Original subtitles

A SHOCHIKU FILM

An artist creates his own style,

and this style reflects the man himself and his character.

Yasujiro Ozu had his own themes,

his own style, his own way of seeing.

From the perspective of low camera angles,

he observed the world of parents and children.

Just as one who avoids raging torrents, instead preferring calmer waters,

Ozu did not engage in turbulent dramas

but preferred to tell subtle stories:

a daughter getting married and leaving her parents behind,

aging parents left alone, awaiting death.

Ozu never tired of observing these things.

He never tired of searching for an order in his world,

just as a monk never tires of striving for enlightenment.

What kind of person was Ozu, then,

to choose such a rigorous path?

Why was he so dedicated

to portraying marriage and family?

Inscribed on his gravestone at the Engakuji Temple in Kamakura

is the character for mu, or ''nothingness. ''

What does this ''nothingness'' finally mean?

I LIVED, BUT...

A BIOGRAPHY OF YASUJIRO OZU

Produced by SHIZUO YAMANOUCHI

Written by KAZUO INOUE

Cinematography by YUHARU ATSUTA and KITARO KANEMATSU

Edited by KEIICHI URAOKA

Music by KOJUN SAITO

Narrated by JO TATSUYA

Directed by KAZUO INOUE

So your first role was in I Flunked, But... ?

CHISHU RYU - ACTOR

I got a script for the movie, the first I ever received.

I was happy about it.

You played the one who graduated?

Yes, the heroes were the ones who flunked.

That scene where you asked Kinuyo Tanaka for bread.

Yes, Miss Tanaka.

Miss Tanaka and Mr. Saito?

Yes, they played the principal roles.

Then, in I Was Born, But...

you played a company clerk who helps his boss move.

I was also the one who ran the film projector.

You played that role, too?

Which role most impressed you?

- Our last silent film in 1936- - College Is a Nice Place.

That was a big role for me.

I had to do so many retakes.

Then The Only Son?

Yes, that was Ozu's first talkie.

You played a teacher.

Yes, that role helped my career.

Then you got the lead in There Was a Father.

Right. That film was made in 1942?

That's right.

It was a big role.

I was on screen from beginning to end.

I was surprised that Ozu offered me such a large role.

He said, ''Come here, Ryu. Let's talk.

You normally go like this when you're happy,

and like this when you're sad, right?

Those expressions won't work in There Was a Father.

So just act as if your face were a Noh mask, okay?''

That's what he told me to do...

and thinking of a Noh mask was good.

Yasujiro Ozu's first film was The Sword of Penitence in 1927.

By the time he made An Autumn Afternoon in 1962,

he had made 54 celebrated films in the 35 intervening years.

What was he searching for during the 60 years of his life?

Could it be that all of his fame and masterpieces

somehow came to ''nothingness'' in the end?

The answer to that question can be found only by examining his life and works.

Filmed in 1932 I Was Born, But..., opens with the subtitle:

''A Picture Book for Adults.''

When children look at the adult world

with their naive and honest gaze,

what do they feel?

The feeling of being disillusioned with life

is already apparent throughout this film.

Yasujiro Ozu was just 30 years old.

''You say we must become great men, but you're not.''

''Why must you bow down to Taro's father?''

''Because his father is an executive.''

''Then you're just a coward.''

Yasujiro Ozu was born on December 12, 1903, in Mannen,

in the Fukagawa section of Tokyo,

the second son of Toranosuke and Asae Ozu.

The Ozu family ran a wholesale fertilizer plant named Iwasaya.

In 1909, he entered public kindergarten in Fukagawa.

In 1910, he attended Jinjo elementary school.

He liked to draw pictures.

In 1913, leaving his father behind in Tokyo,

the rest of the family moved to the city of Matsuzaka in Mie prefecture.

Yasujiro entered fourth grade at the Matsuzaka public school.

MATSUZAKA CITY His father believed that children

should be educated in the country.

In my opinion,

while our father was living in Tokyo,

he really missed the country.

SHI NICHI OZU - OLDER BROTHER

He was very homesick,

and he longed to have a country lifestyle.

That was the reason, I guess.

He probably thought Tokyo was no place for children

and that there were too many bad influences around.

He might have felt that way.

And my brother was no model child.

Bad influences would have had free reign.

Our father knew this.

He knew his sons very well after all.

In 1916, Ozu entered high school

and started living in the dormitory of the Mie public boarding school.

So back then, he was-

You know those conduct reports.

The teachers get together and grade the students.

They come up with something.

My brother probably got bad grades.

M. OKUYAMA, S. KEI KOI N, S. NAKAI

HIGH SCHOOL FRIENDS

In his fifth year of high school,

Ozu was almost expelled, wasn't he?

Well, it wasn't quite that serious.

He wrote this letter to a younger student.

It caused a lot of trouble.

The superintendent shouted at him.

TOWN OF KAWASAKI

He was either suspended

or put on probation.

Later, after summer vacation,

the restrictions were lifted, but he had to leave the dormitory,

with the added condition that he come and go directly

between home and school.

When he came home,

our mother would write down his arrival time and stamp his book.

He had to show it to a teacher the next day, every day.

He soon got tired of all this.

He started writing down the time himself and showing it to the teacher.

He called it his ''stamp book'.'

He used to carry it in his pocket, along with a photo of Pearl White.

That's how he used to go to school.

He was almost expelled from school, as I said,

but it wasn't all that serious.

My father used to say that Yasujiro believed other people too easily,

that he was gullible,

and that he should be more careful.

Ozu was socially active and had many friends.

His high school days were important to him.

Looking back on that time, he would later say,

I WOULD GLADLY RELIVE MY MIDDLE SCHOOL DAYS. ''I read the novels of Tanizaki and Akutagawa,

but I only went to see foreign movies.

It may sound snobby, but I despised Japanese films,

which were so immature compared to others.

FORMER SITE OF KANRAKUZA THEATER Back in those days,

the movies just told simple stories

without any emotional depth.

Then I saw an American film,

Civilization by Thomas Ince.

I was completely overwhelmed

by this masterpiece of the time.

It was then that I decided

to be a film director. ''

PEARL WHITE

Ozu graduated from high school in 1921.

His father convinced him to apply

to the trade school his brother was attending,

but he failed and had to wait another year.

In 1922, after failing twice,

he became a grade-school substitute teacher in Miyamae.

After an hour train ride from Matsuzaka,

it was a long bus trip to the small town deep in the mountains.

He never forced lessons on us.

EIZO MORIMOTO - FORMER OZU PUPIL

He just said,

''If you don't learn this, it's your loss.

I'm teaching you because it's my job.

If you don't want to learn, that's not my problem.

It will be your loss.

If you want to learn, then learn.''

He often said that.

Naturally, I got better grades when he taught us that way.

And every Sunday he walked up the mountain?

- Yes. - That mountain?

- That one? - Yes. It's 3,450 feet high.

That's right.

And he liked wearing wooden sandals.

Big ones.

They were like cutting boards.

Wearing those big sandals and a kimono - he always wore Japanese clothing -

he'd set out for the mountain.

