Tokyo Story (1953)

Dir. Yasujiro Ozu
Writ. Kôgo Noda, Yasujiro Ozu
w/ Chishu Ryu, Chieko Higashiyama, Setsuko Hara [1]


Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Story punctuates the last in a seven-year run of movies made between 1947 and 1953 at the rate of one per year. [2] Known for his evolved and deliberate style and his devotion to capturing post-war Japanese middle class life and locales, the filmmaker creates a new genre using unique camera work and editing. Using lots of long shots, which are made to seem even longer than they are with slow pacing and an avoidance of intercutting close-ups and medium shots, and shooting more often than not with a shortened tripod, he evokes the postures and attitudes of the working Japanese in routine, social customs. The focus of this particular film is a mostly immediate family that is experiencing a rare visit from its patriarch and matriarch who have trained from the comparatively tiny village of Onamichi to post-war Tokyo, a burgeoning city. In many ways, the hustle and bustle of the city serve as a subtle contrast to the forced deliberation of the scenes and the narrative, which is also a fresh take on storytelling.

While providing a backdrop in which Ozu can use his documentarian style of filming, the city also poses as a catalyst, backing up one of the great central themes of Story, which is change, both the resistance to change, and the acceptance of change. His approach to this idea is complete and resonates on many different levels, the most basic of which can be identified by his near-absolute avoidance of match cuts to create a 360-degree sense of space as opposed to the typical, linear 180-degree format with which most people feel more comfortable. His static sets tend to use something transient such as smoke from a mosquito coil or chimneys to visually reinforce this theme. Within the construct of the family itself, the characters are shaped dramatically by the same idea as older members of a generation try to adapt to the adult lives and personalities of their children and vice versa. The setting of the story encapsulates all of this very neatly as the general climate of Japan in '53 struggled to adjust to the changing times of a new industrialized, democratized post-war entity.

Thanks to this innovative filming, the grating qualities of the conflicts here are both studiable and made more interesting. Because the compression of the shots and the narrative ellipses are designed to make the audience pay attention to what's going on, Ozu has plenty of space and time in which to convey a great deal of implied subtext within the conventions of Japanese society. In other words, while each of the characters involved are both resisting and dealing with the changes that each one faces, they all must also conform to the customary politeness which is the fundamental basis of their culture. The director further invites us to speculation as to whether or not this aspect of tradition will last in the future, in part by presenting three generations of a family, each level of which clearly has different notions of respect and intimacy and relationship in general, both with themselves and the world at large.

Needless to say, it's a huge hunk that Ozu has bitten off, but a task that he undertakes with great care and thoroughness. It can be a bit disorienting at first watching such a departure from traditional filmmaking, but worth a close look. The shots seem longer than they are and parts of the story are omitted, but that's just Ozu deliberately tugging on his audience's attention span. Depending upon your point of view, this will either lean towards the magnetic or make you a bit sleepy.

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[1] You shouldn't need to be a filmmaker to know that this is very prolific. In Ozu's case, he had an in: his uncle got him a job as an assistant cameraman at Shochiku studios, which is a very nice springboard for any aspiring, poor filmmaker, especially the son of a fertilizer merchant. Not that that's necessarily the reason for such a run, but it helps.

[2] The young woman in the photo, Setsuko Hara, has been called the Greta Garbo of Japan.

The Searchers (1956)

Dir. John Ford
Writ. Frank S.Nugent, based on the novel by Alan LeMay
w/ John Wayne, Vera Miles, Jeffrey S. Hunter, Ward Bond, Natalie Wood


There's something hard enough about raising a family that somehow augments the difficulty of doing so in the pioneer days. Perhaps that's the real reason why Western-settling independent types have often been so glorified and romanticized in these films. Most Americans can claim some amount of ancestry that fits that mold, so especially in the Cold War days of bomb shelders and emergency raid drills there was a public demand for movies that reinforced the strength and spirit of what came to embody "the American way". Since this was before "white guilt", there aren't any apologies made to the Native American peoples who are depicted here more as a source of conflict than as a people with a viable culture, history, or human emotions of their own. It's almost embarrassing to watch a film like this in which so many mistakes are made regarding the Comanche that the lack of research or responsibility on the part of the filmmaker is pretty damned appalling; or, more often, just really gauche. That being said, this movie doesn't exist to enlighten its audience regarding the ways of an all but extinct race, but to provide a venue in which John Wayne can shine. So all political and cultural faux pas aside, for serious Wayne fans, this is a must-see.

