An Ode to Loneliness

     

     

     The Asian film archive recently held a special programme spanning the month of February called Style and Sutured: Fashion on Screen. Some of the films being shown include Parajanov's Legend of Suram Fortress, and 4K restorations of The Fall and On the Silver Globe. I don't know what possessed me at the time, but amid the wealth of vibrant colours and visual stimulation, I (taking my parents) chose to see Tony Takitani, a film so drained of colour and life that my mother referred to it as black and white merely hours after the screening. And yet, it is one of the most revelatory experiences I've ever had watching a movie.

     The film tells the story of the titular Tony (Issey Ogata), whose defining trait is loneliness. He is lonely; very lonely, and has been for all of his life. This is not his fault, as his mother died just 3 days after he was born and his father (also Issey Ogata) is away most of the time as a travelling jazz trombonist. Its a wonder he continues playing, seeing as he came over to China to play during the war and was imprisoned. That imprisonment clearly did a number on him: he heard gunshots outside his cell everyday, signaling the execution another of his fellow inmates, as he waits for it his turn to finally come. Here there is a rather evocative and important shot of Tony's father curled up in a ball, illuminated by light streaming in from the single window in his cell. His time never came though, and he returns to Japan to marry. The narrator astutely states that he was not suited to be father, and I suspect that the effects of solitary confinement had led him to travel round the world with his band, sort of as a counter to that experience. All this backstory is dealt with rather inelegantly and efficiently in 11 minutes, with illustrates stills substituting actual footage.

   Because Tony's father is a deadbeat, he lived with a housekeeper until he was 12, which was when he told her that she no longer needed to come over. With a talent for detailed illustrations of machines (but not organic life-forms), he becomes a freelance technical illustrator. All he'd ever known was a life of solitude, until one day, he meets a client who catches his eye ("I have never seen someone so comfortable in their own clothes"). Tony becomes completely smitten with her, and for the first time in his life, he realizes that he doesn't want to be alone. The two eventually marry, and for 2 years the marriage works out well for both, except for a slight problem: Eiko (Tony's wife, played by Rie Miyazawa) cannot stop buying new clothes. After a vacation to Europe, it got to the point where she could not walk past a department store without buying anything. For Tony, this isn't just a financial or storage problem; he worries for her mental health and asks her to practice a little moderation. She agrees to return a recent purchase, but it all ends suddenly when her urges become too great and she is killed in an accident when she U-turns back. The performances by both actors are very good, but Issey Ogata deserves praise for an subtle and affecting portrayal of Tony's suffering in silence. 

   After some time, Tony puts out an ad for an assistant to in effect replace Eiko by wearing all the cothes she left behind. A young woman named Hisako (also Rie Miyazawa) takes up the job, but breaks down in tears when she sees the room full of beautiful clothes. Tony lets her take the clothes she has tried on, but decides not to hire her after all. He eventually decides to sell the clothes to a second hand dealer, and after his father dies, he sells his father's old jazz records as well. The short story ends with a statement from the narrator: Once the records had disappeared, Tony was well and truly alone. 

    That's the entire story. One might think that is entirely insufficient to sustain a 75 minute long film, but like many art films, the emphasis is on mood and style, the latter of which is prominently displayed in tableaux shots that are segmented by walls and a dolly moving from left to right, echoing sliding cards in Kamishibai. When the scene requires it, the camera would take us outside or give us a view from a different angle, but in the end it always comes back to the slow dolly. Medium shots are used most commonly, and shot from a low angle such that most people's faces are cut off from the frame. Colour palette is rigorously controlled, using a combination of whites, greys and blues, with one dominating in any particular scene. The camera always keeps us away from being directly involved, best exemplified in the scene where Tony gets home with his late wife's ashes. We hear Tony crying, yet his back faces us, but the camera holds steady at a distance, while Tony is isolated in the frame.

     Here is where Eiko comes in. Unlike most other characters, Eiko's face is the very first part of her that we see. The film's rare splashes of colour also comes from a shot of grass when Tony and Eiko are chatting. It is with her presence that Tony realizes how suffocating being alone is, and feels that he could not go on living without her, and thus they marry. The film/narrator tells us that Eiko was a naturally gifted housewife, their marriage was happy, and Tony was not lonely anymore. A majority of people took these words at face value, but I reserve some skepticism, especially for the last point. The slow dolly and the tableaux shots have always suggested a link to the idea of imprisonment. When Tony courted her, there was break from this established routine, but once they got married, the film returned to this routine. What also caught my attention, is that Tony and Eiko are hardly ever framed together, like when Eiko was washing Tony's car, or when they were sitting in the bar. Even when they are framed together, its usually for an establishing shot, where there is a significant distance between us and the camera, or they have their backs facing us (when Tony voices his concerns to her). Lastly, Eiko mentions during one of their dates, that her obsession with buying clothes came from a desire to "fill up what's missing" inside her, which continues and even worsens after their marriage. 

