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[Wim Wenders] If in our century there are still sacred things,
if there were something like a sacred treasure of the cinema,
then for me it would have to be
the work of the Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu.
He made 54 films.
Silent films in the Twenties,
black-and-white films in the Thirties and Forties,
and finally, color films until his death on December 12th, 1963,
on his 60th birthday.
With extreme economy of means
and reduced to but the bare essentials,
Ozu's films again and again tell the same simple story,
always of the same people and the same city: Tokyo.
This chronicle, spanning nearly 40 years,
depicts the transformation of life in Japan.
Ozu's films deal with the slow deterioration of the Japanese family,
and thereby with the deterioration of a national identity.
But they do so not by pointing with dismay
at what is new, Western, or American,
but by lamenting with an unindulged sense of nostalgia
the loss taking place at the same time.
As thoroughly Japanese as they are,
these films are, at the same time, universal.
In them I've been able to recognize all families
in all the countries of the world,
as well as my parents, my brother, and myself.
For me, never before, and never again since,
has the cinema been so close to its essence and its purpose:
to present an image of man in our century,
a useable, true and valid image
in which you not only recognize himself,
but from which, above all, he may learn about himself.
[train whistle blows]
- Good morning. - Oh, good morning.
- Leaving today? - Yes, this afternoon.
This is our chance to see all our children together.
They must be looking forward to your arrival in Tokyo.
Keep an eye on our house while we're gone, will you?
Don't worry.
I'm jealous that your children have all turned out so well.
You're lucky!
I suppose so.
The weather is really splendid.
It's a blessing.
Have a safe trip and have fun.
Thank you.
I can't find the inflatable cushion.
It has to be here. Look again.
Wait, here it is.
- Find it? - Yep, got it.
[Wenders] Anyway, Ozu's work does not need my praise,
and such a sacred treasure of the cinema
could only reside in the realm of the imagination.
And so, my trip to Tokyo was in no way a pilgrimage.
I was curious as to whether I still could track down something from this time,
whether there was still anything left of this work.
Images, perhaps, or even people.
Or whether so much would have changed in Tokyo
in the 20 years since Ozu's death,
that nothing would be left to find.
[Wenders] I don't have the slightest recollection.
I just don't remember anymore.
I know I was in Tokyo.
I know it was the spring of '83.
I know.
I had a camera with me, and I shot footage.
These images now exist, and they have become my memory.
But I can't help thinking
if I'd been there without the camera,
I'd now be able to better remember.
[Wenders] On the flight over, they showed a film.
And like always, I tried not to watch it,
and like always, I found myself watching it.
Without the sound, the images on the tiny screen up front
seemed only that much more empty to me.
A hollow form, feigning and imitating emotion.
It felt good just to look out the window.
"If only it were possible to film like that", I though to myself,
"like when you open your eyes sometimes.
Just to look, without wanting to prove anything."
[people talking in Japanese]
[Wenders] Tokyo was like a dream.
And today, my own images appear to me
as if they were invented,
like when, after a long time, you find a slip of paper
on which you once had scribbled down a dream on the first light of dawn.
You read it in amazement,
and you don't recognize a thing,
as if it were someone else's dream.
And so, I now find it hard to believe
that I actually stumbled upon this cemetery,
where, beneath the blossoming cherry trees,
picnicking groups of men sat and drank and laughed,
cameras were clicking everywhere,
and the cawing of the ravens kept ringing in my ears for sometime to come.
[ravens cawing]
[Wenders] It was only upon seeing a little boy in the subway,
a boy who simply didn't want to take another step,
that I realized why my images of Tokyo
seem to me like those of a sleepwalker.
No other city, along with its people,
has ever felt so familiar and so intimate to me
long before I ever managed to go there,
mainly for the films of Ozu.
I wanted to rediscover this familiarity,
and it was this intimacy that my images of Tokyo were trying to find.
In this little boy in the subway,
I recognized one of the many rebellious children from Ozu's films.
Or maybe I just wanted to recognize.
Perhaps I was searching for something that no longer existed.
