Category: 1930s

The Only Son (1936)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 27min

The Tokyo that Ryōsuke inhabits is not quite the bustling metropolis that his mother O-Tsune envisioned. His neighbourhood is a desolate wasteland of processing plants and garbage incinerators, raising chimneys high up above landscapes and imposing its industrial architecture upon locals. In fact, it isn’t terribly different from his rural hometown Shinshū, where O-Tsune worked hard for many years to send him to school and where she still toils away in her old age. Yasujirō Ozu regards the prospect of elevating one’s status through education with great cynicism in The Only Son, and given that the Great Depression was ravaging Japan’s working class at the time, it isn’t hard to see why.

This is not to say that the destitute poverty Ozu’s characters live in lacks his typical aestheticism. His trademark pillow shots introduce us to Shinshū by way of oil lamps hanging in front of street views, and when we arrive at O-Tsune’s silk production factory, rows of spinning wheels whirl in smooth, geometric harmony. Humility begets selflessness in this quiet town, constantly grinding away to build a future for the younger generation in the naive hope that they will be granted greater privileges. After displaying immense talent in crafting the meditative melodrama of A Story of Floating Weeds, this tale of parental expectations and disappointments confirms Ozu cinematic genius, underscoring the social realities of 1930s Japan through the muted, disillusioning tension between generations.

A delicate obstruction of the frame using this hanging oil lamp, setting the scene for O-Tsune’s quiet village.
Rows of spinning wheels whirl in smooth, geometric harmony – O-Tsune’s livelihood is built on the ceaseless momentum of these machines.
A mother’s hopefulness and her son’s ambition feed into each other, unaware of the real world troubles which stand in the way of success.

Adding to O-Tsune’s weight of responsibility as well is her single motherhood, having been widowed shortly after Ryōsuke’s birth. Sending him to school placed a huge financial burden on her, yet thanks to advice from his elementary school teacher Ōkubo, it also seemed to guarantee him a comfortable life. When she finally visits him in Tokyo as an adult then, not only is she shocked to find that he has taken up work as a lowly night school teacher to support a wife and child, but that the once-respected Ōkubo has similarly taken a step down the social ladder and become a restaurant owner.

Ozu keeps his camera low in this shot, funnelling the classroom desks towards the front where Ryōsuke commands the students.
Continuity in Ozu’s pillow shots, following his characters through the outskirts of Tokyo and exposing its dilapidation.
Ozu loves applying visual patterns to his compositions, here mirroring his upright characters in the smokestacks lining the background, and choosing this as the setting for their cynical confrontation with reality.

As O-Tsune and Ryōsuke sit and talk in view of Tokyo’s towering smokestacks, he is the first to admit that this was not the life he was expecting for himself. The city is simply too competitive, and he feels terrible for all his mother’s sacrifices, yet she initially remains hopeful. His life is only beginning after all, and she claims her only disappointment is in his readiness to give up – though later that evening, it becomes apparent that her regret is far more deep-seated. As Ryōsuke stands wistfully at the window of his classroom, gazing at the blinking city lights, Ozu’s mellow editing interlaces the scene with O-Tsune’s reflective, downcast expression back home. A narrow doorway confines both of them to a narrow frame as they finally meet and continue their discussion, though this time they are unable to reach as convenient a resolution.

Mother and son in separate locations, yet Ozu’s editing binds them together in disappointment, alternating between these lonely shots.
An extremely narrow frame even by Ozu’s standards, trapping O-Tsune and Ryōsuke in their shared, unresolvable tension.

“I worked hard because I wanted you to succeed,” O-Tsune laments, before finally coming clean that she has sold their house and mulberry fields for his education. “You’re all I have now in the world.” Ozu’s characteristic low placement of his camera proves particularly powerful here, levelling with them as their resilient facades drop for the first time to bare their bitterness and guilt. From the next room over, Ryōsuke’s wife Sugiko weeps, before O-Tsune and Ryōsuke join in. From there, Ozu sits in the lingering melancholy as it spreads through the house, cutting to their sleeping baby and an empty room. Within the stasis, Ozu imbues remnants of their sorrow, echoing pained, muffled cries while the unconscious child remains innocently unaware.

Sorrow and melancholy echoes through the house in these pillow shots, with each subsequent shot moving further away from its source, until we find ourselves beginning the next day.
From folded to hanging laundry – Ozu finds a logical progression between shots, establishing the relaxed flow of time within and around his narrative.

In moments such as these, the precision of Ozu’s pacing and composition become piercingly clear, as his montage seamlessly transitions to the next morning through shots of folded and hanging laundry. His characters may be wounded, yet life goes on, leaving them to pick up the pieces and keep showing the sort of love they themselves need in return. There is no long-lasting resentment on Sugiko’s behalf, as she sells her kimono to take them all out while the weather is nice, and Ryōsuke is proves his altruism as well when he instead uses this money to generously pay for his neighbour’s hospital bills. Plenty may change with the passing generations, yet the benevolence which is passed from elders to children paves the way for a redemptive union of the two. Perhaps it is good her son never became rich, O-Tsune resolves, lest he should have lost that graciousness she raised him with.

With Ryōsuke finally deciding to take one more shot at getting a licence to teach high school, it seems that O-Tsune is able to return home to Shinshū with some closure, though Ozu is not one to let his family drama subside so neatly. The enormous smile she wears back at the factory is bolstered by the pride she openly expresses in her son, and convincingly hides the sadness which emerges when she is alone. As she rests for a moment on a ledge, her forehead creases with weary dejection, revealing the impermeable regret which cannot be quelled in her old age. This factory has been her entire life, and as Ozu’s conclusive pillow shots move towards its giant, steel gate keeping her in, it is apparent that it always will be. And for what, we are left to wonder? Is one life lived in poverty worth another that is only slightly better off? Like an ellipsis at the end of a sentence, The Only Son’s final montage suspends its characters in an unshakeable discontent, striving for a prosperous, hopeful future they quietly recognise may never arrive.

A heartbreaking ending, wiping the smile from O-Tsune’s face as she pauses in solitude. Ozu’s pillow shots drift farther from this weary mother and closer to the looming factory gates that seem to imprison her, quietly casting doubt on the idealistic faith society places in a lifetime of tireless, unending work.

The Only Son is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

A Story of Floating Weeds (1934)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 26min

Kihachi’s theatrical troupe would be the first to admit that there is no great honour in their profession, drifting aimlessly from town to town like the titular debris in A Story of Floating Weeds. They are the dregs of society, offering escapist entertainment to working class audiences yet never planting roots anywhere for the long term. So ashamed is Kihachi of this life that even his illegitimate son Shinkichi is unaware of their blood relation, believing that the man who visits every few years with his troupe is merely a friend of his mother, Otsune. When Kihachi’s mistress Otaka eventually discovers his secret family and seeks revenge, she even spitefully sends fellow performer Otoki to seduce his son, hoping to taint him by romantic association with an actor.