     These are two very lonely people, desperately looking for salvation in each other, but they are unable to open up and communicate. (The characters have very little dialogue, and it is the narrator that verbalises the characters's current emotional state). Instead, they retreat back into their shell, to the point that it almost feels like they are strangers who happen to occupy the same house. The final dialogue between husband and wife encapsulates the emotional distance and awkwardness between the two, despite them having been together for 2 years by then. That is the real tragedy; when two people unknowingly push each other away, and that emptiness grows into a void that ends up swallowing one of them.

    The film brings up a plausible explanation for this phenomenon, and its one that as been explored continuously in Japanese films after World War 2: A rapid postwar modernisation of Japanese society that is often at odds with more "traditional" values, such as a commitment to family, or a Buddhist emphasis on spiritual fulfillment, that results in a kind of estrangement from oneself and from others. The film shows a clear change in attitudes between this period that is embodied by Tony and his father's shared alienation: Tony's isolation from people at a young age comes almost directly as a result of a breakdown of traditional social bonds, and an increased emphasis on individualism. Tony's father leaves Tony for his own pursuits, and Tony starts living independently at age 12. Part of Tony's loneliness also comes from alienation from his work: While financially sound, his work is simply highly skilled copying. There is no self expression, no relation to his desires and imagination. In a way, his work and his consciousness are separate, because it is controlled and directed by external forces. In such a system, people are reduced to the level of animals, where work is simply the means for survival.  His freelance work also reduces human interaction to a minimum, and only for economic purposes, further isolating him from the rest of society. 

    Another dimension of alienation comes in regard to the point on material wealth, Eiko is the film's physical embodiment of the dehumanisation that this materialism entails. Notice during a sequence when she shops for clothes, the frame is obsessively fixated on those items; there is not a single shot of her at close distance. In essence, Eiko become alienated from her own desires and identity by using material goods as a means of validation or self-worth. (Recall that Eiko buys clothes to fill an "emptiness" within her.)  But there is a vicious cycle being promoted as well, as this constant pursuit acquiring material possessions only leads to greater alienation. The film implies that this was the byproduct of an attempt to emulate the perceived success of American victors after the war, shown when Tony's father gives him a English first name in the hopes that it would give him an advantage in a westernised society. 

   When Eiko dies, Tony only becomes more painfully aware of his loneliness. He tries to mitigate this first by hiring a lookalike, but realises that unlike machines, humans are not replaceable. In an ironic twist, the clothes that Eiko bought to ward away the emptiness in her life now serves to remind Tony of the emptiness in his. As the narrator states" Her clothes seemed like his wife’s lingering shadows. These shadows, once infused with warm breath, had moved alongside his wife. Yet, what now confronted him, their vital roots severed, seemed a flock of shadows, withering with each moment." There is a  distinction to make here; the clothes doesn't actually remind Tony of the absence of his wife, they only serve to remind him of an absence in his life. "Each memory was now the shadow of a shadow of a shadow. The only thing that remained tangible to him was the sense of absence."  After all, the idea presented is that society's focus on material consumption as a result of postwar socio-economic ideals is what hinders genuine bonds between people. For his own sanity, he sells all the clothes, as well as the jazz records his father left behind. As Tony lies on the floor in the now empty closet room, the film recalls the shot of his father in that prison in during the war. Tony's imprisonment has never been more apparent to him, but he will always remain powerless against it.

    This is where I expected the film would end, and it is where the original story ends, but Ichikawa saw fit to add 2 scenes that struck me as rather unnecessary and confounding. First, he shows Tony calling the lookalike again. The call doesn't reach her because she is distracted, which I presume depicts "missed connections", which has already been explored in the rest of the film. Then, he cuts to a picture of the lookalike, and the film ends. Is this meant to show that not all hope is lost? Its certainly a more positive outlook, but doesn't this contradict the text leading up to this?  I must also say that while the narration adds to the impersonality of the film, it can get irritating when the narrator reiterates things that are best left expressed in the language of film, and bring to question its merits as an filmic adaptation. There are also some lines spoken by the narrator that I struggle to reconcile with the rest of the film, like the line about Tony finally becoming alone toward the end, which supposes that Tony has not been alone throughout the film. 

