Peccary Gloves: An Ozu Blog

Our modern conception of filmography is blinded by theatricality: every scene is clear, concise, and attention-grabbing.Theatricality often overlooks the true banality of life, which is something Ozu sees differently as a director. Rather than shying away from what most directors would deem boring or too realistic, Ozu runs towards it with enthusiasm and some degree of recklessness. The transitions in Tokyo Story show us one of the clearest examples of Ozu’s deliberate choice to spurn traditional formats and show you what he’s really interested in showing: the full picture. Ozu often shows scenes that are entirely unnecessary to the story he is telling. We see Kyōko at the start of the film, after exiting the room where her parents are packing, leaving the house. From a theatrical point of view, this shot serves no purpose: seeing Kyōko leave the house adds nothing to the story that leaving the room with her parents didn’t. If this was a modern film, we might mistake this for bad editi...

     Noriko is highlighted throughout the film and by its viewers for her kindness, her compassion.  She is the only person to take a genuine interest in Tomi and Shūkichi, seemingly outside  of obligation and without patronization.  However, she also seems to rely on tradition to guide her behaviour, taking guidelines as strict rules, to the point of possibly sacrificing her personal happiness. This is most obvious with her continued devotion to her husband, Shōji, and his photo. It’s a little hard to see, but Shōji’s photo appears to be on the top of a simple cabinet or wardrobe with a candle to one side. There doesn’t seem to be anything else, at least not anything easily identifiable, that would  make this a family altar. This appears to be a shrine to Shōji, instead of an altar for worship. Noriko  might not be particularly religious, but she still appears to havecreated an altar, and instead of it being  a place for ...

  Tokyo Story is a dirge about growing up. In this film, Ozu focuses on the dilemmas of growing up in three generations: adolescence, middle age, and old age, and the sadness embedded in the scenery shot is that all these dilemmas are subject to the growth of Tokyo as an industrialized city.  At the beginning of the story we see a traditional filial family in which parents and children each have their place; smoke rises from the rooftop cooking and rises to the orderly shrine, and outside the window the neighbors are friendly enough to entrust the house to her care with confidence. But unlike a traditional countryside tale with the chickens crowing and the dogs barking, from the first second of the film, the train whistles throughout the township.  03:18, the train looks so small comparing to the houses Compared to the various concrete places in Onomichi, where Shukichi and Tomi live, the train occupies a small and insignificant part on the screen, as if it is no more th...

    The welcoming of Shukichi and Tomi into Koichi and Fumiko’s house is followed by a disruption of Minoru’s space. The movement of Minoru’s desk suggests that his house does not have the natural space to accommodate more people and builds on the idea that the introduction of Shukichi and Tomi is in fact disruptive to this household. Koichi’s doctor’s office is also in his house and we see the children accommodate this room instead, when otherwise they may have moved into the living room. This is where we later see Minoru studying and where him and his little brother move to during their tantrum. It is interesting to see Minoru’s transition as he settles into the doctor’s office, studying, but also when his disappointment spills out of this space (when he throws something outside). This could mean that the children learn to adapt, perhaps naturally and due to the force of their elders, into a new environment. Conversely, the shots of the elders, especially in the kitchen...

At about 1:11:30, Shukishi is drinking in a bar with friends after being kicked out of his children's house. His friend, the former police captain, complains about how he raised his child to do better than he is, and even get's so upset about the situation that he confesses to often lying to others in order to make himself look better. The police captain asks Shukishi, concerning his children and how he raised them, "you're satisfied?" Shukishi answers that he is not, and even is disappointed after seeing where his children have ended up,  "but we can't expect too much from our children." Shukishi acknowledges times are changing , and asks his friend to see that as well. Even if his son has changed, he is still trying to be understanding that things are different in Tokyo. Despite being seemingly neglected by his own children, Shukishi is not bitter. Later in the movie, once Tomi and Shukishi leave Tokyo to return home, Tomi falls ill. At about 1:2...

     The sequence at Atami is important in the development of Tomi and Shukishi’s relationship because it allows us to see them alone together for an extended period of time. The scene where they’re trying to sleep is particularly revealing.        At the beginning of this scene, we see a group of young people playing Mahjong in a crowded, smoky room. The camera lingers in this room for longer than seems necessary, immersing us briefly in the atmosphere, which is (as Tomi observes later) lively. While I felt bad for Tomi and Shukishi, I wasn’t particularly annoyed by the hotel guests, who are just having fun in a manner typical of young people.      There are two transition shots—the bustling hotel corridor, and Tomi and Shukishi’s sandals outside their room—which highlight the contrast between the previous scene and the next one. Then we’re inside Tomi and Shukishi’s bedroom, where they lay in silence fanning themselves. When Tomi asks ...

When the parents are staying with Shige, she calls Noriko to ask her to take them somewhere, since she herself  can’t  take a day off work to spend time with them. Noriko takes a day off and shows the parents around Tokyo, then invites them back to her apartment . This incident might seem like a clear way to contrast the characters of Shige and Noriko: Shige, the daughter, decides that she is too busy with work to spend any time with her parents, but Noriko, the ex-daughter-in-law,  manages to get the day off because she cares  about the parents. But I’d like to look at it from a different angle and see if  I can understand these two characters in a  more complicated  way. While Shige is easy to blame because her treatment of her parents is the most obviously mean out of all the children, her character is in some ways  more relatable than any of the others .  She doesn’t treat  her parents  any worse than the others do, but she is m...

