Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

Directed by Ang Lee
Written by Hui-Ling Wang and James Schamus and Kuo Jung Tsai
Based on the book by Du Lu Wang

Rating: 8.50/10.00 or *** 1/2

What happens when you take the 's' out of martial arts? The answer is this film, a gracefully brilliant motion picture that dares viewers to let their imaginations jump from the ledge and fly.

I've seen this movie many times. It never gets old; in fact, it gets better with each viewing. My mind always wanders into the unknown when watching beautiful passage after passage. The filmmakers don't ask us to. They dare us. They urge us to take a leap. The film even shows us that they are. The result is a visually stunning, thematically heartfelt film that has humanity at its core and fantasy at its surface.

It is interesting to watch this film with other people. There is definitely a "love it" or "hate it" reaction to the movie. Those that tend to hate it fall in three camps. The first usually belongs to the hardcore martial arts fans. Their argument is easy to predict. The film is too unrealistic for true martial arts. Yes, it is. But the problem is labeling this film a martial arts picture. It is not. Sure, it contains many of the genre's characteristics. The heroes, the villains, the mythology, the legends, the weapons, the fight scenes. But this is simply a canvas, a backdrop for the real story. The real story is simply a few glimpses of people who dream. A love story that is so pure, so genuine, so innocent. It is of a woman at a crossroads. She has met the two roads, and she wants to choose the one less traveled. Martial arts is loosely used to describe the story but not to tell it.

Perhaps as a way of showing this, the fight scenes (which are absolutely reminiscent of those in The Matrix, and for good reason since the choreographer is the same for both films) do not focus on the methods. They focus on the participants. Each character is given the appropriate level of skill. It is unimportant what the craft itself is.

The film is not meant to depict martial arts, only some of its elements. It's a fantastical look at it, a glimpse of it through the eyes of dreamers. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a fantasy. Some have labeled it escapism. This is appropriate. Others have labeled it science fiction. The connotations are not valid here, and thus, I don't think this label is accurate. To enjoy this film as a martial arts fan, it must be clear that this film is not, nor does it ever pretend to be, a "true" martial arts film.

The second camp is the resistors to the "artsy" features. I have little sympathy for this class of dissenters. The whole movie is an artistic drawing that flows. That's the point. Each scene is a painting with a story behind it. Each passage is a glorious look at the world through the eyes of creators, of visionaries. When I see this picture, I think of an artist who has just thought of his/her next work. Of the moment when the painter or sculptor has captured that very moment he/she wants made permanent and immortal. This is a film that celebrates the imagination's light bulb.

The third camp is the resistors to "simple" features. And by simple, I mean "lack of thematic depth or literary meaning". Really? Yes, since I have discussed, even argued, with a couple in this camp. This film is full of thematic depth, with its themes of humanity, its celebration of the masters of their craft clashing, interacting, and working together. It contains a love story between two people who can express love with a simple look at each other. A love so wonderfully portrayed that no words need be expressed. (For the record, this has much to do with the film's two leads: Chow Yun Fat and Michelle Yeoh. They are terrific.) It contains a coming-of-age youngster who must face the hardest choice of her life, and who grows because of it. She is Jen Yu (played by Zhang Ziyi). Jen Yu is the hidden wonder. She is about to marry a chosen husband, is madly in love with another, and is enthralled with the legends of Wudun Mountain. She must choose the chosen life or the free life.

This is in stark contrast to Yu Shu Lien (Yeoh), who craves youth and the ability to choose. Director Ang Lee wisely makes both of these characters heroes. Both are good at heart. And while Jen occasionally chooses the easier (and often more evil) way out, she learns as a result of it. The similarities and differences of these two characters are at the heart of the film. Their final fight scene is a glorious recognition of this clash. Always, the film remembers each character's motives. Lee remembers their drives, their wishes and dreams.

And he weaves this into the film's stunning look. Each scene is crafted like a drawing and is shot with the scene's tone in mind. I think of Li Mu Bai (Yun Fat) and Yu Shu Lien sitting in that dwelling together, silently looking at each other with the trees outside. Nothing else. So simple, yet so beautiful. There is much precise thought that goes into the look and sound of each scene.

The plot is simple and secondary. It is the dreams of the characters that matter. It is the opponents of those dreams that must be taken out. And as for those dreams, I'm not sure I've ever been so moved with how they have been displayed. We dream of people larger than life, of heroes who can overtake anyone and anything. Of places and things that are so astonishingly gorgeous.