Wasn't there another teacher at the school,

a beautiful woman?

Very beautiful.

Were they in love?

Well, let me see.

I was only 10 years old then.

If there was anything going on between them, I didn't know.

Ozu spent his days in the mountains.

He sketched and wrote poetry.

He was anxious to be a film director. That much is certain.

In 1923, his sister Toki graduated in Matsuzaka.

Ozu left his teaching position and moved back to Tokyo with her,

reuniting the family once again.

Here, Ozu jumped at the coveted chance to work in film.

On August 1, 1923,

he started working at Shochiku Films' Kamata Studios as an assistant cameraman.

It was the summer of his 20th year.

Was his father opposed?

Yes, he was. Being old-fashioned,

he didn't approve at first.

What did he want him to be?

NOBUZO OZU - BROTHER TOKU YAMASHITA - SISTER

I don't know exactly what our father wanted him to be.

In those days, filmmakers weren't well thought of.

Back then, filmmaking was hardly considered a respectable profession.

But your mother reacted differently?

She did, didn't she?

But there wasn't anything she could do about it.

There wasn't?

No. He wanted to do it so badly.

There was no alternative

but to let him do what he wanted so badly.

A month after Ozu started work at Kamata Studios,

the great Kanto earthquake took place, on September 1st.

His home in Fukagawa burned down.

Ozu walked all the way home from Kamata, arriving at night.

Remembering those days, Ozu said,

''The only director over 30 back then

was Hotei Nomura.

My mother saw a Yasujiro Shimazu film,

and she thought it was mine.

She said,

'Yasujiro even changed his name to Shimazu,

because he's so ashamed of his job. '''

In 1924, he passed his induction exam for military service.

He was conscripted into the Tokyo Fourth Infantry Regiment.

He was not very good at training, but he was smart.

As the time for drills approached,

he made sure the doctor would find something wrong with him

and thus managed to be excused from exercises.

A year later, he was discharged with the rank of sergeant.

He returned to Shochiku Films.

In 1927, the head of the studio, Shiro Kido,

assigned him to direct period films.

His first film was The Sword of Penitence.

Ozu was 24 years old.

This was four years after he'd started working for Shochiku.

Mrs. Akira Fushimi,

your husband's first scripts with Ozu -

Couple on the Move and Days of Youth.

Back then, directors got along very well with the writers, didn't they?

Yes, very well.

If they couldn't make it home, they'd stay at each other's houses.

Most of them were in their 20s or 30s,

so for them, filmmaking was like having the time of your life.

Yes. He used to come by to wake us up at 10:00 at night.

- Ozu did? - Yes, leading the others.

He used to show up singing loudly in front of the house.

''Well, Ozu's here again.''

We would open the window, and he'd yell, ''Wake up.''

So we'd open the door and in they'd come.

Usually they didn't drink that much, though.

He just sang to wake you up?

At this point, Ozu's partnership

with cameraman Hideo Mohara

had already begun.

They went on to make the ''college''series of films-

I Graduated, But..., I Flunked, But..., College is a Nice Place, and so on.

In those days, there were two papers:

The ''Sunday'' Daily and The Weekly Asahi.

Those were the only two back then.

The hero graduates from college, but there are no jobs.

His fianc�e comes to town.

So he pretends he has a job.

He leaves the house with his lunch box, then goes to sit in a field and eat.

For him,

every day is like Sunday.

That's what The ''Sunday'' Daily represents.

There's a close-up that conveys the whole idea.

YASU SASAKI - SCREENWRITER

I still remember how well that worked.

He used that newspaper well.

Besides that, there's pathos.

From that time on, critics noticed this quality in Ozu's films.

Almost all of his films were like this.

Years later, Ozu said, ''I made a lot of films about students.

A young director using young actors

I FLUNKED, BUT... is usually limited to stories about students or company clerks.

Young clerks are always limited to certain kinds of jobs.

And back then, students didn't clash with the police.

So they made good material for light comedy.''

If bittersweetness itself had a visible form,

it would be found in Ozu's films of this period.

Though he said he was merely using students as comic material,

within the context of the worldwide economic depression of 1929-1932,

Ozu's films attempt to cast a positive light on harsh realities,

a defining characteristic of his work.

TOKYO CHORUS

The student series was followed

by a group of films about college graduates entering the working world,

portraying them with a touch of humor and pathos.

It's Papa!

I don't think so. That can't be your father.

The dresser's totally empty!

I only learned about my father through what Mr. Ozu told me.

During filming, Ozu would tell me what he was like.

MARIKO OKADA -ACTRESS

That's when I learned more

about what kind of person he was,

how he liked to collect antiques.

He liked old watches.

Ozu collected old lamps,

so they had something in common, the same hobby.

Being a native of Fukagawa,

Ozu had a deep appreciation for the people of the area.

This made possible his Kihachi series.

The Kihachi series, people like Kayan and Nagayama.

VOICE OF YASUJIRO OZU

I was born in Fukagawa.

There were a lot of people like that around where I lived.

I used them as models for my characters.

PASSING FANCY

Since the war, you don't see people like that anymore.

The ones who used to wear kimonos

wear jackets and sneakers now.

Carpenters used to be neat and tidy.

Now they all look sloppy, like they don't care.

Every house used to have a small woodstove.

Everyone used to sit around it in their underwear

drinking sake and eating chilled tofu.

It's different now. People buy croquettes and rice.

AN INN I N TOKYO In 1935, the depression lingered on.

Ozu looked at the unemployed, society's ''floating weeds. ''

The film was An Inn in Tokyo.

Kihachi, the hero, looks for a job, but to no avail.

''Father, you ought to use a bigger glass.''

''There's more sake. Don't worry.''

''Don't spill any.''

''Look, I found some money.''

''Let's let it blow away.''

''That felt good.''

Though the Kihachi series is aimed at laughter,

the characters can't avoid a certain bitterness,

which forces them to adopt a defiant attitude.

My first job as assistant cameraman

was on the Ozu film Dragnet Girl.

KEISUKE KI NOSHITA - DIRECTOR

Ozu had already made a number of fine films,

and watching them made me want to make films myself.

I admired Ozu enormously.

I started working under Ozu at the studio.

Our first shoot was near Yamashita Park in Yokohama.

It was late at night.

This was in February, and it was very cold.

Joji Oka and Kinuyo Tahaka starred in the film.

I was surprised by how hard the work was.

We worked until dawn,

and then we would shoot until late at night in the studio.

Shooting on the set was very difficult.

Ozu moved the props after every take. There was a framed picture on the wall.

If you move something once, it's not a problem.

But I couldn't help feeling that it looked unnatural.

I thought, ''Won't it look strange if this picture keeps moving around?''

Ozu would say, ''Just a little bit more.''

He kept looking through the viewfinder.

Really, he just kept moving it by fractions of an inch,

up and down, side to side.

''If filmmaking is this much trouble,'' I thought, ''I'm going to quit.''

I even phoned my family to tell them so.

Did Ozu ever have any specific demands

for the art design?