[game machines buzzing]
[buzzing]
[beeping]
[metal balls dropping]
[beeping]
[beeping and buzzing]
[Wenders] Late into that night,
and then late into all the following nights,
I lost myself in one of the many Pachinko parlors,
in the deafening noise where you sit in front of your machine -
one player among many,
yet for that reason, all the more alone -
and watch the countless metal balls
dance between the nails on the way out,
or once in a while into a winning game.
This game induces a kind of hypnosis,
a strange feeling of happiness.
Winning is hardly important.
But time passes.
You lose touch with yourself for a while
and merge with the machine,
and perhaps you forget what you always wanted to forget.
This game first appeared after the lost war
when the Japanese people had a national trauma to forget.
Only the skillful or the lucky,
and of course the professional players,
can considerably increase the number of balls
and trade them in afterwards for cigarettes, food,
electronic gadgets, or for credit slips
which, although illegal, can be exchanged for cash
in one of the neighboring alleys.
[TV playing]
[Wenders] I took a taxi back to the hotel.
[TV playing in taxi]
[singing in Japanese]
[applause on TV]
[commercial playing, in Japanese]
[sports announcers speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] The more the reality of Tokyo
struck me as a torrent of impersonal, unkind,
threatening, yes, even inhuman images,
the greater and more powerful it became in my mind
the images of the loving, ordered world
of the mythical city of Tokyo that I knew from the films of Yasujiro Ozu.
Perhaps that was what no longer existed:
A view which still could achieve order in a world out of order.
A view which could still render the world transparent.
[speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] Perhaps such a view is no longer possible today,
not even for Ozu, were he still alive.
Perhaps the frantically growing inflation of images
has already destroyed too much.
Perhaps images at one with the world
are already lost forever.
[American movie dubbed in Japanese]
[Wenders] When John Wayne left,
it wasn't the Stars and Stripe that appeared,
but rather the red ball of the Japanese flag.
And while I was falling asleep, I had the craziest thought:
"Where I am now is the center of the world.
"Every *** television set, no matter where,
"is the center of the world.
"The center has become a ludicrous idea,
"and the world as well:
"An image of the world, a ludicrous idea.
"the more TV sets there are on the globe.
"And here I am in the country that builds them all for the whole world
so that the whole world can watch the American images."
On one of the following days,
I visited the actor Chishu Ryu.
He had played in nearly all of Ozu's films
ever since the days of the silents,
often in the roles of men much older than himself.
In many of Ozu's films, he was the father,
although he himself was barely older
than the actors and actresses who played his sons and daughters.
I once saw him in two different films of Ozu on one and the same day.
In the first film from the early Thirties,
he portrayed the life of a man from youth through old age.
And in the second film from the end of the Fifties,
he himself really was as old as the role he had played then.
The characters in the stories in both films
were nearly identical.
Never before have I felt such respect for an actor
as on this day for Chishu Ryu.
I tried to explain this to him,
but my compliment only embarrassed him.
He sidestepped it modestly.
[Wenders] At that time, he said, his real age was 30,
and the role I'd asked him about was that of a 60-year-old.
The point wasn't to act old age, but only to look old.
He didn't concern himself with anything else except looking old.
Ozu always told him how to do something,
and then he carried out his orders without giving it a second thought.
Anyway, acting under Ozu was much less a matter
of bringing discoveries and experiences to a role
as of precisely carrying out Ozu's instructions.
[Wenders] I asked him if Ozu had rehearsed much.
[Wenders] That depended on how difficult the scene was.
Many times two or three rehearsals were enough,
and then the scene was shot.
But in his case, that he had to admit,
Ozu was rarely satisfied with a first or second take.
With him, Ryu, things took quite a while.
He remembered once rehearsing a scene more than 20 times
and then shooting it more than 20 times as well.
He himself didn't have any idea what he was doing wrong
and simply thought to himself,
"Even a poor marksman will hit the bull's-eye
if he just keeps blasting away long enough."
Afterwards, Ozu merely asked him, in all friendliness,
"Ryu, today's not one of your better days, is it?
