Avatar (James Cameron, 2009)

Sigourney Weaver in Avatar

Jake Sully: Sam Worthington
Neytiri: Zoe Saldana
Dr. Grace Augustine: Sigourney Weaver
Col. Miles Quaritch: Stephen Lang
Trudy Chacón: Michelle Rodriguez
Parker Selfridge: Giovanni Ribisi
Norm Spellman: Joel David Moore
Moat: CCH Pounder
Eytukan: Wes Studi
Dr. Max Patel: Dileep Rao

Director: James Cameron
Screenplay: James Cameron
Cinematography: Mauro Fiore
Production design: Rick Carter, Martin Stromberg
Film editing: James Cameron, John Refoua, Stephen E. Rivkin
Music: James Horner

When it first appeared, James Cameron's Avatar was as much an event as a movie. People flocked to see its groundbreaking 3D and motion-capture CGI effects and to marvel at its colorful creation of a distant world. Even most of the critics raved, caught off-guard yet again by Cameron's expensive audacity, as they had been with Titanic in 1997. But as with Titanic, the passing of time has taken some of the glamour off of the film. Cameron had certainly excelled his contemporaries as a technological innovator, but 3D is beginning to become passé (as it did in its first insurgence in the 1950s) and motion-capture has become a standard technique. So it's possible to concentrate on Avatar as movie, and thus to find it wanting. For one thing, it's shamelessly derivative. The central plot, of a soldier "going native," is that of Kevin Costner's Dances With Wolves (1990). The Na'vi belief in the mystical unity of all things is identical to the Force from the Star Wars movies. And the gung-ho Marines and villainous representatives of the military-industrial complex are borrowed by Cameron from his own Aliens (1986). Even the Na'vi, with their elongated torsos, big eyes, flat noses, and long round tails, remind me oddly of the Pink Panther. Except blue. The characters are stock: Sigourney Weaver is again playing the tough, adversary whom the exploitative bad guys underestimate. Sam Worthington's Jake Sully is the white man savior of the native peoples. And Stephen Lang's bull-headed Col. Quaritch is the hissable villain with no apparent redeeming qualities. Cameron even calls the material being sought by the earthlings in the movie "unobtanium," a variant spelling of the impossible substance that has been called "unobtainium" by engineers since the 1950s. The Marvel Studios screenwriters at least have the wit to call their minerals "adamantium"  and "vibranium." But maybe that's quibbling: Avatar remains an influential and extremely watchable movie, even if it's predictable and overlong -- cuts of the film range from 162 to 178 minutes.

A Colt Is My Passport (Takashi Nomura, 1967)

Joe Shishido in A Colt Is My Passport

Shuji Kamimura: Joe Shishido
Shun Shiozaki: Jerry Fujio
Mina: Chitose Kobayashi
Shimazu's Successor: Ryotaro Suji
Shimazu: Kanjuro Arashi
Funaki: Shoki Fukae
Senzaki: Eimei Esumi
Kaneko: Jun Hongo
Miyoshi: Akio Miyabe
Otatsu: Toyoko Takechi
Otawara: Takamaru Sasaki
Tsugawa: Asao Uchida
Apartment Receptionist: Zeko Nakamura
Hit Man: Kojiro Kusanagi
Barge Captain: Zenji Yamada

Director: Takashi Nomura
Screenplay: Hideichi Nagahara, Nobuo Yamada
Based on a novel by Shenji Fujiwara
Cinematography: Shigeyoshi Mine
Production design: Toshiyuki Matsui
Film editing: Akira Suzuki
Music: Harumi Ibe