The contempt these entertainers hold for themselves may be extreme, yet the petty reprisals they vindictively stoke among themselves only further cripple their morale. “He’s cheap like you, playing around with actresses,” Otaka venomously spits at Kihachi after her ruinous plans come to fruition, and he responds in kind with a beating, letting her provocation get the better of him. Yasujirō Ozu may offer compassion to the lower classes of Japan, but this does not get in the way of recognising his ensemble’s character flaws, driving them towards a pitiful, entirely preventable self-destruction.

The quiet stillness of the train station precedes the kabuki troupe’s noisy arrival, and continues to linger after they exit.
Ozu sets his tale in small town at the foot of a mountain range, disturbing the humdrum mundanity with the excitement of travelling performers.

Most important of all, A Story of Floating Weeds marks Ozu’s first major leap forward as a visual artist, studying the subtle details of those smalltown locations which set the scene for this working-class melodrama. A montage of pillow shots introduces us to the train station where the kabuki troupe is set to arrive, flitting through the quiet interior before it is filled with chatty visitors, and sitting in silence again as the lights switch off. These moments of stasis are crucial to Ozu’s narrative pacing, developing steady rhythms in both his editing and mise-en-scène. When Kihachi goes fishing with Shinkichi, Ozu aligns their movements as they cast lines into the river, and later illustrates the undisturbed synchronicity between father and son while they eat corn and play checkers.

Visual harmonies – father and son cast fishing lines in perfect unison, and Ozu would later recapture this shot with even greater formal purpose in There Was a Father.
Art rooted in Japanese tradition, aimed at the lower classes of Japanese society.

When the time comes for the troupe’s opening night, a parallel tracking shot past the audience’s hand fans waving in rapid harmony continues to underscore the lively anticipation brought in the actors’ wake, only for a sudden downpour to cancel the performance and mark a dour turning point. With little else to occupy her time, Otaka goes poking around at Otsune’s watering-hole to investigate Kihachi’s secret, and Ozu begins to use his staggered blocking to reveal their fracturing divisions. As Otaka and Kihachi take their argument outside, he splits them between awnings on either side of the alley, separated by the torrential rain. Her jealousy and his protectiveness of Shinkichi are irreconcilable, and thus she sets in motion that aforementioned plan to corrupt the innocent young man, wielding Otoki’s wily seduction as a distraction.

Torrential rain brings the troupe’s performance to a halt, yet heralds greater dramatic tension, marking a dour turning point in the narrative.
Rain separates these two resentful lovers, first conveyed through cutting back and forth between them, before Ozu eventually lands on this incredibly composed wide shot.

Further pillow shots capture swaying lanterns and tiny flags flapping in the gale, mirroring that uneasy, brewing tension which the troupe’s imminent departure will not so easily put to rest. Love is not some uplifting, indomitable force that transcends class boundaries here, but rather an inconvenience to the status quo, complicating matters when Otoki confesses she has genuinely fallen in love with this man she was simply meant to fake feelings for. With seemingly no chance for redemption or reconciliation, Kihachi decides that disbanding the entire troupe seems to be the only option, and A Story of Floating Weeds captures their last moments together with grave solemnity as they sit and smoke in silence beneath a dim, hanging lamp.

Simmering tension in Ozu’s atmospheric pillow shots as lanterns sway and flags flutter in the wind.
Ozu imposes darkness upon the actors in their final moments as a troupe, mourning the end of their ragtag, makeshift family.

For a director who is so often praised by his humanism, Ozu doesn’t get quite enough recognition for just how cynical he can be, often letting characters sacrifice individual desires for what they believe is the greater good. For Kihachi, all his fears about how Shinkichi might react come true when the secret is finally put out in the open, though this evidently stems more from shock and betrayal than any specific prejudice against Kihachi as a person. After all, despite his father’s absence, this was the man who paid for all his schooling with no expectations attached – besides perhaps the hope of simply seeing his son succeed.

Stillness and emptiness in Ozu’s mise-en-scène as characters part ways, the tension between them shamefully unresolved.

Shinkichi’s change of heart comes far too late. By the time he is rushing to the train station to make amends with Kihachi, his father has already left town, giving him the chance to progress in society without being hindered by his shameful parentage. Fatherhood is a thankless job in A Story of Floating Weeds, and one that is only further complicated by the value this culture places on class and honour, seeking to segregate educated professionals from those who barely scrape by. Ozu’s ire is not aimed at any individual character here, as even Otaka and Kihachi wind up reconciling in the closing minutes, recognising the similarities in their suffering. It is rather those arbitrary social barriers that condemn his ensemble to lives of lingering regret that disillusion him most of all, undermining family for status, and trading self-fulfilment for cycles of deep, enduring sorrow.

Forgiveness between the bitterest rivals, ultimately accepting their lowly place in Japanese society, and cynically realising they have no one else.

A Story of Floating Weeds is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Woman of Tokyo (1933)

Yasujirō Ozu | 47 min

Secrets exist for good reason in Woman of Tokyo, maintaining the equilibrium which defines clear relationships between siblings, lovers, and colleagues. The first time Chikako encounters a threat to this balance though, it arrives in her office, where she has worked diligently for four years as a typist. The police presence is unexpected, as are their probing questions to her boss, asking for employment records and general opinions of her character. There is nothing to report there, the manager says. Her attendance has been impeccable, she is dedicated to her younger brother Ryoichi, and after hours she even helps a professor with his work.

At the mention of her extracurricular activity, the officer perks up, though it isn’t until later when rumours begin to spread that we find out why. Chikako works as a prostitute at a seedy bar, officer Kinoshita informs his sister Harue, who also happens to be dating Ryoichi. When this gossip eventually reaches his ears too, there is little that can hold back his destructive fury.

The fact that Woman of Tokyo lands among Yasujirō Ozu’s shorter films does not make it any less than a complete work, even if tends to skim the surface of its characters. Despite its brevity, this tragedy fully realises the melodrama of its premise, challenging the conservative cultural norms of the era represented in Ryoichi. Prostitution is so dishonourable that he initially refuses to believe the rumour, and impulsively breaks up with Harue for even entertaining its truth. “Anyone who disturbs our peaceful life is my enemy!” he imperatively declares, though the dialogue here comes off as forced to say the least.

Subtlety and suggestion are usually among Ozu’s most effective tools as a storyteller, so it is through his editing rather than his writing where these qualities flourish in Woman of Tokyo. His admiration of Ernst Lubitsch’s elegant ‘touch’ manifests directly in an early scene where Ryoichi and Harue watch If I Had a Million at the movie theatre, and it also takes cinematic form in the rhythms of his delicate montages, directing our focus to the domestic minutia of Chikako and Ryoichi’s house. The rotating cowl, chimney, and kettle become recurring visual motifs here, with the latter especially being used to illustrate steaming pressure and quiet tension between siblings. As Ryoichi’s thoughts darken with deeper consideration of Harue’s accusation, so too does the lighting dim, underscoring a brutal confrontation that ends with bitterness, heartbreak, and a regrettable slap.

Ryoichi’s sudden departure concerns both women, and for good reason. Still Ozu keeps track of that kettle, boiling with anticipation, and now the dripping water from hanging laundry joins in like a ticking second hand. When Harue takes the call to learn of her boyfriend’s fate, the clocks decorating the wall behind her build that steady rhythm to a chorus, counting down to irrevocable tragedy. He has taken his life, Kinoshita informs her over the phone, and Ozu’s cutaway to the shadow of a noose upon a wall tells us all we need to know.