In this sweeping vision from John Ford, the Duke is afforded several opportunities to act, and act he does. The script, while it is very racist and pro-pioneer, seems disinclined to completely dismiss the influence of the indigenous tribes on the folks of that time. People who have been taken by raiders are shown in various debilitated states of being, a village idiot type named Mose wanders around the plains imitating and revering the very people who threaten his fellows, and the mixed blood that was fairly common among early settlers is more than acknowledged. His riding buddy for most of the movie, Martin Paulie, one-eighth Cherokee, provides the grit that abraises Wayne's character, Ethan, as his stubborness to accept the Indians as human manifests itself plainly. This also provides occasions for stock Wayne one-liners like, "That'll be the day."

Ford essentially broke this up into two basic stages: the indoors, in which a play-like atmosphere creates somber moods in which the family reacts to eminent, unseeable threats, and the outdoors (most of which are real) where all the action and the chasing of those same unseeable aggressors takes place. When Debbie is taken by a raiding chief, the chase is on. True to form, one thing that Ford should be lauded for is for not failing to depict another predator that the white man faced in those bleak times: other white men. Ethan has his hands full making sure that he and Martin don't end up shot in the back by money-hungry would-be assassins while they're tracking down the ghost war chief, Scar, who seems to have materialized out of the mists of hear-say.

The indoor sets revel in the colors of sunset and dusk, while the outdoor shots alternate between the formidable buttes and plateaus of Texas and simpler, quieter stretches of woods and snow. Since most Westerns bothered very little in the way of cinematography, the efforts are pretty pleasing even if the story suffers from time to time. The encapsulation of Wayne's hero as a man who does not stop until he gets what he wants, however, doesn't suffer in the slightest. From the moment he steps foot onto the set, to the moment he walks away from the porch, he is a lonely and austere figure, the epitome of wild and fierce independence in an uncertain and unpredictable world. And yes, when he scoops up the now-grown Debbie in his arms instead of killing her, there is a huge, undeniable sense of redemptive value.

Perhaps Ethan realizes that blood is blood, and that he has enough on his hands already without resorting to the sort of animal behavior he's always been so hard-set against. He's no hypocrite. He has a beating heart inside that staggering frame. And thanks to years of perseverance, so does Debbie.

Sweet Smell of Success (1957)

Dir. Alexander Mackendrick
Writ. Ernest Lehman (novelette); Clifford Odets, Ernest Lehman
w/ Tony Curtis, Burt Lancaster, Susan Harrison


When a script contains the kind of dialogue that Success wields, all else follows, especially when the chemistry is right between players. In this case, background played a heavy role both in the success of the film and its arrival to the Time list. According to the Film Encyclopedia compiled by Ephraim Katz, Tony Curtis "grew up in poverty in a tough section of the Bronx and by age 11 was a member of a notorious street gang. It was in a neighborhood settlement house that he had his first taste of acting, playing a little girl in an adventure drama about King Arthur." When he got out of his service with the Navy, having been wounded in Guam, Curtis soon started down the path that led to a signing with Universal on account of his "pretty boy looks, the pressure of fan mail, and publicity buildup." Critics were shocked when he pulled this performance seemingly out of his vest pocket, after having ridiculed him for playing swashbucklers and Arabian Nights caliphs alike with that inescapable thunder-mouth. From all viewpoints, the role of press agent Sidney Falco belonged to Curtis, born to it, and he played the man with range, style, and finesse.

Not an easy thing to do, either, when your character essentially acts as a demonstrative puppet with a card or two up his sleeve just in case. It might have been much easier for Curtis to play this as a wiseguy or a more menacing (but a lot less interesting) character. Opposite Lancaster, though, is a lot of energy to be combatted and experimented with -- without the actual presence of his co-star for many of the scenes. He's acting against unseen forces and playing the odds, the whole time cognitive of his miniscule abilities and extreme vulnerability, sensitive to that, and taking the blows as they come to a guy on a shoestring budget with very little to lose. Because Lancaster's capabilities with language alone must have been an education in itself, the results are often nothing less than pure cinematic magic. Smooth-talking old school and rough improv. Those are the raw materials, but Mackendrick doesn't let it happen without serious back-up.