I didn't see any Colts in A Colt Is My Passport, but there are several rifles, pistols, and shotguns, some dynamite, and the protagonist carries a Beretta, so I suspect the title is a bit of poetic license designed to make the Japanese gangster into the equivalent of the gunfighter of the American Wild West. Harumi Ibe's music score, with its guitar, harmonica, and whistler evoking Ennio Morricone's scores for Sergio Leone's spaghetti Westerns, seems designed for the same effect. But why court comparisons? The Japanese gangster movie is its own well-defined genre, and Joe Shishido is its superstar. In A Colt Is My Passport he's Shuji, a hit man hired to off a crooked businessman, which he does with cool efficiency. Unfortunately, the guys who hired him immediately turn against Shuji, so he's soon on the run, along with his sidekick, Shun, played by the Anglo-Japanese actor and singer Jerry Fujio. (Fujio even gets to croon a ballad at one point in the movie, slowing down the otherwise non-stop action.) The movie is filled with James Bond-like gadgets and car chases: At one point, Shuji and Sun find themselves kidnapped and thrown into the back seat of a car that they have had rigged with an extra braking system, apparently just in case they find themselves in such a predicament. Engaging the brake causes the car to skid, throwing the bad guys into the windshield and knocking them out. And so it goes until Shun is captured and beaten to a pulp, whereupon Shuji bargains with the bad guys, giving himself up to them so Shun and the pretty motel waitress Mina, who has helped them, can escape. Apparently the bad guys trust Shuji enough that he has time to work on a way of defeating them: He rigs up some booby traps for the showdown they have arranged on a landfill, and the movie ends with Shuji staggering away from the carnage. It's all great fun in that peculiarly heartless and mindless way that such thrillers have.

Black Panther (Ryan Coogler, 2018)

Michael B. Jordan and Chadwick Boseman in Black Panther

Black Panther T'Challa / Black Panther: Chadwick Boseman
Erik Killmonger: Michael B. Jordan
Nakia: Lupita Nyong'o
Okoye: Danai Gurira   
Everett K. Ross: Martin Freeman
W'Kabi:  Daniel Kaluuya 
Shuri: Letitia Wright
M'Baku: Winston Duke
N'Jobu: Sterling K. Brown
Ramonda: Angela Bassett
Zuri: Forest Whittaker
Ulysses Klaue: Andy Serkis
Ayo: Florence Kasumba 
T'Chaka: John Kani 

Director: Ryan Coogler
Screenplay: Ryan Coogler, Joe Robert Cole
Based on comics by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby
Cinematography: Rachel Morrison
Production design: Hannah Beachler
Film editing: Debbie Berman, Michael P. Shawver
Music : Ludwig Göransson

This past week, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences put on hold its proposed introduction of a new category: best popular film. The idea provoked a barrage of criticism and mockery. Did this mean the Academy was admitting that its recent best picture winners had not been popular? What criteria would be used to determine popularity? The box office take, for example, or would that be a tacit admission that the Oscars have always been in it for the money? It was also noted that the idea was not a new one: At the very first Oscars in 1929, two "best picture" awards had been presented, one for "outstanding production," which went to William A. Wellman's Wings, and the other for "unique and artistic picture," which went to F.W. Murnau's Sunrise.* The Academy apparently found the distinction unworkable way back then, because it was discontinued the following year. Critics also noted that some of the most popular films of all time, such as Gone With the Wind (Victor Fleming, 1939), Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942), The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972), and Titanic  (James Cameron, 1997) had won best picture Oscars, so what was the problem? The problem, if there was one, seemed to lie in the fact that the Oscars had lost clout. By the time the Academy's awards are presented, there have been so many other awards shows, from the Golden Globes to the BAFTAs to the Screen Actors Guild awards, that there's hardly any suspense left about who will win. And ratings for the Oscars on TV had steadily declined -- the show was overlong and featured too many categories that viewers don't care about. The Academy has apparently stuck to its plans to give out some of the less-glamorous awards, like the ones for sound effects editing and for short films, during the commercial breaks in the TV show, but caved to ridicule of the popular film award.So what does this have to do with Black Panther, ostensibly the topic of this entry? One of the criticisms of the proposal suggested that the popular film category was only a way of pulling in fans of blockbuster hits like the Marvel superhero movies, of which Black Panther was the most recent example. Of course, there's nothing to prevent Black Panther from being nominated for the old best picture category -- though to date no Marvel film has been so honored. It currently has a 97% "fresh" rating on Rotten Tomatoes, which indicates not only that it's popular but also that even the critics think it's good. So do I: It has an interesting story to tell, a unique perspective on race and history, and it's sharply directed and superbly cast. Its appearance, in the midst of the political and cultural uproar caused by the election of Donald Trump, is more than timely. And it has even provoked intellectual debate over whether it is a fresh and clever valorizing of the black experience or, as Canadian journalist James Wilt put it,  "a fundamentally reactionary understanding of black liberation that blatantly advocates bourgeois respectability over revolution, sterilizes the history of real-life anti-colonial struggles in Africa and elsewhere, and allows white folks such as myself to feel extremely comfortable watching it." For my part, I never felt "extremely comfortable" watching Black Panther, though I did feel entertained and more than a little provoked to think about the issues raised by it, which is more than I can say about any other recent superhero blockbusters.