We dream of ourselves, just as Jen, who can jump off that ledge and fly.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958)

Directed by Richard Brooks
Screenplay by Richard Brooks and James Poe
Based on the play by Tennessee Williams

Rating: 7.25/10.00 or ***

Dr. House says that everyone lies. Tennessee Williams studied this sentiment well before the days of David Shore's superb television drama. We hear often throughout Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that the Pollitts are a study in mendacity. Almost too much. Because it is clear from the beginning that the characters of this world lie in every possible way. Through silence, through anger, through alcohol, through resentment. They lie so much that they give truth to one of the greatest liars in the entertainment industry, George Costanza. "It's not a lie if you believe it."

Some of my favorite movies are based off plays. Some so much that they are shot like a play in a movie. David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross is one such superb effort. Plays can have resounding literary meaning, whether by means of characterization or plot development. Tennessee Williams focused on characterization perhaps at the expense of plot. Indeed, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof seems plotless except for the situation at the heart of the matter. But we see a whole lot of character development. And for me, this is often more than enough to entertain me.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is one such effort, a superb look at a family near the end of its ropes. Each character is damaged in some way, and their motivations reveal this. At the center is Brick (Paul Newman), who lost a friend and has since become a bitter drunk. He is convinced he is completely unhappy with his wife and will do anything to stay distant from her. His wife is Maggie (Elizabeth Taylor), a strong-willed, opinionated woman who seems to be the only one who can hold her own with the Pollitts. Brick's brother is Gooper (Jack Carson), a lawyer who is in the family for the money. Matching Gooper's greed is his wife Mae Flynn (Madeleine Sherwood), whose words are always tinged with naivete, greed, and wickedness.

The Pollitts are led by strong parents. The patriarch in every sense of the word is Harvey (Burl Ives). Everyone calls him Big Daddy, in both the mental and physical sense. Big Daddy towers over everyone. He is wealthy, powerful, and zealous. His wife is Ida (Judith Anderson). We get the sense there is mutual admiration and mutual distaste between them. Harvey and Ida work because they check and balance each other. Harvey's indifference toward humanity is checked by Ida's compassion for his well-being. Ida gives Harvey a reason to care, but Harvey doesn't know it.

The interactions and relationships among the family are at the heart of the film. There is a build-up to each scene. This build-up is often melodramatic but in good taste. Scene transitions are like foreshadows, alarming us to the pending character revelation that will forever change the Pollitts. Director Richard Brooks is clever in his segues, which seem like timeouts. They are appropriate because of the intensity of the dialogue and the acting that goes into these scenes. Brooks is aware that too much is too little. The impact of each scene would be diminished without these very important breaks. This is often the power of great playwrights too. Williams, while maybe not as talented as the Arthur Millers of this era, appeared to be keenly aware of this important feature of plays.

The setup is simple. Big Daddy is celebrating his 65th birthday. A party is being held, and all of the family is attending. The looming question, though, is of Big Daddy's health. He appears to be suffering from cancer, and his prognosis was still unknown. This is of special interest to Gooper and Mae Flynn, who drool like savage dogs at the potential inheritance. Brick's motivations are different. With time, we learn he wants his father's love before he is lost. Scenes between Big Daddy and Brick are the most effective, and this is a testament to the acting gravitas of Ives and Newman. The two go back and forth like giants, masters of their respective crafts. Ives was a natural powerhouse play actor, and Newman was quickly becoming the brilliant damaged character actor. I'm reminded of the great scenes in the great movies where two master thespians portray so well that they seem to sing their lines in an earnest rhythm of one-upsmanship. Think of De Niro and Pesci in Raging Bull, Lemmon and Spacey in Glengarry Glen Ross, Finney and Byrne in Miller's Crossing, etc.

But the other actors hold their own as well. Taylor seems a bit uncomfortable and somewhat abrasive at first, but she quickly molds into her role. She stands tall with Newman and Ives in their scenes together. Great acting is often contagious, and this is one such movie where this is particularly obvious. I also like the internal turmoil Jack Carson brings his role and the earnest compassion Judith Anderson gives hers. Each actor and actress gets at least one good scene here, and all of them shine.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof suffers a bit from "anvilism", a term I give to points emphasized a bit too much. I often dislike when filmmakers choose to point out the points they are making. So the references to mendacity and the entrapment the family provides themselves are already obvious without the need for dialogue to include such theses. I am also a bit hesitant of the film's rather glaring melodramatic tinges, such as the use of props in one particular scene that seem rather convenient to tear up or the obvious storm that darkens the film's lighter beginnings. While such symbolism is necessary to a degree, these thematic touches also seem to inundate rather than to emphasize.

But the film clearly has much going for it. Great acting, great dialogue, great character development. As each character's internal lies come to the surface, we sense that lies are most dangerous when they are personally believed. The good people recognize the lies. The great people counteract the lies with stinging, blatant truth. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof shows us the difference.

