Finding Meaning in Mundanity
The powerful simplicity of Ozu’s Good Morning (1959)
Few filmmakers are so influential, and yet so overlooked as Yasujirō Ozu. One of the few true masters of the craft, Ozu took the art of cinema and made it his own. In pushing those boundaries of convention and what was thought possible, he created a filmography that has stood the test of time. Living his entire life in his native Japan, it was only toward the end of his life that his films were seen in other parts of the world. Since then, the acclaim of his work has only grown. With 35 surviving films, out of 54 total, his filmography has become one of the most celebrated body of works of any director, and, in 2012, directors in the Sight and Sound poll rated Tokyo Story (1953) the best film in history. Ozu is not typically thought of as a comedic director, but perhaps that perception is partly what holds back Ozu in the eyes of many. His films are sometimes considered “depressing” or “slow” or “overly erudite”, but in reality, his films are incredibly diverse and profoundly moving. His first films were actually comedies, and only later did his films truly become increasingly serious. Ozu was a unique filmmaker. Although not for everyone, his work is most definitely worth reflection and study. My purpose in writing this is to do just that: study the interesting thematic and technical style of Yasujirō Ozu, particularly through the lens of his 1959 work Good Morning.
Ozu’s films can be divided up into three eras: his silent films, his black and white talkies, and his color films. Many of his silent films have been lost, and comprise, perhaps, his most varied filmography. Shortly after adopting sound into his films, he was drafted into the Japanese Army and fought in World War II. Throughout his black and white talkies period, Ozu crafted and refined his now iconic visual style and thematic focus. By the time he was nearing his color era, he had become one of the most brilliant filmmakers of the time, creating incredibly powerful, nuanced and lasting pieces of cinema, that are still held in highest regard today. His color era, with only six films, is the smallest grouping of Ozu’s films. They do not represent a thematic or a structural shift from his earlier films, but does represent an incredible range in such a small collection that in many ways they can be viewed as a microcosm of Ozu’s career. Ozu’s most popular works, such as Late Spring (1949), Tokyo Story (1953), Early Spring (1956), Floating Weeds (1959), and An Autumn Afternoon (1962), are all dramas, and provide a serious and powerful portrait of family life in Japan. The irony here is that Ozu remained unmarried throughout his entire life.
The films of Yasujirō Ozu are not for everyone. As he is routinely rated as one of history’s finest directors and filmmakers, film students and lovers of cinema all over the world flock to his work for study and for pleasure. Tokyo Story, which is widely considered his masterpiece, as well as one of the finest works of cinema ever created, is the film that most are familiar with, but Ozu is so much more than that one, albeit breathtaking, film. In a career spanning 35 years many would say he never made a bad film. The vast majority of them, especially among his surviving films, depict family life in Japan, and the struggles of people adapting to, living with, and understanding each other. Many highlight intergenerational relationships and the unique difficulties that come with them. Because of the similar subject matter, many critics of Ozu claim that his films are repetitive, and that his themes are idle and mundane. But that repetition is what makes Ozu’s films so powerful. He did not make one film to depict the subtle intricacies and nuances of family life, he made [around] thirty, each focusing on a different facet of ordinary life. Ozu’s filmography creates a diverse mosaic of family life, from his earlier comedies, like I Was Born, But… (1932) to his later works, like An Autumn Afternoon (1962). One film cannot hope to encompass the diversity of mundanity, and perhaps thirty cannot either, but to say that his films are all the same is to detract from the complexities of life. One man’s everyday life is vastly different from another’s and while there may be similarities, they are not the same. To watch Ozu’s films, to really watch them, is to look beneath the polite and ordinary facade and to notice the intricate details and the powerful messages.
Yasujirō Ozu is a storyteller. To compare him to another Japanese master, Akira Kurosawa is a painter, but Ozu is a storyteller. This sentiment is expressed in the way the two great filmmakers approached their work. Kurosawa extensively and carefully planned and organized his shots and felt that the visual storytelling element of film was of supreme importance. Kurosawa’s first ambition was to be a painter, and, in his films, you can see traces of that passion; each frame of his films looks like a painting. Ozu, on the other hand, was not a painter. To say that his frames are not beautiful or to say that he was not concerned with the visual elements of his films is incorrect, but, to him, the story had supreme importance. To him, the visual aspects of the film served to further the story and could not be separated from the story itself. There is an amusing anecdote regarding Ozu and one of his assistants. Ozu’s style did not match the standards of western continuity editing, which is harder to explain than it is to understand. Clear and accurate continuity editing ensures that the shots flow from one another and feel correct spatially. In Ozu’s films, for instance, in the back and forth, or shot-reverse shot, of a conversational scene, Ozu films his subjects straight on, and as a result, it seems almost like the characters are not looking at each other while talking. Ozu’s assistant pointed this out to him, and suggested filming at a slight angle, to provide greater clarity to the scene. Ozu disagreed, but decided to film the scene both ways to compare them. After the two had watched both versions, Ozu replied: “See? They are exactly the same”.
