Let's Just Be Friends: Yasujiro Ozu

Yasujiro Ozu vs. Kenji Mizoguchi

Amongst the film writers that I most admire, speaking ill of Yasujiro Ozu is about like saying black and white films are no longer relevant. I’m given the impression that not loving Ozu means my taste hasn’t yet matured. In some ways this may be true.

Ozu international standing has only grown in the last few decades and he’s one of the most respected auteurs by both critics and directors (including many of my favorites of both). His unconventional, but highly-consistent, style has brought him to the attention of alternative film theorists and his deeply-felt, quiet humanism has earned him a great reputation even outside of film-nerd circles.

Despite all this, if I’m absolutely honest I have to admit that I don’t really connect with Ozu. When I first started watching his films I took them as gentle domestic dramas with a refreshing amount of genuine sincerity, but little lasting substance. As I began to appreciate his craft and study his career, I took more pleasure in examining his compositions (especially in his color films) and admiring his breaks with traditional editing methods. Still, my praise remained at the level of a decently charming romantic comedy, not a masterpiece by a timeless master. I have the nagging feeling that I’m missing the point.

I think part of the problem may be my disconnection from the 1930’s-1950’s middle-class Japanese setting that Ozu favors. As someone who was born in the midst of consumer culture, it’s tough for me to appreciate the clash of values and traditions during the transition period Ozu tends to feature. Typical of his generation, Ozu expresses skepticism for modern technology, rapid change and personal independence while whole-heartedly embracing family, community and the essential goodness of humanity. It probably makes me sound like a horrible person to say I’m pretty much the reverse: embracing the first group and regarding the latter with skepticism.

While I can recognize much of the humor and emotion (even the “uniquely Japanese” quality of mono no aware, the melancholic acceptance that all things are transient) in Ozu’s films, I find myself unable to connect with the naivety of his characters. Many of Ozu’s favorite roles, the demanding kids, the reticent grandparents, the self-sacrificing young adult on one hand and the selfish ones on the other, the sweet unmarried ingénue, the corporate climber, the sake-swigging old-timer, etc. all seem as stereotypical as American equivalents and I consider these cliches underserving of special treatment. For me, their impossible simplicity and minimal range make them difficult to accept as real regardless of whether it’s historical accurate. Their inability to express their desires, often times the only real crisis that provides the story arc, can be so frustrating for me to watch that I lack sympathy.

After trying to gain a better appreciation of his films, I’m now faced with the problem of Ozu Fatigue. Each additional film I watch by him seems more familiar, more tied to the same aesthetic choices and less shocking in its innovations. I find that the movies merge together in my mind, their stories and characters increasingly indistinguishable in retrospect. And all those season titles! “Early Spring,” “Early Summer,” “Late Summer,” “Early Autumn,” “Late Autumn,” “An Autumn Afternoon,” etc.

My enthusiasm for Kenji Mizoguchi, a contemporary of Ozu, somewhat contradicts my fear that I’m simply too far detached from the time period or the culture. Mizoguchi was also a technical virtuoso, particularly with regard to long takes and exquisite staging, though his style shows more flexibility and scope. A master of precise compositions in his own right, Mizoguchi tends to work with a more diverse set of tools and a freer camera. High angle shots and camera movement, almost never welcome in Ozu films, are staples of his work.

There isn’t any doubt that part of my preference comes from Mizoguchi’s more story-driven scripts, with involved plots and more shifts in setting. Mizoguchi’s films are often set in the past and cover long stretches of time. His characters evolve and take part in major journeys, scandals and tragedies, none of which tends to happen in Ozu’s work. Even Mizoguchi’s blighted wretches and doomed heroes seem more relatable to me than Ozu’s contented families. Even if I don’t agree with their pride, arrogance, stubbornness, self-pity or whatever, at least they grow, suffer, learn, and express multiple sides of their personalities.

I don’t think my emotional involvement in his films is much higher than in Ozu’s oeuvre, but Mizoguchi is less dependent on it. I’m still missing out on some of the pleasures of melodrama that both directors excel at, but I’m left more satisfied and enlightened by Mizoguchi. It may be that my personality is simply incompatible with Ozu’s, and that our relationship will always be just friends. However, I think there’s at least some chance that as I grow older, I’ll come to empathize with his humanism and reach that pseudo-spiritual relationship that can be glimpsed in the affection for Ozu shown by others.