Pandora's Box (1929)

Lulu’s almost always smiling. Her frowns come only when times are bleakest, and even then, they’re just emblems of furious plotting. Having escaped immediate danger, Lulu returns to bliss. Consequences, grief, the pain of those she’s hurt—she lets them all slip like a fur coat from her magnificent shoulders.

Lulu is everyone’s preoccupation in Pandora’s Box, a late-silent film that chronicles lives run aground. She is a prostitute; owing her life to those who would squander their own to possess her. And they will. Lulu is a youthful peak of beauty and charisma, and all will be smitten. Even her killer.

Lulu is played by Louise Brooks, an American actress and dancer blessed with radioactive screen presence. Having cast her, Austrian director G.W. Pabst attained a powerful, wonderful instrument—a woman who could project nearly the full range of feminine appeal. Brooks could seem vulnerable, playful, aggressive, seductive, intellectual or erotic. And while she was never innocent, she could certainly be childish. To direct Brooks’ face must have been like conducting a symphony, made all the more precise by Pabst’s own, exceptional skills.

Brooks and Lulu reflect one another, and neither version of the woman seems tethered to a time. Lulu looks, and acts, like a modern seductress, with poise and sexuality that evoke no one era. Even her hairstyle seems current.

Pabst surrounds his character with a movie that is likewise out of sync. Pandora’s Box was released in 1929, but is set 50 years earlier. There are no wagon-wheeled automobiles or other archaic technologies to establish the film’s age for us. Only late in the film do we even see a horse. Nor does the movie stick to old styles of filmmaking. Like Lulu herself, Pabst’s camera ignores limits, panning from side-to-side, flying to the heights of a room, and zooming toward telling close-ups. Pandora’s Box isn’t just a good movie—it’s a fresh one.

And at the centre, always, is Lulu. In the movie’s first scene, she interrupts a city inspector, checking the meters in her German flat. She flirts with him slyly, while holding a bottle of liquor. Lulu, too is an intoxicant; she has the stern old man enraptured in seconds. We can nearly read his thoughts, then—and more clearly a moment later, when a scraggly urchin named Schigolch (Carl Goetz) appears. Lulu is delighted at his arrival and completely forgets about her new friend. The officer immediately straightens his back, returns his hat to his head and, we think, vows to be wiser.

Schigolch has all the knowledge he needs. Admiring Lulu’s digs, he observes, “This newspaper editor, Dr. Schön, looks after you nicely, but one friend doesn’t guarantee our future.” Lulu will later claim Schigolch is her father, though by that point, we cannot trust her. He’s probably her pimp. Whatever he is, he’ll always be around.

Dr. Schön arrives next. He’s an older man, squinting, humourless and tensed. He informs Lulu that he’s engaged. She sprawls over her chaise, watching him pace as he explains himself. He feels trapped—his social position is threatened by his relationship with Lulu, which is well-known. He cannot marry Lulu, of course, yet he cannot give her up. If he marries his fiancé, his position will be saved, but the marriage will be doomed.

Dr. Schön states these facts as though he’s describing the weather. His assessment would devastate most women, but to Lulu, this is simply his turn in the game. She throws her arms around his neck and declares (with a grin): “You’ll have to kill me to get rid of me.” She knows he’s not going anywhere.

Everyone contributes to Lulu’s success. Dr. Schön has a son, Alwa (Francis Lederer), who is a theatre promoter. Alwa is friends with a costume designer, Gräfin Geschwitz (Alice Roberts). Both are powerfully attracted to Lulu, and aware of her affair with Alwa’s father. The pair will put Lulu’s charms to good use in a stage variety show, which will be supported by Dr. Schön’s newspaper.

Alwa is romantic, while his father is merely morose. The son asks his dad, ‘why won’t you marry Lulu?’ Dr. Schön replies: “One doesn’t marry such a woman! It would be suicide!” Yet when faced with this truth, and his compulsion toward Lulu, he seems resigned to their mutual result. Only this attitude could explain the next scene, when Dr. Schön brings his fiancé to the variety show’s opening performance. What could this achieve, beyond his destruction? Schön’s fiancé burns a glare into Lulu, who responds with a tantrum: She will not perform before ‘that woman.’ Lulu locks herself in a storage room and only Dr. Schön is allowed inside to plead with her. His fiancé walks in on the inevitable.

