Category: Film Review

Record of a Tenement Gentleman (1947)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 12min

Whether they were abandoned, lost, or orphaned, young children were among the most impacted civilians of wartime Japan, making seven-year-old Kōhei one of many stranded without parents in Record of a Tenement Gentleman. Every survivor is dealing with their own struggles though, so when O-tane’s neighbour picks him up off the street, the question arises – why must this middle-aged widow be the one to take him in? If you ask her, it is because her friends agreed to randomly select who should be his carer, and she unfortunately drew the lot with an X on it. If you ask Tashiro or Tamekichi, the game was rigged so that all the lots were marked with an X, and she simply revealed hers first. To Yasujirō Ozu though, there is a maternal warmth beneath her spiky exterior that she might refuse to acknowledge, yet which predisposes her to the enormous responsibility of raising Kōhei.

Record of a Tenement Gentleman may be the closest this director of domestic dramas ever got to shooting a war film, rejecting the spectacle of battle for the quiet struggles of those whose homes were torn apart by bloodshed. Death and violence takes place entirely offscreen, never clarifying what led to the demise of O-tane’s husband, and only relaying the backstory of Kōhei’s bombed-out home through a neighbour’s brief exposition. The child’s father left for Japan to find work, we learn, and at some point along the way they were separated.“Your dad’s cold-hearted,” O-tane cynically reasons as they share food together atop a dune, overlooking a breezy, grey ocean.

“You didn’t get lost. You got abandoned.”

Grey skies and oceans form the negative space upon which O’tane and Kōhei’s figures are imprinted, bleakly looking out at the horizon as this middle-aged woman breaks the tragic news to the boy.

Perhaps this is her lack of faith in humanity speaking, or maybe it is her own justification to keep him by her side – not that she is terribly well-equipped as a mother. He is little more than a nuisance to her, earning her ire for failing to win a lottery draw, and repeatedly wetting his bed. Ozu’s storytelling through pillow shots is strong here, not only using his characteristic laundry montages to transition between scenes, but also frequently returning to the wet patch on his hanging sheets to reveal the chronic nature of this issue.

Unusually for Ozu, the narrative progresses through his trademark laundry shots, returning to this hanging blanket to reveal the chronic nature of Kōhei’s bed-wetting.
Ozu patiently builds out postwar Tokyo’s rundown districts, composing long shots littered with junk and debris as O-tane navigates its streets.

Through its elegant union of style and character, what is largely underrated as a minor Ozu film displays graceful, minimalist sophistication, building out Tokyo’s rundown districts and the people that inhabit them. His path may have never crossed with the Italian neorealists of the time, but his ability to find tenderness in mundane suffering certainly aligns with theirs, compassionately studying behaviours as simple as O-tane’s discontented grinding of flour. Hanging kitchen utensils clutter the ceiling in her home too, pressing down from above in isolating wide shots as she smokes alone, and serving a similar purpose as the obstructions so often framed in the foreground.

O-tane’s state of mind is expressed through everyday motions, comparing her slow grinding of flour to the rapid, frustrating grinding later on.
Hanging tools and utensils from the kitchen ceiling, pressing down on O-tane from this isolating wide shot.

When Kōhei runs away one day out of fear of wetting the bed again, Ozu’s focus turns to the rundown streets of O-tane’s neighbourhood, joining her silent, uneasy search for this regretfully mistreated child. There, he lingers on street litter as it is lightly tousled by the breeze, as equally disregarded as those young children who pass their days fishing from the bridge. Their featured presence in cutaways all throughout Record of a Tenement Gentleman is impactful – they live on the periphery of society, yet they are crucial to Ozu’s portrait of innocence in mid-century Japan, particularly centring Kōhei as a generational symbol of resilience.

A very fine montage as O-tane searches for a missing Kōhei, as Ozu cycles through shots set up earlier in the film.
The theme of society’s forgotten children echo poignantly through the scene, ending in this shot of litter blowing in the wind – sharp parallels drawn through imagery.

Upon this child’s safe return home, we see something shift in O-tane, lovingly spoiling him with a day trip to the zoo. “I’ve never felt like this before. Motherly love?” she wonders aloud to her friend, who humorously jabs back that she is more like a grandmother. For all the severity of these characters’ circumstances, Ozu maintains a gentle humour and levity in their interactions, making the unexpected arrival of Kōhei’s father to take him home all the more bittersweet.

