The Hirayamas are an ordinary family living in Tokyo. Wataru (Shin Saburi) is the patriarch, who has provided for his family in his capacity as a highly-respected businessman that has made many friends along the way and has positioned him as a trusted voice for numerous people seeking help with their own individual problems, whether professionally or in the realm of the more personal. However, his experience in the world of business hasn’t prepared him for the shock when a young man (Keiji Sada) arrives at his office and asks for his blessing to marry Wataru’s daughter, Setsuko (Ineko Arima). This moment of breaking from decorum surprises Wataru, as he and his wife, Kiyoko (Kinuyo Tanaka) have been meticulously planning their daughter’s wedding for a while, only to have a stranger turn up and request their blessing. Naturally, traditions supersede impulses, and Wataru does not grant his blessing, and goes so far as to berate his daughter for her poor decision, and urges her to reconsider. However, Setsuko is not nearly as enamoured with the idea of following traditions as her father, and she only angers him more by vehemently refusing his request, while still secretly yearning for his approval, as while she may not abide fully by the customs she was raised to believe as sacred, she does genuinely want her father’s approval. They both undergo their own individual metaphysical journeys, realizing that there is far more to life than following (or defying) traditions and that there is always value in looking beyond the socially-mediated conditions of existence and searching for something more meaningful on an individual level. They’re both searching for some kind of resolution – but the question is whether they’ll find an effective compromise that not only satiates their own quandaries but will give them the happiness they both crave.

Perhaps its a symptom of a more western viewpoint, or a byproduct of the fact that we’ve become conditioned to stories simmering with subtext, but there’s something so radically enjoyable about watching a film that doesn’t purport to be anything other than a simple affair, deeply compelling depictions of reality that are made with socially-charged messages embedded in them, but not to the point where the audience is challenged to decode what we’re seeing. Sometimes, just a straightforward narrative about life and all its different idiosyncracies is enough to make a film a truly exceptional experience. In this regard, no filmmaker was ever able to touch on the raw nerve of the human condition quite as beautifully as Yasujirō Ozu, whose iconic career brought some of the most fascinating insights into the human condition ever committed to film. One of his most interesting works, albeit one that isn’t spoken of as often as some of his other masterpieces, is Equinox Flower (Japanese: 彼岸花), a beautifully poetic glimpse into the trials and tribulations of an ordinary family going through a few minor challenges, particularly those brought on by intergenerational challenges that divide them. Ozu made films about humanity, and while the stories themselves naturally differ between films, they’re almost all inalienably authentic, brief but memorable snapshots of a culture that has been beautifully recorded on film by Ozu and his contemporaries, who strove to present audiences (past, present and future) with meaningful fragments of a specific moment, so that they can endure as pure, earnest representations of life and its various nuances that tend to erode as time pushes the small details out of memory, with only art remaining to show us these experiences in the most distilled form.

Like many Japanese films produced during this era, particularly in the decades immediately after the end of the Second World War, Equinox Flower is a film about traditions – not necessarily one that proposes that they’re indelible and should not be changed, but also not purporting that they are as sacrosanct as the older generations would like to believe. Ozu, whose career covered many different periods in the history of twentieth-century Japanese society, isn’t interested in taking much of a side with this story – instead, he’s more intent in exploring the conflict between the generations in an insightful, honest way without tending towards one side or the other. He’s certainly not the first to do this (Mikio Naruse looked at similar concepts, particularly in Sound of the Mountain, another film from this era I recently discussed), but through his unique vision, the director is able to make some of the most profound statements on the subject of society and its differing views of love and romance, particularly in a time when it became almost expected for the younger generation to seek out something more meaningful than the outdated customs they were raised to believe as inviolable and entirely unchanging. Equinox Flower is a film that immediately establishes this line of questioning, manoeuvring through centuries of hallowed beliefs through employing a simple but effective story that isn’t about subverting traditions, but rather challenging them in such a way, a byproduct of the modern world. It makes this film such an enriching experience for contemporary viewers, as it offers insights into social conventions at a particular time in history, while still being remarkably resonant and relatable – which is essentially one of the primary reasons the work of Ozu endures to this very day, with his beautifully simple style, and incredibly precise perspective making for truly compelling viewing.

