Curse of the golden filmmaker

Noel Vera

I'm not sure if we can call Zhang Yimou a great filmmaker, but in
the '80s and '90s he was certainly a force to be reckoned with. For
director Chen Kaige he shot "Huang tu di" (Yellow Earth, 1984), a
film that announced to the world the presence of the "Fifth
Generation" of mainland Chinese filmmakers; three years later,
with "Hong gao liang" (Red Sorghum), "Ju Dou" (1990), and "Da hong
deng long gao gao gua" (Raise the Red Lantern, 1991) Zhang helped
establish the house style of the Fifth Generation--at once old-
fashioned in its embrace of melodrama ("Ju Dou" owes a plot twist or
two to "The Postman Always Rings Twice") yet new in its utter lack
of cynicism (the unabashedly romantic flavor of "Hong gao liang's"
love scene); voluptuous in its use of colors, shapes, textures (the
dyed cloth in "Ju Dou" filling the screen with ribbons of fluttering
scarlet, purple, gold) yet somehow austere in intent and ultimate
impact (repeated shots of the compound's imposing rectangular floor
plan in "Da hong deng" emphasizing the heroine's imprisonment). The
1999 "Yi ge dou bu neng shao" (Not One Less) subordinated that
gorgeous visual style to the story of a young teacher struggling to
keep her class of poor student peasants together. The result, I
thought, was a film more persuasively moving (thanks to its
countryside grit and simplicity) than any of his earlier efforts.

He's struggled ever since, sometimes in interesting ways: "Wo de fu
qin mu qin " (The Road Home, 1999) is a romance told in flashbacks,
as the lovers' son arrives from the big city to bury his just-died
father (I liked it well enough, save that the mother seemed a tad
too self-indulgent); "Xingfu shiguang" (Happy Times, 2001) felt like
a reworking of Charlie Chaplin's "City Life" (blind girl given the
illusion of a better life by an equally poor benefactor) and suffers
in comparison (you also couldn't help but feel sexually predatory
overtones--all these middle-aged men, surrounding a helpless blind
girl--in what Zhang strenuously tries to present as an innocuous
situation).

"Ying xiong" (Hero, 2002) represents a third stage in Zhang's
career, the Chinese martial-arts extravaganza set in the country's
distant past, where Zhang's often provocative political subtext can
be tucked safely away inside an entertaining metaphor. Chris Doyle
was the cinematographer and I'm only guessing here, but he
apparently took inspiration from an idea Vittorio Storaro tried to
work into Warren Beatty's comic-book epic "Dick Tracy" (1990) but
failed; Doyle's primary colors aren't there just to make some visual
statement, but suggest the emotional tone and philosophical nature
of the various points of view making up the film's "Rashomon"-like
story. Zhang's follow-up film "Shi mian mai fu" (House of Flying
Daggers, 2004) was less impressive, partly because Doyle had been
replaced by Zhao Xiaoding (who also does the cinematography of this,
his latest), partly because melodrama swamps the already overripe
film.

"Man cheng jin dai huang jin jia" (Curse of the Golden Flower, 2006)
takes this trend of melodrama and extravagant production design and
pushes it to the nth power. With Zhao's help, Zhang fashions a--
well, it's hard to say just what: think "Blade Runner" set in the
Tang Dynasty, or the Chernobyl nuclear power plant suffering its
meltdown inside a Chinese restaurant. The décor doesn't just have a
poisonously radioactive glow; there's also a delirious tackiness
that dares you to respond with something sarcastic (my favorite
speculates that set designer Huo Tingxiao must have been "channeling
Liberace"). The costumes reflect the outrageousness of the sets--
gold silk by the dozen square miles, push-up bras by the thousands,
more scimitar-length intricately carved and painted nail extensions
than might be found in Wolverine's manicure kit. Sets and costumes
are a mishmash of styles--the Forbidden City, a prominent setting
for much of the action, wasn't built until the Ming Dynasty, some
five hundred years later; some of the palace's defenses--a huge
tanklike wall made up of spears and shields--seem cribbed off of, I
don't know, either D.W. Griffith's "Intolerance," Anthony
Mann's "The Fall of the Roman Empire," even Terry Gilliam's "Brazil."

Arguably odder than the production design is the chosen source for
the film's screenplay--"Thunderstorm" (1933), the single most famous
drama by legendary playwright Cao Yu (real name Wan Jiabao), done
when he was only twenty-three years old. Zhang had gotten in trouble
several times before, particularly for "Ju Dou" and " Da hong deng,"
which were seen as allegories on the authoritarian nature of the
Chinese government; in his recent work it's possible to see a
reluctance to engage in direct criticism. "Shi mian mai fu," for
example, may feature a secret band of knife-throwing rebels, but the
focus is more on their derring-do and love lives than on any
particularly despotic government activity. "Ying xiong" on the
surface reads as wholehearted endorsement of the government's
history of repression (the end--national unity--justifies the
means). "Man cheng jin dai huang jin jia," in channeling Cao Yu (who
had openly condemned the communists), is more overt: the corrupt
emperor (Chow Yun-fat) is secretly punishing his wife (Gong Li) for
sleeping with her stepson (Liu Ye)--perversely, by feeding her
poisoned medicine that he insists is crucial for her health; his
wife in turn plots revenge via a deadly coup attempt. An outré
detail, the sort of vicious slander Jonathan Swift liked to heap
upon particularly despised enemies: the emperor suffers from what
appears to be a spectacular case of hemorrhoids--his treatment
involves huddling in gargantuan throne that doubles as an
elaborately herbed and medicated steam bath.

It's difficult to know how to take the film--are we asked to swoon
to the passions on display, or laugh at the camp presentation? The
sets, costumes, plot twists, even acting style go so thoroughly over-
the-top that when one particularly grotesque revelation is made
between two lovers you're not so much shocked as shockingly amused
by their reactions-- eyes wide, jaws dropped, libido unmistakably
doused.

But Chow's emperor--I've heard him called miscast, but I'd rather
say he's a villain in the classic Hitchcock mode, gracious and
gallant and courteous to a fault. His ruthless response to his
beloved's fledgling coup attempt inspires Zhang to evoke images from
the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre; more, Zhang follows this up with
a brilliant bit of satire involving thousands of chrysanthemums
moving in clockwork precision, the sequence ending with a truly
shocking image: all the surviving combatants sitting down to a
celebratory family dinner. For a few breathtaking moments Zhang's
effrontery cuts through all the brocaded silk, heaving bosoms,
overilluminated screens; for a few moments the film is truly worth
seeing.

"Ying xiong" was a huge hit; "Shi mian mai fu" did respectable
business; this picture--despite the large budget, terrible notices,
and unspectacular boxoffice--will probably make its money back. From
controversial arthouse filmmaker Zhang has evolved into a
recognizable international figure with a celebrity status similar if
not equal to John Woo or Ang Lee--only Zhang seems committed to
making Chinese films, using mostly Chinese talent and production
facilities financed largely by Chinese money, and he seems to want
to say something beneath all that hoopla. I'm not exactly happy with
what Zhang's become (I thought his "Yi ge dou bu neng shao" was his
finest work to date), but considering his competition--I hear James
Cameron of "Titanic" fame is planning yet another 200 million dollar
bonfire of the vanities--frankly, I'd rather root for the Fifth
Generation veteran making hash of his culture, slipping subversive
subtexts past government censors, overall showing Hollywood that
there's an alternative to their flavorless factory product.

(First published in Businessworld, 2/9/07)

(Comments? Email me at noelbotevera@...)