Director Yamada, why did Tora-san return now? <Special Feature: Nearly Full Text>

I am a student of the Yamada School. In 2011, I launched the "Monsieur, It's Tough" campaign for Suntory's Orangina. Every time we made a commercial, I was allowed to spend hours planning in the director's room at Shochiku Studios.

We planned together while discussing everything: shot composition, the essence of comedy, film itself, the past, the present—truly a wide range of topics. What an incredibly luxurious time that was. Looking back, what I learned there has had a profound impact on my own output ever since.

Wanting to share even a part of what I learned at this "Yamada School," I reached out to Director Yamada. On the day, he generously gave us an hour and a half, sharing his insights as always.

While Dentsu Inc. typically runs serialized pieces around several thousand characters, I insisted the editorial team publish nearly the entire transcript to capture even a fraction of that miraculously dense time we shared. Come to think of it, this design talk was originally planned to coincide with the release of my new novel, but the director's stories were so fascinating I completely forgot about it. (Responsible for text and supervision: Takuma Takasaki)

<Table of Contents>
▼A Film Made Over 50 Years
▼On Creating Laughter
▼The Reason to Keep Creating
▼The Man, Kiyoshi Atsumi
▼The Secret Behind the Poster for "The Yellow Handkerchief"
▼Yamada Yoji Sees Ozu Yasujiro Sees Kurosawa Akira

※This article is a recompilation of the event "Dentsu Design Talk Vol.190: Director Yamada, Why Did Tora-san Return Now?"
※During the conversation, some job titles and other terms used are no longer current. However, to accurately recreate the context, the original phrasing from that time has been retained.

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A Film Made Over 50 Years

Takasaki: A small miracle happened. Even after the Orangina project ended, I had opportunities to hear various stories from the director. He always teaches me important things, and rather than keeping them all to myself, I wanted to share them with everyone, even a little, which is how I came up with this interview. But when I first asked him, he didn't seem too pleased (laughs), and I didn't get a reply, so I'd almost given up. Director Yoji Yamada, thank you for joining us. Let's start by talking about " It's Tough Being a Man 50: Welcome Home, Tora-san." It's what you'd call next year's New Year's movie, right?

Yamada: That's right.

Takasaki: During the preview screening, I couldn't stop crying halfway through. Of course, "Tora-san" is fiction, but playing the same role for 50 years has turned it into something like non-fiction. It's been elevated to a documentary, and what was there was a film I'd never seen before. It's about being slowly swept away and fading by the cruelty of time, yet your heart aches for the precious things that definitely existed there.

After leaving the screening room, I felt a deep affection for everyone I knew. Just seeing a familiar face from Shochiku would make tears well up. Ms. Chieko Baisho (who plays Sakura) was watching behind me, and she laughed because I was crying so much. Was that after-feeling something you aimed for from the start?

Yamada: No, I often heard that people cried after screenings. I was surprised at first. I never intended to make that kind of film.

More than that, think about it: over the past 50 years, we've made 49 films about Tora-san. If you watched them all from start to finish, it would take about three days. We made a very, very long film. Atsumi-san often said, "We're making a long film, aren't we?" I often wondered if it might be possible to condense that long film into something else.

Takasaki: You've been thinking that way for a long time.

Yamada: Yes. So, while pondering what kind of editing approach might work, I realized that even now... Atsumi-san isn't with us, but people like Yoshioka (Hidetaka, who played Mitsuo), Sakura-san, and Gokumi (Kumiko Gotō, who played Izumi) are all still going strong. If we created a stage for these people, and incorporated the past through various flashbacks, it could form a single film. That's what I thought.

So, where and what kind of old footage would be inserted—some scenes I predicted to some extent, but many others were completely unpredictable. The story begins and ends in the present, meaning 2019, but what past footage would be included? I experimented with various ways to insert it, both while making it and after it was finished.

So, I didn't think too deeply from the start about exactly where specific flashbacks would go. It just became that kind of film once it was finished. When we had the all-rush screening – seeing the finished product – I didn't really think it was the kind of film that would make people cry, like you said, or like many other viewers mentioned. That's just how filmmakers are, you know. I don't know what kind of film it turned out to be. So, I'm only now realizing from everyone's opinions that it ended up being that kind of work.

Now that I think about it, 50 years ago, when I made my first film, I remember thinking, "This movie doesn't feel off anywhere." I'd made a strangely serious film. We'd have screenings at the studio, and during those screenings, no one involved ever laughed. I thought, "This is a failure." But when it opened in theaters, everyone laughed a lot. That's when I realized, "Ah, my films are funny." It's a bit similar. This time, everyone cries.

I don't think it's just about sadness. Tears aren't only shed for sad stories, I feel. But when tears come, as you just said, even though we call it a documentary, for Chieko Baisho and Yoshio-kun, it's their personal document of 50 years. When they feel something like life through that, maybe it suddenly hits them in the chest as their own problem. That's what I find myself thinking as I listen to your opinion.

Takasaki: I'm surprised to hear your first film was born from that kind of feeling. I can somewhat understand discovering the meaning of what you've created through audience reactions. That's true for Tora-san too, isn't it?

Yamada: Well, yes. I'd made quite a few films by then, so I'd occasionally experienced audiences laughing at unexpected moments.

Takasaki: I recall reading somewhere that the laughter during the "melon incident" scene in "Tora-san's Shared Umbrella" (the 15th film) differed between theaters in Asakusa and Shibuya. It's that famous scene where everyone's eating melon when Tora-san comes back. He says, "Alright then, hand me my melon," but he doesn't have one. When everyone offers their own melons, Tora-san gets angry. In Shibuya, people laughed at the idea of making such a fuss over a mere melon, but in Asakusa, the stronger reaction was, "Why didn't they save a melon for Tora?"

