The Timeless Tale of 'Tokyo Story'

 

When I was a child, I had this crazy idea that black and white films were filmed when the world was black and white. I had no proper conception of cameras and film, or the world in general, to know that it was simply the way life was captured and not the reality of the objects and the people on the screen. Of course, at some point I recognised the truth of it all, but I still feel as though the lack of colour in these old films was a testament to the suffering that people felt at the time, particularly after the wars. Tokyo Story is no exception. Watching the film for the first time, I could not imagine it in colour – almost as though the meaning would be tainted by the bright hues of the possessions and surroundings. Black and white film carries with it a certain melancholy that is deepened by sentimental expressions and mellifluous music.

Tokyo Story was particularly poignant for me, watching it after the recent death of my mother’s sister. Tomi’s wistful sentiment to her grandson of “By the time you become a doctor, I wonder if I’ll still here,” was reminiscent of my aunt’s words to my mother before they parted for the last time: “Will I ever see you again? Please forgive me everything.” Ozu was able to recognise the remorse one feels when death is near, of not properly serving another, of holding anyone in contempt, of neglecting one’s duties. Keiko is unaware of just how important his statement is: “None can serve his parents from beyond the grave”, but this is said in jest, and it is only afterwards that he is able to appreciate the reality of this statement. Oscar Wilde was also able to capture the familiarity of this concept: “It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember you saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions – that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were”.[1]

Tokyo Story is not so much a story about Tokyo as much as it is a story within Tokyo. Taking place eight years after the end of World War Two, it captures the dilemma of reconciling busy lives with the importance of family through documenting the visit of an elderly couple, Shukishi and Tomi Hariyama, to their children in Tokyo. Their visit effectively reveals the “fissures in a domestic unit caught between the flux of tradition and modernity.”[2] Although it is a post-war film, it does not overtly allude to the war, or the atomic bomb, although the aftershocks of the events are certainly evident, embedding themselves into the cadence of daily life. The film does this subtly, with a picture of Norkio’s deceased husband placed on the mantle and with Shukishi’s grateful expression of “fortunately the city (Onomichi) wasn’t bombed in the war”. When Shukishi goes drinking with two old friends, Hattori and the old police chief, they give rise to their true feelings about the war and about their dissatisfaction with their family. Hattori’s wish of having at least one of his sons still alive, along with his statement of “I’ve had enough of war,” is juxtaposed with what sounds like patriotic parade music, and this makes the scene particularly affecting. Into the night, the old men talk of their dissatisfaction after expecting too much of their children, and here the film makes an honest and saddening point – that parents are either mourning the death of their children or mourning their life.

The old couple are displaced – they do not fit in amongst their busy children in Tokyo, they do not fit in amongst the youth in Atami. They stand in wonder above the city of Tokyo and feel their insignificance in its magnitude. They are aware that they are a burden and a financial liability to their children. Shige, the eldest daughter, is arguably the villain of the film. Her selfish nature, her brazen greed and her contemptible embarrassment of her own parents are all blatantly apparent through her words and actions, and her tears at her impending mother’s death are more likely to be out of guilt than of sorrow. Koichi is similarly neglectful of his parents, whilst Keiko views their sudden visit as a “bother” and a “mess”. Noriko and Kyoko are perhaps the only sincere and sympathetic characters, although this is attributed to the former’s loneliness and grief and the latter’s youthfulness.

Ozu, although only using three shots from beginning to end, and refraining from chiaroscuro in characterisation or mood,[3] still manages to effectively convey the essence of life through cutting from one scene to another, never fading out or dissolving, instead interposing images of the harbour, the city, the trains between shots of domestic space. As we hear news of Tomi’s imminent death, we see a shot of two ships passing, perhaps a symbol of the inevitable meeting between the old lady and death. This is immediately followed by a shot of a moth fluttering wildly against a light shade, these scenes reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s musings: “The idea of some continuous stream, not solely of human thought, but of the ship, the night, etc., all flowing together: intersected by the arrival of bright moths”.[4] Moths, in some cultures, are omens of transformation and death. The final scenes are truly the most heartbreaking, a montage of the evidence of life proceeding, to the tune of the melancholy melody “Massa’s in de Cold Ground.”[5] Furthermore, the neighbour’s remark to the old man of “Lonely. You will be lonely” is followed by a shot of a single ship floating across the water, begging comparison to another Woolf quote: “She became a ship passing in the night — an emblem of the loneliness of human life, an occasion for queer confidences and sudden appeals for sympathy.”[6] The old man’s expression at the end of the film is heart wrenching, filled with remorse and unbearable grief. Ozu, with his humanistic creation, is able to capture the essence of inner and outer transformation by presenting the inevitability of change – it occurs in spite of us and despite, or as a result of, our best efforts. . What is most enchanting about this film is its universal humanity: its ability, without trying too hard, to reveal those innate human traits which we are both proud and ashamed of: honesty, greed, selfishness, guilt and grief. The film’s emotional core transcends its simple plot.

