サマーウォーズ - Summer Wars 2009 (Hosoda Mamoru)

Strawberry fields.com

Recently, I’ve been dwelling on the internet. I wake most mornings and instantly reach for my phone to see if any new messages have appeared in my various inboxes overnight. It appears that this reflex is now as instinctive as opening my eyes when the alarm sounds. Once I’ve showered and made some coffee I check it again.

When I find myself on a tram or train or some other form of public transport, my phone is suddenly in my hand and I’m checking the internet once more. The same thing happens when I’m waiting for a friend or just come across a lull in my day. If I ever feel ashamed of my dependence of this technology, I simply look around. I am not alone in this. Everyone appears to be the same; logged in, switched on, plugged in, connected… So what is the internet? What drives our need to constantly be attached or connected to something so vast? In a sea of information so indefinable, what can the internet provide the human race in the future? It’s easy to put a negative spin on the internet and compare the attraction of technology for the current generation as some form of super drug; but everything in this world must be taken with moderation and the internet is no exception.

With this in mind I’d like to look at Hosoda Mamoru’s film, Summer Wars. Summer Wars taps into the role that the internet has on the current generation in a charming way and casts no judgment in any form. It tells the story of a eleventh grade student, Kenji, a mathematical whiz but lacking in social skills outside of the world of Oz. Oz is a social networking site that has reached global popularity to the point that it has become the preferred method of accessing the internet, in essence, a new virtual world. Business, sport, news, games, personal profiles, even governmental issues are all featured within the all encompassing world of Oz, tied into the fabric of a single database.

The film begins with Kenji being offered a chance to accompany Natsuki, a fellow classmate that Kenji is completely enamored with, to her Grandmother’s 90^th birthday party at the family home in Nagano as a summer job. He is quickly introduced to her vast family, and to Grandmother Jinnouchi herself as Natsuki’s fiancé, a surprise that Natsuki failed to mention in the job description. On the first night he has difficulty sleeping and receives a strange message on his phone containing a math problem. He diligently sets to work and sends the answer via reply within a few hours. When he awakes the next morning, the news is ablaze with reports that Oz has been uploaded with a new virus. The virus spreads and causes complete confusion within the online community and as a result panic spreads to the streets. Computers everywhere become affected and technology grinds to a halt; traffic piles up, false fires are reported all over the city and important medical information is deleted thus endangering the lives of the Japanese population on mass. It soon transpires that Kenji, due to his late night problem solving, is to blame for unleashing the monster on the virtual world. It is left to Grandmother Jinnouchi with her influential connections that she has obtained over the years, as well as her family, to set things straight.

The recurring theme of forever being plugged-in and connected to the internet is ever present within Summer Wars. It portrays an example of both sides of our dependence on technology. Kazuma, a young relative of Natsuki’s and a member of the vast Jinnouchi clan, is a social shut in who spends his days attached it to his computer and little else. Although Kazuma is a recluse in the real world, he has achieved internet fame as King Kazuma, a combatant in a popular fighting simulator in the world of Oz, even going as far as appearing in adverts posted around the city. Grandmother Jinnouchi, represents the opposing side. While Kazuma lives his life through an artificial reality, the grandmother spent her 90 years building personal relationships founded on trust and love. When disaster breaks out, she immediately rifles through her old correspondences and reconnects with old acquaintances, such as the chief of police, and encourages them to keep fighting and work hard. While the grandmother’s life and influence in the real world is enviable, Kazuma’s choice of lifestyle is by no means condemned; in fact a relation is made. It’s all about communication.

While Summer Wars firmly positions itself in the pro-internet camp, demonstrating the overwhelming affect that its introduction has had on the world, there are additional issues raised that could use further thought. Looking at another anime that is remarkable similar in subject matter but with an alternative stance, Serial Experiments Lain casts a more philosophical approach to the enigma of the internet. Serial Experiments Lain focuses on the story of one young girl, Lain, as she slowly comes to terms with who she really is and her position in the world that surrounds her. Beginning as a painfully shy student, again with little to no social skills, she turns to the internet for comfort. Once connected, she slowly becomes more and more confident within the world of online communication as she perfects her avatar or virtual self. As time progresses, she begins to lose the self she once was and the fabric of reality in the real world begins to shift. Time distorts and the two worlds merge into one with no definable line separating the two. She transcends her mortal existence by becoming a deity of the wired (the internet) and thus becomes a god of all existence.