Yasujirō Ozu crafted and developed a rather unique style of filmmaking throughout his filmography. Apart from the straight on shot-reverse shot that he used, he also routinely jumped across the “180-degree line” within scenes. This invisible line connects two subjects together, and it is a “rule,” or rather convention, of filmmaking for the camera to stay on one side of this line while cutting to different shots within a scene. This helps the audience grasp the space that the characters are in and their spatial relationship to the space and each other. By crossing this like without warning, Ozu creates a disorienting and disconcerting feel for the audience. It makes it hard for audiences to grasp the layout of the space, like the arrangement of a house or neighborhood, for example. This, combined with his unconventional (by Western standards) editing style, seems to create a strange dimension, apart from the laws of physics. Characters walk out of the frame in one direction and come in the other way. Ozu also pioneered the use of an extremely low camera placement, meant to be level with a person’s eye line while kneeling on a Tatami mat. Many Western filmmakers shoot from standing eye level or shoulder height. Apart from these, Ozu employs a rather simple shot progression and camera set up. He shoots from down low, and mainly employs a static camera, meaning that the camera doesn’t move. His shot progression usually begins with a wider shot, then cuts progressively closer in, before progressing wider again as the scene ends. In between his scenes he employs “pillow shots” that are independent from the action, but help frame each scene. The pillow shot may show the location of the next scene or may show snippets of the surrounding city or town. I say all of this not in criticism, however. To say Ozu’s shots are simple is to give the man far too little credit. Like many of his films, the style of Yasujirō Ozu is deceptively complex. Hiding behind an ordinary facade, are incredibly purposeful and well-organized filming techniques and thoroughly thought-out shots. Ozu is a true master of the craft, one of the few film masters we have had in the history of global cinema, and in this instance, it is infinitely more difficult to make a film simply, like Ozu, than it is to make something incredibly complex. His films are incredibly beautiful and powerful, and his style adds to the story he is telling, rather than detracting from it. Ozu is also sometimes called the “most Japanese filmmaker.” Unlike Kurosawa, whose films gained incredible acclaim abroad, and who took influences from European and American filmmaking styles, Ozu crafted and studied a truly “Japanese” style of filmmaking. He took heavy influence from Japanese society and filmmaking traditions. One particular difference between his storytelling style, that greatly differs from American style, is the almost detached nature through which he views his films. His techniques are not meant to create artificial emotion in the audience, and, in many situations, he does not even show moments that are particularly emotionally charged, like deaths or wedding, but instead chooses how others react to that and its effect on the characters. This is not exclusive to Ozu, however. Kurosawa has been noted for having a more objective approach to emotional stories than many Hollywood filmmakers would choose to employ such as, in his Macbeth adaptation, Throne of Blood (1957), in which Kurosawa choses to highlight the overall suffering that comes about as a result of Washizu’s [Macbeth’s], actions, instead of the specific harm to the characters within the story. This is not even an idea that is exclusive to Japan. It is a common practice among Eastern Asian filmmakers, like South Korean auteur Lee Chang-dong. Ozu’s strict adherence to Japanese stories and style made him extremely popular throughout his country. There is nothing inherently “wrong” with his style of filmmaking. Western conventions are more familiar, but they are not law. Newcomers to Ozu’s work can find the style disconcerting and off-putting, but there is great value in sticking with it. Ozu has created some of the most meaningful and thought-provoking films in cinema history, and his films are always worth a watch.
Perhaps one of Ozu’s most palatable works for newcomers is the 1959 comedy Good Morning. This is a great place to start your Ozu journey, and, in fact, the British Film Institute recommends this film as one of the easiest Ozu films to begin with. A loose retelling of his work I Was Born, But… (1932), the film depicts a neighborhood in the Tokyo suburbs and the interconnected lives of the families that reside there. Told from roughly the perspective of two brothers, Minoru and Isamu, who take a vow of silence until their parents buy them a Television set. Much like life itself, multiple plot lines are interwoven into the fabric of this film, from gossiping neighbors, an unemployed tutor who is falling in love, and an elderly neighbor dissatisfied with retirement, the film almost feels like a slice of life. With its incredibly natural dialogue and realistic plot progression, watching it almost evokes a sense of deja vu. There is a level of reality to Ozu’s work that is unparalleled. Even the humor is incredibly natural. Ozu is so often thought of as a refined and “Highbrow” filmmaker, so the amount of fart jokes in the film are surprising, but also refreshing. Having seen some of his more serious works, like the haunting drama Tokyo Story, I was hilariously unprepared for, in the first scene, a boy to soil himself attempting to pass gas on command. The neighborhood boys devise a game, similar to the common “Pull my finger” gag, only with pushing on each other’s foreheads. Some kinds of humors really are timeless. Less like the modern raunchy comedies than the last couple sentences make it sound, the true comedic heart of the film is in the jovial and warm tone of the film that leaves audiences smiling and happy. You can’t help but root for the two boys and become invested in their pursuit of a television. But, in true Ozu fashion, this film is far from shallow.
