Film review

  • There Was a Father

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Chichi ariki

    Yasujiro Ozu (1942)

    The timeframe of There Was a Father is much more extended than that of any post-war Ozu film that I know.  The action begins in what must be the late 1920s and ends with the Pacific War underway.  At the start, widower Shuhei Horikawa (Chishu Ryu) is a maths teacher at the boys’ school where his only child, ten-year-old Ryohei (Haruhiko Tsuda), is a pupil.  On a day trip for an older group of students, supervised by Horikawa, a few of the boys take a surreptitious boat trip across a lake.  One of the boats capsizes and a boy drowns.  Despite being assured by colleagues that the accident was not his fault, Horikawa is consumed with remorse and gives up teaching.  He moves with Ryohei to the town of Ueda, near Nagano, but finds he can’t earn enough there to finance his son’s education.  So Horikawa gets a better paid, though modest, white-collar job in Tokyo.  He lives alone there while Ryohei becomes a boarder at a junior high school in Ueda.  Some fifteen years later, the son is himself a teacher – of chemistry, in Akita.  Horikawa is still an office worker and meets his son only occasionally.  On one such meeting, Ryohei broaches the idea of moving to Tokyo to join his father.  Horikawa sharply dismisses this but Ryohei does come to stay at his home for ten days, immediately after passing his army medical.  During his visit, Horikawa attends a reunion organised by two old boys (Shin Saburi and Shinichi Himori) of the school at which he once taught.  The event, in honour of him and of Makoto Hirata (Takeshi Sakamoto), a former colleague and now a friend, goes off splendidly.  Horikawa is doubly pleased when Ryohei, the same evening and on his father’s recommendation, agrees to marry Hirata’s daughter, Fumiko (Mitsuko Miko).  The following morning, Horikawa, about to leave for work, suffers what appears to be a heart attack and dies in hospital.  Ryohei marries Fumiko; the film’s last scene sees the newlyweds on a train bound for Akita.

    This is both the earliest Ozu work that I’ve so far seen and my first experience of a picture shot and released in Japan during World War II, when ‘The [Japanese film] industry was all but openly government-controlled, and “national policy subjects” were insisted upon’ (Donald Richie in Ozu: His Life and Films (1974)).  Duty and self-denying acceptance of one’s lot are paramount in There Was a Father; the theme is illustrated repeatedly and at different levels of importance.  In the opening scene, when the boy Ryohei laments the state of the shoes he wears for walking to and from school, his father replies that his own shoes will last a bit longer yet.  Horikawa gives up teaching because ‘I didn’t do my best’ on the ill-fated school trip.  His perception of his failure as a teacher – acting in loco parentis – intensifies his determination to be an irreproachably good father to his own son.  Horikawa, who already believes strongly that ‘a man has to serve his country’, is also well aware that the principles of self-sacrifice intrinsic to Japanese life have assumed more urgent meaning with the advent of war.  Pleased and proud when Ryohei passes his medical, Horikawa shows no apprehension at the prospect of his son’s being called up to fight.  Akita, where Ryohei teaches, would be described by a Tokyo dweller in Ozu’s Early Summer (1951) as ‘the back of beyond’ but Horikawa insists his son shouldn’t be ashamed of working there or move to Tokyo for what (his father thinks) are sentimental reasons:  he rebukes Ryohei as ‘soft’ and negligent of his responsibilities in suggesting such a move.  Though it’s hardly the best use of his talents, Horikawa accepts his own routine job as a valid contribution to society.  He has never missed a day’s work.  He insists on keeping up that record until he collapses unconscious on the day that he dies.

    The political conditions in which the film was made add to its fascination and complexity.  To what extent is it propaganda?  Certainly enough for the Japanese government, like the country’s film critics, to give There Was a Father their seal of approval in 1942.  Does this mean that Ozu was a willing propagandist?  Tony Rayns, in a fine essay on the film at the Criterion Collection, supplies a persuasive, balanced answer to that question.  While acknowledging that there is ‘nothing to suggest that Ozu was a closet pacifist or that he covertly opposed the war effort’, Rayns believes that the director ‘cared more about his own procedural and aesthetic choices than he did about the demands of wartime propaganda’.  Ozu wrote the first draft of the screenplay, for which he eventually shared the credit with Tadao Ikeda and Takao Yanai, in early 1937, soon after he had made The Only Son (1936).  According to Tony Rayns:

    ‘We have no way of knowing if Ozu consciously intended the film as a counterpart to The Only Son, and the film he finally made in 1942 was anyway based on a thoroughly revised version of the script, but there are still several striking correspondences between the two films, from the parent-child separations to the classroom scenes of geometry lessons.  Where The Only Son deals with the struggle to maintain an optimistic outlook in worse than trying circumstances, though, There Was a Father brushes aside material hardships and spiritual setbacks to focus single-mindedly on patriarchal strengths: the transfer of dutiful feelings and resolve from father to son.’