The idea of an avatar or online self seems to a recurring motif in both Summer Wars and Serial Experiments Lain. Simply put, it is the self that is projected by the characters into an artificial existence. Lain discovers that her true self is actually her avatar and Kenji’s online account is hacked and thus controlled through his online persona. The virus takes over and controls Kenji in the world of Oz, seemingly with a mind of its own. A question is raised in both examples. What constitutes the self as a singular entity and why does the modern generation feel the need to distort their own beings in a world that can be molded to their liking? Perhaps it’s simply a case of global hubris that has taken over the world; in which children with expensive phones stare lifelessly at their screens. In actual fact, they are living lives of wonder and excitement that the real world cannot possibly offer them. They are gods in their own worlds. If this is the case, when we log on are we actually tapping into a collective humanity?

While Serial Experiments Lain focuses on losing oneself in the infinite void of the internet, with Lain transforming into one singular being with no sense of what predated her life before the Wired, Summer Wars stands by its principles of communication. Lain’s character is absorbed and modified beyond recognition whereas, at the end of Summer Wars, the world unites as a force to combat the virus. Instead of one mind with many bodies (or avatars) the inhabitants of the world willingly offer themselves for a common cause.

Summer Wars’ main focus is about connecting with one another and the power behind that. The use of the internet simply widens our possibilities of connecting with people from all around the world and thus reaching a global understanding of the world itself. Summer Wars and Serial Experiments Lain highlight the dangers in this too, in a world that is created and manipulated by mankind, anybody can distort the fabric of that reality and change what one may perceive to be real, but it also shows that the internet can be used for the greater good if used with moderation and respect. 

I, for one, am thankful for the technology that gives me the opportunity to talk with loved ones half a world away on a regular basis. It helps to close the gap and bring us closer together. Of course, that being said, it doesn't hurt to switch off the phone once in a while, unplug the internet and go and sit under a tree for a hour or two and enjoy the pleasures that reality can still offer us. 

山の音 - The Sound of the Mountain 1954 (Naruse Mikio)

Modernity's Attack on Tradition.

            Naruse Mikio’s The Sound of the Mountain is an adaptation of a novel by Yasunari Kawabata. The original tells the story of an aging man on the verge of death who is stricken further with the realization that he has had little positive influence on the lives of his family. In his attempts to reclaim his presence within the household, he discovers his son is keeping a mistress out of sight of his daughter-in-law, a woman who he himself becomes further attached to as the story progresses.

              While Kawabata’s novel is a melancholic tale of lost moments and failed chances, Naruse’s film version ties important current issues into the narrative and overwhelms the inherent tradition of the original with a wave of modernity. The values of a previous generation are challenged and the gap that divides the old with the young is widening year by year; understanding each other becomes an increasing challenge and communication breaks down.

              In the 1950’s of Japan, various woman’s movements were established and consequently split into two sides. Those that advocated women’s rights and those who wished to protect the traditions of the household by defending the values of motherhood and homemaking. Many of Naruse’s films of this time period focused on issues that chiefly affected women. While Late Chrysanthemums focuses on the strife of women in the workplace and the challenges of being given equal grounding, The Sound of the Mountain looks toward the other side of the coin, woman in the household and consequently the dissolution of the family unit.

           The Sound of the Mountain can easily be viewed as a critique on the society of the time. It illustrates the problems that modernity on mass has created for the traditional mind of Japan where new ideas, liberties and fresh desires corrupt the pastimes that have existed for generations. Each character is a separate entity within the film, an island that considers themselves to be the heroes of their own stories, no matter how terrible their acts may be.