Or are you trying to test my patience?"
At any rate, with other actors,
better actors than himself,
Ozu was often satisfied with one or two takes.
But working with him, Ryu, must have been difficult,
and so he had to consider himself in the ranks of the less talented.
[Wenders] For Ryu, the relationship to Ozu
was always that of a pupil to his teacher,
or of a son to his father.
Although Ozu was only a year older than he was,
there was an enormous distance
between the two of them in terms of intellect,
and Ozu was always the teacher,
the master from whom he, Ryu, had only to learn,
from beginning to end.
[Wenders] Ozu, the master,
possessed an incredible force of character
and left his imprint on everything around him.
And so, everything became an extension of Ozu.
In the studio, for instance,
he not only concerned himself with the sets and decorations in general,
but with every detail and every little thing.
He positioned every cushion
and put every single object in its place.
Nothing was left to chance.
He would even straighten out the actors' costumes just before a take.
And there's nothing wrong with that, Ryu concluded,
when someone is so sure of what he wants.
[Wenders] Ryu said that under Ozu, he learned to forget himself,
to become an empty page.
He thought about nothing but his work,
and that meant, above all, to never have a fixed notion about this work.
On the contrary.
How to come as close as possible to the Ozu idea,
how to move in harmony with the master's instructions.
His thoughts had revolved constantly around this,
and this had been his preparation.
[Wenders] Other films or actors
hadn't influenced him, explained Ryu.
He had only tried to become but one color upon Ozu's palette.
The luckiest day of his life was when Ozu chose him,
him of all people, from among all the others.
Otherwise his life certainly would have taken a different turn.
Ozu had given him a role and had taught him things,
now and then, with gentle pressure
which he never would have learned otherwise.
He started out a nobody, and thanks to Ozu,
he became someone with the name of Ryu.
Ozu made him what he was.
There was simply no other way for him to think of it.
[Wenders] The women had recognized Chishu Ryu
because he had recently appeared in a popular television series.
Nowadays, no one would still recognize him
from his roles in the Ozu films, he later told me,
as if apologizing.
We took the train to the nearby cemetery where Ozu is buried:
Kita-Kamakura.
The train station appears in one of his own films.
[Wenders] Ozu's gravestone bears no name,
only an old Chinese character, MU,
which means: Emptiness, nothingness.
[Wenders] I thought about this symbol on the ride back in the train.
Nothingness.
As a child, I'd often tried to imagine nothingness.
The idea of it had filled me with fear.
"Nothing simply cannot exist", I'd always told myself.
"Only what's there can exist, what's real.
Reality."
Hardly any other notion is more empty and useless when applied to the cinema.
Each person knows for himself
what is meant by the perception of reality.
Each person sees his reality with his own eyes.
One sees the others above all the people one loves.
One sees the object surrounding himself,
sees the cities and countrysides in which one lives.
One also sees death, man's mortality
and the transitoriness of objects.
One sees and experiences love, loneliness, happiness,
sadness, fear.
In short, each person sees for himself: Life.
And each person knows for himself the extreme gap
that often exists between personal experience
and the depiction of that experience up there on the screen.
We have learned to consider the vast distance
separating cinema from life as so perfectly natural
that we gasp and give a start
when we suddenly discover something true or real in a movie,
be it nothing more than the gesture of a child in the background,
or a bird flying across the frame,
or a cloud casting its shadow over the scene for but an instant.
It is a rarity in today's cinema to find such moments of truth.
For people are objects to show themselves as they really are.
That's what was so unique in Ozu's films,
and above all, in his later ones.
There were such moments of truth.
No, not just moments.
Long-range truth lasting from the first image to the last.
Films which actually and continuously dealt with life itself,
and in which the people, the objects,
the cities, and the countrysides revealed themselves.
Such a depiction of reality, such an art,
is no longer to be found in the cinema.
It was once.
MU: Nothingness...
what remains today.
Back in Tokyo, the Pachinko parlors were already closed.
Only the Kogichi, the "nail men", were still at work.