TATSUO HAMADA -ART DIRECTOR

Well, we understood each other without having to say anything,

so there wasn't any trouble.

His sets were mostly Japanese-style rooms.

But he was very particular about what you can see beyond the room, wasn't he?

For example, he was particular about the way the back fence looked.

Yes, the shoji screen was usually left open

so that the fence would be visible in the center.

The average home had a wooden fence

with boards that went from the top down to the ground.

But the cheaper ones had a space at the bottom.

Upper-class homes had bamboo fences.

The higher the class, the thinner the bamboo.

Only wealthy families had fences like that.

So you used to set this camera

in this low position?

YUHARU ATSUTA - CINEMATOGRAPHER

This is a low-angle position.

We used higher positions for shooting actors.

Ozu decided on the composition himself.

The assistant cameramen would unlock the camera like this

so it would move.

Then he would look?

Yes. I steadied it here.

So he would tell you when it was right?

Yes. He'd determine the position.

Then I'd take over.

For example, I'd see if the screen was out too much.

You mean like this screen, for example?

Then I'd ask Ozu to take another look.

So he'd take another look?

Close the door a little bit.

That's how we worked.

Ozu didn't use low-angle shots

just for style.

KANETO SHI NDO - DIRECTOR

Ozu got to the heart of Japan.

He really got to the heart of what ordinary people were like.

In order to do that, he had to use Japanese-style rooms

with shoji screens, futon pallets and tatami mats,

all straight lines and right angles.

Low camera angles are best for filming a setting like that.

Then, he confined living beings within these rigid forms.

I think he was trying to express his ideas through that.

That's why he never panned or moved the camera.

No high-angle shots either.

The camera angles with which he was most comfortable

bound him within narrow limits.

If you don't have strict limitations,

you probably won't think your ideas through so carefully.

Those limitations make you condense your thoughts

into a more concentrated form.

That creative process

is something you can't do without.

On April 2, 1934,

Ozu's father, Toranosuke,

died of a heart attack.

He was 69 years old.

In There Was a Father, in the scene where my character dies,

Ozu directed me to act it out in the same way his father died.

He showed me just what it was like.

THERE WAS A FATHER

Father!

Get a doctor.

Father!

Take off my coat.

I feel strange.

SHOCHI KU FILMS - OFUNA STUDIOS

In 1936, Shochiku Films moved its studio from Kamata to Ofuna.

Ozu moved into a rented house with his mother and his brother Nobuzo.

Ultimately, both the Kihachi series and the college series

ended up dealing with the difficulties between parents and their children.

This is a theme he pursued throughout his life: the circle oflife.

Focusing on this subject, The Only Son is central to his work.

This was the first Mohara System talkie.

It was also an important film in the history of Shochiku Films,

the first one made at their new Ofuna Studios.

You should go to high school.

I thought it over last night.

Four of your classmates are going.

You're class leader. If you don't go, it will be awkward for me.

So you're going to go to junior high. Senior high, too.

Study hard and be a great man.

Mother, do you like Sugiko?

Why not? She seems like a good girl.

I was worried about whether you'd like her.

What did you think I'd grow up to be?

Aren't you disappointed?

Why?

This isn't how I expected it to be.

I wish I hadn't come to Tokyo.

I'm sorry I can't be more, even after graduating.

Maybe it wasn't worth it to go to school in Tokyo.

I've caused you so much hardship.

What makes you think that?

How can you feel that way,

when your life has only just begun?

Perhaps you're right, but chances are

this little game may already be coming to an end.

How do you expect me to react to such careless talk?

I wish I lived with you in the country.

These larks are really singing.

JAPANESE ARMY CLASHES WITH CHINESE ARMY

The China Incident occurred in July, 1937.

On September 9, Ozu was drafted.

Two weeks earlier, on August 25th,

director Sadao Yamanaka was drafted.

He came to say good-bye to Ozu.

His last film was released that same day.

Ozu was shocked by Yamanaka being drafted.

But when his turn came, he smiled and said,

''I'm going to go to war for a little bit. ''

He waved to those who had come to see him off and then he left.

In January 1938, on his way back from maneuvers,

he visited Corporal Yamanaka near Nankin.

''There wasn't much time for conversation.

He asked me if I'd like to make war films.

I answered that I didn't know.

It was our last meeting.''

Due to an illness contracted on the front,

Yamanaka died the following September 17th.

A Chinese priest wrote the character mu for Ozu.

From the battlefield, this world beyond life and death,

Ozu brought back this ''nothingness.''

After returning to Japan, Ozu went back to making films

that continued to revolve around the themes of parents and children,

family and aging parents.

In 1941, he made Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family.

Brother, why were mother and Setsuko sent to live at Kugenuma?

No special reason.

Why can't they live with you?

They did at first.

Then what happened?

They moved to your sister's.

And then what?

- Well, they moved to my house. - And then?

She moved out on her own.

I don't believe it.

Shojiro, I acted on my own.

You keep out of this.

Even if she wanted to, you shouldn't have let her.

You yourself said the Kugenuma house was worthless.

You remember that. You knew it was too old to live in.

When I came back, I was really surprised to see my mother and sister sent there.

With all of these brothers and sisters, I had thought she'd be well cared for.

But a lot of things happened.

Like what?

You weren't there, so -

That's not the point. It's your attitude.

Now that father's gone, don't tell me our mother is in the way.

What do you say to that?

I didn't know about this. I wasn't worried about leaving.

I thought you were better than this.

I should have taken care of them myself. I could easily have done that.

But it wasn't possible.

Children ought to look after their parents.

She gave birth to you,

and yet you couldn't even take care of her.

And it wasn't even a long time. Just one year.

How can we commemorate our father's death now?

He wouldn't be happy to hear this.

You're all selfish.

Ayako, why couldn't Mother live with you?

She decided to move before I could ask her.

Why didn't you insist that she move to your place?

You should have.

We planned to, but -

Planning isn't enough.

- But - - But what? Speak up.

All you ever do is talk. What matters is your sincerity.

- How rude! - How am I rude? Why don't you leave?

Go on.

Ayako, come here.

Sit down.

You go with him.

What a pair.

Think about what I said.

How about you, sister? - I'll go, too.

Good-bye, then.

I won't see you off. My best to your son.

What do you think? Am I wrong?

Then you might as well leave, too.

Go on.

Good-bye. Don't forget to pay the bill.

After making Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family

and There Was a Father,

Ozu wrote two scripts with Ryosuke Saito based on wartime diaries.

The army complained that they weren't glorious battlefield epics.

Ozu abandoned the project, saying, ''I have no interest in anything like that.''

In 1943, there was talk of a documentary on India's independence movement.

But with the war getting worse, they waited in Singapore.

The war ended shortly, and the project was dropped.

So the war ended

while you were still in Singapore?

RYOSUKE SAITO - SCREENWRITER

Did you two see a lot of films then?

Gone with the Wind, Fantasia, or Citizen Kane, for example?

Yes, and John Ford's films, too.

How Green Was My Valley.

William Wyler's films, too.

We were seeing those films for the first time, like The Heiress.

We liked them very much.