              Much like the original text, The Sound of the Mountain’s plot centers around one family living in the ancient seaside town of Kawabata and depicts the increasingly close relationship between Shingo and his daughter-in-law, Kikuko. As Kikuko’s marriage with her philandering husband, Shuichi, disintegrates it is to Shingo that she turns and although it is never consummated, it would appear that the feelings that Shingo has for Kikuko are no longer appropriate for a father-in-law. Modernity in this case appears to be the catalyst that sets off the dissolution and collapse of the family. Shingo, the supposed head of the household has lost touch with his children and blames himself for their failures in their own relationships. Shuichi, unsatisfied with the life offered to him seeks relief and pleasure outside the marital bed and possesses a mistress. Shingo’s daughter has returned back to her parent’s care, with two children in toe after her marriage collapses. Shingo’s own marriage appears to be loveless, relying solely as a working relationship and Kikuko who, after seeing the many examples of unhappiness that surround her, decides to turn away from this life to seek another. This is amplified by her choice to have an abortion. After she becomes impregnated by Shuichi, she looks to the life she may have if she continued down that road, forever linked to a man who treats her with nothing but distain. She escapes one life but to what avail? The abyss that modernity has caused is stretched before her at the film’s end.

           What really brings the emotion to life in this film is its pace. The flow of the film carries the protagonists toward their own destruction at an alarming pace and never lets up. Fast cuts, endless medium shots and the overall speed of the film pushes each character towards a life of isolation, sacrifice or death.

              The acting within The Sound of the Mountain is also something of note. It is said that on set Naruse would rarely give criticism; refusing to offer his opinion on a performance, his silence was apparently thought to be downright malicious at times. As a result of being a completely unresponsive director, he placed his actors and actresses in a desperate and emotionally vulnerable state and thus tapped in to the characters he wished to capture. If one were to compare the acting skill seen in The Sound of the Mountain to other Japanese films of the period then the latter would certainly appear melodramatic to Naruse’s down to earth creation. Capturing the precise frame of mind allows the story of Shingo, played by Yamamyra Sou, and Kikuko played by Hara Setsuko (the darling of Japanese cinema in that period) to generate complete empathy for the audience to relate to. 

 　　　　　The Sound of the Mountain is a film of transitions. It shows the possibilities of the future but depicts the heartbreaking realization that in order for the unstoppable nature of modernity to exist certain traditions must die. The conclusion of this film is not explosive; it is as sad and quiet as autumn leaves falling. Change is inevitable and life goes on.

秒速5センチメートル - 5 Centimeters per Second 2007 (Shinkai Makoto)

The Season of the Setting Sun.

              If you were to descend deep enough into the cold depths of the sea, past the reaches of sunlight, you may chance upon certain type of fish. Creatures that emit light from their own bodies that have evolved in such a style in order to survive in complete darkness, free from dependence of the surrounding environment. Although we have examples of young characters exhibiting similar traits, human agents of action who refuse to allow themselves to become controlled by their own environments and strive for social change, this is not the case for the characters in Shinkai Makoto’s 5 Centimeters Per Second. While the youth of previous generations fought for equality, truth, and simple acknowledgement, unleashing their immature frustrations out on the world, 5 Centimeters per Second’s targets are more subjective. Simply put – you can’t stop time and love will take hold.  

              Shortly after the Second World War, the film industry of Japan began to focus on centering their narratives on the lives of young men and women. The idea behind this was essentially that youth as a popular image stood for the new Japan, free from militaristic rule and consequentially this lead to themes such as liberation and rebellion. A novella was released in 1956 entitled Season of the Sun and gained critical acclaim due to its depiction of sex and violence. Fifty years later, these themes have been abruptly pulled back for 5 Centimeters Per Second and we are left with apathetic characters that are more akin to debris floating along a river than agents of destruction. What is the cause of the passive nature of today’s youth? In Shinkai Makoto’s film it is a combination of the pressures of both love and life that are forcing the characters into submission.

              5 Centimeter Per Second tells the story of two children that fall in love but are challenged with the problems of long distance and time. The format of the film is divided into three distinct periods of the characters’ lives. The first episode is presented as a series of flashbacks with the narrative being told through letters that the protagonists, Tono Takaki and Shinohara Akari, wrote to each other after being separated after Elementary School. While this is a love story, the film is immediately set up to show the barriers that the characters face in the progression of their relationship. The majority of the scenes depict each character writing their letters alone and it is through this correspondence that the emotions of the film are best portrayed. With only brief flashes of the happiness they once shared together it is the longing for one another that is dwelt on and for that the audience is completely overwhelmed with empathy.

