Ozu-esque

I just rewatched Keisuke Kinoshita’s Carmen Comes Home (1951) in preparation to write a post primarily focused on its sequel (Carmen’s Innocent Love, 1952), and I was struck by the Ozu-ness of this particular shot, extending even to three of the actors involved: Chishû Ryû! Takeshi Sakamoto! Keiji Sada! The fourth is Akio Isono, who never seems to have worked with Ozu — and, to be sure, Sada didn’t appear in the first of his four Ozu movies until much later, in 1958. Considering how frequently these performers turn up in films produced by Shochiku studios (like this one), I think it would be a mistake to read anything into their presence here, but at the same time it’s difficult to imagine that Kinoshita and cinematographer Hiroshi Kusuda didn’t have Ozu in mind when they staged and framed this shot. Looking back over Carmen Comes Home, this may also be the sole scene that doesn’t take place outdoors, which makes it stand out still more.

Kinoshita — always an adventure.

The Shaping of a Man: Hobson’s Choice (1954)

As boot hand William Mossop (John Mills) hesitates over the calling card that she’s just presented to him, the imperious Mrs. Hepworth (Helen Haye) quickly grows impatient. “Bless the man. Can’t you read?” she asks. Before he can respond, Maggie Hobson (Brenda de Banzie) cuts in. “It’s the italics which makes it difficult for him, Mrs. Hepworth,” she explains with a polite smile. Will glances at Maggie — his boss’s eldest daughter — with perhaps a hint of surprise. It isn’t the italics, and no doubt she knows that as well as he does; in fact, he’s holding the card upside down, apparently without realizing his error. To the viewer, too, her tactful and sympathetic lie on his behalf might come across as something of an anomaly. Although this incident occurs early on in the 1954 David Lean-directed film Hobson’s Choice, Maggie has already established herself as a straightforward, no-nonsense, business-minded figure — rather hard, frankly. She could tell Mrs. Hepworth the truth about his illiteracy, or she could remain silent and leave him to fend for himself. Instead, she chooses kindness, thereby protecting his dignity and maybe, in some small yet not insignificant way, bolstering his self-respect. For Will and the viewer alike, this revelation of a softer side to her may be unexpected, but it’s nothing compared to the proposition she soon presents to him.

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Frustration: Danger Stalks Near (1957)

Perhaps, as much as anything, the 1957 Keisuke Kinoshita-directed Danger Stalks Near (風前の灯 / Fûzen no tomoshibi) is a film of frustration. Approached from one angle, at least, and reduced to its simplest form, it becomes a kind of non-story, almost an anti-story: the would-be tale of a would-be burglary that never even has a chance to begin.

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What Might Have Been: Sunflower (1970)

She wants answers. More than that, she wants a miracle — and if she can’t have it, she at least wants closure, which would be something of a miracle in and of itself. What she gets instead is a devastating discovery of a wholly unexpected kind.

When she first appears on-screen in the opening scene of the 1970 film I girasoli, or Sunflower, Giovanna (Sophia Loren) already looks like a widow. With her black dress and her somewhat austere hairstyle, this still-young woman gives the impression of having taken on a role ill-suited to her age, of having accepted and maybe even resigned herself to her premature bereavement. Within seconds, however, she makes it clear that she’s anything but resigned. “Ma’am, if you have not received notification from the War Ministry, it means that your husband’s death has not been verified,” says the man behind the counter at the office where she’s seeking information about her husband, Antonio (Marcello Mastroianni), an Italian soldier who’s gone missing on the Russian front during World War II. This non-answer aggravates her, and the more the man tries to explain that they know nothing further and can’t classify him as either alive or dead at this point, the more furious she becomes. “So he’s alive then! I want to know if he’s alive!” she shouts.

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Woman’s World

Every month, Kristina at Speakeasy posts a Film Friday prompt for bloggers and other readers, and the prompt for March is a celebration of International Women’s Day and Women’s History Month:

Give us three movies featuring women; women’s stories, outstanding acting by women, directed by women, about an inspirational, funny, or bad woman, old favourites or new discoveries, whichever films and women you feel like talking about right now.

In response, I’ve decided to highlight briefly three films that I had watched and enjoyed in the past and wanted to revisit, all directed by women whose work I haven’t written about before.

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Power Struggles: I Was Born, But… (1932)

The gesture is unmistakable, at least to anyone paying attention. Over and over, both before and after the man on the screen pulls an outrageous, grotesquely humorous face for the camera and for the amusement of his colleagues — and his boss in particular — he rubs the nape of his neck with his hand, varying the routine from time to time by scratching the back of his head as well. And as he sits in the boss’s house and watches his mugging projected there before his eyes and those of the small audience surrounding him, the same man performs the same action, creating something like a mirror effect. If the mannerism itself is unthinking and automatic, it nonetheless conveys self-consciousness. It’s a sheepish, bashful gesture, that of a person not merely shy but embarrassed by and even ashamed of his own buffoonery. In playing the clown, he exposes something about his true self, putting his sycophancy and hypocrisy on display for all to see.