*Both films were released in 1927. The first Academy Awards for for films released between August 1, 1927 and August 1, 1928. The split-year eligibility continued until the awards presented in 1935, which were for films released in the calendar year 1934.

Cruel Gun Story (Takumi Furukawa, 1964)

Joe Shishido and Yuji Kodaka in Cruel Gun Story

Togawa: Joe Shishido
Rie: Chieko Matsubara
Takizawa: Tamio Kawaji
Shirai: Yuji Kodaka
Keiko: Minako Katsuki
Matsumoto: Hiroshi Nihon'yanagi
Kondo: Hiroshi Kondo
Okada: Shobun Inoue
Saeki: Saburo Hiromatsu
Yanagida: Junichi Yamanobe

Director: Takumi Furukawa
Screenplay: Hisatoshi Kai, Haruhiko Oyabu
Cinematography: Saburo Isayama
Art direction: Toshiyuki Matsui
Film editing: Masanori Tsujii
Music: Masayoshi Ikeda

My first impulse on watching Takumi Furukawa's Cruel Gun Story, with its whiplash double-crossings and piled-on violent deaths that reminded me of Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994), was to call it "Tarantino-esque." But that's getting it backward. Tarantino has said that he's "enamored with" the films of Nikkatsu, the studio that made Cruel Gun Story a good 30 years before Pulp Fiction, so by rights we should be calling his films "Nikkatsu-esque." Furukawa's film stars Joe Shishido, who was as essential to Japanese gangster films as James Cagney or Edward G. Robinson were to Warner Bros. gangster films of the 1930s. His glowering, jowly mug, usually with a cigarette plugged in its middle, is the essence of the tough guy. And like most tough guys, Shishido's Togawa has a heart of gold, devoted to his sister, crippled when she was struck by a car. She's the reason why, fresh out of prison, he signs on to a caper that involves the heist of an armored car. It's so elaborate a scheme, involving road detours and sabotaging the police radio and using a winch to pull the car onto a larger truck, that anyone who has ever seen a movie knows that it's going to go wrong. But even when it does, Togawa is able to come up with a Plan B, and then a Plan C, and so on, as double-crossers emerge from all corners. There's a sultry femme named Keiko to add a little sex to the plot, but not enough to deter Togawa from getting revenge on the big boss who got him into this mess. The whole thing ends with more corpses than the last act of Hamlet, but it's done with such stylish efficiency that if feels like a better film than it probably really is. Which, come to think of it, is also Tarantino-esque. 

It (Clarence G. Badger, 1927)

William Austin and Clara Bow in It

Betty Lou: Clara Bow
Cyrus T. Waltham: Antonio Moreno
Monty Montgomery: William Austin
Molly: Priscilla Bonner
Adela Van Norman: Jacqueline Gadsdon
Mrs. Van Norman: Julia Swayne Gordon
Elinor Glyn: Elinor Glyn
Newspaper Reporter: Gary Cooper

Director: Clarence G. Badger
Screenplay: Hope Loring, Louis D. Lighton; Titles: George Marion Jr.
Based on a story by Elinor Glyn
Cinematography: H. Kinley Martin
Film editing: E. Lloyd Sheldon
Costume design: Travis Banton