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[1] Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray,  (Wordsworth Editions Limited: Hertfordshire, 1991), p. 81

[2] Jasper Sharp, ‘Films by Ozu Yasujiro’, in Sight and Sound, Volume 20, Issue 8, (British Film Institute: London, 2010), p. 89

[3] Lindsay Anderson, ‘The Ten Greatest Films of All Time’, in Sight and Sound, Volume 12, Issue 9, (British Film Institute: London, 2002), p. 41

[4] Julia Briggs, Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life, (Harcourt Books: Florida, 2005), p. 242

[5] Anderson, ‘The Ten Greatest Films of All Time’, p. 41

[6] Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out, (Oxford University Press: Oxford, 2001), p. 94

Like a miniature wooden and tin city symphony

Toccata for Toy Trains is not so much a film as it a fifteen minute explosion of colourful, nostalgic delight. The first film of both sound and colour that I viewed in this unit certainly used both aspects relentlessly to present a picture that is vibrant and loud, the trains almost bounding off the screen in their mechanical and speedy splendour.

The music complements the scenes delightfully, the rich, sonorous blow of the trumpet issuing in the beginning and the end of the film, with a slew of many other instruments such as the clarinet and percussion harmonising sight with sound. Music was central to the mood of the film, as Charles Eames would later remark: “We used a lot of sound, sometimes carried to a very high volume so you would actually feel the vibrations...We did it because we wanted to heighten awareness”.[1] The jovial flute and the mellow oboe certainly captivate the senses, immersing the viewer in a symphonic riot which is made all the pleasing by its vivid visual grandeur. The first scene appears to be a candy filled glass train, a bright introduction into an array of candy apple reds, glistening blacks and canary yellows contrasted against pastel pinks and baby blues. The worn appearance of some of the trains and people does not detract from their brilliance – it simply makes them more interesting, knowing there is a history in these pretty little objects. The objects surrounding the trains are also visually pleasing – the buildings, power lines, food stands, luggage, trees, cars and of course people that craft the makeshift town. What appear to be children with toys of their own add a touch of serenity, and the film gathers excitement when it showcases a race between a car and a train, and also two men wrestling in an open carriage which is in danger of tipping over. The meticulous detail of spinning wheels and pistons and the cinematic shots such as virtual zoom that facilitate the fast paced movement are an impressive confluence of the creative talent of Ray and Charles. The toy people are particularly splendid, almost coming to life in all the humming fervour of their surroundings, formulating a microcosm of human activity. What is most enchanting about this film is that it delightfully authentic, almost like a miniature wooden and tin city symphony that mirrors the bustle of Ruttman’s Berlin: Symphony of a Great City or Sheeler and Strand’s Manhatta. In fact, Toccata for Toy Trains does carry on in the tradition of expressionist films which appeared during the 1920s, evidence of a growing interest in film-making: “Young artists, photographers, poets, novelists, dancers, architects, eager to explore the rich terrain of movie expression, learned how to handle a camera and with the most meagre resources attempted to produce pictures of their own.”[2]

Although Toccata for Toy Trains is a pleasure unto itself to watch, what makes this film all the more intriguing is Charles and Ray Eames’ inspiration for the film, and also their fascination with toys and both their aesthetic and functional purpose. In 1957, the Eames’ were asked by Sam Bernstein, who leased the Griffith Park Railroad, to redesign the station.  Soon, they became very involved in the project, redesigning not only the station, but the tickets, the posters and the signs, all of which created nostalgia surrounding train, for Charles in particular who held a fascination with them stretching back to childhood. The railroad was also significant to the formation of America and its industrial character, as Pat Kirkham has stated: “In 1957 the great American railroad system was already something of an anachronism. Yet the railroad system symbolised a great deal of the American myth. It had helped open California to white settlers from the Midwest, and it was associated with the ‘frontier spirit’ (whatever this was and however it was represented).”[3]

