic ‘strawberry cup’ scene is still frequently referenced on TikTok, but its enduring popularity is owed in large part to its fashion. Otani collaborated with Yazawa (a fashion school drop-out) to showcase the manga’s distinctive style on screen, which was heavily influenced by Vivienne Westwood’s punk designs. Both Hachi and Nana wear Westwood’s pieces, but it’s Nana who truly embodies the designer’s vision. Chokers, miniskirts, leather jackets – Nana’s style is her shield. When Hachi first meets her, she's in awe of her poise, the cigarette, the piercing gaze, the glint of the now iconic armour ring that she never removes.
Westwood’s designs were a form of resistance; she twisted British tradition into something fierce, creating an ‘outsider aesthetic’ that, at the time, rejected mainstream norms and celebrated contradiction. Her clothes don’t just make Nana look cool; they mirror her toughness and fragility. Her desire for recognition and her instinct to stay guarded, the armour ring reflects this inner battle, part protection and part statement.
Just like Westwood’s creations, Nana defied convention. It has stood the test of time as a beloved story for women looking for connection. In an era where choosing friendship over romance feels increasingly appealing and yet still revolutionary, the film feels more relevant than ever. Womanhood can be brutal, but it can also be redemptive. Sometimes being a girl's girl can truly save your life.