Woman of Tokyo is not some ham-fisted moral lesson about honouring one’s family though, but rather dwells in Chikako’s mournful anger. “You had to die for this?” she laments over his body, tearfully calling out the futility of such an extreme response.

“You coward, Ryoichi.”

The epilogue which follows a pair of reporters into the street makes for a clumsy formal misstep, reframing Chikako’s grief within a capricious news cycle. For a young Ozu who was not yet at the top of his game though, such flaws are merely part of his awkward transition from genre films to humanistic dramas, where his graceful, restrained storytelling would soon blossom. Woman of Tokyo does not deliver the formal impact of his later masterpieces, yet there is nevertheless a precision in its dramatic tension and release, glimpsing the quiet devastation that lies beneath domestic stability.

Woman of Tokyo is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

L’Atalante (1934)

Jean Vigo| 1hr 29min

Life aboard Jean’s canal barge L’Atalante is not quite the romantic escape that his young bride Juliette dreamed it would be. The men who sail it up and down the Seine are clearly unaccustomed to female company – particularly the eccentric first mate Père Jules, whose horde of cats, hand-drawn tattoos, and uncouth mannerisms clash with her more refined sensibilities. She appears truly alone as the camera follows her in a tracking shot across the entire span of the ship, and there is barely room for privacy in the clutter of Jean Vigo’s interiors, as bottles, lamps, and tools crowd out every frame. His trademark high angles not only serve a practical purpose fitting multiple characters into the same shot, but from this vantage point, we also grasp the suffocating claustrophobia of Juliette’s new home

None of this is to suggest that the barge is an irredeemable prison though. L’Atalante is a fable of ruptured innocence, jealousy, and temptation, tugging at the seams of Jean and Juliette’s fragile relationship while illuminating a path to the marital bliss that has eluded them. Salvation does not lie in the city’s worldly flights of fancy, as alluring as they may be, but aboard that very boat which she longs to leave behind. For Jean as well, contentment is only found once the chains of insecurity and mistrust are shed, guiding him towards an appreciation of the woman he has married. Although this ship may feel like an oppressive enclosure at times, Vigo’s lyrical direction also reveals it to be a sanctuary of healing, freely drifting from port to port with no anchors to tether it down.

A delicate arrangement of bottles and crockery to obstruct this romantic frame.
Vigo’s trademark high angles serve a practical purpose here, capturing the entire ensemble in close quarters while highlighting the ship’s claustrophobia.
A lonely tracking shot moving with Juliette from one end of the barge to the other.

Quite ironically, the character that L’Atalante affords the most personable qualities is Jules, who transcends mere comic relief and becomes Juliette’s closest friend aboard the boat. As subtly expressive as Dita Parlo’s performance may be, Michel Simon outshines both leads here, fully realising the endearing humanity in Jules’ idiosyncrasies. This is a man who joyfully dances around in a skirt that Juliette has sewn, and later on falls victim to a prank when he is astounded by his apparent ability to produce music by tracing a vinyl record, only for Vigo to reveal the cabin boy playing his accordion from the other side of the room. In his own time, Jules is also a collector of souvenirs from his travels across the world, ranging from a jar of grotesque, pickled hands to a mechanical puppet which conducts an imaginary orchestra. Wherever the camera sits in this wondrous cabin of curiosities, ornaments frequently obstruct our view, reframing what initially seemed to be a hoarder’s palace into a museum of exotic tales and warm conversation.

Père Jules’ cabin of trinkets and ornaments makes for a delightful set piece, displaying his eccentric personality via curious souvenirs amassed from his many adventures.
Cats and music – Père Jules’ identity captured in a frame, even without his literal presence.
Cluttered mise-en-scène worthy of Josef von Sternberg, impeding on the presence of this small ensemble.

Not that Jean is particularly happy about the hospitality which Juliette finds in his first mate’s quarters. It doesn’t take long after getting married for his envy to spike, smashing up Jules’ cabin upon catching them together, and glowering at flirtatious strangers when they journey into Paris. The camera glides with them into a dance hall where a handsome street peddler entertains Juliette with magic tricks, a song, and a dance, and even after Jean pushes him to the floor, he persistently seeks to lure her deeper into the city.

Lovely depth of field showing off the beauty of France’s canals and Jean’s playful personality.
Michelangelo Antonioni in the architecture – the harsh monstrosities of an industrial, modern society imposes on Juliette as she wanders without aim.
A decade before Italian neorealism would pioneer location shooting, Vigo was using the docks of France to ground his drama in a sense of authenticity.

And lured she is – just as Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans portrayed the city as a metropolis of excitement and danger a few years earlier, so too does L’Atalante tantalise Juliette with its urban thrills. Vigo’s location shooting thrives along the Seine’s industrial ports, setting his drama against warehouses, chimneys, and steam trains, while her journey into the shopping district of live bands and window displays carries a vibrant energy that her husband’s boat lacks. Still, the exhilaration can only last so long. Having been left behind, she tries to buy a train fare to reach Jean’s next stop in Le Havre, yet the dark reality of Paris is alarmingly revealed when a thief steals her purse and she is forced to find work.

The lights of Paris lure Juliette into its fleeting temptations, here reflecting storefront puppets in the window.
Perhaps the single strongest scene in the film, sinking Jean into surreal visions of his lost love beneath the Seine.

It doesn’t take long for regret to strike her jealous husband either, driving him into a deep depression. Wholeheartedly believing the myth that it is possible to glimpse the face of one’s lover in water, Jean impulsively dives overboard, and Vigo capitalises on the opportunity to sink us into his aching, dreamy mind through surreal dissolves and double exposure effects. There in the depths of the Seine, she floats like a doll suspended in the currents, and a light breeze ruffles her blonde hair as she lets out a silent laugh. Trying to cheer up his skipper, Jules plays a romantic melody on his phonograph, which Vigo further uses to underscore a montage intercutting their yearning search for each other. More long dissolves bridge match cuts between their restless tossing and turning, unable to get a good night’s sleep in each other’s absence, before finally ending this astounding sequence with a dishevelled Jean facing up to his displeased company manager.

Cross-cutting between both lovers as they longingly search for each other along the rivers of France.
Bound together by long dissolves and parallel montage editing as they toss and turn in their sleep.

Perhaps it is fate that ultimately draws friends and lovers together after their lonely parallel journeys, or maybe love really is that powerful a force in L’Atalante that it echoes across canals, calling them back home. After all, ‘The Bargeman’s Song’ not only provides comfort to Juliette during her visit to a music booth, evoking memories of her days with men who regularly sung this familiar tune on the boat. It also draws the attention of Jules, who happens to be passing by at the exact moment the melody is playing through a speaker on the street. In Juliette and Jean’s embrace, past misgivings are finally forgiven, rapidly dissolving all heartache. At last, their tiny vessel becomes a home where love takes root once more, and quiet freedom is found in its gentle, unanchored drift.

