Japanese director Yasujirō Ozu
Actor Chishû Ryû
Chishû Ryû visiting the grave of Ozu in Tokyo-ga
Ozu grave
Getting the shot with Yûharu Atsuta
German directors Wim Wenders meets Werner Herzog atop Tokyo Tower in Tokyo-ga
TOKYO-GA
B
Germany USA (92 mi) 1985 d: Wim Wenders
Germany USA (92 mi) 1985 d: Wim Wenders
If in our century
something sacred still existed… if there were something like a sacred treasure
of the cinema, then for me that would have to be the work of the Japanese director,
Yasujiro Ozu. He made fifty-four films. Silent films in the Twenties,
black-and-white films in the Thirties and Forties, and finally color films
until his death on December 12th, 1963, on his sixtieth birthday.
With extreme economy
of means, and reduced to but the bare essentials, Ozu’s films, again and again,
tell the same simple story, always of the same people, and the same city,
Tokyo. This chronicle spanning nearly 40 years, depicts the transformation of
life in Japan. Ozu’s films deal with the slow deterioration of the Japanese
family, and thereby, with the deterioration of the national identity. But they
do so not by pointing with dismay at what is new, Western, or American, but by
lamenting with an unindulged sense of nostaligia the loss taking place at the
same time.
As thoroughly Japanese
as they are, these films are, at the same time, universal. In them, I’ve been
able to recognize all families, in all the countries of the world, as well as my
parents, my brother and myself. For me, never before and never again since has
the cinema been so close to its essence and its purpose: to present an image of
man in our century, a usable, true and valid image, in which he not only
recognizes himself but from which, above all, he may learn about himself.
Ozu’s work does not
need my praise and such a sacred treasure of the cinema could only reside in
the realm of the imagination. And so, my trip to Tokyo was in no way a
pilgrimage. I was curious as to whether I still could track down something from
this time, whether there was still anything left of this work. Images perhaps,
or even people…Or whether so much would have changed in Tokyo in the twenty
years since Ozu’s death that nothing would be left to find.
—Wim Wenders opening narration, Ozu Notes 2
Richie - Willamette University
Made between English-language film Paris,
Texas (1984) and Wings
of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) (1987), Wenders actually takes a road
trip to Japan in the spring of 1983, taking a break from shooting the American
film in search of discovering any remnants of late Japanese director Yasuhirō
Ozu in today’s Tokyo, some twenty years after he died, using a film language
that is personal, powerful and evocative, described by Wenders as a “film
diary,” but it's also one of the finest examples of a filmmaker using the
medium to honor the work of another, much like the Olivier Assayas pilgrimage
to Taiwan when shooting HHH
– A Portrait of Hou Hsiao-hsien (1997).
With Wenders narrating the film, it ranges from explicit focus on Ozu’s
filmmaking, where Wenders interviews Ozu’s regular cinematographer, Yûharu
Atsuta, and one of Ozu’s favorite actors, Chishû Ryû, using clips from his
films, to chaotic and often unsettling contemporary scenes of Tokyo, becoming entranced
by the wider landscape while observing the country and its culture, where the
film screened in the Un Certain Regard section at the 1985 Cannes Film
Festival. In distinct Wenders style, the
opening shots of Tokyo are completely modernistic, with a dynamic sounding
synthesizer soundtrack by Dick Tracy (Laurent Petitgand, Meche Mamecier, and
Chico Rojo Ortega), Dick Tracy - TOKYO-GA [OST (19:13),
that shows little compatibility with Ozu.
Framing the opening and closing of the film with images from Ozu’s TOKYO
STORY (1953), Wenders goes looking for many of the iconic images that reoccur
throughout Ozu’s career, the trains, rooftops, elevated electric wires, laundry
hanging from a line, boats chugging slowly across the harbor, and children at
play, then superimposes images from another filmmaker into the middle of his
own film, which has a way of aesthetically communing with another artist,
making the film itself specifically about filmmakers and filmmaking, where
certainly part of the film’s desire is not only to pay tribute to those that
came before him, but to examine the director’s own place among the pantheon of
cinema itself. Throughout the film,
Wenders is moved to contemplation, like this particular moment where he
photographs his own reflection in the window of a moving train, “We gasp and
give a start when we suddenly discover something true or real in a movie, be it
nothing more than the gesture of a child in the background, or a bird flying
across the frame, or a cloud casting its shadow over the scene for but an
instant. It’s a rarity in today’s cinema
to find such moments of truth, for people or objects to show themselves as they
really are.”
