Profile: Yasujiro Ozu

Of all the great Japanese directors, Yasujiro Ozu is the filmmaker most often cited as the “most authentically Japanese” (Kemp 135). Possessing an austere, distinctive visual style that was unconventional and non-Western, Ozu’s work was rarely seen outside of his native Japan, even during the time when other Japanese auteurs – Kurosawa and Mizoguchi – were gaining international acclaim. The release of Tokyo Story (Tokyo monogatari) in 1953 – the film widely regarded as his masterpiece – coincided with the time when Western audiences were gaining their first major exposure to Japanese cinema; “Akira Kurosawa made his breakthrough with Rashomon three years earlier, and Kenji Mizoguchi was moving to the forefront of the international festival scene” (Bordwell 1). However, despite this period of newfound international attention, Ozu’s films remained widely unscreened outside Japan; “their minimal narratives and idiosyncratic style resembled few other films, and distributers feared they were ‘too Japanese’ for international audiences” (Prelinger 1). As a result, the international market would not widely recognize the prolific director until a screening of Tokyo Story in New York in 1972 – nearly a full decade after Ozu’s death (Bordwell 1).

Yasujiro Ozu was born on December 12, 1903 in the Fukagawa district of Tokyo, Japan. The son of a fertilizer merchant, Ozu was an “indifferent student” in school, and often cut classes to attend film screenings (Crow). In high school, he was accused of sending a love letter to a younger female student, which had him expelled from school; Donald Richie notes that the event troubled Ozu, and while there is no evidence he actually sent the letter, he was “already on the disciplinary list: he drank, he smoked, he cut classes to go to the movies, and he received several zeros for conduct” (Richie 24). Ozu never forgot the incident that removed him from school, and even includes a reference to the notorious love letter in the script of his final film (Richie 24).

Ozu’s film career began in 1927, with the completion of his first film, Sword of Penitence (Zange no yaiba). This film would be the first and only costume drama of Ozu’s career; “apart from [this] directorial debut… all Ozu’s films were set in contemporary Japan” (Kemp 136). Ozu was so dissatisfied with the final cut of Sword of Penitence that he disowned it, yet he did not abandon filmmaking and continued to make films at a swift pace, completing over fifty feature films in his thirty-five-year career (Kemp 136). Stemming from an admiration for the silent comedies of Harold Lloyd and Ernst Lubitsch, the earliest Ozu films were silent comedies in the Japanese nonsense-mono style: “slapstick sketches… strung together with just a sliver of plot” (“Hard at Work” 1). In these early comedies, Ozu did not yet display the acclaimed visual techniques of his later work.

The first major film of Ozu’s oeuvre to display his signature visual style is 1932’s I Was Born, But… (Otona no miru ehon – Umarete wa mita keredo). For the first time, an Ozu film seriously explored the parent-child family relationship – a subject that dominates many of his films. Focusing on the theme of the dissolution of the family, Ozu helped define the shomin-geki, a Japanese “modern family drama,” and continued to display his mastery of the form until his death (Atkinson 5). He believed films were more valuable in their ability to create characters than develop plots; as Richie writes, “he was more interested in who his people were than in what they did” (Richie 2). His first major commercial and critical success, I Was Born, But… won first prize at the prestigious Kinema Junpo Awards “and is to this day the earliest Ozu print in regular circulation” (“Daddy Dearest” 1). Another Ozu silent, 1933’s Passing Fancy (Dekigokoro) introduced audiences to a recurring Ozu character type – the “loveable ne’er-do-well… usually called ‘Kihachi’” (Richie 1) played by Takeshi Sakamoto. Sakamoto became one of Ozu’s most popular collaborators, and would reprise his role of Kihachi in a series of films.

As Japanese cinema continued to progress in the 1930s, Ozu was forced to confront a technical development in the industry – the advent of sound films. Although Ozu’s production company, Shochiku Studios, produced the first Japanese feature-length talking picture in 1931, Ozu delayed his personal transition to sound films. Resistant to what he perceived as only a current fad, he believed that “silent film was an art form on the verge of artistic perfection and that sound was something of a rude interruption in reaching that goal” (“Bringing It All…” 1). Ultimately, Ozu converted to talking pictures, beginning in 1936 with The Only Son (Hitori musuko), but continued to make exclusively silent films in the early-to-mid-1930s while developing his mature filmmaking style.