L’Atalante is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Zero for Conduct (1933)

Jean Vigo | 43min

The rule of law is little more than an arbitrary imposition of authority in Zero for Conduct, and it is up to no one but the roguish schoolboys of its French boarding school to restore the natural order. For Caussaut, Colin, and Bruel in particular, a revolt is sorely needed for the students to counter that titular disciplinary punishment, condemning them to detention on Sundays. As such, they spend lunchtimes plotting against their teachers, planning a mutiny for commemoration day when staff and alumni gather to celebrate the school, and hoping to reclaim their liberty in a scaled-down yet equally impassioned French Revolution.

These three students are certainly not the only disenfranchised members of their cohort though. It is only natural that boys this age should seek to satiate their curiosity through play and pushing boundaries, so Jean Vigo often gathers them into what Sergei Eisenstein once labelled a ‘monistic ensemble’ – a sense of group identity achieved through complete visual unity. High angles are often used here to frame them in systematic formations, lined up along their dormitory beds or sitting at classroom desks, but so too do these same shots often capture them running through amok with gleeful abandon.

The high angle is Vigo’s trademark shot, often put to good use in wides that capture his ensemble.
Visual form in the high angle of the dormitory, mirroring order and chaos among the students.
This comparison is a running motif for Vigo, studying how the boys’ wild urges are restrained by authority.

Together, these children pass time with pranks and games, only really pulling themselves into line when ordered. Even then though, little can truly quell that stubborn streak of independence which interprets commands as challenges. When the oddly affectionate science teacher questions Tabard on why he isn’t taking notes, the student viciously bites back, and the arrival of a spirited class supervisor who does Charlie Chaplin impressions certainly doesn’t help to keep them under control.

Chaplin impressions from class supervisor Huguet, sympathising with the children’s playful spirit.

It isn’t too difficult to imagine how Vigo might have flourished during the French New Wave some 30 years later, though given the impact that Zero for Conduct bears upon François Truffaut, perhaps this would also defeat the point of its influence. The young director is evidently far ahead of his time, crafting a coming-of-age featurette which revels in its carefree naturalism and youthful outlook. Its brevity matters little with a director who knows exactly how long his story needs, and Vigo is economical indeed with his nonchalant pacing, smoothly shifting between vignettes that progressively mount a rising disenchantment.

Vigo does not focus on individual characters so much as he does the group identity, blocking them as a single unit in his high angles looking down from above.

This is not even to mention the form-shattering irreverence that comes with Zero for Conduct’s brief dip into animation, bringing to life a caricature the childlike supervisor Huguet draws while performing a handstand to impress the students. Its resemblance to the their tall, moustachioed teacher is no mistake, entertaining the children for a short time before its subject arrives and discovers the drawing. Taken by surprise, the lanky cartoon leaps into the air, before transforming before our eyes into a stout, potbellied figure of Napoleon. Vigo is harsh in his comparison of the school staff to iconic tyrants, though given the role these students have taken as revolutionaries, his political metaphor falls cleanly into place.

Mischief and irreverence as this caricature leaps to animated life, satirising the tyrants who rule this school.

Especially once we reach the boys’ day of emancipation, it is impossible to deny that their rebellion is anything other than a repeat of history. “Liberty or death!” they cry in their dormitory, raising flags and declaring war on the staff. Those glorious high angles return as the young insurgents form a procession, before launching an assault on their teacher using bed frames, blankets, and pillows. In this moment of euphoric anarchy, Vigo also initiates one of cinema’s earliest and greatest displays of slow-motion, revelling in the joyous mutiny. Feathers float through the air as the children carry their leader out on a chair, their elation blissfully stretched out in time and spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

Pure elation as the boys prepare for war and Vigo captures it all in slow-motion, spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

From atop the roof, the boys pelt guests visiting the school for its commemoration day with junk, much to the staff’s humiliation and displeasure. With the pomp and circumstance dissipating and Huguet cheering them on below, it is apparent that Vigo cares little for whatever consequences should arrive after Zero for Conduct’s final shot of the boys victoriously reaching the top of the roof, finally earning a heroic low angle. Their voices sing a proud anthem as the screen fades to black, and in this single, fleeting moment of their stifled youth, the taste of freedom is the purest they will ever know.

A heroic low angle as the boys joyously proclaim victory, standing atop the school building.

Zero for Conduct is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

I Was Born, But… (1932)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 31min

The lingering cadence which brings the film title I Was Born, But… to an open-ended ellipsis seems to raise a question. The simple innocence that comes with infancy doesn’t hang around for particularly long after we venture beyond our family homes – so as children, what might we expect from a world that contains power dynamics far more complex than our immature minds can comprehend? Through Yasujirō Ozu’s patient eyes, this deliberation only deepens with age, not so much granting answers as it reveals the sheer commonality of imbalanced relationships through all stages of life. With gentle humour and formal acuity, I Was Born, But… contemplates such social patterns across two generations of a Japanese family, and delicately ponders the potential to break its pitiful cycles.

Brothers Keiji and Ryoichi are virtually copies of each other here, disorientated by their family’s sudden relocation to the Tokyo suburbs and sudden enrolment in a new school, yet still finding the time to get tangled up in mischief. Still working in the realm of silent cinema, Ozu borrows the light-hearted deadpan of Hollywood’s early comedians to pace their story, pitting the two boys against a local gang and their leader Taro who scares them away from attending school. With their father Chichi setting high academic expectations, they spend the day forging homework and grades to escape his ire – so it is unfortunate indeed that he remains well-informed through his boss Iwasaki, Taro’s father.

At least with the help of older delivery boy Kozou, Keiji and Ryoichi are able to gain some ground against their bully, even forming somewhat of a friendly rivalry with him and his cronies. “My dad’s got lots of suits,” one boy competitively proclaims. “My dad’s car is fancier” and “My dad’s the most important,” the others pile on, trying to raise their own status through association with their fathers. At Iwasaki and Taro’s home video night though, it quickly becomes clear whose is most definitively not at the top of the pecking order.

At this gathering, a whole new world of office politics is revealed to the brothers. As adults and children sit down to watch Iwasaki’s recordings, Chichi’s stern, authoritative image dissolves in their eyes, replaced by that of a clownish buffoon sucking up to his boss. “You tell us to become somebody, but you’re nobody!” they rebuke, and all of a sudden Ozu brings into focus the incredible similarities between their respective worlds.

After all, the social and economic barriers which afflict one generation is not so easily cast off by the younger, particularly given the recent relocation both parents and children have been equally affected by. As they walk through their relatively barren neighbourhood, Ozu frequently passes trains through the background, breaking up flat plains with these huge, industrial icons of modernity. Class and status are not merely defined by human relationships – they are right there in their humble surroundings, ever-present in transitory cutaways to telegraph poles and hanging laundry.

The foundations of Ozu’s pillow shots are evidently being laid in I Was Born, But…, though even more pervasive is his subtle yet purposeful positioning of the camera, taking the perspective of a child by setting it no more than just a few feet above the ground. Adults tower over us from this angle, and when Chichi’s disillusioned sons destroy his ego, he too sinks low in the frame to meet us where we sit. His humiliation is felt even further in the Ozu’s visual divisions, isolating him in windows and doorways, and once again affirming the extraordinary artistic mind which would eventually perfect the art of developing character through mise-en-scène.