Warmth and joy emerge in this surrogate mother-son dynamic, cracking O-tane’s stone heart and providing Kōhei a source of stability.
Ozu knows how to design a frame at this point his career, imbuing the scenery with hypnotic, repetitive motions.

No longer does O-tane find the same satisfaction in her solitude as she did before, and in Kōhei’s absence, the world again becomes a cold and lonely place. Ozu would later refine the conclusion of his character arcs, delivering emotional gut punches in a single, devastating composition rather than a monologue as he does here with O-tane’s explicit moralising, speaking to the life-changing marvel of children. It is fortunate indeed then that Record of a Tenement Gentleman does not give her the final say, but rather returns to the children of Tokyo, this time playing in Ueno Park where she plans to adopt one. There, a statue of Takamori Saigō watches over them like a vigilant protector, connecting this dark period of Japanese history back to one of its greatest icons of honour. O-tane may not strike nearly impressive a figure as this noble samurai, yet as her broken nation emerges from the darkness of war, so too does she embrace a quiet, compassionate heroism of her own.

O-tane’s world is once again a dark and lonely place to be, sinking her into shadows when Kōhei is taken back home.
Takamori Saigō – a symbolic, silent protector of Japan’s children, who smoke, talk, and play at his feet in the film’s closing pillow shots.

Record of a Tenement Gentleman is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Weapons (2025)

Zach Cregger | 2hr 8min

When seventeen children from a single third-grade class rise from bed at 2.17am, walk out their front doors, and run into the night with their arms outstretched, we feel as if we are witnessing something deeply primordial unfold. George Harrison’s sombre, mellow vocals accompany the montage, cautioning the town to ‘Beware the Darkness’ – and indeed, this is only the beginning of the trauma soon to be inflicted on this fragmented community. The child’s eerie narration which recounts these events even frames it as a twisted fairy tale, albeit one that it claims to be a “true story,” daring us to accept the reality that no grieving parent ever wants to confront.

Following on from his debut Barbarian, Zach Cregger is once again exposing the horrors hidden beneath America’s suburban façade in Weapons, though this time ambitiously branching his narrative out further than before. Its structure is a shattered mirror, split into six pieces which reflect the perspectives of different individuals – the bewildered teacher, the bereaved parent, the unassuming principal, the feckless police officer, the homeless witness, and the single, surviving child from the decimated class. Each segment offers answers to questions raised in others, though due to their non-linear arrangement, it is the act of piecing them together which reveals the full scope of this collective nightmare. Unlike so many other contemporary horror films, Weapons cannot be pinned down to a straightforward allegory, instead building its formal strength upon the ingenuity of its disquieting, fractured storytelling.

One of the most haunting images from a horror film in recent years, sending a class of young children running into the darkness with their arms outstretched.
Six characters, six intersecting perspectives – Cregger’s formal ambition continues to grow with this inventive narrative structure, sprawling its horror across the town.

With that said, there is a thematic undercurrent of addiction which runs strong through multiple characters here, beginning with the teacher whose entire class almost entirely disappeared overnight – Justine. The anguish of losing these children is only compounded by the scrutiny of a town desperate for a scapegoat, driving her back to the familiar refuge of liquor stores and bars. Her ex-boyfriend Paul suffers from similar vices, while wandering vagrant James seems wholly dedicated in his mission to score meth, and even the junk food that decorates Principal Marcus’ home subtly underscores his surrender to unhealthy habits. Of them all though, it is Archer who is most passionately dedicated to his obsession, consumed by grief and zealously seeking answers to his son’s disappearance.

Justine’s lesson on parasites and the documentary that Marcus watches about mind-controlling fungi serve as eerie foreshadowing here, echoing the underlying fear which runs deep in Weapons – total loss of physical and psychological control. Cregger deftly teases out the terror which lurks within the home of the class’s only survivor, Alex, only gradually revealing its domestic decay to be a manifestation of addiction’s corrosive grip. Though no fault lies with his immediate family, it is as if a spirit has drained this house of all joy and love, rendering its occupants empty vessels of their former selves.