              While it is clear that Takaki and Akari’s feelings for one another are mutual, they remain apart. The second episode takes the focus away from the subjective mind of the lovers and switches instead to that of a third party member, Kanae. She is a young girl that attends the same High School as Tataki and has completely fallen for him. Although, as a result of her inability to express her feelings for him she becomes wrapped in self doubt which is plainly shown in her difficulty in practicing her chosen sport, surfing. While we only see Tataki from Kanae’s point of view throughout episode 2 we understand that he is still very much enamored with the girl from his past, despite the fact that correspondence between the two has ceased. He spends his time staring into the atmosphere and sustaining himself on memories alone; writing messages with no address.

              Episode three is a resolution of sorts. It is about acceptance and this is where the real sadness of the film lies. The characters are now both adults; Tataki is unsatisfied with his single life as a computer programmer and Akari is married. Once more we are treated to a series of flashbacks from the course of their respective lives. Through looking at the past and judging the future with a clear mind, Tataki is finally able to let Akari, or rather the memories of Akari go.

             

It must really be a lonelier journey than anyone could imagine. Cutting through absolute darkness, encountering nothing but the occasional hydrogen atom. Flying blindly into the abyss, believing therein lie the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

              It is not just an acceptance of their fate that Tataki comes to terms with at the end, but it is an acceptance of the whole of life that has been chosen for him. His character wonders about the lonely journey through space as he gazes at the stars, but in truth he is already on that journey, with no intention of changing its course. This film illustrates the idea of victim consciousness in an interesting fashion. For one, the victimizers of the characters are themselves; denying their own happiness by the inability to become agents of change. Due to Tataki’s quiet contemplation in episode two, the surfer girl, Kanae illustrates this best. At the chosen moment of the film in which she is about to confess to Tataki, she deprives herself of her expression and weeps instead. What makes all of this so wonderful is the fact that they are all only children and this is a beautiful portrayal of the youth of our age. It is their naïve handling of important, emotional situations and their lack of ability to express themselves that is the crux of 5 Centimeters Per Second. While children from Seasons of the Sun from fifty years ago would lash out over these frustrations with acts of violence or sexual release, the characters from this film simply retreat within or send themselves out into the void of space. It would seem the children also fall at 5 centimeters per second as well as the sakura leaves the film takes its name from.

ゴジラ - Godzilla 1954 (Honda Ishirou)

How I learned to stop worrying and love the Oxygen Destroyer

In 1954, Godzilla was released to audiences in Japan. Earlier that year, off the coast of the South Pacific, a 15 – megaton hydrogen bomb was tested, which exposed numerous Japanese fishermen to lethal doses of radiation. With this in mind, it’s easy to see the relation between the destructive power of the monster and the power of the bomb. This is made all too literal in the opening scenes of the film, in which a fishing boat is destroyed by the emergence of the beast. While it may be convenient to blame the monster or an individual nation, especially in the wake of such historical turmoil, Godzilla does not do this. The blame falls on mankind itself, on our nature. We are the beast and Godzilla is us.

              The film opens with numerous reports of explosions and devastation ravaging the Japanese coastline. Professor Yamane, a kind natured paleontologist and his assistant, Ogata visit Outo, an island that has been affected by the recent trouble, on a fact finding mission. While there, they witness the longstanding traditions and rituals that are performed by the islanders to pacify the nature of a mythical sea dragon, ‘Gojira’. After witnessing for himself the giant footprints left alongside the beach, Professor Yamane is convinced this beast is the cause of the recent strife. He conducts further research and concludes that Gojira is a surviving dinosaur from the Jurassic period. Since that time, he has been in a state of hibernation deep within one of the Earth’s many unexplored recesses of the ocean. Recent hydrogen bomb experimentation has caused the monster to awaken and in its provoked state its sets about taking its revenge on Tokyo.

              Due to the creative talent of the film’s art director, Tsuburaya Eiji, a real sense of credible danger and horror is depicted during Gojira’s attack on the city. The use of superimpositions, shots of the incredibly detailed miniatures and the blend of live action footage taken on life-size studio sets all help to create this effect. These composite shots allow for the monster to be in the same frame as his human victims, creating scenes of notable fame. The threat is established and the tension is high but what could bring down such a monster?

