Within the framework of Mikio Naruse‘s postwar productions, “Sound of the Mountain” stands as a cornerstone of his mature period, marking a departure from the experimental camera movements and comedic elements of his Shochiku days toward a more austere exploration of the human condition. Here, the lens becomes a discreet yet truthful observer.
Sincerity is screening at Metrograph as part of the Mikio Naruse: The World Betrays Us program
Whether at home or at work, Shingo Ogata (So Yamamura) knows no peace. His son Shuichi (Ken Uehara) mistreats his wife Kikuko (Setsuko Hara) and jeopardizes the family business through an affair. Meanwhile, the marriage of Shingo’s daughter Fusako (Chieko Nakakita) is falling apart, prompting her return to the parental home. Seeking to restore order, Shingo enlists the help of his secretary (Yōko Sugi) to uncover the identity of Shuichi’s lover. But the discovery reveals not just infidelity—it exposes deeper flaws that have driven Kikuko away.
Often grouped with Yasujiro Ozu, Yasujiro Shimazu, and Keisuke Kinoshita in the canon of shoshimin-eiga (petit bourgeois dramas), Naruse only partially fits the mold. Like Kinoshita, his style evolved from a blend of humor and everyday realism—hallmarks of the Kamata studio where he began—into a preference for more structured, emotionally resonant narratives. These stories, though frequently middle-class in setting, appealed to a newly educated upper class seeking more nuanced storytelling.
Thus, the fondness of Naruse for the great novels of the Japanese literature of his times, whose adaptations make up the bulk of his critically acclaimed movies. In this respect, “Sound of the Mountain” is no exception, whose script by Yoko Mizuki – one of Naruse’s life-long associates for screenwriting – is based on the homonymous work by Yasunari Kawabata, also a friend to Naruse since his contribution to the writing of “Repast” a few years earlier
Yet this is far from a straightforward adaptation. Naruse significantly alters Kawabata’s psychological tone. The novel’s hints of erotic fascination—such as Shingo’s inner monologues on Kikuko’s arms and fair skin—are subdued. Similarly, the protagonist’s preoccupation with death, a hallmark of Kawabata’s later period, is reduced to a single moment involving a newspaper report of a double suicide.
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In essence, Naruse shifts focus away from overt introspection, instead challenging the audience to interpret the quiet emotional decay of an upper class that, though once dominant, has lost its place in post-occupation Japan. Viewers are left to confront the moral vacuum and communication breakdowns within the Ogata household—issues likely resonant in a society undergoing rapid transformation.
This thematic austerity is matched by Naruse’s camera work, which avoids depth of field and close-ups in favor of spatial clarity. Characters are placed in carefully arranged compositions that reflect their social roles. Consider the frequent framing of Shingo and Shuichi on opposite sides of the family table, with their wives relegated to the periphery—a visual echo of their emotional detachment.
The emotional resonance of the story is amplified by a cast of actors closely associated with Naruse’s work. Ken Uehara, then Toho’s most bankable male star, and Setsuko Hara, the enduring icon of grace, lend familiarity and depth to the Ogatas. Their seamless performances contribute to a deeply felt portrayal of a family on the brink.
While “Sound of the Mountain” may not be as visually daring or socially confrontational as other works of its era, it remains a vital testament to Naruse’s mature artistry and to a cinema keenly attuned to class consciousness during a period of profound change in Japan.