Cregger has further to grow as a visual artist, but he still displays an admirable control over lighting and framing within ordinary homes to underscore the lurking dread.

Of course, the truth of the danger lies even deeper than Alex initially comprehends, and Cregger relishes unravelling it with a slow, suffocating dread. At some point during each of our six lead characters’ segments, he invariably hangs his camera on the back of their heads, attaching us to their overwhelmed psyches through steady, prolonged tracking shots. Formally, this device is also an extension of the subjectivity woven into the very narrative, matching its haunting mosaic of intersecting perspectives.

A strong stylistic and formal choice in the recurring tracking shots, following behind each primary character as we adopt their perspective.

If there is any weakness to Weapons’ structure, then it lies in the digressions of some later chapters, swerving away from the single point-of-view conceit to revisit previously established characters. Nevertheless, it is a minor detail that Cregger efficiently smooths over with his parallel editing, and the emotional continuity carried by Julia Garner’s highly-strung presence certainly helps too. If any single performance takes the spotlight here, it is her portrayal of a deeply flawed schoolteacher, known for frequently overstepping boundaries with children yet unable to resist her own maternal instincts.

In terms of pure horror, Cregger’s splintered storytelling effectively heightens the element of the unknown too through chilling, elongated suspense. Although Justine investigates Alex’s house and finds two motionless silhouettes inside, it isn’t until James’ segment that we see their faces, and only once we reach Alex’s do we learn who they are. Similarly, visions of faces painted in clown makeup haunt the dreams of multiple characters, casting a chilling omen that finally comes into focus with the arrival of Alex’s flamboyant Aunt Gladys. Her bright orange wig, oversized glasses, and smeared lipstick might almost be mistaken for a drag queen’s getup if she did not project such a sinister aura, suggesting a far more malevolent force hiding beneath that mask of camp eccentricity.

Surreal symbolism in Justine and Archer’s tormented dreams.

This is a film of searing, unshakable images after all, not so easily forgotten thanks to their uncanny distortion of the familiar. There is no soul behind the bulging eyes of one possessed victim, their mouth black with vomit and face grotesquely bloodied, nor is there any humanity in the jerky movements of a woman staggering through the darkness towards an unconscious target. Cregger knows when to hold a shot, and it is especially in that latter scene where the lingering camera draws the tension to a breaking point, refusing to reveal who or what this figure is shambling towards us.

One of the most disturbing scenes of the film unfolds in broad daylight, stripping a possessed victim of their soul and humanity.
Cregger returns to this black doorway multiple times, mounting suspense around what lies on the other side of its darkness.

Perhaps most frustrating of all is the helplessness of these adults in addressing the local catastrophe. We are consistently led to place our trust in authority figures, yet each time we are let down, watching them fall prey to an unfathomable force not even they can grasp. As such, Weapons is also lightly imbued with the spectre of a school shooting metaphor, seeing parents desperately try and fail to rationalise the inexplicable destruction of innocence – yet this explanation alone does not capture the complete, psychological disorientation that saturates the film. Even when the peril is finally driven into the light and comically mocked, the lifelong trauma remains, reminding the community of their existential fragility. Grief is a corrosive, all-consuming affliction after all, and Cregger renders its sprawling impact with sinister precision in Weapons, hollowing out a forsaken town suspended between denial and dread.

Weapons is currently playing in cinemas.

There Was a Father (1942)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 43min

The emotional bond between Shuhei and his son Ryohei may be strong in There Was a Father, yet there is a wistful sorrow in the past tense of this title which suggests the memory of some earlier, tragic loss. That patriarchal title of honour is one Shuhei struggles to lay claim to after failing in his duty as a teacher, inadvertently letting one student drown during an excursion under his supervision. In his eyes, a father is a role model, an educator, and a protector, so a man who cannot fulfil his most basic duty for any child in their care has no business looking after them.