              While the film’s precedent, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, concludes with the monster being destroyed by the very science that brought about its emergence, Godzilla does no such thing. The existence of such destructive power that is controlled by man is never once condoned but the innate desire for this form of science is recognized as what appears to be an inescapable eventuality. New weapons will keep being produced until the entire world suffers from the threat of mutually assured destruction. In Godzilla’s case, this new weapon takes the form of the Oxygen Destroyer, a device that not only has the potential to destroy Gojira but also mankind itself. The scientist behind this creation, Professor Serizawa, realizes the horror of its existence and vows to keep it from the public until he has found a use for it that will benefit the world rather than eradicate it. That being said, he is eventually convinced that it is his invention alone that will save all. Taking the only option that is available to him, knowing full well that after the  potential of the Oxygen Destroyer has been seen it will be used as a form of intimidation, he sacrifices himself alongside his invention to take down Gojira.

              Aside from being a dinosaur from the past, the question of what ‘Godzilla actually is’, appears to be an elusive one. Is it a foreign threat? Is it the evil of society come to lay havoc in physical form? If you were to spend some time looking at its destructive path through Tokyo, one might believe it to be the ghosts of Japanese soldiers returning home, mainly due in part to the fact the monster did not destroy the Imperial Palace during its rampage. Although this idea may hold some weight, there are stronger arguments that indicate that Godzilla is just as much a creation of man as the Oxygen Destroyer. Perhaps not quite a weapon in itself but certainly containing the potential for harm; it is science in progress. While Professor Serizawa wanted to withhold his research of the Oxygen Destroyer until he discovered a benefit for its existence; something which didn’t quite pan out, another character believed there was also good to be found in Godzilla. Professor Yamane, stands for the preservation of the monster due to its ability to withstand a nuclear attack. Somewhere in its genetic makeup is the answer for the preservation of the human race. This monster is killed before this theory is proven. There are two sides to this story; two forces pushing against each other, the Oxygen Destroyer and Godzilla. Both unleash a flurry of destruction and then are extinguished abruptly. Two weapons fulfilling their purpose and as it turns out, they are nothing more.

It would appear that Godzilla is simply a mirror of humanity, or rather a mirror of humanity’s potential. It serves to illustrate the weak willed and impatient nature of the entire population of the planet.  

“Ogata, humans are weak animals. Even if I burn my notes, the secret will still be in my head. Until I die, how can I be sure I won't be forced by someone to make the device again?”

The sacrifice made by Professor Serizawa at the end of the film assured that the oxygen destroyer would not be placed in the wrong hands or any hands for that matter. The film is a complete dramatization of the horror that may lie before us. Perhaps not ancient dinosaurs from the past come to seek vengeance on the world but the end of days none the less. As the reporter on the scene of Godzilla’s rampage proclaims, “this is not a play or a motion picture.” Of course it is, but maybe the actual reality was just to horrific to portray and the fantasy element of a raging beast killing everyone was in fact the lighter choice. Potentially, there is a Godzilla in all of us.

メトロポリス - Metropolis 2002 (Rintaro)

Globalization and the world belonging to the Metropolis.

 

Over the last twenty years or so Japanese animation has seen a significant rise in popularity in the West. I personally remember dragging my parents and friends into central London just so I could riffle through the VHS  selection in the basement of Forbidden Planet. It was a rare treat. Nowadays, anime is everywhere, back home in London, Japanese animation is readily available to all those who wish to take advantage of it. Whole sections of popular stores are devoted to this particular genre and the Western world on mass essentially knows the idiosyncratic differences between anime and standard cartoons and it is no longer viewed as particular to its country of origin.

Anime is now global, and this globalization also relates to our own sense of belonging or feeling at home. As the culture of Japan (albeit primarily pop-culture) penetrates the media of the West, its nature is being gradually ingrained into our everyday lives. The false concept that anime is in-cased in a protective ‘Japanese’ barrier is slowly withering year by year.

