A film by Yasujirō Ozu is not like
a film by any other filmmaker. He has one of the most unique and easily
identifiable stylistic signatures of any international director, noted for his
unmoving camera, low angle shots simulating the view from a Japanese tatami
mat, actors facing directly into the camera in dialogue, ellipses of plot
leaving out seemingly important details, and visually intricate compositions.
He’s been referred to as “the most Japanese director” of all, but in his
specificity the universal can be found. He worked subtle variations on a
handful of themes that interested him for his entire career (and in that is not
unlike any major director spinning variations on their ideas in film after film):
familial conflicts (usually between generations), the institution of arranged
marriages, encroaching Westernization of Japan in his post-war films, financial
woes of the middle class families that populate most of his films, and more.
His films usually have many comic moments, but there’s almost always an
undercurrent of melancholy to them as well.
Everything
said above could apply to a few dozen of Ozu’s films, but they all apply in
full force for what proved to be the final film of his life, An Autumn Afternoon. It’s a seemingly
simple story of a widower, Shūhei Hirayama (played by Ozu regular Chishū Ryū),
who lives with his son Kazuo and daughter Michiko, with his older son moved out
and married, frequently squabbling with his wife about borrowing money to try
to lend him the appearance of prosperity at work. Hirayama is chided repeatedly
by his friends about arranging a marriage for his daughter before she becomes a
spinster. Neither Hirayama nor his daughter have given much thought to the
matter, perfectly content to live as they have been doing, but once he and his
drinking buddies run into an old teacher of theirs, Sakuma (nicknamed “The
Gourd”), and arrange an evening’s tribute to him, he begins to think more about
it. There are many comic scenes of Hirayama and his friends drinking; old men
reminiscing about war, women, school, old friends and so forth, but things
begin to be tinged with a sadder tone when their tribute to The Gourd ends with
the teacher too drunk and needing to be taken home where they see what’s become
of his life.
The Gourd’s
daughter has remained unmarried in circumstances very similar to what Hirayama
has experienced, he’s now running a low-rent noodle shop, and his daughter
complains that “he’s always doing this” when they bring him home drunk. Over
the course of several episodes in the film, The Gourd blames his own
selfishness for ruining her chances at a successful marriage, having kept her
close to home because he doesn’t want to suffer the loss of another family
member. The Gourd’s plight resonates with Hirayama, and he resolves to start
pushing Michiko toward marriage. And though Hirayama is the central focus of
the film, Michiko’s resistance to an arranged marriage and her own ideas about
how her life should be lived of course come into play.
As is typical in
his films, Ozu and his longtime screenwriting partner Kôgo
Noda come to the conflict with a perfectly tuned ear for dialogue and an
empathy and understanding for both sides – not only will the father be left
lonely if his vibrant and loving daughter should move out of the house, but in
arranging her marriage he’s also potentially taking away her happiness should
he not choose a good partner for her, and if she remains unmarried, she runs
the risk of becoming an embittered spinster. He wants to do what’s right for
her even under increasing societal pressure and his concerns of ending up a
sad, lonely drunk like The Gourd, spouting lines like “In the end we spend our
lives alone.” It’s a similar scenario to Ozu’s 1949 masterpiece Late Spring, in which Ryu was again the
widowed father living with his daughter (played by the exquisite and ebullient
Setsuko Hara), but here the focus falls more on the father’s plight than on the
daughter’s. Where Late Spring hinged
on a single moment when Hara’s famous smile fell as she acquiesced to her
father’s requests, this one hinges on Hirayama’s trip to take his teacher home,
seeing a potential future where both father and daughter have ended up sad and
lonely.
The film is not just a continuation of Ozu’s ideas, but
another collaboration with many of his longtime partners – writer Kôgo Noda is
credited alongside Ozu on his very first film, from 1927, while Chishū
Ryū and cinematographer Yûharu Atsuta are both
featured on his second film from the next year. With a regular cast and crew
familiar with his working methods and style, it’s no wonder that the film is
one of his subtlest and most beautiful triumphs. Atsuta’s cinematography, his
fourth of Ozu’s six films in color, is spectacular, with both director and
cinematographer having found a way to perfectly integrate color into the
stunning framing and composition that Ozu is best known for. He’s one of the most
masterful artists in cinema history, and any frame of one of his films is rich
with details you can get lost in, with An
Autumn Afternoon one of his very best creations, both in the plotted
segments and the famous “pillow shots” of random areas and items (laundry
hanging out to dry, factory smokestacks, and trains passing are some faves of
his) that break up the narrative sections. It’s also a great entry point into
one of the most stellar careers in cinema.
-
Patrick Brown
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