Act 4 opens with Dr. Schön and Lulu’s wedding party. The guestlist is a dignified bunch, except for Schigolch and his lowlife comrade, Rodrigo (Krafft-Raschig). The couple aren’t together much; he’s got a lot of stationary schmoozing to do and she can’t sit still. Lulu’s outfit looks like an all-white nun’s habit.

Their wedding night is the last of Dr. Schön’s life. Alcohol, and one encounter too many with Lulu’s party guests, convince him the marriage is a mad pursuit. Alone in their bedroom, he forces a gun into her hands, telling her to kill herself before she drives him to murder. Their bodies press the gun between them, and as Lulu shifts, it is Schön who is shot.

Pandora’s Box now asks its central question: How much responsibility must one take for one’s effect on others? Lulu wishes to take none; she uses her magnetism to protect herself, then spends the rest of her time seeking enjoyment. Dr. Schön recognizes his obsessive nature, but rather than address it, he demonizes Lulu for being its trigger. Does he die because he refuses to take control of his own life, or because he recognizes Lulu is too dangerous to persist, and tries to correct that? The former is childishness; the latter, misogyny. Maybe he’s better off dead.

The murder ends up having consequences for Lulu, even if she can’t appreciate them. She becomes the centrepiece of a sensational murder trial, drawing a massive crowd to hear her pleas of innocence. The prosecutor wants death. He compares her to the Pandora of antiquity—not a source of evil in her own right, but one who looses evil upon the world. Lulu protests like a ham-actress, begging mercy in an all-black outfit nearly identical in design to her wedding dress. She is convicted. As the crowd pushes in for a better look, Schigolch’s operative sets off a fire alarm and she escapes amid the chaos:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuC115UBeds&feature=related

Lulu and Alwa flee Germany together, eventually settling at a seedy inn by a portside town. Alwa degrades quickly, just like his dad—soon he’s a stressed wreck in a sweaty tuxedo, gambling to earn their food and shelter. Schigolch tags along, of course, urging Alwa to play with a marked deck. Before long, Lulu is blackmailed by one of the men they’ve met along the way. As he points out, she’s worth £300 to an Egyptian pimp, but the German police would give him nearly as much to turn her in. Again, Schigolch saves them. Alwa is caught using the marked deck and again, the desperate trio escape amidst a riot; this time bound for London.

The final Act of Pandora’s Box is different from the rest. It begins not with Lulu, but with a ruined man walking the streets of London at night. He passes through the winter fog, stops before a picture window and watches a family celebrating their Christmas feast. He moves on. Down the road he finds a Salvation Army band, giving food to the needy. The man is tall and well dressed—he stands out among the homeless. But his eyes are dead. He gives a coin to the charity and continues into the fog.

Meanwhile, London has been unkind to Lulu and her tag-alongs. They’re making do in a windowless attic, where Alwa lies in bed, nearly catatonic. Schigolch shows up with liquor, but no other contribution. Only Lulu is really coping. She’s paints her lips by the light of the oil lamp and severs a loaf of stale bread with her knife. She’s headed into the street to work. This scene ends with a puff of black smoke and then we see a police notice, warning of a serial killer on the loose, targeting women and girls. No names are mentioned, but we consider the era, and the city, and we know who the killer must be.

Now Lulu is standing to the left of a lamppost, looking for johns. The lamppost bisects the frame perfectly. The ruined man walks past her, on the right. She beckons him, then crosses over to the other side.

The couple arrive at Lulu’s attic. He stops on the stairs below her, and she asks him what’s wrong. “I have no money,” he explains. Lulu responds as she always has when people have something she wants, but feel they cannot give it—with a beautiful smile. The man drops the knife he is holding behind his back, and follows her to her now empty home.