Shuhei’s grief reverberates far beyond his resignation though, sending Ryohei to a boarding school and thereby placing a physical distance between them. He may never truly stop being a father, and Yasujirō Ozu even recognises the undeniable harmony of this relationship through the recurring shot of their fishing lines being cast in perfect unison, yet Chishū Ryū’s performance nevertheless resonates a stoic self-pity for his negligence. Guilt requires atonement, and atonement is a duty to be undertaken in meditative isolation. Having lost his wife some years ago too, Shuhei’s one shot at redemption now seems to be through the professional success of his only living family member.

Ozu illustrates harmony across generations through the simple motion of fishing lines cast in unison, mirrored between father and son.
A beautifully devastating detail – setting up the neat row of umbrellas, and then knocking one down as students rush out to learn of their drowned classmate.

Prior to the instigating tragedy, Ozu is meticulous in setting up Shuhei’s ordered, untroubled world. Symmetrical rows of students impeccably frame their teacher in the classroom, and even when they leave for a lakeside retreat, static pillow shots linger on their perfectly aligned umbrellas resting against a wall. Nevertheless, the peace is soon disturbed by the news of one boy’s boat capsizing, and the toppling of a single umbrella in the subsequent rush makes for a devastatingly symbolic detail. Before reaching the overturned rowboat though, Ozu neatly inserts a single cutaway to a nearby stone pillar, as if to punctuate the disaster with a reflective, melancholy sigh.

Ozu resists the sensational and grotesque, letting the death of this student sink in through pillow shots that show everything but his body.

Even amid dire misfortune, chaos is simply not part of Ozu’s cinematic language, and There Was a Father especially asserts his proclivity for ritualistic repetition to smooth over emotional disruptions. When Shuhei breaks the news to Ryohei while fishing that he will be sent to a boarding school, the scene is bookended by two shots of another stone pillar near the river, and when this young boy eventually grows up, another pattern is established as he follows in his father’s occupational footsteps. “Your duty is to study hard,” this young teacher advises one homesick student, echoing the ethos he was raised with, though his dedicated diligence does not come at the expense of long-distance visits to his father in Tokyo.

Ozu uses this stone pillar as a sort of bookmark to his scene, turning cutaways into visual punctuation bridging one moment in time to the next.
Further mirroring between Shuhei and his son – both taking the role of teachers, and appearing almost identical in their suits and ties.
Wayward students perched atop stone pillars like crows, letting time drift away.

Shuhei and Ryohei’s reunion dominates the second half of There Was a Father, frequently leaning into wide shots of the two relaxing in carefully composed interiors. Within the grand view of Ozu’s career, this is where his thorough layering of shots through shoji doors begins, capturing frames within frames which draw our eyes to characters in their domestic habitats. Here he continues to quietly underscore the parallels between generations of men, beginning one scene with Ryohei smoking on his own, joining them together in a discussion of marriage prospects, before ending with an almost identical shot of a lone Shuhei taking his son’s position.

Ozu relishes the reunion between Shuhei and Ryohei, returning to this fishing motif which carries across years in their lives.
Again, astounding parallels drawn in the framing, bookending a scene by isolating both in identical shots.

Loneliness is inevitable in any relationship strained by distance though – in this instance, giving way to a tension which arises over Ryohei’s desire to quit his job and move closer to his father. “Do your duty for both of us,” Shuhei demands, longing for Ryohei to become the teacher he believes he never could be, and revealing how profoundly his past failure still weighs on his parental expectations.

It is also during Ryohei’s trip to Tokyo though that Shuhei finds companionship in an even more unlikely reunion, organised by his now-grown students. It has been a decade since their graduation, and while their teacher has spent the interim living in reclusive guilt, they have held onto nothing but positive memories of his mentorship. He continues to visit the deceased student’s grave out of a sense of remorse, he tells them, but is evident that his impact on their lives far outweighs this single tragedy. Through the low perspective of Ozu’s tatami shots, we become part of the seated celebration too, observing how its demonstration of enduring appreciation begins to heal the ex-teacher’s wounded soul.

Healing through reminiscence, celebration, and Ozu’s tatami shots, giving Shuhei the closure he needs from old students whose fond memories far outweigh any consideration of his failures.

