diuscorvus Reviews

The Maidens of Heavenly Mountains (1994)

luminous fantasia

[8/10 · 15 May 2019]

What to say about this film?

The only reason I know it because I watched it as a kid more than twenty years ago and was absolutely transfixed.

The source material is an epic by Jin Yong, arguably his magnum opus, "Tian Long Ba Bu." That novel has three major threads; this film picks the most tantalizingly fantastic one, ignores the rest, and basically makes a fantasia on that.

In order to understand this film, it helps to be conversant with Jin Yong's world and the Chinese fictional matrix. There are sects, there are martial arts, there is Shaolin monastery. There's also a very strong thread of an element that I can't quite translate, but "divinity" might be the right word. Basically, there is the idea that if you practice martial arts enough, or find some kind of shortcut, you can become a divine being.

The best way to understand this film is to see it in levels of power. Power here isn't money or political; it's basically having superpowers, that "divinity" I mentioned. Like I said, one can cultivate power by practicing martial arts, but there are those who are at an unreachable level of power, which gives them the ability to fly across huge distances, launch powerful attacks that destroy mountains, etc.

It also makes them incredibly beautiful, and it makes sense that they're played by two great ladies of Chinese cinema, Brigitte Lin and Gong Li. They are luminous in every frame they are in. The other, earthbound characters look a bit dingy and a bit pinched, but Lin and Gong are stunning, caressed by incredible lighting and color. The camera does what the plot can't do; it truly convinces us they are gods.

Anyway, back to the plot. These two ladies are two all-powerful beings, but -- and this is important -- they're enslaved by their very human desires. Gong is in love with Lin's twin sister, who loves their martial brother instead; Lin loves him too, but he isn't interested. So you have these two superpowerful people who are deeply unhappy with life.

In the background are the "commoners," per se. They're the squabble who have some martial arts abilities, but are puny in comparison to Lin and Gong. There's the power-hunger villain Ding Chun Qiu, the hustling Ah Zi who tries her best to ride the coattails of the great, and the naive Xu Zhu, who basically wants none of this. This film is about the reversals of fortune -- Ding manages to gain great power, but basically becomes a monster and the others combine to defeat him; Xu Zhu gains great power that he doesn't want; Ah Zi finally gains power when she least expects it. And Lin and Gong, in the end, lose their power without having achieved what they truly wanted.

There's something beautiful in the last glimpses we have of those two ladies, especially of Lin, who has been a campy firecracker throughout the film. She's walking through a monastery, still beautifully lit, still luminous, but now with a tremendous air of sadness. She has finally come to enlightenment, or at least Buddhist enlightenment; everything is transient, power becomes nothingness, human desires are illusions.

So is this even a good film? One first has to answer the question of what kind of film it is and understand what kind of milieu it's in. The characters are operatic, the plot is fantastic. But something about it has stuck with me over the years, and something about it is, I think, quite beautiful and moving.

Mysterious Skin (2004)

disturbing, excellent, if not perfect, film

[9 September 2011]

It seems to me that Gregg Araki is much more comfortable with images than with words. It's with the unspoken that this film is most powerfully conveyed, and with the spoken portions that diminish it somewhat. The character of Wendy is quite thankless, written to be nothing more than a female sidekick, someone to tell us how special Niel is. And Araki was lucky with Mrs. Lackey, whose character might be rather undeveloped, but ends up being quite important in our minds after the credits roll.

This is the sort of film for which spoilers don't do much damage. We know that the two boys, Niel and Brian, have been molested as children, and the film establishes very early on the contrasting characters of these children, and their very different responses. There's no plot twist, no showdown with the paedophile, no unexpected deaths. The end is only knowledge revealing itself - that, and nothing more. But it's precisely this paucity of action that fulfills this film, and redeems it of some of its less stellar material (some thinness of character, especially in Brian, the sidekicks, and - shall we say - weirdos). Why? Because doing so forces - or condemns - us to be content with truth revealed, confronted, uncovered as the only possible resolution, rather than something comforting and artificial, such as the arrest of the paedophile, or the young men's cathartic encounters with parents.