Was Elinor Glyn's Cosmopolitan magazine story "It" really a sensation, or is that just hype? Odds are it was the latter, because Glyn, who has a cameo in Clarence G. Badger's film It, billed as "Madame Elinor Glyn," was a master self-publicist. "It" gets several definitions in the course of the film, all of which are really just a relabeling of what has always been called "sex appeal." In the end it boils down to "whatever Clara Bow had." (One of those definitions, delivered by the Madame herself, is "Self-confidence and indifference to whether you are pleasing or not," which actually doesn't fit Bow's character, Betty Lou, who is never indifferent to whether she is pleasing the object of her attentions, Antonio Moreno's Cyrus T. Waltham. She even flings herself on his desk to flirt with him.) It is really just routine rom-com stuff: Girl spots boy, girl lands boy, boy makes a premature move and gets slapped for it, girl rejects boy because he thinks she's an unwed mother, boy pursues girl but she rejects him again when he wants to make her his mistress instead of his wife, girl concocts revenge plot that goes awry so that at the end girl gets boy anyway. Today, It is mostly a rather creaky relic whose interest lies mainly in its display of Bow's abundant charm and comic finesse and in the appearance of Gary Cooper in an uncredited bit as a newspaper reporter -- he barely even gets a foot in the door in the film. The credited director, Clarence G. Badger, had a long and undistinguished career, and even though some of the film is said to have been directed by Josef von Sternberg, it would be hard to single out his contribution. Moreno, the leading man, is stuck with an unfortunately fluffy mustache, and the comic support by William Austin is marred by the fact that the orthochromatic film stock turns his blue eyes almost white, making him look more than a little creepy. The climax takes place on a yacht called -- get it? -- the Itola, which I think was originally the Capitola but had its first syllable lopped off for the sake of the joke.

Grand Hotel (Edmund Goulding, 1932)

Greta Garbo and John Barrymore in Grand Hotel

Grusinskaya: Greta Garbo
Baron Felix von Geigern: John Barrymore
Flaemmchen: Joan Crawford
General Director Preysing: Wallace Beery
Otto Kringelein: Lionel Barrymore
Dr. Otternschlag: Lewis Stone
Senf: Jean Hersholt
Suzette: Rafaela Ottiano
Pimenov: Ferdinand Gottschalk
Meierheim: Robert McWade
Zinnowitz: Purnell Pratt

Director: Edmund Goulding
Screenplay: Béla Balász, William Absalom Drake, Edgar Allan Woolf
Based on a novel by Vicki Baum and a play by William Absalom Drake
Cinematography: William H. Daniels
Art direction: Cedric Gibbons
Film editing: Blanche Sewell
Costume design: Adrian
Music: Charles Maxwell

The criticism most often made of Grand Hotel is that its performances are hammy. Greta Garbo's face, even in medium shots, is never at rest, eyebrows arching, nostrils flaring, lips curling and pouting. John Barrymore poses shamelessly, always managing to find a way to lift his chin the better to display his celebrated profile. Joan Crawford, whose best feature was her eyes, manages to open them so wide you'd think she was playing opposite an optometrist instead of Wallace Beery and the Barrymore brothers. One conventional explanation for all of this preening and camera-hogging is that it's inherent to an all-star cast in which every star wants to shine brightest. Another is that all of the stars had been in silent films, where the absence of sound puts a premium on telegraphing emotions visually, and 1932 was still early enough that actors weren't fully accustomed to letting the dialogue do the work. But I think director Edmund Goulding deserves most of the blame. Compare, for example, the performance given by Garbo under the direction of George Cukor four years later in Camille: She has learned to let the dialogue and the camera do most of the work, so the tics and mannerisms have vanished. Cukor also directed the Barrymore brothers in Dinner at Eight just a year after Grand Hotel, and while their hamming is still a bit excessive, Cukor knows how to integrate it into another all-star ensemble. And no director got better performances out of Crawford than Cukor did in her sharply contrasting roles in The Women (1939) and A Woman's Face (1941). But I come not to praise Cukor or really to bury Goulding, except to note that for many years, Grand Hotel was the only best picture Oscar winner without a corresponding nomination for its director.* Still, it's a very entertaining movie, cramming a lot of characters into a small space and providing some real intrigue and even action -- it's the only film I can recall in which someone is beaten to death with a telephone. It looks good, too, for its age: Cedric Gibbons's art deco sets are spiffy and Adrian's gowns and negligees and frocks are sexy.

