Review - Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth?

December 7, 2019

Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth? – Japan, 1932

The great Yasujiro Ozu had no qualms about returning to material he’d previously used as inspiration for a film. He remade his 1934 film, The Story of Floating Weeds, as Floating Weeds in 1954, and many of the films explore similar themes, so much so that a common comment about Ozu is that he made his first film in 1929 and then remade that film over and over just with varying titles. It is a joke made by those who are either unaware of his complete repertoire or are exaggerating for comedic effect, and yet it is impossible not to see the similarities between Yasujiro Ozu’s Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth? and his earlier “student films,” Days of Youth, I Flunked, But…, and The Lady and the Beard. In many ways, Where Now Are the Dreams of My Youth? is almost an amalgamation of his earlier films, albeit with an ending that is jarringly different that what came before.

Like those earlier movies, Where Now Are the Dreams of My Youth? begins in those jovial days of university, which, as seen in I Flunked, But…, mostly includes playing, hanging out with good friends, and being on the cheerleading squad, and there’s not a whole lot of studying going on during the interim. We first meet a young man named Taichiro Saiki (Tatsuo Saito). He’s such a studious fellow that he walks around the school grounds with his head buried in his books and a pencil in hand; he is not, however, bright – at least not according to his professor -  and he is a bit of a social misfit. In one scene, Ozu shows him watching his friends leading a pep rally from afar, with a look in his eyes that show unmistakable envy.

Soon we meet Tetsuo Horino (Ureo Egawa), who is very much Saiki’s opposite. In fact, it’s highly unlikely he has picked up a book for weeks. In one scene reminiscent of one from an early Harold Lloyd film, he gets so involved in a chess game that he and his opponent carry the game out of a bakery and play it as they are walking and even after they have entered the classroom. Early on, we also meet Oshige (Kinuyo Tanaka), a young woman whose family owns the bakery Horino and his friends frequent often. It is clear where her heart lies from her early interactions with Horino, yet later events caused me to reflect back on Saiki’s reactions during those early scenes in the bakery and see many of his facial expressions and physical movements in a new light. Things take a dramatic turn - at least momentarily – when Horino’s father dies and he elects to take over his father’s company instead of completing his degree.    

Ozu’s student films were made during a worldwide economic downturn, and that reality permeates through most of those films. In Ozu’s lost film, I Graduated, But…, a young man’s degree fails to land him a decent job; here, Tetsuo’s friends are graduating into a world where job prospects are bleak. In I Flunked, But…, the luckiest character is the one who doesn’t pass his exams because he gets to continue basking in the bright glory of student life, while his friends face rejection after rejection. Here, graduation is unnecessary for Hirino to achieve success; for his friends, it sends them ill-prepared into a job market reeling from a global contraction. Days of Youth is a different kind of film, focusing more on comedy and a love triangle, but even in that film, we see similarities to the romantic narrative found in Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth?

Where it diverges is in its finale, and I suspect it is this part of the film that contemporary audiences will have the hardest time with, for instead of embracing the notions that the passage of time creates permanent changes and that accepting that is part of growing up, it reinforces the idea that all that is needed to restore strained relations is an old-fashioned heart-to-heart. Here, said talk involves a confrontational discussion and a discomforting one-sided physical altercation. Voila, they’re all smiles, and life is as it should be. Except that it isn’t. The economy is still lousy, his friends are still woefully unqualified for employment, and Horino still does not have the experience necessary to run a successful company. I guess none of that is more important than whether four young men stay friends.

In fairness, with the exception of a few fleeting remarks here and there, the film doesn’t try to extend much into this reality, but by avoiding any real depiction of what was happening in 1931, the world these characters inhabit feels trivialized. It is as if Ozu is saying that all you need to survive trying times is family wealth and/or connections in high places. I don’t see that message resonating either now or in 1931. It reminds me of a Hollywood movie made during the Great Depression in which the lead character turns down a job because it doesn’t pay enough. Not many people in the audience could afford such considerations, and it is said that the line elicited laughter,

Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth? is a more enjoyable film if you ignore the real world. Set aside the drum beats of war and the shattered dreams of those unfortunate enough not to find comfortable employment, and just watch it as the story of four friends whose camaraderie is tested by extreme changes and, for two of them at least, an interest in the same woman. Viewed as such, the film mostly succeeds. It is humorous, employing wit and warmth reminiscent of the early works of Chaplin, Lloyd, and Keaton. The film is extremely well acted, and several scenes involving Horino and Oshige resonate emotionally. As for the film’s climactic moments, I will not sugarcoat it – they are off-putting and certainly left a bad taste in my mouth. However, after that wore off, I could reflect upon the film’s more uplifting and humorous moments and recall that I’d had a pretty good time up until that point. That should count for something. (on DVD in Region 2 as part of BFI’s The Student Comedies)

3 stars

*Where Now Are the Dreams of Youth? is a silent film.

Review - The Lady and the Beard

November 30, 2019

The Lady and the Beard – Japan, 1931

A funny thing happened on the way to publishing this review.

A few days ago, my wife and I began noticing signs of a rodent – you know, the partially eaten fruit, leaves suddenly missing from plants, a shadow rapidly-moving along the wall. No actual sighting, though. So, Saturday night – after a long day assessing young students’ English – I finally sat down to write about the only new film I’d been able to find time to watch in a week. (Those of you with kids undoubtedly understand this.) What I wrote, along with a few minor edits and additions, appears below.

There’s a little bit of Chaplin, Keaton, and Lloyd in Kiichi Okajima (Tokihiko Okada), the protagonist of Yasujiro Ozu’s 1931 film The Lady and the Beard. Perhaps nowhere is this more apparent than in the film’s opening moments, during which a kendo match devolves into  a slapstick routine in which each side takes turns calling time out and doing anything he can to get a point. That is, anything other than employing a strategy traditionally associated with kendo. It’s a truly fun scene, and it perfectly establishes the quirkiness of the film’s lead character, for, in truth, he is better suited for a slapstick comedy than a traditional period piece.

I suppose Ozu could have titled his film The Last Samurai, for in Okajima, we have a man adheres to a way of life that has long vanished and many ostracize him for it. In one scene, a group of women ask if he knows how to dance; he answers them in the form of an interpretive dance set to a classic number from Japanese opera. He even ropes in a butler (Takeshi Sakamoto) to play the part of the damsel in distress because, well, he’s male, and that’s the way it was done back in the day. In another, his sense of chivalry does not allow him to look the other way when he sees a young woman in distress (Hiroko Kawasaki), and his calm, cool demeanor as he tells her she can leave brings to mind the conduct of Bogart and Cagney. There’s also Okajima’s entire “samurai” demeanor, which seems inspired by the latest costume dramas playing in nearby theaters, from the beard he adorns to the physical mannerisms that any fan of Toshiro Mifune’s films will recognize as those of a “cinema” samurai.

Suddenly, screams came from the couch, as the rodent was seen scurrying across the floor toward a rather packed corner of the apartment. So much for writing. For the next hour, there was nothing but searching, rearranging, and shining flashlights in darkened corners – all to no avail. And, of course, there was the occasional shriek as the invader apparently made his way from one side of the room to another. I say apparently because I still have yet to actually have visual confirmation of the varmint.

So, now, the next morning, four mouse traps decorating the corners of the living room, each one unoccupied, I am finally sitting down to complete my thoughts on The Lady and the Beard, yet, as it is wont to do, my mind is not cooperating. At any moment, my wife or daughter or both could wake up and recognize the “danger” that may still exist, and if that occurs, what follows may be unpleasant and loud. It certainly won’t allow further writing. Therefore, allow me to be briefer than usual, while admitting that the film deserves better.

In The Lady and the Beard, Ozu shines a light on the values of young people in the 1930’s, and his verdict is not entirely flattering. At one point, a character questions why his brother invited Okajima by commenting, “Send him away. He doesn’t appeal to us because of his beard. He’s too old fashioned.” It’s a common refrain. Old is out of fashion; hip are record players, jazz, Western-style business suits, and individualism. Paradoxically, this view exists in a country still practicing arranged marriages, a custom that could hardly be considered modern even in 1931.

