Initally Shochiku was planning to release 2 or 3 more sets — but one can only assume that the first two sets did not sell well enough to allow the release of additional DVDs. If so, it’s too bad –as there are many wonderful Shimizu films that remain inaccessible (except to people who got to see the films shown as part of a Shochiku retrospective).

One sees some similarities to Shimizu in some of the early films of Naruse and Shimazu and even, occasionally, of Ozu (Shimizu wrote the delightful Walk Cheerfully for Ozu). This whole proto-neo-realist tradition of Japanese cinema remains virtually unknown.

I once wrote a review of Douglas Sirk’s A Time to Love and a Time to Die where I said that it was “criminal” that the movie wasn’t available on DVD. Later, at a screening of that movie, Camper asked about the piece. He seemed to like what I’d written, but he said it would be “criminal” to make it available on DVD–that it should only be seen in 35mm. I said that was probably true, but that making it available on DVD was a misdemeanor, whereas keeping it out of circulation was a felony. You had to commit the lesser crime. Now I think I should have flat out disagreed, even if I thought it’d ruin a friendly evening. As I sort of wrote in response to Miguel’s comment, what it comes down to is that if we believe in movies, we have to believe that they work anywhere. So I think we should welcome tiny screens, because they prove that the “big screen” had more to it than just its bigness; that a great image is great in any size.

It was from thinking / writing about Nicholas Ray and Orson Welles–two of the most re-edited, interfered-with directors–that I started thinking about these issues. Yes, I still prefer to watch movies on a big screen with a big audience–much as people prefer to see their favorite bands play live, or seek out paintings they admire in museums so that they can see the “original.” But that doesn’t mean those people don’t listen to albums by those bands, or can’t get some of the beauty of a painting by looking a picture of it. Maybe the litmus test of a beautiful idea is that it can survive transposition and bowdlerization. Shakespeare, abridged or poorly performed, still has a brilliance. A reproduction of a Manet is still beautiful–but, more importantly, that reproduction can be reproduced infinitely, and though not everyone can see an original Manet, everyone can see a reproduction, even if they’re aware of it or not. This allows beauty to invade culture, undetected. The reproduction–the song playing on the radio, the print in hanging in the restaurant, the quote inserted at the beginning of a book–is a cause for celebration.

And speaking of 35mm screenings, I hope to see you at Sparrow tomorrow.

It’s mostly from those two Japanese boxed sets that I know Shimizu. And you’re right, the Eclipse set is identical to the first Japanese boxed set (I think it’s called “Landscapes”), which makes me assume that they’ll put out the second one at some point. I wish that they’d find a place for A Star Athlete (also released on DVD with English subtitles), though, which is one of the best movies of his I’ve seen. As for Yamanaka, I’ve only seen Humanity and the Paper Balloons, but, considering how little of his work has survived, that means I’ve seen a third of all the Yamanaka films we have.

It’s a little intimidating writing about a director only a portion of whose output (I understand Shimizu directed something like 160 films) survives. What if there’s a whole other side to him that was lost? I assume that’s true of Yamanaka. So you kind of have to take the plunge. You have to write about the cinema that exists, not the one that never will again. And there’s something very beautiful about that notion—that a filmmaker can survive division and marginalization and even if you destroy many of his films, you can still be struck by his work. A great filmmaker doesn’t need totality. He or she isn’t invalidated by circumstances. I remember an interview with, I think, Agnes Varda, where she mentions seeing Lola Montes in black and white on TV and being astounded that it was still a great movie.

That in turn brings up more modern issues: streaming video, handheld devices, etc. But anyone who thinks that it ceases to be cinema just because someone can watch it on the train doesn’t have enough faith in movies. I’m sure people complained that literature would die with the printing press.