Characterization is key to a film like Equinox Flower, not only because it is a film based around a few pivotal figures, but because Ozu’s work always tended towards the deeply personal, and required actors who were able to balance the evocative drama constructed by the director, while not losing the spark of raw authenticity that makes these some truly fascinating characters. As tends to be universal with films that prioritize a more simplistic view of the human condition, the film’s success hinges on how convincing these characters are, since a good screenplay is important, but can only go so far if the actors aren’t able to elevate it from the page and bring it to life in a meaningful way. The performers need to appear natural without being too subtle, which gave the cast quite a challenge, which they managed to do with the assistance of a director whose firm command over his craft led them to give some incredibly beautiful performances, bringing these characters to life in an exceptional manner. Each one of them is a delicate creation, put together by a beautiful script and an ensemble of actors who bring such incredible depth to their roles. Shin Saburi is in command as the central character, a man who holds onto his beliefs firmly, which he used to believe was a factor that made him an admirable figure, but is starting to realize may be a sign that he is over the hill, and has failed to progress with the rest of the world. Kinuyo Tanaka is wonderful as his wife, a scene-stealing comic relief character who still carries a great deal of depth, being responsible for some of the most achingly human parts of the film. Ineko Arima plays their oldest daughter, bringing an ethereal elegance to the part that only bolsters the enchanting sense of otherworldly mystique that pervades the film and intermingles with the very grounded reality that underpins most of the story. These performers all have their strong moments and contribute to this rich, powerful tapestry of the human condition that depended entirely on the successful construction of real characters, which is certainly very much the case here.

The reason Equinox Flower is so effective is because it never pretends to be anything other than what we are shown on screen. As one of the finest filmmakers to ever work in the craft, Ozu is not someone we need to wax poetic about, nor do we need to try and justify his career, since it is almost an unimpeachable, historic fact that he was brilliant. However, he does something with this film that shouldn’t be entirely new to his legions of devotees, but still tends to be quite surprising – there’s a pure, effervescent joy to this film that is not rare in his work but becomes far more evident here. This film is best described as a poetic family drama with generous smatterings of gentle humour, which is employed not only to lighten the mood from a simple but rather sombre story but also to be a showcase for the smallest pleasures of life. There is no grand narrative to this film – other than touching on ancient principles of arranged marriage and sacred social structure, the film isn’t weighed down by its cultural context, instead being quite joyful in its approach to what is essentially a very melancholy subject. Ozu thrived with this kind of simple approach to storytelling – his interests tended towards the quaint and earnest, and he employs it beautifully well here. His style is distinct and crisp, with the rich visual tapestry afforded by colour filmmaking allowing Equinox Flower to become even more gorgeous, with some wonderfully poignant compositions complementing the incredibly subtle story it conveys. Traversing the boundaries between comedy and drama is a difficult business, especially when it is clear that there’s something more to this film that cannot be fully encapsulated by one or the other, but rather through a dedicated combination of them both, evoking both the pathos and bewitching humour of reality that only someone as self-assured as Ozu could have conveyed with such ease.

Films about family are certainly a dime a dozen – but through the lens of Ozu’s camera, it takes on an entirely new meaning, a kind of elegant simplicity that makes his work so endearing, and continues to be unmatched by any subsequent filmmaker. Humanity is siphoned through these narratives, with profound insights into existence being in abundance throughout all of the director’s films, and even with something that may not be upheld as his definitive masterpiece (even if it does earn such a classification). There’s a tenderness to this film that is almost unprecedented, a categorically charming sense of familiarity that avoids unnecessary saccharine sentimentality, but rather veers towards the more outwardly heartfelt. By all means not a film that requires much from the viewer – its a beautifully simple film, and as long as we are willing to surrender ourselves to the director’s unique vision, as well as his distinct approach to representing life in a way that is unfurnished and often very bare, there’s no doubt that there is some merit to be found in this film for everyone. Ozu could capture the human condition like no one else – his broad strokes are bold and admirable, his small moments of intimacy and honesty are profound and moving. It’s an intricate, vibrant exploration of recognizable themes delivered by a master in the last stages of his career, with his experience and incredibly compelling understanding of the deeper aspects of our nature making for a thrilling, heartwarming and utterly unforgettable affair that stands as even more proof towards the continued canonization of Yasujirō Ozu as one of the finest artists of his or any generation.