Crépuscule à Tokyo

This is my fifth Ozu film. And as I watch more of his movies my respect for his genius keeps on growing. He is more avant-garde than any other film maker I have seen.

While others use wars as backdrop to create a more touching drama, wars just find a small reference in his films even if his characters have lived through them. While other use death as a dramatic pivot for the whole movie, Ozu skips it altogether. People do die in his films, but they do it off screen. There are no famous last dialogs about life or last moments.

But despite these things or maybe because of these things, his movies are more poignant and touching than any other I have seen. I don't really cry while watching his movies. Instead they leave me in a strange tranquil state of mind, wistfully smiling.

Another thing to note is that while his movies reveal more about Japanese culture than any other movies I have seen, at the same time they are very universal.

If you haven't seen any movie by Yasujiro Ozu, I recommend starting with Tokyo Story or Good Morning. This one seems much longer as it takes some time to start and is devoid of humor. This is not meant as a criticism, Tokyo Twilight is still an amazing experience. But I think an average viewer should start with something else.

"Tokyo Boshoku" stands as one of Yasujiro Ozu's most underappreciated yet prestigious films. It holds the distinction of being his final work shot in black and white, a visual choice that lends a particular poignancy to its melancholic narrative.

Watching it today, one can't help but sense a distinct British film noir atmosphere permeating the screen. This is perhaps due to Japan's struggle to find its place in the world during that era. The streets, the houses, the social spaces, even the interplay of light and shadow-all evoke a sense of mystery and unease reminiscent of classic noir cinema. Yuharu Atsuta's cinematography deserves special recognition for capturing this mood so effectively.

This somber and melodramatic family saga, originally released in 1957, was restored and re-released in 2019. But alas, it was met with indifference from the art world, the press, and the general public. People seem content to reminisce about "the good old days" of cinema without making any effort to engage with the present. This is particularly true of the so-called "art-house" and "independent" film crowd, who often use those labels as a means of self-aggrandizement.

Ozu possesses a remarkable talent for filling the domestic space, confounding expectations with the use of sliding doors, and meticulously arranging actors and objects to create a richer sense of depth. His fondness for tools and trinkets reflects a genuine affection for the paraphernalia of everyday life, but the deliberate placement of these objects also contributes to the remarkably immersive, expansive feeling of interiority in his films. A corridor in an Ozu film can feel more spacious than a street scene in someone else's.

Some of Ozu's films are veritable meditations for the mind. And as I've said, "Tokyo Twilight" stands apart from his other works, possessing a unique and special quality.

Private secrets we refuse to unveil, words we cannot explain, or the veiled snare of social change: what remains unspoken takes precedence over humility, followed by an undercurrent of inner turmoil.

In low-angle shots, the inverse of the chaos's traumatic upheaval, amidst the smoky, ghostly alienation of a silver prison, family values crumble. The sorrow stemming from these recurring patterns strips away all understanding.

This is the tale of two sisters abandoned by their mother, their bond of sisterhood and solidarity. In the melodrama of resistance, Akiko's unsuccessful Pathosformel, akin to Dürer's Melencolia, encapsulates not only her temperament but also the impossibility of creation, of shaping and giving birth to life. Here, typical motifs are outlined in an almost well-rounded characterization of the roles, and in the imagery of Ozu's transcendent cinema, they add a tangible dramatic tension that ripples like an unsettling disturbance in the stillness.

Yasujiro Ozu's 1957 family drama is probably his darkest & bleakest yet w/the story of a family coming apart at the seams. A father, played by Chishu Ryu (who usually would play the paterfamilias in Ozu's films), lives w/his 2 daughters, Setsuko Hara & Ineko Arima & they're not the happiest sort. Arima is studying English to become a shorthand steno while Hara, who has left her husband, has brought her daughter along to stay in the home while Ryu whiles away his days away as a banker. Arima spends her time chasing after a college student but after they hook up & she gets pregnant, he disappears. Not knowing if she'll go through w/an abortion, she spends time hanging out at a mahjong parlor where the proprietress seems to know her since she mentions she knows Hara & details of the village from they came from. It turns out the woman is in fact the girls' mother (she left Ryu during the war for another man, the same one she runs the business with) which is confirmed by a friend of the family on a visit to Ryu's home. After the abortion, Arima soon gets the news about her mother & seeing her life appears to be heading towards a dead end (after her beau pops up out of the blue), she tries to commit suicide by stepping in front of a passing train where she's rushed to a hospital w/injuries. As the plot cards are fully lain on the cinematic table, the family has to come to grips w/where their lives are now & whether to lick their collective wounds & continue living. It's nice seeing Ozu plowing territory that someone like Ingmar Bergman would make his career on but yet again, even though this is a film replete w/disappointments, they are quiet, subdued & sometime not even mentioned. Look for Kamatari Fujiwara (from Seven Samurai where he played the duplicitous Manzo) as a noodle salesman.

Two sisters, Takako (Setsuko Hara), who is estranged from her husband, and Akiko (Ineko Arima), who is starting to 'run wild', live with their father Shukichi (Chishu Ryu), whose wife deserted him for another man when the girls were young children. The film is a typical Yasujiro Ozu family drama - melancholy, compelling and beautifully filmed. Similar to many of the auteur's other films, the story focuses on the breakdown of a Japanese family but rather than being due to transgenerational changes in attitudes and culture, the breakdown in 'Tokyo Twilight' is ignited by poor judgement and bad personal decisions. I found the resolution of Akiko's story a bit had to reconcile with the images on screen (but this may be due to Ozu's tendency to jump forward and leave it to the viewers to imagine the unseen events). Recommended (even if I remain unsure as to why I enjoy Ozu's films so much).

A deeply, uncharacteristically dark film, even among other "dark" Ozu films (i.e. A HEN IN THE WIND, EARLY SPRING) that may require a theatrical setting for the viewer to be fully absorbed in the strange, dark textures of the world Ozu presents. I myself was pretty alienated for the first 1/2 hour or so until the wintry chill of the mise-en-scene (brilliantly suggested in the slightly hunched-over postures of the characters) found its way into me instead of keeping me at arm's length. And from there this story builds in unwavering intensity as it follows a family on a slow slide into dissolution: a passive, judgmental patriarch (played by Chisyu Ryu, subverting his gently accepting persona in a way that is shocking), his elder daughter, a divorcee with a single child (Setsuko Hara, playing brilliantly against type -- who'd have thought the sweetest lady in '50s Japan had such an evil scowl?), and his younger daughter (Ineko Arima, a revelation), secretly pregnant and searching for her boyfriend, get a major shakeup when their absent mother, who the father had told them was long dead, re-enters their lives. Ozu's vision of post-war Japan and how the sins of one generation get passed on to the next, illustrated brilliantly by a series of parallels drawn sensitively between characters, manages to be both compassionate and scathing -- even a seemingly cop-out happy denouement is embedded with a poison pill. A masterpiece, without question, one that throws all of Ozu's depictions of modern society in a beautifully devastating new light.