[Wenders] Tomorrow, all the balls would run a different course,
and a machine which could still have made you a winner today
would only make you a desperate loser tomorrow.
[Wenders] Shinjuku.
A section of Tokyo with one bar after another.
In Ozu's films, many such alleys appear
in which his abandoned or lonely fathers drown their sorrows.
I set up my camera and filmed like I always do.
And then a second time.
The same alley, the same camera position,
but using another focal length:
the 50 millimeter, a lens with a very slight telephoto effect,
the one Ozu always used for each and every shot.
Another image presented itself,
one that no longer belonged to me.
[ravens caw]
[Wenders] At the cemetery the next morning,
the same invisible ravens cawed
and the children played baseball.
And up on the roofs of the skyscrapers downtown,
the adults played golf,
a sport to which the Japanese have become addicted,
even if only very few ever get the chance to play on a real golf course.
[Wenders] In some of Ozu's films,
the enthusiasm for this sport is depicted ironically.
Nevertheless, I was amazed by the degree
to which it was practiced here as pure form,
as beauty and perfection of motion.
The real aim of the game, to get the ball into a hole,
seemed totally abandoned.
I only found a last single solitary defender of this idea.
[man speaking Japanese over P.A. system]
[speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] I only left the huge and rattling golf stadium
to grab a quick bite to eat.
As always, you could see all the foods from outside
in the showcase of the restaurant.
Then I headed back to the stadium,
now inundated with floodlight.
[chatter in Japanese]
[Wenders] In the clubhouse later that evening,
the day came full circle,
ending with images of baseball.
And since the same imitation food
was on display here as well,
I decided to pay a visit the next day
to one of the places
where these utterly realistic-looking things were produced.
[Wenders] It all starts with real food...
over which a gelatinous mass
is poured and then cooled.
The finished molds that result
are filled with wax,
and then these wax forms
are trimmed, painted, and worked on further.
The wax must be kept warm all the while.
Other than that, the preparation of the wax sandwich
is not at all unlike the preparation of the real one.
[spraying]
[Wenders] I stayed there the entire day.
The only time I wasn't allowed to film
was during the lunch break, which was a shame.
All the employees sat amidst their wax creations
and ate the food they had brought,
which looked exactly like the imitations all around them.
You could almost imagine one of them
biting into a wax roll by mistake.
[sizzling]
[jazz saxophone]
[Wenders] On top of the Tokyo Tower,
I met with a friend of mine - Werner Herzog -
who was stopping over in Japan for a few days
on his way to Australia.
We talked.
These days there are simply not many images left.
If you look around here, it's almost entirely just buildings,
images almost aren't possible anymore.
Therefore one has to dig like an archeologist with a shovel...
to see if there's still anything left to find in this offended landscape.
Very often it of course comes to taking risks,
and I would never shy away from those.
And I see nowadays there are not many people in this world
who would dare to really do something for this need that we have...
...namely we don't have enough adequate images. We desperately need images
which are in harmony with the state of our civilization and our inner selves.
And...
then one has to go into the middle of a war, or whereever it is necessary.
And I would never complain that it's, for example, sometimes hard...
that, let's say, one has to climb 8000 meter up a mountain
to get images which are pure, clear and transparent...
because you can't find that here anymore.
So one really has to search.
I would also fly to Mars or Saturn with the next space shuttle I could hop on.
For example, NASA has a program
with this SKYLAB, errr... space shuttle
where they sometimes maybe take biologists with them,
and people who are testing new technology in space.
I would very much like to join them with a film camera.
Because it's not easy anymore to find on this Earth the thing that makes the transparency of images
...that which once was.
I would go anywhere.
[Wenders] No matter how much I understood Werner's quest
for transparent and pure images,
the images I was searching for
were only to be found down here,
below, in the chaos of the city.
In spite of everything,
I couldn't help being impressed by Tokyo.
That afternoon, I went to the newly opened Disneyland
just outside the city gates.
But the sobering thought of seeing an exact copy
of the park in California made me reconsider,
and I made a U-turn.