“The Eames’ respect for objects was rooted in the Arts and Crafts ideals of truth to materials, honesty of construction, joy in labour, and the dialectical relationship of truth and beauty.”[4] The verbal introduction to Toccata for Toy Trains alludes to these factors, as well as the reality of the degradation of the toy industry, which has proceeded to descend into the throes of mass mechanical production since. Toccata for Toy Trains is a rare pleasure, to watch it and think that these were real play things and not scale models awards one a sense of nostalgia for objects that are no longer made and probably only exist within private collections. The toys featured are certainly more beautiful, and have a much longer shelf life owing to their durable materials, than any toys I may have possessed as a child. Toys these days, it seems, are mostly made of cheap plastic and rely on dodgy electronics to captivate the interest of children. The one thing I am aware of that comes closest to mimicking the Eames’ respect for toys is a scene from Toy Story 2, where Woody is painstakingly repaired in order to become a collector’s item, however this may not have entirely earned the approval of Charles and Ray. The Eames’ love of toys was not strictly limited to their aesthetic appeal, but rather the integrity of old objects and the way they were produced and cared for. They admired how specific objects, or toys, could be understood in context and could reveal certain facts about history and culture – indeed, clues “to what sets the creative climate of any time, including our own”. Toys, according to the Eames’, could be both beautiful and instructional, and were vehicles for creative thought and production. The Eames’ fascination with toys led them to both design and make their own, giving them as gifts to friends and family.[5] The films that the Eames’s made about toys were effective in visually articulating issues relating to memory and childhood, movement, texture and colour and encourage, through “functioning decoration”, the expansion of imaginative powers and practical skills.[6] Through their creative prowess, the Eames’ were able to imaginatively explore the modernist absorption with trains through their personal adoration of toys, these factors manifesting themselves into a film that captivates the senses and imagination of both children and adults.

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[1] Pat Kirkham, Charles and Ray Eames: Designers of the twentieth century, (The MIT Press: Cambridge, 1995), p. 318

[2] Kirkham, Charles and Ray Eames: Designers of the twentieth century, p. 313

[3] Ibid, p. 130

[4] Ibid, p. 144

[5] Donald Albrecht, The work of Charles and Ray Eames: a legacy of invention, (Harry N. Abrams Inc. Publishers, New York: 1997), p. 138

[6] Kirkham, Charles and Ray Eames: Designers of the twentieth century, p. 146

When split screens were avant-garde

Upon viewing ‘Man with a Movie Camera,’ it was quite clear that Vertov’s creation is much more unreserved than Ruttman’s ‘Berlin: Symphony of a Great City’. It never fails to amaze me that even with censorship and the public expectation of modesty and inhibition, films were still able to somehow present the taboo, with nudity, child birthing and even an instance of divorce, which still carries a stigma in certain societies, making an appearance in Vertov’s film. Although Vertov uses ‘kinography’ to explain the lack of intertitles, scripting and theatrical components such as actors and sets, the film still manages an intriguing account of city life through the implementation of several filming techniques which are visually stimulating, and certainly would have been an object of fascination at the time. Vertov, aware of the poor sound quality of available equipment, recognised the impossibility of organising the many sounds people were confronted with daily. Instead, he sought comfort through the possibility of capturing the physical world with a movie camera: “Record the visible...Organise not the audible, but the visible world. Perhaps that’s the way out?”[1] In organising the visible world, Vertov, like Ruttman, is able to create the idea of noise generated by constant movement and a quick succession of images: sound is implied rather than heard. Speaking of his 1928 newsreel ‘The Eleventh Year’, Vertov remarked that “we already see montage connected with sounds. Recall how the machines thump, how absolute silence is conveyed.”[2] This musing can easily be applied to ‘Man with a Movie Camera’. Vertov adequately records the energy of motion, as slow and fast, industrial and mechanical, without employing the use of sound. Viewers today, who have been desensitised by the constant array of CGI enhanced images and sequences, are either unimpressed by the technical simplicity or captivated by something which was so technologically advanced for its time. It is interesting how what was once considered ‘avant-garde’ quickly descends into the realm of the conventional. Vertov, it seemed, was simply interested in the filmic capture of images and the mechanical portrayal and manipulation of our surroundings, writing that: “I am kino-eye. I am builder...I am kino-eye, I am mechanical eye. I, a machine, show you the world as only I can see it”.[3] His superimposition of his ‘man with a movie camera’ on top of a large building, overlooking the city captures both his advanced film making methods and also a metaphor, for the film-maker towering above everything and everyone, an all-seeing figure. The reality is that Vertov, as the man with a movie camera behind the man with a movie camera, is indeed a powerful figure, able to manipulate images in order to depict this sentiment. Cinema itself promises power as it allows time to be cut, edited, reversed and replayed.[4] One of the most interesting things about ‘Man with a Movie Camera’ is its self-reflexivity: it begins with an image of a camera, and as the film unfolds, we are made aware of the camera and the film-maker’s constant self reference and awareness.

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[1] Vertov, as quoted in Douglas Kahn, Noise, water, meat: a history of sound in the arts, (The MIT Press: Cambridge, 1999), p. 140

[2] Ibid, p. 141.