The King and I (1956)

Directed by Walter Lang
Screenplay by Ernest Lehman
Based on the musical play by Oscar Hammerstein II
Based on "Anna and the King of Siam" by Margaret Landon

Rating: 5.25/10.00 or **

It is no secret that I am not a fan of musicals. I find most musicals unnecessary, forgettable, and force-fed moralistic lessons in humanity and/or society. The King and I is no exception. Actually, it has all of these qualities, making for one film full of lessons, forgettable songs, and uncomfortable performances.

The King and I stars Deborah Kerr as Anna Leonowens, a recent widow who is asked to oversee the king's (Yul Brynner) children. His wish is for her to teach English and Western philosophy to his many, many children (in essence, to make his kingdom less vulnerable to Western occupation). In all, the king has over 80 children from nearly 40 wives. So this is quite the task for the former English governess, who is still grieving from her husband's death. However, she agrees to help the king as long as she has a home outside the king's mansion. Once we learn of the king's social philosophies, we may understand a little bit as to why this is.

Soon, Anna grows to love the children. Her role in the king's mansion increases with time as she becomes a confidant to the king, a mother to the children, and the kingdom's moral compass. We see this through song and dance, through the use of plot devices and stereotypes, and of course, through the musical nuances (like repeated phrases).

The King and I is inundated with symbolism. I found the metaphors pretentious, thinly veiled, and asinine, even for the film's time. Clearly, the film was meant to show the pros and cons of union between cultures. Some critics have mentioned how the filmmakers cleverly show why peoples of separate cultures cannot get along (or at least have difficulty in doing so). To an extent, I agree. However, this point becomes muddled in its repeated use. For example, in one of the film's weaker moments, Anna is faced with outing a "banished" couple. One of the king's wives has been banned from seeing her beau. The wife is named Tupkin (played by Rita Moreno), and the beau is Lun Tha (Carlos Rivas). In one scene, Anna is met with a decision to either out the pair's plan to leave the mansion or to let love win out over all. Anna, of course, chooses the latter.

I couldn't help but think of manifest destiny during this sequence. The Western philosophy of love healing all wounds -- sort of like how "democracy should be everywhere". It's nice to show that, especially when "Westerners" are the ones telling us this. But is this really fair to Eastern philosophy? Or to any "outside" philosophy, for that manner? It's hard to not get a preachy vibe when watching this film. Especially when there is little found to criticize Western philosophy. I'm fine with criticism of philosophy and culture, as long as there is enough to go around.

Or of that house that Anna keeps demanding. It's hard not to think of "colonialism" in this sense. Or maybe more accurately, "occupation". The Westerners are in the kingdom but not yet in the ruling mansion.

A film's motivations and intentions become problematic for me when the filmmakers seem to place characters or cultures (or whatever) "in their place". I'm not a fan of the mindset this film seems to be advocating. That advancing a culture is to Westernize it (though the film was based on King Rama IV, very loosely). I think that in this day and age, that is far from true. Even in the 1950s, this was true to an extent.

This goes to the argument that "times were different" back in the 1950s. Maybe so, but the retort is a cop-out. Say what you want about the brilliance of Gone with the Wind, the film is also racist. Maybe it is a great movie, but you cannot deny its racism. But The King and I is not good exactly because it is preachy and horribly simplistic (unlike Gone with the Wind). The King and I riddles itself with moralistic viewpoints and Western propaganda. I felt by the end of the film that the filmmakers drowned in their own sea of wishful thinking.

The musical numbers are surprisingly forgettable. The only song I actually enjoyed was "Getting to Know You". "Shall We Dance" has always been overrated, and I have trouble enjoying the Uncle Tom's Cabin sequence, which feels like a single in a Pink Floyd album. The performances are also generally forgettable. I found Deborah Kerr to be solid but at times statue-esque. Brynner was intense but lacked appropriate range. Most of the supporting cast were there to sing and to force smiles on the viewers' faces -- or for the all-important next lesson to the viewer.

I recently reviewed New York, New York, a Martin Scorsese musical that contained much promise but lacked direction. The King and I had too much direction in terms of purpose and motivation that it smothered the entertainment. Asked to declare which mistake is better suited for the viewer, I would say the former is preferable. New York, New York does not preach. That film conveys. The King and I force-feeds. That's not what a musical should be.

The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956)

Directed by Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay by John Michael Hayes
Story by Charles Bennett and D.B. Wyndham-Lewis

Rating: 7.00/10.00 or ***

Alfred Hitchcock has long been touted the "master of suspense". I think the more appropriate title is the "creator of suspense". Not of the genre, but of the actual feeling/emotion. Hitchcock often creates suspense out of the most unlikely of scenarios. He is also multi-faceted in his presentation, from pure shock value (Psycho) to helplessness (Rear Window) to deception (Rope!) to phobia (Vertigo). His best film (Notorious) supplied suspense through the use of spying, deception through romance, and the inevitability of death for someone in a scenario that not exactly anyone wants to be a part of. In his remake of his earlier film, Hitchcock goes for more standard fare here with his frequent theme of placing unlikely people in nearly impossible situations and "watching the carnage".