Much more unusual for Ozu is the proliferation of tracking shots on display here, rolling past workers and students alike as they write at their desks. The formal parallels between generations continue to reveal themselves in this stylistic device, trapping both in rigid institutions which require submissive compliance from their subjects, though it is also there where Chichi and his sons diverge in their responses.

Disappointed that their father does not model the same upstanding behaviour he preaches, Keiji and Ryoichi attempt a hunger strike, sitting in the garden and turning their backs to the house. Ozu’s comedy is not patronising, but nevertheless finds levity in the brothers’ endearing synchronicity, eventually giving in to their mother’s rice balls and even opening up to their father once again. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” he tenderly asks, taking a seat next to them. “A lieutenant general,” Keiji responds, reasoning that he can’t be a full lieutenant since that will be Ryoichi’s job. Even if Chichi isn’t the perfect image of a respected family man, still there remains a childlike hope that their spirits will not be crushed in the same way.

Then again, can we really judge a father based on the subjective opinions of their children? “Who’s got the best dad, you or us?” Ryoichi asks Taro, continuing their petty competition. “You do,” his new friend answers after some hesitation. “No, you do,” Ryoichi responds in confusion – but really, the different is negligible. These men and boys are simply doing their best navigating the pressures of families and peers, trying to find external validation while remaining true to themselves, and it is there where Ozu grants individuals of all ages equal understanding. Within the messy entanglement of power and status, the formal mirroring of I Was Born, But… reveals that conflict at the root of our common insecurities, as well as the sweet, liberating affirmation we never stop pursuing from infancy through adulthood.

I Was Born, But… is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Tokyo Chorus (1931)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 30min

For many great artists, the act of creation comes as second nature, treated like a grand experiment to be dismantled and reconstructed in different forms. For Yasujirō Ozu, it is a practice of intense deliberation and refinement, stoking introspection by mindfully sharpening the tools of one’s craft. This is not to say that he lacks playfulness or humour – one only needs to look at his earliest films to see the influence of Hollywood’s silent comedies after all. Nevertheless, Tokyo Chorus marks a shift in his formal focus. Starting here, he sets off on a journey towards meticulous, cinematic perfection, directing pensive domestic dramas which would define Japanese cinema in decades to come.

Gone are the broad genre strokes which marked Ozu’s prior efforts. In their place, we find the subdued melodrama of a family man whose sudden unemployment tests his personal relationships and wears away at his lively spirit. As it so happens, that streak of wayward defiance has gotten Okajima in trouble ever since he was a student, previously exasperating his schoolteacher Mr. Omura and more recently getting him fired for aggressively defending a laid off colleague. Clearly he never quite learned to demonstrate tact in disagreement, and now as he faces up to the consequences of his insubordination, he must also grapple with the responsibility he holds as a husband and father.

Debuting four years after the advent of synchronised sound in Hollywood, Tokyo Chorus stands as a lingering remnant of the silent era, demonstrating some of Ozu’s finest visual storytelling at this point in his career. His trademark pillow shots aren’t quite fully formed yet, but the cutaway of rustling trees and a torii gate marks a soothing transition away from the prologue, while a montage of typewriters, half-eaten lunches, and empty shoes introduce Okajima’s office momentarily absent of workers.

Ozu’s tracking shots certainly bring a sense of order in their straight, unbending lines, but it is very much his editing which sensitively studies the details of these home and work environments, particularly following the hospitalisation of Okajima’s daughter. After selling his wife’s kimonos to pay the bills, their quarrel takes place almost entirely through silent gazes as they playing a clapping game with their children, underscoring the tension with whimsical levity. Actors Tokihiko Okada and Emiko Yagumo must be credited here too for the emotional journey of their facial expressions, bouncing his shame off her disappointment, before uniting in shared joy over their son and daughter. Having separated them in isolating mid-shots, Ozu finally cuts to a wide shot of the entire family playing together, bringing resolution through a moment of forgiveness and understanding.

On a broader level too, Ozu builds Tokyo Chorus around these small cuts to Okajima’s dignity, particularly demoralising him when he cannot afford a bike for his son. The job he finds carrying banners and handing out flyers for The Calorie Café does little to ease his insecurity as well, seeing him bristle at the pity of others, though there is a sweet poetry to the fact that he gets it from a random encounter with his old schoolteacher. Even after retiring and opening a restaurant in his senior years, Mr. Omura still hasn’t quite let go of his fatherly instincts, taking Okajima under his wing once again and promising to help him find work. Ozu allows room for some light comic touches here as Okajima finds himself reliving the days of his youth, obediently marching to the beat of Mr. Omura’s drum, yet still he can’t entirely stave off the creeping depression.

“I feel like I’m getting old. I’ve lost my spirit.”

There is a moral lesson to take from Tokyo Chorus, though Ozu does not deliver it with the overwrought sentimentality of his Hollywood counterparts. Mr. Omura’s gentle, reassuring presence rather stands as a delicate testament to those teachers who don’t just educate us, but become extensions of our families, guiding us with wisdom and purpose through our lowest moments. This tight bond especially reveals itself in Okajima’s class reunion at The Calorie Café, making for a satisfying bookend to Ozu’s narrative, and the job offer which our protagonist finally receives during this gathering makes the moment all the more rewarding.

Still, even amidst the celebration of Okajima’s new vocation as a teacher, there is a lingering sadness in the air as they realise that he must move away from Tokyo. Such is the nature of a student-mentor relationship after all, seeing both men inevitably part ways once the job is finished. Much like Okajima’s silent reconciliation with his wife from earlier though, Ozu again plays out another beautifully edited conversation through nothing but facial expressions, this time between the two men whose eyes sorrowfully drift to the ground while everyone joyfully sings around them. Noticing Mr. Omura’s doleful expression, Okajima offers him a wide, sympathetic grin, and graciously receives one in return. Families of all sorts heal wounded souls in Tokyo Chorus, and as Ozu sharpens his own cinematic skillset, his tender-hearted tribute to those who bring them together marks a moderate yet gratifying step forward.

Tokyo Chorus is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

La Bête Humaine (1938)

Jean Renoir | 1hr 40min

Locomotive driver Lantier has been painfully afflicted by the consequences of his ancestors’ alcoholism since birth, though the way it manifests as headaches and uncontrollable fits of rage in La Bête Humaine, it might as well be a blood curse. When he is caught in the throes of passion or intoxication, he appears to be possessed by some invisible force, at one point compelling him to wrap his hands around the neck of his sweetheart Flore before a passing train snaps him back to reality. As such, it is a dangerous game that his newest love interest Séverine is playing, slyly luring the angry, volatile beast from out of its cage and setting it on her abusive husband.