Our hero eventually becomes aware that his beard is a hindrance to employment - he doesn’t seem to mind the chilling effect it seems to have on his love life - so on the advice of the young woman whom he prevents from being mugged, he shaves the beard. The film then follows him as we see how society reacts to the new him and how it comes to realize that there is still something honorable in the old ways – so long as it comes in the form of a young man with a cleanly-shaven face. The film is humorous, using slapstick to its full advantage and containing easily recognizable film troupes concerning gangsters and samurai. As Okajima, Okada is a noble riot, partly because we recognize his exaggerated motions and facial expression even though his character is displaying them in complete earnest. Equally impressive is Kawasaki as the young woman who recognizes the decent man in front of her. She represents the past as well, from the way she dresses to her soft-spoken manner, the direction she casts her eyes and her ability to sew. In a way, Okajima is her soul mate.

I was less enthralled by the film’s insistence upon making Okajima an unwitting ladies man, yet it fits the genre that film is poking fun at. In many samurai films – especially the Zatoichi series – a morally-fallen woman has her decent side awakened by the morals of a roaming samurai. Here, two women go from being either conceited or wicked to valuing decency and truth after extremely brief meetings with Okajima, and the film is less effective for it. One would have been enough, and I think you’ll agree which one fits the plot. Still, this did not dampen my enthusiasm for the film. I was amused throughout, admired the great work of the cast, and left with a sense that everything had made sense in the end. So far, it’s my favorite of Ozu’s “student” films. (on DVD as part of BFI’s The Student Comedies; it is Region 2)

3 stars

*The Lady and the Beard is a silent film.

*The film can be viewed on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SstkVRkjXeA.

Review - I Flunked, But...

November 23, 2019

I Flunked, But… - Japan, 1930

As a rule, I do not read about a movie before watching it, so I do not know for sure if my assumption about Yasujiro Ozu’s I Flunked, But… is correct. However, I suspect that parts of the film have been lost. For one, Ozu’s previous film, Days of Youth, clocked in at 99 minutes; I Flunked, But… is over after just 63, and before you remind me that many films from the same time period also had shorter running times, I should add that many pieces of the film’s narrative, as well as some of the film’s characters, are woefully undeveloped. More on that later.

I Flunked, But… is about a group of students “preparing” for a crucial series of examinations. I put the word preparing in quotation marks, for their concept of studying is writing pieces of information they think are likely to be on the exam on the back of one of the long-sleeve white shirts that the students wear as part of their uniform. They also employ an interesting technique of getting answers to students sitting further away by sticking them onto the back of the teacher as he is roaming around the classroom. Unfortunately, that technique is far less reliable.

The first day of the exam ends without their deviousness being discovered, so naturally, they immediately head home to prepare a second shirt. Problems arise, however, when one of the boys’ landlady mistakes the “cheat” shirt for one that could use a good washing and sends it off to be dry cleaned. Suffice to say, not everyone passes.

It is here where the film shifts tones. Up until this point, I Flunked, But… is humorous, with several scenes that will make you recall Harold Lloyd’s The Freshman. However, once failure makes its presence known, the film starts resembling a satire. one that is critical of Japan’s exam system and shatters the myth that all one needed to succeed in pre-World War II Japan was a degree . There’s a lot of potential in this plot point, but for some reason, Ozu elected not to explore it. Instead, we get a few serious scenes between Takahashi (Tatsuo Saito) and the girl he likes (Kinuyo Tanaka). In one, she notices the cheat shirt and registers an expression of disappointment, yet this is as far as the film goes with these sentiments. The next time we see her, she has forgotten all about her disillusionment; in its place is intense admiration and hints of budding love. The change is jarring, and I suspect that this is one of the spots from which a scene is missing.

And yet it is in this part of the film that its most interesting topics can be found. It has long been said that in Japan a job used to be guaranteed for life, and nothing we see in Ozu’s film shatters that. However, it does show that employment prospects were not quite as rosy as we’ve been led to believe, especially for someone who just barely passed his exams. After all, if no one wants to hire you, what do you care if employment is permanent?

So, I Flunked, But… has potential; it’s just not fully realized. First, I was never fully invested in these characters. Of the five members of the quintet, only two of them receive quality screen time. The other three just act silly, cheat in humorous ways, and dance the kind of short jig one usually associates with a fraternity in the 1950s. The lead character was so underwritten that he remains an enigma throughout the picture. In fact, if I’m honest, I’d say the most involving character is the one who barely passes his exams because we can all understand his plight. If only he’d received more screen time. Second, Ozu seems to be trying to have it both ways. He wants the audience to laugh at the absurdity of the boys’ behavior, yet respond with sympathy to their uncertainty and lamentations. There’s only one problem: We saw them cheating earlier in the film.

There’s a tendency to give the early films of people who eventually became great filmmakers a pass. To do so, some people seem to be view their films not as completed works, but as a source of stunning fragments that hint at the director to come. I get this; I do. However, no amount of esteem for Ozu’s later films can save I Flunked, But… It’s too disjointed, has weak character development, and, seen though modern eyes, contains eccentricity for eccentricity’s sake. It just doesn’t work. Therefore, there must be something lost. After all, the great Ozu couldn’t have made such a disappointing film. It must be that… Dang it. Now I’m doing it. (on DVD as part of BCFI’s collection The Student Comedies; it is Region 2)

2 stars

*I Flunked, But… is a silent film.

*Apparently, none of the characters in the film have names. I only learned the lead character’s name by reading the insert booklet.

Review - Days of Youth

November 17, 2019

Days of Youth – Japan, 1929

Rooms must have been hard to come by in Japan circa 1929. At least, that was my conclusion upon seeing the number of people who are practically ecstatic at the sight of a makeshift “room for rent” sign in the opening scene of Yasujiro Ozu’s 1929 film Days of Youth. One man even barges in and looks perfectly giddy as he enquires as to room. Alas, he is told it is already rented – the lucky occupant, a student named Watanabe (Ichiro Yuki), simply forgot to remove the sign. However, a moment later, there Watanabe is putting up another sign with an identical message, all the while adorning the kind of smile that usually telegraphs that someone is up to something, and indeed he is. Yet before you start thinking this is an early version of the now-standard tale of a tenant and a new roommate - think either The Odd Couple or Single White Female – it should be said the Watanabe is very much like many other young men his age: He’s looking for love. How exactly he settled on this approach is anyone’s guess, though.

It makes even less sense as the film progresses. Soon a young child is at his door, proclaiming his certainty that Watanabe will like the next one – She’s a real looker, he tells him. And sure enough, in walks a young woman named Chieko (Junko Matsui), whom Watanabe immediately approves of, so much so that soon he actually packs up his things and moves out, despite having no place to actually go to. You can see how this defies logic, but Watanabe is not known for his great ideas. He’s more of the class clown, the joker who livens up the party, but who puts off the truly important things, such as studying for his exams. In his eyes, he has accomplished his goal, to meet a member of the opposite sex and make a good impression on her – although one can reasonably assume that since she thinks he is leaving of his own accord, the notion of being indebted to him probably never crosses her mind.

We are soon introduced to another student named Yamamoto (Tatsuo Saito), We meet him as Chieko is on her way to retrieve her belongings, and it is soon clear that they are on very friendly terms. She is even making him a pair of socks, apparently a sign of affection back in the day. Clearly, Yamamoto has feelings for her, and she does not reject his subtle advances. Later, who should show up at Yamamoto’s room looking for a place to stay? You guessed it, and just like that, our love triangle is complete. In no time at all, Watanabe and Yamamoto go from being jovial buddies to fierce competitors.

Days of Youth is the earliest surviving Ozu film. Prior to it, he’d made 2 shorts and five feature films, all of which have been lost due to either old age, World War II, or the great purge of supposedly “extra” copies of films that occurred during the years the United States occupied Japan. Not having those films to reference makes it impossible to say with any certainty whether Ozu had develop what we now refer to as his signatures techniques and themes: the low camera angle, the shots taken from a distance, the emphasis on family, and the toll that the passage of time has on tradition. Here, we get a pretty straightforward comedy without any overt comment on modern society, and Ozu’s camerawork is much more traditional.

