Even when he wasn’t directly focused on it, the central concept in the work of Yasujirō Ozu has always been family, with many of his films venturing towards discussions into the role of the individual amongst their closest connections, which has made for some thoroughly compelling viewing throughout his career. One of his crowning achievements was Floating Weeds (Japanese: 浮草), a beautifully poetic drama about human interactions that may take place outside of the familial dynamic at first, but gradually becomes as much about the art of acting as it does the process of working through various family issues, which makes for profoundly riveting viewing, and a perpetually charming film that is never quite satisfied to just tell one story, instead venturing into several, and providing the audience with an extraordinarily elegant, meditative drama that leaps deep into the human condition and exposes both its strengths and vulnerabilities in the exact fashion that only someone so effortlessly in control of his craft as Ozu could have possibly done. The story of a travelling theatre troupe taking up residence indefinitely in an idyllic seaside town, all for the purpose of allowing their group leader to realize the vision of a family he has always yearned for, is one that naturally lends itself to a poignant exploring of some incredibly deep and haunting themes, but also one that has the potential to be an effervescent delight – and throughout his career, much of Ozu’s finest work has involved striking the perfect balance between the two, which mostly comes into its own in this film, which once again sees the masterful director doing incredible work with an incredibly straightforward premise.

Ozu was a director who was prone to representing very human stories in ways that are simultaneously personal and theatrical – and Floating Weeds is perhaps the best distillation of both sides, since both in premise and intention, the director is employing elements that speak to each directly and even sometimes complement each other in unexpectedly poignant ways. Neither a comedy nor a tragedy, but rather a deft combination of them both, the film tells a beautifully poetic story about a group of wayward individuals, without much connection themselves, forming a de facto family through their close-knit work as a theatre group. This is quickly derailed when their leader decides to get into contact with an old mistress, with whom he has a son – and from this moment onwards (which occurs relatively early in the film), Ozu weaves together a beautifully poetic tale of a family coming together in very unexpected (and incredibly unorthodox) manner. It’s often difficult to look at the director’s work individually, since on the surface, he treads through very familiar territory, with only specific plot details often deviating from each other – but this is less of a matter of Ozu being derivative and unoriginal, and more that fact that the greatest filmmakers often worked in the realm of what they knew, and what interested them the most – and for Ozu, his fascination was always squarely in the realm of finding the abstraction in the most human situations, exploring familiar concepts that may not be particularly unique at the outset, but flourish into gorgeously sentimental glimpses into the mind of his protagonists and a wealth of peripheral characters, who are shown to be far more interesting and nuanced than those created by many other cinematic artists. Floating Weed is absolutely one of the director’s greatest works, not only for what it says, but also for the meaning it carries – and through the most elegant, gorgeous storytelling imaginable, Ozu creates an absolute triumph of a film.

As with all of his films, Floating Weeds is built on a few fundamental themes – and in this one, Ozu is looking at the intersections between family and the professional life of his characters, and how they tend to blur together after a while, normally the influence of changing social perceptions that show that one can’t always consider tradition as the guiding-post for their life. The concept of the “chosen family” is one that has been explored extensively in recent years, with this being a very early pioneer in looking at the idea of constructed families that come together as a result of a shared interest or, more importantly, a sense of not quite belonging. Centring on a group of nomadic actors that leap between towns, the film sees Ozu commenting on the idea of “unbelonging”, where this motley crew of well-intentioned people struggle to find a home, and instead tend to gravitate towards a situation where they find comfort in another person, rather than a specific place. Floating Weeds shows itself as being primarily interested in deconstructing notions of the nuclear family, which had always been a very fundamental and sacrosanct concept in Japanese culture, but which had undergone enormous reanalysis after the war, where gender roles started to shift, and emphasis was removed from having the perfect family, and where value was derived from the quality of the individual, rather than the extent to which they meet expectations. It’s a surprisingly simple approach that works exceptionally well, and while it may not purport to have the answers to some of the more difficult questions Ozu poses, the film manages to make some bold statements that only become more powerful the more we realize how close this is coming to reflecting reality, in both the hard truths and resounding triumphs.

Something quite notable about Ozu’s films are their characters, and Floating Weeds has some of his very best creations. As per usual, the director employs a close-knit group of regular collaborators who occupy the various roles in the film, and bring their sophisticated talents to the screen in a way that feels both revolutionary and genuine. The two central characters in the film are Komajuro, the fun-loving troupe leader played by Ganjirō Nakamura, and the highly-disciplined Sumiko, played by Machiko Kyō, who functions as Komajuro’s professional and romantic partner, and is the person most known for keeping the eccentric older man in check. They are the heart of the film, and their chemistry is built on a clear understanding of the specific requirements of the characters, keeping them restrained but still allowing their eccentricities to filter through in a very meaningful and impactful manner. Ozu often derived the most natural performances from his actors, and Floating Weeds was one of those that sees him expanding on them, putting them in situations where they are presented in a very different way – most of these actors are playing two versions of the same characters, namely the authentic version that goes about their daily life, and the construction that takes part in elaborate stage productions, putting up a veneer of artifice that hides who they are momentarily from the audience – through use of lavish costumes, gorgeous makeup and an intricate understanding of the characters, Ozu and his cast tell an absolutely riveting story that resides most effectively in the individual characters, and how they’re brought to life with such vivacity and poignancy throughout the film, which pays so much attention to every detail in the human interactions that form its core – it’s not particularly extravagant, but the performances feel so incredibly genuine, which makes the film around them so much more compelling and worth watching.

While it may be aligned with the most quintessential aspects of the director’s work, and will therefore be quite divisive amongst those that aren’t entirely enamoured with Ozu’s more subdued, elegant style, Floating Weeds is still one of his finest works. Everything is presented with a simple poeticism that makes this a truly compelling film in terms of the way the director navigates a tricky set of themes through the most straightforward narrative imaginable. He rarely made films that came across as anything other than moments in the lives of ordinary people plucked from reality – there is nary a moment of inauthenticity throughout this film, nor a single interaction that comes across as anything but entirely genuine. It’s beautifully heartfelt filmmaking from someone who rarely deviated from a strict set of ideas, and chose to rather master the aspects of his artistry that he was most interested in. Ozu doesn’t have as much to say with Floating Weeds as he would with the few films he would make in the 1960s before his passing (almost all of which had some powerful message the grappled the narrow boundary between life and death, and a multitude of other principles), but that doesn’t make this any less enduring or fascinating. It’s a striking piece, with extraordinary performances, a heartfelt tone and a sweetly sentimental sense of humour that allows the underlying melancholy to surface after a while, creating a stunning, emotional journey that carries so much more meaning than the relatively small and unassuming appearance of this film would suggest on a cursory glance.