By 1949, Yasujiro Ozu already completed over thirty films, but it is the period beginning with 1949’s Late Spring (Banshun) and ending with the director’s death in 1963 that contains Ozu’s most acclaimed films and those that best exemplify his iconic style. During this period, he focused the majority of his output on the same motif: “the attempt by an aging parent to marry off a dutiful daughter” (Prelinger 1). Ozu was deeply interested in “intergenerational communication,” (“Family Reunion” 1) and made films that “[refused] plot in any melodramatic sense,” (Richie 3) but exhibited a “faith that everyday life, rendered tellingly, provides more than enough drama to engage [audiences] deeply” (Bordwell 3). The plots of these films have an element of familiarity from one film to another; they are human dramas “laced with comedy” (Andrew 17) that maintain a consistency of style, mood, and cast (many performers appear in multiple films). The films are “meditative and relaxed, but never boring,” and are told from a point-of-view of “sympathetic sadness” stemming from the “Japanese concept of mono no aware: the perspective of a weary, relaxed, even disappointed observer” (Prelinger 1).

Just as the focus of Ozu’s plots remained consistent throughout much of his career, even more consistent is his iconic visual style, described here by Geoff Andrew:

“The hallmark elements of the style are, famously, the use of relatively short shots, taken with a mostly stationary camera from an unusually low angle in relation to the characters in the frame; simple cuts rather than fades, wipes, or dissolves; montage sequences of landscapes and buildings not only to begin films but also to provide punctuation and linkages between narrative scenes… Ozu characteristically displays a great visual wit, teasing and confounding our expectations in his imaginative use of offscreen space, and constantly surprising us with the way he positions a dazzling array of bright red objects… within the predominantly muted pastels of his meticulous compositions (Andrew 12, 17).”

The “unusually low angle” that Andrew refers to is a positioning of the camera “about three feet above the ground – roughly the eye line…of someone sitting cross-legged on a tatami mat” (Kemp 135). Ozu’s directing style, rejecting editing effects such as fades and dissolves, is so conservative and simplistic that Michael Atkinson refers to him as “one of the very few cinema giants you could never accuse of pretention” (Atkinson 4). The visual style of Ozu’s films is so different, yet stable that “even without seeing Ozu’s name in the credits, anyone who has ever sat through even one of his films would probably recognize [another] as his work within a minute or so, so idiosyncratic, consistent, and bold is his signature” (Andrew 12).

While Ozu’s mature directorial vision is clearly visible in Late Spring (1949), it is 1953’s Tokyo Story that introduced cineastes worldwide to Ozu’s work, and the film critics regard as his masterpiece (Bordwell 1). The film – starring frequent Ozu collaborators Chishu Ryu and Setsuko Hara – tells the story of an elderly couple that leaves the suburbs to visit their children in Tokyo, only to find that they have become an irrelevant nuisance in their busy children’s lives. All of Ozu’s stylistic elements are present in the film – tatami-high camera placement, short scenes, straight cuts, etc. Also notable in the film is Ozu’s treatment of dialogue; “Ozu refuses to cut away from a speaking character…as if to say every person has the right to be heard in full” (Bordwell 3). In a sense, this respectful treatment of each character’s dialogue coincides with the film’s non-judgmental treatment of the characters; each character has a justifiable reason for behaving how he/she does, and Ozu does not pass negative judgment on any of them. In the years following its release, the critical reception of Tokyo Story has been so great that the film ranked among the ten greatest films ever made in the last two Sight & Sound international critics’ polls (Bordwell 1).

Similar to his reluctance to sound in the 1930s, Ozu was again hesitant to adopt other technologies that came into wide use in Japan in the 1950s – color photography and widescreen lenses. However, when he eventually decided to shoot a film in color, Equinox Flower (Higanbana) in 1958, Ozu “found the transition to be a smooth one, enjoying the ways in which the properties of the reds, in particular, enhanced his vision of a changing society” (“In Full Bloom” 1). Once adopting color, Ozu would never return to black-and-white filmmaking, shooting all of his final six films in color, including 1959’s Floating Weeds (Ukigusa), a full-color, talkie remake of one of his most successful silent films. Unlike his eventual transfer to color film, Ozu rejected shooting in widescreen his entire life, despite pressure from his studio to adapt to the widely-used CinemaScope, “a format standard by then… but one that [Ozu] once compared to toilet paper” (Richie 6).

The final film of Ozu’s fifty-four film career, 1962’s An Autumn Afternoon (Sanma no aji), again revisits the familiar Ozu plot of a middle-aged man’s relationship with his unwed daughter. While the film is often retrospectively treated as Ozu’s testament piece, Andrew notes that Ozu had no intention of ending his career as a writer-director – “he had made notes for another project, provisionally titled Radishes and Carrots; and there is every reason to believe that, had he lived on, the Japanese master would have continued completing films at the steady rate of one a year” (Andrew 8). It is Ozu’s consistency in style that gives the film its implied feeling of punctuation to his career, for the film exemplifies the stable familiarity of Ozu’s entire filmography.

