Fratelli e sorelle della famiglia Toda

In this 1941 classic, we've seen the ever-existing traditional Japanese male chauvinism. All the men in this film never had to do anything, all the chores were done by the females, no matter they were grandmother, mother or daughter. The men just acted like spoiled kids, asking the women around them to fetch everything they needed. The women had to take back all the heavy chairs after a photo shooting. Men asked his wife to fetch his pants, husband asked his wife to bring a glass of water, make a phone call. All the men were like studs who only took the responsibilities to give sperms to their wives, making them pregnant, making them to be the fathers. They were bread makers. Once they were home after works, they just sat down and gave orders to the females at home to serve them. And the women also took for granted like maids, following all the orders given by their men. We've seen all the Japanese films from black and white since 1020 up to date in 2022, the 21st Century. We saw old Kiki Kirin doing all the chores at home while her son or daughter just sat around, didn't even bother to help her a little bit in all of her later films. I've never seen any male character in any Japanese film helping the females. The male chauvinism is just so astoundingly disgusting in every Japanese film.

As usual, you can expect a lot of visual purity from the Ozu movie. This has immaculate framing and great compositions. Except that you can experience the same impeccable cinematic style in any of his other 50 movies, and a better story to boot. I tried to immerse myself in this lineage tale of misunderstandings and family breakdown, but I couldn't help but find it stilted.

I admittedly understand that it is a completely foreign culture to begin with, and a culture of Imperial Japan to boot. Be that as it may, the way the script portrays the supposed disrespect the eldest sister exhibits to the mother is the most spurious domestic argument imaginable, where it is simply impossible for me to gauge "the big deal," so to speak. Have Japanese families lived in perfect harmony before the turn of the century and the Meiji era? Have they never kept information from each other or had misunderstandings about how they should all act when the guests come over? Was there seriously no better way of demonstrating that they didn't want the pair there beyond this plastic irritability with a mother and younger sister melodramatically kneeling in front of the portrait of the late patriarch? Oh, those were better times, indeed. Or were they? Beyond the group photo scene, there wasn't even a good impression of how he ruled the family except for the debts that he left them.

Ultimately, of course, the emancipator son, who, without even knowing what happened, immediately assumes they were forced out and condemned to the villa. The cabin that they say is dilapidated and that they won't even sell seeing it is that bad. Which is an even more dishonest statement than the arguments. Looks cozy to me. Just the same, he rescues them and takes them to Tianjin. Good for them. They'll get in on the ground floor in China. 1941 is just about time.

When a respected businessman dies unexpectedly, his affairs turn out to be in disorder, and his sons sell off most of his goods quickly. His widow, Ayako Katsuragi, and her youngest, unmarried daughter, Mieko Takamine, become houseguests of their siblings.... but they show little filial love. Will Shin Saburi, the wastrel son, inspired by his father's death to go off to China and work hard, turn out to be this Japanese version of KING LEAR's Cordelia?

Ozu hadn't completed a film in four years. When he came back to the studios to make this, his style had shifted and settled. Now, although he still hung his studies of familial relationships on sturdy plots, he had settled on what would become his postwar trademark of long, still shots from a low perspective. There's clearly a bit of wartime propaganda in the movie, telling Japanese civilians that there's endless opportunity in China to get ahead without worrying about getting into those awkward situations of losing face.

Ozu would make another movie the following year, then not another until 1947.... first problems with Japanese censors, and then clearing his name with the American Occupation forces. However, here we see the mature Ozu. He was excellent. He would only get better.

Todake No Kyodai wonderfully captures Japanese social mores in its most regrettable form. If you wouldn't know better, you'd think that the people inhabiting the various interiors (almost all of the movie takes place indoors) are mere acquaintances. Strong socio-specific communicative regulations pervade every conversation, every movement, every wink of the eye.

I don't know much about Japanese society, but the fact that the family's mother is given the cold shoulder (after the pater familias had deceased) stroke me as a critique against individualized (westernized?) modern Japan.

I would also like to mention a nice, though unintended effect the movie had on me: the copy has aged gracefully and at times provides cool hallucinating screen compositions and distorted rainfall sounds, which are welcome diversions from the otherwise monotonous goings-on in the still home environments.

There's a three year gap between Ozu's previous film, What Did the Lady Forget?, and this, and it's because Ozu went to war in China. He was part of a chemical weapons unit, was stationed in or near Nanking, and...probably committed war crimes. Heck, just the chemical weapon part is a war crime. I wouldn't bring it up, but one character does have a line about needing to put people in China in line, so...Anyway, the movie itself is another family drama, well written and performed in Ozu's increasingly understated way. Taking a dramatic point that could be used to start a melodrama, Ozu instead moves it in his own direction.

The patriarch of the Toda family, Shintaro (Hideo Fujino), suddenly dies after his 69th birthday, leaving his wife (Fumiko Katsuragi) and youngest daughter, Setsuko (Mieko Takamine), largely helpless in the face of his overdue financial burdens. The rest of the children, all adults, have to figure out how to deal with this, and it amounts to selling their mother's house and then accepting her and Setsuko into their homes.

The problem is a human one. Little dramas break out that make the situations intolerable.

It starts with Shin'ichiro (Tatsuo Saito) and his wife Kazuko (Kuniko Miyake). They're happy to bring them in, but Kazuko is particular about the new arrivals not to interfere with their lives as set out. The big detail is that the mother and Setsuko must not interrupt her when she has guests over. Which...they don't. They come home one night from being out, trying to avoid the party completely, and sidestep the party that has gone on too long. This irritates Kazuko because they should have known to introduce themselves, a disagreement that leads to Kazuko kicking the two out of the house to go to the next youngest sibling.

This gets repeated a few times, and it's weird how petty everything ends up feeling. That's obviously the point in the end, but it's weird how we can get caught up in it at the same time. It's not that we're siding with Kazuko. It's obviously petty in the moment, but the understated tone is what helps sell these moments. No one is screaming. The worst things get is some heightened voices. It's restrained and intentional, which gives the moments believability without delving into melodramatics.

The voice of reason comes from Shojiro (Shin Saburi). He didn't believe it when Shintaro's health suddenly deteriorated and missed his final days. He left shortly afterwards for China (he's the one saying that people in China need to get slapped around a bit) under the assumption that his family would take care of their mother and younger sister as was their duty (Shin-ichiro is first because he's the eldest and it's his responsibility). When he discovers that the family has shunted their mother and youngest sister to a house on a property they own that's been essentially condemned, he's angry and does what he has to.

And it's a satisfying moment where things play out in a cathartic fashion, proving that Ozu was still able to play by normal dramatic rules.

But that's never the point of an Ozu film. The point is this examination of change within the context of family, and it's where the meat of the film always resides. The idea of responsibility in times that move on despite our desire to keep things the same, this film's change initiating with Shintaro's death, all told in this restrained style, increasingly told from cameras placed on the floor. Perhaps the effect is a bit muted because of Shojiro's absence and the pettiness of it all, but it does end up working in the end. It's not Ozu's best work, but it's another example of his commitment to style and effectiveness in storytelling.