The result is a remarkable scene. Lulu has no games for this man; only a moment of intimacy, warmer and more genuine than any the film has shown us. Lulu and the killer embrace, and it is an urgent, long and needful embrace. But he can see the knife over her shoulder—the one she used to cut the bread. His frenzy returns, and he murders her.

Violent as it is, this ending is one of the most elegant I’ve seen. Only such a conclusion could indict Lulu without excusing the pathetic behaviour of Dr. Schön, Alwa and Schigolch. As an enabler of destructive forces, she cannot have any defence against one who actively destroys. Lulu’s death reduces her entire life to irony—striving daily to prolong her life at others’ expense, only she is skilled enough to bring her murderer close.

Where to find Pandora’s Box:
Criterion offers Pandora’s Box as a two-disc set. The film can be played with four optional scores, or with scholarly commentary. The set also includes a stills gallery, current and archival interviews (one of which is with Louise Brooks herself) and a 1998 documentary, Louise Brooks: Looking for Lulu. Check it out here:

http://www.criterion.com/films/362

Reflections: Both Sides Bad

I saw There Will Be Blood not long ago. Notable note: If you google 'There Will Be Blood' and 'silent movie,' you'll get quite a few hits.

Some of these reference the DVD extras, which include a 25-minute silent documentary on oil production, called The Story of Petroleum. Others consider the movie itself. A lot of writers seem to remember its opening sequence, which introduces us to Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis) without using dialogue. His refusal to let a busted leg keep him from his claim says more about him than words ever could, clearly. This sequence really isn't that long, but it stands out.

Is it really so strange to be introduced to a character before he utters a word? Surely many movies open with a 'day in the life'-type sequence, following the main character through his or her regular routine. Such scenes are usually scored, and if the character says anything it all, it isn't important.

Imagine following a pretty rom-com heroine as she rolls out of bed in a daze, pours a coffee, skips breakfast, rushes down the steps of her Manhattan brownstone, squeezes herself onto the subway, squeezes out of the subway, climbs up to the street, enters an office building, pushes into a packed elevator, jogs out of it to a busy newsroom, and lands heavily on her cubicle chair, kicking the computer's power button with her foot.

Now we know where the heroine lives and what she does, more or less; we have her larger context. However, we'll likely rely on dialogue to give her a name, a list of key relationships (wait for that desk phone to ring), and no doubt, a work-related problem, to be revisited in the third act. These are her intimate circumstances, and her reactions to them determine the bulk of her character.

There Will Be Blood starts you with nothing but the character study. There's no immediate context to Plainview's personal trek down the shaft, just the act of it. Like the rom-com heroine's tone of voice when she answers the phone, we learn most of what we need to know from watching him react to adversities.

Still, it's misleading to compare this sequence to silent film just because nobody's talking. This isn't a silent scene, it's a dialogue-free scene in a sound movie, and really, every talkie has those. True silent characters talk all the time--you just can't hear them. You can even see their lips moving. But when Plainview talks, you can hear him fine.

I also thought There Will Be Blood had a 'silent' feel, but due to different elements. One was the score. In real silent films, the absence of speech adds power and prominence to the score, and certainly, Jonny Greenwood's dread-heavy music stands out in this film, too.

The movie's economy of characters is another silent hallmark, especially since many are archtypes (the Innocent, the Simple Poor Folk, the Zealot). They have names, but they don't need any. Even the Plainview character could have been scripted without a name. He's an unvarnished bastard; he's a negative force and no attempt is made to reclaim him for the sake of fairness or understanding. While the character possesses some admirable qualities--determination, chiefly--we can't sympathize with his plight; only observe him, as he works.

Plainview rises up, destroys those around him, then descends and decays into a wretched old millionaire. We sense the inevitability of this arc. If he doesn't evolve, how could he end up any other way? What we take from this is not a story, or even a rumination on a ruined life--it's much closer to a lesson. 'This is what happens when you...'