Moreover, it was pouring with rain.
I didn't regret my decision, though,
because in one of the city's parks
I ran into some people who refused to let a little rain
stop them from being an American.
# Rock 'n' roll #
# Gonna rock, gonna rock #
# Around the clock tonight #
[rock]
# Well, tutti fruiti #
# Aw rootie #
# Tutti fruiti #
# Aw rootie #
# Tutti fruiti #
# Aw rootie #
# Tutti fruiti #
# Aw rootie #
[Runaway playing]
[Elvis Presley's Don't be Cruel]
# Don't want no other lover #
# Baby, it's just you I'm thinking of #
[rock] Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
[screaming]
[girls scream]
[girl screams]
[screaming]
[Johnny B. Goode playing]
# Who never ever learned to read and write so well #
# But he could play a guitar just like ringin' a bell #
# Go, go #
# Go, Johnny, go, go #
[Call Me playing]
[whistle blows]
[whistle blows]
[whistle blows]
[whistle blows]
# Color me your color, baby #
# Color me your car #
[blows whistle]
[Peppermint Twist playing]
# Yeah, the name of this dance is the Peppermint Twist #
# You like it like this, the Peppermint Twist #
# It goes 'round and 'round up and down #
# Summer #
# We're on safari to stay #
# Tell the teacher we're surfin' #
# Surfin' USA #
# At Haggarty's and Swami's #
# Inside, outside, USA #
# Pacific Palisades #
[rock, fast beat]
[rock]
[At the Hop playing]
[moody jazz]
[electronic gunshots]
[explosions, gunshots]
[electronic beeping]
[electronic reverberations]
[moody jazz]
[Wenders] That night, I met the French filmmaker
and cat lover Chris Marker
in a bar in Shinjuku...
a bar bearing the name of one of his films - La Jetee.
Only in the coming days was I to see his new film:
the beautiful Sans Soleil,
in which there are images of Tokyo
inaccessible to the camera of a foreigner like me.
Like so many photographers,
Chris Marker doesn't like to be photographed.
But tonight, he did risk
showing an eye after all.
[moody jazz]
[Wenders] The trains.
The trains.
All the trains in Ozu's films.
Not a single film
in which there isn't at least one train.
[train passes loudly]
[train roars]
[train approaching]
[loud chugging]
[noise recedes]
[Wenders] Yuuhara Atsuta was the second camera assistant
on Ozu's early silent films,
later his longtime first assistant,
and finally, for almost 20 years,
Ozu's cameraman.
He showed me how Ozu worked in an interior set.
We were able to get hold of an old Mitchell,
the very same one Atsuta and Ozu had actually used
to shoot their last films.
Over the years, Yasujiro Ozu had simplified
more and more his visual means of expression.
Whereas in the early films
there are still occasional tracking shots and pans,
he gradually eliminated even these
until finally he shot only with a fixed camera
always set at the eye level
of someone seated on the floor
and always fitted with the same lens...
[speaking Japanese]
...the 50 millimeter.
[speaking Japanese]
"This set-up here was the standard position
used for a long or medium-long shot",
explained Atsuta.
"For a close-up or medium-close-up,
"the camera position was always raised.
"The reason for this was that Ozu wanted
"to avoid image distortion which would've occurred
"if the camera were kept in the lower position
"and tilted upwards for the close-up.
"That's why the camera was always elevated for close-ups,
even if only slightly."
[Wenders] "This was the camera support designed by Ozu himself",
Atsuta told me,
"in order to achieve the camera position for exterior shots,
"even lower than the one permitted
by the usual triplex."
"The shortest available tripod came up to here.
"But Ozu wanted to have the camera even lower,
"which meant that as a cameraman
"I had to lie on the floor to look through the viewfinder.
"Then it was advantageous
that we almost never did any panning."
[Wenders] "When Ozu wanted to set up a shot
"and the assistants had positioned the camera
"according to his instructions,
"Ozu looked through the camera
"and very carefully decided on the framing.
"Then he said, 'That's it',
"and the assistants fixed the camera in this position.