Yamada: They felt sorry for him.

Takasaki: That kind of subtlety is what makes it funny. As a director, do you ever worry about audience reactions?

Yamada: When you watch your film for the first time with an audience, it's like a defendant hearing their verdict. There's nothing worse (laughs). Honestly, if I could, I'd avoid my own film screenings. I'm just terrified. I think that's something all creators share. Novelists, stage directors—everyone feels it. It's scary.

Takasaki: You never get used to it?

Yamada:Yeah, I don't think you should ever get used to it.

Creating Laughter

Takasaki: I worked with him on the Orangina commercial project for a long time, and back then, I was amazed at how the director truly kept "thinking" forever. I thought I was a persistent type, but he was far beyond that.

We'd spend all day together, and even after the concept was mostly solidified, he'd call in the evening saying he'd thought of something new. He'd say, "Takasaki-kun comes right away when I call, but are you just idle?" (laughs).

Yamada: He said that?

Takasaki: Yes (laughs). The director once said something like this in a magazine interview:

What I value most is the spirit of constantly questioning my own scripts and my own direction—always wondering if this is truly the best, if I'm not mistaken. Unless you're a true genius, you can never create something that is absolutely the best expression, the ultimate. But it's true that by persistently writing with the feeling of "this isn't right, that isn't right," you gradually approach that absolute expression.

During long meetings, there are often moments when the director suddenly falls silent. At times like that, I find myself thinking about dinner later or other things. But then the director would start speaking again, saying, "How about this?" And I'd realize, Oh! The director had been thinking the whole time! And yet I... I felt ashamed.

Mr. Taka (Tetsuo), the cinematographer, wrote something similar at the end of the script collection, and I laughed, thinking, "Ah, we're alike!"

Once this guy starts thinking, time—that petty thing—seems to vanish into the void. The conversation would suddenly stop, followed by about an hour of silence, then resume with a connector like, "So, I guess..."

Takaba-san wrote, "Though it doesn't happen as much these days," but I think it's been about 30 years since then, and he hasn't changed a bit.

Yamada: True, I don't notice it myself, but I think it happened a lot when I was younger. You'd suddenly realize all the staff had vanished (laughs). They'd all be outside smoking or something. When I'd ask, "What's up, everyone?" they'd say, "Well, you were thinking, so we all came outside." That kind of thing happened sometimes.

So then the question is, what am I thinking about? Well, I don't really have much ability to conjure up strong, concrete images like "this is how it should be." But I do feel like I can say, "That's not right." I think about it myself and then think, "No, that's not it."

The easiest place to see this is on set. Actors are given lines, they speak, they move, right? But it's not right, that's not it. Then you have to think, "So what should we do?" Well, sometimes I'll work with various actors, saying, "That's not good, can't we think of something else?"

Sometimes we struggle without a good idea, but basically, while we're figuring out why it's wrong and if there's another way, something clicks. "Ah, that works!" That's when the image solidifies. So, I can't help feeling that my process always starts from that "That's not it" place. That's how I create.

Takasaki: So it's not about forcing everything into your own image, but rather a process of selection?

Yamada: Yeah, I guess you could say that.

Takasaki: Do you ever experience that in your acting, Mr. Atsumi?

Yamada: Yeah, well, there are all kinds of actor types. Take Mr. Kasa (Tomoshū), who plays the Lord in the Tora-san films. He does nothing, just stands there (laughs). And that's incredibly valuable. Standing still like a planted pine tree? Most actors can't do that. Ordinary people can't just stand there doing nothing. But if you tell Mr. Kasa to stand there, he'll just stand silently forever.

That's truly remarkable. So, all actors see Mr. Kasa as the ideal, but since most can't do that, they try all sorts of things, right? Now, Mr. Atsumi could do both. If you asked him for ideas, he'd come up with all sorts of things, like this or that. And sometimes those were really brilliant. You'd say, "That's great, let's use it," and that happened quite often.

Takasaki: I heard you felt something was off about the first series of scenes Mr. Atsumi did during the "Melon Incident."

Yamada: Tora-san meets this slightly wealthy guy and gets melons from him. This movie was made nearly 40 years ago, maybe 37 or 38 years ago. Melons are still expensive today, but anyway, for Tora-san's family, the melon was very important, and they kept it in the refrigerator. One day, Lily, played by Ruriko Asaoka, came over. They thought it was perfect timing, so they decided to all eat it together. They made a big fuss about it, cut the melon into six pieces since there were six of them, and started eating it, saying "Delicious! Delicious!" Just then, Tora came home.

Oh no, there's none left for Tora-chan! What to do, what to do? "Hide it!" they panicked, scrambling to hide it (laughs). Then Tora came back and said, "Hey, you guys eating melon?" Well, he'd caught them. "Is it good?" he asked. "It's delicious!" they replied. "Then give me mine," he demanded. Sakura had no choice but to say, "I only ate a little bit, so here, have mine." Haku (played by Gin Maeda) also said, "Please eat mine." Tora snapped, "Hold on a minute! Why should I have to eat your melon covered in your dirty spit? What about mine?" And that's how the big commotion started. It's quite a long scene. In the end, it escalates into a huge fight, and Tora finally storms out.

So we rehearsed it several times through. We did a full run-through of the scene. I thought it was a pretty well-written script, but something just didn't feel right. It didn't quite click. So I asked for a break and thought hard about it, picturing the current play. Then it hit me—when I wrote that script, I had a memory inside me.