Indeed, the structural and cinematic aspects combined as such to really elevate the last scene. The truth is finally confronted at the site of the crime, and we hear children at the door. Immediately we think that this is the paedophile coming back with more victims, but it's not: it's children caroling for Christmas. It's an incredible irony that this monster of a man would still have children caroling at his door, wishing him a peaceful night and a merry Christmas. But this *is* how the world works, and the voices of children seem, though human, to be sublime, and beautiful and hopeful in a way that a Hollywood ending couldn't hope to be. It also affirms that what we have - what art must grow out of - is knowledge, and that alone, and perhaps, or perhaps not, that's enough. It's truly a pity that we had to end with a hammy voice-over by Gordon-Levitt, one that even an actor as talented as he couldn't quite redeem.

I'd like to mention as well that the blue light of the paedophile's house towards the end of the film is truly terrifying and eerie. Worthy of Hitchcock and David Lynch.

Incendies (2010)

Promising, but disappointing

[30 August 2011]

The beginning was marvelous. You could tell this came from a play, because the weight of everything hung from words alone - the incredible malediction the mother pronounced on herself, and the contrasting reaction of the two children. Now that I think of it, there are elements of a fairytale in that beginning, present in the task set before the children much as Aladdin is sent for the lamp or Cinderella to clean, and this may - if not justify - provide insight to the structural failures further on; but, as I said, the latter half of the film is a disappointment.

"Incendies" is about a brother and sister, twins, who are sent by their mother via her will to search for their father and their brother. This journey reveals, via flashback, the mother's ordeal in an unnamed Arab conflict (Christianity vs Muslim, as usual), and is capped by the revelation that the father and brother are the same person. War is so horrible that it causes even this sort of thing to happen, but whereas the mother can't survive this last atrocity (the realization makes her literally will herself to die), her children can live on.

The message, as it were, is all well and good, but the film as a work of art that clarifies life by being an artifice doesn't work for me. It's not that characterization in itself is missing: the children are flat (flatter, at least, than Nawal, who isn't exactly a masterpiece of characterization), and that's kind of an empty promise on the life after war, isn't it? Aren't they just two springboards that serve, in the story, solely to dig up the past? Towards the end, characters such as the lawyer are mobilized like chess pieces, and we find out that Nawal was almost a mythic figure in the jail, "The Woman Who Sings" -- some sort of superhero. Things fit together too well, a bit like Nawal's outfit, with her rather stylish jeans and jacket; indeed, the revelation at the end, with the silly bit of dialogue from the brother ("One and one... how can they make one??"), couldn't transcend its tawdriness. It's like Disney meets Oedipus Rex.

The movie was still entertaining and had moments, of course, of grandeur. But ultimately disappointing. Glad I saw it on the plane.

Bright Star (2009)

wonderful, if flawed

[8/10 · 1 February 2011]

I've only seen one other Campion film, "The Piano." Frankly I was surprised by how different "Bright Star" is. And yet, the two films have much in common. The focal character is a woman, who has a younger doppelganger - Ada's daughter in "The Piano" and Fanny's younger sister in "Bright Star." The overspilling of erotic feelings of the older woman onto the young girl, who has become a surrogate for the male, which occurred so disturbingly and brilliantly in "The Piano," is, in fact, repeated in "Bright Star." Moreover, there's even a two-men-one-woman love triangle, this being Keats-Fanny-Charles in "Bright Star."

The differences between the two films are nevertheless very great, to say the least. "The Piano" seems much more - wild, I suppose. That film takes place on an alien island. "Bright Star," though it features stretches of wilderness and moors, takes place in the English countryside; people (Fanny's brother and sister) are never out of the frame or far out of it. The love triangle in "The Piano" culminates in - well, something quite violent. Nothing of the sort in "Bright Star." The immortal image of "The Piano" is the sea - grey, vast, rolling in inexorably, dwarfing its people. Whereas the immortal image of "Bright Star" is - what? This is the most interesting of Campion's inventions, and also the part in which, I think, she falters. "Bright Star" is about human art (as opposed to the beautiful loveliness of the sea in "The Piano"). The opening titles feature human voices singing Mozart, a segment that is reprised later in the film; Fanny and Keats are both artists in their own way (fashion, poetry); at the end of the film, Fanny responds to the devastation of Keats's death by creating and wearing a mourning dress and reciting Keats's "Bright Star" poem. It is with these human creations - the making of a dress, the repetition of human words - that she overcomes the awful grief that, in the previous scene, had rendered her unable to breathe.

