The oddest ending of the films screened in the first weeks of the retrospective is the one to Woman of Tokyo. In this film, a woman named Chikako supports her younger brother, Ryoichi, putting him through school. She does this by working in an office during the day and ostensibly as a translator for a professor at night. Her real night employment, however, is as a prostitute. It is a short film, and one of the sacrifices the narrative makes is to explore her feelings at having such a job for the sake of her brother’s education. But she seems unfazed by it. However, her brother’s friend, Harue (featuring another Ozu regular, the great Kinuyo Tanaka), learns of rumors as to the real nighttime employment of Chikako, and passes this information along to Ryoichi. He ends up killing himself. There is a very telling moment in the film, as Harue and Chikako are with the body; Chikako addresses her dead brother and asks “is this all you killed yourself for? Weakling!” This response is similar to the mother’s response in The Only Son, and provides a corrective to whatever feelings of pity the viewer may have for Ryoichi. But the ending: after this intense scene, the film cuts to two journalists (they had earlier been in the apartment digging for information from the two women) walking along the street, and discussing current events in a light-hearted way. What is the point of such an ending? There seems to be no connection with the previous narrative.
An interpretation is suggested by considering A Hen in the Wind (1948). In this film, Tokiko (played again by Kinuyo Tanaka) is waiting for her husband to return from the recently-completed war. Her son becomes gravely ill, and to be able to afford the medical bills, she spends one night as a prostitute. Once her husband returns, she is unable to keep the truth from him, and much of the rest of the film focuses on his reactions to the news. He accepts what has happened intellectually, and even tells a friend that he has “forgiven” his wife. But his reaction to her goes from coldness to violence. In one really shocking scene at the end, he pushes her and she falls down the stairs. It’s an appalling thing to watch, especially because the husband, Shuichi, merely goes halfway down the stairs and asks “are you okay?” After a moment, she responds. She sits up, and a neighbor sees her and asks if she’s okay (she’s fallen down the stairs out of clumsiness, she says). She then begins the slow process of limping up the steep staircase. Once upstairs, her husband finally reconciles, saying that they should put the past behind them. Whatever one may think of all this (and I have no wish to suggest an interpretation here) it is undeniably intense. And then the camera cuts to a scene outside. A young girl and boy are playing. Another cut, and a longer shot of a group of children, their attention apparently engaged by something behind a fence. Two adults walk towards them, and the movie ends. With these endings, is Ozu suggesting that private tragedies are played out in an unaware, and even indifferent world? Cinema is an intimate experience, and none more so than Ozu’s. We are brought very close to people’s lives. Ozu’s distancing places this intimacy in context.
She does this by working in an office during the day and ostensibly as a translator for a professor at night. Her real night employment, however, is as a prostitute. It is a short film, and one of the sacrifices the narrative makes is to explore her feelings at having such a job for the sake of her brother’s education. But she seems unfazed by it. However, her brother’s friend, Harue (featuring another Ozu regular, the great Kinuyo Tanaka), learns of rumors as to the real nighttime employment of Chikako, and passes this information along to Ryoichi. He ends up killing himself. There is a very telling moment in the film, as Harue and Chikako are with the body; Chikako addresses her dead brother and asks “is this all you killed yourself for? Weakling!” This response is similar to the mother’s response in The Only Son, and provides a corrective to whatever feelings of pity the viewer may have for Ryoichi. But the ending: after this intense scene, the film cuts to two journalists (they had earlier been in the apartment digging for information from the two women) walking along the street, and discussing current events in a light-hearted way. What is the point of such an ending? There seems to be no connection with the previous narrative.
In one really shocking scene at the end, he pushes her and she falls down the stairs. It’s an appalling thing to watch, especially because the husband, Shuichi, merely goes halfway down the stairs and asks “are you okay?” After a moment, she responds. She sits up, and a neighbor sees her and asks if she’s okay (she’s fallen down the stairs out of clumsiness, she says). She then begins the slow process of limping up the steep staircase. Once upstairs, her husband finally reconciles, saying that they should put the past behind them. Whatever one may think of all this (and I have no wish to suggest an interpretation here) it is undeniably intense. And then the camera cuts to a scene outside. A young girl and boy are playing. Another cut, and a longer shot of a group of children, their attention apparently engaged by something behind a fence. Two adults walk towards them, and the movie ends. With these endings, is Ozu suggesting that private tragedies are played out in an unaware, and even indifferent world? Cinema is an intimate experience, and none more so than Ozu’s. We are brought very close to people’s lives. Ozu’s distancing places this intimacy in context.