*Oscar trivia footnote: In fact, Grand Hotel remains the only best picture winner to receive no nominations in any other category. As for the picture-director correlation, Grand Hotel held on to that distinction until the 1989 Oscars, when Driving Miss Daisy was named best picture but Bruce Beresford went unnominated. And it didn't happen again until 2012 when Ben Affleck was passed over for directing Argo.

Office Space (Mike Judge, 1999)

Stephen Root in Office Space

Peter: Ron Livingston
Joanna: Jennifer Aniston
Michael Bolton: David Herman
Samir: Ajay Naidu
Lawrence: Diedrich Bader
Milton: Stephen Root
Bill Lumbergh: Gary Cole
Tom Smykowski: Richard Riehle
Anne: Alexandra Wentworth
Bob Slydell: John C. McGinley
Bob Porter: Paul Willson
Chotchkie's Waiter: Todd Duffey
Drew: Greg Pitts
Steve: Orlando Jones

Director: Mike Judge
Screenplay: Mike Judge
Cinematography: Tim Suhrstedt
Production design: Edward T. McAvoy
Film editing: David Rennie
Music: John Frizzell

The floppy disks and the Michael Bolton jokes make us realize that Mike Judge's Office Space was produced 20 years ago. But no one who has ever worked in a cubicle or waited tables at a fern bar will call its satire on marketing gimmicks like "flair" and management busywork like "mission statements" dated. Some things don't change in corporate America. Judge's first feature film reveals his inexperience as a director, but his screenplay still hits a nerve, and he has gone on to a more up-to-date and more sharply satirical view of the tech business in his TV series Silicon Valley. Office Space is not as loosey-goosey as either of Judge's animated series Beavis and Butt-Head and King of the Hill, partly because of tension between Judge and the executives at 20th Century Fox. It benefits mostly from skilled performers like Ron Livingston, Jennifer Aniston, Stephen Root, Gary Cole, and other members of its ensemble.

Shakespeare in Love (John Madden, 1998)

Colin Firth and Joseph Fiennes in Shakespeare in Love

William Shakespeare: Joseph Fiennes
Viola De Lesseps: Gwyneth Paltrow
Philip Henslowe: Geoffrey Rush
Hugh Fennyman: Tom Wilkinson
Lord Wessex: Colin Firth
Tilney: Simon Callow
Queen Elizabeth: Judi Dench
Nurse: Imelda Staunton
Ned Alleyn: Ben Affleck
Richard Burbage: Martin Clunes
Christopher Marlowe: Rupert Everett
Ralph Bashford: Jim Carter
John Webster: Joe Roberts

Director: John Madden
Screenplay: Marc Norman, Tom Stoppard
Cinematography: Richard Greatrex
Production design: Martin Childs
Film editing: David Gamble
Costume design: Sandy Powell
Music: Stephen Warbeck