The link between France’s poetic realism and Hollywood’s films noir is evident in Jean Renoir’s bleak, psychological tale, laying out the blueprints of those corrupted antiheroes and femme fatales who would dominate the next decade of American cinema. That La Bête Humaine’s roots extend back to the naturalistic writing of novelist Émile Zola only further embeds it within a history of fatalistic storytelling as well, rejecting romanticism in favour of moral ambiguity and melancholic contemplations on the inexorable nature of man. After all, Lantier’s downfall is woven into the very fabric of his character, dooming him to a tragic fate decided before he was even born – so who better to navigate his dance with darkness than the French master of camera movement?

An uncontrollable fit of rage tempered by a passing train – these high-momentum vehicles are deeply linked to Lantier’s soul.
Window frames divide the frame into segments, placing a barrier between the camera and the actors.

Coming off a string of cinematic triumphs, the versatility of Renoir’s fluid visual style was well-established in 1938, though here it is more precisely aimed at generating a pervasive, uneasy tension. This is not to say his camerawork isn’t swept away by romance on occasion, even falling under Séverine’s allure in one ballroom scene as it lightly weaves its way among dancers to find her, but far more notable is the chilly distance which it keeps between us and the actors. When fate guides Lantier to the train where his path will soon collide with Séverine’s, we are kept on the outside, only catching glimpses through the windows as we drift past. Moreover, the murder she conducts with her jealous husband Roubaud unfolds entirely out of view, just behind the closed doors of a private compartment. Her wealthy godfather Grandmorin is the target here for allegedly assaulting her in the past, though given Roubaud’s abusive nature, his own future isn’t looking terribly secure either.

Renoir’s camera niftily traverses the ballroom, joining the waltzing dancers to eventually find Séverine.
An excellent introduction to this fateful train ride, tracking the camera outside the windows as Lantier wanders between compartments.
Doors closed and shutters down – we remain at a distance outside the train as Séverine and Roubaud commit murder.

With an infatuated Lantier as the sole witness to this assassination, Séverine finds no difficulty in covering it up, and thus an affair begins to blossom between the two. Renoir’s camera seems to be in equal adoration of her as well, often framing her through windows and mirrors like the subject of a painter’s gaze, though he does not shy away from the darkness which encompasses both in sultry, gloomy reflections. While Jean Gabin is playing out internal battles of self-control and impulsive fury, Simone Simon delivers a similarly layered performance as Séverine, albeit one which conceals a sharp, manipulative mind beneath seductive pleas for Lantier’s masculine protection. When she eventually confesses her love to him one rainy night, the camera’s movement from their kiss to an overflowing, nearby barrel isn’t just a suggestive hint at the following consummation – it is an ominous symbol of mounting emotions ready to spill over at any moment.

Séverine is one of cinema’s original femme fatales, delicately captured in this sultry, gloomy reflection.
Elegant framing through mirrors in the mise-en-scène.
Camera movement ties this romantic affair to an overflowing barrel – an ominous visual metaphor.

The first attempt on Roubaud’s life thus stands out as perhaps the most potent harbinger of film noir in La Bête Humaine, both in terms of narrative and mise-en-scène. With Séverine’s murder of Grandmorin becoming a point of morbid intrigue for Lantier, she takes him to a murky, industrial train yard where can find out for himself what it is like to kill a man, and Renoir’s lighting grows more expressionistic than ever. Long shadows are thrown across the rough ground, and a single strip of light illuminates Lantier’s guilty eyes, before he reaches down into a puddle and claims a steel pipe as his weapon. Even with Séverine’s encouragement though, still he cannot bring himself to unleash the murderous animal within him – at least, not upon the target she has aimed him towards.

A single strip of light illuminates Lantier’s guilty eyes, revealing an expressionist influence.
A dark reflection of Lantier as he picks up a murder weapon, tipped upside-down in this black puddle.
A precursor to film noir in the high contrast lighting of this train yard, mirroring the darkness of Lantier’s character arc.

Like the steam trains he is so lovingly obsessed with, Lantier cannot deviate from the rigid tracks he has been set on, and it is no use trying to slow or control him. Renoir has been building this metaphor right from the start through montages of chugging wheels, burning furnaces, and our soot-covered protagonist at the helm, while those recurring shots fixed to the vehicle itself build a similarly brisk momentum, hurtling forward into pitch-black tunnels and beneath bridges. His fate is as tragically assured as the destination of any locomotive, finally toppling headfirst into madness when Séverine tries to seduce him one last time into killing her husband.

Marvellous montage editing upon the train as it hurtles through tunnels, beneath bridges, and past fields – an unstoppable force of destiny.

Much like the murder of Grandmorin, Renoir’s camera keeps a safe distance from the violence which unfolds, though this time we are given glimpses through a doorway as Lantier furiously chases his lover. With so much of this unfolding offscreen, we are given nothing but her chilling screams to fill in the dead air before he finally re-enters the frame, pushes her onto a bed, and sinks a knife into her flesh. In the aftermath, the sentimental lyrics of a French love song seem to taunt Lantier as his mind begins to clear, and the camera drifts mournfully across Séverine’s limp, lifeless body.

“Whoever tries to love Ninette,

Will end up with a broken heart,

Ninon’s little heart,

Is tiny and frail and adorable.”

A subtle but powerful reframing of the camera as the murder commences within this narrow doorframe, disappears from view, and then reemerges from another angle.
The camera drifts in close-up along Séverine’s lifeless body as the sentimental lyrics of a French love song taunt Lantier in the background.
Finally pushed to the edge and consumed by corruption, shadows fall harshly across Lantier’s face.

Still set on a singular, unwavering path, Lantier trudges down the railway tracks and towards his final shift at work. The beast within him has won, and now only death can end the suffering it has inflicted upon his mind and soul. After witnessing him jump from a moving train and finding his body in the grass, it seems that even his colleague Pecqeaux agrees too, poignantly remarking that “I haven’t seen him look so peaceful in a long time.” Perhaps this calmness found in the destruction of the self is the best that any of us can hope for, Renoir cynically laments – and yet La Bête Humaine never entirely discounts the grace which comes with such suffering. If anything, the fact that Lantier’s anguish resonates so loudly only affirms the existence of beauty in his troubled life, letting us cherish it even more for its delicate, fateful fragility.

Peace is found in death – the total destruction of self.

La Bête Humaine is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Alexander Nevsky (1938)

Sergei Eisenstein | 1hr 51min

The Teutonic Knights’ attempted invasion of Russia in the 13th century was not the last time the Slavs would feel the heat of rising German forces. Tensions between the Soviet Union and the Third Reich were similarly strained when Sergei Eisenstein was commissioned to direct Alexander Nevsky, seeing him use the titular Prince’s grand conquest of his foes to inspire audiences with patriotic solidarity. It had been ten years since his previous film, and the artistic failures he suffered while travelling Europe and the Americas brought him back to his home country, reluctantly asking Stalin for one last chance to prove his value. Supervised by co-director Dmitri Vasilyev and co-writer Pyotr Pavlenko, his instructions were simple: stay on schedule, do not stray into experimentalism, and do not embarrass the Soviet Union.

