Café Lumiere is Taiwanese director Hou Hsiao-Hsien's tribute the 100th birthday anniversary of Japanese master Ozu Yasujiro. Many reviewers have mentioned the signature static images and the "tatami-level" shots. Particularly noticeable in Café Lumiere is the focus on trains. The camera brings to the audience a parade of Tokyo's subway stations (underground and surfaced) as well as moving trains (inside and outside). One motif scene comes up regularly a carefully framed crane shot of a busy intersection of several railway tracks at a river. The static picture, accentuated by the geometric beauty of tracks and bridges criss-crossing, is brought to life by trains passing in all directions, along the river and over it. We don't know where they come from or go to. This perhaps is the image of life that director Hou wants us to take away when we emerge from the cinema.
The story, if there's any to speak of, is cross-sectional rather than linear. We see a point in the life of young writer-researcher Yoko where she is at a cross-road, just pregnant but determined to be a single mother (because her Taiwanese boyfriend is too much of his mother's boy). Her traditional father and stepmother are obviously disturbed. On Yoko's part, she is more disinterested than alienated. Her stepmother, mind you, is not the Cinderella stereotype but appears to be a sensible and kindly woman. The communication gap between Yoko and her parents however cannot be more obvious. Their sole conversation topic seems to be the parent's kind concern that she should eat well, and the conversation is forever punctuated by silences. Her revelation of her pregnancy to them could not have been more complacent, as if she was just telling them that she had flu.
The most mesmerising thing about Café Lumiere is Yoko's relationship with a good friend Hajime, a bookstore owner who has so much of a passion in his hobby of locomotives that he goes all over Tokyo with a tape recorder just to record the sound of passing trains at different locations. Hajime however is not a weirdo as his unorthodox hobby suggests, but the exact opposite, a most gentle, sensitive and considerate young man, who seems to be providing a shoulder for Yoko to lean on in her troubled times. Their relationship somehow reminds me of Before Sunrise/Before Sunset, although the circumstances are miles apart. And yet, there are similarities, in two people genuinely interested in what each other is doing and share blissful, quiet moments together in each other's company. While the fact that they deeply care for each other is obvious in Sunrise/Sunset, it's a lot more subtle in Café Lumiere.
Consider one scene, when Yoko is sleeping in her apartment with a light flu. Door bell and knocking go on alternatively for quite a long time and the audience would probably assume that it's the expectant visit of her out-of-town parents. It turns out to be Haijme bringing over some graphics on his computer notebook to show her. Barely able to keep her eyes open after struggling to open the door, Yoko asks politely "Can I go back to sleep?" and Haijme replies "Of course". The next scene shows Yoko waking up, apparently much recovered, and a bowl of noodles placed in front of her. After the nourishment, she proceeds to enthusiastically look at Haijme's computer graphic on trains, engaging him in a lot of questions.
Whenever we see the two together, it's in mundane, ordinary daily existence (a lot of that in Café Lumiere), but with the screen running over with a relaxing mood of comforting tenderness. In the very last scene, after a typically uncommunicative visit from her parents, Yoko goes over to the bookstore to find that Haijme is out there somewhere recording the sound of trains again. A little lost, she gets on a train, sits down (she usually stands) and falls into a nap. In comes Haijme, spots her and moves to stand in front of her, without waking her. In the next scene, we see the two of them getting off the train onto the platform. He continues with his recording while she stands a little distance away, with an almost indiscernible smile of contentment. Minimalism at its best.
The story, if there's any to speak of, is cross-sectional rather than linear. We see a point in the life of young writer-researcher Yoko where she is at a cross-road, just pregnant but determined to be a single mother (because her Taiwanese boyfriend is too much of his mother's boy). Her traditional father and stepmother are obviously disturbed. On Yoko's part, she is more disinterested than alienated. Her stepmother, mind you, is not the Cinderella stereotype but appears to be a sensible and kindly woman. The communication gap between Yoko and her parents however cannot be more obvious. Their sole conversation topic seems to be the parent's kind concern that she should eat well, and the conversation is forever punctuated by silences. Her revelation of her pregnancy to them could not have been more complacent, as if she was just telling them that she had flu.
The most mesmerising thing about Café Lumiere is Yoko's relationship with a good friend Hajime, a bookstore owner who has so much of a passion in his hobby of locomotives that he goes all over Tokyo with a tape recorder just to record the sound of passing trains at different locations. Hajime however is not a weirdo as his unorthodox hobby suggests, but the exact opposite, a most gentle, sensitive and considerate young man, who seems to be providing a shoulder for Yoko to lean on in her troubled times. Their relationship somehow reminds me of Before Sunrise/Before Sunset, although the circumstances are miles apart. And yet, there are similarities, in two people genuinely interested in what each other is doing and share blissful, quiet moments together in each other's company. While the fact that they deeply care for each other is obvious in Sunrise/Sunset, it's a lot more subtle in Café Lumiere.
Consider one scene, when Yoko is sleeping in her apartment with a light flu. Door bell and knocking go on alternatively for quite a long time and the audience would probably assume that it's the expectant visit of her out-of-town parents. It turns out to be Haijme bringing over some graphics on his computer notebook to show her. Barely able to keep her eyes open after struggling to open the door, Yoko asks politely "Can I go back to sleep?" and Haijme replies "Of course". The next scene shows Yoko waking up, apparently much recovered, and a bowl of noodles placed in front of her. After the nourishment, she proceeds to enthusiastically look at Haijme's computer graphic on trains, engaging him in a lot of questions.
Whenever we see the two together, it's in mundane, ordinary daily existence (a lot of that in Café Lumiere), but with the screen running over with a relaxing mood of comforting tenderness. In the very last scene, after a typically uncommunicative visit from her parents, Yoko goes over to the bookstore to find that Haijme is out there somewhere recording the sound of trains again. A little lost, she gets on a train, sits down (she usually stands) and falls into a nap. In comes Haijme, spots her and moves to stand in front of her, without waking her. In the next scene, we see the two of them getting off the train onto the platform. He continues with his recording while she stands a little distance away, with an almost indiscernible smile of contentment. Minimalism at its best.