I've seen a lot of silent films that give lessons. Plainview is at home beside dozens of early silent villains who achieve disaster so that we might avoid it. D.W. Griffith, to name but one example, produced many movies about such men. They weren't oil men necessarily--some were politicians, bankers, grain merchants, etc. They may not have been greedy, either--their sin might be cowardice, lust or indifference. They weren't individuals (even if they were named) so much as types of people, and the viewer was to be made aware of them. In so doing, viewers were trained to spot bad apples, then avoid or resist them. A few viewers might even be spurred to reform themselves.

Daniel Plainview isn't flawed; he's wholly, perfectly awful. And like (some) silent villains of old, we can watch him, and take heed.

Different from the Others (1919)

Activist films, as they age, face a gradual reckoning. What shocks one era may not shock the next; assumptions evolve or reverse themselves; problems are solved—often, the most pointed ‘message movies’ are the first to seem antique. We appreciate them for being ahead of their own time, but they’re still behind our own. They can no longer run a current of indignation through us.

Different from the Others is, well, different. It’s still ahead of us, or at least, most of us. This silent film is about homosexuality, and it approaches the topic with more blunt conviction than any film, from any era, that I’ve seen. Men hold other mens’ hands in this movie. They caress and comfort one another. They suffer and die for the prejudices of others, for whom the film has no sympathy. The oppressors are not pious, they’re bigoted—and through knowledge, they can be healed.

This is a long introduction, but the movie requires one. Different from the Others was an artistic attack on Paragraph 175, part of Germany’s Penal Code, enacted in 1871. Paragraph 175 carried sentences of up to five years in prison for men convicted of engaging in ‘unnatural vice.’ The law sent many to prison, and left far more at the mercy of blackmailers. In 1894, German sexologist Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld (1868 to 1935) challenged the law, stating first that homosexuality was a victimless crime, and second, that it was no crime at all, since homosexuals represented a natural, ‘third sex.’

Hirschfeld moved few. However, circumstances changed considerably in 1914, when the First World War provided new, enormous challenges to German sex educators and hygiene specialists. Hirschfeld saw storytelling as his means to reach the public. Teaming with director Richard Oswald (1880 to 1963), he created a series of educational films, aimed at building public awareness of venereal disease, abortion, prostitution and other taboo subjects. When film censorship was temporarily lifted following Germany’s defeat, Hirschfeld and Oswald got more ambitious. Different from the Others was produced in 1919—and banned the following year. Today, it exists only in fragments, totalling perhaps half its original running time.

How can you judge a movie that’s half gone? Fairly easily, it turns out. Different from the Others has been reconstructed quite coherently through the use of a partial print, a contemporary description of the film, and production stills. It helps that the majority of the missing footage concerns a subplot we can do without. Now running a lean 50 minutes, the restored film retains two compelling elements—the performance of lead actor, Conrad Veidt, and a jarringly modern take on perhaps the chief social controversy of our day.

Veidt plays Paul Körner, a renowned solo violinist and closeted homosexual. The film opens with Paul reading news stories about notable suicides; all of whom, Paul’s reaction suggests, were gay. He imagines a procession of persecuted gay figures, placing da Vinci in the queue next to Tchaikovsky, Oscar Wilde and others.

This scene does its job, establishing Paul as a serious character with serious problems, but it also makes a point. Germany in 1919 already has a gay community—it must, or Paul could not be so disturbed by the news stories. Further, that gay community is embedded deep in European society, as evidenced by the procession of historical figures. The film asserts—immediately—that homosexuality is natural and everywhere. It is uncompromising.

Following one of his concerts, Paul is introduced to aspiring violinist Kurt Sivers (Fritz Schulz). Kurt is a big fan, and very innocent, and pretty cute. Paul apprehends this ingénue with worldliness and genuine pleasure—he’s glad to accept Kurt as his student, but he certainly doesn’t gush. Here we might expect the film to be coy, or even symbolic, in depicting the seduction. Instead, Paul grips Kurt’s forearm for a long moment, leaving no doubt of his orientation or intent.