On his sixtieth birthday, December 12, 1963, Yasujiro Ozu passed away after a brief struggle with cancer. For a man who spent most of his career making films about families, relationships, and marriage, it is somewhat ironic that “Ozu had no known romantic affairs” and lived with his mother his entire life (“Ozu’s Diaries” 24). Several dozen diaries were discovered after the director’s death that have since been published; interestingly, Ozu has little to say about the creation of his own films, but a great deal to say about his enjoyment (or lack thereof) of others (“Ozu’s Diaries” 25). While it took a great many years for Ozu to gain international recognition as a cinematic master, his stylistic influence has been vast since its “discovery” outside his native Japan – several prolific Western auteurs cite Ozu as an influence, including Jim Jarmusch, Wim Wenders, and Martin Scorsese (Crow). Wenders’ 1985 film Tokyo-Ga is a documentary tribute to Ozu’s work, with Wenders visiting Tokyo in an attempt to capture the spirit of the city Ozu portrays in many of his films. In another film, Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami’s Five (2003), imitates Ozu’s visual style as a tribute, and the film is dedicated to him (IMDB). In addition to his stylistic influences, Ozu also helped progress Japanese cinema through his support of Kinuyo Tanaka’s “bid to become Japan’s first female director when she was furiously opposed by her own lover… Kenji Mizoguchi” (Kemp 137). Often perceived as too slowly paced for Western audiences, Ozu’s mastery of family drama and character study is, nevertheless, unparalleled. As for the cliché that attributes Ozu as the “most Japanese” of Japan’s masters, Ozu himself once stated, “whenever Westerners don’t understand something, they simply think it is Zen” (Kemp 137). Zen or not, Ozu’s art has withstood the test of time.

Works Cited

Andrew, Geoff. “A Fond Farewell.” DVD – An Autumn Afternoon. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Atkinson, Michael. “Home with Ozu.” DVD – Late Spring. The Criterion Collection, 2006.

Bordwell, David. “Tokyo Story.” DVD – Tokyo Story. The Criterion Collection, 2003.

Crow, Jonathan. “Biography: Yasujiro Ozu.” AllMovie. Online.

Kemp, Philip. “Yasujiro Ozu.” Ed. Schneider, Steven Jay. 501 Movie Directors. Hauppage, NY: Barron’s Educational Series, 2007. 135-137.

Koresky, Michael. “Bringing It All Back Home.” DVD – Passing Fancy. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Koresky, Michael. “Daddy Dearest.” DVD – I Was Born, But… The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Koresky, Michael. “Family Reunion.” DVD – Late Autumn. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Koresky, Michael. “Hard at Work.” DVD – Tokyo Chorus. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Koresky, Michael. “In Full Bloom.” DVD – Equinox Flower. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Prelinger, Rick. “Good Morning.” DVD – Good Morning. The Criterion Collection, 2000.

Richie, Donald. “Ozu’s Diaries.’ DVD – An Autumn Afternoon. The Criterion Collection, 2008.

Richie, Donald. “Stories of Floating Weeds.” DVD – A Story of Floating Weeds/Floating Weeds. The Criterion Collection, 2004.

“Yasujiro Ozu” The Internet Movie Database. Online.

Close-Up: The Mark of Zorro (1920)

*Note: The following review contains a complete synopsis, and, therefore, spoilers.

The Mark of Zorro, a 1920 film directed by Fred Niblo, is a swashbuckler action-comedy starring Douglas Fairbanks as the masked hero, Zorro, an alter ego of Don Diego Vega. The film opens in a Southern California town, where Sgt. Pedro Gonzales (Noah Beery) and some of his men are having drinks and discussing the town’s newest nuisance and rabble-rouser: Senor Zorro. Into the saloon comes Don Diego Vega, newly returned from Spain, and he and Sgt. Gonzales begin to converse. The two men talk about Zorro, with Don Diego subtly insulting Gonzales at every opportunity. Sgt. Gonzales finally claims that were he to encounter Zorro face-to-face, that the nuisance of Zorro would be no more. Don Diego leaves the saloon, and Zorro appears, thoroughly embarrassing Gonzales in front of his men with both his wit and his swordplay.

As the story develops, we become aware that Governor Alvarado (George Periolat) has been oppressing the poor citizens of the town to serve his own ends, and that through the two commanders of his troops, Captain Juan Ramon (Robert McKim) and Sgt. Gonzales, the natives and the clergy are being abused. Wherever there is an outbreak of oppression, however, Zorro miraculously appears to save the day, embarrassing the oppressors, and marking them with a “Z” from the blade of his sword. We come to learn (far before the characters on screen) that Don Diego and Zorro are one in the same, and when Zorro is not playing the role of champion of the people, Don Diego is attempting a courtship with Ms. Lolita Pulido (Marguerite De La Motte), daughter of a once wealthy Don who has had his money and belongings stripped from him by the corrupt government. Unfortunately for Don Diego, Lolita has developed a love for Zorro, and she is unaware that the two are the same.