Through Wenders’ eyes, Tokyo is an often overwhelming urban
landscape, viewed as nearly incomprehensible while he searches out the
obsession with all-night pachinko parlors, lined with rows of cramped players
sitting next to one another, each lost in a game of mechanical solitaire,
followed each night by a lone “nail man” who meticulously checks each of the
machines after closing time, observing with a voice that’s flat and
emotionless, “This game induces a kind of hypnosis. Winning is hardly important. But, time passes, you lose touch with
yourself for a while, you merge with the machine, and perhaps, you forget, what
you always wanted to forget,” with Wenders suggesting the game actually numbs
the lingering, post-traumatic effects of World War II. But he also discovers the presence of people
lined up at a golf driving range sitting atop a skyscraper, watching the
collective motion as they each practice their own swing, or swat baseballs from
the roof of a department store, or discover a miniature golf stadium, while
also discovering a prevalence for fake food displays in restaurant windows, a
culturally unique way of promoting their menu, a stark contrast to the
photographs that look decidedly less appetizing in fast food restaurants, with
the director even venturing into a factory that manufactures lifelike, wax
models of Japanese food, amusingly noting that the companies let him film
everything except the employees eating.
While riding in trains, including an underground train system with
high-tech tube maps, or taxi cabs offering channel surfing television options,
we witness the constant presence of street advertising, the mesmerizing
symmetry of criss-crossing commuter trains, or citizens in mass ascending or
descending escalators, while on the street teenagers have already adopted an
American sock-hop identity, wearing jeans or poodle skirts, saddle shoes, and
club-embroidered (Tokyo Rockabilly Club), satin windbreakers dancing to the
music of the 50’s and 60’s, with the guys doing their best Elvis Presley
imitation, resorting to rare body contact when learning new dance steps, but we
also catch an occasional glimpse of the elderly, a person reading manga, or an
incalcitrant young child that simply refuses his mother’s insistence that he
walk in a train station. For Wenders,
“The more the reality of Tokyo struck me as a torrent of impersonal, unkind,
threatening, and yes, even inhuman images, the greater and powerful became in my
mind the images of the loving and ordered world of the mythical city of Tokyo
that I knew from the films of Yasujirō Ozu.”
While there is a luscious beauty to witnessing picnics in
parks during the height of cherry blossom season, including a lingering
impression of watching children play baseball on a cemetery path overrun by a
cascade of blossoms, the key to the film is the presence of significant
visitors, where there is a chance encounter with French filmmaker and essayist
Chris Marker in a small bar appropriately called “La Jetee,” as Marker was
working on the finishing touches of his own incredible film masterpiece Sans
Soleil (1983) at the time, while fellow compatriot Werner Herzog also turns
up dressed in a suit and tie atop the Tokyo Tower, an Eiffel Tower inspired
substitute, where Herzog looks so out of place from his natural habitat,
staring out over the artifice of high-rises and modern office buildings,
uttering something superfluous like, “When I look out here I see that
everything is cluttered up. There are
hardly any images to be found. One has
to dig deep down like an archeologist.”
But Wenders is on another kind of mission, “just to look, without
wanting to prove anything.” While it
comes as no surprise that the smaller, more intimate world of Ozu has been
swallowed up by a rapidly overgrown, technologically advanced, neon cityscape,
where giant exteriors have drown out all suggestions of a quieter, more
reflective world, the most powerful images of the film come from lengthy
interviews with two of Ozu’s closest collaborators, now both in their 80’s,
including Chishû Ryû, the director’s favorite actor who appeared in over 35 of
his 54 films, always playing a more mature father figure much older than
himself, giving all credit for his performances to his illustrious director,
suggesting he would never have been a star without him. Ryû takes Wenders to see Ozu’s grave, marked
with a single Japanese character that stands for “nothingness.” Camera operator Yûharu Atsuta started out as
an assistant cameraman during the silent era and after 15 years was promoted to
cameraman, working only for Ozu for the next 25 years, claiming he was a man of
few words, but cared deeply for his crew, knowing precisely how he wanted films
shot, where we see him enact how he setup those tatami shots for Ozu. Preferring to shoot indoors on a controlled
set, the director was bothered by observers during location shooting, so
outside shots were mostly transitional, including his memorable litany of
trains that appeared in nearly every picture.
Ozu would check out locations only by foot, with Atsuta saying “they
would only stop looking when they passed out,” likely holed up in a
neighborhood bar, which could lead to an appearance in one of his films,
becoming a place where lonely fathers drown their sorrows. Both men were proud to serve Ozu, passing up
greater salary opportunities to stick with him, where their sincerity is
apparent, with Atsuta displaying a prized gift from Ozu, a custom stopwatch
used by the director to meticulously time his shots. Trying to explain why he retired after Ozu’s
death, Atsuta breaks down in tears and cannot continue, literally humbled by
the moment. Despite Wenders’ contention
that the world of Ozu’s Japan no longer exists, his revealing interviews
suggest otherwise, where perhaps it can only be found by the traveler who is in
no hurry, someone like Ozu, who has the time to sit and observe the minute
details of people’s behavior.
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