"Tokyo Boshoku" stands as one of Yasujiro Ozu's most underappreciated yet prestigious films. It holds the distinction of being his final work shot in black and white, a visual choice that lends a particular poignancy to its melancholic narrative.
Watching it today, one can't help but sense a distinct British film noir atmosphere permeating the screen. This is perhaps due to Japan's struggle to find its place in the world during that era. The streets, the houses, the social spaces, even the interplay of light and shadow-all evoke a sense of mystery and unease reminiscent of classic noir cinema. Yuharu Atsuta's cinematography deserves special recognition for capturing this mood so effectively.
This somber and melodramatic family saga, originally released in 1957, was restored and re-released in 2019. But alas, it was met with indifference from the art world, the press, and the general public. People seem content to reminisce about "the good old days" of cinema without making any effort to engage with the present. This is particularly true of the so-called "art-house" and "independent" film crowd, who often use those labels as a means of self-aggrandizement.
Ozu possesses a remarkable talent for filling the domestic space, confounding expectations with the use of sliding doors, and meticulously arranging actors and objects to create a richer sense of depth. His fondness for tools and trinkets reflects a genuine affection for the paraphernalia of everyday life, but the deliberate placement of these objects also contributes to the remarkably immersive, expansive feeling of interiority in his films. A corridor in an Ozu film can feel more spacious than a street scene in someone else's.
Some of Ozu's films are veritable meditations for the mind. And as I've said, "Tokyo Twilight" stands apart from his other works, possessing a unique and special quality.
Private secrets we refuse to unveil, words we cannot explain, or the veiled snare of social change: what remains unspoken takes precedence over humility, followed by an undercurrent of inner turmoil.
In low-angle shots, the inverse of the chaos's traumatic upheaval, amidst the smoky, ghostly alienation of a silver prison, family values crumble. The sorrow stemming from these recurring patterns strips away all understanding.
This is the tale of two sisters abandoned by their mother, their bond of sisterhood and solidarity. In the melodrama of resistance, Akiko's unsuccessful Pathosformel, akin to Dürer's Melencolia, encapsulates not only her temperament but also the impossibility of creation, of shaping and giving birth to life. Here, typical motifs are outlined in an almost well-rounded characterization of the roles, and in the imagery of Ozu's transcendent cinema, they add a tangible dramatic tension that ripples like an unsettling disturbance in the stillness.