Rintaro’s Metropolis is an interesting response to this idea. While its story may need a little fleshing out in parts the premise behind it is genuinely fascinating. This is a story that is based on another, which in turn was supposedly based on a movie poster of an incredibly popular German film. Metropolis or rather Metoroporisu (film) is based on Osamu Tezuka’s comic from 1949 that shares the same name. It is said that Osamu only used the poster of Fritz Lang’s film, also with the same name, as his inspiration. Judging from the narrative within the comic this comes as no surprise as it shares very few themes with the German film. The 2002 film on the other hand has more in common with Fritz Lang’s version due to a complete rewrite of the story; with it containing themes of class struggle, humanity and even a love story. Although these similarities do exist it doesn’t go as far as to warrant itself a remake but rather a stylish pastiche on Western films in general.

The story’s narrative is very spatially focused. The beautifully drawn, pastoral locations that are too numerous to list dominate the mise en scene of the film and become the drive behind the story. The plot outline resembles at best a film noir; a genre that is perfectly suitable to take the characters on a sightseeing tour of the entirety of the Metropolis itself. A detective and his young ward are sent out on a mission to find an evil scientist who has been accused of organ trafficking. On their way they unravel a plot that not only concerns them, or indeed the thriving city that surrounds them, but the whole of the human race at large. Once the characters locate the laboratory they discover that it has been put to the torch and the scientist they seek lies dying within. A young girl is also found within the wreckage, a girl who soon becomes the focal point of the entire film. Tima is a robot, built in the image of Red Duke’s daughter, a man who has recently finished construction of the largest skyscraper in the world. The Ziggurat, which closely resembles The Tower of Babel, is a symbol of man’s accomplishments but within this story it is also a means of domination and oppression with the ability to control the entirety of the world’s robots, characters that are portrayed as the physical embodiment of the proletariat populace. Tima’s role is to sit upon the throne of The Ziggurat and rule as the supreme being/robot that she is; a plan compromised by the detective, Hige-Oyaji and his nephew, Kenichi who inevitably falls in love with her.  . 

              The overall style of Metropolis is outstanding. The minute detail found in every scene can be individually viewed as a work of art. This beautiful use of color and movement is wrapped around an art deco backdrop and is further coupled with a groundbreaking soundtrack comprised of New Orleans-style jazz music. It’s completely and utterly cool and perhaps it’s easy to think that the storyline would finish second place to the aesthetic of the film. This is not the case. Metropolis relies on a supranational identity to capture the audience’s attention. Its stunning and sophisticated contemporary setting reflects the broader hybrid nature of the culture of modern Japan. This film is both inward as well as simultaneously being outward looking. The two protagonists of the film, the detective and Kenichi are both from Japan and they have come to a foreign land to solve a crime against humanity. They are the primary point of view of the film and it is through their eyes that the Metropolis is served to us, we are only tourists. The city thus becomes so much more intricate and its style has a profound resonance as it is the world of any city; a western city, a Japanese city, a modern city and we are being shown this through their traditional eyes. It’s rather overwhelming but utterly fantastic, a beautiful experience of looking through the looking glass.

              The additional themes that are found within Metropolis’s narrative can likewise be seen as another element of style in this manner. The idea of class struggle and the issues of humanity are two of notable importance, one leading into the other. The former being a characteristic of the Metropolis itself, almost as if the deprived classes are an ordinary appendage, a common occurrence of a thriving city. This comfortably leads us to the latter theme, humanity. What begins as satirical jab at a the faulty nature of a society and human interaction then switches to a much more literal analysis of the theme. What makes us human, the ability to display compassion? If an artificial girl can possess this, is this the next stage of human evolution or is it the beginning of our own damnation? “I am an artificial human. A machine created to conquer the world and destroy it.”

              Although Metropolis relies heavily on style it would be a mistake to consider this film solely on face value. Its use of style is intelligent and wonderfully placed. With many recent anime hitting major cinemas and entertaining the masses both in Japan and around the world this is definitely an unappreciated classic to hark back to. This is anime's reaction to its own fame, a form of cinema that is becoming absorbed into the mainstream, rather than being a straightforward alternative to it.