    Having said all that, my biggest impression of the film to this day isn't its political subtext, but rather the sheer intensity of emotions that this exercise in minimalism and austerity provoked. I vividly remember being rooted to my seat as the credits rolled, completely overwhelmed and shaken. Even after several weeks, simply hearing the melody from Ryuichi Sakamoto's Solitude causes some of those emotions to well up. In his singular devotion to depicting all-consuming loneliness, Ichikawa has composed a magnificent visual poem that strikes a chord within us, by allowing us to identify, at least in part, with that overwhelming sense of isolation and hopelessness that his characters face. To an increasing number of people today, this gives the film a visceral power and resonance that cannot be denied.

★★★★★ (out of five)

Westerns of John Ford

    I'm starting a new series. I'm gonna be watching 3 films from a director/movement I am unfamiliar with, and note down my first impressions. I've taken inspiration from the 3 episode rule that anime fans use, but I hope that the focus would be less on judgement and more on observation/analysis. It's also a way for me to condense and take stock of my film journey, which might be useful in the future.

    Onto the subject of the post itself, I have had a prejudice against Westerns for some time now, which I think comes from a combination of suspicion toward in the whole cowboys vs indians schtick, lack of interest in American frontier history, and a perceived campiness. So I decided to start with one of the most acclaimed directors of westerns ever, John Ford. It also helps that his influence spreads to New Hollywood and the Nouvelle Vague, which might help me in the future. I am aware that 3 films are not even close to enough to understand him as a filmmaker, but I'll try to make do nonetheless. I have selected 3 films that I think (based on research) best represents his thematic concerns and his development as a filmmaker: Stagecoach, My Darling Clementine and The Searchers.

   

     I was rather surprised when I first watched stagecoach, because I was expecting a action heavy, plot heavy film. What it actually is a character drama about people from different segments of society coming together. Gatewood, Hatfield, and Mrs. Mallory are people of refined social graces. Dallas, Doc, and Ringo are underclass outcasts, and Peacock drifts between the two groups. The characters begin as mysteries, and at the start I couldn't even make heads or tails of who was who (the overly complicated opening sequence is one of my few problems with the film). Once they all get on the titular stagecoach though, Ford takes full advantage of the story by using gestures, dialogue and even glances to unravel the cast. We begin to understand their pasts, their hopes, their moral codes simply by observing them react to one another. In the course of the stage's journey, we see them begin to shed their class distinctions and respond to each other as human beings. I have seen stories like this many times before, but Ford's film still manages to come alive in how organic the development of the relationships between characters are. The chivalry from Hatfield, the pridefulness of Mallory at the start of the film; we are inclined at the start to think that these are superior characteristics, but slowly the film shows us that the lower class characters are more accepting, more empathetic than we realise, and the qualities of these upper class characters may not extend to to people they deem as beneath them. Doc helps to take care of Mallory's baby while she rests, the drunk doctor can get his shit together when time calls, and most importantly, the budding romance between Ringo and Dallas. 

     At the start, we see this rough and blunt young man whom we are told is a criminal on the loose, but John Wayne is able to soften this character. He talks to her, fights for her, an accepts her for who she is, such that by the time we reach Journey's end our perceptions towards him are completely changed by the end. One of the most refreshing this in the film is that the upper class characters are not uniformly depicted as antagonists either, all of them have sympathetic motivations and are able to change for the better, and in the end, all their different viewpoints coalesce into a rich narrative. However, as much as our character's attitudes change, society doesn't change with them, and Mallory cannot fully express her gratitude for Dallas. This may be why Doc remarks that Ringo and Dallas are "saved from the blessings of civilisation" upon seeing them ride off together. 

    It is on watching this film that I started to understand the praise for Ford's visual mastery. The shot of Ringo and Dallas together beneath the night sky, the landscape photography, from the ground shots and hallway shots revealing Ringo's feelings, the blocking in the tavern.... Despite that, it is sill clear that the film bears remnants from the stage; the camera is mostly static, the editing sometimes disrupts the flow of scenes, and I was not particularly impressed by the famous introduction of Ringo. The editing works in action scenes though, giving them a physicality and impact is aided by some impressive stuntwork. 

