• Floating Weeds (浮草, 1959), 12/1/19 (Sun)
• A Story of Floating Weeds (浮草物語, 1934), 12/10/19 (Tues)

I was set to see Ozu Yasujiro’s 1934 silent version of this film, so I figured I’d first check out his 1959 remake, which adds not only sound but color. They both proved very fine films, and despite a nearly identical composition and story progression, seeing them side by side was instructive. The silent version was narrated live by a benshi, a storyteller unique to the Japanese silent film era who voices the dialogue, characters’ feelings and storyline in much the same way as the taiyu narrator in Bunraku puppet theater and comic rakugo storytellers. That makes an intriguing cross between film and theater. (The benshi tradition helped keep silent films viable in Japan well after talkies had taken hold elsewhere in the world, this late film being a good example.) The benshi was accompanied by a pianist playing an original score.

The title, a plant known in English as duckweed, is translated more literally as Floating Weeds, evoking plants drifting aimlessly on the waters in a metaphor used in Japan at least as far back as a poem by 9th-century beauty Ono no Komachi. It refers here to a group of itinerant actors who make their way from town to town in a rootless and uncertain existence. (The names for some reason are slightly different in the two works; those below are from the later film.)

The leader Komazaburo has taken the troupe to a tiny town with scant prospect of success, a decision that has his actors baffled. It transpires that he has a secret past with Oyoshi, the proprietress of a local restaurant – a past that includes a son, now a young man aiming to go to university. Komazaburo clearly adores his child (and the feeling is mutual) but has never confessed his parentage, afraid that his lowly profession would embarrass and handicap the boy. He has told him instead that he is an uncle and that the father died when the boy was an infant. Oyoshi urges Komazaburo to tell the truth, but the actor has big dreams for his progeny.

The trouble begins when Komazaburo’s current mistress Sumiko becomes suspicious of his unusually numerous visits with his “sponsor”. After some snooping, she is furious to learn that he is seeing another woman. She angrily confronts Oyoshi but is physically dragged away by a furious Komazaburo, who is afraid that the situation will expose him as the father. Sumiko, having discovered that the boy is Komazaburo’s son, seeks to take revenge by paying off one of the troupe’s actresses to seduce the boy. That works only too well as the actress and kid fall in love, threatening to derail the son’s college ambitions and tainting him with dishonor (actresses were not considered socially acceptable).

The enraged Komazaburo, seeing his son’s entire future at risk, beats his mistress and throws her out. Things go from bad to worse as he learns that he has been abandoned by his sponsor, forcing him to disband the troupe. Having lost his mistress and job, Komazaburo returns to Oyoshi and briefly considers staying with her, but comes to blows with his son over the latter’s relationship with the actress. The son, learning that his “uncle” is in fact his father, rejects him as a brute. Komazaburo comes to believe that he will only be a burden on the boy and decides to move on, leaving the lonely proprietress heartbroken. He runs into his mistress at the train station and ultimately reconciles with her in a beautiful scene as they ride to their next destination.

Ozu is in full command of his craft in a tale that veers from his usual home dramas. (The later film was uniquely made for Daiei rather than Shochiku due to a contractual obligation, so maybe he felt freer to experiment, using his decades-old silent work as a basis.) Of course, the film is at its heart a family drama in its own way: Komazaburo comes to recognize that his child will go his own way like it or not, a favorite Ozu theme. Also, notwithstanding the different setting, the director maintains the leisurely story rollout, the shrewd observation of detail, the low camera angles and the concentration on character, even for lesser roles, that typify his work. Wry touches include the actors peeking through the curtains in search of young female locals, and the “Caution” sign at the crossing hovering over the son as the actress, confessing that she was bribed, tries to break away from him. Ozu’s comic moments can be overdone in both versions, but the accumulation of small moments ultimately makes for a rich portrait.

The big difference between the films lies in the casting. As the troupe leader, the silent film’s Sakamoto Takeshi is rawer than the likable Nakamura Ganjiro, who brings a droller element to the role. Sakamoto’s anger at the manipulation of his son, for example, seems more deeply felt, and his future at the end of the film seems less assured than Ganjiro, who gives the impression that life will somehow go on. The gap is even more pronounced in the women. The talkie’s Kyo Machiko and Wakao Ayako bring a certain glamour to their roles as the current mistress and young actress, while the earlier Yagumo Rieko and Tsubouchi Yoshiko offer softer portrayals that feel more traditionally Japanese. Above all, Sugimura Haruko, one of Japan’s greatest film and stage actresses, may not have been the ideal choice as Oyoshi in the remake. The silent version’s Iida Choko is heartrending when her lover, heading to a new beginning, leaves her utterly alone. Her final moments are devastating and unforgettable. Sugimura is wonderful as always but comes across as a stronger character, which takes the edge off. While both films are master classes in acting, the silent film cuts deeper. (In a nice touch, the actor who played the son in the earlier film plays one of the troupe’s actors in the sound version.)

Moreover, silence in many cases proves golden. That’s especially true in the scene toward the end when the troupe, gathering for the last time, tries to dispel the gloom by singing, which only makes them more nostalgic and melancholic. The absence of sound is supremely effective here, as when the child actor is unable to hold back his tears. The superb benshi offered his interpretation of the various voices and sounds, which was a terrific experience, but the strength of the acting, unusually naturalistic for a silent movie, spoke volumes on its own. The silent version was unquestionably more moving than its later counterpart.

That said, the sound film offers abundant rewards as well, such as the row in the driving rain between the actor and mistress, a major improvement over the earlier film’s version and perhaps the best single scene (along with Iida’s bleak end) in either film. Audiences may balk at the male/female hierarchy implicit in the film and especially Komazaburo’s impulsive violence against his mistress and the young actress (even I was uncomfortable with that), but its willingness to show the unpleasantries underlines the humanity in all characters. There are no villains in the piece, just people who have made unwise decisions or, in Oyoshi’s case, suffered at the unwise decision of others.

The silent film was hugely popular in its day, while the talkie was chosen the No. 1 film of the year in Japan’s prestigious Kinejun poll. Both are indispensable.