With photography that belies the premise and direction that betrays all motives, Success sizzles and Curtis's nervous energy merely underscores naturally the plot twists and turns. Basic plot, if you haven't already read, involves two men grappling each other for something intrinsic to survival. Lancaster, as the voracious gossip columnist J.J. Hunsecker looking to protect a sister that he has some very unnatural hold over, would not even give the opportunistic Falco scraps from his table had he not that self-same card to pander that would help Hunsecker keep that hold, and tightly. Taut battle of the wills? That's an understatement.

As for Susan Harrison's role as the confused kid sister liable to throw herself off a balcony rather than be forced to choose between standing up to her brother or simply eloping, it's all but swallowed in the process. A shame, too. She plays an intimidated, spineless nothing well; and, with these two Titans running around loose, it's really remarkable that she can even get a word in edgewise. As for the actress herself, she never really surfaced.

E.T. The Extraterrestrial (1982)

Dir. Steven Spielberg
Writ. Melissa Mathison
w/ Henry Thomas, Robert MacNaughton, Drew Barrymore, Dee Wallace, Peter Coyote



There was a huge debate in my family as to whether or not this was actually a children's movie when I was a little girl. It scared the hell out of my three-year-old brother who, like Henry Thomas's "Elliott" character seemed to have an empathic connection to all of the alien's heart palpitations, but I liked it a lot at the time. About two months after seeing it, however, I had this elaborate nightmare in which a Girl Scout meeting was being hosted in our home and E.T. showed up and started turning unsuspecting Girl Scouts into dry and dusty Girl Scout skeletons, starting with my poor little girlfriend who had just excused herself to use the bathroom. Suffice to say, it was a less than glamorous way to go. He then commenced to dehydrate the rest of the town as I followed along and discovered that he had a sort of dehydrational death ray emanating from his solar plexus. Oh, and he moved like he was on a treadmill, which made it even scarier.

I wasn't the only one.

Spielberg's immortal alien, a friend to neglected flowers and disenchanted boys alike, connected immediately with the psyche of both the young target audience and their parents, who may have pretended that they were just there to lug the kids around but could be found at nearly any given moment of this emotional piece to be stifling a teardrop or silently cheering the events on. The Reagan years were rife with opportunities for the common man to feel like he had a voice of some kind -- the more emotional the better. That seemed to be the theme, and I'm almost shocked that Nancy Reagan didn't send out buttons while I was still in grade school that read: "You can't change the world! Just cry."

Mathison's script doesn't mention apartheid, though. Instead it contains a fragmented family that has been threatened by gray circumstances and is on the verge of disintegrating altogether and maybe causing a few nervous breakdowns along the way. Certainly years of therapy. So when E.T. finds his way into the heart of Elliott, he becomes the bond that links the siblings in a unique and indivisible way. They suddenly care more about each other. They need each other. At the very least they recognize that they need each other and they let the rest just slide away.

Spielberg's unique storytelling style doesn't suffer from any dumbing-down [1] of the script or cheap photography tricks. He's up to the same game as he was in Close Encounters, which isn't hard to imagine as there's something infinitely childlike about Dreyfuss's character in that movie as well, but this time the main character also looks like a child. He plays with cool, new toys and when he gets vicariously drunk -- thanks to E.T. -- he grabs a girl in biology class and kisses her like the guy in the movie, a move that nearly any child would imitate. [2] But the story is still told through layers of sound and intercutting between school and home so that we can grasp early on what Peter Coyote's character has trouble with later when he asks, "Elliott thinks E.T.'s thoughts?"

"Elliott feels his feelings," Michael corrects.

In a movie where one half of the lead would like to just go home while the other finds that nearly impossible, there are certainly a lot of feelings going on.

[1] If anything, the way the older boys talk to each other is kind of dumb, but then, those were pretty dumb times. But there are tidbits here and there that elevate Michael's character from the rest of the gang. He's a cool brother who helps out, imitates Yoda, and sings Elvis Costello.

[2] Suggesting, perhaps, that in order to get any really easy action, it's best if you've a drunk alien on your side.