Was it very difficult waiting and living there during the war?

Not too difficult.

There was enough food. There weren't many air raids.

And if there were, they targeted military installations.

It wasn't that bad.

But as civilians, you were not allowed to leave Singapore.

I heard about what happened in Singapore,

and there was one thing that really impressed me.

When the Japanese were being repatriated,

everyone wanted to get home as soon as possible.

Ozu, as a film director, had the right to go first.

He was someone important, he and his crew.

But Ozu said, ''I can wait.''

That's what he said.

When I heard that story,

I thought, ''That's so like him.''

And the reason I thought that is

if you read his screenplays carefully,

you'll see that every one of them is consistent with this ''I can wait'' idea.

To cite an example - Well, there are many examples.

But he would bring other things into this ''I can wait,''

things like justice and kindness.

These situations play an important part in his films.

I think about Ozu like this:

He had his own conception of what justice is.

He placed great importance on this and tried to show it in his films.

Artists can actually only speak about what they have inside themselves.

So Ozu's true self shows up in many different forms in his films.

I Was Born, But...,

The Only Son,

Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family, Tokyo Story,

Late Spring, Early Summer.

If you read those screenplays carefully,

you'll find one consistent thought running through them all:

kindness first, then justice.

And when you apply these to a situation, the result is friendship.

This kind of thinking is everywhere in his work.

In February 1946, Ozu returned toJapan.

He moved to Noda, where his mother and younger brother were living.

He then made

Record of a Tenement Gentlemen,

and after that, A Hen in the Wind.

Please don't go. Stay here.

- Move. - Please don't go.

You're tired.

Rest. Just for today.

Let me go.

What if something should happen to you?

Toshiko!

I couldn't forget Ozu's name once I'd seen

A Hen in the Wind after the war.

TADAO SATO - FILM CRITIC

I was 17 then. I'd just gotten out of a youth infantry division.

After the war, I didn't know much about what was going on in society.

It's the story of a husband who's gone to war and come back.

He finds out that, due to financial difficulties,

his wife has gone into prostitution for one night to save their sick child,

and he's devastated by that fact.

The film never preached about what married couples ought to do.

Without expressing it overtly through dialogue,

it communicated that the husband had no right

to blame his wife for what she'd done while he was at war.

You go to war, and you have to kill people.

A man who's killed people has no right to blame his wife

for one night of prostitution.

There's no dialogue to this effect.

But there are subtle things:

the fundamental relationship between two people,

what kind of person has the right to blame another,

these fundamental matters.

Without using dialogue, he seemed to be hinting at those things.

On this subject, I see it a bit differently.

Certainly the war was the cause of the wife's actions,

and this led to trouble for the couple.

But as for the question

of exactly what war is,

I felt Ozu's way of approaching it

wasn't too well thought-out.

I'm partly responsible for that, too. I mean, I wrote the script with him.

I wrote it, but I still feel that way.

But that was his way of filmmaking, wasn't it?

He wasn't straightfotward.

That was part of how he looked at things.

Yes, that's true.

That's why I never tried to clear things up with him while writing the script.

Still, I think if he had made an effort to think more deeply about war,

he might have been able to make an even better film.

KOGO NODA

In 1949,

he returned to his writing partnership with Kogo Noda.

They hadn't worked together since An Innocent Maid.

After writing Late Spring, they continued working together

until Ozu's last film, An Autumn Afternoon.

In Late Spring, Ozu vividly portrays a daughter leaving home.

So you've decided to marry Noriko off?

She'll make a good wife.

I wish I'd had a son. It's no fun having a daughter.

You raise her, then you have to give her away.

If she doesn't get married, then you worry.

And if she does, it's no good either.

There's nothing we can do.

The women we married were once daughters, too.

That's true.

What's the matter?

I...

I want to stay here with you.

I don't want to go away.

I want to stay here with you, Father.

That would make me happy.

Marriage couldn't make me any happier.

This is enough.

You're wrong.

That's not how life is.

I'm already 56.

My life is nearing its end.

But yours is just beginning.

You're about to start a new life,

and you must build it with your husband.

I have no place in it.

That's the cycle in the history of human life.

When you get married, you might not be happy at first.

It's wrong to think happiness will come right away.

It's something you create, not something you wait for.

We'll go ahead.

I'll take this.

Noriko, do you have your fan?

You make such a beautiful bride.

I really wish your mother could see you.

Shall we go now?

Othetwise we'll have to hurry.

Do you have something to say to her?

I don't have anything else to say.

I see.

Shall we go then, Noriko?

Father.

Thank you for taking care of me for such a long time.

I wish you every happiness. And be a good wife.

Be happy.

Be a good wife.

Shall we go?

Ozu told me to come in the room...

HARUKO SUGIMURA -ACTRESS

and circle around.

So I did as I was told,

but, of course, it wasn't good enough.

After the third take, Ozu approved it.

That's because

the empty room that the daughter has just left -

The reason she circles around that room once

is that she's nostalgic for all the memories there

and also wants to make sure she's left nothing behind.

He didn't show each of these things explicitly,

but through my smoothly circling the room,

through how I moved, through the pacing and the blocking,

I think that's what he was trying to express.

At the time, I didn't understand.

I remember I did it rhythmically.

I didn't walk and I didn't run.

I just moved lightly and rhythmically.

As I continued doing it, that's what it turned into.

And Ozu okayed it.

Come to think of it, it was that way of walking rhythmically

that I think was good.

It came naturally, not deliberately.

And, of course, it was Ozu who helped me do it.

Just those little things he said made me realize,

''Oh, yeah. Now I get it.''

EARLY SUMMER

- Good evening. - Who is it?

It's me.

Oh, hi, Noriko.

Please come in.

Thank you.

Looks like Mitsuko's asleep.

Packing for the move?

Yes, but I don't feel like it.

This is a little something from my family.

That's very kind of you.

Where's Kenkichi?

He's out late at a going-away party, even though he leaves tomorrow.

When will you be going?

As soon as I've got things all tidied up.

It's a lot of work, isn't it?

Thank you for everything all these years.

Not at all. Have you been there before?

No, the farthest north I've been is Utsunomiya.

I see. But I'm sure you'll be able to come back soon.

That's what my son says.

I'm sure he's right.

Do you really think so?

I'd been hoping he'd get married here, so I could stay where I am.

Actually...

You mustn't get mad,

and you have to promise not to tell Kenkichi.

What?

Well, I always knew it would be asking too much,

but I sometimes wondered: What if you married him?

I thought how nice that would be.

I'm sorry. It was just a silly dream.

Don't be angry.

Do you really mean it?

Mean what?

Did you really think that about me?

Please forgive me. That's why I said you mustn't be angry.

You really wouldn't mind someone left over like me?

If you would accept me -

Are you serious?

Yes.

You really mean it?

You're sure? Stop me now or I'm really going to believe you.

I'm so happy! You really are serious!

I'm so glad. Thank you!

Ozu once said, ''Rather than tell a superficial story,

I wanted to go deeper, to show the hidden undercurrents,

the ever-changing uncertainties oflife.