    Although it’s effective as wartime propaganda, There Was a Father is much richer than that label implies, for two chief and connected reasons.  First, Shuhei Horikawa’s words and actions are, from the start, firmly anchored in character.  Second, Chishu Ryu’s portrayal of that character is wonderful.  Ryu’s ability to convince playing men of widely differing ages is striking in later films he made with Ozu (see note on Early Summer); in There Was a Father this protean quality is even more impressive.  When the film was released, in April 1942, Ryu was thirty-seven, around the age one assumes the protagonist to be at the story’s outset.  His development into the fifty-something Horikawa is remarkably natural and complete, achieved through subtle adjustments to his facial muscles and his gait, as well as through the cosmetic greying of his hair.  At the funeral of the drowned schoolboy, Ryu doesn’t emote yet his face and bearing fully convey Horikawa’s appalled distress.  In a conversation soon afterwards with Hirata, who tries vainly to dissuade him from resigning his post, Horikawa is unusually willing to give voice to how he feels.  If the dead boy had been his own son, he knows what he’d think of the teacher on whose watch Ryohei died.  Horikawa admits he’s now scared of his responsibilities as a teacher.  (Just as his failure – or what he sees as failure – as a surrogate parent stiffens Horikawa’s resolve to be an exemplary father to his son, so his inability to continue teaching seems to compel him never again to shirk his work responsibilities.)  Ryu’s sympathetic presence makes this conversation with Hirata a particular highlight; it also leavens Horikawa’s usual intransigence throughout – and gives him a persisting good humour.  With a less appealing actor in the role, Horikawa might come across as harshly moralistic and the film as more of a sermon.  As it is (and without softening the character), Ryu’s Horikawa is representative but satisfyingly individual.  Chishu Ryu makes alarmingly credible the physical spasm that precedes Horikawa’s collapse; his seemingly effortless ageing is sustained right through to the deathbed scene.

    Given Horikawa’s decisive abandonment and painful memories of his teaching career, it’s surprising that he readily accepts the invitation of his former students to the school reunion.  It’s not implausible, though – Ozu subtly suggests that time is some kind of healer.  The fatal accident on the school outing happens while the teacher and his students, who undertake much of their journey on foot, are taking a break.  A couple of boys are examining their blistered feet and Horikawa is playing the venerable oriental board game go when they learn of the boating escapade and accident.  Years later, Horikawa bumps into Hirata in a public venue in Tokyo where men meet to play go; the different context is a starting point for Horikawa to seem to make peace with the past.  By the time the school reunion is arranged, he’s not only good friends with Hirata – and, for his sake, wouldn’t want to miss the occasion – but also rightly optimistic that the son whom he has raised successfully will marry Hirata’s daughter.

    A short sequence that shows Ryohei as he’s about to start his higher education introduces Shuji Sano into the narrative.  You miss the engaging, slightly eccentric presence of Haruhiko Tsuda as the pre-adolescent Ryohei; as the twenty-five-year-old version, Sano is competent but relatively bland.  (He would go on to give a livelier performance in Early Summer.)   But this makes sense in the film’s overall scheme:  Horikawa’s example and instruction direct his son towards subduing emotionality – especially after being reproved for proposing the move to Tokyo to be closer to his father.  Shuji Sano’s apparent lack of expressiveness comes to express what must be concealed in adulthood – what it means to be a man.  Horikawa’s anger bursts out in what might seem an unlikely moment, while father and son bathe together on their visit to a spa.  An extract from David Bordwell’s Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema (1988), which formed the bulk of the BFI handout for this screening of There Was a Father, notes that the spa imagery ‘evoke[s] the Shinto purification rite of … ablution’ and that ‘purity becomes a thematic issue in the film’.  This is just one strand of the film’s wider-ranging ‘Japaneseness’, which Bordwell also cites and exemplifies[1], and is not its only religious strand.  Buddhist references also register strongly.  To contemporary Japanese audiences at least, these wouldn’t at all have contradicted the political ideology that the film effectively promotes.  ‘In March of 1941,’ writes Bordwell, ‘… the Great Japan Buddhist Association was formed, with the purpose of supporting the government and the war effort …’

