And it is perhaps Ozu’s creation of a modern space that is the film’s greatest achievement. Through his constant use of the tatami shot — in which the camera is placed at a low height, supposedly at the eye level of a person kneeling on a tatami mat — Ozu shoots his film like the perception of a child. Through this he creates a nostalgia within me for a life that I never lived. Yet the connection comes through the recognisable expression of childlike innocence and games. And Ozu’s movement — or lack of it — around the confined spaces of this small village makes us feel like we know it so well. Ozu never moves his camera, preferring cuts to a different shot, always remained static. No dolly shots. No zooms. Their is a beauty in the simplicity here. Not only does this allow Ozu’s eye to remain meditative, it allows cinematography to work towards a creation of a cinematic space.

His cinematography has often been described as anti-Hollywood. This is to say that he breaks the 180 degree rule freely, and the cinematic world that he creates is not anthropocentric like a Hollywood film: it does not film with shots and sequences composed around the eyelines and movements of the characters, a technique that only affords time to shots that have relevance. What this creates is a space that defines its inhabitants, rather than a space defined by its inhabitants. This emphasises the alien space of modernity that the characters have found themselves in, one that the older generation are still struggling to come to terms with. It is not only a space positioned after WW2, but a space positioned in a void between the past and the future.

Though Ozu’s style is anti-Hollywood, or anti-American, his subject matter is in fact the opposite. The older generation of the film see cultural modernism as an infection by the West: “Someone said TV would produce 100 million idiots.” The younger generation try and persuade their parents otherwise. Thus, in his cinematic environment — an environment that hangs upon this delicate balance of oppositions — Ozu’s true narrative is the unification of oppositions. One way he does this is through the subversion and transformation of appearances in order to neutralise. The two salesmen/conmen are originally presented as an annoyance — perhaps even a threat — to the quiet families of the village, but when shown to drink in the same bar as the husbands of the village’s families, they are presented as being no different to these men: they are byproducts of a hard-working industrial landscape, trying to enjoy a well-earned drink at the end of a long day’s work. Thus, not only is the bar a neutralising space in the film, but also a microcosmic representation of Ozu’s vision of Japan.

Ozu’s Japan, characterised by the grinding struggle of salarymen, the alcoholic misery of early retirees, and horizons of smoke-spewing concrete factories, is a country finally at peace, but devoid of calm. But Good Morning is ultimately hopeful. Ozu comes away from modern suburban Japan a happier person. The dad, who previously saw television as the mind-numbing opium of the masses, eventually gives in to the inevitability of modernity and buys his children a television set. One of the film’s closing instances is an incredibly poignant scene where two young romantics share an intimate moment staring at the clouds. This is a perfect closure for Ozu’s lyrical unity where, in one brief moment, the fragmented nature of modern life seems to come together in a moment of intimacy, and the couple can board the train together heading towards a brighter future…