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Family life is troubled in post-war Japan in Yasujiro Ozu's masterpiece Tokyo Story |
Director: Yasujirō Ozu
Cast: Chishū Ryū (Shūkichi Hirayama), Chieko Higashiyama
(Tomi Hirayama), Setsuko Hara (Noriko Hirayama), Haruko Sugimura (Shige
Kaneko), So Yamamura (Kōichi Hirayama), Kuniko Miyake (Fumiko Hirayama), Kyōko
Kagawa (Kyōko Hirayama), Eijirō Tōno (Sanpei Numata), Nobuo Nakamura (Kurazō
Kaneko), Shirō Ōsaka (Keizō Hirayama)
When you think about Japanese cinema, many people’s minds
turn to the work of Kurosawa, or high tempo manga animations. But there is
another side to Japanese cinema – a more careful, meditative, almost lyrical
side – and few directors express that better than Yasujirō Ozu. Tokyo Story is his masterpiece, a film
so masterfully put together – but also so restrained and simple in its telling
– its reputation has grown until it is considered a contender for the greatest
film ever made.
Ozu’s trick with Tokyo
Story is to tell a story that is focused on a very particular time and
place, but also brings with it a universal relevance. Elderly married couple
Shūkichi (Chishū Ryū) and Tomi (Chieko Higashiyama) travel to Tokyo to visit
their grown-up children, doctor Kōichi (So Yamamura) and hairdresser Shige
(Haruko Sugimura). But their children now have their own work and life
pressures – living in small, crowded homes in Tokyo that double as business
places – and they just don’t have the space or time to spend with their
parents. The only person who makes their time for them is their daughter-in-law
Noriko (Setsuko Hara), the probable-widow of their son who went missing during
the war and has not been seen in over eight years.
Ozu’s film is about a transition in Japanese culture, as the
country modernises in the post-war environment and the natural deference and
familial links that had previously powered much of its way of life began to
fade in importance. Families are now distant, patience and respect between the
generations is fading, and many in the elderly generation struggle to understand
their children. In the same way, the younger generation forge their own lives
and see their priorities change from those of their parents. This is an acute
issue at this post-war era of Japan – but who hasn’t experienced some level of
this inter-generational confusion?
That’s perhaps why Tokyo
Story carries as much impact as it does. A quiet, reflective and gently
paced film, it’s striking that it doesn’t place blame or cast characters as
heroes or villains. Instead, everyone is, by-and-large, trying their best,
struggling with pressures of their own. While it’s easy to see the children as
uncaring – it’s also clear that their own lives are hugely busy, with demanding
workloads and the homes they live in are small, cramped and difficult for them
to live in. Shige and her husband effectively sleep on the floor of their
hairdressing parlour. Kōichi struggles to fit himself, his wife, two children
and a doctor’s surgery into what looks like a pretty simple two-up-two-down
home. While the children are frequently thoughtless – or quick to persuade
themselves that what’s easy for them is also easy for the parents – the film
makes clear that there are reasons for this.
Nevertheless our sympathies are clearly meant to lie more
with the parents rather than their children. Polite, quiet and determined to
think the best of their children, the parents are reserved, dutiful relics of a
very different Japan. They fall over themselves to thank their children for any
time or patience shared with them, and feign enjoyment of the spa (packed full
of young party people) their children send them to as a treat (it takes one
night of no sleep for them to decide, quietly, to leave). These are people
determined not to rock the boat, resolved that everyone is acting for the best.
However, it is clear the emotional impact of these events is
greater than they might expect. Shūkichi, it emerges, has a history of too much
drinking – and a few days in Tokyo is enough for him to hook-up with some old
drinking buddies and stumble into Shige’s home late at night, drunk as a skunk.
But the emotional impact is also clear in their growing closeness and regard
for their daughter-in-law Noriko, the only person in Tokyo who seems to make an
effort to spend time with them, rather than their own children.
Superbly played by Setsuko Hara, with a gentleness, slight
timidity and genuine sense of kindness that makes her the warmest character in
the film, Noriko thinks the best of everyone and desires all to be happy. For
her adopted parents, however, her good treatment slowly awakens to them to the
way Noriko has put her own life on hold since the disappearance of their son.
His photo still hangs like a shrine in her home, and she shows no interest in moving
her life on. Warm and kind as she is, she is as lonely as the parents. Tomi in
particular becomes overwhelmingly concerned for this vulnerable person –
perhaps a child that needs her protection in a way her own children no longer
do. Staying the night at Noriko’s, their conversation touches – in a very
reserved way – on deep emotional trouble. Tomi stresses her desire for Noriko
to be happy – and as they go to sleep seems to be overcome with tears and
emotion. But she won’t speak openly of her worries for Noriko.
It takes later events, and Tomi’s later illness, for
Shūkichi to broach the subject openly, kindly telling Noriko that both of them
worry about her future happiness and her waiting for a man who will never come
back from the war. They urge her to
restart her life – a suggestion Noriko meets with an emotional out-pouring of
tears, but also perhaps a sense of being given permission to re-start her life.
This emotional content plays out with all the more power due
to Ozu’s restrained and quiet shooting style. A huge majority of the film is
shot in mid-shot, with the camera positioned at the height of someone kneeling
on a tatami mat (Ozu called them his
“tatami shots”). This has the impact
of making events play out gently in front of the viewer, a bit like a play, but
giving things a strangely intimate stillness. The sort of cinema language we
are used to – cross-cutting and over-the-shoulder shots for conversation – is
completely absent. Ozu rarely cuts, keeps the camera more-or-less stationary
and only occasionally throws in shots where the characters deliver dialogue
effectively straight at the camera. This effect in particular adds to the
intimacy, making us part of the scene with the characters expressing their
thoughts or concerns directly to us.
In addition, Ozu beautifully allows scenes to both gradually
play in and out. The cutting of most scenes allows an establishing shot of a
location, followed by a prolonged series of tatami
shots that start before the scene proper begins and then frequently continues
for a few moments after the scenes finish. Again this makes the film all the more
personal, as the characters expand and live beyond the confines of the
requirements of the scenes. Watching characters silently continue to pack – or
quietly sitting having run out of things to say – in some way carries as much
power as dialogue, and really immerses you in the world of the film.
This quiet, meditative effect becomes increasingly
engrossing, as Ozu’s slow-paced, gentle filming style lets this small-scale
story play out very effectively. Although not much really happens in the story, this story of miscommunication between
the generations gains a universal strength the more you let yourself get lost
in it. The acting is excellent, with Chishū Ryū (playing a character twenty
years older than him) and, in particular, Chieko Higashiyama extremely moving
and heartbreakingly real as the parents. But what really gives the film its
heart – and its sense of hope – is the beauty of Setsuko Hara’s Noriko. It’s
this character that provides the hope for a warmer, stronger, more
understanding future for all. As Noriko returns to Tokyo at the film’s end –
cradling a gift – we hope that a cross-generational understanding is in our
grasp.
Ozu’s final shot features the sounds of traditional
children’s singing being drowned out by a train. It’s a sign of how progress
has changed our society – but the film carries enough hope for us to promise
ourselves that things will get better.
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