Each individual filmmaker intends to do something throughout their career – some of them want to make us laugh, others want to terrify us, and there are even those that tend to try and evoke deep and meaningful thought in the viewer, to the point where we start to look at our own existence in a slightly different way. Yasujirō Ozu was a filmmaker whose intentions always remained relatively simple – he wanted to distil the human condition into individual segments and present them to us through his stories, which comprised his long and prolific career. Ozu’s work is profoundly moving, whether you’re looking at his roots in the early days of Japanese silent cinema, or his later work, where he occupied the position of one of cinema’s great stalwarts – his work always reflected a keen understanding of the world around him. This has never been more clear than in An Autumn Afternoon (Japanese: 秋刀魚の味), which takes us right to the end of Ozu’s directorial output, his final film in one of cinema’s most impressive careers. It has everything we’d expect from one of the director’s significant works – tenderhearted humour, a simple and unfettered approach to describing life’s many different idiosyncrasies, and a loving sense of adoration to the human condition as a whole. There isn’t any way to praise (or even critique, should you feel so inclined) the director without mentioning how he was one of the most significant observers of humanity, whose incredible ability to extract poignancy from the most unexpected sources manifested in the majority of his work, this one in particular standing as one of his finest. In short, An Autumn Afternoon is one of the director’s most astounding efforts – a quaint and charming drama that sees the director once again venturing to the core of our existence and exposing the most endearing aspects of it – the only difference here is that this was the final time.

The fact that An Autumn Afternoon was the final film in Ozu’s long career is not lost on the viewer when venturing into this film – even if you aren’t aware that this would be the esteemed director’s last work before his death a year later, there’s a sense of melancholy that pervades over the film, one that may not signify the director acknowledging his imminent demise, but rather coming to terms with his own ageing, and how he somehow knew he was approaching the end of his life. What is often so striking about Ozu is how, as we watch his films progress over the years, its clear which of the characters are surrogates for the director himself – his earlier films found their protagonists mostly in the younger generation, those entering into the world of adulthood, while his later efforts saw the mentality shift to slightly older characters (with exceptions obviously occurring in both instances). The character of Shūhei Hirayama was naturally an analogue for Ozu at the end of his own life – a man approaching his twilight years, acknowledging that being past one’s peak is not necessarily the failure many believed it to be, but rather a chance to recede into a more simple, unbothered existence where one can hand over the worries of the modern world to the younger generation. Naturally, Ozu conveys this message in a distinctly underhanded way, using charming wit and beautifully-developed characters to explore these themes of ageing and family dynamics (neither of which are foreign to his previous work), and to bring about a sense of quiet longing, forming a powerful statement on life without being too overwrought. He handles the emotion exceptionally well and traverses between themes with the ease that can only come with decades of honing your craft and mastering the art of not only making a powerful film but knowing that there is nothing more worthwhile than a story that is simply just worth telling.

Moreover, An Autumn Afternoon is able to soar to the impossible heights that it does through the characterization, with Ozu once again extracting some extraordinary performances from his cast. The character that serves to be the main focus, and whose point of view is most prominent, is that of Shūhei Hirayama, who is expertly portrayed by veteran actor Chishū Ryū, who was perhaps the actor who most defined Ozu’s career, working with the director over the course of a staggering fifty-two films, only missing two collaborations. Taking on the central role as the ageing widower trying to find a sense of belonging in a world he is slowly losing his firm understanding of, Ryū is astonishing. His good-natured humour and wonderful empathy vaguely conceals a sense of melancholy, with the actor’s incredible control of the character meaning we are fully encapsulated in his journey, while still leaving enough space for the story to develop him in unexpected ways. Ryū commands the screen in a way that feels very much aligned with the more simple sensibilities that Ozu thrived on, so it’s hardly a wonder that they worked together so frequently, as they seemed to bring out the best in each other with great consistency. Other highlights in the cast of An Autumn Afternoon include Eijirō Tōno as the elderly schoolteacher who thrives on his knowledge and bravado but only as a way to hide his own downbeat plight, and Shima Iwashita, who plays Hirayama’s enigmatic daughter, whose fierce independence is quite unconventional, and contrasts the ingrained social gender roles embedded in the characters of her father and two brothers (played by Keiji Sada and Shin’ichirō Mikami, both of which are wonderful, if not too limited in their screentime). There are many reasons to watch a film by Ozu, but amongst my personal favourites is the sheer delight that comes in watching great actors work through the director’s incredible stories, bringing life to these characters and giving the audiences a chance to take one step closer to experiencing the pure brilliance of Ozu’s work, which is often most prominent in the tender constructions of his characters and what they represent.

