I’ve never really loved this movie. It seemed like Ang Lee wanted to make a wuxia film for Westerners, and I have mixed feelings about that. However, I thank him for Chow Yun Fat and Michelle Yeoh. But it’s typical Hollywood behavior (Ang Lee is basically an American filmmaker—sorry, Taiwan) to cast the central Chinese character in your Mandarin-language epic with a Malaysian who can’t speak the language. (I love Michelle, but I hate that her Asian features mean she has to speak Mandarin when it’s no more her language than mine. Then Ziyi Zhang shows up as the main character in Memoirs of a Geisha—what is more Japanese than a geisha?—with fellow Chinese star Gong Li! Oof.)
It had been a long time since I last saw this, and I had forgotten the plot. It was just a string of fight sequences in my mind (spoiler: I was pretty much right). Now, as a middle-aged man, the title doesn’t seem so inscrutable—but does still seem pretty Orientalist. And I can’t believe it’s all just a rebellious teenager movie! That’s it. And she’s such a brat! I suppose I could string together a theory wherein Jen represents America with its steamrolling disregard, and she’s set in this almost absurdly regimented world of wuxia to show the East/West split and the differences in the understanding of “freedom” which they talk about a lot. But, do I really buy that over Lee setting out to wow Americans with an exotic cinematic form…?
At the time this film came out, my main complaint was “the endless stupid desert subplot.” Well, I still maintain that it needs to go. It bloats the movie and plays havoc with the tempo.
I always have issues with stories (looking at you, Shakespeare) that rely on characters being completely unrecognizable with a change of clothes or women passing as men (while wearing lipstick?). And that’s all over this.
I know: it’s a lot of complaints. But, yes, it really was a pivotal film going into the 21st century, and the mystical balletic elements are often beautiful. It’s fine. But the plot stinks, and real Chinese cinema was right there waiting to be watched. Farewell My Concubine was an available Palme d’Or winner, and it’s leagues ahead of Ang’s gimmick-ridden ode to wire work. That’s all I’m saying.