It can be fantastic when you're watching a profoundly refined, gentle, light film about a Japanese resort and then, pow, you're hit with an image—something seemingly effortless, but powerful, like blind masseurs crossing a short bridge, or a woman climbing forty stairs up a woodland hill. Counterpoint to these arresting images and moments, these perfectly achieved layers of tone, slowly, you realize something of your own limits as the nuances and dynamism of the film's gaze upon society become clearer, as well.
(The Masseurs and a Woman, 1938; Ornamental Hairpin, 1941.)
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