That Eisenstein was still able to create a film of such majestic ambition without stepping outside these restrictions is a testament to his incredible craftsmanship. Alexander Nevsky may not possess the formal innovation of his silent works, yet this venture into sound cinema maps out its historic clash of medieval armies with great finesse, inviting famed Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev to arrange a score that rumbles and sweeps across battlefields and villages. “The Russian lands we shall never surrender / Whoever rises against Russia will be smitten,” his male chorus sings in the opening scene after Nevsky refuses to join the Mongols’ Golden Horde. Although his vanquishing of Swedish invaders upon the Neva River has earned him a formidable reputation, his talents are not for sale. He is a hero for the Russian people, and a man this remarkable no doubt deserves his own folk songs to accompany his tale.

The horizon sits low in the frame as figures traverse barren hillsides, and disappears entirely when Eisenstein poses them against vast, grey skies.
Magnificent architecture of 13th century Russia, rising up as impressive backdrops to the rising political tensions.

Even before we reach the monumental Battle on the Ice, the scale of this narrative is equally matched by its astounding cinematic style, often tilting the camera at low angles to gaze up in awe at marvellously blocked scenes laid before us. The horizon sits low in the frame as figures traverse barren hillsides, and it disappears entirely when Eisenstein poses them against vast, grey skies, often with the domed roofs and arches of their buildings rising up in the background. The Teutonic Knights receive similar visual treatment as they overrun the city of Pskov, though they carry a far more daunting air of sadistic, almost cultlike ruthlessness, tossing children into fires and holding crucifixes aloft. Eisenstein’s montages do not unfold with the radical flourishes of Battleship Potemkin or Strike for once, but rather carry through a deep, sombre grief in their continuity editing and axial cuts, punching in on wide shots to underscore the horrific suffering of the Russian people.

Scenes of carnage and destruction in Pskov, setting in a deep, sombre grief.
The Teutonic Order possesses a cult-like ruthlessness, wearing white hoods and raising crosses as they torture innocent Russians.
Swastikas adorn the bishop’s mitre, likening his threat to rising Nazi powers in 1938.

It is no coincidence that the helmets worn by these invaders bear such close resemblance to mock-ups of German Stahlhelms from World War I, nor that the bishop’s mitre is adorned with swastikas. Next to these villains, Nevsky effectively becomes a twentieth-century man facing contemporary evils, rallying Novgorod to fight for its freedom. His rousing speeches are infectious, inspiring rival warriors Vasili and Gavrilo to prove their worthiness to the maiden Olga on the battlefield, and similarly stirring the grieving Vasilisa to seek vengeance for her slain parents.

Two warriors competing for the heart of one girl, stirring them to prove their value on the battlefield – clean, archetypal characters remain Eisenstein’s strength.
Beautiful, wintry sets as we approach the Battle on the Ice, freezing these half-sunken boats upon the lake.

Patriotic anthems continue to ring out as the peasants of Novgorod zealously raise their weapons and torches, moving as one mass towards their common destiny at Lade Chudskoe. There, Vasili and Gavrilo are ordered to take charge of the vanguard and left flank, while Nevsky leads the right flank. If his strategy works, then this should crush the Germans’ wedge attack, and the lake’s thawing ice will shatter beneath the weight of their heavy armour.

It is one thing to hear the Prince’s genius in theory, and another to behold it in action. The Battle on the Ice dominates almost thirty minutes of the film’s runtime, and stands among Eisenstein’s greatest artistic triumphs, setting a cinematic standard for medieval conflicts that would influence many legendary directors from Orson Welles to Stanley Kubrick. As the suspense slowly ratchets up in anticipation of the first charge, Eisenstein surveys the layout, obstructing shots of the Teutonic army gathering in the distance with a forest of spears sprouting from Nevsky’s forces. Vasilisa is one of a hundred Russian troops stationed across this vast, flat expanse, but here her focused expression is foregrounded, embodying the grit and strength of a nation that refuses to surrender quietly.

The terrain is vast and flat, yet Eisenstein still turns it into a visual marvel in his framing and blocking, filling the shot with negative space from the sky.
Vasilisa’s face stands out along the frontline of Russian soldiers, embodying the grit and strength of a nation that refuses to surrender quietly.
Minimalism in Eisenstein’s framing, frequently using low angles to set actors against clouds.
Welles would later recycle this shot in Chimes at Midnight – a forest of spears obstructing our view of the opposing forces.

Finally, the Teutonic Knights’ charge begins. From low camera angles that move with their horses, they seem to float like faceless spectres, and Prokofiev’s score builds its chants and horns to a dramatic climax before abruptly cutting out with the violent clash of both armies. Eisenstein is not content with simply capturing random chaos here, but choreographs the battle with tremendous clarity, closing in on smaller skirmishes between foes while tracking the movement of larger units. Though the Germans begin to make ground on the Russians, cutaways to Nevsky waiting for the moment to launch his surprise flank attack reassure us of his plan, and promise hope as he charges forward with a bold rallying cry – “For Rus!”

Teutonic Knights seem to float on the air as they rush into battle, almost like faceless spectres.
A violent clash of fighters from both sides, officially commencing one of Eisenstein’s most remarkable set pieces.
“For Rus!” – Nevsky launches his surprise flank attack, and shifts the balance of power.

Eisenstein’s editing paces this battle perfectly, slowing the action at key points as tactics are reassessed, and then building it up again with a fresh shift in power dynamics. We see this unfold when the Germans retreat into a defensive formation and rain arrows on the Russians, but also in the sweet, smaller-scale interaction that sees Vasilisi toss a wooden spar to a surrounded Vasili, saving his life. This is the sort of selfless bravery which holds Nevsky’s forces together while the Teutonic Knights crumble, forcing them onto the frozen lake where, just as he predicted, they shatter the surface and sink into its depths. Cinematographer Eduard Tisse’s practical effects are spectacular all throughout this battle, simulating wintry landscapes with lens filters and chalk dust, but it is here that his genius truly shines in constructing ice sheets out of melted glass and collapsing them upon deflated pontoons.

The Germans retreat into a defensive formation, forcing the Russians to reassess their tactics.
A constant focus on the smaller skirmishes between warriors, uniting Vasili and Vasilisi in this moment of heroism as they are surrounded on all sides.
A tremendous, resounding defeat rendered through montage and practical effects. The ice cracks, and the Germans drown in their heavy armour.

Nevsky’s victory is decisive, though as the camera slowly drifts over the field of slain warriors, Eisenstein takes a moment to mourn the sacrifices that have been made. “He who fell for Russia has a died a hero’s death / I kiss your sightless eyes and caress your cold forehead,” a lone female voice laments, before turning to the glory endowed upon those returning home.

“As to the daring hero who survived the fight,

To him I shall be a loyal wife and a loving spouse.”

Eisenstein’s camera slowly tracks over the battlefield and its bodies, quietly mourning the loss of Russia’s bravest fighters.
A proud return home, exalting the national spirit as woman and children embrace their men.

