Hi, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab...
I didn’t even realize Zhang Yimou had finished a film since HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, but Cbabbitt’s already seen it. What did he think? Check it out:
Zhang Yimou has always been among the more reputable Asian filmmakers of the last decade or so, but his recent efforts have placed him in that venerated realm of international titans. American audiences in particular have been blessed with his spectacularly enthralling ventures into epic, mythic storytelling with Hero and House of Flying Daggers, and that phenomenal charge of outrageous visual flourishes has become expected whenever he releases a new film. And while Yimou’s earlier triumphs such as Raise the Red Lantern or Shanghai Triad contained startling visual beauty, it was clearly crafted in a far more subtle, subdued manner, as opposed to the theatrical extravagancies of his latest adventures. Hero and House of Flying Daggers, as stunning as they are (especially the latter), do indeed have the power to make one forget that small, quiet personal dramas are the roots of Yimou’s cinematic storytelling. So, naturally, albeit unfairly, returning to the sensibilities that started his career takes a period of adjustment, which is certainly the case with his newest film, Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles. Once the initial shock of seeing a Zhang Yimou film not set in some historical context diminishes, his new film slowly works its way into something sweetly special. This is a small movie, almost disarmingly so, but once it establishes and reveals itself, it’s extremely affecting.
Yimou opens the film with a tranquil image of a man calmly gazing into the vastness of the Ocean as Chinese opera punctuates his peaceful solitude. It’s a simple opening image, a clear way to introduce the main character without using a single line of dialogue. But in a way, it’s the image and moment that best represents the story, especially since it works its way back so effectively at the conclusion. The entire film carries this specific meditative atmosphere, and that deeply felt ponderous nature is exactly what defines the main character and core theme of the film. It’s mystifying just how many people lose interest in a story that focuses exclusively on internal thought and emotion, and for those that fall into that group, avoid this movie at all costs. Like Yimou’s early work, this film relies on that natural bond people have with one another when faced with the most dour of circumstances. Sometimes people connect with loved ones at the most unexpected times, and this film delicately explores that universal thematic arc without any hint of self-importance or blatantly manipulative dishonesty. It slowly moves along with its charm and warmth, and then gradually turns into something exceptionally emotional and resonant.
Takada (Ken Takakura) is a lonely old man - quiet and reserved, a fisherman who lives a simple life away from all emotional attachment and city-life. As he states in the opening voice-over, he’s been estranged from his son for many years, presumably because of his inability to express his love and affection for another person. Takada means well, but he’s distant from the warmth and togetherness he secretly, even unknowingly desires. When his daughter in law informs him that his son, Ken-Ichi, is in the hospital suffering of liver cancer, he’s obviously shaken and determined to amend his past mistakes. He visits the hospital in Tokyo only to be angrily rejected by his son, and is left hopeless and regretful. Since he knows nothing about his son, his daughter in law hands him a tape to view Ken-Ichi’s work and passion. Takada discovers his son’s great passion for Chinese folklore, especially a masked Opera performed in a small province called Yunnan. In the tape, Ken-Ichi interviews an actor that promises to perform “Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles” the next time he visits. Ken-Ichi frequently traveled to this province for personal reasons not even known to his wife. Realizing the opportunity to do something his son will appreciate, Takada sets off for China to film the opera his son was so fascinated to discover.
Once in China, he’s lost in translation. With the help of translators, Takada explores the locations that his son found so mesmerizing, and experiences that mystical connection to the child he hardly knows. As he continues his journey, he learns more and more about Ken-Ichi, to the point of understanding that his estranged son is very much like himself. The villagers he visited weren’t necessarily close friends of Ken-Ichi, but rather people he found comforting for his lonely soul. As was the province of Yunnan itself. It was place so distant, foreign, pleasant, and affirming that he could simply stand outside and stare at the mountains in a blissful state. It closely mirrors Takada’s own life in how detachment is something that both haunts and sooths his heart. As Takada attempts to set-up the masked opera to film for his son, he’s informed that the main draw, the older man that sings “Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles” is in prison for two to three years. After several problems arise in contacting and taping someone in prison, Takada finally meets the actor only to find a depressed old man incapable of performing because he desperately wishes to meet his 7 year old son he abandoned. It may sound excessive, but it's smooth and sensible in the context of the story. This is another situation that mirrors Takada’s life, and he immediately identifies with the actor’s regret of leaving his son so early in his life, and decides to embark on yet another adventure of finding the young boy and introducing him to his father.
At this point, Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles clearly delves into the father/son dilemma, and becomes a particularly involving examination of redemption. Zhang Yimou eloquently frames each sequence with a sharp eye for natural beauty, especially in the small village that feels like just as much of a character as the people that inhabit it. While the visuals don’t evoke the operatic quality of his latest films, they are beautifully calming like the characters experience them. Most surprising about this movie is how unexpectedly moving it becomes. The last thirty minutes is extremely powerful. Yeah, I mean tears. Lots of them. Sometimes when a filmmaker earnestly tells a story, the emotional pay-off is deeply felt.
Zhang Yimou is one of the outstanding filmmakers working today, and hopefully his newest work finds a wide audience here in the states. A film this good should always be embraced.
-Cbabbitt
Wow. High praise indeed. I’m excited to see this filmmaker shift gears a bit and get back to his more intimate style. Sounds like one to keep my eyes open for.
"Moriarty" out.
