by Ed Travis
Once again, I find myself grateful to Twilight Time for furthering my film education and enriching my film watching life via a title I had been hitherto unaware of before their release of it. Master filmmaker Yoji Yamada has some 122 credits to his name as a writer and 84 as a director. An enormous amount of those credits come from one of film’s longest running franchises, the Tora-san films (comedies of which I’ve seen none, and which I rarely hear discussed in Western film circles). The Tora-san films have 48 installments released from 1969 to 1995, of which 46 were directed by Yamada, and either written or co-written as well. This is a level of proliferation many filmmakers could never even dream of, much less achieve. I myself (as were many westerners, I presume) was introduced to him through a series of samurai films he created later in his life, which include The Twilight Samurai, The Hidden Blade, and Love And Honor. I’ve come to think of The Twilight Samurai as one of the all time great films, easily ranking among the very greatest movies I’ve had the pleasure to experience in life.
So to see Yamada’s name on The Little House (as co-writer along with Emiko Hiramatsu, and as director) meant I’d be very interested indeed in seeing it for myself. I’ll admit a personal affinity for samurai films, which drew me to Twilight Samurai in the first place, and which has likely kept me from seeking out his many non-samurai titles up to this point. Rather than being primarily a samurai filmmaker, Yamada paints incredibly personal portraits of Japanese life at distinct times and places. It’s no surprise, then, that The Little House, featuring a distinct lack of samurai, is as engaging and enthralling as any of the films of his which contain at least some thrill of swordplay. The Little House sets up two story threads, or at least two time frames for one woman’s story. This device starts out somewhat clunky; as though one can feel the filmmaking craft creeping into an otherwise straightforward look at a woman’s life. But as we begin to connect with the humanity of each character and the honesty of their stories, the storytelling devices fade into the background and we’re able to engage fully.
Our tale switches back and forth between the present day, in which Chieko Baishô plays the grandmotherly main character Taki Nunomiya, here relaying her life story to her great nephew, and a period of her life between 1931 and 1945 in which Taki (here played by Haru Kuroki in what amounts to the starring role of the film) worked as a maidservant in the titular house. The mechanism for us as an audience to learn this story comes through Taki writing down her memoirs at the begrudging behest of her great nephew, and so up front there are some borderline cliched tropes of an older person narrating their life over cutaways to another time, and beautifully written text giving way to beautifully rendered recreations of period-era Japan. Early on there was a fear that allowing the modern day to creep into the story would kill some of the magic of Yamada’s incredible recreations of the past, and the mindsets and external pressures affecting the actions of those characters in their particular time and place.
But those fears prove to be unfounded, as the achingly romantic and equal parts bitter and sweet story unfolds. A clear strength of Yamada’s is to tell a wholly engaging story about a small group of people, usually family units and their neighbors, which in and of itself would make for engaging, if not particularly “sexy”, drama. The brilliance of it all comes into focus when one realizes how much Yamada is telling the story of Japan, and wrestling with grand themes like the tragedy of war and how individuals cannot escape being swept up in the mechanisms of society around them. Here young Taki is brought down from the mountainous countryside to become a house servant and in turn gain a new and more civilized life. She’s paired with the Harai family, with whom she quickly becomes attached, as does the audience. From Mr. Harai, a successful toy maker at a big corporation, incessantly discussing politics and war, to Mrs. Harai (the film’s other lead performance from Takako Matsu) and her charming and physically challenged young son (whom Taki will lovingly nurse back to health over many years), the film successfully endears us to this family and we quickly learn the rhythms and eccentricities of this little house. The bulk of the drama centers around a young toymaker (Hidetaka Yoshioka as Masaharu Itakura) who becomes close to the Hirai family and closest of all to Mrs. Harai. This personal tale is recounted through the ever-observing eye of Taki, and never fails to be touching and fully fleshed out.
As historically significant moments approach, such as the “rape of Nanking” in 1937 to the entrance of Japan into World War II, Taki and the Harais are impacted in much the way many middle class to upper class citizens likely were. But because we’ve come to know and love these characters, the external forces affecting them become rich drama, and the weight of history becomes personal and potent set against these particular lives. Only after we’ve seen the tragic effects of war upon our lead characters do we come to appreciate the bookended sequences set in modern day, as by showing us today, Yamada shows us how long the consequences of war reverberate through time.
Anyone interested in Japanese cinema and culture, or in sweeping period drama, would do well to give The Little House a watch. While it may not quite approach “masterpiece” territory, it is certainly a powerful piece of drama set against a backdrop of powerful world forces colliding. All while endearing us greatly to a small cadre of characters who begin to feel like our own family. Yamada tells a distinctly Japanese story, to be sure, but there’s a humanity at play that crosses any international boundaries, making it universally relatable.
The Package
The absolutely gorgeous film is the centerpiece here, with little in the way of bonus features or extra content. Being a 2014 release without any genre trappings to hype it up, The Little House is one of those films Twilight Time likely sought out to distribute based solely on its quality alone, for the love of cinema, and not the high level of interest Western audiences might show in the title. So beyond the trailers, Isolated Score track, and liner notes by Julie Kirgo (all Twilight Time standards), there remains only the film itself.
An easy “blind buy” for fans of Twilight Time would be their earlier release of The Twilight Samurai, Yamada’s masterwork which stands up against virtually any film in history. It is that spectacular. If that film entrances you as much as it did me, then certainly a purchase of The Little House is warranted. Yamada is a genius and a poet, to be certain, and The Little House is a worthy elegy filled with aching beauty and authenticity.
And I’m Out.
The Little House hit Twilight Time Limited Edition Blu-ray on August 11th, 2015. There are 3000 total copies, and once they’re gone… they’re gone.