If Shuhei’s guilt was keeping him clinging to a lonely life of penitence, perhaps this is just the closure he needed to finally escape it once and for all. Growing disorientated and weak, he collapses one morning as he gets ready to leave for work, struck by a heart attack. Ozu once again uses a cutaway to pause before we move to the hospital, this time meditatively lingering on an array of flowerpots, a clothing horse, and a watering can sitting in the garden, each item never to be touched by Shuhei again. Ozu creates a sort of temporal negative space in moments like these, not quite part of one scene or the next, but rather offering a soothing transition to prepare us for significant changes in the lives of his characters.

The stray garden items of Shuhei’s home, left exactly where he last put them down – his absence is painfully felt in this pillow shot.

Lining the corridor outside Shuhei’s hospital room, his past students gather, honouring the man who became a father to each of them. “It’s nothing to be sad about. I did the very best I could,” he mumbles with his dying breath, finally finding forgiveness within himself. As for Ryohei, this final week spent together was the happiest of his life, he admits, having always wanted to live with his father since being sent away to boarding school. This is a man who died with his dignity intact, and the teary crowd which gathers around his deathbed in the final minutes of There Was a Father pays thankful testament to that, recognising a remarkable, resilient legacy which transcended the grief etched deep in his soul.

Students gather round the deathbed of their old teacher, mourning and commemorating a life which touched far more people than Shuhei ever realised.

There Was a Father is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family (1941)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 46min

When the rock at the centre of the Toda family is lost, there is little that remains to hold its fragments together – though the enthusiastic attendance of Shintarō’s 69th birthday celebrations might originally suggest otherwise. Surely his children would loyally support each other after his passing, and they would certainly never try to palm off their now-homeless mother and youngest sister Setsuko, effectively washing their hands of responsibility. For those who comfortably belong to Japan’s upper-class though, family ties are diminished by their lack of interdependence, and Yasujirō Ozu’s filmic foray into the stratosphere of the elite exposes the true weakness in their relationships.

With his focus shifting away from society’s disenfranchised, the personal conflicts in Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family stem more apathy than the insecurity of Ozu’s previous characters, marking a notable departure from the industrial wastelands of The Only Son or the provincial streets of A Story of Floating Weeds. Perhaps this break from rundown locations is partly why its visuals are a little more muted, but it’s tough to criticise his mise-en-scène too much when it still bears the markings of his carefully set interiors. Here, patterned wallpaper forms delicate frames around doorways, while abundant flowers densely crowd out compositions at Shintarō’s funeral, commemorating his life through immoderate displays of wealth.

It is at Shintarō’s birthday party though where we get our first taste of this family’s decay, revealed in pillow shots which follow his initial collapse and move into an empty doctor’s office. There, a grandfather clock rhythmically swings its pendulum with the repetitive, ringing telephone, marking the first of several instances that Ozu calls upon this symbol of time and mortality – not that the Toda children necessarily consider the weight that either bear on their lives. Apparently the cultural tradition of honouring one’s elders only applies to the underprivileged who continue to lean on them, and even after being wracked by Shintarō’s post-mortem debts, still these siblings dedicate the bare minimum to looking after their mother.

When Mrs. Toda and Setsuko move in with the eldest brother Shin’ichiro, disharmony finds fertile ground, eventually sprouting into a confrontation between his wife Kazuko and Setsuko. Quarrels in Ozu films are rarely impassioned, yet resentment simmers in glacial accusations, beginning with Setsuk’s simple request that Kazuko avoid playing piano while she and her mother are sleeping. Kazuko is seemingly happy to oblige, but not without questioning why they didn’t greet the guest they had earlier that day, openly laying out her disdain for all to see.

Perhaps then peace will be found living with the eldest sister Chizuko, but when Setsuko expresses her desire to get a job, she is chastised for even considering the disgraceful notion of joining the working class. Elsewhere in this household, Chizuko’s resistance to disciplining her rebellious son sparks a clash with her mother, and ends in Chizuko sharing perhaps the harshest words of the film.

“Just stay away from my son.”

With this arrangement failing as well, Ayako is next to reluctantly offer her home, so she is relieved indeed when a frustrated Mrs. Toda resolves instead to reside in the family’s only remaining property – a rundown house by the sea. If there is any redemption to be found among the Toda siblings, then it is through the final sibling Shōjirō, whose move to China shortly after his father’s death has largely insulated him from these affairs. Upon his return for the one-year anniversary of Shintarō’s passing, he effectively becomes Ozu’s mouthpiece, scolding each of his siblings for neglecting their gracious mother. His home in China is not ideal given its distance, but it is nevertheless a safe place for his mother to relax and Setsuko to find work, free from judgement.