When I was in elementary school, guests would come over, and since I was a kid, I'd be told to go to bed early. In the middle of the night, I'd get up to pee and come down the stairs. The guests were still laughing boisterously in the tatami room. I peeked in quietly, and they were eating cake (laughs). Of course, I wanted to complain, "Why when I'm not here?!" But even as a kid, I couldn't say that. Besides, I was supposed to be asleep already. So, while I was peeing, tears just started coming out. It was this feeling of being left out, you know? Like, "Oh well, the kid doesn't get any, but the adults can just eat up, eat up!" That feeling of being excluded was so sad. I wanted sweets, I wanted cake, but that feeling of being left out was so sad, I couldn't help but cry. That's the memory I have, and that's why I wrote that play.

And I thought, that sadness wasn't in Mr. Atsumi's current play. He was playing this guy making a huge fuss over a single melon in a funny way, or rather, comically. So I called Mr. Atsumi and told him about my childhood memory from back then. Tora, you see, was fundamentally someone who wasn't counted on in this household for anything. So when something like that happened, it was a typical example of that, and I think it was actually very sad for him. But he couldn't say he was sad, so instead he got angry, turned it into a complaint, and it ended up in a huge fight. It's the kind of story where, in the end, everyone, including the family, ends up even sadder. So I told him, "Mr. Atsumi, I think Tora is actually sad deep down."

Mr. Atsumi really is sharp when it comes to things like that. "Ah, I see," he said. Then we tried it again, and this time it clicked perfectly. He thought that was good. It was funny. Of course, I was laughing and saying, "That's good, that's good." That's what happened.

So, I realized that truly depicting genuine human emotions—that's what making movies is all about. It's not about creating something funny; it's about seriously considering how the true emotions in that situation are expressed, and acting with that sincerity. Then, the audience laughs and says, "Ah, that's really how people are," or "Yeah, that happens." That's what it's about, isn't it? Working on that project made me feel that anew.

Takasaki: So creating that feeling of "Yeah, that happens" is crucial for creating laughter, right?

Yamada: Exactly. For me, that "Oh, that happens" feeling is empathy. When people empathize, they get happy, I guess? There are many kinds of laughter, I think. But for me, that "Yeah, that happens" feeling is what's funny.

Takasaki: A director once told me: "It's not something anyone can do; it's funny because that specific person does it." That's the difference between a gag and comedy, or how you create humor.

Yamada: Yeah, exactly. I think what's important is that, no matter how brief the moment, you catch a glimpse of humanity there. It's not just about showing things off quickly in the storyboard.

Takasaki: When planning with the director, the idea "at a funeral, you know" came up. I don't think the director does many commercials, but even so, it's tough to set a funeral as the backdrop for a commercial. At that moment, I really hated the idea of saying "it's impossible for a commercial." I didn't want to be told "you can't even do that? It's a commercial." I pushed myself to come up with an idea more interesting than the director's funeral concept. That's when I started focusing less on the setting's novelty and more on the kind of humor rooted in human nature. Could you tell me again about the kind of humor you, the director, think about? You mentioned earlier how it's drawn out through empathy.

Yamada: Over 60 years ago, there was this place in Shinjuku—maybe Shibuya too—called the "50-Yen Cafeteria." Everything was 50 yen. It was all lined up in the display window. Ramen, egg rice bowls, pork cutlet rice bowls, eel rice bowls—all 50 yen. Fried rice, yakisoba noodles...

But I was a regular at that 50-yen place. I mean, if you're wondering which dish had the most substance, well, obviously, for that price, you know a 50-yen katsu don isn't going to be great, right? So I always just got ramen.

One night, I went there pretty late and, as usual, ordered the 50-yen ramen. Across from me, an older lady plopped down, looking exhausted. Probably one of those insurance saleswomen, she had a big bag. And what do you know, she said, "I'll have the eel rice bowl, please." There's no way ramen and unadon both cost 50 yen (laugh). So I thought, this lady's hopeless, she's a rookie. Coming to a place like this expecting to get unadon for 50 yen? No way. What a pain. But she was clearly expecting it. She really wanted that unadon.

Then, the eel rice bowl was brought over, plopped down. The lady looked genuinely happy as she opened the lid, and then... this eraser-sized eel appeared. Instantly, the lady went, "Ah!" (laughs).

I thought this was where things would diverge. If I were a cocky youngster, I'd probably laugh, thinking "What a fool." If I were rich, I might have said, "Well, poor thing," and ordered her a proper unadon costing hundreds of yen. If I were poorer still, someone who couldn't even afford 50 yen, I might have thought, "She shouldn't be so extravagant."

But when it's someone at the same living level as the auntie, you can laugh and say, "No, no, no!" When someone at roughly the same level messes up, you can laugh and say, "You idiot, you don't even realize how poor you are." At that moment, I thought, "Isn't that exactly the kind of humor in the Tora-san movies?"

Takasaki: That "Ah!" moment is irresistible.

Yamada: It's funny, or sad, or pitiful. That "Oh!" moment, you know.

Takasaki: It's a different episode, but there's this lesson about burning a bonsai tree when guests arrive. It's supposed to be this heartwarming story where someone burns their cherished bonsai instead of firewood to entertain guests. But when Yamada-san handles it, the conflict is funny – the struggle of not wanting to burn it but having to. Even if you've never done bonsai, you understand that conflict.

Yamada: Exactly. So, you know, you're all set to eat your unagi rice bowl, and that image builds up, and then the despair when you see it.

Takasaki: That kind of small misfortune is fun.

Yamada: It's almost the same problem as confessing your love, thinking she'll definitely say yes, only to hear "I'm sorry" and be crushed. Then you think, "What? No? But I liked her so much!" The question is whether you can laugh at that or just feel sorry for him.

