There are some that consider A Hen in the Wind (Japanese: 風の中の牝鶏) to be one of the more minor efforts in the notoriously prolific career of Yasujirō Ozu – and while it is easy to adhere to this belief based on the scope of the film (considering how this was the final film he made before entering into the next stage of his artistic career, which also happens to be his most celebrated period), it would be misguided to see this as anything less than a masterwork in its own way. It’s not a film that immediately announces itself as a work of art, but rather gradually ascends to the point where we are drawn into this gorgeous version of the world and held captive by the director’s notoriously challenging approach to the subject matter, which was far ahead of its time both traditionally and in terms of the conversations that were incited as a response. It may signal a moment of transition before he would go on to direct Late Spring (which elevated him to the status of a true master of global cinema), but A Hen in the Wind is far from a waste of time, being as well-crafted and unforgettably profound as nearly anything else the director had made at the time – and while it isn’t particularly well-known (with even some of his acolytes seeing it as a footnote to his career), there has never been a better time to re-establish this film as yet another shining example of Ozu’s genius, a firm but polite reminder that he is one of the greatest filmmakers to ever work in the medium, and someone whose precise and meaningful vision carries a deep sentimentality that is beautifully reflected in every frame of his work, which seems much more poignant once we look beneath the surface and understand the central themes.

Undeniably, A Hen in the Wind is certainly an exceptionallysmall film in terms of what the director is more commonly known for, but all the elements that we have come to appreciate from Ozu are present in every frame of the film. Collaborating with Ryosuke Saito for the first (and only) time on the creation of the screenplay, Ozu tells the story of a young mother whose husband has yet to come back home from war, and who has to find a way to support her son, who has recently become extremely ill with an unknown malady, and herself while patiently awaiting his return, leading to a momentary lapse in judgment in which she spends a night with a wealthy, anonymous customer in order to pay her debts and prevent even more loss coming to her family. As we would expect from a film by Ozu, A Hen in the Wind is propelled by social commentary, the kind that feels like it is genuinely drawn from his experience observing the lives of people in the years following the Second World War. There’s something profound about commenting on as devastating a conflict with such close proximity to the actual events, but Ozu constantly draws attention to his ability to tell some very profound stories without it coming across as overwrought or unnecessarily convoluted. This only adds nuance to an already complex but beautifully-constructed story of the inner turmoil felt by a woman who has struggled to make a life for her family, and who will do anything to help her son survive this hostile world, even if it means sacrificing her own morality in order to provide for him, which is the narrative thread on which most of the film hinges, and the reason it is such a resounding and unequivocal success.

It’s a stark and unforgiving landscape that Ozu places us in, and he constantly draws attention to the fact that, beneath the idyllic surface of this portion of society, there lurks an inherent darkness that threatens to envelop those who don’t have the capacity to pull themselves out of bleak situations. Naturally, this is done in a way that is very much adherent to Ozu’s style, with the emphasis not being on histrionics or overt sentimentality, but rather a more pared-down, earnest approach. The film is extraordinarily intimate, both in terms of the story it tells and how it leaps into the lives of these characters, who are developed within the confines of the director’s specific style. Considering this is essentially a film about war (albeit taking place in its direct aftermath), the fact that A Hen in the Wind is more focused on being intimate rather than sprawling is objectively surprising, considering nearly every post-war film has to feel like a spectacle, either in its resounding support for patriotism, or deeply critical of the structures that force people to risk their lives for king and country. Ozu has never been one for more bombastic filmmaking, and clearly prefers to process of gradually exploring the post-war mentalities through the characters and their psychological journeys, as made evident by the small-scale but achingly beautiful portrayal of two characters undergoing a crisis in their marriage as a result of the war, which brings many more consequences to the socio-cultural sphere than many would imagine, which is the more crucial theme of the film, which explores how the changing face of Japanese society was caused not only by the wreckage done by the war, but also the shift in social traditions that caused many people to find their beliefs entirely dismissed in favour of new conventions.

Ozu has always shown a penchant for writing characters, particularly women. One of his finest collaborators was the incredible Kinuyo Tanaka, who is one of the few individuals that can contest to being the greatest actress in her nation’s history and not be met with much disagreement. Her work with the director has always been impeccable, and while he would often seek out other actresses to play the parts in his later films, Tanaka was always a presence in many of them. A Hen in the Wind is one of her finest performances, one that showcased her full spectrum of talents without needing to resort to hysterics, which was one of her most considerable strengths as a performer, being able to portray even the most emotionally-complex individuals in a way that allowed her to maintain composure and dignity, which is vital to the character she is playing. Shūji Sano may have a relatively late entrance to the film as the husband of the main character, but he makes an immediate impression, taking on the role of the villainous, jealous partner with an intensity that persists throughout the entire film, even when he isn’t present on screen. Most of the tension that drives the film is extracted from these two central performances, both of which are absolutely exceptional, handling the dense and sometimes harsh subject matter with such incredible sincerity and dedication, proving that Ozu not only wrote great roles, but had tremendous instincts in being able to cast the right actors in the parts, which makes a considerable difference in a film as character-driven as this one.

It’s always a joy to discover that, beyond his canonical works, Ozu directed something extraordinarily beautiful that is not widely appreciated, despite being just as good as many of his more famous works. A Hen in the Wind is rarely mentioned in conversations, let alone being considered one of his best – and while it certainly doesn’t rise to the spectacular heights of some of his more notable films, it is far from inconsequential, telling a vitally important story that only grows in our estimation the more we engage with it. Ozu’s films produced directly after the war are fascinating, not only for the stories they tell, but also the underlying implications of social and cultural unease, which are often not intentional, but rather occur naturally as a result of the general attitudes brought to the production by those involved – so a film like A Hen in the Wind, which dares to tell a story that directly addresses the impact of war, is going to naturally stand out in ways that may be disquieting, but tend to carry the most significant meaning. Ozu’s work is always fascinating and invigorating, to the point where even a relatively small-scale film like this can be seen as a staggering achievement. Whether a completionist of the director, or just a casual viewer, there’s very little doubt that A Hen in the Wind is worth the time and effort, managing to be a profound and beautiful testament to the resilience of the human spirit.