Unfortunately, I don't think Campion captures human art as well as she did brute nature in "The Piano." First of all - her approach to poetry. She makes it seem that Keats sat around all day until inspiration hit, which I guarantee is *not* true - poets hone their craft, make lots of drafts, consider theories, read other poets, read criticisms, etc., etc. Secondly, troublingly, Fanny's passion for Keats seems almost like a negative force. Under its influence, she's sometimes unable to eat, and she's unable to respond to it with creative output - as does Keats via his famous letters. In fact, Fanny seems most her own when she's courting Keats, acting as a "flirt" and creating those startling, stunning dresses.

On the other hand, Campion rightly shows that Keats draws his power not only from Fanny's rarefied world of beautiful English countryside, but also from the deep squalor of London. Keats wrote from his brother's death and his poverty - but out of that, he could write about beauty, immortality, and truth. Ultimately, Campion's film does not examine how Keats was able to do so - and its suggestions in that matter are somewhat disappointing. But Campion's film is about Fanny, is complemented by Keats's poetry, and considers human response to its natural ungovernable passions and inevitable mortality.

"Bright Star" has its weak spots, but it has marvelous moments, well up to par with "The Piano." The treatment of Charles's feelings for Fanny, which is brought up numerously in jest in the first half of the film, is illuminated in a simple shot of Charles looking out the window at Fanny. It's all clear in that one moment - although no words are said, and it's not at all clear just what he feels for her, or what he knows (or thinks) he feels. And the last, ravishing sequence in which Fanny recites the poem while walking through the forest - I can only think of Wong Kar-Wai's delicate shot of Maggie Cheung in "Ashes of Time" that has a similar splendour.

A Single Man (2009)

a rather stunning debut

[8/10 · 27 January 2011]

Alas, I haven't read Isherwood's source novel, so some of the questions I have about this film that would probably be answered by the text must be for me, as of now, unanswered. But the film as it is has an auteuristic confidence that is refreshing and surprising. It's not quite at the level of greats such as Wong Kar-Wai or Tarkovsky, but at least a Scorsese. The mis en scene, the colors, and some of the directorial decisions are really quite good. Firth's devastated response to news of his partner's death is frontloaded in the movie, thus winning our confidence in the first fifteen minutes of the film.

This is a film that rewards more than on viewing. The first time I watched it, I was too overwhelmed by the colors and sheer sumptuousness to notice the drama and movement of the film. The second time I watched it, I could let myself be more fully drawn into George's character. I wonder, though: Why is fear such a theme in the movie? Clearly he is afraid to die, but this doesn't seem to spring from the massive wound of his lover's death; the greater theme should be the attempt to recover meaning from a life that's lost meaning. Indeed, Ford's modulation of colors is a sublime response to this theme: a man, whose world is usually almost monochromatically gray but with moments of almost painful saturation, is certainly a man whose response to the trauma is detachment into a grey ether, but upon whom the world intrudes with almost painful sensuousness. Hedonism, narcissism, alienation, emptiness are the themes. But maybe underlying all that is fear, the same fear that made Firth's acting so genuine in that moment when his character hears of the death - Firth, the big intelligent English professor, sinks slightly into his chair as he blinks out his tears, knowing that now he's completely alone in the world, and nobody is there to protect him from it.

Julianna Moore gives a zestful performance as the wonderful but slightly un-understanding Charley. It's a pity that, in the script (and, I suppose, the book), the interlude with Charley is followed by one with Kenny. Tom Ford obviously has a stable of model-caliber individuals at his disposal, but perhaps he could have chosen one with less shapely facial structure but better acting abilities? His selection of women is better, or at least less muddled by the charms of masculine beauty. In any case, I look forward to Ford's next turn behind the camera.

The King's Speech (2010)

mixed bag

[6/10 · 27 January 2011]

The award season brouhaha seems focused on Firth's performance, and excellent though it is, I find it less characteristic and affecting than his turn in Ford's 'A Single Man.' Like 'The Queen' from four years ago, the British royal family is again the boat on which Britain attempts to take Hollywood. But 'The Queen' was a far more affecting film. Perhaps this is because 'The Queen' was so much more enigmatic, while 'The King's Speech' obvious: the king's doll-like daughters greeting him with "Your Majesty." Need a more obvious way to communicate the king's entrapment? The cruelty of the Duke of York's brother. The footage of "ordinary people" wincing at the king's stuttering. The cheap suspense created by Bertie not listening to his recording of "To be or not to be" until much later. All these are formulaic, and Hollywood formulaic, employed because the the filmmakers seem afraid that we would not be able to empathize with the character's speech impediment problem. But by overdoing it, they achieve the opposite.