Paul has come to terms with who he is. However, he is a public figure who cannot afford his gayness to be commonly known. He also has familial pressures. Following his introduction to Kurt, a long intertitle informs us that Paul’s parents have set him up with an eligible lady socialite, in hopes he will settle down. On paper, the match is good—Paul is broodingly handsome, respected and wealthy. However, he rejects her. From a subsequent intertitle, we learn that Kurt’s parents are concerned about his pursuit of the violin, though his sister, Else (Anita Berber) defends it. The intertitle confides that she is attracted to Paul.

There’s no footage of these scenes. Aside from a few production stills, all scenes involving the Körner and Sivers families have been lost. However, Paul’s greatest threat remains intact. This is Franz Bolleck (Reinhold Schünzel), an extortionist and thief Paul has met before. Franz just happens to encounter Paul and Kurt walking arm-in-arm in a park (a foolish thing to do, under the circumstances) and demands hush money from Paul, who bitterly agrees. Kurt knows nothing of it.

Schünzel’s performance is much like Oswald’s direction: Neither man seems interested in going below the surface of the material, yet both benefit from the depth that material inevitably creates. Franz is a piece of shit; an unrepentant predator who trolls the gay community for victims. He sneers and smirks his way through every dastardly act, until we’re ready to be rid of him. He’s more a social problem than a person; a consequence of bad law and public ignorance. Yet the character is fascinating, because in his own way, he is as comfortable with his own sexuality as Paul is. Through a long flashback, we learn that he’s targeted Paul before, allowing himself to be picked up at a gay masquerade ball by the violinist and taken home. Once there, we see Franz clutch Paul’s hand, then pull away and open his own, gesturing for cash. Paul pays, but it isn’t enough. He sinks into his armchair in despair. Franz then reaches into Paul’s breast pocket and roughly pulls out his billfold. He both robs the gay man and sexually assaults him.

If Franz grows tiresome, it’s because the director lingers too long on his face. Overlong, static takes were a mistake made by many early silent directors, but certainly not by 1919—Oswald just isn’t that gifted. Luckily, his subjects require minimal art. This kind of movie sets out its mission from the opening frame and it’s the job of the actors (and the director) to fulfill roles, not create them. Aesthetically, there isn’t much more to say, although Oswald’s reliance on blacked-out backgrounds and tight, circular framing can generate feelings of stress and intimacy, respectively:

Franz’s demands for money do not end. Paul snaps and refuses to pay. Desperate, Franz breaks into Paul’s home, where Kurt discovers him. They begin to brawl, with Franz gaining the upper hand until Paul intervenes. The crook is driven out, but before he goes, he tells Kurt: “Don’t get so excited. After all, you’re getting paid by him too!” The disturbances of the day are too much for Kurt, and he flees the relationship.

Next comes a remarkable scene, as Paul and Else attend a lecture conducted by Magnus Hirschfeld. Hirschfeld plays himself, and indeed this is a lecture, as the film pulls aside its own curtain to deliver an extended explanation of then-current gender theory. It’s intriguing stuff, though without drama. With our lesson complete, Else approaches Paul and declares, “Now I understand everything. I want to dedicate my life to you. I want to be no more than a friend to you.”

(Like all of Else’s scenes, this one is missing. And that may be for the best, because even its description is unconvincing. If Anita Berber’s performance was at all effective in building sympathy for Else, the result would have been worse.)

Despite the triumph of the lecture, we suspect things won’t end well for Paul. Bad endings are the reason movies like this exist. And indeed, Paul is outed, sentenced under Paragraph 175, fired by his concert promoter and ostracized by his friends and family. He finds solace in a bottle of pills and the film concludes its case. Veidt’s death scene, by the way, is excellent.

Is Different from the Others ‘good,’ or just too important to ignore? Veidt’s performance is top-rate (as always), but time and the censors have robbed us of many potentially good scenes between him and Berber. The movie’s direction is only workmanlike. Subtlety is absent. But the clarity and zeal with which Different from the Others delivers its message is totally compelling. The flat-out weirdness of seeing these politics in a silent movie add to our fascination. And its wisdom, we suspect, can only grow more obvious. When Hirschfeld bombastically declares, “through knowledge to justice!” we have to admit that yes, progress has been made. Though 90-years-old, Different from the Others is still pointing past us, and will continue to do so for some time. After all, Paragraph 175 was only struck down in 1994.