Citizen Kane (1 May 1941)

Writ. Herman J. Mankiewicz
Dir. Orson Welles
w/ Orson Welles, Joseph Cotten, Dorothy Comingore, Everett Sloane


It's hard to write a review of a movie of such legendary proportions as this without either in some way talking down to a given audience or perhaps omitting certain vital information that could potentially help bring into focus one of the greatest influences of twentieth century. One of the first things that should be understood is that at the still tender age of twenty-four Welles was hailed by many to be a genius and ahead of his time even in the era in which Kane first appeared. In a Brussels poll of international critics in '58, just seventeen years after the film's meager initial profits led RKO to strip him of his only claim to auteurship, this was voted one of the 12 best films of all time. [1] Despite the critical acclaim, and the pronouncement of Kane as an unparalleled masterpiece, the young filmmaker would never again have total creative control of any of his projects. [2]

Greg Toland's photography, which virtually refuses to have anything less than two or more layers, stands alone as evidence to what makes film the unique, nearly boundless medium that it is. It's understood that a filmmaker really can't fill a screen enough, that the amount of visual "busy-ness" is sort of limitless. The audience understands that it's viewing a compression of images and thoughts, deeds and concepts that have been translated to the two-dimensional realms of "dialogue" and "action" and that, within the framework of the aspect ratio, the actual amount of information doesn't have a cap any higher than the writer's ability to convey the story. [3] But it also helps if you happen to have a really talented director by your side.

In any of the interviews the older, wiser Welles can be found, it isn't likely that you'll see much in the way of humility. The man is, like the enigmatic hero he embodies, a testament to his own inexplicable genius, as though he had pulled his brain out of a Cracker Jack box one day and just hadn't gotten over such good fortune since then. What's amazing is that despite being completely full of himself, he is not in any way a turn-off. Partly, this is because this film is not, oh, say, Crossroads, [4] but also because of his own sort of jovial glee with the world. He would have made a good elf in any case. Unhampered by the all-too-powerful studio, he would have made a spectacular icon; as things are, though, we have to settle for the film itself to be the icon and allow Welles's memory to fade into speculative ignominy. What his body of work could have been without this crippling blow the world will never know, which only adds to the joy of the feat itself. After all, what we have here is a director who made one film, just one film, that changed the way people see movies, the way people think about movies, and that people haven't shut up about ever since.

Why not? Well, the use of the narrative voice-over/"paper-over" to depict in a rather short time a great deal about an intricate life, for one. The layers used by the d.p. and the sound editor to keep the depth of the film at a near-constant, however, are the real pith that earns Kane its marks again and again. Take, for example, the scene in which the reporter wants to talk to the second Mrs. Kane in the hopes of learning about the elusive Rosebud. The scene itself lasts maybe a minute, but several things are made clear without any hustling of the actors. Susan is drunk, but not drunk enough to talk; the reporter needs to get in touch with his editor; the waiter, in the hopes of making a quick buck, wants to get Susan drunker; there's a lead story that's circulating somewhere, but where? The use of sound alone in that scene marked a milestone in filmmaking history. That the images are clear and crisp and the story itself is interesting is just...nice. [5]

You may also want to check out Lucas's Article or Matt's.

[1] Kinda makes ya wonder what the other ones were, doesn't it.

[2] Which, without thumbing my nose at all those who would say that Ambersons is his best work, because I believe in individuality, is something to consider.

[3] There are also examples of movies in which a lot of information is happening, but the story is really very simple. Minority Report is one of them, and a good comparison. Also, from a writer's perspective, this is a very cool thing where the rewards are always worth the creative challenges.

[4] I'm sort of expecting the thought police to break into my terminal for having the audacity to flippantly compare Crossroads and Citizen Kane; but alas, they are both the same medium.

[5] I think I managed not to mention much of the obvious here except the narrative. Good. What do you think?

Sommarnattens Leende (1955)

Dir. Ingmar Bergman
Writ. Ingmar Bergman
w/ Eva Dahlbeck, Ulla Jacobsson, Harriet Andersson, Margit Carlqvist, Gunnar Björnstrand


Bergman is at his wiliest in this fantastic romp -- fantastic in the sense that the inner lives of his women take precedence over the somewhat more prosaic (though no less funny) roles of the men, a contrasty juxtaposition that sheds ample light. He opens on the aging but trim Mr. Egerman, a man of fairly decent reputation with an Achilles heel. He has married a woman he admires who is much too young for him and all but spurned an old flame, whose name he can't seem to help but calling out while clutching his own poor wife's breast in his sleep. He can't start back up with his old lover because she is now mistress to a very possessive military man, and it could get him killed. His only comfort is his work and the quiet of his study, but in the meantime, his son Henrik has fallen in love with the beautiful Anne Egerman and has become quite the moody little clergyman, flirting with the housemaid in an effort to quell his rampant and overpowering emotions. This is perhaps the man's only relief, so that he needn't check on his wife and son every hour that he can spare...for Anne Egerman is still chaste, and he wouldn't want to wait in vain. [1]

