Floating Weeds

This, one of Ozu's last films, has all the elements of a Shakespearean tragedy played out among people living simple, workaday lives: deceit, jealousy, betrayal, vengeance, love, hope. It's all there. The acting by an all-star cast (at the time) of Japanese actors, including the gorgeous Ayako Wakao, is uniformly excellent. The cinematography may be the best I've seen for any color film made in the 1950's. The overall pace was a bit too slow for my liking, but it works well with a static camera taking every shot below eye level. This gives the viewer a visual perspective similar to looking at the actors on a slightly elevated stage, just as the audience does when watching the plays put on by the itinerant group of actors that centers the film. Overall, a well-crafted work by a recognized master, but not for the 'explosions & car chase' crowd. Rating: 8/10

"Floating Weeds" (Japanese, 1959): The first few things I notice about films by writer/director Ozu are: the incredibly consistent, artful composition used in his shots; his patience with the "ordinary"; and his intentional avoidance of "action" and blatant "drama". His films are meditative exercises on the daily truths we humans must face, which contain their own realistic challenges. Like Bergman and Allen, he too often uses the same actors, non-exotic locations, and stays within a philosophical area of interest that is obviously not market driven…which earns them dedicated followers...even after death. Ozu's films are pure elegance.

Ozu is a wonderful experience just to watch the musical formations. Each shot is composed in the most careful way so that the assembly has a geometric rhythm. It is soft and melodic, this visual overlay, painting in motion. No one does it better that I know.

There's a talk between two troubled lovers in the rain, then in opposing shelters, that is especially noteworthy, but it is all so cinematically lovely...

The way he's put this together is very Japanese. Each shot length is nearly precisely the length of the one before. Each employs a stationary camera only, but the positioning of the camera only sometimes is where a human eye would be. As I've mentioned, The composition in terms of elements, space and color is perfect in each shot and follows in a deliberate, engineered pattern from the previous shots.

The narrative isn't integrated in the way Kurosawa would do — and be considered un-Japanese for. But the story does much of that for us.

It is a story about pretense and staging, with most of the actors playing characters who are actors and have trouble in being an actor.

You'll have to work to be engaged in the story. But its rather easy to just sit back and admire the loveliness. Ozu is always worth it for this. I don't know many of his films, but this is the most formal of those I know.

Ted's Evaluation -- 3 of 3: Worth watching.

Floating Weeds by Yasujiro Ozu is an exquisitely restrained film about a failing acting troupe that travels to a small town and engenders a conflict of generations in a Japanese family. As the film opens a boat moves slowly into the harbor a Japanese coastal village. A Kabuki troupe arrives and begins to pass out leaflets announcing their opening performance. Sadly the opening crowds are small. Komajuro (Ganjiro Nakamura), the principal actor in the troupe, goes off by himself to visit Oyoshi (Haruko Sugimura), a former lover who runs a Saki bar. She has an adult son, Kiyoshi (Hiroshi Kawaguchi) who Komajuro had fathered many years ago. Komajuro has hidden his identity from the boy because of his shame at being a traveling actor and Kiyoshi only knows of him only as "uncle".

When Sumiko (Machiko Kyo), Komajuro's mistress and leading star, finds out about this relationship she goes into a jealous rage and hires a young actress, Kayo (Ayako Wakao) to seduce Kiyoshi in order to humiliate his father. Kiyoshi, however, falls in love with Kayo. Komajuro disapproves and shows his anger but cannot exert parental authority since he has not told his son the truth about his parentage. As the troupe continues to draw small crowds, Komajuro's inner pain becomes visible and he strikes out physically against Kayo, Sumiko, and Kiyoshi. It is only in the surprising conclusion that he seems to regain some sense of acceptance of his circumstances.

Floating Weeds is a very intimate experience. The camera does not move but remains focused on the characters as they engage in discussions about commonplace events. As in Bresson, the actors show little emotion and speak in a monotone with long silences between questions and answers. The overall effect, however, is not banality but a sense of the natural rhythm of life. Ozu is a loving observer of human nature not a moralist. There are no saints in this film and each character is vulnerable and deeply human. Komajuro has been stripped of his career, his relationship with his son, and his female companions who still beg him for forgiveness. He is alone but he has retained his humanity and we feel only compassion for him. The ending is, in the phrase of Donald Richie, "a kind of resigned sadness, a calm and knowing serenity which maintains despite the uncertainty of life and things of this world". Floating Weeds is a masterful film from a director who truly respects his audience.

Komajuro Arashi and his acting troupe arrive in a small fishing village on the coast of Japan. Komanjuro goes to visit a woman who runs a sake bar, and who, we learn, is a former lover, and with whom he fathered a child, though the child is unaware of this fact and believes him to be his uncle

Their son, Kiyoshi, has just finished high school, and Komanju comes to see him as much as his former lover. He hopes that Kiyoshi will be able to become something in his life and not end up like Komanju himself, a washed-up actor drawing small crowds for his failing samurai productions.

When Komajuro talks with his gorgeous young son, we can see the excitement in his eyes, in his face. The acting here is all rather flat, or better, it's reserved. (Ozu adds a little joke to this later in the film, when on a fishing boat Kiyoshi accuses his father of being "too muggy" in his performance.) This adds to the impact of the few emotional (and physical) outbursts later in the film.

The conflict in the film is that of Komajuro's double lives. When his current mistress, Miss Sumiko -- a jealous and conniving witch of a woman -- discovers that he's been seeing some other woman, she's enraged, and plots what she believes will be his sort of downfall. By hiring a young woman, Kayo, to seduce Kiyoshi and embarrass Komajuro, she plans on making the two seem like different generations of the same person, both relating with unimportant actresses, thereby ruining Komajuro's hopes of his son becoming somebody important.

Unlike most, Ozu is an auteur because of what he doesn't do. His unmoving camera, which is famous, sits placidly, observing the characters with interest. I do sometimes wish that the camera would move around curiously, interested in the conversations of the characters, but maybe Ozu's point was that his camera is (or we should be) too interested to move, and that the events of everyday life need not be jazzed up for entertainment purposes. (He seems to mock this idea when he has Komajuro say to Kiyoshi about his plays that, basically, modern audiences can't appreciate good drama.) The entire film is restrained; on the rare occasion when people cry, they cover their faces and softly whimper.

The ending shot of a dark blue sky, with red lights from a rolling train, reminds us that whether it's 2003 in North America or 1959 in a small Japanese fishing village, we're all the same people with the same problems.

In and of itself, the film is terrifically simple: a simple story, with simple acting, simple music, and made even more simple by the simplicity of the static camera. But what makes the film something special, rather than just some family drama, is the honesty. Ozu isn't after anything big here. Any enlightenment comes from Ozu's realization that the most important conflicts are in the home, the ones no one sees, the ones we all feel.

****