Indeed, Nevsky’s liberation of Pskov brings romantic resolution for his warriors, neatly tying up their own lingering arcs. With Vasili proclaiming Gavrilo the second-bravest fighter on the battlefield, he is the winner of Olga’s hand in marriage, while Vasili is more than happy to marry the bravest – his saviour, Vasilisi. The curtains are fully pulled back on the Soviet propaganda behind Eisenstein’s artistry in this moment, idyllically promising great rewards to those who put their lives on the line for Russia, as well as its alarming inverse to those who threaten war,

“He who comes to us with a sword shall die by a sword!” Nevsky warns, and it is plain to see here the threat that Stalin wishes to send to his own enemies. Eisenstein may have acted as a reluctant mouthpiece for the Soviet Union, though it is evident in Alexander Nevsky that he saw these political messages as an unfortunate mandate. Still, to forge an impassioned connection to the past through moving images, music, and the skilful synthesis of both – that alone justifies the noble pursuit of creativity in an autocratic culture that threatens its very existence.

Romances cleanly sort themselves out, promising great personal reward to those who risk their life for Russia.
An astounding arrangement of extras among buildings, playing to Eisenstein’s strengths as an epic filmmaker.

Alexander Nevsky is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel and Tubi TV.

Earth (1930)

Oleksandr Dovzhenko | 1hr 15min

The symbiosis between man, machine, and nature is a delicately choreographed dance in Earth, and it isn’t long after farming peasant Vasyl introduces a tractor to his community that we witness each unite in seamless synchronicity. Wheels carve out trenches in the soil, a steady stream of wheat flows through the harvester, and workers efficiently prepare it for the threshers, where unhusked grains shake in rhythmic motion along conveyer belts. After being crushed into flour, bakers swiftly mix and knead it into dough for the ovens, where bread is produced for the hungry masses.

This methodical assembly line sequence may be the closest Earth gets to non-fiction, though Oleksandr Dovzhenko also more broadly dedicates his film to depictions of collectivist agriculture, much like Sergei Eisenstein did a year earlier in his documentary The General Line. Under this system, plots of land owned by wealthier peasants known as kulaks would be consolidated into state-controlled enterprises, with the intention of freeing exploited labourers and industrialising the Soviet economy. Beyond presenting mere fact or opinion of the matter though, Dovzhenko also uses it as the basis of his invigorating visual poetry in Earth, meditating on the profound relationship that binds humans to the land that feeds them.

Dovzhenko’s filmmaking borders on documentary here as he traces the methodical processes of agricultural production in this new industrial era.

Compared to Sergei Eisenstein’s montage theory which sought to collide images in harsh juxtaposition, Dovzhenko’s editing is far more lyrical, emphasising the unity of all life on this planet. Clearly some of cinema’s most spiritual directors have drawn from this too, whether it is Terrence Malick finding divine inspiration in its graceful shots of workers in wheat fields for Days of Heaven, or Andrei Tarkovsky recreating the ethereal gust of wind rippling through long grass in Mirror. The death of Vasyl’s grandfather which occurs in Earth’s opening scene is not a disruption of such organic cycles, but rather a peaceful transition from one state of existence to another, seeing him lay down by an apple orchard surrounded by family. At the moment of his passing, Dovzhenko poignantly cuts to a sunflower gently swaying in the breeze, and thus reveals the fruits of this farmer’s labour thriving beyond his expiry.

Wind ripples through the long grass – scenes of pastoral tranquility that Malick and Tarkovsky would later borrow for Days of Heaven and Mirror.
Vasyl’s grandfather passes away surrounded by the figurative and literal fruits of his labour – his family and his orchard.

One would almost assume that Earth is a soothing expression of pantheistic spirituality were it not for the Soviet Union’s policy of state atheism in this era, though Dovzhenko’s open admiration of the Ukraine’s rural landscapes manages to skirt religious controversy, even as he turns his camera to the heavens. The low angles of vast skies become a strong visual motif here, pushing the horizon to the bottom edge of the frame in long shots, and forming cloudy backdrops to humans, animals, and plant life standing in tranquil stillness. These rural farms are as close to paradise as one can find on earth, yet political divisions in the community nevertheless threaten to strangle their natural evolution alongside Ukraine’s burgeoning agriculture industry.

Horizons hang low in the frame, minimising the earth beneath the vast open skies.
Low angles imprint people, animals, and plant life against the dark grey sky.

As we see in the economic conservatism of Vasyl’s father, Opanas, the kulaks are evidently not the only ones resistant to the collectivism that has swept through the village. He has manually worked the land his entire life, and the state’s rapid shift towards newer technologies is unnerving, driving a wedge between him and Vasyl who excitedly leads the movement’s charge into the future. Their initial confrontation plays out in mid-shots of their backs turned to each other, but as tensions rise, Dovzhenko turns them around and gradually cuts in tighter to their incensed expressions. Quite unusually though, Earth does not depict the black-and-white morality of other Soviet propaganda films of the era, instead allowing for more nuance in its characterisations. Opanas is not the villain of this piece – quite the opposite in fact, as his son’s eventual murder at the hands of an embittered kulak suddenly positions him as our unlikely protagonist.

Fine editing as tensions arise between father and son, beginning with mid-shots of their backs turned before cutting into close-ups of their incensed expressions.

Vasyl died for the new life, and so he is to be buried according to the new ways, a bereaved Opanas declares. There are to be no priests or prayers at his funeral, and in their place the community will sing songs of hope for the future. As Vasyl’s body is carried down the street in a procession, tree branches reach out to caress his face, and in one delicately framed shot he even seems to drift by on a sea of flowers. People and nature alike mourn his passing which, unlike his grandfather’s, has momentarily disrupted the circle of life.

Solidarity in mourning after Vasyl’s murder, sparking a mass procession down the village streets.
Vasyl’s body seems to float past trees and fields in these beautifully framed shots, as if giving him the blessing of nature.

It is during this sequence as well that Dovzhenko’s editing begins to broaden its narrative scope, building to a climax in its deft intercutting between multiple side characters. As the spurned Russian Orthodox priest prays for God to punish the sinners who have refused a traditional service, Vasyl’s bereaved fiancée Natalya cries out in agony, and his killer’s public confession falls on the deaf ears of the grieving, radicalised crowd. Suspicions of his culpability weren’t exactly secret, but now as the guilt-ridden kulak rolls in the dirt madly proclaiming “It’s my earth! I won’t give it up!”, it is apparent that the collectivist movement has already delivered his moral punishment.

Excellent parallel editing as anger, grief, and guilt collide at Vasyl’s funeral.

Perhaps most moving of all though is Opanas’ face among the masses, not broken by anguish, but listening to his son’s eulogy with stoic resolve. “You, Uncle Opanas, mustn’t grieve!” the speaker pronounces. “Vasyl’s fame will fly around the entire world like our Bolshevist airplane above!” Even the skies begin to weep at this point, showering the orchards below with nourishing rain, before concluding with Natalya rediscovering love and security in the arms of another man. The transfer of power back to the Ukrainian people is not bloodless in Earth, but as fresh beginnings wash away old sorrows, Dovzhenko’s formal cadences realign society’s march into the future with the harmonious, seasonal rhythms of the natural world.

A cleansing rain to wash away old sorrows and water the soil, continuing the cycle of life.
New beginnings as Natalya finds love in another man’s arms, healing her wounded soul.

Earth is not currently streaming in Australia.