by Allan Fish
(Japan 1934 76m) not on DVD
Aka. Tanari no Yae-chan
When I’m breaking windows
d/w Yasujiro Shimazu ph Takashi Kuwabara, Kiyoshi Terao m Hikaru Saotome art Yonekazu Wakito, Toshiro Kumurai
Yukuchi Iwata (Shosaku Hattori), Choko Iida (Hamako), Yumeko Aizome (Yaeko), Den Obinata (Keitaro Arai), Sanae Takasugi (Etsuko Manabe), Ryotaro Mizushima (Ikuzo Arai), Fumiko Katsuragi (Matsuko), Akio Isono (Seiji), Yoshiko Okada (Kyoko), Ayako Katsuragi (Sugiko), Shozaburo Abe (glazier),
The director’s name conjures up a hybrid of two other directors, and in truth though I have only seen two films by Yasujiro Shimazu, the hybrid wouldn’t actually be all that inaccurate for there are essences of Ozu and Shimizu to be glimpsed in his work. He’s not a name that you’ll find in many textbooks outside of his native Japan, but one only has to look at the supporting credits to see his influence, with three future directors of note working as assistant director or photographer, Keisuke Kinoshita, Shiro Toyoda and Kozaburo Yoshimura. His influence on them has been well noted.
The Miss Yae of the title is Yaeko, the youngest daughter of one of two families who live side by side as neighbours and really like one extended family, the Hattoris and the Arais. The two fathers both work in the city and spend their evenings drinking sake at one of their homes, the two mothers share their troubles over a pot of tea in the afternoon and act as surrogate aunts to their respective children. Yaeko spends time with her neighbour’s brothers, Seiji and, especially, Keitaro. Things become complicated only when Yaeko’s elder sister Kyoko returns home after leaving her husband and sets her sights on Keitaro, and then again by the news that the Hattoris will be moving away after the father is relocated to Korea by his company. Yaeko, however, stays behind to live with her neighbours to finish her schooling, while Kyoko runs away again.
It begins with one of the most deceptively simple shots in Japanese film, a left-to-right tracking shot from the front of one house past the two brothers playing baseball and through to the other house on the right. The land between where the brothers play seems like a communal land from the outset, and the closeness of the two houses is established from the outset. The title suggests that Shimazu took the tale on behalf of the two brothers, in that it’s Yaeko who is the neighbour and not them, and that would make sense in light of the finale where she ceases to be neighbour and becomes one of the family. Her attraction to Keitaro and his to her is plain to see, but Shimazu leaves their story open-ended, for in the end it’s a story about two families who act as one. Indeed, it’s a feeling that captures much that is best about the Japanese culture of the time while also managing to appeal to western audiences, not merely in the intrinsic details such as baseball, but in the universal elements of their relationships.
What leaves the biggest impression, however, is the delicate humour. The scenes where the brothers smash windows with their baseball, going to see Betty Boop at the cinema and of the fathers making merry are rightly memorable, but it’s the scene where Keitaro goes to his neighbour’s home and is treated to a meal that I recall with the most pleasure. The delight of his being given such a feast turning to despair as he carelessly spills the tea on the mat and tries to hide it from Yaeko and her schoolmate. Then the anxiety turning to embarrassment as he tries to eat while the girls discuss their breast sizes and one of them says how much Keitaro reminds her of Fredric March (should have gone to Specsavers) and when Yaeko offers to darn his socks only to find out that his feet are somewhat sweaty. It’s details like this, the little things, that Shimazu is a master of, but if there’s one thing I take away from it it’s his pleasure in depicting the joy of eating, both for its own sake and as a communal event. The performances are all excellent from names you’ll likely never have heard of, but special mention to Aizome, who is an absolute delight in the sort of role later played by Kyoko Kagawa.
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Ozu and Shimizu adds up to a winning artistic chemistry!
Excellent review of the delightful film by one of the most under-appreciated directors! I really liked this film, precisely because of these little delicate humor as you mention here. And the fine direction brought about very natural acting among the actors, especially Den Obinata, the male lead. Most striking aspect of the film is the very natural delivery of speech in the film, almost rare even in the Japanese films many years later.
I hope people will be more interested in his films.