The End of Summer (1961)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 43min

Marriage within the Kohayagawa family takes on multiple meanings throughout The End of Summer, always dependent on the individual in question. For the youngest daughter Noriko, it is an aspiration hindered by her sweetheart’s decision to move away, while her elder sister Fumiko faithfully performs her duty as a mother and wife. Although their widowed sister-in-law resists pressure to remarry with candid acknowledgements that her youth is long gone, the same cannot be said of elderly patriarch Manbei, who controversially tries to reconnect with his old mistress Tsune. A widower of his age should not be considering the prospect of marriage, his family proclaims, lest he should embarrass them all.

As is the case in most Yasujirō Ozu films, Japanese tradition is at the forefront here, merging The End of Summer’s rigorous form, style, and sentiments into a gentle meditation on those longstanding cultural values that ensure stability across generations. Where his penultimate film sets itself apart is through the astounding elegance of the execution, even by his own standards. In terms of pure visual storytelling, this family drama competes with only a handful of his greatest works, harnessing the subtle power of colour cinematography to evolve his geometrically precise style.

Ozu’s layering of frames through corridors and doorways remains one of his most potent visual devices here, often containing his characters within the spaces of work, leisure, and domestic duty which define their day-to-day routines. The graphic harmony between actors and the surrounding décor is especially outstanding, symmetrically dividing a table at one of Noriko’s work lunches by gender, while running a pattern of brightly coloured bottles beneath them parallel to their staging.

The End of Summer’s mise-en-scène transcends conventional blocking choices too, suggesting the presence of specific characters despite their physical absence. Akiko is virtually one with the floral paintings at her art gallery, foreshadowing her arrival by way of pillow shots that linger on the collection, while on a broader level he represents the entire Kohayagawa family through the brown, earthy tones that encompass them. Within their home, dark wooden flooring, furniture, and panelling are the dominant aesthetic, complementing their light bamboo drapes and striking an extraordinary contrast against their exquisitely patterned wallpaper and textiles.

In the family sake brewery however, we find the strongest symbol of Manbei’s personality and power, its barrels often leaning obliquely against the wall in Ozu’s exquisitely composed pillow shots. Their contents are the foundation of his small business, though its future is looking frighteningly uncertain in this modern era, as the pressure to merge into a larger corporation mounts with each passing week.

When Manbei suffers a heart attack, these shots consequently draw a parallel between the health of his body and his company. As Noriko rushes to call an ambulance, Ozu cuts through a series of familiar domestic interiors, now dim and emptied, before returning to the brewery’s exterior where the absence of barrels is poignantly noted. The graveyard shot that is additionally inserted here isn’t to be passed over either – Ozu’s careful editing weaves a mournful foreboding in the wake of this sudden illness, quietly hinting at the tragedy that has already taken the family’s beloved mother, and which will soon claim their patriarch and business as well.

The encroachment of the modern world into traditional Japanese spaces became steadily become more central to Ozu’s narrative conflicts throughout his career, and here with a piece of the Kohayagawa family’s identity at stake, the threat of post-war industrialism is felt especially deeply. Nevertheless, Ozu savours the incongruence of this cultural clash. The blinking neon lights of Kyoto’s cityscapes cut through the darkness with searing beauty in his pillow shots, while views of temples through Venetian blinds further develop the tension between Japan’s past and present, along with those ancient pagodas peeking over tiled roofs.

Quite unusually though, it is not just the younger generations subverting cultural customs in The End of Summer, but even Manbei himself. Every so often Ozu dismisses his characters’ polite reservations with glimpses of spirited humour, watching the elderly sake brewer play hide-and-seek with his grandchild, and elsewhere try to shake his employee’s tail while running off to his mistress’ home. His children’s concerns about this rekindled romance are understandable given its history, though now that their mother has passed, so too can we understand Manbei’s renewed desire for companionship.

It is obvious upon meeting Tsune that she is no wily seductress, but rather another lonely parent seeking love, and ultimately proving her dedication to Manbei by nursing him through his sickness. Though certain questions remain around whether he fathered her daughter, happiness and fulfilment can clearly be found outside the traditional family unit here. The rebellious streak that he and the cosmopolitan Yuriko share only supports this speculation, particularly manifesting in her rejection of Japanese culture and adoption of a heavily Westernised lifestyle. Rather than the loose-fitting and slimming garb worn by Manbei’s daughters, she wears bright, eye-catching dresses that accentuate her curved figure, and it is no surprise that her dating life revolves around American men.

The two sequences where Ozu takes the Kohayagawa family outside the city and into the countryside thus mark a reprieve from this modern cultural conflict, even if it is routinely exchanged for profound mourning. The scenic district of Arashiyama hosts a memorial service for their late mother in the first instance, turning the focus of Ozu’s pillow shots to forests and hills that have barely been touched by human civilisation. The second time they venture beyond their home though, the grief is far more potent, commemorating the recent passing of their beloved father.

Although there is no direct interaction between Ozu regular Chishû Ryû and our main characters, his small appearance as a farmer observing the crematorium chimney with his wife is notable. Judging by the crows gathering along the river where they work, they surmise that someone has died, and soon their suspicions are confirmed when smoke from that giant pillar begins to rise. “It’s not a big deal if an elderly person were to have died, but it would be tragic if it were somebody young,” the woman ponders, while Ryû takes a more positive spin on her indifference.

“Yes, but no matter how many die, new lives will be born to take their place.”

It is merely the cycle of life, his wife acknowledges – a comforting assertion given the confirmation in these final scenes that the Kohayagawa brewery will indeed be sold off, officially ending a dynasty. No longer do these adult children wear light colours and delicate patterns, but rather pitch-black, funereal garments. Even after they leave the graveyard, the severe imprints they cast against the pale blue sky poetically resonate into Ozu’s sombre final shot, revealing two crows cawing upon a pair of headstones. They are the grief of the living that lingers with the deceased, but so too are they the souls of husband and wife joined in death, marking the resting spot where their bodies lay. Perhaps the celebrated traditions of marriage and family can secure a longstanding stability through this loss, yet The End of Summer does not underestimate the sorrow that it entails, wistfully yielding to the quiet erosion of life’s transient, bittersweet joys.

The End of Summer is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.