The Man Who Knew Too Much stars James Stewart as Dr. McKenna and Doris Day as his wife Josephine. The two are winding down a business trip with a leisurely stop in Morocco. We are introduced to them and son Hank (Christopher Olsen) in the opening sequence, a somewhat awkwardly-shot scene inside a crowded bus. After an incident, the McKennas are introduced to a man named Louis Bernard (Daniel Gelin). Mrs. McKenna studiously notes how Bernard seemed to be asking most of the questions while he seemed to be answering none of theirs. She finds the behavior suspicious and frequently confronts her husband about it. They are then to meet for dinner, but Bernard mysteriously cancels at the last minute.

With their plans suddenly cancelled, they agree to eat with the Draytons (Brenda de Banzie and Bernard Miles). Their dinner is one of the comedic points in the film, with Dr. McKenna clearly uncomfortable with the etiquette of a Moroccan meal. Soon, Bernard appears with a woman and sits in the opposite end of the restaurant. The McKennas are both infuriated and mystified.

It is at this point the movie gains the suspense momentum that Hitchcock is well known for. A series of events lead to Bernard's death, the kidnapping of the McKenna's son, and a revealed assassination plot regarding a high-ranking member of the British government. For anyone who hasn't seen the film, it would be insulting for me to reveal more of the plot than this. The plot flows so well and evolves so realistically despite the highly unusual circumstances that it deserves fresh eyes. Hitchcock, as usual, provides a first-rate "building tension" that his best films are known for. I think there are many fair comparisons here to Notorious and, to a lesser extent, Rear Window. The film is most similar to his North by Northwest, but this one is better since the acting here is more subdued. James Stewart, unlike Cary Grant in North by Northwest, embraced subtlety in this film, which adds to the tension. Doris Day is also worthy of mention in this regard, as she gives Mrs. McKenna a strong, independent, quietly intense woman whose observational skill is matched with her quick wit. The characters in this film are well constructed and nicely portrayed.

The Man Who Knew Too Much suffers quite a bit, however, from its dialogue. Especially near the beginning of the film, much of conversations seem strangely awkward. Some of this awkwardness is indeed intentional, for it provides the McKenna family a sense of quirkiness and uniqueness. However, the actors look uncomfortable in these scenes compared to the darker and more suspenseful scenes later on. This amplifies the "out of place" feel these scenes convey.

I also found some of the comedy in the film unnecessary. Some of the momentum of key sequences is killed by these comedic interjections. This is especially true of the meeting of several of Mrs. McKenna's friends while they are in London. As the McKennas are hiding the sticky details of their conundrum, the scene seems to wipe out much of the tension surrounding it. The comedy feels forced here and is clearly unnecessary given the successful supply of plot development and rising tension going on in the film so far. Why change the tone so dramatically?

One last problem is the length of the orchestra sequence. While I was pleased with its relatively realistic look and feel, the length clearly becomes a bit of a distraction. While this adds tension for a while, it begins to feel awkward. Performances and actions do not help here, which are uncharacteristically predictable and forced. The key to this sequence is that the only sound is of the orchestra playing. I like this as it asks the viewer to observe and to react based on sight alone. The problem is that the actions of the characters must be portrayed precisely and "involuntarily". In other words, the actions must seem fluid, real. They don't. The gun slowly appearing behind the curtain, the growing look of fear in Mrs. McKenna, etc. They are all melodramatized. The scene doesn't quite work for its intended development/use. But it was a worthy effort.

However, the last suspenseful sequence is masterful. I love the performance of Doris Day here, singing Que Sera Sera with an urgency in her voice. James Stewart once again returns to his subtle, intense performance from earlier. And the performance of a key character with a heart makes this scene one of Hitchcock's most effective sequences.

The Man Who Knew Too Much is not regarded as one of Hitchcock's greatest. This is fair as his film suffers from some dialogue problems, tinges of melodrama that feel unnecessary, and radical changes in tone that serve as momentum killers rather than a comfortable plethora of comedy and drama. However, the film also contains some of Hitchcock's genius. He creates suspense effortlessly. Hitchcock focuses on the everyman. This was a wise choice in his suite of films. Hitchcock believed the real heroes were normal people forced to do extraordinary things. Suspsense was a natural bi-product of such a theme. The key to Hitchcock's suspense was that he knew where it came from and what was important about it. In essence, Hitchcock's true McGuffin was suspense. It was what people did as a result of it that mattered.