The comedy is hit-and-miss. Ozu excelled at presenting situations that were humorous because of their sweetness and authenticity. For example, in Good Morning, it is easy to accept that two kids would go on strike until they get a TV. Here, it is similarly believably that a young man would try to hide the paint on his face from the woman he is interested in. Less credible is the aforementioned plan involving Watanabe’s room, and a scene in which Yamamoto goes down a ski slope after a runaway ski adds slapstick to a film that previously based its comedy on the situation its characters find themselves in. As for the plot, it’s pretty razor-slim, so much so that screen time is devoted to ski jumps, shots of nature, and long walks in the snow. Even at 99 minutes, the film doesn’t really earn its running time.

On the plus side, the film ends with a surprise, reminding us that part of youth is enjoying the attention of others and having fun before one settles down, and that these experiences are not exclusive to young men. It also reinforces the notion that youth is a time of heartbreak and recovery and that both play an important role in shaping the kind of adult you eventually become. Ozu would make better films in the future, and he would return to some of these themes later on. Here, we get a mere passing glance at a master at work, and for some, that will be enough. (on DVD as part of BFI’s DVD set The Student Comedies; it is Region 2)

2 and a half stars

*Days of Youth is a silent film.

Review - What Did the Lady Forget?

April 25, 2019

What Did the Lady Forget? – Japan, 1937

As I watched Yasujiro Ozu’s 1937 “comedy,” What Did the Lady Forget? I couldn’t help feeling that I was watching a master’s narrative instincts being restrained and undercut. Part of the reason for this notion, I suppose, is that I know what came later in Ozu’s career, and since he tackled similar issues in later films, sans the seemingly obligatory happy ending, it’s possible to interpret the later films as his true feelings on the issues brought up in the film. This is perhaps a more reassuring reading of the context in which the film was made, but it is much better than thinking the alternative – that the film’s tidy and rather controversial conclusions actually reflected his thinking on different generations of men and women and ties that can bind or pull them apart.

The film’s central characters are Komiya (Tatsuo Saito), his wife, Tokiko (Sumiko Kurishima), and their cousin Setsuko (Michiko Kuwano), who is visiting from Osaka. Komiya is a college professor with a rather extensive knowledge of diseases; from all appearances, Tokiko is a housewife, and as such has assumed the role of head of household. Interesting, it is this position that is portrayed as having a rather corrosive effect on women, turning them from sweet to controlling, demanding, and blind to the good that lies in front of them. To Setsuko, a liberated 20^th century woman, Tokiko represents everything that is wrong with society, with its emphasis on conformity instead of individualism and tradition over freedom. Over the course of the film, Setsuko, aided by Komiya, will set out to do what tradition seeks to restrict, things such as smoking (not acceptable for a woman who has not had children yet) and going to Geisha houses (usually reserved for men).

It is a promising set-up, and post-World War II, free from government constraints and propagandist messages, it would have made for a fascinating film. However, for most of its running time, What Did the Lady Forget? is a film that seems in search of a purpose. Sure, the film adequately shows the lack of respect that some members of the young generation have for those older than them, but to what effect? In one scene, Ozu shows two young children playfully mocking a tutor for not knowing how to do a math problem. Are we meant to see how disrespectful the young are, or is the film showing how the older generation is ill prepared for the future? I couldn’t tell. In another scene, Tokiko tells Setsuko to stay home simply because someone needs to stay there (the reason is not fully explained). When Setsuko leaves anyway, I was unsure whether I was supposed to side with Setsuko for rebelling against an unreasonable request or with Tokiko, for whom being disobeyed must be akin to losing face. And there are so many scenes in which these two characters clash that the film begins to feel repetitive and somewhat one-note.

Elevating the film beyond its melodramatic overkill is the soft-spoken Komiya. He clearly loves his wife, yet her interactions with him seem to have devolved into a never-ending cycle of orders, demands, and complaints. She seems to micromanage his life, often relying on what she thinks is a pattern of behavior that both of them will be able to live with, even if doing so means that they do most things apart. Perhaps it is not surprising then that Komiyo is so taken in by Setsuko. It is not so much that he agrees with her whole-heartedly, but rather that she represents something new, a version of himself that could easily take over were he not under the impression that the rewards it yields are rather hollow and short-sighted.

Later Ozu would likely have left the film at an impasse. The gap between generations would remain, and the relationship between Komiya and his wife would still be strained. Wartime Ozu probably didn’t have the option. Perhaps that is why the film’s final act rings so hollow. This is actually an understatement, for hollow does not truly describe the feelings I experienced as the film reached its insulting and jarring conclusion. These are some pretty strong terms for a film by a man as beloved as Ozu, I know, but how else can I describe a film whose core message against complacency is undercut by the sexist suggestion that violence is a man’s way of showing he cares and one in which women are shown being envious of a woman because her husband “cared” enough to hit her?

By the time the movie ends, it is clear what the film’s title is referring to: Tokiko forgot to be “ladylike” and “grateful” for a good man, and it is ultimately this message that Setsuko learns. Her desires and complaints are to be subjugated, and she is to suffer with a smile on her face. She is never to lose sight of just how lucky she is to be loved by her husband, and if he ever raises his hand, it can be justified as long as the slap is the kind that wakes her from emotional slumber and alerts her to the true blessings in her life. Then she can smile and touch her cheek with pride. Yes, her husband cared enough to hurt her. Isn’t she lucky? the film asks. It’s a message that erases whatever good will the film had previously earned and leaves you with just one resounding thought: This is just so wrong.

I don’t mean to suggest that there aren’t parts of the film that I quite enjoyed. There are several humorous scenes involving Tokiko and two of her neighbors that brim with humor and caustic remarks, and they reveal Tokiko’s ulterior motive for sending her husband off to play golf. I also found Komiya’s friendship with his student intriguing, for rarely would you ever see such camaraderie among American professors and their students. There’s also a final heart-to-heart between Tokiko and Komiya that is both revealing and sweet.

However, unlike other films that start off well only to fall apart at the end, the bad taste I was left with after watching What Did the Lady Forget? was so strong that I’d hesitate to recommend it. After all, poor endings can be tolerated so long as they don’t diminish or contradict what came before them too terribly. When that happens, as it did with this film, I’m more likely to advise a film be avoided. Just watch Good Morning again if you are in the mood to be humored by the great Ozu. (on DVD in Region 2 as part of BFI’s Blu-ray release of Early Summer)

2 and a half stars   

*What Did the Lady Forget? is in Japanese with English subtitles.

Review - A Mother Should Be Loved

April 11, 2019

A Mother Should Be Loved – Japan, 1934

I am feeling a bit torn at the moment. While I know what I want to say about Yasujiro Ozu’s 1934 drama A Woman Should Be Loved, I am not as certain just how much I should express. This is, of course, a question that many reviewers grapple with, especially in this age of spoiler alerts and frustration when pivotal plot details are revealed, even from movies for which expectations of secrecy seem rather unreasonable. After all, if you haven’t seen a movie within a few years of its theatrical release, I think you lose the right to demand complete discretion on the part of people writing or talking about it.

However, what do you do with a film like A Mother Should Be Loved? This is a film that has yet to appear on DVD or Blu-ray in the United States. To view it, one must order it from a UK-based website, as well as have a region-free DVD player. And then there’s the Criterion factor. Since the company has put out so many of Ozu’s other films, potential viewers may be waiting for their eventual release of this one, thus making the BFI release something they feel quite safe passing on.

So, here are a few things that people with this mindset should be aware of. First, the bad news. A Mother Should Be Loved is an incomplete film – the first and last reels have been lost, meaning that the film no longer contains a significant part of its set-up and its entire finale – and rarely do films in this state get a formal stand-alone release. On the other hand, what remains of the film has been remarkably well preserved, so much so that it is hard to imagine what even a company like Criterion could add to it, barring the miraculous discovery of the entire film in an abandoned attic somewhere in Japan.

Yet there is another consideration. A Mother Should Be Loved is one of Ozu’s most Japanese films. In describing it this way, I do not mean to imply anything negative about its quality or the performances of its cast. It has all to do with its central conflict, and here is where the spoiler alert conundrum comes in – As Shakespeare might have put it: To reveal or not to reveal? So, read the rest at your own discretion.