This film is far from the naive and shallow slice of life that it appears to be. It has been said that watching Ozu’s films is like watching the surface of a lake. On the surface, they are quiet, still, peaceful and almost trace-like. Underneath however, there is a great deal of motion and turmoil lurking in a place that is almost unseen. Rather than some dark, hidden truth though, in this film there is a pervasive and powerful social commentary. Ozu does this perhaps better than anyone I have ever seen. There is a mundanity to the story, but a subtle and profound understanding of human nature and society. The truth of his films, from comedies like Good Morning, to dramas like Tokyo Story, is what makes them so impactful. In Good Morning, the message is stated out right. Contrary to what one might think, this stating of the film’s message is so organic and natural within the context of the film that it feels like showing, not telling. The message, which can be seen throughout the film, is that it is so easy to say meaningless things, but so hard to say something important. Within this there is a powerful juxtaposition between the children’s vow of silence, and the constant and meaningless small talk of the adults and neighbors. The two boys take a vow of silence after being scolded for talking back while the adults engage in gossip and idle and polite chit chat in a subtle attempt to avoid saying what they really want to say. We all understand this idea. It’s hard to say important things. It’s hard to confront others, to express your feelings, to apologize and to admit that you’ve been hurt. We need small talk as “Conversational lubricant” and something that makes the difficulties of everyday life easier. In this way we identify with the adults in the film. But Ozu does not present the film from the adult point of view, but rather from the children’s Point of view. The children see this practice as foolish and through the film, so do we. Why can’t they say what they really feel? Why can’t we?
In addition to the commentary about human nature is the commentary about society and societal expectations. Ozu made one period piece, or a work set in a time period that is not the present, in his career. That film, The Sword of Penitence (1927), was his directorial debut, and has since been lost. Really from I Was Born, But…, in 1932, Ozu has included commentary about modern Japanese life, society and culture in his works. And he is in the prime place to do so. His films are uniquely Japanese, and he possesses an analytical and pervasive eye that is unmatched in recognizing and portraying reality. All of his films are set in the present, meaning that he can be more direct in his social messages. Living and creating films through some of the most drastic and tumultuous change in Japan’s history put him in a prime position to promote change and to push his audiences to reflect on themselves and in society. Ozu’s work has worked to further social change and progression for almost a century, and his position as a chiefly Japanese filmmaker gave him a position of prominence and place to reach all of Japanese society. Good Morning exists in a society where decorum and politeness are extremely important. Ozu advocates for more freedom within the social structure. Much of his work, like this one, is based on the idea of repressed emotions. That is why the surface seems so still, the inner turmoil is hidden and does not show. Hiding pain, anger, sadness, avoiding conflict and confrontation, these are all staples of Ozu’s work, but never is it discussed quite as outright as in Good Morning.
The lasting impact of Yasujirō Ozu comes from his integration of important meanings and messages within the context of an incredibly realistic story, and Good Morning is no different. Judd Apatow, one of the juggernauts of modern cinematic comedy, said that a good comedy must first be a good drama. The plot of the film and the characters must work without the jokes. This is something that we don’t see very much. Too often comedies are anchored by forced gags, and the emotional or thematic heart of the film is lost. And that isn’t exclusive to comedies. Action movies and horror movies and sci-fi and drama films all, from time to time, lose sight of their purpose and their soul. Ozu never lost sight of that meaning, that purpose of his films. In Good Morning, he crafts a film so full of humorous moments and fart jokes, and interweaves such lasting and meaningful thoughts throughout it. This film is not reliant on its jokes, and could definitely be a powerful film without them, but the comedy serves to further the goal of the film. The jokes imbue the film with a jovial tone and the feeling of a child-like innocence. This tone greatly contributes to the establishment of the lens as the children’s point of view. We, as the audience, temporarily step outside ourselves and look at the film with a youthful innocence. This is key to Ozu’s plan. As it is noted in the film, adults need small talk as conversational lubricant, but children do not. In this way it is paramount that the audience follows the children and watched the film through their perspective. Through that, the practice that seems so necessary as adults seems almost laughable. In the course of watching the film, a light-hearted film slowly turns into something more introspective. Ozu perfectly balances thoughtfulness and depth, with frivolity and humor. The film leaves audiences smiling, yet deep in thought well after the film ends.