Rarely does Ozu take so firm a stance on the tension between tradition and modernity as he does in Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family. Shin’ichiro, Chizuko, and Ayako may not be villains, but the shallowness with which they approach their personal responsibilities brands them hypocrites in his eyes, holding the foundations of their privilege in little esteem. Prosperity is evidently not the measure of family bonds in this cutting class critique. Through grief and adversity, the hollowness of their affluence is laid bare, and reverent devotion for one’s roots holds on by a single, resilient thread.

Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Warfare (2025)

Alex Garland and Ray Mendoza | 1hr 35min

For a filmmaker as cerebral as Alex Garland, Warfare is an unexpected swing away from the realm of speculative fiction, chronicling a mission undertaken by U.S. Navy SEALS in the thick of the Iraq War. For his co-director Ray Mendoza, it couldn’t be more personal. Not only did he serve as a combat communications specialist during the Second Battle of Ramadi, but his experiences form the autobiographical foundation of this narrative, following in the steps of Oliver Stone to bring a visceral, firsthand authenticity to cinematic depictions of war. He is our anchor within this ensemble too, offering the subjective perspective through which the procedural banality of war is filtered, and ultimately transformed into a harrowing, disorienting horror.

Mendoza has his own fair share of experience in the movie industry, acting as a military advisor for many Hollywood productions including Garland’s own Civil War, though it is evident where the co-directors’ respective skill sets lie here. Credit must be given to Garland for the neat handling of Warfare’s real-time structure, focusing on day-to-day operations within the armed forces as Mendoza’s platoon takes control of a house, executes a sniper overwatch mission, and drastically pivots when they come under attack. Having honed his skills directing some of the best high-concept films of the past decade, he brings patience and precision to the storytelling, while Mendoza draws on his own direct experience to shape its emotional core with remarkable detail.

With that said, it is no coincidence that this significant step outside Garland’s usual mode of filmmaking also results in one of his weaker efforts. This is a director whose contemplations of consciousness, identity, and fate have often been grounded in otherworldly settings and soundscapes, encouraging a psychological disconnection from the physical world, though here he trades off introspection for the brutal immediacy of combat. The result is immersive, mounting tension as Mendoza’s platoon observes suspicious activities around the market down the street, yet Dunkirk this is not. Perhaps out of respect for his co-director’s vision, Garland’s direction never quite mounts to anything more than the primal, sensory experience of each passing moment, leaving it slightly lacking in formal ambition.

Still, Warfare’s tactile realism gives plenty of opportunities to admire the collaboration between these two directors, particularly when the enemy lands their first attack on the platoon’s hideout with a hand grenade and a hail of bullets. The injury suffered by their medic Elliott is reason enough to call him an emergency evacuation, though when the team taking him out are blindsided by a makeshift bomb, the mission spirals into chaos. Yellow smog fills the air, smothering wounded and fallen soldiers alike in a sickly hue, and Garland periodically drops out sound altogether as the survivors struggle to regain their senses.

That this building hosts a pair of innocent Iraqi families who have been forced to wait inside a bedroom only adds to the moral complexity at play. They are largely sidelined in the narrative, yet their terror exposes the collateral impact of such an invasive mission, treated as secondary to the platoon’s strategic objectives. This tension between duty and consequence is further amplified too when Lieutenant Jake’s request for a second evacuation is denied due to concerns over another explosive device, effectively leaving them stranded. In response, he orders his subordinate to impersonate a commanding officer, giving unauthorised approval and breaking a whole host of protocols along the way.

Garland and Mendoza do not bother with any sort of epilogue to close out their tale of full-throttled panic and strained procedure. As the platoon’s evacuation tank noisily rolls out of town, it leaves an eerie silence in its wake, broken only by the quiet sounds of Iraqi civilians nervously exiting their homes. If there’s any catharsis to be found in Warfare, it is suspended in this uneasy ambiguity, emptied of soldiers yet filled with uncertainty for those left behind. There is little time for reflection amid the violent chaos, but as the dust settles and life feebly resumes, Garland and Mendoza leave us with a sobering image of the enduring psychological residue that lingers long after the fighting has ended.

