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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.

Noodle Drop

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.