The plot thickens when Captain Ramon arrives at Lolita’s home and attempts to court her against her will. Zorro arrives and saves the day – forcing Ramon to apologize on bended knee – and Lolita rewards her hero with a kiss. Captain Ramon returns to the Governor, who has the Pulido family arrested and jailed. When Don Diego receives word, he rallies the caballeros and leads an attempt to free the Pulidos and end the governorship of Alvarado. A fight breaks out, and ultimately comes to a close in the house of Don Diego, where it is revealed to all that Don Diego is the masked hero Zorro (gasp!). The soldiers side with Don Diego, and Alvarado is forced to surrender his position. Lolita is thrilled to discover that the mysterious hero she loves and the man who has been courting her are the same person – the two share a kiss behind a handkerchief, and the film comes to a close.

From a technical standpoint, the film is unremarkable, but it is not flawed. The camera remains still throughout the film, never moving with the action. The vast majority of the shots are from medium to long range, with only a select few close-ups (and even these are not terribly close) for emotional effect. The editing is done primarily through jump-cuts, though at the end of some scenes, Niblo uses a cross-fade. The camera remains at a height that is level with the action throughout the film – there are no shots from above or below the action. The most impressive aspect of the film is the acting itself; the actors are very lively and energetic, fully embracing their roles. The stunt work by Fairbanks (a true silent film master craftsman) is also fantastic, and highlights the film.

The Mark of Zorro remains an entertaining, competent action-comedy some 90 years after its initial release. Fairbanks’ physical acting is fantastic for the role of the masked hero, and some of the stunts performed were truly impressive, especially for the time. Noah Beery also turns in an engaging performance as Sgt. Gonzales, and the interaction between the two in the opening saloon scene is among the most memorable moments of the film. Despite Don Diego’s terrible magic tricks, he is a likeable character whom I am delighted to see succeed in “getting the girl” at the end of the film. A quality early entry into the Zorro canon, the actors and actresses appear to have fun with the movie, and the film is all the more fun and entertaining because of it.

Close-Up: Blood of the Beasts (1949)

Georges Franju, best known for directing the horror classic Eyes Without a Face (1960), began his career with a number of short documentary films, of which 1949’s Blood of the Beasts (Le sang des bêtes) is a primary example. From watching this 20-minute documentary, it is easy to see how Franju was able to transition smoothly into the horror film genre, as this gory, ultra-realistic depiction of French slaughterhouses is far from tame documentary fare.

Filmed, by Franju’s own admission, in black and white to preserve the aesthetic of the work–Franju famously said, “If it were in colour, it’d be repulsive… the sensation people get would be a physical one”–Blood of the Beasts is a haunting example of ultra-realism. Particularly effective is the way Franju juxtaposes images of peaceful daily life on the outskirts of Paris with the bloody brutality of the neighboring slaughterhouses.

Distributed by the Criterion Collection as a bonus feature for Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, this short documentary is a brilliant first feature from Franju, and its pairing with Eyes Without a Face feels extremely appropriate. This is the closest a documentary about real, everyday life can come to being a horror film in its own right.

Close-Up: Vive le Tour (1962)

Although it hasn’t quite been a week, I am officially going through Tour de France withdrawal… and it is still a long time until the start of the Vuelta a Espana. There really is nothing like waking up to live sports on television, especially when those live sports are a major international competition like the Tour. To help me get over my withdrawal symptoms, to offer some sort of closure, I sat down to watch Louis Malle’s fantastic short documentary, Vive le Tour (1962) today, a perfect film for this close-up series.

Malle’s film covers the events of the 1962 Tour de France, but rather than a strict reporting of the racers and the results, Vive le Tour approaches the world-famous spectacle from a number of different angles, including crashes, injuries, feeding, and doping. All is presented amid the backdrop of the 1962 Tour, offering glimpses of some of cycling’s greatest legends: Federico Bahamontes (“The Eagle of Toledo”), Raymond Poulidor (“The Eternal Second”… who actually placed third), and five-time champion Jacques Anquetil (“Monsieur Chrono”). Seeing these legends in action is reason enough to check out Malle’s documentary, but the rewards of this short film don’t stop there.

The most winning aspect of Vive le Tour is writer-director Louis Malle’s clear passion for the sport of cycling, evident in every frame and in every line of Jean Bobet’s voice-over. For someone like me, who already loves cycling’s greatest event, it is a joy to watch the product of a fellow enthusiast. For someone unaccustomed to the thrill of the Tour, I can imagine that it would be hard not to be charmed and intrigued by Malle’s obvious love of the sport.