A Mother Should Be Loved is about a family that loses its patriarch, a topic Ozu addressed in greater detail in his 1941 film, Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family. Here, the family consists of just four people, and sadly the father dies never having fulfilled a simple promise, that of taking his sons to the beach. I suspect that an American film with this set-up with end with the mother and the two sons looking out at the glorious waters of the blue sea, an act that would symbolize coming full circle. Ozu was never one for such sentiment. The father’s death is never even explained, although from everything we learn throughout the film, it was likely the result of either overwork or cancer, a possibility that casts a pall over later scenes of his sons, now older, honoring their father by taking up his habit of smoking a pipe. Nor is it ever explained how his widow, Chieko (Mitsuko Yoshikawa), makes enough money to send both of her sons to university.

The central conflict of the film arises when Sadao (played as an adult by Den Obinata and as a child by Seiichi Kato), the oldest of the two sons, applies for university and gets his first look at his birth certificate. Spoiler alert: He is not his mother’s son. In an early scene, Chieko is urged by a family friend (Ozu regular Chishu Ryu) to continue raising Sadao as if he were her son, and it is suggested that the deception is necessary for Chieko to be able to raise him as her own flesh and  blood  And here is where I think the film becomes somewhat inaccessible for Western audiences. Thousands of parents take on this sort of responsibility every year, and they do so without the need for subterfuge. In addition, just as many children learn every year that they have been adopted or that one of their parents had been previously married to someone else. Children eventually just accept these things and move on. Even in the more conservative days of the 1930s, it was hardly taboo for a widower to remarry and for his second wife to assume the maternal role for any children he’d had with his previous wife. So when Sadao starts acting cruel to his stepmother and then throws himself on the floor and sobs uncontrollably, non-Japanese audiences may be forgiven for giving a collective shrug and thinking, “What’s this all about?” and “What an ungrateful boy!”

Now, it’s telling that Chieko never expresses these sentiments. In fact, she does the opposite: she endorses them, implying that they are justified, even years later, yet the film never attempts to explain why. What exactly are the social implications of being raised by your father’s second wife? What bearing, if any, does that have on your friends and potential employers? And why doesn’t the truth make Sadao more grateful and sympathetic to the woman who raised him? I wanted to know. Perhaps the intended audience simply didn’t need to.

The film was made in 1934, a time when nationalistic fervor was rising and the Japanese government was on the verge of going to war in Asia. There is no reference to this, yet curiously the film includes one reference to Western influence. In the room of a local prostitute hangs a poster of Joan Crawford’s 1932 film Rain, in which Crawford portrays a prostitute named Sadie Thompson. Sadie is eventually able to escape her old life through marriage with a police sergeant. Perhaps Ozu is suggesting that the prostitute in Ozu’s film has visions of a similar happy ending with Sadao, an example, perhaps, of the West perpetuating unrealistic and culturally unacceptable notions to society at large.

Unfortunately (for Western audiences, at least), the film never moves on from the narrative thread of “stepmother problem,” and that is to the film’s detriment, for what doesn’t resonate early on still doesn’t resonates later. To me, this lessened the impact the film might otherwise have had. I didn’t empathize with the characters as much as I normally do when watching an Ozu film. In fact, I found myself wondering at the injustice of it all. Here was a movie in which a man could move on from grief and find happiness in a second marriage. However, his wife could do neither. She seemed to be required to be in a perpetual state of mourning, never able to move on, never able to find contentment outside of the success of her sons. Her late husband was ever-present, staring down from an altar affixed to the wall, as if he had been all she would ever need for the rest of her life. Again, I wondered why. I know there’s an explanation for it, some rationale that, at the very least, explains the thinking behind such portrayals of women as being capable of eternal loyalty, but it is a concept that Ozu himself moved away from, as evident from the ending of Tokyo Story.

With A Mother Should Be Loved, we get one of Ozu’s most unapproachable films. For some, this will be a challenge and a beautiful one at that. I felt it was an obstacle to any full enjoyment of the film. A Mother Should Be Loved is certainly watchable. It has good performances, and Ozu again puts his mastery of imagery and close-ups on display throughout. However, the film is more likely to be enjoyed as a curiosity, as a blip in the repertoire of a man known for producing far more masterpieces than works of mediocrity. A Woman Should Be Loved, it bring me no pleasure to say, is an example of the latter, much more akin to There Was a Father than Late Spring or Good Morning. It is one of only a small handful of Ozu’s films that I am content to watch only once, and that is a telling statement in and of itself. (on DVD in Region B)

2 and a half stars

*A Mother Should Be Loved is a silent film. 

Review - The Only Son

April 19, 2018

The Only Son – Japan, 1936

Taisho period writer Ryunosuke Akutagawa is perhaps best known as the author of the short story “In a Grove,” which would eventually be adapted by Akira Kurosawa and given the title of Akutagawa’s 1915 short story, Rashomon. Sadly, Akutagawa lived just 35 years, and during his final few, he is said to have worried incessantly that he had inherited his mother’s mental disorder. At the same time, he was also experiencing hallucinations and severe bouts of nervousness. Japanese audiences in 1936 would likely have recognized the name and remembered his struggles, so when they saw the quote that introduces Yasujiro Ozu’s 1936 film, The Only Son, they would likely have been prepared for the kind of story that followed it, and the quote is important. It foreshadows the mood and events depicted onscreen, and, perhaps most importantly, it allows viewers to assess the characters properly. Here’s the quote: “Life’s tragedy begins with the bond between parent and child.” Let that sink in for a moment.

Ozu’s film is primarily the story of Tsune Nonmiya (Choko Iida), a poor widow in Shinshu, Japan, and her son, Ryosuke (Shin’ichi Himori). In the film’s opening scenes, we see and feel what it is like to live in Shinshu – the scorching heat, the dry, desert land, and the mundane, repetitive feel that can accompany a textile job. When a character says that there is no economic future there, we have already witnessed the truth behind the sentiment. It’s no surprise then to hear Tsune declare her intention to do whatever it takes to put him through school. For Ryosuke, this means hope; for his mother, extreme sadness, long working days, and great loneliness, as Ryosuke’s school is in Tokyo.

From there, the film flashes forward twelve years, and we witness a short conversation between Tsune and one of her co-workers. It is noteworthy because in her comments, she praises her son and glows with pride when relating the fact that he has a job in Tokyo. She is even planning to visit. A year later, she makes good on her words, and we see mother and son sitting in a cab together, both of their faces beaming with joy and pride. Look closely, though. Hers is real, his forced.

In this contrast, we see one of the film’s recurring themes – that painful truths are often masked through positive facial expressions, sweet-sounding words, and cultural niceties. In The Only Son, the same wide, strained smile appears on the faces of Ryosuke, Tsune, one of Ryosuke’s former teachers, and a few others we meet. What these characters all have in common is that they are reflecting the burdens put on them by both society and themselves. Society expects to hear great things about those that have an education and live in the city; people want to be able to tell stories that give both them and their siblings honor; and they also want to believe that their efforts have not been in vain. So, they put on a show; looks of contentment adorn their faces, and words of confidence and aspiration spill out of their mouths. Ozu intends for us to identify these scenes as false. It made me wonder, though, whether people interpret them as such in real life.

Interestingly, Ozu does not include any scenes in the more touristy parts of Tokyo. For example, we hear, but do not see, that Ryosuke took his mother to popular areas like Ueno, and this is a wise move. Ozu likely knew that showing those places would alter the audience’s impression of Tokyo, shifting it from slightly negative to rather upbeat, and what Ozu wants Tokyo to represent is an enigma, a towering economic powerhouse that crushes just as many dreams as it makes comes true. It is a city that inspires confidence in oneself – perhaps even overconfidence – only to dash it for those who expect life to be easy instantly. And it is these shattered hopes that can lead to withdrawal. Ozu shows us this in the images that adorn the walls of Ryosuke’s small home and in the movie that he takes his mother to. Instead of being famous icons from Japan, it is Western ones, and the film they watch together is German. It’s telling that Ryosuke watches it wide-eyed, while Tsune has to keep herself from nodding off.

Ozu is sometimes accused of repeating himself, and there are things in The Only Son that re-appear in later films. For instance, Ozu returned to the notion of parents being separated from the children in 1942’s There Was a Father, and in Tokyo Story, a parental visit yields far more disappointment than joy. In The Only Son, Ozu also uses familiar camera angles, again placing the camera further away, giving the audience the feeling that they are on the outside looking in. However, it is the details of each of his films that truly separates them. Here, we are shown what happens when reality doesn’t match our expectations and when survival entails brushing off one defeat and rushing head on toward the next potential one. Survival can sometimes demand this of us, but it is unclear at the end of the film whether anyone has it in them to do it.