Where to find Different from the Others:
The movie is available on DVD from Kino International:

http://www.kino.com/video/item.php?film_id=732

Kino should be commended for the crispness of the print, which is as good as one could expect. However, the absence of any special features on this disk is maddening. I can think of no film more in need of them. Different from the Others exists as a response to complex social conditions and could only be enriched by a feature-length, scholarly documentary. It’s not like we’re lacking space here, either; this is only a 50-minute film.

Reflections: Upsides of Downturns

We’re in a recession, one of my business sections tells me. Maybe a depression, says another. I have a history degree, so I’ll call it a re-depression. That means nothing, so it could mean anything—it’s the essence of good marketing.

Irrespective of labels, I’m in tune with the times. I don’t overspend and I don’t overwrite—especially this busy week. Don’t forget to boot up this blog on Saturday, when I’ll introduce you to a truncated (but very interesting) silent feature; in the meantime, please continue with this truncated (but somewhat thoughtful) tangent.

We all know there’s less money floating around, and artists will likely be the first ones defunded. Some artwork may even be defenestrated, especially if no one can afford complete it. A shame, most will say—but then, the Arts are a luxury.

Not in the sense of ‘luxurious,’ certainly. The Arts are viewed as vocations or callings; one is encouraged to pursue them only once the citizenry is clothed, well-fed and secure. If that hasn’t happened yet, expect your government to promote the Arts with words, but not money—which is to say, not enough.

Of course, a lot of artists defeat themselves politically. They continue producing valuable and profound works of visual, musical and performance art during times of hardship. Dummies! They remind us that poverty and social disorder can inspire artistic expression; and they don’t need to be rich. Well I say, if you don’t care about money, you’ll never out-yell the people who do.

Go on strike. Quit expressing and see how long it takes for people to notice. Give yourself some credit, too—they will notice, and soon. People, even hungry ones, have more appreciation for artwork than even they think. Profound messages are shot through their most mundane interactions. The presence of art in their lives is so integral as to be subliminal; only when an element of it is removed do they see.

When something is taken away, it leaves two effects: (1) a sense of loss; and (2) a new perspective. And this (finally) is how my truncated topic relates to silent film.

See, people don’t say much, really. Even if they talk a lot, they don’t say much. However, they do a lot of posing and gesturing that tells a tremendous story about them. We are all dancers, moving to a common rhythm, constantly revealing ourselves. I’d argue that half the things we say have no purpose except to obscure the truth we fear we’re telling.

A silent film rations words to meet only our barest requirements. In so doing, it reminds us how few words we actually need. Enjoying a silent film means we’ve called upon a fuller, richer and more varied set of interactive skills than a sound film normally requires. So few words—and yet we understand so much.

Watch a few silent movies and see if you don’t get better at reading people. I think I have. Not their motivations, so much—the reasons people do things to themselves and others remains a locked box of fog for me most of the time. No, I just find that I know better how people feel when they’re doing their smart, dumb, dynamic or destructive thing, even if (especially if) they refuse to say so.

Art, folks, is in all moments and for all moments. Messages, delivered in new ways, are vital for defeated times, because singularity of purpose is too often sought through singularity of thought. That won’t get us anywhere. What we need is varieties of opinion and a willingness to challenge assumptions. This can be best provided by people sensitive enough to find messages in all things, and even several from the same thing. An appreciation for the Arts (silent film included) is the best way to train such minds. We don’t have the luxury to forget that.

A Story of Floating Weeds (1934)

The work of Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu (1903 to 1963) is a good fit for someone used to silent film. Not because Ozu was primarily a silent director—he’s more famous for talkies like Tokyo Story (1953). Rather, it’s the man’s emphasis on visual symbols that makes him a kindred. What you see in an Ozu movie matters far more than what you hear, even though his actors talk a great deal—especially when they’re drunk. It’s just that their need to talk is more important than what they say.