[3] Dziga Vertov, ‘Kinoks: A Revolution’, in Technology and culture, the film reader, ed. Andrew Utterson, (Routledge: London, 2005), p. 102

[4] Peggy Phelan, Mourning sex: performing public memories, (Routledge: London, 1997), p. 160

Surprisingly loud for a film without sound

Ruttman’s Berlin: Symphony of a Great City is a portrait of Germany’s city, from ‘dawn ‘til dusk’, decades before it was divided into two, or characterised by the existence or the memory of a wall. The opening shots of the city, following the train sequence, display an empty shell of a city, of buildings and places that, although formative of a city’s history and identity, cannot be significant without the human interactions and events they shelter and shadow. Here, Berlin is a ghost city, perhaps Ruttman’s testimony to the effects of the First World War, but also a haunting prediction of the city’s fate during and after World War Two. Here, we see more than hear the silence, the length of the cuts underlining the slow movement, with Ruttman’s images of empty streets, closed blinds and solitary walks creating a sequence which mirrors a symphony’s ‘adagio’ after a fast paced, train packed ‘sonata’. The constant walking, sweeping, and everyday movement such as washing dishes and slicing food all work to create a rhythmic sequence interspersed with moments of tension and suspense, such as the fight and the suicide. We are familiar enough today with the sights and sounds to be able produce in our minds exactly what the sequence of shots would sound like, even if we have not heard these sounds directly, in real life. For instance, the sounds of prancing horse hooves and the taps and chimes of a typewriter are only familiar to me because I have so often heard them reproduced in various films. Therefore, I can assign each shot and every image a sound, or an absence of sound, which makes the viewing all the more exciting, for me at least, being forced to use your imagination in this way, without even music attempting to sway your emotions or control your impulses. The various shots are able to truly produce a soundless symphony, with every movement creating a rhythmic beat, even an elephant’s tail swishing back and forth mimicking the movement of a metronome. The lack of sound or music forces us to really focus on what the screen presents, the fractional seconds which would otherwise go unnoticed, and those “unconscious optics” which the camera seeks to reveal.[1] In this way, I can see how a film like this would appeal to people watching it at the time, whereas for people watching it today, it is not so much entertainment or even social commentary as it is historically and contextually significant. The film finally ends with a shot of a rotating searchlight, adhering with the ‘dawn ‘til dusk’ motif, but also reminiscent of how many movies begin today, with the logo for film production giant ‘Twentieth Century Fox’, established in the 1930s. The rush resembles a mad throng, which eventually leads to a fight, and even a suicide. Whereas Kracauer criticized the film for being devoid of social content[2], I think it adequately depicts the many facets of life for those of differing classes and occupations, and is certainly a portrait of Klaus Mann’s recollection of the era: “Within the city, millions of underfed, corrupt, sex-starved and pleasure-hungry men and women writhe and totter in a jazz-induced delirium. Dance had become a mania, an obsession, a cult...War cripples and profiteers, film-stars and prostitutes, former monarchs (with princely pensions) and retired schoolmasters (with no pension at all) – all twist and turn in gruesome euphoria”.[3] It is not difficult to see the blatant contrast that Ruttman makes between the wealthy and the poor, including a shot of a beggar woman followed by the retrieval of an expensive necklace from a shop window, effectively contrasting destitution with opulence. And although sex does not make an explicit appearance, it is still alluded to, through the lingerie bearing mannequins and also after the dance sequences, where men and women enter taxis, only for Ruttman to cut to a scene of a flashing neon sign reading ‘Hotel’. A shot of a woman’s skirts flying up with the wind is about as daring as it gets, this scene begging comparison to Marilyn Monroe’s iconic sequence in ‘The Seven Year Itch’ (1955). Furthermore, whereas Kracauer comments that the montage aesthetic gives rise to the mechanical processes of society, I’m with Walter Benjamin in saying that camera close-ups often capture the “hidden details of familiar objects”, and that the features of our urban landscape, our factories and offices, seem to have “locked us up hopelessly”.[4] If it was Ruttman’s intention to make this kind of a comment about urbanisation and industrialisation, he could not have been more accurate, and now, more than eighty years later, we are still struggling to come to terms with an increasingly modernised, fast- paced and noisy city.

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[1] Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, in Technology and culture, the film reader, ed. Andrew Utterson, (Routledge: London, 2005), p. 117

[2] Alexander Graf, ‘Paris – Berlin – Moscow: On the Montage Aesthetic of the City Symphony Films of the 1920s’, in Avant-Garde Film, eds. Alexander Graf and Dietrich Scheunemann, p. 87

[3] Michael Simmons, Berlin, the dispossessed city, (Hamish Hamilton: London, 1988), p. 65

[4] Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, p. 116