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A Weird Boy

Not to do two Gérard Philipe-related posts in a row, but…

I had come across this old post and was reminded of the website for the Bibliothèques spécialisées et patrimoniales de la Ville de Paris. A bit of browsing led me to issue 42 of Pour tous magazine, dated January 28, 1947, which includes a brief piece entitled “Gérard Philippe chez lui.” (Yes, his last name is misspelled throughout.) It’s not much of an article — we learn that he sleeps late, does his own housekeeping (which entails sawing wood for his stove) and buys a lot of books, and that’s about the extent of it — but I decided to share and translate it anyway. You know, for educational purposes.

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Feux d’artifice: All Roads Lead to Rome (1949)

Laura Lee (Micheline Presle) has neither the time nor the inclination to acknowledge your introduction of her, thank you very much.

To be fair, it’s not quite a proper introduction anyway. The narrator who presides over the beginning of Tous les chemins mènent à Rome, or All Roads Lead to Rome — directed by Jean Boyer and released in 1949 — doesn’t actually mention her name or her status as a movie star until the scene after her initial appearance. When she first shows up on-screen, a few moments before that, she’s merely described as an unknown woman who has spent an entire transatlantic sea voyage cloistered away in a luxury suite, her air of mystery enhanced by the fact that she alone has been given special permission to leave the ship in spite of an ongoing investigation into the disappearance of classified documents belonging to an ambassador (Jacques Louvigny) from an unspecified foreign power. That enigmatic quality is something she seems determined to maintain, judging by the brisk way she strides past the camera as she prepares to disembark, head held high as if to avoid eye contact with anyone she might encounter — and that includes the camera itself.

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Crumbling Facades: La visita (1963)

Appearances can be deceiving — intentionally or not. That’s true of human beings, and it’s also true of movies.

By the time La visita has reached its ten or fifteen-minute mark, it seems fairly clear what sort of a film it’s going to be. Directed by Antonio Pietrangeli and released in 1963, its story concerns Pina (Sandra Milo) and Adolfo (François Périer), forty-ish singles (she a few years younger than that, he possibly a tad older) who have become acquainted by means of a personal ad that Pina has placed in a newspaper. Following a brief correspondence, including an exchange of photographs, the two have agreed that the time has come for them to meet in person in order to give their relationship the opportunity to develop beyond the confines of their letters. As such, they’ve arranged for the Rome-based Adolfo to travel to Pina’s small hometown of San Benedetto Po for a one-day visit — and no sooner has he arrived than the situation starts to take an unpleasant turn for him. It’s nothing so terrible, really, at least in these opening minutes. Aside from a jarring run-in with Cucaracha (Mario Adorf), a brawny young man with perhaps some form of mental illness or intellectual disability who sticks his face in the window of Pina’s car, informs Adolfo that he doesn’t like him, indirectly threatens to smash his head in and then spits on him, most of the issues he encounters are minor, even petty annoyances: the passenger door of the car is broken and has to be held shut throughout their drive from the train station, he immediately steps in very wet mud upon reaching Pina’s house, her singing parrot and the chimes that clang whenever her doors open get on his nerves from the moment he first hears them. In and of themselves, these are mere nuisances, but their quick accumulation imbues them with a collective significance and creates the anticipation of more to come. If things are starting out this badly, chances are that they’ll only get worse, much worse.

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Exit, Pursued by a Bear (or Don’t Bother): Tokyo Chorus (1931)

Midway through Yasujirô Ozu’s 1931 silent Tokyo Chorus (東京の合唱 / Tôkyô no kôrasu), the film takes a turn into what may seem curiously familiar territory to anyone acquainted with the director’s That Night’s Wife (その夜の妻 / Sono yo no tsuma), released the previous year and credited to the same screenwriter, frequent Ozu collaborator Kôgo Noda. (For the record, Noda adapted That Night’s Wife from a story by Oscar Schisgall, while Tokyo Chorus was based on an original story by Noda and Komatsu Kitamura.) It’s not just the fact that, as in the earlier film, a financially strapped couple’s young daughter falls ill, forcing her father to take desperate measures in order to obtain some quick cash to pay for the treatment she needs. The sense of déjà vu extends even to the actors involved: in both movies, the girl’s parents are played by Tokihiko Okada and Emiko Yagumo. To be sure, there’s nothing at all unusual in seeing the same faces pop up from one Ozu film to another, nor in his revisiting themes and situations from past works. That Night’s Wife and Tokyo Chorus aren’t even the only Ozu movies to feature the “struggling parent with a sick child” plot: it recurs, for instance, with a single father and his son in 1933’s Passing Fancy (出来ごころ / Dekigokoro) and again in 1948’s A Hen in the Wind (風の中の牝鶏 / Kaze no naka no mendori), in which a mother awaiting her husband’s return from World War II must find a means of paying their son’s medical bills. At any rate, whether by design or otherwise, the incident in Tokyo Chorus functions as a reimagining of That Night’s Wife in a strikingly different mode.

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