This isn't to say that there are quite excellent moments. The fog-drenched streets when Helena Bonham-Carter, as "Mrs. Johnson," seeks out Lionel. The amplification of the stutter in the very first scene. The dinner during which the previous king dies.

The standout for me in this film, however, is Geoffrey Rush. The camera doesn't lavish nearly as much attention on him as it does on Firth, and Rush doesn't get a breakdown scene late in the movie to show off his acting chops, as does Firth. But Rush embodies all the contradiction in the film's supposed theme of an "unlikely friendship" between men of drastically unequal ranks. Whereas Firth ultimately seems energized and, indeed, two-dimensionally happy with his kingship, Rush's last address to his one-time patient is an enigmatic "Your Majesty." Does he admire what he's made, or does he now feel more than ever the disparity in their power? I think also to the expression Rush gives us when his oldest son announces news of WWII - how does Rush think of his "friend" who has the power to send his son to death in war? It is Rush's quiet performance that leaves the maximum dramatic impact, which Helen Mirren had done four years ago by walking down a hallway in Buckingham Palace with a five year old's confusion on her royal face.

Mulholland Drive (2001)

dream on awakening

[10/10 · 3 May 2010]

This is one of those films that, to me, is seminal with regards to the definition of a feeling. What "actually happened" and who each character is or what each scene "means" is unimportant. (I also think that the plot is not at all complicated -- there's really a canonical explanation for it already.) The scene with the strange man on the throne, who is he? Well, he's the strange man on the throne who is there to be strange, to induce the feeling of strangeness and uncertainty and fear. That man doesn't have to be anything more; Lynch has no obligation to spin each character into something the viewer can safely understand.

And the feeling that comes out of this movie is incredible. There are very few films that so purely and honestly convey a feeling -- I would include "The Piano" and "Crouching Tiger." Lynch doesn't get as good as this -- I consider his latest effort, "Inland Empire," as a rocket that never got launched. But here, all the pieces come together: the camera movements that aren't only original and breathtaking, but weighted with an intent that is rivaled only by Tarkovsky's; the performances that seem completely natural; and the beautiful soundtrack with those achingly long sustained chords.

Shattered Glass (2003)

gem of a film

[9/10 · 1 May 2010]

I admit to coming to this film with a great deal of doubt. Movies "based off of real events" tend to veer towards melodrama and, more damningly, "humanize" events so that they are rationalized, e.g. a character had childhood abuse, a traumatic experience, etc. One of the strengths of this film is the delicacy, compassion and mastery in its understanding and portrayal of the characters and their psychological states. We are never given clues or answers to help us understand why Stephen Glass is such a sociopath, but presumptions towards an explanation would have cheapened the film. We are left with compassion, and we are left with as much understanding as one human can have for another. If a piece of art has left us with the feeling that one of its characters (or voices, etc.) is as human as we ourselves are, then I think it's done its highest duty.

Besides the maturity of the film, another aspect that struck me was its structure. We start off with Stephen as our main protagonist, but, without lurches, we edge from his POV into Chuck's. Changing POVs is one of the trickiest things to do in film and novels, but it's managed wonderfully here. The apotheosis was also ingeniously done. Our two main anticipations as viewers are for Chuck to be absolved and Stephen to be condemned; these two are managed in an eloquent cinematic climax when Chuck is applauded by his writers and Stephen by his illusions. I've seen a variant of this in Spielberg's Munich, but in that case the conflation of two main thematic threads felt gaudy and forced. Here, it was appropriate and cathartic.

The themes in this movie kind of condemn it to the wayside. There's no romance. The most dramatic happenings are the characters getting mad. There is psychosis, but not of the sort found in Silence of the Lambs or even One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. This film is about doing the right thing, which is an unpopular subject, and exploring -- with compassion, and not a circus, which is an unpopular approach -- how someone could go so wrong.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)

archetypal

[9/10 · 20 April 2010]

The opening shot establishes how Forman understands this story. We see sunrise, the natural world, a car drawing in and bringing a man into the story and the ward. This isn't a story about the plunges in and out of madness a la more recent treatments of the mind; madness here should be understood not in the biological sense; the madness that matters is the lack of human spirit. McMurphy is the human spirit, the vitalizing force, the Christ figure who exists so that we may all go on. This is an archetypal story, and notable cinematic treatments in this mold include "Cool Hand Luke" and the well-loved "Shawshank Redemption." It's interesting to note that King's treatment of Shawshank was very similar to Kesey's novelistic treatment of Cuckoo -- the narration occurs from the POV of the non-Christ figure. Where Forman encounters difficulty, in my opinion, is the transition of the narrative angle from McMurphy, who dominates the film, to Chief, who is his spiritual heir. However, the lack of a clear frame also gives Cuckoo its power: the pieces are clearly laid before us without the safety of the frame. Heart of Darkness comes to mind as a piece that does well in blurring the narrative frame; Keats's La Belle Dame Sans Merci in poetry. This is one of the reasons why Cuckoo is stronger than Shawshank as a film. Also, it is a tragedy.