    Among the many potent images created by Ozu and his cinematographer, Yushun Atsuta, some would become (perhaps already were) Ozu tropes – clothes blowing on a washing line, a train disappearing into a tunnel.  The former seems to symbolise both the reassuringly familiar and the fragile aspects of domestic life.  The latter supplies the closing shot (and a train journey the last scene) as it did in Equinox Flower (1958), the Ozu film I saw immediately before this one.  In There Was a Father, however, the dark railway tunnel completes a continuing texture of mortality – at some points foreboding, at others almost cheerfully matter of fact.  A shot of Horikawa and his young son, soon after their move to Ueda, shows them almost pinned into a top corner of the frame, which is dominated by the large black mass of the castle parapet on which they stand.  When the adult Ryohei arrives at his father’s home after passing the army medical, Horikawa urges him to ‘tell your mother all about it’; his son moves a few feet away to kneel at her household shrine.  Horikawa’s ashes, in an urn placed in the luggage rack above their seats, accompany Ryohei and his new wife on the concluding train journey.

    Yet duty and self-sacrifice – since these may extend to sacrificing one’s life – eclipse even death in There Was a Father.  We never know exactly when or how Horikawa’s wife died but, as Tony Rayns notes, her absence intensifies Ozu’s focus on male stoicism.  The female characters, compared with their counterparts in post-war Ozu, are remarkably few and minor in this film:  other than Horikawa’s maid (Chiyoko Fumitani), Fumiko is just about the only woman on screen and, as Rayns also points out, she is ‘the most uncomplicatedly polite, docile, and obedient woman in any Ozu movie, a simple and simplistic image of dutiful Japanese womanhood subserviently meeting all of the male’s needs’.  Although Ryohei is grief-stricken at the moment of his father’s death, he has, by the time of the train journey to Akita, mastered his emotions.  As talk turns to Horikawa senior’s passing, and Fumiko weeps, Ryohei appears to despise her tears.  He behaves in a manner of which his father would be proud.

    28 September 2023

    [1] ‘The school outing is a veritable itinerary of traditionally revered spots:  the Imperial Palace, Imperial and Buddhist shrines, and Lake Ashinoko, across which one can see majestic Mount Fuji.  The road down which the boys hike is the famous Tokkaido highway, immortalised in poetry and woodblock prints … .  The film’s very first image, two women passing on a bridge and framed by tree branches, introduces a picturesque, self-conscious ‘Japaneseness’ …’

  • Miranda

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Ken Annakin (1948)

    Miranda was this month’s ‘Projecting the Archive’ offering at BFI.  As usual in this slot, the screening was introduced by curator Jo Botting; as usual, she was admirably efficient and informative.  Also not for the first time, the British film being celebrated turned out to be no great shakes.  Ken Annakin’s fantastical comedy, adapted by Peter Blackmore from his own recent stage play, may have cheered early post-war audiences in need of escapism but now makes for a rather long eighty minutes.  Temple Abady’s score keeps insisting how amusing Miranda is – after a while, Annakin seems to be using the music to try and convince himself of this.  Some of the performances make the film well worth watching, though.

    To be fair, Ken Annakin loses no time setting up the story.  Paul Martin (Griffith Jones), a London doctor, goes on a solo fishing holiday on the Cornish coast:  his wife Clare (Googie Withers) doesn’t fancy sitting in a boat all day.  Cut to Paul, excitedly trying to reel in what feels like a whopper; after a brief struggle, he’s pulled overboard.  Paul, in fact, is the catch – of a mermaid (Glynis Johns), who introduces herself as Miranda.  She keeps him prisoner in her submarine grotto, agreeing to let Paul go only if he’ll take her back to London with him.  Before doing so, he orders from his wife’s couturier (Brian Oulton) some extra-long dresses to conceal Miranda’s fish tail.  He lets Clare know he’ll be bringing back to their Chelsea flat, for an initial three-week stay, an invalid patient who’s unable to walk.  Clare, expecting an elderly lady as her guest, is surprised to find the invalid is no older than she is, and very attractive.

    In Chelsea Miranda subsists on a diet of raw fish sandwiches and glasses of salted water, and sleeps in the bath.  When she’s taken out, it’s in a bath chair; in the flat, Paul carries her around.  Her true identity is revealed only to Nurse Carey (Margaret Rutherford), whom Paul asks to look after his guest when he’s not around.  A comedy centred on a newcomer to human society might be expected to point up some of its foibles and absurdities by presenting them through the newcomer’s eyes.  There’s next to none of that in Miranda.  A mild romantic farce, the film confirms only that chaps’ll-make-fools-of-themselves-over-a-pretty-girl; that wives and girlfriends are liable to be suspicious, then angry, as a result.  The chaps in this case are, as well as Paul, the Martins’ chauffeur, Charles (David Tomlinson), and Nigel Hood (John McCallum), the artist fiancé of Isobel Lambert (Sonia Holm) – she owns a hat shop and lives upstairs from Paul and Clare.  When Isobel discovers Nigel is painting a portrait of Miranda, she desecrates the painting by chucking Nigel’s supper over it, and breaks off their engagement.  Betty (Yvonne Owen), Charles’s young lady and the Martins’ maid, becomes distressed by more than the smelly sandwiches she has to make for the invalid.