That's why, back in the days of "The Yellow Handkerchief of Happiness," Tetsuya Takeda often talked about how, as a high school kid, he was a tough guy showing off in Hakata. He was always in love, and always got his heart broken. And right around the time he'd get dumped, a new Torasan movie would open. He'd go see Torasan at the Hakata theater, and he'd get so moved by Torasan's plight he couldn't help but cry. "I cried," he said.

One time, I think it was the one with Fumiko Wakao, she introduces her husband, and Tora looks dumbfounded. Then, by chance, the mochi-pounding mortar he's holding clunks right on his head. It's funny, but the couple next to Takeda Tetsuya were laughing hysterically. He couldn't take it anymore and snapped, "Hey, stop laughing!" He said, "This is a place to cry!"

Then I told Tetsuya, "That's because you were heartbroken. If you were watching the movie holding hands with her, you'd definitely laugh." So, he explained, the same event, the same scene, the same music—it can be funny or sad depending on the mental state of the person seeing or experiencing it. That's why it's never a bad thing that a single scene, story, or event is perceived differently by different people. I remember talking about that with Tetsuya-kun.

Takasaki: It's not like everyone has to laugh. Or everyone has to cry.

Yamada: Exactly, exactly. That's why a beautiful sunset can be sad for a man who's just been dumped, yet seem like a blessing to a man whose love has just been fulfilled. Or take Mozart's music, or Chopin's piano pieces— , they can sound like a blessing or like they're healing sorrow, don't you think?

Reasons to Keep Creating

Takasaki: When making a film, at what point do you decide on the theme? Where do you decide, "This is what I want to convey with this film"?

Yamada: Hmm, that's a difficult and troublesome question. People tend to think that way. But you know, the act of thinking about a theme in words and the actual content of the film are almost entirely unrelated. Take music or painting, for example – that's the easiest to understand. If you look at a painting and don't grasp the theme, well, there's nothing you can do about it. It's the same with music.

It's not like you can just say, "Oh, so I should include that line in the dialogue." A film that relies on that isn't a great film. So, well, you think about the story, you think about the acting, and you realize, "Ah, this part is the most important to me." That comes to you as you're working. And within that... if you were to put it into words, whether what I believe, or what I want to convey to people, is properly hidden within it... you can only imagine that from the finished product.

Takasaki: Right, that's true. The story isn't there just to explain what you want to convey.

Yamada: Exactly. You don't make a film just for the message.

Takasaki: You've said you hate it most when film critics write, "This isn't just mere entertainment."

Yamada: Yeah, that's right. When I was younger, I often wrote scripts for various TV shows as a part-time job. Once, a producer around my age at a certain TV station said to me, "Yamada-san, I don't want this work to be just a simple youth drama." I was really confused by that. I thought, "But I want to make a youth drama!" I remember asking him, "Does 'just a youth drama' mean you look down on youth dramas?" So, when people say things like "it's not just entertainment," I think only people who don't understand how incredibly difficult it is to make films or dramas that genuinely entertain people, that make them laugh from the heart, can say that.

Takasaki: They don't grasp the difficulty of creating something truly accepted as entertainment.

Yamada: Exactly. I don't think debating the word "entertainment" means much, but anyway, making people enjoy themselves is incredibly hard work, incredibly difficult. Isn't that what we spend our whole lives doing? And so do many creators. Including you guys.

Takasaki: Shinichi Hoshi said that everyone has their own poison, and when we can no longer process that poison, we need laughter. Rakugo is what laughs that poison away, so people who love rakugo are healthy. In the sense that the poison has been purged. Master Danshi (Tachikawa) also said, "Rakugo is the affirmation of karma."

Yamada: They're saying similar things, aren't they? Mr. Hoshi had been saying that for a long time before that.

Takasaki: I feel something akin to rakugo in your films too. The way you look at the relationship between entertainment and people, between laughter and people—how you affirm the utterly arduous task of living from every possible angle.

He said quite some time ago that he wanted to make films that make audiences deeply feel that being alive isn't such a bad thing.

You said that quite a while ago. Has that changed?

Yamada: Yes. There was a line like that in this 50th film too, wasn't there? Tora says something like, "While you're alive, there are times when you think, 'Ah, I'm glad I'm alive.' That alone makes life worth living." But fundamentally, shouldn't we first acknowledge that life is mostly incredibly difficult? Even in such a life, good things happen occasionally. Like, for example, "I enjoyed watching this movie today," or "I'm glad I got to see this film." If I can make films that evoke that feeling, I think I should be deeply satisfied.

Takasaki: Where does the motivation to keep creating such things come from?

Yamada: There's that famous line by Yasujiro Ozu: "I'm a tofu maker, you see. I can make things like ganmodoki, but I can't make tonkatsu." What he's saying is that he has his own style. But a tofu maker works hard to make tofu—that's his job. There's the struggle to keep making delicious tofu, and the joy when customers say it's tasty. I don't think there's such a big gap between that and me making movies.

I don't really feel the urge to make something completely different this time to surprise everyone. Especially with Tora-san, they took that to the extreme. People come to see a Tora-san movie every time, so they don't want to suddenly see something totally different—like Tora-san suddenly being wildly popular with women, or getting married and having kids. That's not what the audience wants. So, they were often criticized for being repetitive, but every time I read that kind of criticism, I thought: Maintaining the same flavor consistently is actually incredibly difficult.

And you have to make small changes. It has to be better than before. With Tora-san, because there were fans, it was always like a test of strength with them. You couldn't have them say, "What? This is worse than before." You had to constantly hear that it was better than before. And yet, fundamentally, the flavor had to stay the same. That's incredibly difficult, but it's something only the creators understand. Whenever I heard criticism about falling into a rut, I'd feel this bitter frustration, thinking, "You guys just don't get it!"