The Only Son is a moving film, filled with heart-breaking characters and impressive performances. It tells a fascinating story that made me think about my own family and the times when I have either balked at sharing something or received support that didn’t ring entirely true. In other words, The Only Son touches on universal themes, and therefore, in spite of its subtitles, it is accessible to people from all backgrounds. If I have one quibble with the film, it is its repeated long shots of Ryosuke’s apartment and his home’s surroundings. Some of these are important symbolically, for they establish the area’s status as economically disadvantaged; others, however, can come across as time killers, and many go on a bit too long. A minor complaint about a film that is thought-provoking and poignant. It is not one I’m likely ever to forget. (On DVD from the Criterion Collection)

3 and a half stars

*The Only Son is in Japanese with English subtitles.

Review - Dragnet Girl

May 26, 2016

Dragnet Girl – Japan, 1933

In the run up to the Second World War, it is said that Japan was dealing with a contradiction of massive proportions. On the one hand, there was an official coordinated effort to convince people that the West was Japan’s enemy. However, even as the drums of war began to beat even louder, young people craved all things Western, from the fashion of the day to the vibrant beats of Jazz music. That contradiction cannot have made the government very happy, and it is not hard to imagine that hints – whether subtle or obvious – were given that the film industry had better toe the line. Kurosawa would eventually make Most Beautiful (1942), a film that extols the virtues of a female factory worker who sacrifices her health for the war effort, and Yasujiro Ozu would make There Was a Father (1944), a film in which a father practically calls his son unpatriotic for wanting to spend more time with him. However, in 1933, there was no reason to make films that had the obviously propagandist elements that characterized those later films. Make no mistake about it, though: Dragnet Girl is an example of subtle propaganda.

In the film, we watch a group of petty criminals holds down regular jobs by day and lets loose at night. Their leader is a young woman named Tokiko, excellently played by Kinuyo Tanaka, who dresses like Bonnie Parker, smokes, drinks, and speaks of her boyfriend’s ability to beat up people with an almost erotic zeal. In other words, she’s “western.” She and her boyfriend, Joji (Joji Oka), a former boxer, live in sin and are always on the prowl for the next money-making scheme. One day, at his old gym, Joji happens to meet a young boxer named Misako (Koji Kaga). It turns out that Misako idolizes Joji, and once he is under his tutelage, his behavior goes from bad to worse.

Enter Joji’s sweet, caring, traditional sister, Kazuko (Sumiko Mizukubo). We know she is the film’s moral center almost immediately because she is the only character who consistently wears a kimono. She also has an interesting habit of looking apologetic when people are rude to her; in other words, she’s such a good person that she feels ashamed at having provoked negative feelings in another human being. It’s only a matter of time until she becomes involved in trying to prevent her brother from going down the wrong path, and this of course involves arranging a meeting with Joji.

With a set-up like this, Dragnet Girl could easily have gone down the well-tread path of movies about terrible gangsters who fall in love in the most innocent of women. Fortunately, Dragnet Girl does not follow that script too far. I kept expecting Joji to confess his feelings and promise to be a better person, and I was rather enjoyed the fact that film avoids this scenario. Unfortunately, this does not mean that the film has any other original ideas, for just as quickly as one established genre is disposed of, it employs another one, that of the last job, and we all know how those turn out.

And that may be part of what hampered my enjoyment of Dragnet Girl: I was simply too familiar with films like it to be surprised by anything I saw. I could see what was in store for the characters before they did, and on the few occasions in which something happened that I hadn’t predicted, the actions of the characters seemed forced and slightly exaggerated, as if screenwriter Tadao Ikeda had purposely set out to avoid subtlety. Several conversations go on too long, one in particular in surprisingly creepy (you’ll know which one), and the ending scene goes on much longer than it realistically should, with characters repeating phrases over and over as they run around from one place to another.  In the end, I was more exhausted than moved.

Still, I like the movie. It is an interesting take of Ozu’s favorite subjects, contemporary Japan and its effect on families. Here, the families are broken. The gang, as well as its anti-social actions, is likely the product of absent or deceased parents, and Misako and his sister resemble the kind of makeshift family we so often see when either death or an economic crisis befalls a family. Therefore, there is no one to guide these families, to pull them back from the brink, or to act as the moral glue that binds them to each other and to tradition. These imperfect characters are tasked with keeping their families together, and with  possibly putting them on a better, more law-abiding path. Again, I like all of this – I just wasn’t especially moved by much of it, and I should have been. The cast, in particular, Ms. Tanaka, is excellent, and fans of Ozu’s later films will notice some of those trademark Ozu’s images. Yet, this is one time when Ozu’s magic just didn’t work on me as well as it has in the past. It all just seemed so standard. (on DVD as part of Eclipse’s Silent Ozu – Three Crime Dramas)

3 stars

*Dragnet Girl is a silent film with English intertitles.. 

Review - That Night's Wife

May 12, 2016

That Night’s Wife – Japan, 1930

Not much happens in Yasujiro Ozu’s 1930 silent film That Night’s Wife. I say this not as a criticism, but as an introduction to the notion that a movie’s thrust is sometimes in its actor’s faces and not its script. Here, we get knowing glances between characters who know the truth is too bleak to say aloud, pained expressions on characters trying to put on brave faces, and the ever-changing human landscapes of characters in enormous emotional fluctuation. It is something silent films often excelled at showing, and something that spoken words or long-winded explanations often weakens. Yasujiro Ozu understood this, and, judging from the rest of his work, it is something he never truly forgot.

That Night’s Wife is a family melodrama that would have made D.W. Griffith proud. The film involves a desperate family (Takohiko Okada and Emiko Yagumo), a sick child (Mitsuko Ichimura), and a police detective (Togo Yamamoto), and in its early moments, the audience learns pretty much all they need to know about the plot. In those scenes, a masked man commits armed robbery and then rushes home to tend to his very ill young daughter, who, as their doctor explains it, is facing the toughest battle of her life. To get home, he takes a cab driven by someone who keeps giving him suspicious looks, as if he is on to him – and in truth, he is. From there, the film becomes a waiting game, in which one person is on alert for the slightest slip-up, and the other two wait anxiously for the any hint of recovery.

After a slow start, the film build to a very powerful ending, and the credit for this goes solely to the hard work of the cast, who without words make us understand what a good man driven to desperation goes through and what a man whose job it is to uphold justice is faced with in a situation in which being legally correct feels almost wrong. I also admired the way the mother in the film is never a passive bystander relying on her husband to save the day. At certain points, she displays a strength that is both admirable and a bit worrying. At key points, I began to suspect that she would do quite well for herself on the other side of the law.    

At just sixty-five minutes, That Night’s Wife does not have much time in which to tell its story, and therefore it is slightly disappointing that so much time is wasted in the first quarter of the film. In those early moments, Ozu shows us police cars arriving, policemen lining up to receive instructions, and policemen rushing off to catch their man. None of these actions seems particularly important and it’s unclear what message they are sending. After all, these same policemen enable the criminal to get away. And then there’s the matter of the robbery itself and the film’s McGuffin, ill-gotten gains from the robbery. There’s every indication that the money is desperately needed to pay for the child’s medical care, yet its gain or loss becomes increasingly inconsequential. The visiting doctor never demands payment, and there’s no mention of the prohibitive cost of medicine. This renders the robbery unnecessary, which would be fine if someone in the film acknowledged it and repented. No one does.  Instead, the characters linger, the father at his daughter’s side, the mother trying to protect them both, and the detective watching, waiting, and praying for a slip up.

