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.
[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