It shouldn’t be surprising then, that A Story of Floating Weeds (Ukikusa monogatari) differs little in pacing, structure or theme from the sound films Ozu would make for the rest of this life. A Story of Floating Weeds is about the integrity of the family; the conflict between generations; and the weight of obligation.

The film opens with the arrival by train of travelling actor, Kihachi Ichikawa (Takeshi Sakamoto) and his troupe. Theirs has been a popular act for years; the townspeople great them with enthusiasm and Kihachi quickly sets about renewing old acquaintances. He hasn’t been around in four years. 

Kihachi is called ‘the boss’ by everyone in his impoverished troupe, but for the first half of the film, this seems to be joke. He's petulant and over-sensitive with his actors, who smirk during his acupuncture treatments. When he goes to visit an old lady-friend, we see him dressed in an all-white kimono with a white hat that looks like a washcloth.

Kihachi helps A Story of Floating Weeds get off to a very funny start. His foolishness is matched by his band of greedy, venal, dirty, and largely good-natured actors, who provide us with a number of low-comic scenes, including a two-man horse costume and a kid with jock-itch. Ozu pushes hard to keep things light—consider one early scene, where a hungry actor steals money from his own son’s cat-shaped ceramic bank. The child confronts his father, humiliating him, and takes the money back. This is really a terrible set of events, but it’s played for laughs. We are not meant to sympathize with anyone just yet.

It’s Kihachi’s story that brings the weight. His white-garbed travels end at a local watering hole run by Otsune (Chouko Iida), who greats him enthusiastically; she offers him a drink as soon as he enters. Next we get a succession of still-life shots (a favoured technique of Ozu’s, even in 1934): We see the kimono hanging, the hat on the floor, and the sake bottles heating. Next, we see the pair drinking together. Kihachi has changed his outfit to one much like hers. 

Otsune’s son, Shinkichi (Koji Mitsui) comes and goes throughout the course of their conversation. Whenever he leaves the room, Kihachi asks after him. Otsune replies that he’s well. “He’ll be eligible for the draft next year,” she adds. “He still thinks his father’s dead?” Kihachi inquires. Otsune confirms that he does—is it now time for Kihachi to admit to the boy that he is not some travelling uncle, but in fact, his father? Kihachi declines. “He wouldn’t want a dad like me.”

By this point in her life, Otsune ought to be bitter. Yet when Kihachi, with now-typical thoughtlessness, remarks how hard it must have been for her to raise Shinkichi alone, she almost chirps her response: “I don’t mind hardship as long as it’s for his sake.” Otsune seems so much older than Kihachi. Her face moves too fast from grin to frown to grin again. We sense she could be devastated at any moment.

Of course, the state of affairs is fine with him. Leaving Otsune to tidy up, father and son head to the river to fly-fish, just as Shinkichi has done with his ‘uncle’ in years past. The younger man is tall, lean and formally dressed; he is a student and very serious minded. He also loves Kihachi as family; enough to laugh at him when Kihachi loses his wallet in the swift waters. “It’s floating,” he observes. “So no heavy coins.”

It is not in Kihachi’s nature to be stable, or to stay put. Nor is it the stream’s nature; with this early scene, Ozu establishes the film’s dominant symbol: Water. Throughout A Story of Floating Weeds, water adopts a form, or use, in keeping with Kihachi’s state of mind. The fishing stream replaces a discussion Kihachi wants to avoid. Later on, rainstorms will ruin performances and divide couples, while a boiling kettle follows a scene of rage. Water is, of course, the means by which Kihachi’s kimono gets white—notably, when things turn against him, he will be wearing black.