Takasaki: Looking back at Tora-san, structurally significant changes occurred several times. In the earlier films, systems emerged like the introduction of the Madonna character. Once the Tora-san character stabilized, a pattern developed where he'd lecture others while ignoring his own faults. Later films introduced the axis of Mitsuo's love story. It might be hindsight, but I feel the family framework is what allowed the series to connect so deeply. Director, how far ahead did you envision the series going? When did you become confident it would last this long?

Yamada: Well, with the first film, I thought that would be the end. That's how movies usually are, right? One film and that's it. Especially with Tora-san, the company was really against the project. It's different now, but back then, everyone in the film world thought movies were superior to TV. They argued, "What's the point of making a movie version of something already done for TV?" So, I fought hard to realize this project that faced significant opposition. It unexpectedly succeeded, so it gradually continued.

So initially, I finally pushed through the opposition to make it. After the first one wrapped, I felt like, "Whew, that's over," and wondered what to make next, or maybe it was over for me. It wasn't a particularly crazy movie, you see. I even thought maybe my directing career was done. But when it hit, the company did a complete about-face and asked me to make a sequel. I got a little carried away and said, "Alright, let's make it." Then, when the sequel did well too, they asked for another one. I said, "I'm out." You can't just keep churning out that many movies.

So I said, "Fine, I'll write the script. Have another director, my friend Morisaki (Higashi), shoot it." I think it was a New Year's movie. That hit too, so they asked for one more. I said, "Alright, I'll write one more," and I wrote it. Then Fuji TV's director Kobayashi (Shunichi) shot it. Both were directors I trusted as friends, and since I wrote the scripts and handled casting, you'd think they'd turn out with a similar feel. But actually, when you saw them, they were completely different. It was like I thought I was making Japanese cuisine, but what came out was Chinese food. Honestly, regardless of whether it was good or bad, ending it there just felt a bit unsettling. So I decided to make one more myself. Then I'd call it quits.

I proposed this to the company, saying, "Let's end it here," and that's how we made the fifth installment, "Homesickness." But I had this feeling, "Okay, this is the end. This is my work." And maybe Mr. Atsumi also felt it was the last one. It ended up being a very powerful film, and it drew in audiences with a bang. So we couldn't stop after all. That's the story behind it.

Takasaki: When you revisit "The Homecoming," it really does feel somewhat different, or rather, it has this abnormal power.

Yamada: Right? It's even a bit surreal.

Takasaki: The visuals are incredible too.

Yamada: Exactly.

Takasaki: It feels different from the Torasan of today, or even the later Torasan films. It almost feels like a road movie.

Yamada: And there's that yakuza element, right? That part.

Takasaki: It's fundamentally grounded in the idea of death. How it handles that theme, running from start to finish, makes it feel like a special film. Because of this one, they decided to continue the series.

Yamada: That's right, yes.

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The Man Named Kiyoshi Atsumi

Takasaki: Back around the time of "Nostalgia," Mr. Atsumi said something like, "It feels like my spinning top collided with Mr. Yamada's spinning top, and suddenly we both started rolling with great momentum." I understand that originally, Mr. Atsumi was the one who approached Director Yamada, asking him to be included in the script.

Yamada: I imagine that's probably how it was. At Fuji TV, Mr. Atsumi was a huge comedy star back then, so there was this series starring him. It was a 13-episode season, and Fuji TV approached me to write one of those episodes. I suspect Mr. Atsumi probably said, "Make sure Yamada-san writes it." So I don't think I cast Mr. Atsumi; I think Mr. Atsumi chose me. I still feel that way today.

Takasaki: Did you ever discuss the content of the films with Mr. Atsumi? I get the impression he wasn't one to talk much about such things.

Yamada: Well, in our 28 years working together, Mr. Atsumi never once suggested things like, "What about this actress?" or "How about this story?" I think he felt he shouldn't say those things to a director. Or maybe he believed directors work better when they aren't told such things. He never said a word about it.

Takasaki: After this "Hometown" chapter, regional location shoots and Madonna became the pillars. I heard you'd go out with the staff for scenario hunting and have general discussions about what the next story should be. Was Mr. Atsumi not there during those times?

Yamada: No, he often came along. Mr. Atsumi would invite us. He'd say, "Let's go somewhere." We'd set off without a destination, just saying, "How about Hiroshima?" or "Let's head to Kushiro for now." We took trips like that many times.

Takasaki: So while you were talking on those trips, would you discuss things like, "Hey, what if the next Tora-san did this here? That might be interesting"?

Yamada: That might have happened sometimes. Well, we weren't going for work. Just to wander around, you know.

Takasaki: Tora-san's long monologues, known as "Tora's Arias," became a staple after the "Homesickness" film. The famous one is the one at Lily's. That's truly a legendary scene. Were Tora's Arias already in the script? Or were they Atsumi-san's ad-libs?

Yamada: It started appearing at a certain point. Tora tells his family about all these things that happened on his travels. His storytelling was so masterful, it inspired me to create it. To narrate all that alone and still make the audience visualize it clearly—he was on par with a top-tier rakugo storyteller. He would've been a first-rate rakugo artist if he'd pursued it. Only a master storyteller could deliver such brilliant narration. That's why this aria kept appearing in every film.

So, you know how there's a rush print for this scene? After we finished shooting, we were going to watch the rushes later. But by chance, Ruriko Asaoka was there too. She asked, "Can I watch too?" So I said yes. We only did this one scene. After watching it, she was crying. Wiping away tears.