晩春 - Late Spring 1949 (Ozu Yasujiro)

Last weekend I visited a market where a seller was offering cups of drip coffee. Her set-up was simple and the coffee was strong and rich. Shortly after finishing my cup I purchased my own set of accessories in order to make this style of coffee myself. I found there was a homely satisfaction that one can take from making a truly delicious cup of coffee; the smell of the beans, the sound of the grind and that first rewarding sip all make the end result worth the extra time and effort.

In many ways I found myself comparing my relationship with coffee to Ozu Yasujiro and his approach to film-making. There is a concept used in all Japanese art known as mono no aware. While being notoriously difficult to translate fully, Donald Richie defines it as, “putting up with things and taking satisfaction in your putting up with things”. It is my understanding that this simple phrase defines life and this is exactly what Ozu manages to do in many of his films and most certainly accomplishes in Late Spring.

While taking many narrative structural influences from Hollywood before The Second World War, as well as deftly combining his own experiences and personal influences, Ozu Yasujiro was able to become one of the leading filmmakers in Japan. Although after the war, during American’s occupation of Japan, Ozu rebelled against this form of film-making and set out to create something that would be seen as purely Japanese. Rather than settling on a traditional film plot such as a love story or action movie, Ozu focused on the characters themselves; on their attitudes, their emotions and the feel of the world they inhabited.

 Late Spring itself tells the story of a woman in her late twenties, Noriko, who comfortably lives with her father Somiya, a widower. The two of them live happily side by side until Noriko’s aunt suggests that Noriko should get married soon and settle in a household of her own. She rejects idea and declares she is perfectly fine where she is now, taking care of her father and living an innocent lifestyle. Thus begins a series of slight suggestions, manipulative ploys and hidden agendas that force Noriko into the modern world through traditional means.

              When the movie camera was first introduced to the West it was seen as an extension of the photographic camera. Its ability to depict life as a document was exploited in the filming of a factory during closing time and a train pulling into a station. Japan took a different approach, it saw the movie camera as an extension of the stage, offering the opportunity to distort time and space to create seemingly genuine emotion through storytelling. Ozu returns to this idea and much of his work is reminiscent of the theatre.

The world that is depicted in Late Spring is a bright and sunny place, powerfully lit and combined with the low camera shots that show the entirety of the characters’ bodies nothing is hidden from us. The action that is presented is as if it is performed on a stage with the camera filling the role of audience. This is further demonstrated with the positioning of the characters during one of the many two-person conversations. The character don’t face each other but rather stand or sit side by side, directing their focus on empty space toward the direction of the camera. The characters are in harmony with one another and the composition of these scenes show the intricate detail of Ozu directorial talents.

All of these techniques allow for the emotional context of Late Spring to shine through. There is a notable scene where both Noriko and her father are sharing a hotel room in Kyoto and Noriko is talking about her future with a characteristic smile lying listlessly on her face. Her father falls asleep and her words fall on deaf ears. A shot then directs the audience’s gaze to a vase in the corner of the room. When it cuts back to Noriko the smile has faded and she appears on the verge of tears. After another lengthy shot of the vase the scene cuts to the next day. There has been much discussion over the meaning of the vase in many texts concerning Ozu Yasujiro. Many believe it to be symbolic of Noriko’s impending nuptials; others think it to mean a void that dominates not only Noriko’s life but all the characters in the film and indeed our own lives. Now perhaps I’m over simplifying things, but I took it be a wonderful use of a point of view shot for Noriko. She’s a character that we have utter empathy for. She does no wrong and her only vice is that she wishes to stay in the life she knows, living with her father. She’s a character trapped in tradition, fated to serve those that believe they know best and it in this scene that her obedience wanes and she succumbs to her true feelings.

              Late Spring is a beautiful film; it depicts the pain of passing from one stage of life to the next. Noriko, under the pressures of tradition and obedience, is compelled to enter the modern world by becoming a married woman. A father is left alone as a result and each character feels abandoned in their own way. The time and effort that was poured into this film becomes completely apparent if you have a little patience and put up the little things in life.

人情紙風船 - Humanity and Paper Balloons 1937 (Yamanaka Sadao)

The humanity viewed through a doomed P.O.V.