The plot gets going when Otaka (Rieko Yagumo), one of Kihachi’s actresses and his lover, discovers her boss’ secret. She decides to pay a visit to Otsune’s restaurant with her friend, fellow actress Otoki (Yoshiko Tsubouchi). Otaka reveals nothing during the confrontation (she even hides the truth from Otoki), but Kihachi is livid. He demands she leave and she ignores him—in front of his son. Outside, they argue bitterly, with Kihachi standing under Otsune’s rooftop and Otaka sheltered on the opposite side of a street, while the rain pours between them. “Don’t think you can just walk out on me,” she warns him. “My son belongs to a better world than yours,” he replies.

Otaka doesn’t care. She offers Otoki money to seduce the boy—“this makes us even,” she’ll later tell Kihachi when he discovers the plan. Otoki is flightly, and a bit loose, so it’s all in fun for her. She finds Shinkichi cycling home from school and strikes up a conversation. He is ill-equipped to manage her charms, but his positioning next to a tree branch, then his bike’s handlebars when he dismounts, make it clear he’s interested. When they rendezvous that night, she appears beneath a tree shaped liked a ‘V’.

Otoki doesn’t expect to fall in love, but she does. In so doing, she’s faces the same dilemma Kihachi must have once faced himself. Is she worthy of this person? Ozu films Shinkichi and Otoki’s crucial scene against a background of hydro wires. The wires cross the screen like a musical scale; they are ordered, straight and functional, just like Shinkichi. Otoki turns instead to the train-tracks nearby, wondering where she’ll be this time next year.

Soon, both Otoki and Otaka must answer to Kihachi. He confronts Otoki first. What was she thinking? What did she hope to gain? He strikes her, as we wonder whether Kihachi has enough self-awareness to loathe himself, rather than Otoki. Like all those beneath him, she laughs off Kihachi’s authority and sends for Otaka as she leaves.

Otaka appears as the light rain turns to snow. She too is cold. “Life is like a lottery,” she explains. “You take your ups and downs.” He beats her and runs off.

Kihachi’s conflicts resolve themselves soon after. Finally broke, his acting troupe disbands. Kihachi (now in grey) returns to Otsune and announces that he’s there to stay. Otsune isn’t just happy—she’s buoyant. She suggests a drink, which he declines. She then begins fantasizing about their new family life. “It isn’t good to be alone all the time,” she warns him, as though that had been his problem, rather than hers. She again suggests they drink.

Shinkichi arrives with Otoki. His mother, oblivious to the fragility of their situation, reveals the truth to him. When he responds with predictable disgust toward his father, she is defensive. After all, was it not Kihachi who sent money home all those years to pay for Shinkichi’s schooling? And if not for fear that Shinkichi would be shamed by having an actor for a father, Kihachi could have been home all the time. She does not consider what else Kihachi could have done for a living. Shinkichi’s father, she exclaims, had to live a lie, and live in loneliness—she’s unaware that this better describes her life than his.

Shinkichi bolts to his room, prompting a quick decision from Kihachi. He’ll return to the road, after all. Otsune’s response is pure agony. “Shinkichi has accepted you in his heart,” she pleads. Otoki, perhaps seeing her own future, asks Kihachi to take her with him. He declines, charging her instead with making Shinkichi a good man. He leaves her with the weeping Otsune and is gone. Ozu’s final water image is Otsune, Otoki and finally Shinkichi, crying together.

A Story of Floating Weeds manages a trick—it engages us, despite a protagonist who is indefensibly selfish. Perhaps it’s the comedy. Kihachi is so easy to laugh at that we soften his actions, even though they are monstrous. This feeling continues to the end. When he finds an aimless Otaka at the train station, we know they’ll end up together, and we’re a little happy for them. After all, if justice is simply getting what you deserve, we can hardly complain about the match. In Ozu’s final shot, their train rolls out of town and into the distance; shrinking beneath the hydro wires overhead.

Where to find A Story of Floating Weeds:

A Story of Floating Weeds is part of the Criterion Collection, packaged with Ozu’s masterful sound- and colour-remake, Floating Weeds (1959). The DVDs are accompanied by a short booklet, explaining the background of both films and their differences. The silent film includes an audio commentary track by Japanese-film historian, Donald Richie.