The Dragon Painter

I just saw a 1919 silent film on TCM called The Dragon Painter. It was from Japan and only an hour long. It was altogether lovely. The story reminded me of many of the folktales I've read from Japan, and it might in fact be an adaptation of one of them. I'll have to go back and look. I wish they'd do a later showing of it so I could go back and watch it again.

Of course it made me wish for Japan again. It never takes much, but the gardens, the houses the characters lived in, and the Meiji costuming really pushed all the buttons. It's summer to boot, and I always feel the need to take a plane then a train in this weather loaded only with a Nikon and a guidebook.

I won't dwell on it. I won't dwell on incense-filled temples, leaf-shaded fox statues, bright cotton yukata, and summer fireworks. I won't dwell on oppressive summer heat, the smell of bus exhaust, or crowds in the train station. I won't dwell on any of the thousand little details that I miss, the thousand little shards of daily living that make the whole. Instead, I'll just dust my pottery cats, have a bowl of instant miso, and pretend the discovery of this beautiful film didn't just rouse up my sleeping need to see Japan like a careless kick to an anthill.