So instead of constantly pushing dramatic action to the fore,

I left empty spaces, so viewers could have a pleasant aftertaste to savor. ''

I'll never forget this one scene where I'm talking with Setsuko Hara,

CHIKAGE AWASHIMA - ACTRESS

and I say, ''You've already made up your mind?''

We were drinking tea, so I had to bring the cup to my mouth,

and I was supposed to turn to look at her just so.

Ozu would say I turned too soon, or I lifted the cup too quickly,

or I turned too late, or my line was too slow

and I needed to say it a little faster.

It was one thing after another for more than 20 takes.

I eventually lost count and hardly knew what I was doing anymore.

But then suddenly he said,

''The one before last was best. We'll go with that one.''

And by then I had absolutely no idea which one he meant.

I still remember that.

You've already made up your mind?

So suddenly? When will you go?

The next time he comes back from Akita.

This is such a surprise.

I never expected to see the day when you'd leave Tokyo.

Why not?

I've always had this picture of you.

White flowers in your garden, strains of Chopin filling the house,

a fancy tiled kitchen with an electric refrigerator,

open the door and it's filled with Coca-Cola.

That's the kind of housewife I pictured you becoming.

Then I'd come to visit,

and I'd find you on your porch under a striped awning,

wearing a white sweater and playing with your Scotch terrier.

You call over the fence in English, ''Hello. How are you?''

Don't be silly.

Really. That's how I pictured you.

Instead, you're moving to the boonies.

Are you really going to wear farmwife breeches?

Why not?

Mornin' there, Miz Neighbor.

Sho iz mighty fine wedda we ben havin'.

Can you talk like that?

Nacherly. Been practisin'.

When I got out of college in 1951 , there were seven of us new hires.

SHOHEI I MAMURA - DIRECTOR

We drew lots, and I got assigned to Ozu's staff.

I didn't know much about films, but I remembered seeing Ozu,

things like Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family and I Graduated, But...

So I thought, ''Wow, I'm going to work for a real big-time director.''

He happened to be making Early Summer at the time,

but it wasn't until quite a while later that I finally understood

why he did this or that the way he did.

There was one scene where Setsuko Hara sits alone at the table

eating green tea on rice with pickles.

I remember being the one who prepared the pickles for her.

She eats with these easy, fluid motions, enjoying her food.

And there's something very sensual about the way she does it,

though this didn't really sink in until I was directing my Unholy Desire.

Now when I compare Masumi Harukawa in my movie

with Setsuko Hara in Ozu's,

I wonder if maybe my direction demanded too much.

I've sometimes asked myself that.

After returning to Japan, Ozu lived in his office at the studio for a time,

but then he moved into a house in Kamakura with his mother.

There he developed friendships

with many of the cultural figures who lived in Kamakura, including

Ton Satomi, Jiro Osaragi, Hidemi Kon, and Nagamasa and Kashiko Kawakita.

TON SATOMI RESIDENCE, KAMAKURA

There were several senior authors, or literati, of the time

who Ozu particularly looked up to.

Of them all, you simply cannot overlook Naoya Shiga,

and among them, too, was my father, Ton Satomi, who lived in this house.

I think these two men

really helped ground Ozu as a writer.

SHIZUO YAMANOUCHI

SHOCHIKU DIRECTOR, SON OF TON SATOMI

He seemed to be particularly in awe of Naoya Shiga.

Shiga was like a god to him.

''Just being in his presence gives me goose bumps.''

That's what he often said.

It was different with my father,

who was a more approachable mentor, and Ozu felt more at ease with him.

Once Ozu moved here to Kamakura, he started visiting quite often -

maybe twice a week, sometimes after he'd been out drinking,

other times to eat and drink with my father.

They were very easy with each other.

They drank and talked, often nothing but nonsense, late into the night.

They'd get drunk and groggy,

and sometimes Ozu would fall asleep right in the parlor.

So we realized we'd have to put him up for the night,

but no one could move him- he was so big and heavy.

Even worse, he'd be leaning against the closet where we kept the bedding,

so we couldn't get the futon out, and he wouldn't budge,

and all we could do was throw up our hands.

That's one of the sillier memories I have of him.

Ozu's films have won wide acclaim overseas,

and showings continue to be amazingly well-attended even today.

What do you think the secret is?

Ozu's films are quite different

from foreign films in every respect -

KASHIKO KAWAKITA

CHAIRMAN: TOHO-TOWA

how they're made, their narrative structure, the direction.

But they capture something very fundamental about being human,

and they manage to express it in a way anyone can understand.

That's what draws people in, no matter who they are.

I think it's because he portrays things common to all people

that moviegoers all around the world understand and feel

such an affinity for Ozu's films.

The Japanese say no director

is more Japanese than Ozu.

DONALD RICHIE - FILM HISTORIAN

And they're right. He is indeed profoundly Japanese.

But when you talk about being profoundly American, or Japanese, or British,

when you dig down really deep, it's all universal.

That's why we are all so moved

by films like Tokyo Story and Late Spring and Early Summer-

because we truly understand what the characters are going through,

and we recognize their humanity.

Deep down, we share our essential humanness. We feel the same things.

Intellectually we may be different, but emotionally we're very much the same.

TOKYO STORY

Look how big Tokyo is.

Yes, isn't it?

If we got lost, we'd never find each other again.

Why, Father!

Good night.

Who's he, Father?

Father! What's all this? Father!

What's happened?

He's not alone!

- Who is it? - Some stranger!

What's all this, Father? Father! Answer me!

You've started drinking again, haven't you?

Tokyo Story is about the dissolution of the family.

The theme was new and true,

and Ozu was never simpler or more refined.

Father, you're impossible.

With them all gone, you'll be lonely.

It was really so sudden.

If I had known things would come to this,

I'd have been kinder to her while she was alive.

Living alone, I feel the days will get very long.

Lonely.

You will be lonely.

After Tokyo Story,

Ozu and Kogo Noda moved their workplace from Chigasaki

to Noda's villa in Tadeshina.

There they wrote all the later films.

UNKO-SO - THE NODA VILLA

What can you tell us about how they worked?

Well, work for them was basically like play.

What would you say the balance was between drinking and working?

They probably did more drinking than working.

They didn't get up until after 9:00,

SHIZU NODA - WIDOW OF

KOGO NODA, SCREENWRITER

and they liked to bathe in the morning.

But they'd both say ''after you'', so I got impatient and took my bath first.

Pretty soon that became the custom. They'd never have a bath until after me.

After their baths they'd have breakfast.

Between them they'd drink three go of sake with their breakfast.

After breakfast, they'd immediately lie down for a nap

until about 1:00.

Then they'd get up and take a walk.

They'd be gone maybe two hours.

- Walk to the postbox? -Sometimes. Here and there.

And the cherry grove, I suppose.

Yes. Then they'd come home and work from 4.:00 to about 6.:00.

Supper started between 6:00 and 7:00, and they'd share five more go of sake.

They'd finish eating around 8:00.

When they were going strong, they'd be eager to get right back to work,

and they'd work until midnight.

When they finally knocked off work, they'd want to eat again.