"Once set, nobody was allowed to touch the camera.
This was an iron-clad rule."
"Then, during the first few rehearsals,
"Ozu again looked through the viewfinder,
directed the actors, and gave them their positions."
"After making final adjustments,
"the camera was secured once and for all.
"And now was the time when everyone had to be
"really careful not to bump into it
"and upset the positioning of the shot.
We were really nervous around the camera."
Atsuta continued:
"Ozu didn't like shooting exterior shots on location,
"especially when a crowd of spectators gathered.
"That's why we always did the exterior shots as fast as we could,
or, if possible, avoided them altogether."
"Ozu gave me his stopwatch..."
"...as a keepsake.
"I'd like to show it to you later.
It's the only remembrance I have of him."
"The script girl always started her watch
"along with Ozu.
"And since we were filming with sound,
"you could hear the two clicks.
"And every time, the sound engineer would listen and say,
"'What on earth was that noise?'
"Ozu considered it important
"to time things as accurately as possible.
"Each take was timed,
"and when we watched the rushes,
the time was taken once again."
"I always used these childish things.
"Isn't that a bit embarrassing?
"I was always running around with a mat like this
under my arm."
[laughs]
"It really was a hell of a job."
[speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] "This is the stopwatch
"which Ozu had specially built.
"He used it all through the years.
"With this watch, he recorded the times
for every scene, including inserts."
"The red line shows how much film stock has been shot
"in the standard 35 millimeter format.
"The middle line gives the seconds.
"And the third one here indicates the footage
for the 60-millimeter format."
"This stopwatch was important for Ozu
"in order to precisely measure time
"in seconds and in frames.
I wanted you to see it."
Atsuta loaned me the original of one of Ozu's screenplays
for a few days.
I leafed through it, reverent and helpless.
I couldn't decipher a single word...
not even the title.
[indistinct chatter]
[Wenders] How long were you his assistant?
[Interpreter speaking Japanese]
"From the beginning to the end.
His camera assistant for 15 years."
[Interpreter speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] And then you became Ozu's cameraman?
"Yes."
[Interpreter speaking Japanese]
[Wenders] How did that come about?
[speaking Japanese]
"Very simply. He said,
"'From now on, this is your job. Okay?'
"He was a man of few words.
[Atsuta speaking Japanese]
"I just said, 'Thank you.'"
[speaking Japanese]
"And my gratitude to Ozu continues to this very day."
"I was the caretaker of the camera...
"and that's not meant as false modesty.
I was proud to be the caretaker of Ozu's camera."
[Atsuta speaking Japanese]
"All the more so because already as an assistant,
"I had come to know and admire him.
"At that time, all the other assistants
"had long become cameramen...
"and I was still nothing but the assistant on Ozu's crew.
"One day, he said to me,
"'Since you are going to be a cameraman sooner or later,
"'why don't you be patient
and become the dog of a big house?'"
"I appreciated his work.
"Many of my colleagues were making more money.
"Above all, the newsreel cameramen
"were very well paid.
"But I stayed where I was.
"I wanted to remain at Ozu's side.
That was my view."
[Wenders] Did you discuss much with Ozu
before you began shooting a film?
"No. I wouldn't say we had discussions.
"We simply talked together like always,
"and also not at any great length.
"Anyway, I had little to say to him
"and nothing as regards direction.
"At most, I would ask him things like,
"'What period of time is covered in the film?
"'A few weeks? A few months? A year?'
"And that only because of the lighting,
"in order to get an idea of the seasons.
"Ever since the days when Ogawa showed his films,
"he never used any lens other than the 50 millimeter.
"I remember him often saying,
"'Ogawa, why do you keep suggesting
"'the 40 millimeter?
"You know very well I like the 50 better.'
"Later, I myself once asked him
"to take a look at a scene through another lens.
"Just once.
"He peered through the viewfinder and said,
'Just as I thought - not as good as the 50.'"
"So I put the good old 50 right back on the camera,
"gnashing my teeth a bit.
"And from that day on,
I, too, never again questioned the 50 millimeter."