    Chaps is the mot juste for Miranda’s menfolk:  indeed, the film’s main personnel are nearly all resoundingly middle-class, the mermaid included.  David Tomlinson’s chauffeur isn’t much less nicely spoken than Paul or Nigel, and doesn’t give the impression of trying to sound socially better than he is.  Yvonne Owen’s Betty might give that impression if you couldn’t detect the RP vowels beneath her Cockney accent.  The setting is presumably contemporary but there’s not a whiff of austerity in the air:  if ration-book filmgoers were keen to escape reality they certainly came to the right place.  It’s quite funny that Miranda has access in her underwater home to the occasional page or two from Vogue but the extent to which she’s not a fish out of water in well-heeled Chelsea is also an expression of the script’s lack of imagination.  And when it comes to London sight-seeing, she really is half-human, half-sea creature.  ‘I want to go to Buckingham Palace and Billingsgate Market but most of all I want to go to the opera,’ she tells Paul.  On a visit to the zoo, she’s interested only in the seals though she must have seen plenty of them before.

    However … Glynis Johns, with natural wit and music in her voice, does a splendid job of blending Miranda’s mask of naivete and flirtatious intent:  best of all, she’s a very matter-of-fact mermaid.  Griffith Jones is a bit stagy as Paul but Googie Withers’s Clare has stylish presence.  As Nigel, Withers’s real-life husband John McCallum (they married the year that Miranda was released) shows some lovely comic finesse.  David Tomlinson, whose screen partnership with Glynis Johns was famously renewed when they played Mr Banks and his suffragette wife in Mary Poppins (1964), is rather more nuanced than his role deserves.  Sonia Holm is standard issue from the Rank Organisation ‘charm school’ and Brian Oulton, as usual, overacts but Margaret Rutherford does something valuable for the film.  This is thanks less to her trademark galumphing eccentricity, though that’s in evidence too, but to her quality of true (light-hearted) innocence.  Rutherford’s nurse is the right person to be privy to the heroine’s secret.  When she first sees Miranda in the bath, she exclaims:  ‘Oh, the pretty thing – it’s a mermaid:  I’ve always believed in them!’  Margaret Rutherford leaves you in no doubt that Nurse Carey means what she says.

    Miranda gives to each of Paul, Charles and Nigel a pendant containing a lock of her hair ‘as a token of love which might have been’.  The realisation he’s not the sole recipient eventually brings each man to his senses and a rapid reconciliation with the fully human love of his life.  Shortly before diving into the Thames and heading for the sea, Miranda tells Charles she wants to be with her sisters in Majorca the following May.  Paul and Clare wonder why.  The answer is revealed in the closing shot – of a smiling Miranda, sitting on an undersea rock and holding a mer-baby.  This finale (presumably a main reason why some critics in 1948 considered the film risqué) might be thought a proto-Mamma Mia! (2008) concept were it not that Paul’s the only one of the three men who knows Miranda’s anatomy from top to bottom (unless Nigel or Charles is fibbing).

    The supposedly abundant witty dialogue in Miranda is actually pretty sparse.  When one character says, ‘There’s something fishy about that girl’, it may force a good-humoured groan; when, a bit later, a second character says the same thing you sense desperation.  One of the better bad jokes comes last of all; it’s better partly because it chimes with something at the very beginning.  The opening credits are accompanied by a (ropy) title number sung, in English but with a definite French accent, by Jean Sablon.  In a concluding Gallic echo, the screen announces not ‘The End’ but ‘Fin’.  In British cinema, Miranda is a less invisible ‘hidden gem’ than ‘Projecting the Archive’ pictures often are:  it’s certainly one of Glynis Johns’s best-known pictures.  The reason for its selection now was probably on account of a major and imminent anniversary that’s more worth celebrating than the film itself.  According to Jo Botting, Johns nearly drowned early in the shoot:  her heavy fishtail, designed by Dunlop (Tyres), floated better than she did, weighing her down so badly that she struggled to keep her head above water.  She survived in a big way.  On 5th October 2023, Glynis Johns will be a hundred years old.

    27 September 2023

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