Yet, we need to ask ourselves what it is about this film in particular that stands out. An Autumn Afternoon may not be a massive departure for Ozu, since it covers many notable themes that were omnipotent in his work – the postwar experience in Japan (which is oddly prominent here, with a great deal of the narrative thrust being from the main character’s experiences in the war, which give him a sense of melancholy, but also a refusal to dwell on the past), family issues such as marriage, both in the early stages, as represented in the constant attempts of the protagonist to get his daughter a husband, and in the later stages, as shown in his oldest son’s playful bickering with his wife, both of whom have receded into happily married life and are able to handle the challenges that come with it. Yet, there’s a lurking sadness that pervades the film – I’ve already mentioned how it is certainly possible to read An Autumn Afternoon as a farewell on the part of Ozu, especially in the striking ending, where Hirayama sits in his now-empty home, singing the marching song employed throughout the film as a signifier of his memories of the war, and drinking the last few drops of alcohol he has left. Whether this is the director seeing himself in the character, or simply his means of working through the general angst that underpinned his generation, there is definitely something worth discussing about what Ozu is saying with this film – identity crises and struggling with one’s own place in the world aren’t often the subjects of stories focused on older characters, especially when a character such as Hirayama are normally used as memorable supporting roles, there to enrich the metaphysical journeys of younger characters. An Autumn Afternoon is less about an old man trying to find his daughter a wife, and functions more as an insightful character-study, composed of a number of episodic moments that yearn to get to the core of our existence without being too verbose or heavy-handed – and Ozu, as we’d expect, absolutely thrives when working from an approach that truly benefitted from his inherent curiosity with the world around him, which was present right until the end.

Ultimately, there’s a melancholic streak to An Autumn Afternoon that elevates it beyond simply being a simple family drama – Ozu was far too invested in exploring different facets of the human condition to just resort to the same trite storylines. Instead, he gives us access to a compelling story that focuses on intergenerational conflict (a predominant concept present in these postwar films by the director and his contemporaries) and the shift of identity issues in a rapidly-changing social milieu that may not have been fully realized in Ozu’s lifetime in terms of artistic explorations of it, but he certainly did plant the seeds for a movement that was undoubtedly inspired by his idiosyncratic approach to life. Add to this an enormous amount of emotion and a genuine sense of tender care that was very much par for the course with the director, you have an incredible swan-song that is amongst the finest cinematic farewells for any filmmaker. Made with the delicate heartfulness that Ozu mastered throughout his decades of making films, An Autumn Afternoon is a staggering achievement, a film that feels both melancholic and utterly invigorating, brimming with enthusiasm and energy, but defined by its incredible sophistication, this is truly a wonderful experience. Whether the viewer is a prospective admirer of the director attempting to venture into his work, or a longtime devotee looking to be enveloped by his incredible empathy as an artist, An Autumn Afternoon is a thoroughly worthwhile film. Unforgettably charming and heartbreaking in the way that feels entirely authentic and honest. In short, Ozu truly left us with a magnificent gem of a film, and whether this was intended to be his final work or not, An Autumn Afternoon is an astonishing achievement that only grows in brilliance the further we venture inwards.