So I always had to stay up to fix them something.

It didn't matter what. Anything to fill their stomachs. Then to bed.

It was the same thing day after day.

Once they got going, they'd finish a script in a month.

But getting to that point took a long time.

So it took a month once they got started, but how long until they got started?

Two months.

So three months total, which meant a hundred bottles of sake per script.

At eight go a day between them-

Which isn't quite a whole bottle per day, but there'd be guests.

Who would drink the rest.

Right. So it would wind up being a hundred bottles per script.

When did you become the one

who made clean copies of their scripts?

REIKO YAMANOUCHI

DAUGHTER OF KOGO NODA

It started with Late Spring.

So it was from when the distinctive Ozu touch emerged,

until the end, until he died.

The collaboration between Ozu and Noda

basically lasted from Late Spring until An Autumn Afternoon.

But there must have been ups and downs along the way,

going from Late Spring to Early Summer and Tokyo Story,

and especially around the time of Early Spring and Tokyo Twilight.

Did they ever have doubts or disagreements about where they wanted to take things?

Well, when they were working on Tokyo Twilight,

Mr. Ozu was really excited about it and worked hard at it,

but I guess my father didn't like what he was doing and refused to help.

I wasn't living here at the time, but I'd come every evening for supper,

and after he'd had a few drinks, Mr. Ozu would turn to me

and whine that my father wouldn't help him.

He complained about it a lot.

Ozu wanted to attempt something more dramatic?

Yes, I think he was trying to write something different.

My father wanted to continue in the same vein as before,

EARLY SPRING

like from Late Spring until Tokyo Story,

but Mr. Ozu wasn't satisfied with that anymore.

He thought it was time to do something more dramatic.

That seems to be when the power and energy and so forth of youth

start coming to the fore.

Early Spring is a clear effort to turn the focus on youth.

It's not so much the husband and wife,

but rather Keiko Kishi and that whole younger set

that really draws Ozu's interest and is where he puts the most weight.

I'd heard that Ozu

could be really intimidating,

KEIKO KISHI - ACTRESS

but maybe because I myself was -

I suppose because I was sort of fearless,

I found him to be a very kind man.

Though I did get scolded a lot, too.

I remember this scene where we were all eating noodles,

and I was supposed to say something just as I took a sip of tea.

He made me do it over and over, dozens of times.

I couldn't understand why I had to do it so many times.

I was barely 20 andjust getting started in films, green as could be.

So I asked Ozu why we had to do it so many times.

He said, ''One time you speak before you drink your tea,

the next time you drink your tea before you speak,

or you speak right while you're drinking, or you don't drink at all.

You do it differently each and every time.''

So I asked him, ''You want me to do it the same every time?''

He said, ''That's right.''

''But then why do I have to do it so many times?'' I asked.

He answered, ''Because you're such a lousy actress.''

TOKYO TWILIGHT

Mother, whose child am I?

Whose child? Why, you're my child, of course.

That's a lie. Am I really Father's child?

Whose child do you think you are, if not his?

You would doubt me about a thing like that?

Is it that hard for you to trust me?

You are truly your father's daughter.

I can say that to the whole world with pride.

Of all things, you mustn't doubt me on that.

You have to believe me. All right?

All right?

Will you believe me?

You will believe me, won't you?

Thank you.

Akiko, one of my customers was saying something the other day.

I've been worried whether you're all right.

He said you might be pregnant.

Is that true?

I will never have a child.

Never.

Why not?

And if did have one, I wouldn't abandon it like you did.

I'd love it with all my heart.

Akiko!

I hate you!

His scripts were difficult.

NOBUO NAKAMURA - ACTOR

His dialogue wasn't written in normal sentences,

the way most writers write out sentences.

The lines were written out exactly the way they sound in real life.

The living words were captured on the page.

I'd feel the life in the words just from reading the script,

and I'd realize his high expectations and get a little scared.

Suppose my line was something like,

''If I go to work, I have to face that awful boss of mine.''

Instead of writing the line normally

and leaving the inflections to me,

Ozu would use special spellings or notations that showed

exactly how he wanted me to inflect or slur the words.

I was green, and Ozu was the master,

YOJI YAMADA - DIRECTOR

the most powerful director at Shochiku.

But like all young people, I was inclined to rebel against authority,

plus I thought he was too conservative

in his writing, his camera technique, everything.

So I spent a lot of time disagreeing with him.

We all swore we'd never make films like his.

I guess pretty much all of his assistant directors felt that way.

But the films you subsequently made as a director in your own right

are often regarded as being Ozu-like or Shochiku-like,

and you are seen as carrying on Ozu's tradition.

You must have felt differently once you became a director.

I suppose once I became a director,

I began to see just how tall a mountain Ozu represented.

Strive as I might, the summit remained out of sight.

Then some people started saying things like that -

that my films showed a strong Ozu influence.

It took me completely by surprise.

I'd never thought about it.

It made me realize what a strange beast tradition is.

What do you think the essence of the Shochiku tradition is?

When I was still a young assistant director,

my impression of all the old directors, including Ozu,

was that they were very fashionable and sophisticated.

As I say, Ozu was no exception.

His clothes, the restaurants he went to, always had to be the best.

I suppose he'd had this ''brand consciousness'' since he was young.

He belonged to the refined, with-it crowd

who knew all about the entertainment world of old Edo,

from Kabuki to the puppet theater and the old raconteurs.

Their knowledge of all these arts far exceeded my generation's,

and I think they injected large portions of that knowledge into their films.

I think Ozu's early films especially were very influenced

by storytelling techniques of the old raconteurs.

I think this applies to Shochiku films in general, too.

The stories the old raconteurs performed had an objective tendency or realism,

a way of looking at people from a certain perspective.

I think Ozu's films were strongly influenced by this old Edo tradition.

EQUINOX FLOWER

I remember the scene in Equinox Flower where the family is eating together.

Ozu borrowed all the tableware

from a fancy restaurant,

INEKO ARIMA - ACTRESS

and the bowls and plates and tea cups were simply gorgeous.

But then he spent half a day going back and forth between table and camera

to get them arranged just the way he wanted.

Meanwhile, all of us actors were getting more nervous by the minute.

That's what it was like with him. He had to have the real thing.

And he was just as fussy about arranging us.

''Sit like this, with your hands here, your eyes on this, your head this way.''

He'd spell out everything and then tell us to speak,

correcting our every inflection, over and over.

We weren't free to interpret anything ourselves.

But when I look at his films now, I understand what he was doing.

He was trying to reduce things to their most basic essence, free of all excess.

That was his art.

That is why his films are now internationally acclaimed.

Equinox Flower of 1958 was Ozu's first color film.

We were on the train to Toriyama,

going to a chicken restaurant,

RYUICHI YOKOYAMA - CARTOONIST

and I told Ozu he ought to make a color film.

I said, ''First everyone moved to sound - even Chaplin finally came around -

and now everyone is using color. It's time.

Stop holding out like Chaplin did with sound. Make a color film.''

It was autumn, and the reeds growing alongside the tracks

were a beautiful golden brown.