Posterity is a bitch. Winning a best picture Oscar doesn't necessarily fix a film permanently in the hearts and minds of moviegoers or film historians. Who today, for example, thinks that How Green Was My Valley (John Ford, 1941) was a better film than Citizen Kane, the Orson Welles masterpiece that it beat for best picture Oscar? And even more recent Oscar history is littered with dubious choices, most notably Paul Haggis's Crash, which was chosen as best picture of 2005 over Ang Lee's epochal Brokeback Mountain. Almost overnight, the tide began to turn against John Madden's Shakespeare in Love, in large part because it was a surprise winner over the presumed front-runner, Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan. As time has passed, Gwyneth Paltrow's best actress win for Shakespeare in Love has been questioned, too, partly because Paltrow's subsequent acting career has done nothing to maintain her reputation and her dabbling in fields such as country music, fashion, and off-beat New Age medicine and diet has made her look like a giddy dilettante. Even the fall of Harvey Weinstein cast a dark shadow over Shakespeare in Love, which he helped produce for his company, Miramax, and for which he managed an extensive Oscar campaign. But watching the film last night, I found myself caught up once again in its witty imagining of Shakespeare's life and milieu, the sexiness of its romantic intrigue, and yes, Paltrow's skillful performance of what is essentially four roles: Viola De Lesseps, Thomas Kent, and both Romeo and Juliet. It's a charming tour de force that makes me wonder what brought it out of her and what subsequently made her crash and burn. Much of the success of the film, however, lies not in its uniformly good performances or in John Madden's direction, but in the Oscar-winning screenplay by Marc Norman and Tom Stoppard. I suspect the latter, who had already demonstrated his intimate knowledge of Shakespeare in the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, is most responsible for a screenplay that can attract the casual moviegoer and entertain English majors at the same time. Some of its jokes go over a lot of the audience's heads, such as the revelation that the bloodthirsty, sadistic street urchin who hangs around the playhouse is named John Webster. The character is just the right age to grow up to write those hair-raising Jacobean plays The Duchess of Malfi (1612) and The White Devil (1614), but not knowing that doesn't matter much to the success of the film. Shakespeare in Love is never, as its central character would put it, "caviar to the general." Is it a better film than Saving Private Ryan? Or is it just smaller but cleverer and the temporary beneficiary of aggressive promotion? That bitch posterity will be the final judge.

El Dorado (Howard Hawks, 1967)

James Caan, Robert Mitchum, Arthur Hunnicutt, and John Wayne in El Dorado 

Cole Thornton: John Wayne
J.P. Harrah: Robert Mitchum
Mississippi: James Caan
Bull: Arthur Hunnicutt
Maudie: Charlene Holt
Dr. Miller: Paul Fix
Josephine (Joey) MacDonald: Michele Carey
Bart Jason: Edward Asner
Neise McLeod: Christopher George
Kevin MacDonald: R.G. Armstrong
Luke MacDonald: Johnny Crawford

Director: Howard Hawks
Screenplay: Leigh Brackett
Based on a novel by Harry Brown
Cinematography: Harold Rosson
Art direction: Carl Anderson, Hal Pereira
Film editing: John Woodcock
Music: Nelson Riddle

Like his later Rio Lobo (1970), Howard Hawks's El Dorado isn't so much a remake of his Rio Bravo (1959) as a movie built on its template: Gunfighter John Wayne teams up with a drunken sheriff, a greenhorn, and an old coot to stand off an assault by the bad guys, who greatly outnumber them. Wayne retains his earlier role in El Dorado, but here the drunken sheriff is Robert Mitchum, the greenhorn is James Caan, and the old coot is Arthur Hunnicutt, replacing Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson, and Walter Brennan, respectively, in the earlier film. Unfortunately, Hawks was unable to find a suitable replacement for Angie Dickinson's Feathers, the "Hawksian woman" in Rio Bravo, and tried without much success to sub in two C-list actresses, Charlene Holt as Maudie, the woman with a past that involves both Wayne and Mitchum, and Michele Carey as the hoydenish Joey. Neither makes the impression that Dickinson made. Leigh Brackett was disappointed to find that Hawks had turned her screenplay into a reworking of Rio Bravo, but she was used to his freewheeling ways by then, having worked for him on The Big Sleep (1946) and Hatari! (1962). There are diminishing returns to any kind of remake, and by the time Hawks made Rio Lobo, the template had worn thin, but El Dorado is solid enough entertainment, especially when Wayne and Mitchum are on screen together, playing off of each other gleefully. Except for the rather hackneyed "El Dorado" theme song over the opening credits, with its by-the-numbers lyrics by John Gabriel, Nelson Riddle's score is a pleasant surprise in its avoidance of Western movie clichés -- no cowboy songs or "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie." The one sour note in the movie comes when Caan puts on a racial-caricature "Chinaman" act to get the jump on a lurking gunman.