Takasaki: Ah... So Lily is essentially Asaoka-san herself, isn't she? Definitely.

Yamada: Yes, that's right (laughs).

Takasaki: I heard that originally, Lily wasn't supposed to be a singer who washed ashore, but rather a farmhand at a ranch.

Yamada: That's right, that was the setting. I'd always thought of Ruriko Asaoka as a potential Madonna. I happened to come up with this idea, and she appeared as a farmhand. I thought Hokkaido would suit Ruriko Asaoka. I always write a synopsis, you see. So, I had Ruriko read it.

Then one day, I went to a meeting. Her appearance was already decided, but she said, "So I'm a farmhand, huh?" Well, yes. "But can I really lead a cow with these arms?" She showed me her slender arms. Glimpses of rings and bracelets sparkled on them, oddly glamorous and fitting. I thought, "This won't work." Someone like her couldn't be a farmhand.

So I said, "Alright, give me a couple days to think." I decided to scrap everything and try to find another way to make her work. That's when I remembered a location scouting trip I'd made to Kushiro before. Back then, Kushiro's fishing industry was still thriving. Unlike now, during the Pacific saury season, the whole town would reek of saury—it was a really booming time.

Kushiro's downtown had several cabarets. At the entrance of each cabaret, they'd post the headliners performing that night. Well, obviously, big stars wouldn't come all the way to Kushiro (laughs), so you'd see names of singers you'd never heard of posted everywhere. But among them was one that read: "Columbia Exclusive Artist: Lily Matsuoka."

Takasaki: Oh, so there really was a Lily.

Yamada: Yeah, she really was there (laughs). There were photos of her with a cute face too. Looking at those with the staff, we'd wonder what kind of life a girl like that was living. Probably without any entourage, just carrying her own bag and promoting herself, right? That really clicked for me. That's it. Ah, let's have Asaoka Ruriko do that. That was the start.

Takasaki: Is Asakawa-san the only one you've tailored the story around like that, to match the Madonna?

Yamada: I think there were many times after the Madonna was first decided where we discussed what kind of role she should play.

Takasaki: The countryside is portrayed very carefully in the film. Conversely, the city center isn't depicted much. It feels like Japan's original landscape is captured there. Was that intentional?

Yamada: The big city just doesn't suit Tora-san. He grew up in the working-class neighborhoods, of course, in those bustling, chaotic, lively places. He grew up admiring the street vendors since he was a boy. But Tora-san is a wanderer. He travels aimlessly, feeling lonely and vaguely nostalgic for home, yet knowing he's not someone who would be welcomed back. That kind of journey suits the old Japan, where traces of the past still linger.

That's why Shibaura, at least, is a chaotic downtown Tokyo neighborhood... well, maybe not strictly "downtown," but it's a town still steeped in that old downtown atmosphere. It's the place he yearns for and occasionally returns to.

When Tora-san is in the countryside or working, the inn he stays at is always a tiny, traditional Japanese-style place, the kind labeled "O-Yado" – the kind you don't see much anymore. There's always a familiar landlady at that inn, or a regular izakaya nearby with a familiar barmaid. That kind of community surrounding Tora-san is always there. Within that, Tora-san lives and spends his time quite happily. But now, it's the opposite, right? Nowadays, it's actually life in Tokyo that has that kind of community. Not exactly children's cafeterias, but newly formed communities. People living in the countryside are all lonely and isolated, right? So, creating a Tora-san character today would be very difficult.

Takasaki: Rural areas have fewer people and more vacant houses, after all. One of my favorite stories about Mr. Atsumi is when he was on a Shinkansen platform and an old lady called out, "Tora-san!" and said, "Give my regards to Mr. Atsumi!" (laughs). I don't think there are any other actors whose relationship is talked about like that of Tora-san and Kiyoshi Atsumi. Not too long ago, there was a situation where the TV station, unusually, got access to the location filming for the final 48th movie, which was being aired on NHK.

Yamada: Oh yeah, that happened. He refused all interviews toward the end. So even though it was NHK, they said they'd do it—which was unusual. We were actually shocked. What was that about?

Takasaki: Now, let's take a look at that precious footage from that time.

<Footage>
―Mr. Atsumi's comment―

Maybe Tora-san waved his hands too much, or was too friendly, huh. They say the kids watching the Superman filming shouted, "Fly! Fly! Fly faster!" But Superman just can't stand on two feet on the ground, right? So Tora-san couldn't just stay silent either. He had to wave his hands 24 hours a day. Ha ha ha. That's a tough job, huh. Even if they yell "Fly! Fly!", Superman can't actually fly. He's suspended by wires, after all.

Takasaki: This is precious.

Yamada: Yeah, this is. This might really be the last interview.

Takasaki: It really hits home. Every single word from Atsumi-san, who played Tora-san all those years. Especially because it's his usual conversational tone.

Yamada: Well, you see, around the last 47th or 48th film, Atsumi-san was really suffering from hepatitis C. He was so exhausted he just wanted to lie down all the time. They were shooting him pushing through that condition, so even I was really worried. I kept thinking, "This is tough, this is tough," while filming.

And then there were the location shoots, right? Crowds would always gather, shouting "Tora-san!" "Mr. Atsumi!" He found it exhausting just to wave and say hello to everyone. So he told me, "I've stopped doing that entirely. I know the audience must be disappointed, but it can't be helped."

Actually, his friend, Keiroku Seki, told me this story. They were shooting on location in Okayama Prefecture. Atsumi was sitting by a bridge waiting for his scene when people started waving from the riverbank, shouting "Tora-san! Atsumi-san!" Keiroku Seki apparently said, "Hey, Atsumi, at least wave back!" But Atsumi just gave him a gloomy look and said, "Sekiyan, it's fine. I'm fine now." So he stopped doing that entirely. After all, it's incredibly tiring work, forcing a smile.