                                           

     

    My Darling Clementine is, at its core, a hangout movie. Which is quite strange given the near mythical status of the shootout at OK Corral. You would think that the focus would be on the shootout. At least at the beginning, the story focus is on that main plotline. It begins with Wyatt Earp and 3 of his brothers, who are staying at a lawless town called tombstone on their way to California. There, they have their cattle rustled and one of his brothers is killed, thus Earp decides to become the local sheriff to avenge his murder. Ironically, the moment he becomes a sheriff is when this plot line grinds to halt. Instead, the film shifts gears and becomes a slice of life about this town and its people. We encounter the hot tempered Doc Holliday, his obnoxious girlfriend ChiHuaHua during a night at the local bar. Thankfully Earp gives her the dumping she deserves, and we also find out about Ford's fondness of his characters throwing things. Doc and Earp get off to a rather uneasy start, but this rivalry slowly blossoms into a friendship. Male camaraderie makes up a significant part of the film, which probably comes with living on the edge of civilisation. Anyway, this frienship is promptly halted when  Doc's old flame Clementine from the east comes down looking for him, but they soon get back on track when they have a common enemy

     There is a sequence somewhere here that best encapsulates the spirit of the film; Earp gets a shave at the local barber to look good when Clementine walks past. As he waits, he lounges in a chair and kicks back against a beam, testing how far the chair can tilt before it falls. Minutes spent on this sequence that has absolutely nothing to do with any of the threads. This is the essence right here, a film where you can just sit back, relax with a cup hot chocolate on a cold rainy day and get lost with these characters. The emphasis here is on everyday things, like friendship, illness, romance and even haircuts. Ford greatest achievement here is creating a living, breathing town with a genuinely believable sense of community. When we actually reach the shootout, we are almost disappointed to be leaving this wonderful town. However, this approach has its drawbacks when taken to the extreme, chief being unsatisfying narrative resolutions. The film baits us with a wonderful dance scene, but in the end the romance goes nowhere. I heard that Ford even had to be persuaded into shooting that kiss at the end of the film before Earp rides away. For all the focus on creating this sense of community, the film strangely neglects Earp's own family, such during that final shootout, I felt more sympathetic for Old Man Clanton's losses than for Earp. I also find it pretty strange that Doc never seems to mind that Clementine and Earp were making out. 

    The print of the film that I saw was HD quality, and showed off visuals of some scenes. Most memorable to me was the expressionist lighting in the bar scenes inspired (I suspect) from noir, and the shot of Earp mourning for his brother the backdrop of Monument Valley. That scene of Clementine and Earp alone in the hotel lobby also demonstrates Ford's compositional skill in indoor settings, and the placement of characters in frame at the Clanton's house... You know what, I might as well say that every shot in the film is stunning. But Ford's skill extends even to the final shootout, where he efficiently establishes the location of everyone and builds a surprising amount of tension.

    

                                         

The Searchers is a film with a formidable reputation, having been one of the key inspirations for directors who would make up one of the most important movements in film history. Certainly, it had the aura of a towering, untouchable work in my eyes. Yet I had also heard complaints about it being dated, having drastic tonal shifts, awkward humour, and even being boring. So I entered with a level of trepidation, and coming out, I find myself rather conflicted.

     This is a film filled with contradictions, some good and some bad. For starters, with a bigger budget and technicolour, The Searcher's reaches new heights in terms of visual quality. From the very beginning, there is a awe inspiring shot of Ethan riding home from the distance, and finally Monument Valley comes alive in gorgeous browns and reds juxtaposed against the light blue hues of the sky. There are so many more shots like this, when Ethan comes back to find his family's house on fire for instance, or the shot of the search party getting surrounded by Indians, Debbie running down the sand dune.... And yet there are so many scenes where the background is so clearly fake that its embarrassing, which describes all the scenes in "winter" and most of the nights scenes. Then we have the contrast between the dark main storyline of a man's obsessive search and the relatively lighthearted scenes of family, especially Martin and Laurie's sweet relationship, once again showing Ford's idolisation of strong familial and community bonds. Contrary to what I heard, the execution of more lighthearted scenes was surprsingly great, admittedly without the natural flow of his previous two films. Unlike other who feel that those scenes took away the gravitas of the main plotline, I actually felt that these scenes served as a grim reminder of the toll that the journey was taking on the 2 main characters and the people around them. 