A Hen in the Wind (Yasujiro Ozu, 1948)

Shuji Sano and Kinuyo Tanaka in A Hen in the Wind

Tokiko Amamiya: Kinuyo Tanaka
Shuichi Amamiya: Shuji Sano
Akiko Ida: Chieko Murata
Kazuichiro Satake: Chishu Ryu
Shoichi: Hohi Aoki
Fusako Onada: Chiyoko Fumiya
Orie Noma: Reiko Minakami
Hideo: Koji Mitsui
Hizoko Sakai: Takeshi Sakamoto

Director: Yasujiro Ozu
Screenplay: Yasujiro Ozu, Ryosuke Saito
Cinematography: Yuharu Atsuta
Art direction: Tatsuo Hamada
Film editing: Yoshiyasu Hamamura
Music: Senji Ito

I was startled by the opening scenes that set up the plot for Yasujiro Ozu's A Hen in the Wind* in which a woman waiting for her husband to return from the war tries to make ends meet for herself and her small son by selling some of her possessions. The woman who buys her things suggests that she would make more money by selling her body. Shocked, she rejects this suggestion. But when her child falls ill, she sees prostituting herself as the only way to pay the hospital bills. The striking thing about this opening sequence is that it's almost identical to the plot setup in Kenji Mizoguchi's Women of the Night, which was made the same year as A Hen in the Wind and stars the same actress, the great Kinuyo Tanaka. But then the plots of the two films diverge: In Mizoguchi's film, both the husband and the child die, and the woman finds herself descending deeper into prostitution. Ozu, however, brings the husband home and the child survives his illness. But there is misery to come for Ozu's heroine, Tokiko: She feels compelled to tell her husband, Shuichi, the truth about what she did to pay the hospital. He does not take it well: He stews with resentment and eventually makes his way to the brothel where Tokiko had her assignation. There he encounters Fusako, a young prostitute, and instead of having sex with her, questions her about why she chose this way of life. Though he decides to help Fusako give up prostituting herself, and even goes out of his way to find her a job in the company where he works, the encounter does nothing to ease Shuichi's mind about Tokiko's actions. When he returns home he gives way to his simmering anger and, giving her a shove, causes her to fall down the steep stairway from their upstairs rooms. It's a moment of unaccustomed violence for Ozu, who throughout the film takes his usual steady, measured course in portraying these troubled lives. But it serves as a catharsis, bringing husband and wife back together -- although not in a way that will satisfy some viewers, especially in an age conscious of domestic violence: Tokiko pleads for forgiveness and even suggests that Shuichi beat her. In the final scene that shows the couple, they embrace and Tokiko clasps her hands tightly behind his back. (The film actually ends on a shot more characteristic of Ozu, in which we see life go on in the outside world in the shadow of the giant storage tanks that dominate the industrial slum where they live.) Ozu later called A Hen in the Wind a failure -- just as, coincidentally, Mizoguchi expressed his disappointment with Women of the Night -- but it remains a fascinating display of Ozu's directorial skills, especially his way of building tension quietly and making his points without didacticism. For example, he uses his characteristic subjective camera to good effect in a scene between Tokiko and her friend Akiko, who is shocked by Tokiko's prostituting herself. Tokiko asks what she would have done if she found herself penniless with a sick child. Although the question is addressed to Akiko, the camera takes her place, so that Tokiko looks directly at us, making the audience the target of the question. I don't know if the similarities between Ozu's and Mizoguchi's films are entirely coincidental -- it's almost as if they shared a common premise and dared each other to make a film out of it -- but the two films provide a unique opportunity to compare the style and technique of two great directors.

*I haven't seen an explanation for the title, which is a literal translation of the Japanese title. It seems to be a simile out of a proverb: "As [something] as a hen in the wind," but nobody I've seen on line has provided the source.