Off in the distance, we saw a charming little house.

''Tell me,'' I said, ''what color would you make that house?''

Without a moment's pause, he said, ''Green!''

I'm in love with someone.

Really? And?

Mother doesn't like it.

Why not?

She's never happy unless I do exactly what she wants.

But this time I can't. Besides, we're already engaged.

And who is he?

An old friend.

But Mother wants me to marry the son of some Osaka wholesaler.

''He's such a nice boy,'' she says. ''From an old house, with lots of money.

It's settled. No ifs, ands, or buts. Just leave everything to me.

The fortune slip at Fushimi shrine said you'd find a good match in the west.''

It's not funny.

''Omatsu, you prepare a big offering in the morning,

and Yukiko, you take it to the shrine and thank the gods.''

That's what she said.

And did you?

Why should I? It's stupid.

And then what happened?

She was furious. ''What can you be thinking?

Don't you realize what a good match this is? Like no other!

Are you trying to turn the gods against you?''

She was so angry, I just got up and left.

With Ozu, everything had to be authentic.

When he needed the usual accoutrements for a bar scene,

he asked me to lend him the stuff from my bar at home.

But I told him, ''My stuff is all fake.

Go find a bar in Ginza that can lend you the real stuff.''

I remember that happened once.

It always had to be the real deal.

Once he was drinking and wanted me to join him, so who does he send?

He sends Keiji Sada to get me.

The man's a big star, but Ozu uses him like a prop.

So that time he sent Sada as his messenger to invite me for a drink.

Other times, he would be my guest. We drank together a lot.

In any case, he had a thing about authenticity.

Everything had to be the real deal.

On February 25, 1959,

Ozu was awarded the Art Academy Prize.

It was in 1959, at the Directors Association dinner,

that I first met Mr. Ozu.

Mr. Fujimoto, the Toho executive, said he wanted me to meet someone,

and he introduced me to Mr. Ozu.

The two of us stood

by this big concrete pillar

YOKO TSUKASA - ACTRESS

and talked about all sorts of things.

Considering how much older he was, he acted surprisingly shy and nervous,

almost as if we were a man and woman of the same age

self-consciously checking each other out.

In the end he said he'd like me to be in his new film.

LATE AUTUMN

Aya, you said it'd be unseemly for me to remarry.

Please forget about that.

I'm sorry I ever said anything.

Not at all. I actually feel the same way.

I'll be fine by myself.

But, Mother...

No, really. I had your father, and I'm thankful.

I'll just go on living with him in my heart.

I've had a good life.

I don't want to start climbing from the foot of the mountain

all over again.

But...

Really. I'll be fine. You needn't worry about me.

Marry Mr. Goto.

I want you to marry Mr. Goto, all right?

I can manage by myself.

That's really what I want you to do.

I'm not just keeping a stiff upper lip so you'll feel free to go.

You understand what I'm saying, don't you?

What a nice trip this has been!

I learned so much from Mr. Ozu.

About drinks, ceramics,

paintings.

This kimono I'm wearing is one he chose for me,

and I still treasure it.

Sometimes he could be very mischievous and naughty.

When we were shooting The End of Summer,

we would all gather at our lodgings for dinner,

and he would talk about all kinds of things,

showing sides of himself I hadn't known before.

I remember plotting one evening

to pay him back for his frequent mischief and naughtiness and teasing

by having Setsuko Hara,

the actress he was so fond of,

sit next to him at the table

as though they were lovers.

He turned bright red. He was so flustered.

I suppose I was the only one who teased him back like that.

It's a wonderful memory now.

THE END OF SUMMER

Are you ready?

Are you ready?

Are you ready?

Come and find me.

Are you ready?

Come and find me.

Are you ready?

Come and find me.

It's so sad.

If you'd known this was going to happen, you'd never have gone.

Look, dear. Someone must have died.

See the smoke?

You're right.

It's not so bad if it's some old grandma or grandpa,

but if it's a young person, you really feel sad.

Yes. But even as some are dying,

others are being born one after the other.

Right. I suppose it all works out.

Death represents the final parting of parent and child.

In The End of Summer, Ozu brought vividly to the screen

the shadow that death casts over us as we age.

On February 4, 1962,

Ozu was working with Kogo Noda on the script of An Autumn Afternoon,

when he received news ofhis mother's death.

''So the old lady's gone and died, has she?''he said.

He grabbed a towel and went to the sink in the garden.

He turned the water on full blast and splashed it on his face over and over.

But the tears just kept on coming.

He stood weeping in the cold, mid-winter dusk.

Every time I watch an Ozu film,

EIJIRO TONO - ACTOR

I start to feel very sentimental as the end of the film nears.

As I think back over the story,

it's like a flood of old memories washing over me, one after another.

AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON

You two are lucky. I feel so sad.

Sad about what?

So sad and lonely.

In the end, we're all alone in this life. So utterly alone.

I was wrong.

I screwed up.

I only cared about my own convenience.

What do you mean?

I'm talking about my daughter.

It was convenient for me to keep her at home.

There were times I could have married her off.

But with her mother gone, it was easier just to keep her on.

And now it's too late for her.

I'd already done several films

when I appeared in An Autumn Afternoon.

SHIMA IWASHITA - ACTRESS

I'd already begun to establish my own acting style.

My fianc�, played by Teruo Yoshida, falls in love with another woman,

and I get dumped.

To show my pain, I was supposed to go to the sewing machine,

wind the measuring tape three times to the right, twice to the left,

let it all out, and wind it three times to the right again,

then swallow hard once -

all without any lines to speak,

and all in a complete daze. But I just couldn't get it right.

He must have made me repeat it 60 times.

I didn't know what I was doing wrong.

I think basically I was paying too much attention to the tape measure,

and Ozu was waiting for me to forget it.

When I saw the finished scene, it was a real eye-opener

how clearly those simple actions expressed the deep sorrow

of a girl who has lost her lover.

In retrospect, I realized it had been a very valuable lesson.

You're beautiful, Michiko.

You really are.

Shall we go, then?

The set was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

I took my place, thinking, ''I mustn't let the tension get to me.''

Every single action was strictly prescribed -

from how I carried the glass to my mouth, to how long I drank, to what I said.

There was a rigid framework for everything, which seemed confining.

But it was also fun to work within such tight constraints,

to see how I could express the person I was within those limits.

I felt like I learned a lot.

How much did you borrow?

Fifty thousand yen.

Borrowing more doesn't mean you can buy things like that.

You're always spending money on something or other for yourself.

No, I'm not.

Yes, you are.

There are things I'd like, too, you know. But I do without.

Take them back.

It's too late. I can't.

Yes, you can. Take them back.

To begin with, golf is not meant for low-ranking salarymen like you.

On the rare day you come home early, you're too tired to do anything anyway.

So forget golf. Give it up.

An Autumn Afternoon

was my only film with Mr. Ozu.

KYOKO KISHIDA - ACTRESS

I remember a scene where I come in carrying something and have to turn,

and my natural instinct - perhaps it's not so natural -

but my instinct was to avert my eyes a bit as I turned, like this.