That Night’s Wife is not in the vein of Ozu’s later taut masterpieces. It lacks complete originality, partly because it bares such a close resemblance to other “sick children stories” that cinema was churning out during the silent period. Mikio Naruse would do a variation of the same theme a year later with Flunky, Work Hard, and Griffith had made The Country Doctor in 1909. Seen in this light, That Night’s Wife may sound like a minor footnote in the career of one of cinema’s giants, yet what the film does better than many similarly-themed films is give the cast time to fully express their angst and inner conflict, and as a result of that, the film builds in both power and resonance and ends in a scene that, while a bit of a cliché, must have had audiences reaching for a handkerchief. In short, Okada, Yagumo, and Yamamoto are a revelation, and their performances alone are enough to recommend the film. (on DVD as part of Eclipse’s Silent Ozu – Three Crime Dramas)

3 stars

Review - Walk Cheerfully

April 14, 2016

Walk Cheerfully – Japan, 1930

I can see what the great Yasujiro Ozu was trying to do with his silent film Walk Cheerfully. The film covers what is by now a well-tread path, one in which a man who has strayed far from the path of decency seeks redemption in someone he considers much better than himself. In most of these films, the man’s initial attraction is followed by failed attempts at talking to her. Eventually though she gives him a chance and discovers that there is more to him than the criminal that everyone warns her to stay away from. To be truly believable, the best of these films devotes a great deal of screen time to establishing the bond and emotional connection between the two characters. I’m reminded of films like Sugar Hill, in which Wesley Snipes’s drug-dealer is so overwhelmed by emotions that he remarks just how little he recognizes the man he has become, a man practically pleading with the love of his life to stay with him. Then there’s John Woo’s The Killer. In that film, Chow Yun-Fat throws away everything he has worked for just to have the opportunity to help the woman he has fallen for get an operation. Sure, it was a variation of City Lights, but I still bought every moment of it. This is not necessarily the case with Walk Cheerfully.

The lead character in Walk Cheerfully is a two-bit criminal named Kenji Koyama (Minoru Takada). When we first meet him, he is masquerading as a helpful bystander, trying to get to the bottom of an apparent pickpocketing. We soon learn that he is the leader of this particular racket and that he and the three other people in his gang form a ragtag brotherhood. He is closest to a fellow con named Senko (Hisao Yoshitani), this despite the fact that his girlfriend is in the group. The woman who changes his life is Yasue Sugimoto (Hiroko Kawasaki), and she slays him not with pleasant conversation or fun adventure, but with traditional dress and sandals for shoes.

The 1980s BBC documentary The Road to War explains that pre-World War II Japan had a love-hate relationship with the West. On the one hand, the West was an enemy, viewed with distrust and seen as being discriminatory toward Japan internationally. At the same time, many Japanese people had a keen interest in all things Western, from jazz to the attire often showcased in Hollywood pictures. This is significant because in the film Kenji plays the trumpet, hangs out in a billiards parlor, and is seen in one unnecessarily long scene trying to learn golf. In other words, he appears to be trying to be Western, and in the film, Western values are seen to lead people down the wrong path. Traditional Japanese values, however, are what can lead them back to the straight and narrow. Propaganda? Slightly, but that’s the least of my complaints about the film.

Films like this one need to devote an adequate amount of screen time to establishing their characters’ attraction and innate goodness, and this is where the film comes up short. The bond between them just never feels fully authentic. It is as if screenwriter Tadao Ikeda, working from an original story by Hiroshi Shimizu, took it for granted that the audience would just accept that Kenji’s life is utterly altered simply because he says it is. I just wasn’t convinced.

Unfortunately Ikeda relied too heavily on comedy to lighten the tone of the film. The comedy mostly comes in the form of Senko, a character that is both a jester and a child in a man’s body.  Yet it also comes across in the off-putting. yet jovial use of dance steps as a greeting between gangsters. These scenes reminded me of an Astaire musical, yet they serve no purpose in the film itself; instead, they use up valuable time that could have been used to establish the budding connection between Kenji and Yasue.

It is a bit of a cliché to say this, but this is lesser-Ozu. While there are elements of what made later Ozu films so remarkable – the focus of variations of family units, for example – the film is unpolished. Only the ending moments of the film made me stop and marvel at Ozu’s style. Long before Antonioni ended L’Eclisse with a montage of haunting images, there was Ozu’s final vision in Walk Cheerfully, which gives the impression of life going on as usual and provides the audience with what could be interpreted as a sign that everything has worked out in the end. It’s a nice touch; it was also too late to resonate fully.

In the end, Walk Cheerfully is watchable, and it will likely be considered a must-see for Ozu fans. Here’s the rub, though. I consider myself one of these fans, yet even I have to admit that this is one Ozu film that I’d have a hard time viewing a second time. And this disappoints me. I wanted to love the film, to see in it greatness and bold vision. The film simply fell short. It happens - even to one of cinema’s masters. (on DVD as part of Eclipse’s Silent Ozu – Three Crime Dramas box sets)

2 and a half stars

Review - A Hen in the Wind

March 6, 2014

A Hen in the Wind – Japan, 1948

Yasujiro Ozu’s post-World War II film A Hen in the Wind may be the bleakest film he ever directed. It takes place in a Japanese countryside that at times seems to have been completely forgotten. With its piles of unused rocks, half-completed structures, and dilapidated buildings, the area has little to suggest much in the way of post-war reconstruction. In addition, instead of homes filled with thriving, joyful families, most of what we see are people struggling mightily to get by in homes so barren that it is immediately apparent just what people have had to do to get by. The film demonstrates just what can happen when a truly decent someone has run out it options. The tale it weaves is somber and deeply moving, and it is likely only the film’s final act that has kept the film from being placed on the same pedestal as many of Ozu’s other films.

The film’s central character is a young woman named Tokiko, wonderfully played by Kinuyo Tanaka. Tokiko has a young son named Hiroshi and a husband named Shuichi (Shuji Sano) who fought in the war and has yet to be repatriated. In a way, she’s lucky. At least she knows her husband is still alive. Many women at this time didn’t. On Tokiko’s vanity is a large picture of Shuichi in a business suit. In the lower left of the picture frame is a much smaller snapshot of him in uniform, a sign perhaps that the majority of their time together has been free of war and strife. The beginning of the film lays bare the depths of Tokiko’s desperation. Having sold almost everything she owns of value, she makes the decision to part with her last kimono. The woman she entrusts its sale to suggests she make money a different way. Making matters worse are the sudden illness of Tokiko’s son and the unplanned expenses that come with it. Just what is someone in this situation supposed to do?

Depictions of women in such circumstances are not uncommon in film. The 2000 film Malena told a version of this story from an Italian perspective; Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima Mon Amour explored it from a French point of view; and Ruan Lingyu practically made a career of it. Here we see it through the eyes of two characters whose traditional upbringings do not allow them the luxury of being able to forgive and forget, and in this way the film is unique. It is also this aspect of the film that may prevent Western audiences from completely embracing it the way they do other Ozu films. In fact, while Tokiko and her husband are both characters audiences can readily empathize with, it is two characters connected to them that they will likely be able to relate to best: Tomiko’s best friend Akiko (Chieko Murata) and one of Shuichi’s colleagues, Satake (Chishu Ryu). These two characters give voice to the very questions that the audience is likely asking – Why did she tell him? and Why can’t he forgive her?

I will not declare A Hen in the Wind a forgotten masterpiece as others probably have. Its ending is far too divisive for that. Yet the film has moments to truly cherish. Many of them involve friends talking heart to heart about times that were much more innocent, times that they know are gone forever. In others, characters talk incredibly honestly about the events that have transpired, and these conversations reveal a great deal about both these characters and post-war Japan. Another fascinating series involves Shuichi’s attempts to deal with both his anger and his growing obsession with doing something -  anything really. We expect conflict to erupt, but Ozu is smarter than that. Instead, he presents us with a realistic and rather enlightening conversation between Shuichi and a young woman whose own state of affairs resembles Tokiko’s. The scene is utterly fascinating, for we watch as his compassion and empathy expands in front of our very eyes.

And then, just when Ozu has lulled his audience into believing that everything will now work out, he pulls the rug out from under us and unveils one of the most controversial and violent final scenes in a film of this kind. It is the type of scene that has the power to deeply divide audiences. However, I have no doubt that the ending, and all that it implies, will stay with viewers long after the credits have ended, just as it has with me. In the end, A Hen in the Wind is an eye-opening look at a time not seen much on the silver screen. It is both compelling and heartfelt. Does it always go where we want it to? No, it doesn’t. But then again, neither does real life. (on DVD in Region 2 and 3)

3 and a half stars

*A Hen in the Wind is in Japanese with English subtitles.

