Movie : Jiro Dreams of Sushi, or: When routine meets passion
Link : Jiro Dreams of Sushi, or: When routine meets passion
Jiro Dreams of Sushi, or: When routine meets passion
Jiro Dreams of Sushi (2011)
Directed by David Gelb
***SPOILERS***
Jiro Dreams of Sushifeels familiar and one-in-a-million at the same time. In scope it holds no more breadth than your average Travel Channel or Discovery Channel documentary, attempting to dissect the act of making sushi and the chef behind it all. But for a man (Jiro Ono) whose life literallyis sushi, he seems a suitable counterpart to director David Gelb. There’s an air of passion mixed with rigidness in Jiro’s tale, and it’s reflected through Gelb’s filmmaking and narrative structure. Single-subject documentaries normally encompass more than its central subject—from Crumb to Exit Through the Gift Shop, often times one person can say more about an issue than academically exploring the issue ever could. And in both of these films, the directors (Terry Zwigoff and Banksy, respectively) juxtapose art and life. Art is a profession, and art is a means of carrying on. Art builds us up, and it tears us apart. For Jiro, art is making sushi—and from what I can tell, nobody does it better. The impossible standards the world’s greatest sushi chef sets for himself speak of these implications, but like those aforementioned films, those implications feel contained and sprawling all at once. By watching the intransigent nature of one artist, it ignites a passion in art itself. Since it is so crucial to Jiro as an artist and a human being, reflecting that adamancy and sheer zest for art is key to truly understand Jiro’s work.
Consistency, surprisingly above all else, is key for this type of project to prevail. For Gelb needs to coincide with Jiro’s adamancy as an artist, and as a sushi chef who’s repeated the same steps every day for 40 years, Gelb cannot misstep. Not to suggest that Gelb never missteps, but compared to Vincent Morisset’s Inni—another single-subject documentary—there’s certainly a discernible level of texture. For what Inni supplies in pure beauty is offset by its lack of texture, which is never benefitted by Morisset’s utter obsession in painting Sigur Rós as untouchables gods of the Post-Rock genre. There’s obviously a level of admiration on Gelb’s part for Jiro’s artwork, but there’s also an understanding of his work. Morisset retains that level of consistency that is so crucial, but the texture is resolutely bland. Scenes alternate between the spectacle of a live Sigur Rós performance and quiet archive footage of the band’s early formative years. The archive footage is breezy and inoffensive, painting the band as a bunch of normal guys who, once on stage, become glorious figures. Never revealing anything pertinent of Sigur Rós’ background or history, Morisset attempts to paint Sigur Rós as a mysterious force nobody can decipher. To that degree—Morisset succeeded. But in the end, the lack of texture results in a one-note documentary that never builds, but only relishes in what simply is.
Gelb easily matches Morisset’s consistency with his filmmaking. Jiro discusses his rigid work schedule, which is steeped in routine and a seeming detachment from pleasure in one’s work, but it’s offset by Jiro’s sheer dedication to perfection and his offhand remarks regarding the joy of making sushi. There are shots of Jiro’s subordinates striking a grill repeatedly with a cloth; massaging an octopus for 45 minutes straight; remaking egg sushi 200 times over until perfection is achieved. This reflects Jiro’s hard-nosed approach towards making sushi—an unadulterated system that demands perfection. Everything from ordering the fish from vendors to examining the seating arrangement is routine, and it’s presented in such a manner: long, fixated shots of the daily grind, fittingly capturing the rather banal aspects of achieving perfection.
But with perfection also comes artistry, which can be seen through the routine aspects. Certainly there’s art to be found in such consistency and stubborn procedure, which achieves perfection day in and day out. But the actual act of making sushi—much like a painting a picture or, hey, making a film—requires a touch of something intuitive and celestial. Gelb slows down the camera and paints his scenes with music (and as the son of Peter Gelb, manager of the Metropolitan Opera, this should come as no surprise), recreating a similar feeling evoked from In the Mood for Love—basking in the brushstrokes of Jiro’s work captures both the routine and dedication. Once slowed down, those brushstrokes are broadened and dissected, relishing in each swipe of the cloth; each twisting of an octopus tentacle; each intricate step in constructing egg sushi. Where Morisset was content in painting Sigur Rós as untouchable, Gelb—through depicting both rigidness and compassion—has stripped Jiro of that cloak of invincibility. For a few fleeting seconds he’s no longer the greatest sushi chef in the world, but simply: an artist.
Jiro’s dedication goes beyond repeating the same steps everyday, and lends Jiro Dreams of Sushieven more innate texture than Gelb’s dedication to form can possibly manage alone. Jiro speaks of his father and mother in the same tone that surrounds his visit to their graves. “I don’t know why I come here. My parents didn’t take care of me,” he says nonchalantly alongside his son, which is a moment of uninitiated luck on Gelb’s part. What isn’t lucky is how Gelb works such a moment into the story, where the troubles of Jiro’s childhood translate both to his work and his role as a father—which both happen to intertwine. Jiro is adamant in his teachings as a father and a sushi chef, which both come together upon his youngest son’s decision to start his own restaurant. Jiro reminisces of leaving his home at the ripe age of seven, upon which he had to learn to fend for himself. Never an attentive father at home, Jiro groomed his sons well enough to learn: when you leave this house, you’re on your own. This plays into Jiro’s rigid work schedule, reflecting a man who believes his system produces perfection.
But much like Gelb’s attention to compassion through his slowed down camerawork, Jiro’s sympathy is put on display through his actions beneath the routine. There’s a beautiful moment where Jiro’s youngest son sets down a piece of sushi on a plate, mimicking several shots featuring Jiro performing the same act. In the son’s quiet, low-key restaurant, it seems a pure connection between father and the son he groomed, despite the vast gap in acclamation from critics. Such a moment is brought forth once again in a moment where Yoshikazu—his eldest son—is revealed to be the chef in many significant instances. Jiro steals the show with his mere presence, but his faith in his son’s work reflects his own teachings, which stem from his both his role as a parent and teacher. In terms of stripping the cloak of invincibility, Jiro’s faith in Yoshikazu’s skills overshadows the prestigious Michelin Guide’s rare and perfect three-star bestowment so powerfully by doing so little. By never bringing such a revelation to the forefront, we see that Jiro—a man who seems to own no joy for his work—is a man of honor. Transcending the awards and fame, Jiro’s life as an chef is really just life itself, with the two coinciding to form a beautiful work of art that says much about Jiro’s love of sushi—and all such love encompasses.
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