"Using a lens with a wider angle
"increases the image field on both sides
"and also in terms of height.
"But that just wasn't to Ozu's taste.
"During the time of the silent films,
"I mean, with the change over to sound,
"the width of the frame became a bit narrower
"because of the added soundtrack.
"Before, you could use the entire width of the negative,
"but not anymore.
I think that affected his sense of image composition."
"He left me in complete charge of the lighting."
"In the film, there was a father.
"There's a scene near the end
"in which the father dies. You remember?
"I lit the hospital room
"so that it was extremely bright...
"as if the sun were shining in.
"In a place like that, in a hospital,
"one is filled with compassion when it's lovely outside.
So I had the sunlight pour in the room with great intensity."
"Ozu turned to me and said,
"'What have you done?
"'Why?
"'That's not bad at all.'
"And I replied, 'To be perfectly honest,
"'I just didn't want to let the old man die in the dark.
"'I wanted him to be surrounded by light
at the moment of his death.'"
"'We shoot it exactly like this',
was the praise Ozu gave me."
"In general, he never told me
"what he thought of the shots
"or even if he liked them.
"I never heard Ozu say something like,
"'That was a good take.'
"At the very most, a few days later he would say,
"'That wasn't bad at all the other day.'
Yes, that was typical of him."
[Interpreter speaking Japanese]
"Once he asked me,
"'Do you have a girlfriend?'
"And I said, 'Yes. She has three legs.
"'And I always carry her around on my back.'
"I was talking about my tripod.
"It became a running joke between us.
"'Your girlfriend, the three-legged one',
"he would tease me,
'She's not so bad-looking. A real cutie.'"
"I was quite fond of him.
"I had a special feeling for him right up to his death,
and Ozu knew it."
"I know something like this might sound a bit strange...
"...but I'm probably the only cameraman in the world
"who remained with one single director
"for such an outrageous length of time...
"from assistant right to the end.
"No, I don't think anyone else can make that claim.
To have served Ozu... that's my pride and joy."
"Interior shots were always done in a studio,
"never on location.
"The only exceptions were the train shots.
"Whenever we had to shoot inside a train...
I always said to Ozu, 'Anything but the studio.'"
"And he accepted that."
"No matter what you do,
a train never looks right in the studio.
"Everything shakes, and in the wrong way.
"That's why I always wanted us to film in real trains.
"And you can be sure
"that in every post-war film by Ozu
the trains are real ones."
"We always spent a lot of time scouting for locations.
"But we never used a car.
We went on foot... always on foot."
"There was even a joke about it:
Location scouting is over only when you pass out."
[Atsuta speaking Japanese with interpreter]
[Wenders] This will be the last question.
"Yes."
Did you work with other directors
after Ozu's death?
"Yes, I did."
"But I was completely miserable on the job.
For a long time, I felt dazed."
"How can I explain it?"
"I continued to work for a while,
"but without any feeling for my work
"or for the director I happened to be with.
Something was gone."
"Ozu got the best out of me...
"and I gave him my best.
"With the others...
my best was no longer there."
[speaking tearfully]
"I'm indebted to Ozu.
Sometimes one feels lonely."
"Leave me now."
"I thank you."
"Yes...one becomes lonely."
"What you call 'spirit',
that can never be explained to anybody else..."
"That's why...the people,
"the people he worked with, he cared about them.
"He was more than a director.
"He was like a king.
"Now...at this moment...
he must be pleased."
"I'm just not myself today."
"Please...go now
and leave me here alone."
"I apologize."
"Yasujiro Ozu was a good man."
[sobbing]
[children singing]
[singing continues]
[train becomes deafening]
[train wheels' rhythm]
[train whistle blows]
[whistle fades]
[boat motor clacking]
[clacking continues]
You must be sad. They all left you alone.
It was just so sudden.
- She was a headstrong woman,
but if I had known that this would happen
I would have been kinder to her while she was alive.
Living alone, the days will seem very long.
- Lonely indeed... how sad.
[motor clacking]
[boat horn blows]