Miss Oyu

Miss Oyu (お遊さま) is a 1951 film directed by Kenji Mizoguchi and based on Junichiro Tanizaki’s 1932 novella The Reed Cutter (蘆刈). The story revolves around two sisters and their relationship with a man named Shinnosuke. He falls in love with the older, more refined—yet oddly childlike—sister, Oyū Kayukawa. Although she is a widow, he is unable to marry her because she has a son from her previous marriage—a restriction observed among certain upper-class families at the time (early Meiji era), which forbade remarriage while raising a paternal heir.

Shizu, the younger sister, is heartbroken by Oyū’s loneliness and resolves to sacrifice her own happiness for her sake. When Shinnosuke is introduced to a series of prospective marriage partners, he rejects them all, and at their first meeting he even mistakes Oyū for Shizu, whom he was supposed to meet. Eventually, Shinnosuke and Shizu marry, but on their wedding night they agree that the marriage will be purely “formal” rather than romantic. In effect, they live as “brother and sister,” presenting themselves outwardly as a proper couple. This arrangement allows Oyū and Shinnosuke—the true lovers—to spend time together. Oyū, however, remains unaware of their pact.

As one might expect from a Mizoguchi–Tanizaki pairing, the result is tragic. Oyū and Shinnosuke are ultimately forced to part for the sake of social propriety. This comes after the death of Oyū’s son, due in part to her neglect—a failure of duty that weighs heavily on her. Meanwhile, Shizu and Shinnosuke, years later and under strained economic circumstances, have a child of their own, having only then entered into a semblance of intimacy. Living far away, they have had no contact with Oyū for years. Yet the central conflict deepens: Shizu is unable to endure the roles of wife and mother, and the strain ultimately destroys her. It seems she could only find meaning in self-sacrifice for her sister.

In despair, Shinnosuke seeks out Oyū’s home and leaves their newborn outside for her to find. He does not speak to her—he simply entrusts the child to a woman burdened by the loss of her own son, and then departs, wandering desolately among the tall reeds between sea and mountains.

There is much that could be said about the film: Mizoguchi’s use of natural settings—ordered and manicured, or wild and untamed—to mirror and propel the narrative; his striking tracking shots, framing, and close-ups; the ambiguous role of sexuality, or even asexuality; or comparisons with Tanizaki’s original novella. Above all, however, Mizoguchi seems intent on portraying both the necessity and the cost of resisting social constraints in the name of love and freedom. These same constraints suppress the human spirit, leading to distortion, moral ambiguity, psychological strain, and, ultimately, isolation and death.

This is not my favorite Mizoguchi film, but it lingers in the mind. Many scenes depict an idyllic Japan—bucolic landscapes, lush gardens, and exquisitely composed interiors. The film is as visually compelling as it is narratively engaging. The musical performances, too, stand out, recalling other Mizoguchi works such as The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (1939) and The Water Magician (1933). Oyū plays the koto, and music is used not merely as embellishment but as a narrative device in its own right. A strong film by one of Japan’s greatest directors.