Led by their master, a small group of traveling performing artists stops by a small coastal village, bringing their nightly Kabuki performance to the locals.

Unbeknownst to the troupe, the master has a son on the island and ensures that the group makes a yearly stop by the village so that he can see him.

A proud man, the master made a decision a long time ago that his son should not know that he is his father and thus has been introducing himself as his uncle every since the earliest years of the boy’s life. Eager to ensure that the boy will succeed in life and will not be negatively influenced by the knowledge that his father is a struggling actor, the master and his ex-wife have thus been hiding the truth from the boy during his entire life.

When not performing, the master spends time in the house of his ex-wife where he can talk and play games with his son. However, the master’s current partner, who is the singer in the performance group, suspects that he is having an affair. She visits the house and upon seeing the master’s ex-wife, becomes certain that he has been cheating on her. She consequently plots her revenge and sends a pretty girl with a bad reputation to seduce the master’s son. The boy becomes enamored with the girl and the master becomes angry with his son for falling for such a woman. He is concerned that the boy will throw away his promising future to be with a woman who is not worthy of him. The master then finds out that the meeting of the girl with his son had been arranged by his partner and repudiates her. During an argument where all the parties are present, the master is forced to tell the boy that he is actually his father. It is the boy’s turn to become angry and he says that he doesn’t want a father. The master leaves the house, realizing that he can’t expect to be able to act like the boy’s father and have any authority after having hidden the truth for so long.

All throughout, business has been very bad and the group is forced to put an end to the performances. The members separate, hoping to find new work somewhere else. The master, having reconciled with his partner, leaves the island promising to return one day a successful artist.
Floating Weeds is another beautiful and ravishing film by Yasujiro Ozu, who has been called the most Japanese of all Japanese directors. It is debatable whether this classification still applies in today’s Japanese society, where traditions are fast disappearing under the weight of consumerism and modernism. Instead, it is likely that today’s Japanese youth regards Ozu films as outdated, archaic and reflective of a Japan of the past. Ozu, who died in 1963 after directing 55 films, was already fully aware of the changes affecting his culture 50 years ago. His films reflect this concern with the erosion of values, the breaking up of family life, and the growing disconnect between generations. Containing little or no plot, they offer slices of life, stories about the everyday and of people with real concerns and problems, without resorting to over dramatization and superficial displays of emotions. On the contrary, Ozu’s films are about austerity and brevity. Only the absolute bare minimum is offered to the audience, the most vital and the most significant. It is hard to watch his films and not feel overwhelmed by a sense that we are dealing with true essentiality. In a society that is today dominated by the artificial and the superfluous, where quantity seems to matter more than quality, Ozu’s films are like a breath of fresh air, a relief, and a reminder that there is unfortunately too much in life that we have forgotten.

As with all of his films, the camera never or rarely moves and usually sits at a low angle, just a few feet above the ground, which is the height of vision for a person sitting on a tatami. While there is no fancy camerawork, the style in itself is so typical of Ozu that form often seems to dominate, but always unobtrusively. The editing consists mostly of hard cuts, but never for any other purpose than to advance the narrative and show the passage of time. As such, it is inconspicuous and fairly classical. Scenes are usually comprised of long takes and made up of very few shots and the dialogues are sparse and economical, relying on silence for communication. But it is the beauty of the shots that makes the form in Ozu so special and magical. Each scene is a work of art, the composition a perfect balance of elements where contrast, alignment, scale and proportion live in perfect harmony. Watching a film by Ozu can be equated to being a part of the traditional Japanese tea ceremony or listening to the sound of water gently flowing down a river. It brings calm, tranquility and fills one with a sense of peacefulness.

In that sense, it is impossible to disassociate his films from the overall Zen tradition where emphasis is placed on unity, harmony, austerity and elegance. The term elegance itself is derived from the Latin Eligere, which means to choose out or to select carefully. And it is often the simplest design that is the most elegant, one that is the work of refinement and simplification. In Zen art, absence (or emptiness which the Japanese call Mu) is of the utmost importance. This is exactly what Ozu does in his films. He takes away, trims and peels off until only the essential remains, until the absence of certain elements and the void created overtakes what is present (see also The Absolute Realism of Robert Bresson for more on this topic. Many parallels have been and can be drawn between these 2 directors). When faced with such economies of expression, one has little choice but to accept that what is left is crucial, and real. It also becomes clear that a lot of work and careful planning has gone into deciding what must remain on the screen. It is thus discipline that lies at the core of Ozu’s personality and talent and it is through it that he is able to achieve what the Japanese call Shibui (subdued beauty) and Wabi (elegant simplicity).

There is another powerful element that is present in Floating Weeds and in most of his other films. It is that of nostalgic sadness, referred to in Japan as Aware, one of the 4 moods of Zen. Whether in Tokyo Story or The End of Summer or Floating Weeds, there is a great underlying sadness that pervades the films and it is represented through such manifestations as death, families moving apart (literally and figuratively), the failure of businesses such as the group of artists in Floating Weeds… But behind all these various representations lie one common theme, one that is an integral part of the mood Aware: the vanishing of the world and the passing of time, both of which are inescapable and inevitable. This is why the sadness that overcomes one when watching Ozu films is a nostalgic one, a resigned one. For us and for the characters in the films, there is little we can do to stop the movement of time. We can only watch, understand, and hope for the best while realizing that everything slowly ebbs away. But once one understands this fact of life and accepts it, the sadness, while remaining, takes on a different meaning. It leaves room for peace, beauty and serenity. Our society is already a very different one from that in which Ozu lived. Undoubtedly, he would not be at ease if he were still alive today. Silence, calm, simplicity, austerity, elegance, all are fast disappearing from our cultures, whether in art or in the behavior of the people. I doubt it is for the best, but it is inevitable.