With a cold vacant stare of undue concern he said "nine"--Bernie Taupin
Zhang Ziyi offers Asian women all the right signals through Zhang Yimou's polemical textures, although the director cleverly undercuts her individualism with both fantastic and tragic gestures, which is the problem with fairytales and cinematic entertainment as a whole, and leaves a viewer dissuaded. Flying Daggers is undoubtedly pretty, but juxtaposed against the compact of humanity wedged in apparent hall closets in Beijing, Yimou is serving up his audience comfort food of minimal nutritional value, not that the American system doesn't do the same. In Crouching Tiger Zhang flies off in the ether like a lithe spiritual ancestor, and in Daggers, after all this purported intrigue, she dies for making a personal choice (aside from love, for the waning dynasty?)
I cannot pretend to be a Sinologist, though I researched tirelessly for my JJ Abrams beat me to it novel, in which viewing Yimou might have spared my imagination, but I remain skeptical. Asian women undoubtedly keep the Party afloat, and derive their power through their corrupt lovers, but Gu Kaliai isn't an exemplar of Maoist triumph in comparison to Western liberalism; yet we all buy into it, this notion of feminine mystique and victory over patriarchal dominance, especially with sensory deprivation being offered the compensation of extraordinary prowess. The passionate groping exhibited between Mei and Leo doesn't measure up to the descriptive build up in the Bronte sisters, or even the exaggerated outcry in Orlando.
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