An Analysis of Character Representation
Within Yasujirō Ozu’s Films
Take time to appreciate the
stillness. Through the visual representations depicted within Yasuhiro Ozu’s
films audiences are enabled to venture forth into the private, daily lives of
some of the most relatable characters shown on film to date. Perhaps it is the
story of an elderly couple headed into the big city to visit their grown
children, the musings of an estranged father and his illegitimate child as they
confront the consequences of modern relationships, the squabbles of
ill-tempered siblings, or merely a daughter who in her denotation to an aging
father has selflessly disregarded marriage in order to uphold the family honor.
Each character brings with them a past, a present, and a future and their
greatest asset is their ability to share their intimate experiences with the viewers, as though they were old friends. These
characters are not easily forgotten and their messages resonate within the
imagination and provokes deeper contemplation into the inner workings of modern
every day life, as seen through the eyes of those whom embrace it for what it
is; complicated bliss.
During the early 1920’s Yasujirō Ozu
entered the film industry as an assistant in the cinematography department of
the Shochiku Film Company (Crow, 2010). He progressively worked towards his
childhood dream of becoming a successful film director. Whilst a child, Ozu was
known for skipping class in order to catch the latest films, and during one
such venture he found himself confronted with the film Civilization (1917), a heart
wrenching retelling of the Great War through the eye’s of a French physician.
After taking in the magnificence of this film Ozu declared his desire to become
a filmmaker (Crow, 2010). Not long after his return from military service, from
1924-1926, Ozu quickly climbed up the ranks and became an assistant director. Within
a year he directed his very first film, Sword
of Penitence (1927) that is now considered to be a lost film, as none of
the footage has been salvaged (Crow, 2010). Upon his return from combat, Ozu
was also confronted with the installment of The Film Law, which was established
as a result of the onset of World War II in 1939. This law prohibited the
production of film without the approved censorship of screenplay as mandated by
the Japanese government, who at that time considered film to be an extremely
influential outlet for the mass production of propaganda against their foes,
the allied forces.
In order to appropriately approach an Ozu
film the audience must first prepare themselves as they are about to experience
a melodrama that projects neither a total break with tradition nor a direct and
transparent continuity with the past (Nygren, 2007). In accordance with these
expectations a viewer must brace themself for the long, drawn out scenes of
silence that are considered to be trademarks of Ozu’s genius. Off in the
distance of some nameless town a diesel powered train roars across the
cityscape; a vast ocean lay before them, husband and wife bask in the fading
sunlight as they reminisce. These precious moments allow the viewers to
introspectively reflect upon that which they had just seen, and prepare
themselves for what is to come in the forthcoming footage. Another pronounced
insignia of Ozu’s style are the camera angles lovingly referred to as Tatami
shots, named for the tatami matting that serves as flooring within a
traditional Japanese home (Thomas, 2004). From this angle the viewer witnesses
the goings on of a scene from the eye level of a seated or squatting person,
giving the viewer the impression that they are an active participant (Thomas,
2004). It was Ozu’s belief that a scene shot from this angle would be
representative of how an average Japanese person views the world, from the eye
level of an individual at rest (Ebert, 1993). Typically a tatami shot is often
marked by long, slow takes, with very limited camera movement, in rare instances
a pan shot will center in on a uniquely expressive event, but otherwise
stillness dominates the structure of the scene Thomas, 2004).
As mentioned briefly before, Ozu film’s
often feature long, drawn out takes involving a scan down a corridor encompassing
a shot of people entering and exiting a room. These scenes were expressive not
only of everyday life being lived but beyond that, of the transitory quality of
life itself (Thomas, 2004). It was the intention of these shots to demonstrate
the agenda of the camera, as often people would enter and exit the scope of the
shot, but the camera neglected to follow them out of that designated space. In
some instances the camera would await the arrival of the participating actors,
showing on the empty set and the ever present quality of stillness, it was
during these times that the audience was able to gauge the involvement of the
director as the subject of the film centered on family and home life, it was
unnecessary to shadow the participating characters (Thomas, 2004). In scenes
involving conversation between two individuals, a classically conditioned
audience has come to accept that one individual will face the left of the
screen, whilst the other faces the right, thereby implying the interaction
(Ebert, 1993). Within an Ozu film, the viewer is instead forced to break out of
their comfort zone and accept the interactions between two characters head on,
as they are shown facing the camera directly and speaking to the audience as
though they are the intended recipient of the dialog, rather than the other
character (Ebert, 1993).
