Monday, February 27, 2006
Let these words supply the effect, if you will, of a sigh of boredom that has lasted all the way from Saturday night when, for lack of sufficient entertainment, and also because I got all excited about Gong Li, the flatmates and I went to watch Memoirs of a Geisha. I think I will wait for Brokeback Mountain before venturing out to the cinema again. (Rather proud of self for not suffering a coronary with the excitement of having seen 'Coming Soon' posters of BBM. Although it was very close.)
Until it comes down, though, I must perforce wonder why the world is so, like a broken-down and oppressed teenager, in love with its own sad uncoolness as to produce a film like Memoirs for mass consumption. This cinematic masturbation, I am sorry to say, exists. And that is about the best thing that can be said about it. Actually, Michelle Yeoh and Gong Li are the best things to be said about it. And I can't pretend I didn't like seeing Ken Watanabe again, although he is living proof now of the fact that there are worse things in film than being seen next to Thomas Cruise. You could be cast in the creepy Hollywood adaptation of a slimy novel about a seriously disturbing aspect of Japanese urban life as a creepy, slimy, seriously disturbing rich guy that likes little girl prostitutes. Eurgh. *mocking voice* Geisha are not prostitutes! Geisha are works of art! Geisha are fetish objects for Western civilisation! Geisha are therefore cool!
And like that other famous travesty of modern logic, Rang De Basanti, this film, too, bears the brunt of a weak script that collapses in the second half and can't wait until it exhausts itself at its only possible conclusion. The more objectionable lines and scenes from the film beg to be quoted, but I fear I might make the impression that I believe it deserves an argument.
And apparently all three female leads - the central figure being the puzzlingly popular Zhang Ziyi - are coming under fire for betraying their Chinese origins and culture by portraying Japanese prostitutes? What a delicious dilemma. On the one hand, the freedom of the artist to create or perform what art she likes. On the other, the unquestionably immoral act of posing for a film like this. What is to be said?
eta: I think I might faint of delighted love for Yevgeny Plushenko.
Posted by roswitha at 12:59:00 p.m.