• 東京の女 (Woman of Tokyo)

3/6/23 (Mon)

Ozu’s superior 1933 mini-silent movie was supposedly filmed in just over a week when the director suddenly had time in his schedule; he was apparently filming while the script was still being completed. It sure doesn’t feel like it: though the sets are limited and confined, the characters are fully rounded, and the story says all it needs to say in 45 minutes – padded out, actually, by the odd inclusion of two minutes of an entirely different film by Ernst Lubitsch. (Even weirder, Ozu’s film was initially said to be based on a European novel, which Ozu revealed later to be a total invention. This is an original work written partly by him.)

The film is driven by a tremendous performance by Okada Yoshiko as Chikako, who works as a typist to support her younger brother Ryoichi (Egawa Ureo) in his studies. She dotes on him and obviously adores him, and the feeling is mutual. (No word on what happened to the parents.) She also has another job after work to make extra money, telling him that she works as an assistant to a professor, and is often out late. Signs of trouble are in the air when the police approach her workplace about her, though they simply ask questions without stating the nature of the investigation and leave when the boss has absolutely nothing bad to say.

The problem comes when Ryoichi’s girlfriend Harue (Tanaka Kinuyo) hears rumors from her brother, a policeman, about what Chikako is really doing to earn money at nights. Harue is shocked to learn that Chikako is a dance hall worker (and possibly worse) and immediately goes to her house to speak with her. Unfortunately only Ryoichi is at home, and Harue unwisely lets the rumor slip. Ryoichi is outraged at what he believes is slander and throws her out.

When Chikako returns late that night, Ryoichi is waiting for her. He confronts her, and when she refuses to apologize for her behavior – never mentioning that it’s all unselfishly for his sake – he slaps her multiple times and storms off. In the end, we learn that he has committed suicide in shame. As Chikako and Harue mourn the body, the latter breaks down in tears, but Chikako spurns the late brother as a coward for not facing the reality of life. In a strange final scene, reporters (including Ryu Chishu) who had earlier come bursting in looking unsuccessfully for a scoop are shown walking down the street in search of another scandal.

Chikako’s attitude is refreshingly realistic and unapologetic. Her disparagement of her dead brother is unexpected but entirely in keeping with her personality. She is not celebrating the idea of using her sexual allure to make money, but neither is she ashamed of doing what it takes to survive. She is disgusted that the brother cannot get beyond social morals and deal with life as it is, especially since she was doing it entirely to support him. The subject has been dealt with elsewhere, most notably in the later Street of Shame, but Chikako’s mindset stands out. That development put what might have been a melodrama on a different level.

Ozu is already using his unique vantage points, as in the opening scene where we see Chikako prepping herself into the mirror on the other side of the room while the camera focuses instead on a rice cooker and teapot in the foreground. He also throws in his vaunted “pillow shots” of smokestacks and such that add atmosphere but are unconnected with the narrative. Maybe this is intended to have a distancing effect of some sort for the viewer. The film relies a bit more on dialogue than other of Ozu’s silent films, and some of the dialogue cards can be quite long. I wish they had reduced that somehow, especially with the terrific performances here. (I wonder if it’s possible to use subtitles instead in some cases.)

Okada is the lynchpin of the film in a performance of great subtlety and power, creating a three-dimensional character in the brief running time. The film would not have been the same without her. The half-German Egawa is fine as Ryoichi, and Tanaka, in her early twenties, looks and behaves like a naïve teenager here in a solid performance. The film is lean and efficient; there was reportedly a sideline in the original script about Chikako’s relations with the Communist Party, but that was wisely cut from the final product. The story spins out logically from character flaws in both Harue (overly talky) and Ryoichi (undue concern with status), making this a true tragedy in the classic sense. The heroine is a much more attractive character here than the groveling wife in a similar situation in Ozu’s postwar A Hen in the Wind.

Some critics have called the film bleak, which is true in terms of the story arc, but Chikako’s strength, especially in Okada’s hands, pulls it up another notch. An unexpected gem. (And kudos to whoever composed the excellent musical score used in the Criterion release.)