It’s difficult to watch Humanity and Paper Balloons without feeling complete empathy for the director, Yamanaka Sadao. This film has been regarded as a premonition of the director’s own untimely death and what lies behind this dark and dreary jidaigeki are his true feelings for a society that lacks the humanity it sorely needs.

     In a time when the politics of Japan were becoming increasingly militaristic, Yamanaka Sadao had surrounded himself with leftist sympathizers and continued to make films that subtly satirized those in power. Humanity and Paper Balloons itself was adapted and filmed by Yamanaka with the knowledge that he would soon be shipped out to China to join the war; one may argue, after watching this film that he also knew he would never return. When he was saying his farewells at Kyoto station he gave no indication of national support or encouragement of the war, his last words were, “it’s all over”. Knowing this story prior to your first viewing of Humanity and Paper Balloons will make those words haunt you throughout its entirety.

      The film tells the tale of Unno, a cowardly ronin (masterless samurai) who tries to use his father’s reputation to gain employment and a crafty barber, Shinza who attempts to raise his status in the neighborhood. Both characters are examples of the lower classes that Yamanaka clearly sided with and each faces their own trails concerning their lot in life, namely concerning their attempts to challenge the upper classes. Unno directs his efforts into shadowing and stalking a samurai, badgering him on every occasion into taking him into his employ and consequently is shunned and lied to in every attempt. Shinza on the other hand arranges gambling events behind the local oyabun’s (yakuza boss) back and is repeated scalded and punished for his attempts.

Unno is eventually murdered by his wife, a woman that he lies to constantly, who then kills herself in turn. The very fact that he did not take his own life, a supposedly noble death for a shamed samurai, but rather let his wife perform the task only gives further emphasis to the image of a failed man. This death is also reminiscent of a suicide at the beginning of the film, an old samurai who had to sell his own blade to pay for food commits suicide by hanging himself in his house. As he had no sword he was unable to perform seppuku correctly and thus the film’s end is securely bookmarked with Unno’s death and comes full circle.

Shinza, as opposed to the apathetic character of Unno, is driven and motivated to seek what he believes he deserves. He challenges the so-called authorities with his gambling events but when he goes as far as kidnapping the local money-lender’s daughter it is no longer himself that he is concerned with but rather removing the power from those who deem themselves his betters. He shames the oyabun, and gives hope to the neighborhood that the men at the top are only human. This does not end well for the tragic hero and he meets his fate during a fight with the yakuza in the outskirts of town, once more crushed by the authority that controls all.

     The issue of humanity, the namesake of the film, is raised through the interactions of those in power and those who are not. A traditional view of an upper-class member of society is said to possess both humanity and a sense of duty. It is clear that the figureheads of the upper class seen in Humanity and Paper Balloons hold neither of these traits in high regard but are rather presented as shallow, deceitful, selfish and treacherous. Although that’s not to say that these characteristics are non-existent in the film. Shinza shows on more than one occasion to hold such qualities. At one point he steps in when Unno is being savagely beaten and his very need to displace the local yakuza boss is for the benefit of the neighborhood rather than the individual. It would appear that in Yamanaka’s world the vestiges of humanity are present in regular people that are in no way privileged in their position.

     Yamanaka’s filming techniques drive home the emotion of the film. The humor that the director has shown in other pieces is pulled back for Humanity and Paper Balloons and in its stead are dark scenes of alleyways, drab mud surroundings and melancholic weather. Another noticeable withdrawal is the lack of visual action. A common chanbara film would be filled with scenes of the hero fighting bravely but Yamanaka makes a point about removing such scenes from this piece. Why are we not shown the main actions of the film? What are we shown instead? The fact is the visuals of fighting, kidnapping and deaths are not important; what we see is society’s reaction to the actions. Deprived of actually seeing these hidden scenes in the privileged seat of the voyeur we become part of the small living quarters of the townspeople and thus understand the injustice depicted on an emotional and personal level.

     The mortar of this film runs deep with Yamanaka Sadao's mental state. It is true that many others put a lot of their own personal input into Humanity and Paper Balloons but all those involved were in consensus of its purpose. Humanity may very well weigh as much as a paper balloon and human life can be blown away just as easily.