  The music of the opening credits of Tokyo Story quickly develops from something dreamlike, to something you might expect in a war film, to something trivial, when finally, the main theme emerges: We will call it the yearning motif. The main theme fits the film in a general way. The music sounds romantic and subjective, written from the inside out; the drama of the film is almost entirely interior, left to be felt subjectively by the characters rather than communicated. I viewed the film again making an inventory of when we hear the yearning motif, and the list helped me to see a new unity to the film.  We hear the motif something like six times: 1) When Tomi takes her grandson for a walk 2) When Tomi and Shukishi sit on the sea wall and decide it's time to go home 3) When the couple is practically homeless at the train station in Tokyo 4) When we are back in Onomichi and the children and doctor are sitting around Tomi's deathbed 5) After Tomi's funeral, after the departu...

Capturing melancholy on screen  - HH  I think that one of the geniuses of Ozu is how he can get the tone of the scene so right. There are a few scenes where the emotions of the scene overwhelm me, and today I would like to talk about the scene when the Tumi and her grandchild go for a walk.     The context of the scene is that Koichi is going to take his parents and kids out, but he is caught up with a patient. The whole family is left disappointed. Tumi decides to take both of her grandkids for a walk, but Minoru stubbornly refuses to go because he is upset about not being able to go out. We talked a bit about how Tumi and Shikichi don’t really want to see Tokyo, but the things they want to see above all are their children and grandchildren. This is evident in the fact that even though Tumi does not get to go out and visit Tokyo, she still wants to take her children for a walk. There is a desperation in her effort to connect to the later generations. Throughout this...

  The first technical thing I really noticed in “Tokyo Story” was the way the camera was used. It’s quite different from movies I have seen I the past. Often times, it is placed on the ground, or we see the characters through a doorway, sometimes several doorways away. I find that the camera on the ground can inspire different feelings. In some, I feel it gives a sense of closeness. These are the shots where people are sort of “stacked” against each other, such as some of the first shots, where we see Shukichi and Tomi in their home. To me, the shot gives us the feeling that this place is lived-in and a little cluttered. The most striking thing, though, is that actors are situated so that they seem to be a part of the scene they are in and match their surroundings. They seem to belong where they are, and I think this is really reinforced in the way the camera is on the ground. It gives it a feeling of being grounded.           ...

    Koichi's face is so immobile in comparison to the rest of Tokyo Story's characters. Even if there is some insincerity behind the smiles of Fumiko and Shige, they are still smiling. Noriko's expressions can convey profound emotional conflicts and contradictions. Koichi seems different; his face, as far as I can tell, shows neither the truth of what he feels nor a fictional emotion he wishes to portray. Even when he speaks, he seems to be trying to keep his mouth as still as possible, rigidly controlling every motion of his face. And this restraining of self is present throughout what we see of him; he must constantly bury his emotions in order to fulfill his duty - looking after his visiting parents, sacrificing his leisure time to care for a sick child - but it seems that he cannot simply resort to deception. Instead of presenting the false emotion or expression that would suit the situation, Koichi tries to suppress any display of emotion. I suspect he believes that,...

                              Shukichi blinks a lot and wears a small smile.  Like his tone of voice, they seem say, "oh, it's alright. I don't mind that you have to work. A good doctor is a busy doctor. I'll go to bed."  But inside he dies from living with the pain of knowing the suffering he caused to his children. Now, older, condemned to wonder, "am I a nuisance to them?" Does he feign interest in the castle they pass or is he genuinely interested? He looks like a man trying to enjoy himself despite a deep and unforgettable pain—a despair—brought into clear relief when considers his children are not with him. I imagine him trying to mask the pain inside, saying to himself, "they would be here if only they weren't so busy." He is of the old school, the generation on its way out and he is powerless now. His greatest effect on his children is the one he caused them years ago when he was a d...

          I'm really interested so far in the dynamic between the grandparents and their relatives, and how that translates over into their actions. This specifically comes up when Tomi and Isamu are outside in the field. The scene is peaceful and first, the two characters seem like they're talking before Isamu runs off. The bells in the music make it seem whimsical and sweet. Isamu is wandering around, ignoring his grandmother as she talks to him. She questions whether she's still going to be around when Isamu grows up, and she seems so resigned with it. After this, the bells drop away and the violin takes the melody, which serves to make the scene feel much more forlorn. Isamu is very little, so I don't know how much I'd expect him to really get what she's asking, but Tomi already seems distanced from her family, and she's very much aware of this. This is enhanced through much of the scene being shot either from far away, where it's just the silhouette...

  Peccary gloves are luxury. Incidentally, I own them. Some kids tell me, "Uncle, you are stylish." I may be pretty stylish after all." (Ozu, 1933, age 29) This blog is a collective voyage of discovery into the great ocean of Japanese cinema, focusing on the films of Yasujiro Ozu and a few others. We'll be writing, talking, drawing, filming, in an endeavor to understand Ozu's films creatively as well as critically. His films seem at first so simple, so unassuming, so mundane, but on deeper acquaintance perhaps they are "pretty stylish after all" -- indeed, full of sudden depths and subtle beauty.