When we were filming on Amami Oshima, he got a lot of criticism then too. Everyone would call out "Mr. Atsumi!" but he'd just grumble back without answering. I heard people say things like, "Last year when the Crown Prince visited, he smiled and waved, but Atsumi just stayed silent" (laughs). I heard about those kinds of comments. But after Atsumi passed away, I heard that those same people apologized, saying they'd said really awful things. Anyway, I think that's the kind of Atsumi we see when he feels like, "I want to wave and smile, but it's just so exhausting, please cut me some slack. I'm sorry."

Takasaki: Yes, that's right.

Yamada: That's why he said it like that. It was so sad when he laughed and said, "They tell me to fly, fly, but I just can't." At that point, Atsumi-san had already accepted he had maybe one or two years left. I heard later from his wife that the doctor had given him that prognosis.

The Secret of the Yellow Handkerchief of Happiness Poster

Takasaki: When I saw "Welcome Home, Tora-san" in the screening room, I realized something—and this goes for "The Longing for Home" too—I'd never actually seen the early Tora-san films on the big screen.

Yamada: Ahh.

Takasaki: Things like the melon incident in "Sharing an Umbrella"—I knew about them and had seen them many times, of course, but I'd mostly watched them at home on video. Seeing them on the big screen brought so many fresh surprises. The acting of everyone at the Kurumaya was in perfect harmony—everyone performed with such meticulous detail and efficiency. Seeing it on the big screen, you could see everything: Obachan (Chieko Misaki) widening her eyes, or Baisho-san swallowing her words. It really made me realize again that watching it on the big screen is more fun.

Yamada: Yeah, I really hope people see it in theaters. The first film, from 50 years ago, plays for quite a while. Last year, when we started shooting this film, we thought about changing the colors—maybe making it black and white or sepia—because the old print was probably damaged. We figured cutbacks wouldn't work.

But now, even though I wasn't a big fan of digital back then, remastering all the negatives digitally basically makes it a new print. So you can do that kind of cutback, suddenly jumping from a work made 50 years later right back to one made 50 years ago. You couldn't do that back then. Old prints get scratched and deteriorate in all sorts of ways. Now they're completely renewed, so you can cut back and forth freely, as if it were a brand new print. That's really thanks to digital. That's why this film was made. That's how I see it.

Takasaki: We often handle movie promotions, and when making posters, we frequently mention "The Yellow Handkerchief of Happiness." The film is about Ken Takakura returning after being released from prison, and the idea that if someone accepts him, they'll display a yellow handkerchief. So you watch the whole time wondering if the ending will be okay... but when you think about it, the ending is already on the poster (laughs). The shock of knowing the punchline before you even see it (laughs). Was this the director's plan?

Yamada: No, that caused quite a fight (laughs). My initial vision was definitely a poster with Ken-san and Baisho-san against a yellow handkerchief background. But the publicity department's first proposal didn't show the yellow handkerchief at all. When I asked why, they said, "Well, showing the ending would be a spoiler, wouldn't it?"

Takasaki: That's what most people would think.

Yamada: I hadn't even considered that at the time. It really pissed me off (laughs). I mean, you know how some movies keep the ending a secret until the very end?

Takasaki: Yeah, that happens a lot.

Yamada: I'm not making a movie that loses its appeal if you know the ending! (laughs) It's fine, that's the kind of ending it is. So people might still go see it thinking it sounds good. We argued about it endlessly. In the end, they used ours.

Takasaki: On the contrary, I feel like it wouldn't have worked without the director's vision (laugh). Rakugo is the same, right? You know the punchline.

Yamada: Exactly. That's what I said then. People listen to rakugo knowing the punchline, right? Even with Shakespeare plays, everyone goes to see them knowing every line by heart.

Takasaki: You watch your favorite movies over and over. But when you really think about it, this is still...

Yamada: I think the term "spoiler" is a really awful word. It's incredibly dismissive.

Takasaki: Sorry about that (laughs). You're right... I have to be careful (laughs). When I talk about "how to frame things to get your point across," When discussing this topic, I often bring up this poster.

Yamada watching Ozu watching Kurosawa

Takasaki: I really want to hear this story. When you joined Shochiku, was Mr. Ozu still at Shochiku?

Yamada: Yes, he was.

Takasaki: And then at Toho, there was this monster of a man named Kurosawa Akira. I once read a dialogue between you and Yodogawa Nagaharu, and Yodogawa was utterly shocked to hear you visited Kurosawa at his home. And even though you were talking about movies, he was insanely jealous (laughs). He said, "When I go, maybe because I'm a critic, he absolutely refuses to talk about movies. But he talks about movies with you that much?" Did you actually go to Kurosawa's house often?

Yamada: Yes, I live in Seijo, and Kurosawa was also in Seijo. This was during Kurosawa's later years, around the time of films like "Rhapsody in August" or "It's Not Over Yet," maybe even earlier works. From that time on, I'd visit Kurosawa's house quite often, or get invited over for New Year's. I often joined his staff for New Year's gatherings where we'd drink together. He was, you could say, someone I'd admired for years, so being able to go and talk with Kurosawa was incredibly happy for me. Is it okay if I talk about Ozu?

Takasaki: Yes.

Yamada: That was over 60 years ago now, right? Around the time I joined Shochiku Studios, Yasujiro Ozu was still going strong, making films like "Higanbana." His last was "The Taste of Autumn". Back then, I was just a young, cocky assistant director in my twenties. No one in my generation gave Yasujiro Ozu the time of day. We just thought his films were old-fashioned. What's so great about a movie that's just about the sadness of a daughter getting married, and that's it? (laughs).