Warfare is currently streaming on Prime Video.

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.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025)

Matt Shakman | 1hr 55min

Leading up to its release, The Fantastic Four: First Steps seemed to have all the right ingredients for a standout instalment in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, poised to defy the iconic superhero team’s history of poor movie adaptations. WandaVision and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia have previously benefited from Matt Shakman’s direction, and even the marketing heralded a rare Marvel film with its own unique aesthetic, blending retro-futurism with mid-century modern production design. For the first act too, we’re given exactly what we were promised – a cosy family dynamic à la The Jetsons, set in an eternally optimistic, never-ending Space Age held together by these noble astronauts.

It is once the threat of the planet-devouring Galactus emerges that The Fantastic Four falters, shedding its kitschy 60s fashion and Kubrickian interiors for overblown digital effects rendered with far less imagination. Either Shakman suddenly forgot how to use colour at this point, or he was too distracted by the apocalyptic scale to carry through his commendable style, but either way there’s little which gives these climactic stakes any visual character. For what is effectively one of the most powerful beings in the Marvel multiverse, Galactus is disappointingly dull, only vaguely becoming a figure of interest when he carelessly treads through New York City like some cosmic kaiju. Even when Shakman does return to his inspired production design, it feels wasted, relegated to the background of conversations and denied any thoughtful framing.

This is a film which works best when its central cast is simply allowed to relax in each other’s company, letting Mr. Fantastic and Sue Storm work through their new roles as parents, while Johnny Storm and the Thing fill in as uncles to the newborn Franklin. Besides the insufferably forced running gag around one character’s cheesy catchphrase, their collective chemistry is organic, especially capturing the joys and concerns of raising a child in Pedro Pascal and Vanessa Kirby’s performances. With each core member of the team representing the four classical elements, they are firmly rooted in archetypes that shape and balance their relationships, yet are also given room to evolve beyond them.

Family is about having something bigger than yourself, we are told, though it’s hard not to wish their story engaged more closely with the moral dilemma which forces them to choose between their baby and the world at large. That it takes little agonising to decide which direction to take is fine, though even the social consequences are relatively muted in this utopia which elevates them to an almost unquestionable, godlike status. Their ability to unite every single nation against an alien threat is effortless, and as such, the story never truly tests our heroes beyond the superficial strength of their willpower. Shakman’s vision of the The Fantastic Four may gesture towards greatness, but it ultimately retreats into hollow grandeur, leaving behind a world rich in style and depth for a simulation that never dares to challenge its own ideals.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps is currently playing in theatres.

28 Years Later (2025)

Danny Boyle | 1hr 55min

The reports at the end of 28 Days Later suggesting that the ‘infected’ would soon die of starvation were wrong. These zombie-like creatures are no longer simply people driven to their most primal, aggressive instincts by the Rage Virus – they have effectively evolved into their own species by the time we join Lindisfarne’s remote island community in 28 Years Later, feeding off worms when more warm-blooded food sources are scarce. Extraordinarily, there even seem to be signs of culture developing among them, with rituals, family units, and social hierarchies giving structure to their otherwise chaotic existences. It is enough to make an observer pause in wonder at the sheer persistence of life, though not for so long that one might hang around and risk their own.

Danny Boyle’s return to the horror series which redefined the zombie genre is very welcome, shifting back to his cinematic strengths that were absent in the disappointingly milquetoast Yesterday. This is a filmmaker whose passion bleeds from his craftsmanship, building upon the gritty kineticism of the digital camcorders he experimented with in 28 Days Later, and turning to iPhones as the main tool to recapture that raw immediacy. Lightweight film technology has improved vastly since then, now allowing for a higher-resolution image, yet 12-year-old Spike’s journey to the perilous mainland is nevertheless well-served by this handheld, guerilla-style shooting. Through his coming-of-age, he must confront a broken world stripped of its humanity, but in that visceral chaos 28 Years Later also uncovers a melancholy beauty that so many survivors stubbornly reject.

