Woman of Tokyo

Woman of Tokyo (Tokyo no onna)
1933, b/w, silent, 47 min.
With Yoshiko Okada, Ureo Egawa, Kinuyo Tanaka

One of the director’s most powerful films, Woman of Tokyo tells the story of a young woman who supports her student brother by working as a translator by day and a prostitute by night. Discovering the source of her illicit income, the brother is driven to a desperate act. Mizoguchi comes to mind often in the film, especially in the devastating sequence in which the prostitute confronts the brutal hypocrisy of her brother. Rediscovered in the early 1980s, Woman of Tokyo was acclaimed for its “a subtle riot of discordant formal devices. . . . and breathtaking wrench of perspective, from individual tragedy to matter-of-fact social breakdown.” Ozu never made another film quite like this one. Neither has anyone else.

An early silent work. A melodrama in distilled form. The plot is told mostly through the actors in a series of shot-reaction-shot sequences. The narration felt very straightforward; sometimes it felt clunky and obvious.

Early in the film, a portion of what appears to be an Ernst Lubitsch film is shown full-screen, intercut with shots of two characters who are watching the Hollywood flick in a theater. A case of media appropriation?

The Expressionist influences are visible in lighting and makeup. The change in the brother's face as he goes from gentle to angry is almost comical, as his brows and forehead suddenly turn dark and menacing. Oddly, the faces of the two women are untouched whether happy or sad. Maybe it's to showcase the physical registers of emotion as clearly as possible.

There are some nice cuts involving objects, from a street light to a lamp inside a room, or from a wall clock to an shop wall covered with clocks. The position and orientation of the objects create graphic match cuts.

Already in 1933, Ozu was choosing to linger on a mirror or a door for a moment or two after the human character had exited the frame. At times of heightened emotion or deep thought, the camera focuses on a household object in the foreground while the actors are blurred in the background. Maybe a modest, interior equivalent of the Mizoguchi long shot that Donald Richie wrote about? One difference with later Ozu films: the objects here feel more like mute witnesses, silently watching, rather than empty vessels or elements of release. I think it's the closer distance of the camera: it activates what it captures.

The last tracking shot along a deserted street closes the film on a socially conscious note. It seems to say, "this story could be happening anywhere in Tokyo." It eases the intensity of the preceding scenes of the women's sorrow. It also feels less personal.