Why Watch Movies Anyway? An illustrated double feature. Lozuaway McComsey

Why do we even watch movies? Shouldn’t we be reading, or making something, making love, eating or, best of all, sleeping? What is it about movies that keeps me awake? Literally, why do I lose sleep to watch them (and also, to be fair, the occasional novel)? There is something magical, and more encompassing, than say, looking at a painting or photograph or, yes, reading. And which is the nearest thing to a movie? Pictures, paintings or photos, as a movie is made of a bunch of them (and yes, there is a movie that is entirely painted frames—it’s about van Gogh.) Or novels with their stories? Or is it a soundtrack? 

Because the first thing is, movies have audio, which of course, music also has. But I’m not one for listening to music. It’s background noise. I'd rather nap or let my mind wander for 90 seconds before starting something. Ozu, generally, uses music like the 90s food pyramid said to use fats and sugar: sparingly. It’s awesome. Sometimes it adds to the mood, like in the beginning of Late Spring. But Tokyo Story is basically just talking. So yeah, the musical part of a movie is important, and nothing intensifies the mood of a scene like silence. Enter the visual part of the movie. The "moving pictures," if you will.

Ozu is a special kind of movie maker. He doesn’t use a lot of cuts, nor moving camera shots, rather, he spends his time meticulously setting up still shots and telling the actors where to go and when and, by taking dozens of takes, can capture pretty much exactly what he wants in their faces and gestures. Hence all of these drawings—many are of actors’ faces, but some are landscapes, essentially still images, and both add layers to the story. The smoke stacks let us know there is industrial influence near Tomei and Shikuchi’s house: It’s not the purely pastoral environment we would have envisioned based on the views of docks, tree covered mountains and a train moving through slowly. These “pillow-shots” are landscapes. When he does use music, it is usually during these shots—it gives us a respite between the intense faces and work of the actors. 

                         

I'm gunna go ahead and wager that this stuff is intentional. He's not scrolling through Clipart, pulling out stuff that looks good. He's designing these shots as a painter does a painting. Where people stand matters. When we see Dad, Mom and Daughter all sitting in a row with the father in front, we can infer that he might be the leader. And we can look at their faces.

We see in their faces the internal life of the characters coming out. Noriko’s dad, in Late Spring, is on vacation with her, goading her to leave. He wants the best for her, but we, if we are attentive viewers, see his face flicker with pain. He’s helping her to leave but he doesn’t want her to leave. We can see this in a painting, but it would be stuck on his face. Watching it in a film allows the viewer to dive more deeply into the art the more they pay attention. And we are rewarded for staying present as it is only a moment. Of course, this is true of paintings as well, but the constant motion of a film, for me at least, keeps me intrigued and less distracted. Things are changing before my eyes, whereas a painting, it changes only in my mind. 

Ozu’s use of motion, or rather, the lack thereof, is the most artistic and beautiful aspects of his movies. Characters leave a room or hallway but the camera lingers. We linger. We are voyeurs, seeing a world we can never actually be in in real life: an empty room. Our own presence fills it. Watching a curtain blow in the wind, a plant grow, birds play in their cages, and I wonder, was Heisenberg right? Does viewing this change the observed? I wouldn’t say it is naughty voyeurism per se, but something more like divine. We are seeing something more peaceful, more lonely and lovely: the film rolls and yet, often, nothing really moves. All paintings, whether still-life or not, appear still. Ozu does something different when he turns the active world into something quiet and still. These are the shots I remember and love. 

He takes the humanity out of the world. A train runs through the wooded slope. Of course we know people are there, but we don’t see them. We hear their industry through the clack on the tracks, the horn, the engine, and yet it’s special. Why, Ozu, do you draw our eye to something so normal? It’s something we might never do in our life—look out a window and watch a train go by, with nothing else on our mind. And this is what makes it special in part. Were I to watch a train go by my house, I would probably be filled with thoughts, “what am I doing next? Is someone taking a shit on that train? I don’t want to do homework,” but when I watch it through the lens of a film, I am drawn into the present. I don’t wonder, “why did Ozu put this in a film,” at least, not on the first view. Rather, I appreciate that he did. 

I could spend hours staring at a painting and I’m sure I could be entertained, finding each detail, trying to understand better the allusions and references, but, unlike a film, they were all put there by one hand (generally speaking—I am aware that people often had their disciples do the actual work). In a film, the actors, director, cameraman and many others leave their mark. Movies are art made by a community. How many man-hours does it take to paint a masterpiece versus how many to make a movie?  

And I think the hours is the difference.  

Hundreds of people spend years honing skills to put together an art piece for me to consume in 2 hours.

 I can slow it down and appreciate an actor's face, I can watch it for the lighting, for the soundtrack, for the order of the shots, for the framing and each time I will learn something new.

It's a community project, just like this education.

And as in this education, the group effort makes all the difference.