It's been from day one since starting this blog of mine, frankly, that I wanted to take some time and get back to you with thoughts on the one man whom I consider to be really the greatest director of all time: Ozu Yasujiro, born in Tokyo, Japan, December 12th 1903, who died on his 60th birthday exactly in 1963, and I would like to dedicate this post to him and his works (I am not the first, I know).
Out of the 54 films he's supposed to have shot during his career, only 36 have come upon us to this day and laudably Tartan Video lived up to the occasion of his 100th birthday in 2003 to re-release in formidable fashion and quality some 8 of his better known masterpieces to DVD. For all the facts, visit the official site here.
I would assume however that most of you are in fact quite familiar with Ozu and probably cherish his films just as much as I do. Being a real and proven classic though, it doesn't hurt to remind oneself of the simple truth of his genius from time to time and maybe have another go at the movies one remembers having seen once. And should indeed somebody out there and in here happen not to be familiar with this cinematic master, well, no reason certainly to be ashamed, rather a very good opportunity to change it, now.
Speaking of the best, it seems only appropriate to speak about his best, which in the case of Ozu arguably is his legendary, his defining “Noriko Trilogy”, comprising the three films “Late Spring” (1949), “Early Summer” (1951) and “Tokyo monogatari” (1953), with the last being a film as close to perfection as may possibly be achieved. I won't bother you with any summaries here, just as Ozu himself didn't bother to concern himself with plot too much. For it's a trifle, come to think of it, hardly more than kid stuff to please a very base concept of entertainment and a handy feat to still an appetite for drama that in essence betrays no other than an astonishing lack of understanding of just what it really is, drama, what it is made of. No, instant gratification is not what you will get out of watching any Ozu film, this kind of cunsumerist behavior you'll have to abandon with firm resolve and be willing to give yourself over to longer lines of feeling instead. With Ozu, there are no short-cuts, sorry!
My advise, if advising you I may, would be to watch the Noriko Trilogy in its entirety, all three films back to back, and to do it twice.
It is not by accident that Ozu denoted the last of the three films that constitute this trilogy as a “monogatari”, literally meaning something like a “narration in the old style”. And fittingly, there is a lot in all Ozu films and the way in which he tells them, to remind you of precisely those qualities which made tales such as the Genji monogatari the very classics they have become. With his stories it is more a delicate, almost gossamer-like weaving together of seemingly redundant, ephemeral verbal exchanges and things done routinely if not in passing rather than in a purposeful way, that are part of their unfolding. It is a subtlety not to be mistaken for bland simplicity. They are constantly oscillating between a foreshadowing of turns and directions and their resulting afterglow, the workings of some higher light, you might say, intensely human and highly addictive, the films of the Noriko Trilogy, so affecting indeed, you will find it hard to part with them at the end, keeping fond memories of the characters for some time to come.
Watching these films, you'll learn quite a lot about the insides and outsides of housings, of rooms as well as people, you will learn about human emotions, their considerable depths and limited reaches, their wondrous ways, about people you know just as much as yourself, maybe. You'll come not only to like these characters whose psychologies are laid out before you ever so discreetly, but you'll learn not to judge them, which is more than your average art-house film does achieve, is it not? Ultimately you will engage with them, not just watch – a remarkable experience for sure.
When taking to these films, however, bear in mind that it is a different Noriko each time, but that in fact knowing them all (and the other Ozu regulars, their respective “parallel persona” as well) does lend additional layers to each film on any second viewing. This works to the effect of giving you the extra thrill if you like of having an ever so slight clue lurking around the corner or, more precisely, shimmering through the fabric of the near at hand as to what else could be possible beside the actual. A perfect visualization of life's reality, I would call it, a truly great cinema experience, where you can begin to read this overlapping rhythm as Ozu's equivalent to your traditional timing, where there is no such thing in the common sense at least, but a pacing instead, a tide actually, almost like there is to life itself in his films, imparting them with a very unique feeling of reality being resolved into a truthful expression of art.
Beware not to give yourself over to any feelings of cheap nostalgia, though. It might be possible to mistake the peculiar patina of the Noriko Trilogy, of Ozu's films and showings, for what they are not, namely some idyllic idealization of representative surfaces from times gone by. Such an approach would be entirely beside the point, really, by indulging in some sweeping fondness for the films' historic, their documentary value in portraying and bringing to life a world long lost, a past just as alien to present-day Japan as to any unfamiliar Westerner.
No, quite to the contrary, there is a distinct quality of social critique incorporated in these films, a further dimension not to be neglected, as there actually are things at stake here, serious issues raised and treated accordingly. Accordingly that is, with respect to the times they were made in, not some detached, extra-temporal aloofness, but a very real Japanese society swiftly changing and facing many challenges as it were, in the defining early 50s. At times, I know, the films sheer beauty may want to pass at face value, almost as if on its own accord, but do try to find yourself into this world and you'll gradually come to see just how much more rewarding such an attitude of empathy can be, how much more intense.
For Ozu, for all his legendary formalism and despite, you might say, what he has come to stand for in much if not most of learned writing on film history out there, doesn't shy away from harsh reality. He addresses it alright, but on his own terms. Yes, it is true, Ozu captured an era onto film that was, even at his time, beginning to lapse into the past, and quickly so, if it wasn't for his dedication to prevent it from irreversibly fading from collective memory altogether and all too soon. Even so, it is no pastoral he portrays or is trying to sell, that much is clear to me, but a world in transience, a way of living that has its very own dignity and particular nobility at times, which he tries to preserve and pay his respects. And then (but only then), all aspects of mutability eventually transcend their time and acquire a universal, a timeless meaning.
As far as visual grammar is concerned, well, in the face of these foundation-laying masterpieces, I would strongly advise you to forget about all that. Compared to the real article presented here, it all becomes impossibly hypothetical, stilted stuff, the very heavy-handedness of which by comparison betrays it as nothing but mere theory. You will learn to see anew, you will in fact see as if for the very first time, watching an Ozu film. Feel into his every frame, let his grandiose shots do all the telling and you'll soon enough find yourself transported by their profundity and lucidity.
Finally, watching an Ozu film, or the entire Noriko Trilogy for instance, which I highly recommend you to do, you will come to see pictures, so stunningly composed and imbued with meaning, even Hopper would've envied them. You'll witness dialog, so intricately casual as to prove DeLillo's theory on cheesiness, so much so in fact, as to almost prove him wrong.
With Ozu you'll experience simplicity and grace redefined (Noriko in “Tokyo monogatari” surely is the almost otherworldly epitome of that very term: grace), and it was him, who put many by now well established vignettes on to our visual record, built it, basically, laying the groundwork for much of what was to come. Today, I would reckon, there is not a single director out there, has come up with any decent film to speak of, who hasn't in one way or other been influenced by this, the greatest director of all time.
To me, composition and the works of this master have become synonymous, and seeing these films all over again, it feels like a return to story telling in its purest, its original sense, when in fact he was quite an innovator. And remains so to this day. All of this, I should add, is easy enough for you to find out for yourself, simply by comparing him to others. He'll stand any comparison, I guarantee you that. (pics©Shochiko co., Ltd.)