Close-Up: Rescued by Rover (1905)

Cecil M. Hepworth’s Rescued by Rover (1905) is a film that I show to my students every year for an exercise on the language of storytelling and making meaning through inferences. Although the film contains no dialogue and the filmmaking techniques are over 100 years old, Hepworth nevertheless produces an effective narrative film. The film’s use of editing as a narrative device was ahead of the curve, paving the way for the complex editing styles of D.W. Griffith, Abel Gance, and Sergei Eisenstein. By linking shots together and providing a repeating set of edits, the audience is easily able to track the movements of Rover, the canine protagonist, as he goes about his noble quest to rescue his family’s kidnapped child.

The conflict of the story is established early, when a beggar woman (Lindsay Gray) kidnaps a baby girl (Barbara Hepworth), stealing her stroller while her nursemaid (May Clark) is distracted. As the nursemaid confesses to the family how she lost the child, Rover (played by Hepworth’s dog, Blair) leaps out the window and heads off to rescue the child. In true Lassie fashion, Rover finds the baby, returns to his master (Cecil M. Hepworth himself), and the pair head off to confront the beggar woman and save the day. The plot is incredibly simplistic, but for an era where narrative film was still a developing art form, the ease with which Hepworth’s plot is discernable is a commendable achievement.

By 1905 standards, the film was a hit, and “Rover” has become somewhat of a household name for dogs, owing to its success. Considered among the first British narrative fiction films, and possibly the first film to feature a canine star, Rescued by Rover helped pave the way for beloved screen stars like Lassie and Rin Tin Tin. Simple and sweet, Rescued by Rover is an effective silent-era adventure tale, well worth the five-minute time investment.

Close-Up: A Trip to the Moon (1902)

Generally considered to be one of the first great narrative films, Georges Méliès’ 1902 film, A Trip to the Moon (Le Voyage dans la Lune), is a truly brilliant work, particularly when considering that it is over 100 years old. Of the hundreds of short films produced by the visionary Méliès, A Trip to the Moon has stood the test of time as his greatest achievement, and the film has earned numerous historical distinctions, including a #84 ranking on The Village Voice list of the greatest films of the 20th century… not bad for a feature that clocks in at just over 10 minutes.

The plot of the film is simple enough, borrowing from the works of Jules Verne: a group of astronomers build a cannon to launch a ship into space for a lunar expedition. The scientists board the vessel, are fired into space, and–in one of the most iconic images in the history of cinema–crash land directly into the right eye of the “man in the moon.” One on the moon, the scientists must defend themselves from a group of “Selenites” (moon beings), returning to their ship and completing the voyage back to earth. Along the way, we are treated to a number of special effects (rather outstanding and inventive for 1902’s standards), including the disappearance of the Selenite beings into clouds of dust at merely the touch of an umbrella.

The film is a playful, theatrical precursor for the science fiction genre film that still manages to entertain audiences a century after its creation. Méliès clearly shows his talents as a master of his craft; although produced long before the development of auteur theory, the film is completely Méliès’ vision, and it shows throughout. A Trip to the Moon is essential viewing for any serious film fan, and serves as an excellent entr’acte for any screening of Martin Scorsese’s wonderful film, Hugo (2011).

Close-Up: Wavelength (1967)

In the general sense, I like my films to have some semblance of plot. For narrative films, I prefer a well-crafted, unique story that makes me think, develops its characters, and/or just happens to be a lot of fun. For documentary films, I enjoy a focused, logical presentation of information. On the whole, experimental cinema is not my cup of tea. Avant-garde film, even from the likes of the masters–Stan Brakhage, Peter Kubelka, Kenneth Anger, etc.–does very little for me; that doesn’t make me right, but it’s just how I feel. One of the few exceptions to this general rule is Michael Snow’s Wavelength (1967), which is an absolutely stunning work of art. That said, I’m not sure that I can ever really explain or justify why I like the film so much, and that’s part of the reason for this particular close-up: I’m problem-solving.

Wavelength is a 45-minute experimental film that spends its duration carefully and systematically zooming in on a windowed wall of a nondescript room. In a broad sense, that’s really all there is to it… the camera slowly zooms in on the wall of a room for three-quarters of an hour. That’s it… but there’s so much more. All that could be considered “plot” occurs in four small segments where “characters” (really just unknown, unidentified humans) enter the room for brief periods of time. First, a woman (who appears to be the owner of the apartment) enters with two movers carrying a piece of furniture. Later, the woman returns with a female friend, and the couple listen to “Strawberry Fields Forever” before departing. Next, after a sound of breaking glass, a man (Hollis Frampton) enters the room, collapses, and dies. The woman returns, placing a phone call to report the body of a dead man in her apartment. Just when you think the plot is going to pick up in intensity with this mysterious unknown corpse… it doesn’t. The camera just keeps zooming, until the body and nearly everything else in the room are gone. The true mystery, really, is what about this film about nothing still has me glued to the screen, waiting for more.