Cuckoo is a tragedy because Billy's death in the end is the result of least utility, just as R&J's deaths were and the double suicide of Antigone and Creon's son. McMurphy's demise is not so tragic -- he is the Christ-figure. Cuckoo is also a tragedy because Billy's death occurs from human hubris: if Ratched had stepped down, if McMurphy had not been so insistent on his domination of men -- a domination we agree with, but a domination nonetheless.

Again, Forman is less concerned about madness than about the usage of madness here as an allegory for human lethargy. And the movie shouldn't be overly contextualized in either the sensationalist reading of state mental institutions that was popular in the 60s and 70s, nor as completely as a power play between Ratched and McMurphy. This is an allegorical, archetypal story, and it is both fitting and ironic that it is the most shamanistic character in the film who inherits the earth from McMurphy.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

sublime

[10/10 · 8 April 2009]

There's a telling moment towards the beginning of the movie. Shu Lien is riding through the crowded streets of Peking, when her eye is caught by a little girl forced to perform tricks for the crowd -- holding a stack of bowls on her head, while lifting her legs over her shoulders. We've only Shu Lien's lingering, inscrutable glance that tells us that this woman warrior is seeing herself in this little girl -- and will soon see another trapped performer: Jen.

Ang Lee's direction is, at times, achingly beautiful, but without the obvious self-awareness of Wong Kar Lai's shots. He lays out each scene so that the positions of the window, the table, the characters seem almost incidental and paratactic -- but it's also inconceivable that they should be any other way. I have seen it, Lee seems to say, and I am laying it out for you as a precise offering.

The precision allows for an incredible number of "issues" and "subplots" to bubble beneath the surface -- which ranges from detective story (who stole the sword?), revenge drama (Li Mu Bai's master), to romance. But the underlying core is, as with all of Ang Lee's films, the tension between different orders of life, and how that resonates with each of the characters. Take the story of the film's arch-villain, Jade Fox, for example. Ostensibly she desires power -- killing the head of Wudang to gain the kung fu manuals -- but what undoes her is her longing for family, the core of Confucian values; she sees Jen as her daughter, sister, even spouse; the betrayal she feels when Jen turns to Li Mu Bai motivates her vengeance and downfall. That Jade Fox, the character on the farthest fringes of society, should embody so much desire for traditional values (framed by the irony of her serving as Jen's family "nurse" for so many years) creates a subtle circularity that feels strangely Buddhist. Indeed, the "letting go" stressed by Buddhism informs both the characters and Ang Lee's direction: Jen lets go of her ego and purges herself in that final act of sacrifice; Li Mu Bai releases his own ego by trading his life for a too-late confession of love; and Lee, by drawing on the wordless ballet of martial arts choreography and stunning shots of the Chinese landscape and subtle, unforced character studies, allows the film to breathe and become the masterpiece that it is.

Eat Drink Man Woman (1994)

subtle work of genius

[10/10 · 1 April 2009]

Someone had commented how Austenian this one is, and the comparison is apt -- there's the irony and interpersonal intricacy, worries of marriage and woefully obnoxious neighbors. But there's a crucial difference, I think, between this and Sense and Sensibility, which reflects Ang Lee's genius. The difference is what Lee identifies as the thread to set his picture *against.* In Austen, Lee accurately mined out the latent savagery of Imperial society -- the most memorable moments are shots of Winslet on the windswept moor and Thompson's face, contorted with happy tears, when she finds that she's got a chance for her love. His magic is setting the picture in the exact opposite realm -- but in a way that throws that thread in pure, visceral relief.

