You simply can’t look at the work of Yasujirō Ozu and not discuss the impact of the Second World War on the stories he told. He was a filmmaker that may have rarely addressed the war directly, but rather crafted stories that were situated around the time, focusing on the social and cultural changes brought on by the violent conflict that irrevocably changed Japan. Traditions were questions and social norms began to shift – and this is all found embedded deep within Record of a Tenement Gentleman (Japanese: 長屋紳士録), in which the director tells a story about a small group of people who encounter a young child who has presumably been orphaned by the war, forced into a position where they have to care for him against their better judgment, knowing that rejecting his quiet but fervent pleas for assistance will only lead him down a path to his demise, as it has done to many children who found themselves abandoned as a result of conflict that often leaves them homeless and without any guidance. It’s a powerful story, and one that sees Ozu once again dealing with a few fundamental themes – childhood, the challenges that come with parenting in more difficult social environments, and motherhood (specifically the kind that comes indirectly), a concept that we often see reflected in the director’s work, but rarely with the extraordinary dedication we see here, despite the relatively straightforward narrative. The forced gap between Ozu’s directorial efforts clearly yielded strong results, since he began a new era of his filmmaking process, of which Record of a Tenement Gentleman being an innovative work that captures the time and spirit of a very tragic moment in Japanese history.

As the first film Ozu directed after the end of the war, Record of a Tenement Gentleman required a lot of work, essentially being the first time the director would have the opportunity to stand in the shadow of the Second World War and reflect – not only on the specific events and how they changed the country, but also the manner in which the culture was shifting. Ozu’s work was never anything less than thoroughly compassionate – beautifully realized but filled with sincerity that can not be fabricated, the film is a masterful exploration of some very deep issues, done with the director’s distinct control of tone and content. The film is not particularly large in terms of size or scope – at only 71 minutes, it’s the embodiment of brevity, but it never feels unnecessarily short or incomplete. Perhaps the best way to look at Record of a Tenement Gentleman is as a moral fable, rather than the larger and more intimidating social epics that Ozu would make. It retains the same distinct intimacy and forthright commitment to representing the human condition in terms as succinct and meaningful as possible, but it is a lot smaller, and thus is often neglected when talking about his major works. Despite the relatively simple story, the film will always remain a fascinating document, since it was the first time Ozu would be able discuss the war and its aftermath – but rather than extending his style to be overwrought, he chose to adapt his style, creating a bittersweet and often very funny story of human connection, which is not something that many films produced directly after the war tend to do.

Record of a Tenement Gentleman is a film about grappling with humanity and its many unexpected challenges, which is a theme that Ozu has frequently explored through his prolific body of work. The film isn’t a comedy, but it does have several moments of being genuinely lighthearted – it occupies the same position as Charles Crichton’s Hue and Cry, which was produced directly after the end of the war, but rather than being hard-hitting and heavy-handed, it functioned mainly as a distraction, a warm and endearing film that had a few moments of sadness, and did find ways to subtly explore the aftermath of the war, without prioritizing it as the main focus. Record of a Tenement Gentleman is undeniably much more complex than this, and does address the past few years, but in a way that feels genuine. Ozu does this through prioritizing characters over the situational context – the war is the backdrop, not the focus, and he is far more intrigued by looking at the impact the conflict had on those who were left behind, the ordinary people who saw their cities crumbling around them. There’s a lingering sadness that sharply contracts the beautifully effortless heart of the film, which is drawn from the director’s steady and undying appreciation for the inevitability to resolution – the film may depict individuals in a very sad position, but it never feels like it is exploiting their situation or forcing them into a position where they are being the subject of unnecessarily carrying the burden of the past. It is heartbreaking but vibrant, and the fact that Ozu managed to find the time to celebrate humanity while looking back at the terror of the war is extraordinary, and further proof of his genius.

Ozu had a way with actors – he could take anyone and draw out the most incredible performances from them with seemingly the most effortless consistency. Record of a Tenement Gentleman may not be an instance where the director was working with the most recognizable actors, but he instead assembles a strong ensemble of reliable performers and gives them tremendous characters to play, each on integral to the success of the film. The two who are the focus of the film are Reikichi Kawamura and Chōko Iida, with Hōhi Aoki being Kōhei, the young child that serves as the catalyst for the entire story. Kawamura is wonderful as the compassionate man who knows that he needs to honour his responsibility as a moral member of society by protecting this young boy and ensuring he is safe from the hostile world that surrounds them, while Iida is absolutely incredible as the cynical older woman who laments at never experiencing motherhood, but finds herself gradually starting to appreciate her time with Kōhei, who forces her to reconsider her appreciation of other people, as well as setting off her maternal instincts. What is most interesting about Record of a Tenement Gentleman is how deeply and unequivocally this film is centred around resistance – not necessarily related directly to the war, but a kind of adherence to the principles that it took away. The main characters may exist in the post-war period, but they’re fighting against the encroaching danger that is taking over their idyllic society, and gradually start to realize there is much more to their place in society than just merely existing. The film looks at their protection of Kōhei in the same way that a soldier would protect their country, proving that Ozu could comment on enormous subjects in a way that was true to his more subdued, intimately and emotionally resonant style, rather than abandoning it in favour of more bombastic filmmaking.

When it came to making his first film since the war temporarily put his work on hold, Ozu had every right to be apoplectic. Like many of his peers across the globe, he had witnessed brutal conflict and disorder that nearly tore the world apart. Yet, he chooses to construct a more peaceful film, one that doesn’t neglect the haunting circumstances that inspired both its creation and the story at the core, but rather approaches it from a more careful and measured perspective. Record of a Tenement Gentleman reverberates with the same intense passion as any other film produced in the post-war era – the only difference is that the tone plays less to the anger and frustration one would feel during these moments, but rather the intrinsic humanity that underpins even the most tragic of situations. The film is a wonderful but melancholy exploration of unconventional families, and a celebration of the smallest but most beautiful details that define life, even in times of great social and cultural strife. Record of a Tenement Gentleman is a powerful film – it is small but dynamic, and has an abundance of heart. It knows exactly how to balance humour and heartbreak, and it builds to a stunning emotional crescendo that is both warm and haunting. Ozu’s work is always beautiful and evocative, despite its size, this one is not an exception. Instead, it is a bold and evocative drama that maintains a strict adherence to acknowledging the small beauties that can be found in everyday life, and which are far more poignant than many films that tread similar subject matter.