Review - Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family

February 20, 2014

Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family – Japan, 1941

In the opening scene of Yasujiro Ozu’s moving 1941 film, Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family, a rather wealthy family is preparing to take their first picture together in quite some time, and the atmosphere couldn’t be more joyful. In-laws reminisce about their entrance into the family, and there are generally smiles and expressions of good will all around. The preparations complete, the family sits for their picture – all but the youngest son, Shojiro (Shin Saburi), who at that moment is sitting in his room in a house robe, utterly preoccupied with his own activities. For a moment, it seems as if he deems it completely acceptable to appear in the picture in that exact attire, and, from that, we immediately understand the kind of person he is – somewhat spoiled and lacking direction in life, yet quick when motivation strikes. Some time later, the family patriarch and matriarch sit together and reflect upon their day. There was the picture, the lunch afterwards with its savory dishes, and the soothing music and colorful flowers in the park that they walked through in the late afternoon. It was a perfect day. It is also the patriarch’s final one with the family he worked so hard to provide for.

Like Ozu’s later films, Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family reveals the fragile nature of culture and family ties, depicting them as largely depending on there being a figure strong enough to keep everyone on the same path. In many families, this figure is either the mother or father, but in some Asian families, this figure can be harder to pin down. Sometimes there are two maternal figures in the same household – a grandmother and a daughter-in-law. There may also be a father and a grown son under the same roof. In such situations, there can be uncertainty surrounding just who the decision-maker in the family is, and this can cause there to be friction.

In Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family, the father’s death sets off a chain of events that ultimately culminate in a dereliction of filial duty. After the family is forced to sell the family home, Mrs. Toda (Ayako Katsuragi), as well as her youngest daughter, Setsuko (Mieko Takamine), moves in with her eldest son and his wife. The arrangement is met with disapproval almost immediately, and a game of one-upmanship begins, as Mrs. Toda’s daughter-in-law sets out to assert her authority, which, in the process, diminishes her mother-in-law’s. This is the beginning of a year of disappointment for Mrs. Toda and Setsuko, as they shuttle from home to home and experience letdown after letdown, all the while being told in no uncertain terms that they are merely guests – and not very wanted ones at that.

Like Ozu’s other films, Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family is filled with memorable, revealing moments that have an amazing sense of realism to them. In one scene, we watch as memories of seemingly inconsequential events flood Shojiro’s mind after his father’s death, and we watch as he mentally contrasts the man he has become and the man he feels his father wanted him to be. There’s also a fascinating conversation between Setsuko and her childhood friend Tokiko (Michiko Kuwano) over Setsuko’s sudden desire to work and the difference between being the daughter of an employee and the daughter of an employer, and there’s also the heartfelt exchange between Setsuko and Shojiro after Setsuko’s fiancé ends their engagement. His most important message to her: Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you aren’t alone. Of course, there are also exchanges revealing a level of bitterness, division, mean-spiritedness, and overall lack of concern, all of which is somewhat shocking. In one of them, Setsuko is told of the shame her sister would feel if she ever saw her working. In addition, throughout the film, we are reminded of the classism that can exist in places in which there is such a wide gap between the haves and the have-nots. It is as if Ozu is opening the curtains on a darker side of human nature and revealing a series of rather unpleasant truths.  

Having said that, I should also say that Brothers and Sisters of the Todo Family is not as polished as Ozu’s later films. It contains some slightly jarring jumps in time, and it is not always easy to pin down the dynamics of the Toda family. The film has also not been as well preserved as other Ozu films. From the copy of the film that I have, it is clear that the film is in dire need of restoration, as signs of age and deterioration appear throughout it. There are also significant sound problems, as well as occasionally frustrating translation errors. In short, viewers used to watching Criterion Collection versions of Ozu’s films may be disappointed with how the film looks. However, I doubt they will have the same feelings about the film itself. The film has a superb cast, in particular, Saburi, Takamine, and Katsuragi. More importantly, it succeeds at stirring strong emotions and creating deep empathy and serious resentment for some of its characters, and viewers will likely be impressed by the man that Shojiro has become by the end of the film. Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family is indeed a film that is worthy of being discovered. (on DVD in Asia)

3 and a half stars

Review - Passing Fancy

January 23, 2014

Passing Fancy – Japan, 1933

Yasujiro Ozu’s charming 1933 film Passing Fancy begins in a small performance hall where a crowd of mostly men are sitting and listening to a man sing a narrative tale that they have all likely heard before, yet can’t wait to hear again. Such was the esteem that people had for the combination of oral tradition and the stories of old. One of the men present is there with his son, who rests peacefully in his father’s lap. During what the father thinks is the best part of the story, he tries in vain to wake his son up. Let him sleep, another patron tells him. Kids don’t care about these stories. He’s right, of course. The live performance would eventually be eclipsed by silent motion pictures, these films by ones with sound, black and white films by those in color, and ones about real people in real situations by those loaded from head to toe with special effects. As I watched the scene, I could sense that Ozu was making one of those “insider” winks at the audience, and I couldn't help wondering how many people in 1933 caught it. After all, the sound era had already come to North America, and it would soon hit Japan as well.

But I digress. Passing Fancy is not about the movies or 20^th century changes. Rather, it is about a poor father and son, played by Takeshi Sakamoto and Tomio Aoki respectively, living in Tokyo. To get an understanding of their personalities, it may help to think of the stereotypical characteristics of a father and a third grader and reverse them, for while there is every indication that the father, Kihachi, is the kind of guy who would be the life of a party, he is far from being an ideal parent. In fact, his parenting style seems to consist of two approaches: hitting and scolding. In an early scene, we watch as the boy, Tomio, assumes the role of the parent: waking up on time, cajoling his father out of bed after a night of drinking with his good friend Jiro, and making sure his father and his friend leave for work in a timely manner. He does this by swatting his father’s leg with a rather large stick, a technique common among those silent films used to convey comedy. It is less funny here than it might be in a pure comedy.

The first half of the film details Kihachi’s romantic pursuit of a young woman named Harue (Nobuko Fushimi) who is particularly down on her luck. After securing her a place to stay, he begins to envision the two of them as potential man and wife and starts spending more money on her than a single father on a small income should. For her part, Harue is grateful, yet she begins referring to Kihachi as “uncle,” a moniker that immediately conveys her lack of romantic feelings toward him. At the same time, Harue develops a crush on Jiro, who goes out of his way to be distant and rude. Normally, this would be a sure sign of disinterest, but we immediately sense it is a show of respect for Kihachi. After all, true friends don’t pursue women their friends are pursuing. The second half of the film involves Kihachi’s attempts to be both a good father and a responsible citizen, and neither of these roles comes easy to him. He lacks the maturity and common sense needed to be that kind of parent, and his version of accountability seems to involve running away from one responsibility to take care of another one.

The film is both sweet and frustrating. I enjoyed watching Kihachi’s ill-fated pursuit of Harue, yet disliked how little time was spent establishing the mutual interest of the two characters. The audience is just expected to take it on faith that an attachment has formed. More believable is the relationship between Kihachi and the owner of the restaurant he frequents daily, Otome, played by veteran actress Choko Iida. The two of them exchange witty banter that reveals a level of familiarity and kinship that is somewhat rare between characters such as these. In a film from another country, they likely would have ended up together. Here, given their culture and traditions, that may not be possible. But who knows? Passing Fancy is the first of four films featuring Kihachi, so there’s still hope.

As much as there is to like about Passing Fancy, the film is unfortunately an example of a lesser Ozu film. The pacing of the film seems slightly off, its comic moments are not as humorous as they could be, and it relies too heavily on the sudden hospitalization of the child, one of those tried-and-true staples of the family drama, to move the story and its characters along. Here, it seems forced, which is regrettable because it follows one of the more emotional moments I’ve seen in an Ozu film. During that scene, things come to a head between father and son, and the son’s reaction is truly heartbreaking. Another particularly moving moment involves a visit by Tomio’s teacher, who tries to inspire strength in Tomio by expressing his desire to see him “grow into a great man.” It is a reminder of the esteem that teachers have in some cultures and that some would say is sadly in decline. Great moments such as these ensure that Passing Fancy is immensely watchable and interesting. The film just never quite rises beyond that. (on DVD as part of Eclipse Series 10 - Silent Ozu: Three Family Dramas)

3 stars

*Passing Fancy is silent with English intertitles.