In Eat, Drink, Man, Woman, I think it's the competing virtues of romantic and filial love, which represent old and new values of contemporary China. The way Lee chooses to end the film is particularly telling. The sequence with daughter Jia-Chen comes at the end -- after the scene with Jin-Rong, the new wife for whom Chu is selling his old house -- and notice the way Lee lingers on Chu's face at his parting with Jin-Rong. She says, "love you," but he can only smile back -- it's the inescapable tug of old China and filial values that prevents complete fulfillment of this new role. It's only with Jia-Chen and their final, mutual acknowledgment that catharsis can take place. It's the affirmation of old values that has been the true thread of the movie and not the escape into new values, as enacted by the daughters' pursuit of lives away from their father. The movie works so well because Lee understands, as Chu does, how impossible it is to declare the truth -- he casts it into relief, and the result is subtle, noble, and loving.

Curse of the Golden Flower (2006)

Unforgiving Drama

[8/10 · 20 January 2007]

People entering the theatre expecting to see Hero II or HoFD Revisited will be disappointed. This isn't a slow-mo art-house piece (granted, a very good one) or a nauseatingly drawn out love story (not so good). Curse of the Golden Flower is drama on the highest level. It's not without flaws, but the pure electricity of its high-wire act makes it definitely worth seeing.

Ensconed in an opulent palace is the royal family, comprised of the Empress, the Emperor, and their three children. The Chrysanthenum Festival is approaching, so everyone is getting ready for some peace and harmony. Sounds picturesque. But the Emperor is slowly poisoning the Empress for her incestuous relationship with her stepson, the second prince has returned after exile, the youngest child pretends to be innocent, and the Empress has decided she isn't going to let her husband drive her mad for free. This movie is Gong Li's from her first sip of the poisoned medicine, her first tremors from the corrosive force of her husband's hate. Zhang Yimou has returned to a woman's perspective, back to where he rose to fame with movies focusing on a woman's struggle in a patriarchal world. At the same time, he elevates each character to superhuman levels. This isn't merely Hamlet; it's Antigone and Medea set on Mount Olympus. Reflecting this, some of the action and shots are highly stylized; the sea of soldiers is better as an ocean of armor than a bunch of individuals. Moreover, the characters have been so twisted and stifled by the weight of their brocaded gowns that it's no wonder every move and every glance borders on madness. Catching glimpses of the vulnerable human being underneath the brutal insanity is both fascinating and terrifying business. If you can accept that Zhang Yimou isn't going to provide you with mollifying respites, that each character is savage and desperate and flawed, that this is grand tragedy the only way it should be done, then you'll be amazed.

So now, the flaws. Jay Chou makes a disastrous entrance. In his initial scenes he is wooden and oddly sullen. Throughout the film he improves by leaps and bounds, but first impressions last. Next, the screenplay does not allow any of the characters to fully develop. We're given tantalizing glimpses, but any more intimate connection is bumped aside for another tour of the palace, more horrorshows of madness. Superhumans still need a human component; we're less interested in super-cutouts orbiting through space.

The bottom line: this is a tight drama buoyed by amazing visuals and some riveting acting. It's not for those who want to walk out feeling as perky as Jay Chou's closing credits song, but it satisfies in spades Aristotle's requirements for a great tragedy: catharsis.

To Live (1994)

amazing and objective

[10/10 · 27 December 2006]

This is an amazing film that satisfies every criteria I have for cinema: excellent acting, great story, absorbing characters, consistent pacing, and beautiful images. Ge You gives a consummate performance, and it is through his eyes that we view the story; Gong Li, though not lavished with the attention Zhang Yimou usually gives her, provides the heart and soul of the film. It's her suffering and triumph that complements and completes Ge You's. Two things in particular elevate their performances: their complete avoidance of melodrama and their chemistry. They're flawlessly convincing as married couples who have gone through decades of turmoil.

Many have claimed that this film is an overt attack on Mao's reign, but I disagree. At its core the movie is about living -- about how people endure and adapt through the worst of times. To this extent the movie is marvelously effective, but because of its focus on the characters, it's easy to overturn the objectivity and construe a message from the viewer and not the film. That said, the film does subtly criticize Communism, but in a matter-of-fact and objective manner. When tragedy strikes, the characters don't turn around and blame Mao Zedong; the film leaves it up to us to draw interpretations from the tragedies and joys we see. Perhaps this makes it an all the more potent assault, but the important thing is, Zhang Yimou didn't make this film to denounce Mao; Gong Li and Ge You don't have secret anti-Communism fires burning in their eyes. It's first and foremost a heartfelt, sympathetic, and beautiful portrayal of the endurance and spirit of common people in the face of seemingly unsurmountable odds.