Fellow filmmaker, Paul Schrader,
considered himself to be intoxicated with Ozu’s style when he was a film
student at UCLA, he was once quoted as saying, “To watch an Ozu
film makes you think about not moving the camera so much, to slow down on the
editing and the performances, letting the performances unfold” (Thomas, 2004).
A notable characteristic of Ozu’s style resides in his appreciation of
simplicity. In so using Schrader’s example, an Ozu film’s plot will continue to
be immensely representative even in the absence of ever-flowing dialog and
strenuous scenery. Schrader went on to explain that, “Any filmmaker who really
loves movies and is interested in what they can do gets to Ozu, who becomes
lovely, sacred soil to them, a very special achievement” (Thomas, 2004). While
Schrader was obviously a fan, he does make some excellent points; mainly that
Ozu quickly became an inspiration, particularly to western filmmakers and film
students alike, following his introduction to the western film market via the
1963 Berlin Film Festival. Additionally, Schrader commented that, "Really,
all you can do is stand back and look at his movies and be baffled by how
they're done” (Thomas, 2004).
Analysis of earlier works from the prewar
era has produced claim to a naturalistic realism that is characteristic of Ozu
productions (Oshima, 1992). This unique quality inspires the viewer to feel
cozy, as though they are watching old family movies. While it has also been
said that Ozu’s early films from the silent era were mostly representative
examples of a quasi-documentary style of verisimilitude that depicted the
experiential realities of ordinary people’s lives in recession-hit Japan
(Standish, 2005). Yet, this particular category of realism is attributed to the
rebellion Ozu displayed against Shimpa-derived melodrama and
Kabuki-derived jigaigeki (period drama) (Oshima, 1992). This relates to Ozu’s style of gendai-geki (social drama) that instead focused upon everyday
contemporary life (Mes and Sharp, 2005). Often these films would depict the
challenges represented to social concepts of the patriarchal authority, and the
concomitant disintegration of the traditional family, and usually they played
out in Tokyo’s developing urban sprawl (Standish, 2005).
In many interpretations of Ozu films by
his filmmaking colleagues and critics alike, Ozu has been paired with one
particular term, transcendentalism, which expresses a belief in the inherent
goodness that resides within both people and nature. The basis of Ozu’s films
lies upon a foundation of deeply contradictory emotion and asks the view to
transform that build up of emotional tension into an expression of something
unified, permanent, transcendent (Phillips and Stringer, 2007).
In a follow up comment on Schrader’s
overview of Ozu’s trademark representation it was stated that, “Paul Schrader’s
description of Ozu’s transcendental style, in that Ozu seems as concerned with
the inanimate object as the psychological subject, but the monumental style is
so immanent, so abundantly present to the senses, that the ethereality and
mysticism of transcendentalism seems wholly inappropriate.” (Davies, 1996).
This contradictory comment perhaps even further validates Ozu’s intended
lasting impression as he seeks to provoke his viewers to expand their minds
beyond their comfort zones and embrace a crisp take on everyday life. An
example of such can be found within Ozu’s popular classic Late Spring (1949), wherein viewers are subjected to two
excessively long cutaways engulfed in stillness centered on a single, beautiful
vase (Phillips and Stringer, 2007). Within this moment of contemplative
reflection viewers experience a phenomenon that expresses something deeper than
itself, the inner unity of all things (Phillips and Stringer, 2007).
Ozu films often exhibit similar themes,
including the topics of marriage, family, and parenthood among other things. In
his earlier works, such as Woman of Tokyo
(1933) and There Was a Father (1942),
power struggles amongst the family are observed as siblings Ryochi and Chikako
argue over morals, and Shuhei and his son Ryohei attempt to find stability
following the death of the matriarch of their little family. Disjointed family
ties are often a key component of Ozu’s works, and allow for a closer
examination of the raw and real issues dealt with by every day, average
families. Within There Was a Father there
is a truly moving scene, wherein the camera resides in the foreground and peaks
over the shoulder of a photographer attempting to capture a picture of the
Buddha in Kamakura. The sheer size of the Buddha overwhelms the viewer. Even to
a native of Japan, this scene is stirring as an ionic landmark makes its début
on film.