Gone are lo-fi digital textures of the preceding films in this series, as Boyle turns instead to higher-resolution iPhones while maintaining a visceral immediacy in his cinematography.

Local scavenger Jamie has no reason to suspect that a father-son hunting trip to the infested mainland would inspire Spike to run away from home, but upon discovering his dad’s lies and selfishness, that is exactly what he does. His mother Isla has been sick for some time, and whispers of a reclusive doctor spark his desperate hope, so the young boy ultimately sees no other option than to seek him out with her in tow. Intercut with his initial departure are newsreels and clips of wars from throughout history, often featuring children marching in military units, and drawing parallels to his own abrupt transition into adulthood. Boyle does not rely heavily on any musical score here, but rather a passage read from Rudyard Kipling’s haunting poem Boots, transposing the bleak thoughts of a Second Boer War infantryman onto Spike’s expedition. Through the sheer force of repetition, the maddening, hypnotic monotony of the battlefield rises to a panicked urgency, yet never changes its relentless rhythm.

“(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)

There’s no discharge in the war!

Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you.

(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again);

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ em,

An’ there’s no discharge in the war!”

‘Boots’, Rudyard Kipling (1903)
Excellent location shooting upon the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, weaving its unique geography into the narrative itself.

This entire section may very well be the cinematic peak of 28 Years Later. Boyle’s bullet time effect is established here when the infected are killed, freezing the action as the camera rapidly hurtles through space around them, and jump cuts also imbue the action with a grating abrasiveness. Unfortunately, he doesn’t follow through on everything that he sets up, eventually repurposing the use of infrared filters from horrifying cutaways to dream sequences before dropping them altogether. The overall stylistic coherence is somewhat questionable, especially given the handful of other offhand embellishments that aren’t revisited at all, but the film’s dramatic angles and abrasive editing continue to flourish even when his erratic swings falter.

Boyle uses silhouettes effectively when shooting the infected from a distance, raising tension through these gorgeous long shots.

Boyle is often far more appreciated for his dynamic pacing than his mise-en-scène, and yet the cinematography of 28 Years Later still finds a wondrous beauty in the natural world, striking haunting silhouettes against the sky and revelling in its surreal aurora borealis. When Spike eventually reaches his destination and meets the elusive Dr Kelson, Boyle also delivers what may be the film’s defining set piece, revealing a forest of bone pillars constructed around a soaring tower of skulls. It is called Memento Mori, the doctor explains, Latin for “Remember you must die.” The sight of this macabre art installation may stoke fear from a distance, yet it also becomes the channel through which Dr Kelson expresses his immense respect for all life, incorporating the remains of infected and uninfected alike – “because they are alike,” he insists.

A wildly creative set piece at the film’s climax, paying immense respected to the cycles of life and death through this formidable forest of bones.

Ralph Fiennes is remarkably well-cast in this relatively small role, embodying a gentle eccentricity that has been deprived of human contact for many years, but which has made peace with things no one else dares face. He stands at the centre of the film’s entire ethos, nudging Spike forward in his journey to confront death with grace, birth with tenderness, and transformation with courage. Through the three characters who represent each, Boyle constructs an unusual trinity, echoing those natural rhythms of existence that persist in a world that has seemingly destroyed them.

As Spike reaches this milestone in his maturation, fires and memories intertwine through an ethereal montage set around the Memento Mori shrine, now illuminated as an icon of extraordinary hope and reverence. For all its pulpy violence and bloody horror, 28 Years Later is also surprisingly soulful in its lyrical contemplations, asserting a belief in the soul that transcends whatever version of humanity we abide by. With various references to a mysterious “Jimmy” scattered all throughout this film, the stage is set for an intriguing sequel which Boyle is unfortunately not returning to the director’s chair for, instead passing the considerable responsibility to Nia DaCosta. Regardless of where that future instalment goes though, Boyle’s return to his beloved, existential franchise stands as a fierce act of anthropological curiosity, not so much questioning if humanity can be saved than whether it is still worth defining.

The tease of ‘Jimmy’ laced through 28 Years Later makes for excellent foreshadowing, fully earning that cliffhanger as we head into the sequel.

28 Years Later is currently playing in theatres.