And technically, he never used any cinematic techniques—low angles, wipes, fade-outs. No overlaps, no pans, no tracking shots. He built his films purely by stacking cut after cut. To us back then, it was just ridiculously old-fashioned.

Then Kurosawa made Seven Samurai. When we saw it, he was using some crazy 500mm telephoto lens or something, panning wildly as horses galloped, or using multiple cameras for the big battle scenes. It was incredibly dynamic. It felt like this was the only way to make movies, this was what cinema was all about. Back then, everyone was utterly captivated by Kurosawa.

But then there was Ozu. What was he doing? Just dragging on and on forever about married couples and siblings (laughs). He kept it up right to the end. I thought it was nonsense. Most young people probably felt the same way. But I think that's just how it is. Even now, when young college students say Ozu's films are wonderful, I kinda want to ask, "Are you okay?" (laughs). Part of me thinks, at your age, it's perfectly fine to reject that kind of thing.

It wasn't until I became a director myself that I gradually started thinking, "Wow, Ozu's films really are amazing." And then, especially foreigners, they'd watch my Tora-san films and say things like, "You can see Ozu's influence." I'd think, "Really?" (laughs). But when I think about it, family is always central to my films. Building stories around family—I grew up at Shochiku Studios, and back then, home dramas were a tradition in Shochiku films. At the heart of that tradition was Yasujiro Ozu.

Ozu Yasujiro's films meticulously, meticulously depict the subtle emotional connections within families, the ways feelings drift apart, and through that, he builds a world of beauty. Just how incredible a technique that is—I only started to understand it after I became a director myself and made several films. I'd recall, "Ozu-san was amazing."

Then, quite some time later, I met Kurosawa-san. He said, "Hey, you should come hang out in Seijo too," so I started visiting his house. One day, since it was close enough to walk in sandals, I went to Kurosawa-san's place wearing sandals. His study was upstairs. I stood by the gate and called out, "Kurosawa-san!" and I could hear his voice. He'd say, "Oh?" and I'd say, "It's Yamada," and he'd say, "Come on in."

Takasaki: Huh.

Yamada: Hardly anyone was ever there; he didn't even have a regular housekeeper. So I said "I'm coming in" and walked right in, clattering through the gate. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, opened the door, and there was Kurosawa, staring intently at the TV. Back then, it was still a VCR. He had his back to me, just staring. I wondered what he was watching, and it was Yasujiro Ozu's "Tokyo Story," with Mr. Kasa on the screen. I was shocked then. Ah, Akira Kurosawa watching Ozu (laughs). I stood there for a while. You see, when Kurosawa-san is like that, his concentration is incredible. It's like you can't get near him, like he's emitting some kind of energy. He watches with this intense focus. So I couldn't get close, and I just kept watching "Tokyo Story."

And I thought, I must never forget today. That Ozu, that Kurosawa watching it so earnestly—what on earth is Kurosawa-san feeling right now? Of course, Kurosawa-san must have seen this film countless times, but what is he thinking while watching it? Is he thinking, "I could never pull off this kind of humor," or "I could never create something like this"? I still vividly remember staring at Kurosawa-san's back all day, thinking about that. Kurosawa-san truly respected Ozu-san.

Takasaki: So it's Yamada Yoji watching Kurosawa watching Ozu (laughs). That's quite the composition.

We're running out of time, but let's show the trailer for "Welcome Home, Tora-san" one more time.

Yamada: The one from earlier?

Takasaki: After hearing what you said, Yamada-san, watching the Torasan trailer again might make it look a little different.

Yamada: Oh, I see. What do you think? (laughs)

Takasaki: I really want younger people to see it too. I think there's something here that can resonate with generations who didn't experience Tora-san in real time. Something universal and important. And I'm very interested in how the younger generation will receive it.

Yamada: It was over 40 years ago now, but when Tora-san exploded in popularity and was showing in theaters, back then, you know, theaters weren't like today with assigned seating. You could just walk in anytime. They'd often show double features, and it was packed to the rafters. During New Year's, you couldn't even get inside. People smoked, drank beer, and shouted things like "Great!" or whatever. The theaters were really lively back then, and the people watching movies seemed full of energy too.

Nowadays, everyone's become so well-behaved, times are fixed, and on top of that, they tell you not to make loud noises or whatever (laughs). I just want to say, what are they talking about? It's none of their business. If it's funny, just laugh, right? If you want to chat with the person next to you, go ahead and chat.

Takasaki: All you get is warnings, right? (laughs)

Yamada: That's just how things are these days. Precisely because it's this kind of era, I want people to watch Tora-san. Tora-san would probably be the angriest of all. If he heard that kind of thing. He'd be like, "What the hell are they talking about?"

Takasaki: If it's funny, make some noise! (laughs)

Yamada: If it's boring, just say it's boring. Just demand your money back.

Takasaki: "Welcome Home, Tora-san" makes me laugh out loud several times. And strangely, the moment I laugh, my emotions relax and tears start falling.

Yamada: Yeah, that happens. Laughing while crying.

Takasaki: Director Yamada, thank you for your time. You still look like you want to keep talking (laughs).

Yamada: Oh no, no (laughs).

---

※Later, Director Yamada sent me his thoughts on the novel.

The era Takasaki-kun depicted with such affection,
that raw, intense, passionate, and painfully poignant portrait of youth.
Why is it that for modern readers, it feels so heartwrenchingly precious and nostalgic?
Yamada Yoji