While Ozu is well known for a number of
extraordinary films, none surpass Tokyo
Story (1953), the landmark of Ozu’s success. Apart of the golden age of the
1950’s, this film is filled to brim with those long, classically Ozu, takes
that invite interpretation and encourage reflection from the viewer. Much like
many of his other films, the story centers on the nuclear family unit as it
maneuvers the transition into modernity. Knelt comfortably on tatami matted
floors, we are welcomed into the home of Shukichi and Tomi, proud parents of
five moderately successful adult-aged children. The pair prepares for their
journey from Onomichi into Tokyo to visit their reluctant family. The story
follows the two elders as they experience life in the big city, interact with
their disrespectful grandchildren, and become a burden upon their children and
their in-laws. The bustling social scene of Tokyo is interjected in splices of
takes, but the main focus remains upon the living quarters of the family as
Tomi and Shukichi transition from one family members home to another, the
viewer takes in the most intimate moments of the family’s lives in a manner
that renders the viewer feeling both intrigued and intrusive. The relationship
between husband and wife appears to be one of great understanding, perhaps the
result of a love marriage as compared to an arrangement. During one of the most
iconic scenes within this picture the audience is presented with a distanced
shot of the couple sitting side by side on a sea wall observing the beauty and
magnificence of the ocean before them; perhaps they are reminiscing, perhaps
the moment is being shared in silence.
Two films which standout within the
later years of Ozu’s career are Floating Weeds (1959) and An Autumn Afternoon
(1962), both of which contemplated the breakdown of the traditional Japanese
family, while one favored tradition and presented a negative outcome as a
result of diminished values, the other boasts a positive message for the
integration of modernity in place of traditional expectations. Within Floating Weeds, the audience experiences
a classically tragic love triangle betwixt a group of traveling kabuki
performers and a former mistress. Komajuro returns to his former lover Oyoshi
in order to engage with their illegitimate child, Kiyoshi. The three are forced
to face the consequences of their actions as Komajuro’s furiously jealous
mistress seeks revenge on Kiyoshi. This film tells a story of judgment and in a
way acts as a beacon warning others of repercussions that may result from
straying from tradition. In comparison the characters within An Autumn Afternoon are faced with a
much more perplexing complication. Through her devotion to her elderly father
Michiko has given up her opportunity to marry young and is steadily approaching
spinsterhood. Her father, Hirayama enjoys occasionally joining his buddies from
middle school and the navy for an evening out, and during one such event his
eyes are opened by a tale told by one of his comrades. Hirayama approaches his
daughter and explains that he has seen the error in his ways and feels he has
selfishly held her back from a life of happiness, through marriage and
motherhood. An ionic scene unfolds, displaying the wedding-kimono clad Michiko
preparing for her wedding day.
Yasujirō Ozu’s gravesite in Kamakura,
Japan is adorned with a modest, black gravestone engraved with a single Chinese
character: 無, which translates to ‘nothing’ in
English. Ozu’s self-reflexivity has served as a form of commentary upon his
projected observations of artificial modernity; he has condemned what he
considered to be new-aged fraudulence in favor of heritage and cultural
preservation. Next to simplicity is nothingness, a state of experience that
very few seldom appreciate. Ozu intended for his viewers to experience a state
of insignificance so that they may come to acknowledge the timely limitations
enforced by life itself. Ozu’s films have inspired and consoled a vast array of
viewers from both the west and Japan, his trademark style and technique continue
to boggle the minds of up-and-coming filmmakers around the globe. Let his
lesson resonate; simplicity, stillness, and silence.
References
Phillips,
A., and Stringer, J. (2007). Japanese Cinema: Texts and Contexts. New York,
NY: Routledge.
Standish,
I. (2005). A New History of Japanese Cinema: A Century of Narrative Film.
New York, NY: The Continuum
International Publishing Group Inc.
Mes,
T., and Sharp, J. (2005). The Midnight Eye Guide to New Japanese Film.
Berkeley,
CA: Stone Bridge Press.
Oshima,
N. (1992). Cinema, Censorship, and the State: The Writing of Nagisa Oshima,
1956-1978. Cambridge, MA: The MIT
Press.
Davis,
D. (1996). Picturing Japaneseness. New York, NY: Columbia University Press.
Thomas,
K. (2004). Yasujiro Ozu excelled in his quiet moments. Los Angeles Times.
Ebert,
R. (1993). Saluting a master of the cinema, Yasujiro Ozu. Rogerebert.com.
Nygren,
S. (2007). Time frames: Japanese cinema and the unfolding of history.
Crow,
J., (2010). Yasujiro Ozu, Biography. The New York Times.