      The comedic relief though, is more uneven. I would like to specially mention a character I reserve particular hatred for, Moses Harper. It is his irritating demeanour and its implications hat disturb me the most. Look, I love my eccentric characters in Westerns, but I don't know what Ford was thinking with Moses. If his character represents what I think it represents, it seems that Ford's sympathy does not extend to the mentally challenged. The rest of the attempts at lightening the tone surprisingly effective. I'm not afraid to say that I laughed when its revealed that Martin accidentally got himself a wife, and maybe I just have a nasty streak, but I also enjoyed watching Martin and Charlie whale on each other. 

    Perhaps the biggest contradiction of all though, lies within John Wayne's character, Ethan Edwards. John Wayne gives a towering performance as a violent man shaped by his dark past (fighting a war, a implied relationship with his brother's wife). He is incredibly xenophobic, to the point where even other racist men feel uncomfortable around him; he is so filled with hate and anger that he refuses to acknowledge the man who has travelled with him through harsh winters and the heat of the desert just because he is one eighth Cherokee. When the Ethan and Martin come to a fort, the way he looks at a rescued woman who has "gone native" is terrifying; perhaps it is also where he decides that he would find his niece just to kill her. Despite all that, Ethan is also capable of moments of tenderness and vulnerability; when he gives Debbie the necklace at the start, or him saddling his horse as he prepares to meet his family's fate. He also eventually comes to care about Martin despite his bullying. The physicality he brings also helps, it gives him the air of a stoic, battle worn, tormented man. Someone you instinctively look up to at first glance. 

   In addition to Wayne's performance, Ford also brings a psychological edge to the character; as he spends more and more time in the wilderness, the valley almost blends together, and the further and further away from civilisation he gets. When Ethan finally meets the man who took Debbie, Scar, we also find out that Ethan knows more about the Cormanches language and culture than any other white character, yet this just seemingly just fuels his hatred towards them. Scar has more complexity than the average Native American depicted in this era, as he explains that his sons were killed by white men. In a sense, I started to wonder how different Ethan and Scar really were, despite their mutual hatred. The film doesn't shy away from showing us the institutional violence against Native Americans; we see a village burned down by soldiers, a innocent lady murdered, and hundreds more captured and sent to camps.  It is surprising how a western made in the 50s is nearly able to get at the heart of the divide between two different cultures before films made far later. However, for all of its progressive ideals, there are some blind spots. The film turns a blind eye toward the casual and more subtle racism of the other characters, the Natives portrayal barely rise above the commonly held views of them being "savages". Most questionable of all though, is Ethan's eventual redemption. It is the scene when Ethan chases after Debbie in the aftermath of the raid, and we are terrified that he is going to kill her. Instead, he swoops her up in his arms and whispers gently for them to go home. Many people, struggle to rationalise it, and there are many theories for his change of heart, but my main issue is the insidious implication that Debbie returning to white society is somehow better than staying with the natives, even though she explicitly desired for the latter. Maybe its unfair to judge certain decisions from a modern perspective, especially given some of the limitations back then (I don't think a mainstream hollywood picture then was allowed to end on a downer), but it does take away some of that thematic heft. 

   Let's look at it from another perspective then. Perhaps it is less an exploration of racism, and more a study of one man's displacement in time, with racism as a vessel. Here is someone who has spent years away from his family fighting a war which he eventually lost, and another 5 years on an obsessive quest, fueled only by racism and a desire for revenge. Thus, my reading of his decision is that even Ethan realises that killing Debbie will not relieve him of his hatred. After all this time, that hatred has left him with nothing; people like him no longer have place in this world. Thus, he turns his back on civilisation, and becomes another man destined to become one with the wilderness. It can be muddled, and sometimes it certainly feels halfhearted, but the film does suggest that maybe the west can really only be free when it finally lets go of its bigotry.

   

  

   Overall, I really enjoyed this one. I liked the lightheartedness and warm humanism of the characters in Stagecoach and Clementine, which imbued the darkness in the Searchers with a shocking power, and helped me acclimatise to the quirk humour that the less initiated would have probably found jarring. I wish I had seen more John Wayne films though, to see exactly what was the character type he was so famous for, and more westerns to better understand the views and obsessions filmmakers had regarding the American frontier, particularly the clash between civilisation and untamed wilderness. I've barely scratched the surface, and there must be so much more I'm missing, from his dramas, to his comedies and war films. When I have the time, I'll most definitely give his other films a watch.