Review - I Was Born, But...

January 9, 2014

I Was Born, But… – Japan, 1932

Yasujiro Ozu’s I Was Born, But… is a curious film. A family comedy predominately about the exploits of two young children recently transplanted to the countryside, it contains elements of both drama and social commentary. It also contains what is perhaps the most peculiar opening credit art I have ever seen. As the names of the cast and crew appear on the screen, they do so in front of an oil painting of a startled young man popping out of a budding leaf naked. In fact, if not for his conveniently positioned hands, the sight may have caused quite an unintended commotion. What the art work has to do with the story, I can only speculate, but it seems to reflect the lead characters’ growing awareness of the world and all of its complexities.

The film is told almost exclusively from the point of view of the two children. For much of the film, we see them doing normal everyday kid activities – eating with their parents, playing outside, looking for mischief. We also see them have the kinds of experiences that all parents hope their children are spared from. These involve dealing with the school bully – or bullies – and coping with teachers who do not appear either friendly or overly concerned. In fact, their entire teaching philosophy seems to resolve around discipline and punishment, and as we see time and time again, the students have very little respect for these methods.

In the first half of the film, Ozu devotes a great deal of time to the children and only tangentially to their parents. This creates the impression that very little of significance is happening in the adult world. Yet it should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with Ozu’s work that these early scenes end up being enormously important as the film progresses. They are part of the films broader social commentary on a country whose elite lord over regular people as if they exist solely for their amusement. In fact, there is little evidence that anyone not born into the upper class has any chance of upward mobility.     

The two brothers are played by Hideo Sugawara and Tomio Aoki, and it is uncanny how similar they look, especially in their matching outfits and identical mannerisms. Ryoichi is the bolder of the two, and when his brother, Miyoko, returns home in tears, Ryoichi marches him back to the band of bullies and demands to know who is responsible for his brother’s pain. It is clear that Ozu intends these two boys to be the film’s protagonists, and yet the film seems blissfully ignorant of the fact that through the course of the film the bullied actually become the bullies. And there are key moments in the film when it is easier to sympathize with the former bullies than the new ones.

The parents are played by Tatsuo Saito and Mitsuko Yoshikawa. Yoshikawa does not have much to do in the film, but there’s a nice moment toward the end when she is able to show off her acting skills. For his part, Saito lends a sturdy presence to the film, just as his character, Yoshi, provides stability for his family and a decency that is meant to inspire in his children the desire to excel both academically and morally. However, during several key scenes, Yoshi’s frustrations are unleashed, and the audience is made to understand the level of the man’s anger and pain. Saito plays these moments perfectly, and it is plain to see that Yoshi expected more out of life.  

The film hits its emotional high point after an early version of home movie night, During that scene, several adult males sit on long couches and watch their boss’s latest home movies. It says something that one of the reels contains images of one of them approaching and flirting with two geisha on the street. Seated next to the unsuspecting film subject while these images appear on the screen is the man’s wife, and his boss’s utter nonchalance toward their feelings at that moment speaks volumes. I will not reveal the images that follow, except to say they cause Yoshi great embarrassment and his children, who are watching enthusiastically from the back of the room, great shame. It is in the scenes that follow that Ozu unveils the boys’ final lesson about the real world.

I Was Born, But… is not a film that pretends that society’s injustices can be solved in ninety minutes, and it does not have answers to the bullying, classism, and occasional hopelessness that it focuses a lens on. Instead, its characters are left with both resignation and a glimmer of hope that fate will be kinder to the children than it was to many of their parents. Writing this, I feel I have given the impression that the film is all gloom and doom, completely void of humor and wit. In fact, nothing could be further than the truth, for the first half is filled with warmth, wit, and a great deal of laughs. Like life itself, the film has an equal amount of joy and drama, and, while the film was not quite as enjoyable as some of Ozu’s later films, I for one was quite happy that it did. (on DVD as part of Eclipse Series 10: Silent Ozu – Three Family Comedies)

3 stars

*I Was Born, But… is silent with English intertitles.

Review - Tokyo Chorus

December 19, 2013

Tokyo Chorus – Japan, 1931

Yasujiro Ozu’s 1931 film Tokyo Chorus is a sweet look at the life of a young man trying to establish himself in the world at a time of economic hardship and approaching catastrophic world events. The film is a combination of the genres that most entertained audiences in Japan at the time of its release. It has elements of a youth comedy in which young men act silly and play jokes on their elders and elements of a family drama, one in which a family must contend with hardship in multiple forms. It also has as its lead character a salaryman, a man whom many people in the audience must have seen themselves, their friends, or their children in. We follow salaryman, Shinji Okajima (Tokihiko Okada), from his days fooling around in school to his days years later working as an insurance agent in Tokyo. The years have done nothing to dampen his rebellious nature. The film’s first act strikes a rather humorous tone, and it is filled with jolly pranksters, secretive co-workers trying to sneak a peak at their colleagues’ bonuses, and a verbal duel involving two men engaged in what appears to be a fan-slamming competition. It then takes on a more serious tone and becomes a film about economic survival. That these distinct genres fit so well together is rather remarkable.

After hearing about a senior employee who has been recently laid off, Shinji decides to confront his boss. His efforts, while noble, only lead to his termination. From here, the film focuses on his efforts to keep his family healthy and content, while trying to secure newemployment. It proves harder than he expected. His situation is worsened by the demands of his seemingly spoiled son Sono Chounan (Hideo Sugawara). Having seen all of friends riding shiny, new bicycles, he has decided that he too must have one, and he’ll accept no substitute. His demands reminded me of the children in Ozu’s later film Good Morning. In that film, two children take a vow of silence until their father buys them a television. Here the boy just screams and wails at the injustice of it all, and it is not as easy to empathize with him, especially given the fact that we know why his father didn’t buy him one. To survive, the family must therefore make some tough decisions, and at one point, Ozu gives his audience an important example of one.  He focuses his lens on Shinji’s wife Tsuma (Emiko Yagumo), as she opens her bureau drawers expecting to find her collection of treasured kimonos. Her reaction to the emptiness that greets her speaks a thousand words.

It is a cliché to describe a film such as this one as being about the will to survive and the power of the human spirit, and yet that is exactly what it is. The kinds of events that Sinjo and his family endure are the kinds that indeed try men’s souls and have the potential to cause people to give in to despair. During one such moment, we watch as Tsuma begins to softly weep as she and her family all play a childhood game. It is a bit of foreshadowing that the game involves them sitting close together as a family and finding a way to smile, for this is how they will have to remain if they are to persevere.

The film has been called a family comedy, even though there are far more serious moments in it than comedic, and the performances of its cast have obviously been influenced by later thoughts regarding acting in silent films. Gone are the exaggerated mannerisms that marked the early comedies and dramas of the silent era. In their place are more realistic expressions and hints of actual dialogue being spoken in between intertitles. In other words, it has the look of a modern-day talkie, sans the dialogue.

I mentioned that the film was released not long before the start of World War II. Now, Ozu and the film’s screenwriters, Kogo Noda and Komatsu Kitamura, could not possibly have known that Japan would soon be engaged in one of the most horrendous conflicts of modern history, but I have a feeling that they could sense there was a movement afoot. Perhaps this is the reason that the film’s final act strikes such a somber tone, as the protagonist’s former teacher (Tatsuo Saito), a man who would have lived through the First World War and the trying years that followed, looks at his former students as if their rather joyful rendition of a graduation song is marking their official entrance into an adult world for which they are woefully ill-prepared. It is as if we are watching these characters – so young and full of promise – in their last genuinely innocent moments.

It is true that Ozu made better films, films that compared to this one seem more focused and less repetitive. However, watching this one, I could see evidence of a director that understood the plights of everyday people and knew how to tell their stories. Tokyo Chorus marks a turning point in a career that continues to astound moviegoers, and as such, it is likely required viewing for Ozu’s fans, as well as film buffs curious about the progression of one of film’s most respected directors. More importantly, however, the film is a fun and moving experience. (on DVD as part of Eclipse: Silent Ozu – Three Family Dramas)

3 and a half stars

*Tokyo Chorus is silent with English intertitles.