When it comes to taking deep-dives into the careers of artists you admire, one tends to come across some of their weaker moments, but also on occasion discover new sides of their work that we didn’t realize were there. I’ve so often expressed such immense admiration for Yasujirō Ozu, and working through his filmography has afforded me the chance to see him take on a variety of stories that are all quintessentially his own creations, both in theory and execution. An incredibly prolific filmmaker, and as a result not someone who tends to be defined by only one or two works (even if many consider Tokyo Story to be his defining masterpiece, which is certainly not something that one can argue too much against), but rather praised for his incredible body of work. However, there are some of his films that gravitate towards becoming more interesting than the others, and one of my personal favourites that I’ve come across in this lengthy retrospective is Late Autumn (Japanese: 秋日和), the first of his 1960s films that saw the esteemed director looking at some heartwrenching stories that all carry significance, considering how this was nearing the end of his incredible career. Late Autumn is one of his most interesting works, and also amongst his most simple (which is definitely saying something, since one of his most prominent qualities was a refusal to allow his work to become convoluted or layered with too much unnecessary plot), and one that manages to oscillate between some of the director’s most poignant themes, such as mortality, family values and romance, all of which are so beautifully embedded into the fabric of this film, which never appears to be anything but entirely authentic, essentially par for the course in the career of one of cinema’s most incredible visionaries.

Late Autumn is a film pulsating with the compassionate energy only a director so firmly in control of his craft as Ozu could possibly have hoped to achieve with such ease. Each one of his films seems less like a massive production, and more like an assemblage of close friends, who come together to tell another compelling story through strong writing and a filmmaker who could extract so much from the most paltry sources, turning everyday life into the most gorgeous, riveting storytelling you could possibly imagine. Ozu’s work consistently warrants in-depth discussion, not because it purports to be revolutionary or definitive statements on the lengths to which a film can go to tell a story, but rather because it was mostly defined by dozens of individual glimpses into the human condition, which is presented with such stark accuracy, with the director meticulously crafting stories of ordinary people which not only describe the time and place in which they’re set (and the dominant socio-cultural mentalities and conventions that come with it), but also resound with a timeless elegance that makes them just as compelling today as they were at the time of their original release. Late Autumn is not a departure from this formula at all – in fact, it is in many ways one of the defining portrayals of this process in action, since everything about it strikes the viewer as being oddly familiar. It’s Ozu at his most overtly compassionate, weaving together a story of humanity that feels incredibly intimate to a specific set of ideas, but has a sense of familiarity that allows any viewer to relate to what the director is conveying, should we look beneath the surface and see how, despite the very traditional surroundings, Late Autumn has themes that absolutely any of us can understand and find value in, which has always been one of the great joys of exploring Ozu’s work, since he makes films that truly embody the idea of uniting the world under a few common concepts.

One of the more pleasantly annoying aspects of Ozu’s work is his constant insistence on working with a close-knit group of actors, which ultimately results in each one of them growing so beautifully comfortable in the director’s world, to the point where they consistently improve upon their own work. Every time one of these actors give a performance I believe is their definitive work, the next film proves that entirely wrong, since they’re once again embodying the spirit of the director’s work with sophistication and ease, which makes it seem like they’re not merely acting anymore, but luxuriating in the words of one of cinema’s great facilitators of humanity on screen. However, Late Autumn genuinely feels like a peak for many of these actors – whether looking at one of the three male Ozu veterans (Shin Saburi, Nobuo Nakamura and Ryūji Kita) that are the de facto leads of the story, by virtue of being the catalysts for most of the events and the ones that have to rearrange them when the plans start to fall apart, or some of the younger cast (particularly Yoko Tsukasa and Mariko Okada), there’s an impeccable quality to each one of these performances. One easily gets the sense that these films were produced from a place of authentic care – Ozu was a masterful filmmaker, but part of his charm seems to be that he embraced a familial approach to his films, where these stories were woven through the lens of more intimate relationships between the actors, who come to know each other through developing these characters. It allows his longtime collaborators to once again turn in remarkable performances, but also newcomers (such as Tsukasa and Okada) to immerse themselves into this world without feeling out of place or like outsiders. Late Autumn also has yet another towering performance from Setsuko Hara, whose bewitching beauty and ability to plumb unprecedented emotional depths proved her to be one of the screen’s most incredible presences. She is the binding force behind this film, and ultimately stands as the heart of the entire production, which is certainly not the only time she’s been recruited to be the very soul of a film.

Ozu uses his impeccable ability to extract such deep humanity from his actors to handcraft some truly extraordinary stories, negotiating the boundaries between different themes that speak to the wider population in ways that many directors struggle to. Late Autumn is a film that looks at the idea of marriage, setting this as the central premise, from which everything else around the film revolves. From this theme comes some smaller but equally striking ideas, such as the theme of death, which is addressed in a slightly different way than what the director would do in his subsequent films that looked more closely at mortality. A few characters in this film have lost their spouses, and are looking to continue their lives with as much vibrancy as before, not merely existing as widowed individuals that are there to derive pity from those who know them. Late Autumn directly addresses this theme in a frank but very tender way – how does one possibly find the strength to surrender to budding romance after having lost the love of their life? The film doesn’t ever answer these questions in a way that seems like its offering a universal resolution to what is a very real quandary countless people have. Instead, it dives deep into this challenging situation, and creates a meaningful discussion, from which Ozu is able to extract some truly profound commentary that feels extremely authentic, particularly since it all seems to come from a place of genuine interest in human behaviour, which has always been the most fundamental aspect of the career of a filmmaker who always strove to represent real stories in a manner that appeared drawn from reality.

Inherently optimistic in its intentions, Late Autumn is incredibly compassionate, and even when traversing such complex depths, it remains as buoyant and hopeful as anything else, especially the moments of levity that create the sense that Ozu wasn’t setting out to make a straightforward drama, but rather one of his quietly charming comedies that uses light-hearted humour to make some bold statements, and in the process remind us of the value of holding onto hope in even the most challenging circumstances. Like most of his films, the director is interweaving different themes together, creating a solid narrative from a variety of loose narrative strands that all converge into a powerful exploration of a number of themes, taking a beautifully poignant approach to a series of moments that find the director at his most idiosyncratic, but also venturing into the more underexplored recesses of humanity that may not be particularly dark or perverted, but rather don’t get the necessary exposure, since they’re more difficult to talk about. Ozu was never one to shy away from challenging discussions, and Late Autumn doesn’t have any shortage of such moments – but the combination of the director’s instinctual understanding of the themes he’s exploring, the talented cast’s incredible ability to interpret these characters as real people rather than thin archetypes, and a general sense of devotion to the underlying story makes Late Autumn a stunning work of fiction, and a truly compelling work from a master that never avoided making a statement with his work.