Moving Picture
A Japanese mirror-polisher (Satoshi Tsumabuki) stranded in China is awakened from his slumber in a cave by the whistle of an ember in a dying fire. It reminds him of the strains of a "sho" (mouth organ with many reeds of various lengths), and immediately we are transported to the scene in his memory of a performance of "gagaku" ritual music, originally introduced from China, with dancing maiden back in what I take for ancient Kyoto. But the beautiful episode ends without going anywhere; there is nothing to tell the audience what it is, and absolutely no connection with the plot.
In the way it lacks any melody the listener could sing, carries no particular message, doesn't exactly rise to a climax, and moves along in a languid rhythm that would be better likened to the ebb and flow of long-wavelength swells spilling onto shore than any tempo, "gagaku" provides a nice metaphor for the cinema of Hou Hsiao-Hsien.
"The Assassin" was inspired by "Nie Yinniang," a "chuanqi" tale of the strange set in the later part of the Tang dynasty. The eponymous heroine (played by Shu Qi) is taken away from her family by a mysterious Daoist nun who molds her into an invincible assassin before sending her back with the mission of killing a lord (Chang Chen) who is her cousin and was formerly promised to her in marriage. It is also a re-pairing of Shu and Chang, who played opposite each other in "Three Times," Hou's 2005 offering.
While one would assume from the title and summary that it is sword-fighting fare, the movie is sure to infuriate lovers of the "wuxia" genre, because any outbursts of martial arts action are indeed short, few, and far between. On top of this, it moves at a snail pace, with a thin narrative that can barely be followed and next to no character development or even interaction. What's going on here?
In his 2014 book on Chinese painting, Japanese author Bunri Usami articulates his theory that the works are depictions not of their ostensible subjects but of their "qi," a slippery word that lacks a good English equivalent because the very concept is absent. It is variously translated "life-force," "spirit," "energy," "essence," etc. A prime example is the 11th-century landscape masterpiece "Early Spring" by Guo Xi. Perhaps Hou's cinema could best be understood by applying the same idea to it; it is driven by neither narrative nor characters, but by the "qi" animating them and their times. This explains the overwhelming emphasis on atmosphere that also stamps his other works, and particularly "Flowers of Shanghai." Asked at a press conference in Cannes (where Hou took Best Director for "Assassin") if she thought he was trying to portray a woman's perspective, Shu replied in the negative, insisting that he attached as much importance to things like lantern light, wind, clouds, and trees as to the acting.
Hou is trying to film the way the great Song landscape artists tried to paint. His approach is nothing less than a new cinematic paradigm that likewise requires a new way of watching from audiences, much as cool jazz and ambient music once required a new way of listening. The sluggish pace and lack of focus resemble those of Lech Majewski's "The Mill and the Cross" (which also has a lot of livestock footage, BTW), but to continue the analogy, if Majewski aimed to make a painting (Bruegel's "The Procession to Calvary") into a movie, Hou aspires to make a movie into a painting, to put it crudely. This is to say that, to be appreciated, perhaps his films are not to be watched so much as to be looked at, listened to, and felt. On these terms, "The Assassin" is a triumph.
Although the duration is less than two hours in reality, I felt as if I had sat in the seat for something between three and four when the credits finally rolled around. But I was savoring it for the most part. Then again, I like "gagaku." - J. Koetting
A Japanese mirror-polisher (Satoshi Tsumabuki) stranded in China is awakened from his slumber in a cave by the whistle of an ember in a dying fire. It reminds him of the strains of a "sho" (mouth organ with many reeds of various lengths), and immediately we are transported to the scene in his memory of a performance of "gagaku" ritual music, originally introduced from China, with dancing maiden back in what I take for ancient Kyoto. But the beautiful episode ends without going anywhere; there is nothing to tell the audience what it is, and absolutely no connection with the plot.
In the way it lacks any melody the listener could sing, carries no particular message, doesn't exactly rise to a climax, and moves along in a languid rhythm that would be better likened to the ebb and flow of long-wavelength swells spilling onto shore than any tempo, "gagaku" provides a nice metaphor for the cinema of Hou Hsiao-Hsien.
"The Assassin" was inspired by "Nie Yinniang," a "chuanqi" tale of the strange set in the later part of the Tang dynasty. The eponymous heroine (played by Shu Qi) is taken away from her family by a mysterious Daoist nun who molds her into an invincible assassin before sending her back with the mission of killing a lord (Chang Chen) who is her cousin and was formerly promised to her in marriage. It is also a re-pairing of Shu and Chang, who played opposite each other in "Three Times," Hou's 2005 offering.
While one would assume from the title and summary that it is sword-fighting fare, the movie is sure to infuriate lovers of the "wuxia" genre, because any outbursts of martial arts action are indeed short, few, and far between. On top of this, it moves at a snail pace, with a thin narrative that can barely be followed and next to no character development or even interaction. What's going on here?
In his 2014 book on Chinese painting, Japanese author Bunri Usami articulates his theory that the works are depictions not of their ostensible subjects but of their "qi," a slippery word that lacks a good English equivalent because the very concept is absent. It is variously translated "life-force," "spirit," "energy," "essence," etc. A prime example is the 11th-century landscape masterpiece "Early Spring" by Guo Xi. Perhaps Hou's cinema could best be understood by applying the same idea to it; it is driven by neither narrative nor characters, but by the "qi" animating them and their times. This explains the overwhelming emphasis on atmosphere that also stamps his other works, and particularly "Flowers of Shanghai." Asked at a press conference in Cannes (where Hou took Best Director for "Assassin") if she thought he was trying to portray a woman's perspective, Shu replied in the negative, insisting that he attached as much importance to things like lantern light, wind, clouds, and trees as to the acting.
Hou is trying to film the way the great Song landscape artists tried to paint. His approach is nothing less than a new cinematic paradigm that likewise requires a new way of watching from audiences, much as cool jazz and ambient music once required a new way of listening. The sluggish pace and lack of focus resemble those of Lech Majewski's "The Mill and the Cross" (which also has a lot of livestock footage, BTW), but to continue the analogy, if Majewski aimed to make a painting (Bruegel's "The Procession to Calvary") into a movie, Hou aspires to make a movie into a painting, to put it crudely. This is to say that, to be appreciated, perhaps his films are not to be watched so much as to be looked at, listened to, and felt. On these terms, "The Assassin" is a triumph.
Although the duration is less than two hours in reality, I felt as if I had sat in the seat for something between three and four when the credits finally rolled around. But I was savoring it for the most part. Then again, I like "gagaku." - J. Koetting