Over the course of the film’s 45-minute run, we begin to uncover some of Michael Snow’s playful structuring. The film’s title truly says more about the movie itself than any first-time viewer is likely to realize going in, and part of the joy of the film is making connections to the concept of “wavelengths” along the way: the shifts across the color spectrum of the filter over the course of the film, the increasing frequency of the background noise (a borderline annoying hum at points), the ever-so-slightly changing speed of the zoom, and the final revelatory moment where the true focus of the camera’s slow zoom is uncovered. Wavelength is, simply (and contradictorily) put, one of the simplest and most complex films I have ever seen, and I love it for that.

10 Films to Get You Started (Japanese Cinema)

With the 2014 Tour de France wrapping up yesterday, I am switching gears and revisiting the “10 Films” series. This series of original articles is designed for film fans looking to investigate new, exciting (and sometimes intimidating) avenues in the world of cinema.

Please be advised that these recommendations are not clinically tested or approved, so your love and/or hate of them will not definitively cement your own opinion of the genre, era, style, etc. Also, I wish to make it clear that these are suggestions for people who have an interest in something new, but are apprehensive over where to start. As such, this is not my attempt at a Best of… list. Instead, it is a pair of training wheels designed to suggest films that blend quality, importance, and ability to represent the topic in a way that is easy to digest for a newcomer. As always, your comments and suggestions are welcome – particularly any which help promote the goal of this article: helping people who already love film find more to love.

10 Films to Get You Started: Japanese Cinema

With the noticeable lack of Japanese films in this blog so far (Yukiya Arashiro, the lone Japanese rider, did not have a very noteworthy Tour), I have selected ten films from the Land of the Rising Sun that are great for beginners and seasoned international film veterans alike:

1. Rashomon (dir. Akira Kurosawa, 1950)

Since its release in 1950, the narrative style of Rashomon–namely, the same episode or event retold from several viewpoints–has become so influential in film and fiction that it is sometimes referred to as “the Rashmon plot.” When discussing Japanese cinema, director Akira Kurosawa’s name must be at the forefront, and Rashomon is the film that made Kurosawa a household name with Western critics and audiences. Featuring outstanding performances from Kurosawa regulars Toshiro Mifune and Takashi Shimura, this film is a great introduction to Kurosawa before venturing into his three-hour samurai epic, Seven Samurai (1954).

 

2. Godzilla / Gojira (dir. Ishiro Honda, 1954)

The mother of all kaiju films, Ishiro Honda’s Godzilla is a classic monster movie and post-Hiroshima cautionary tale that is far better than its campy reputation. Despite the common association of Honda’s film with overacting and poor dubbing, Godzilla is a very fun, well-constructed monster movie with a far better plot than its imitators and sequels. For a good starting point in Japanese film, look to Godzilla, the movie that kick-started a genre all its own.

3. Grave of the Fireflies / Hotaru no haka (dir. Isao Takahata, 1988)

Speaking of post-Hiroshima cautionary tales, Grave of the Fireflies is exactly that, and also happens to be one of the most mature, affecting animated films of all time. The story of Seita and Setsuko, two siblings struggling to survive in World War II era Japan is heartbreaking and beautiful. This is not an animated film for children, but the animation medium fits perfectly for telling this poignant tale of survival.

4. Spirited Away / Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 2001)

Hayao Miyazaki is a titan in the world of animation, and his talents were never better on display than here, in the Alice in Wonderland style adventure of a young girl, Chihiro, and her supernatural experiences in an alternate universe. The animation is first-rate, the story is appealing to children and adults alike, and the overall experience is on par with the very best Disney and Pixar have ever produced.

5. Tokyo Story (dir. Yasujiro Ozu, 1953)

Along with Kurosawa and Mizoguchi, a list of Japanese films and filmmakers would be incomplete without an entry from Yasujiro Ozu. With Tokyo Story, his masterpiece, it is possible to see all of the directorial trademarks that make Ozu such a unique and identifiable auteur, including the tatami mat perspective of the camera. The story of an aging couple whose children are too busy to care for them (inspired by Leo McCarey’s Make Way for Tomorrow), is beautiful and heartbreaking.

6. Ugetsu / Ugetsu monogatai (dir. Kenji Mizoguchi, 1953)

Kenji Mizoguchi’s ghost story, Ugetsu, is set during 16th century Japan, and effectively blends elements of supernatural and historical drama. The story centers on two peasants–Genjuro (Masayuki Mori) and Tobei (Eitaro Ozawa)–and their wives, who attempt to make ends meet, including by stealing the severed head of a general and presenting it for profit and renown. The engaging plot and brilliant direction of this landmark film helped usher Japanese cinema into the Western world.

