By Adam Rabiner
Any serious artist thinks long about what to name their piece. This film could have been The Making of Sake or The Creation of Sake or something else. But The Birth of Sake is best, which becomes clear as you watch. This may not be true for mass-produced, industrially-made sake. But Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery, founded in 1870 during the Meiji period, is one of the few places still using the traditional Yamahai brewing method to make craft sake.
For a period of six months in winter, from October to mid-April, men travel to the brewery, located in the Ishikawa Prefecture of the Chubu region, where they eat, sleep, bathe, and work practically round-the-clock. During these winter months the men become a family, laboring as a team, led by their head brew-master, Toji, following tried and true scientific processes but also a fair dollop of intuition. During this time they are like parents with a baby. They put in inordinate amounts of care, sweat, tears, effort and time, day and night. One of sake’s stages is actually called “child of sake,” the point at which it moves to bigger tanks where it “grows up” and as one workers observes, “goes to college.”
You note the depth of engagement these men have with sake from the very first scene filmed on a dark and cold snowy morning at 5:00 a.m. in January. Inside the brewery young and older men toil around bubbling, steaming, and hissing vats, often in silence, sometimes barking out observations. Like an army in white uniform, following whispered commands, they purposefully carry out their tasks, sifting rice, stirring, kneading, raking, pounding, and stabbing it, tying ropes, wrapping and bundling sacks. The brewers range from youthful teenagers to men in their late sixties. There are no texts for what they do, the knowledge is passed along from person to person, one year to the next, one generation to the next, through apprenticeships or just on-the-job-training. They learn with their bodies and their minds how to use water, fire, air, and all the elements, to make good sake.
The musical soundtrack in the aforementioned scene, with its heavy, rhythmic, tick-tock beat, reinforces the recurring theme of time and is amplified throughout with images of various clocks and wall calendars, time/date stamps, and the passing of the seasons. After work the cohort gathers together in a communal dining room, quietly give thanks for their meal, sip soup and eat rice with chopsticks. In various scenes you see the men sharing other meals, watching sumo wrestling on television, chatting, drinking sake and even grape wine, joking, laughing, singing, bathing and brushing their teeth side by side. When monk-like living is too much, they read books on their mattresses which lay on the floors of the dorm rooms, listen to music with headphones, stare into the glare of smartphones and laptops. Occasionally the younger men will go for a smoke-break, or head to town together on their one day off. In one scene they gather around a convenience store magazine wrack and quizz each other about their tastes in women, porn, fantasies and favorite fetishes. But their white shirts, white hats, and neatly lined white boots parked outside their lockers, await yet another day’s work.
April finally arrives and they go home to their respective towns, families, and friends to enjoy the remainder of spring, summer, and fall. These scenes of nature, gardens, and sunshine drenched farmers’ fields filmed in vivid color, take on a dream-like feeling, especially after the dreary black and white and sepia tones used to film the brewery in the dead of winter. And perhaps these times back home are remembered as dreams by the men after they return to Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery the following year, as many of them do.
Until the next home stay, there is the perpetual cycle of measuring, pouring and smoothing out the rice on the ground with their hands, raking it, carrying it from station to station, tending to the sake 24-7. And always there is rubbing rice, massaging and kneading it. This is tactile, laborious work, involving the senses of taste, feel, sight, and smell. Workers test conditions with their hands and though the brewery has the feel of a basic factory, there are few machines and little automation. Men sweat profusely due to the heat and the steam. To initiate the magical, mysterious, even mystical fermentation process, someone sprinkles dust-like koji mold onto the steamed rice like a Catholic priest scattering smokey incense at a holy mass.
Tedorigawa Yoshida methods are timeless, but Japan has changed. The younger generation prefers whisky, beer, wine, shochu, imported drinks, and fresher versus bolder tasting sake. Since the 1970s, sake consumption has been in sharp decline with the number of breweries shrinking from 74,600 in the earliest 20th century to about one thousand today. Those still around are struggling to survive, relying on exports and hoping to revive interest in the young. To ensure Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery future and his inheritance, twenty-eight year old Yachan, spends six months each year travelling in Japan and abroad educating and promoting the brand. The son of the brewery’s president, he will take over the family business in 2020 and become head brew-master. One key message, “Harmony brews good sake,” was learned from his mentor Toji-san, whom he has known since he was a toddler. Yachan takes over next year, but Hoji says he wants to keep making sake until he’s two hundred years old.
