Emotion in Motion
For a little over a decade, Chinese martial arts films have -- directly and indirectly -- gained a growing audience in America. Now the genre may gain its greatest momentum from an unlikely source -- director Ang Lee, best known for such comedy/dramas of social manners as Sense and Sensibility, The Wedding Banquet, and The Ice Storm. In his newest film, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Lee modifies his usual tony approach in an attempt -- largely successful -- to repackage the genre's virtues for a new audience.
Lee starts with several huge advantages. Working with a Hollywood company -- Sony Pictures may be Japanese-owned but it's still a Hollywood studio -- he has the sort of budget that earlier directors in the field could only dream of. (Actually, by current Hollywood standards, the reported $17 million budget is a pittance.) He has two of the four most recognizable Asian stars in America -- Chow Yun-Fat (Anna and the King, The Enforcer) and Michelle Yeoh (Supercop, Tomorrow Never Dies). (To answer the inevitable follow-up question: The other two are Jackie Chan and Jet Li.) His films' Academy Award nominations and his international reputation have given him the clout to attract the cream of Asian talent behind the camera as well.
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon starts out in a deceptively calm manner: It is some time in China's distant past. Li Mu Bai (Chow), a famous warrior, has decided to retire, literally hanging up his sword, Green Destiny. He visits an old friend, woman warrior Yu Shu Lien (Yeoh), to ask her to take the mystically powerful Green Destiny to Beijing for safekeeping in the hands of Sir Te (Lung Sihung). In the course of their conversation, we realize that Shu Lien and Mu Bai are in love with each other, but have fought their attraction for decades for complicated reasons of honor that are explained way later.
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
While handing the sword over to Sir Te, Shu Lien meets Jen (Zhang Ziyi), the beautiful and very young daughter of a local nabob. The two immediately bond: Jen, smart and tough, clearly reminds Shu Lien of her younger self.
It becomes apparent in this introductory sequence that Ang Lee is still Ang Lee, regardless of what genre he is working in. From the opening logo to the end of this scene is a full sixteen minutes of exposition -- essentially a sequence of conversations outlining the characters and, crucially, the behavioral and ethical codes of their world. Sixteen minutes may not seem very long to those used to art-house films -- which is how Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is being marketed. But for those versed in Chinese action cinema -- particularly the Hong Kong variety that has dominated the field for twenty years, it's an eternity. No Hong Kong director -- except perhaps the anomalous art-house filmmaker Wong Kar Wai (Chungking Express) -- would dare lead off with that much exposition and character development; a Hong Kong director would normally contrive an opening action scene before settling in for the slower stuff, even if that scene had no real internal justification.
Audience expectation becomes an important factor here: For example, when Brian De Palma was making his early film Sisters, he instructed his composer, longtime Hitchcock associate Bernard Herrmann, not to write suspense music for a certain sequence. When Herrmann disagreed, De Palma said, "But Hitchcock wouldn't use music here." "That's right," Herrmann replied (in essence), "because he's Hitchcock, and the audience knows that." The audience that is naturally attracted to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon -- the audience that knows Ang Lee's other work -- will not be bothered or surprised by the pacing; they have no expectations of how martial arts films are supposed to be paced according to the rules of the genre.
Even if everyone else questions Lee's decision, it has a marvelous payoff. After the meeting between Su Lien and Jen, we get the first action sequence: a nocturnal fight between Su Lien and a masked thief (who is quite obviously Jen in disguise), in which the latter steals Green Destiny. After the slow opening, this magnificent fight scene has the impact of a thunderbolt. Staged by master action choreographer/director Yuen Wo Ping -- best known in the U.S. for his action work on The Matrix -- the fight is breathtaking, culminating in a chase that includes "vaulting," a dreamlike form of jumping/flying in which the actors appear to skim effortlessly up walls and across rooftops. This form of graceful action -- which implies some sort of spiritual as well as physical development -- is so alien to most Western eyes that audiences may titter at first before accepting it as part of the movie's fantastic universe.
There are a half-dozen more such sequences spaced judiciously throughout the entire film. And while Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon has other virtues, its greatest power lies in its action. Far more than Lee's earlier work, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon glories in motion. In that, its aesthetic -- as in most martial arts movies -- has at least as much in common with musicals as with Hollywood notions of action filmmaking. It depends less upon dialogue and strict forms of narrative continuity than on ideas of rhythm and visual American action cinema pre-John Woo. For that sort of beauty in Hollywood, one traditionally had to look to All That Jazz, West Side Story, the Astaire/Rogers musicals, and the tap-dance extravaganzas of Bill Robinson and the Nicholas Brothers in Stormy Weather. In short, the pleasures to be found here are likely to come as a delightful surprise to those who would not normally consider going to a "chop-socky" film -- an unfairly derogatory term for the genre in which Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon must be included.
The ways in which Lee's film differs from standard Chinese action-film practice may be a simple case of his particular concerns and personality, but it also may have to do with the models he's operating from. He has gone on record about how the martial arts films of his Taiwanese childhood made him fall in love with cinema, and those films are from an earlier era. In particular, he is emulating King Hu, the first Chinese director to achieve critical recognition outside of Asia; his influence can be seen throughout Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. (Hu, it must be added, died in 1997 in Pasadena, where he had lived for several years, while attempting to get American funding for his projects.)
Three particular elements of Hu's work are strongly reflected in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Hu's films incorporated the dance and acrobatic moves of Chinese opera (as well as elements of Sergio Leone's spaghetti-western style) into a previously stiff style. He also recognized that the camera could dance, too; he combined traditionally stylized staging with sweeping camera movement and ingenious cutting. And he gave women equal or superior standing in the world of action. (As a sign of blatant homage to Hu, Lee uses actress Cheng Pei Pei -- who starred in Hu's breakthrough 1965 hit Come Drink With Me -- in a major role in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.) Thirty years later, with the exception of anomalies such as The Long Kiss Goodnight, Hollywood has yet to catch up with Hu on the issue of women.
It is ironic that Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon -- which, in a poor field of competitors, is shaping up as one of the year's best films -- could be received with the least enthusiasm among diehard fans of its genre. What appears striking and new to most audiences is likely to be less riveting to those who have loved this form of cinema for years...and who may feel peevish that it's taken a relative interloper from the art houses to bring its glories to broader attention.
In truth, if longtime fans of martial-arts movies try to look objectively at Ang Lee's film, they will see a first-rank entry in the field, worthy of comparison to its forebears. And they should welcome anything that brings attention to their beloved genre. Meanwhile, the rest of you should go see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And then, assuming you like what you see, you should go out and rent Ronny Yu's 1992 masterpiece, The Bride With White Hair.
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