Bergman appears to be making a lot of clipped statements at once, using his own subtle sense of humor in melodrama and just wonderful sets and costumes. There are it seems, in the society of the well-to-do in 1950s Sweden, a few rules. Unless you are drinking wine, you must be served a drink which will require a spoon, be this some sort of ade (which would be served in the day time) or a nightcap. Also, if you happen to have a wife and a mistress and can't decide which to be jealous of more, you will be subject to arrangements made by the two of them without your knowledge to discover the truth of the matter, which is the secondary plot.

Egerman faces off with his would-be rival in a retreat at his old lover's family estate, where unhappy (or idle) women are making sure that there will be trouble as they try to tamper with love and honor for lovely and honorable reasons. Leave it to Bergman. While this all sounds very soap opera-esque, his treatment of the subject matter has depth, great insight, and textures that range from squeaky-dry dialogue lines to the poetry of wine-drunk love-making at dawn. Anne Egerman, as the central figure, is a precocious homemaker full of whimsy and unrealized dreams, which make her both enchanting and a little bit useless at the regimental running of a great house. Being more like a guest in her own home provides the perfect time and atmosphere in which she and Henrik find each other.

There's something of the "life goes on" quality here, applied with wit, that is not so much dark as it is strict. While a great many dramas are being created by the restless and unfaithful, there will still always be a great need for people to try the great experiment that is marriage, as exemplified by the housemaid who is so busy trying to catch a man that she hardly notices the turmoil going on around her.

You can keep a straight face for as long as you like, but you will laugh whether you like it or not. Bergman wouldn't hear of it otherwise.

[1] Even if you find the subject matter a bit Victorian, you'd have to agree this is a brilliant set-up, and a nice contrast to his later, moodier works, I think.

Ugetsu (1953)

Dir. Kenji Mizoguchi
Writ. Matsutarô Kawagachi, Akinari Ueda, Yoshikata Yoda
w/ Masayuki Mori, Machiko Kyô, Kinuyo Tanaka, Eitarô Ozawa


When Genjuro the potter decides to visit the big city with his wares, he sparks the interest of his neighbor, Tobei, a farmer with visions of becoming a samurai. Genjuro won't take his wife and wee son with him, lest outlaws bring his family to ruin, nor will Tobei allow his young wife to venture out with him, for similar reasons. When the potter's wife is given a handful of gold, she doesn't mind much, but all she really wants is a happy, peaceful family. The gold is a neutrality to her, but the potter's greedy, darker nature has been sparked and it makes him irritable. He ends up leaving with a mass production of his work and all but forgetting about his family when he meets a woman of great beauty and her servant. He now spends all of his time with this woman, watching her dance and even marrying her before he discovers that they are not alone. The ghost of her husband haunts the palace. It is something that she and her servant seem to take lightly, even if it frightens them.

When a mage finds Genjuro, he recalls him to his former life, and places an incantation upon his torso. He can not continue to neglect his family because the woman he has bigotrously married (along with her servant) is an apparition and their relationship is forbidden. The servant finds his body so marked, and bawls him out for having pushed away a love that was matchless. The incantation works, and he is forced to retrieve his home. In the meantime, our would-be samurai has joined the war that has more than threatened both his own wife and his neighbor's family. His wife has joined the world's oldest profession, just to get by, and his neighbor's wife is struggling to keep her boy fed and to keep herself away from the usual raping by marauders.

Needless to say, this is fertile ground for Mizoguchi to explore the psychology of women and the poetry of the soul, which are sort of his trademarks. He uses long camera set-ups without a lot of intercutting to achieve a sense of stillness in chaos, and the results are so realistic that the studio sets used liberally are pretty often ignorable, and sometimes not even noticeable until the second or third viewing. The performances he evinces from his actors is an absolute labor of love. They swim around each other as though perfectly at home, like a litter of newborn puppies, and to watch them tackle the subject matter fearlessly is a total joy.

This is a sort of rarity in the no-nonsense bulk cinema of the last thirty years or so. As a sort of comparison, perhaps try thinking of or watching Shakespeare in Love before or after this.

There was a time that this sort of cinema was very great indeed.