7. Audition / Odishon (dir. Takashi Miike, 1999)

In recent years, Japan has become a hotbed for edgy, gory, and downright scary horror films (many of which are made into Hollywood blockbusters). Among the edgiest of Japan’s new wave of horror and thriller directors is Takashi Miike, and Audition is easily his best film. The tale of a middle-aged widower (Ryo Ishibashi) looking to get back into the dating game by auditioning for a new wife quickly becomes unnerving with the protagonist’s growing infatuation with Asami (Eihi Shiina). While not a scary film in the classic sense, Audition will have you cringing with cinematic discomfort on more than one occasion.

8. Hara-Kiri / Seppuku (dir. Masaki Kobyashi, 1962)

A list of Japanese films would not be complete without a classic samurai film, and Kobayashi’s Hara-Kiri is one of the best samurai revenge tales ever put to screen. The story concerns a ronin samurai who arrives at the home of a feudal lord, requesting permission to commit suicide on his property. Initially, the feudal lord believes that the man has come seeking money to avoid the mess of killing himself, but when his true intentions are revealed, the drama of the film escalates to thrilling heights.

9. Battle Royale / Batoru Rowaiaru (dir. Kinji Fukasaku, 2000)

Before there were The Hunger Games, there was this excellent, off-kilter dark comedy from Kinji Fukasaku, based on the novel of the same name. A class of students are selected each year to participate in a “battle royale” competition, where they must fight to the death, with the lone survivor emerging victorious. Lots of fun, with a great performance from Takeshi Kitano as the students’ former teacher, the tale of Shuya Nanahara (Tatsuya Fujiwara) and Noriko Nakagawa (Aki Maeda) give Katniss and Peeta a run for their money.

10. Sonatine (dir. Takeshi Kitano, 1993)

A great all-around gangster (yakuza) film, Takeshi Kitano directs and stars in an offbeat crime drama about a group of city gangsters who decide to lay low on beach in Okinawa. Kitano is a delight, and this film is sure to be unlike any other conventional gangster film you have seen.

Next Steps: Seven Samurai (Kurosawa, 1954), Sansho the Bailiff (Mizoguchi, 1954), Tampopo (Itami, 1985), My Neighbor Totoro (Miyazaki, 1988), Akira (Ohtomo, 1988), Fireworks (Kitano, 1997), Ghost in the Shell (Oshii, 1995),  Ringu (Nakata, 1998)

So there you have them, 10 Japanese films to get you started. Enjoy!

Tour de France Recap: Stage 21

Bringing the 2014 Tour de France to a true, full-circle finish, German superstar sprinter Marcel Kittel won the biggest stage victory in cycling today, just as he won the Tour’s first stage in Yorkshire three weeks ago. The majority of Stage 21–a 137.5km ride from Evry to the Champs-Elysees (Paris)–was a bit of a victory lap for the Tour’s standouts: maillot jaune winner Vincenzo Nibali, points winner Peter Sagan, King of the Mountains Rafal Majka, and young rider champion Thibaut Pinot. For the first half of the race, riders took pictures, popped champagne, and chatted amicably across team lines… everyone congratulating one another for a race well run. By the time the riders reached the outskirts of Paris, however, we were reminded that this was still a race, not a victory lap. Jens Voigt, on his final stage of his final Tour de France, started the fun with an individual breakaway to win the intermediate sprint and a nice reward check for a beloved Tour participant. As the riders began their circuit of the Champs-Elysees, a few mishaps, including a crash by second-place rider Jean-Christophe Peraud, threatened to shake up the overall standings, but everyone found a place in the peloton by the end of the day. In the end, the race was a showcase for the sprinters, with Marcel Kittel beating his competitors to the line first for the victory. For Kittel, this was his fourth stage win of the Tour, and a repeat performance on last year’s win on the Champs-Elysees.

In the end, it was Nibali’s day, as he took his rightful place atop the podium in Paris. The Italian showed he was among the best in the competition from very early on, and his brilliant riding, coupled with some tough-luck crashes, cemented his place in Tour history. Nibali now joins only six other riders to have won all three Grand Tours in his career, placing him in elite company. The day was probably bittersweet for Sagan, the green jersey winner, who, despite his incredible consistency and massive points lead, failed to win a stage for the first time in his three Tours. On the bright side, Sagan is only 25, and has already won three-straight points competitions: an astounding feat for a great all-around rider. With this year’s Tour complete, cycling fans must now set their sights on August 23: the start of the Vuelta a Espana.

In honor of Marcel Kittel’s fourth stage victory, here is a film preview from his home country of Germany:

Germany

Wings of Desire / Der Himmel uber Berlin

(dir. Wim Wenders, 1987)

Another stage of the Tour de France, another win for the Germans. With Marcel Kittel, Andre Greipel, and Tony Martin all claiming first-place finishes in this year’s race, I am running light on German films. Oh well–for the sake of these film features, it’s far better to have a run of German victors than, say, Lithuanian stage-winner Ramunas Navardauskas. Despite this being the seventh German stage victory in the 2014 Tour, I still managed to have an excellent film selection to profile for Kittel’s triumphant win on the Champs-Elysees. Today, I have selected Wim Wenders’ classic, Wings of Desire (1987).