But Mr. Ozu told me I absolutely mustn't lower my eyes.

When I turned, I was to keep my gaze level all the way around.

It seemed so fresh and original,

like he was telling me to just keep it simple - no distracting flourishes.

I've always wished that hadn't been my only film with him.

Shall I play your favorite march?

March? Sure, play it.

Let's drink up, Captain.

How I love it!

Come on Captain. You salute, too.

Not like this. Like this.

Clear weather ahead, with seas remaining high.

In attack and in defense Its steel sides lean out

Stop it and go to bed.

A floating fortress standing tall On it we can rely

What are you muttering about? Hurry up and come to bed.

I'm going to bed.

Mind you don't catch cold.

I'm already asleep.

We have to get up early, you know.

I'll cook you breakfast.

Utterly alone, huh?

The floating fortress will before the rising sun protect...

LATE SPRING

A daughter marries,

and a father is left behind.

Late Spring had already shown us a similar figure.

In this lonely, aging father, we can see life's uncertainty.

THE ONLY SON

Could this then be the mu

that Yasujiro Ozu kept trying to express?

On December 2, 1962,

Ozu went to Mount Koya with his siblings to lay his mother's ashes to rest.

He described the poem he wrote about it as ''a nursery song for the aged. ''

RECITED BY KYOKO KISHIDA

''Pilgrimage to Koya

To toss my mother's ashes we came to Koya's mount.

Windblown snowflakes fell from the clear blue sky

on the towering cedars.

Sunset rays angle through the trees to light the mossy gravestones

of ancient ministers and regents.

Apoor woman's candle flickers in the Inner Pavilion.

Incense smoke once again curls up through the lingering maple leaves.

Though I am no Ishidomaru,

the brevity of human life,

fleeting as a bubble on water, presses through my abstracted daze.

But to the night's lodgings and dinner my thoughts quickly drift.

Eager to eat, eager to drink, there's no use in lingering.

I descend from Koya's mount in indecent haste.

Here and there lamps flicker to life as dusk descends on the monastery.

On the altar, left behind, one tiny urn.

In it, my mother's ashes. How cold she must feel.''

Ozu often said,

''Actors shouldn't do their own thing, trying different things on each take.

I'm the gardener. I'm the one who prunes the trees and shrubs

according to how I want them to look in the end.

I can't have the trees and shrubs moving or growing however they want.

If they do that, I can't prune them properly.''

Ozu worked as if he were directing a puppet play.

He moved the actors precisely as he wished.

But the only way inanimate puppets can move a human audience

is if their operators are able to give them souls.

Ozu was trying to do the same with his actors,

to give them souls according to his vision,

and to capture them on film.

I think that's what he was trying to do.

Ozu was famous

for requiring lots of takes,

FUJIO SUGA - ACTOR

and your performance gets stiffer

as you repeat it over and over.

Ozu said, ''An actor has to be able to do the exact same thing twice.

And another thing.

If an actor just does what he thinks will be good, it'll almost always look bad.''

That's what he used to tell me. Ouch.

Ozu told me I had

a traditional kind of sex appeal,

MUTSUKO SAKURA - ACTRESS

so I wasn't suited to roles in Western clothing.

He said I should play a chic young woman from Tokyo's old merchant district.

That's why he cast me in Tokyo Story as a woman who owns a traditional eatery.

I don't remember him

ever giving me a hard time.

SHINICHI ROMIKAMI - ACTOR

And when I think about why,

I suppose he probably thought it useless to try to train me.

But he did often invite me to go drinking.

I think he probably thought that was all I was good for.

On April 10, 1963,

Ozu was hospitalized with a growth in his throat.

NURSING DIARY- KEIJI SADA

July 1 , 1963.

SADA'S DAUGHTER, KIE NAKAI - ACTRESS

The 82nd day in the hospital.

After the operation on April 17, he undetwent additional therapy

with cobalt and radium.

I've heard such therapies are used for treating cancer.

''In all my 60 years,'' he said, ''I never thought time moved slowly.

But I have no words to describe

how long this last week felt with this needle in me.''

After the needle was taken out,

he had lost so much weight I hardly recognized him.

''No words to describe it,'' he repeated over and over.

September 5, 1963.

The doctors informed us that Ozu is suffering from cancer.

Cancer. It really was cancer.

Several of us who knew him best discussed what to do.

We were determined to help him beat the cancer.

September 15, 1963.

I told Ozu I had no pictures ofhim with my son

and used that as an excuse to take his picture.

His gray beard had grown out, and he looked painfully weak.

I steeled myself and pressed the shutter.

September 20, 1963.

''There's no index for pain,'' he remarked.

''I can't say my pain today is 100 or 112.

All I can say is that it hurts.

There is no other way to describe pain.''

He sounded very frustrated.

November 14, 1963.

My daughter Kie's Seven-Five-Three Festival.

I took her to the hospital wearing a kimono Ozu had chosen for her.

He was asleep when we arrived.

I thought about leaving,

but I took her in anyway to let her see his face, and he woke up.

''Well, if it isn't Kie,'' he said.

I lifted her onto a chair so he could see her better.

I visited him once after his illness had gotten much worse.

They were saying no visitors at that point, but Ozu gave permission.

''I never did anything wrong,'' he said.

''So why do I have to suffer like this when I'm still so young.''

And I saw a tear spill down his cheek.

That turned out to be the last time I saw him.

And I'll never forget just how he looked.

On December 12, 1963, at 12:40 p.m.,

Yasujiro Ozu died, on his 60th birthday.

Ozu had a kind of loneliness about him.

This loneliness showed in his films.

HIDEMI KON - AUTHOR

No matter how cheerful he acted -

and I don't mean he was putting it on, because he had a truly bright side, too.

He enjoyed himself. He liked to do fun things.

But at the same time, there was always this loneliness.

That's why I believed in him.

Artists without an air of loneliness are boring.

Many artists have this quality, not only in Japan but in the West, too.

I saw this quality clearly in Ozu and in all his works.

Perhaps he tried not to show it too much

and that's what his cheerfulness was about,

but there was always something in his bearing that said, ''I'm an artist.''

I suppose you could say he was a man among men.

I've met a lot of people in my time, many of whom were truly accomplished.

But Ozu struck me as - how should I put it? -

as incredibly grown up, I suppose.

I felt like he understood me implicitly, without me ever having to say a thing.

When my theatrical group broke up and my friends scattered every which way,

and I felt like everyone was turning against me,

he and Ton Satomi sent me a wire. ''I'm with you. Satomi. Me, too. Ozu. ''

It made me so happy.

But then in the very year of the breakup,

when we were feeling so completely at sea about what to do next,

Ozu died.

I have had to part with many people who were very dear to me,

but no parting was as hard or as painful for me as this one.

I so dearly, dearly wished that he were still alive.

He had always been such a strong pillar of support for me.

Ozu once said, ''The end of a film is its beginning''.

He died on his birthday,

almost as if to say

in real life, too, the end is the beginning.

Yasujiro Ozu lived a full life

and then returned to the nothingness of mu.

THE END