Any serious artist thinks long about what to name their piece. This film could have been The Making of Sake or The Creation of Sake or something else. But The Birth of Sake is best, which becomes clear as you watch. This may not be true for mass-produced, industrially-made sake. But Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery, founded in 1870 during the Meiji period, is one of the few places still using the traditional Yamahai brewing method to make craft sake.
For a period of six months in winter, from October to mid-April, men travel to the brewery, located in the Ishikawa Prefecture of the Chubu region, where they eat, sleep, bathe, and work practically round-the-clock. During these winter months the men become a family, laboring as a team, led by their head brew-master, Toji, following tried and true scientific processes but also a fair dollop of intuition. During this time they are like parents with a baby. They put in inordinate amounts of care, sweat, tears, effort and time, day and night. One of sake’s stages is actually called “child of sake,” the point at which it moves to bigger tanks where it “grows up” and as one workers observes, “goes to college.”
You note the depth of engagement these men have with sake from the very first scene filmed on a dark and cold snowy morning at 5:00 a.m. in January. Inside the brewery young and older men toil around bubbling, steaming, and hissing vats, often in silence, sometimes barking out observations. Like an army in white uniform, following whispered commands, they purposefully carry out their tasks, sifting rice, stirring, kneading, raking, pounding, and stabbing it, tying ropes, wrapping and bundling sacks. The brewers range from youthful teenagers to men in their late sixties. There are no texts for what they do, the knowledge is passed along from person to person, one year to the next, one generation to the next, through apprenticeships or just on-the-job-training. They learn with their bodies and their minds how to use water, fire, air, and all the elements, to make good sake.
The musical soundtrack in the aforementioned scene, with its heavy, rhythmic, tick-tock beat, reinforces the recurring theme of time and is amplified throughout with images of various clocks and wall calendars, time/date stamps, and the passing of the seasons. After work the cohort gathers together in a communal dining room, quietly give thanks for their meal, sip soup and eat rice with chopsticks. In various scenes you see the men sharing other meals, watching sumo wrestling on television, chatting, drinking sake and even grape wine, joking, laughing, singing, bathing and brushing their teeth side by side. When monk-like living is too much, they read books on their mattresses which lay on the floors of the dorm rooms, listen to music with headphones, stare into the glare of smartphones and laptops. Occasionally the younger men will go for a smoke-break, or head to town together on their one day off. In one scene they gather around a convenience store magazine wrack and quizz each other about their tastes in women, porn, fantasies and favorite fetishes. But their white shirts, white hats, and neatly lined white boots parked outside their lockers, await yet another day’s work.
April finally arrives and they go home to their respective towns, families, and friends to enjoy the remainder of spring, summer, and fall. These scenes of nature, gardens, and sunshine drenched farmers’ fields filmed in vivid color, take on a dream-like feeling, especially after the dreary black and white and sepia tones used to film the brewery in the dead of winter. And perhaps these times back home are remembered as dreams by the men after they return to Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery the following year, as many of them do.
Until the next home stay, there is the perpetual cycle of measuring, pouring and smoothing out the rice on the ground with their hands, raking it, carrying it from station to station, tending to the sake 24-7. And always there is rubbing rice, massaging and kneading it. This is tactile, laborious work, involving the senses of taste, feel, sight, and smell. Workers test conditions with their hands and though the brewery has the feel of a basic factory, there are few machines and little automation. Men sweat profusely due to the heat and the steam. To initiate the magical, mysterious, even mystical fermentation process, someone sprinkles dust-like koji mold onto the steamed rice like a Catholic priest scattering smokey incense at a holy mass.
Tedorigawa Yoshida methods are timeless, but Japan has changed. The younger generation prefers whisky, beer, wine, shochu, imported drinks, and fresher versus bolder tasting sake. Since the 1970s, sake consumption has been in sharp decline with the number of breweries shrinking from 74,600 in the earliest 20th century to about one thousand today. Those still around are struggling to survive, relying on exports and hoping to revive interest in the young. To ensure Tedorigawa Yoshida Brewery future and his inheritance, twenty-eight year old Yachan, spends six months each year travelling in Japan and abroad educating and promoting the brand. The son of the brewery’s president, he will take over the family business in 2020 and become head brew-master. One key message, “Harmony brews good sake,” was learned from his mentor Toji-san, whom he has known since he was a toddler. Yachan takes over next year, but Hoji says he wants to keep making sake until he’s two hundred years old.