After the close of World War
II, the west discovered the charms of Japanese cinema. The hero of the era was
the great Akira Kurosawa, whose lively blood-and-guts productions, like Yojimbo
(1961) and Sanjuro (1962), meshed well with western sensibilities. In
Kurosawa’s swashbuckling screen epics, Toshiro Mifune became an international
star. It’s not surprising to learn that Kurosawa’s formative influence was
American westerns. No wonder fans of the classic American action flick revere
the Japanese master whose Seven Samurai (1954) was the source material
for The Magnificent Seven.
Then there was Yasujiro Ozu,
whose fifty-odd films were less prone to capture the imagination of western
viewers. Ozu’s spare style and avoidance of on-screen theatrics give his movies
a Zen-like simplicity that lacks obvious audience appeal. Yet film-lovers
worldwide have discovered Ozu, seeing in his intensely Japanese subject matter
a universality that is unexpected but profound.
Tokyo Story (1953) is Ozu’s acknowledged masterpiece. At first
it’s not entirely obvious why this modest story is held in such high esteem,
but a serious filmgoer who doesn’t expect fireworks is soon drawn into its
orbit. The plot is simplicity itself: a
long-married couple from the old seaside town of Onomichi travel to visit their
married children in Tokyo. The children are not overtly unkind to their elderly
parents, but their busy lives (as a doctor, as the owner of a hair salon) keep
getting in the way, and it’s soon decided to pack the old couple off to a spa
where rowdy fellow guests make their stay miserable. Only the widow of their
second son, killed in World War II, interrupts her daily obligations to make
time for them, for which they are genuinely grateful. The portrait of old age
is touching (even though we discover they’re only in their sixties – yikes!),
and we commiserate fully with them in gratitude for any scrap of kindness.
There’s a melancholy ending to the story, which reinforces our sense of the
passage of time and the evolution of family relationships. The characters may
be Japanese to the core, but their situation is familiar, I think, to us all.
In keeping with his
reputation as the most Japanese of Japanese filmmakers, Ozu’s film makes
profound use of the sense of place. Though there’s little room (or budget, I
suspect) for aesthetic flourishes, we quickly see the difference between little
Onomichi (in Hiroshima prefecture) and the big metropolis. Onomichi is visually
represented by traditional tile roofs, a quaint Buddhist temple, and a small
boat plying its way across the local waters.. Every time the scene shifts to Tokyo,
the screen is assaulted by belching smokestacks. The couple’s children, who
wear western dress instead of traditional kimono, live in tightly packed urban
dwellings, unfolding their futons every night. and packing them up in the
morning to make for living space, however cramped.. Ozu favors a low-angle camera
that barely moves, and his straight-on capturing of the life that goes on in
and around shoji screens makes Japanese home architecture seem much like
a stage set.
I learned to speak Japanese during my college
years, and used it daily when I worked at Expo ’70 in Osaka. Tokyo Story made
me profoundly nostalgic for Japanese linguistic formality and regional accents.
Though any thoughtful person can appreciate this film, I feel lucky that the cultural
nuances on screen (which doubtless would seem profoundly dated to a modern
Japanese) did not pass me by. Moreover, I’ll long cherish the film’s depiction
of the unstated but profound love between a pair who are no longer young.
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