Wings of Desire is the story of a group of angels that watch over the city of West Berlin. Two particular angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander), move about, unseen, through a black-and-white world, observing humanity in action, without intervening. The lives of Damiel and Cassiel are eternal and unchanging, but things take a turn when Damiel falls in love with a human trapeze artist, Marion (Solveig Dommartin). After a brief subplot concerning American actor Peter Falk (in Berlin making a film), Damiel learns that it is possible to surrender one’s immortality and become human; this is the path Damiel chooses, in order to be with the woman he loves. Now mortal, Damiel’s world (and the film) shifts into vivid color, and he begins his pursuit of Marion. The film’s ending is deliberately ambiguous, urging viewers to continue Damiel and Cassiel’s story in Wenders’ sequel, Faraway, So Close! (1993).

A great story with a dynamite lead performance from Bruno Ganz, Wings of Desire is a film with an impact that grows as it settles on you. When I first saw the film, I felt myself appreciating and enjoying it more as I thought about it over the next few days, and I have spoken with other film fans that have had a similar experience. This is a film that makes you think… plus it features some really great music from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and Crime & the City Solution. A winner of numerous international awards and a very-deserving entrant in to the Criterion Collection, Wings of Desire is a film worth seeing. Do not be deterred by the lackluster Hollywood remake, City of Angels (1998).

Tour de France Recap: Stage 20

On the penultimate day of the 2014 Tour de France, the riders were faced with a 58km individual time trial from Bergerac to Perigueux. With the winners in the major classifications all but decided, today was a day to watch Tony Martin, the best time trialist in the world, do what he does best. In that respect, Stage 20 did not disappoint, as Martin delivered an excellent time trial, obliterating his closest competition by 96 seconds. In addition to Martin’s dominance, a number of the top ten general classification competitors, including Leopold Konig and Tejay van Garderen, moved up in the overall standings after strong time trials. In perhaps the most disappointing news of the day, a flat tire in the final few kilometers may have cost Romain Bardet his fifth place overall standing, as van Garderen was able to jump ahead of him by only a few seconds at the end of the stage.

Heading into tomorrow’s final stage, Peter Sagan has already secured the green jersey for himself, winning the points competition convincingly this year. While he says that he is satisfied with the green jersey, I’m hoping, for Sagan’s sake, that he can find the finish line first and really put a punctuation mark on his fantastic Tour. Polish rider Rafal Majka will wear polka dots tomorrow, and without enough points left to take it away from him, he will be crowned King of the Mountains at the podium in Paris. Following today’s time trial, Thibaut Pinot has officially distanced himself from Bardet in the young rider classification. Regarding the maillot jaune, there was never any doubt that Vincenzo Nibali would hold his sizeable lead in today’s time trial, and he actually managed to extend his lead with a 4th place finish. With tomorrow’s final stage often more of a victory lap than a competitive stage in most years of the Tour (albeit with a thrilling sprint finish), it looks as though the final top ten for the 2014 Tour de France will be the following: Vincenzo Nibali, Jean-Christophe Peraud, Thibaut Pinot, Alejandro Valverde, Tejay van Garderen, Romain Bardet, Leopold Konig, Haimar Zubeldia, Laurens Ten Dam, and Bauke Mollema.

In honor of Tony Martin’s second stage victory, here is a film preview from his home country of Germany:

Germany

Metropolis

(dir. Fritz Lang, 1927)

Among all of the German films of the expressionist Weimar era (including the previously-featured Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Nosferatu), a strong case could be made that Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) is the most influential and well-known of them all. For decades, the film was only partially available, with title cards substituting for missing segments. However, in 2008, the discovery of a 95% complete copy of the film in Argentina allowed for a new restoration of this classic film that nearly matches Lang’s original. A truly groundbreaking science fiction film, Metropolis is essential viewing for any serious film fan.

Metropolis is the tale a futuristic city (Metropolis) with a significant class struggle: the rich and idle live in luxury, while the working class toil with the dangerous industrial machines that keep the city running. The message of the story is extremely heavy-handed: “The mediator between head and hands must be the heart!” The “heart” in this case is our protagonist, Freder (Gustav Frohlich), whose journey from idle playboy to champion of the proletariat helps him to find peace between the wealthy “head” of Metropolis, represented by his father (Alfred Abel) and the working class, represented by foreman Grot (Heinrich George). The peaceful union of the two classes is saccharine and overdone, but the visual effects and mise en scene are groundbreaking and absolutely brilliant for their time. Metropolis may not be the best film of the silent era, but its influence and importance cannot be overstated.