The enthralling sensibility of Hero (2002) is valid as an experience, but even with research filling me in on the abstract preferences in Asian art forms, Yimou's loving warrior tribute is a veiled propaganda lie even by classical Asian standards of sublimating autonomy for the greater utilitarian good. Not necessarily because it leans toward authoritarian ambition.
I wonder, however, if I should go back and try to save my novel. I have maps of the seven kingdoms going back to 1989, long before Abrams took over television drama, and this 21st century uptick in Asia's cultural cues goes back further for me. In conjunction, I knew of The Soloist prior to its television distribution, just as Philly knew Steve Lopez. I just saw the film, and Christ knows how many like it since my failure in the world. We'll tuck it away.
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