saraarts

For me, this film was an exquisite fairy tale. For my boyfriend, a martial artist and lover of all things Asian -- including Taoism and Buddhism, sensibilities of which are evident throughout the movie -- it was an exquisite betrayal. We both had our breath taken away by the costumes, the locations, the props, the sets, the choreography, the cinematography, the music, and the acting (especially by Michelle Yeoh, who broke both our hearts repeatedly). I felt the story made perfect sense and fulfilled the prophecy of its own stated philosophy in a logical and meaningful fashion. The fact that I could predict each element of the plot as it was dramatically foreshadowed only in this case enhanced my enjoyment, because this is apt within reason for the genre of legendary or pseudo-legendary fantasy. However, my boyfriend felt personally betrayed by some of the "wrong" choices made by a certain character.

To me, his anger speaks to the power of the film. He loved the world created for this film and some of the characters in it so much that it physically assaulted him when another character caused them injury. While I was totally speechless and utterly choked up at the end of the film, it was because I was swimming in a sense of beauty beyond words -- and totally beyond what I expected from a fluffy little kung fu film.

At certain points in the film, after some of the fight scenes, various members of the audience (which was a predominantly affluent, middle-aged audience in a subdued suburb north of Boston) broke out into cheers and applause.

At the end of the film, everyone in the audience (except my boyfriend) went "Oooooooooooooh."

Love it or hate it, it is simple, tender and rich. Go see it on the big screen.

Okay, I admit it. I loved this movie. I loved it even more than the classic play on which it is based.

Remaking, and especially modernizing, a classic is a delicate business. It's terribly easy, when bringing old truths into modern idiom, to fall so far into the pool of popular culture as to lose depth, or to work so hard at making an old story accessible to a young audience that the result is pure tedium for all ages.

In 1999, She's All That, a very loose and unacknowledged update of Pygmalion, gave us a perfect example of this kind of failure. Thankfully, however, the same year brought us this movie, 10 Things I Hate About You, an update/remake of Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew - and a great example of how to do it right.

Doing it right, you see, is not about putting the thing into modern dress and language or adding gimmicks you think will appeal to people who might otherwise expect themselves to be bored. Doing it right is about deconstructing something old until you get right down to the barest timeless truth of the thing, the reason why the author wrote the original, the reason why you are drawn to retelling the story in the first place, and then - and only then - reconstructing the story around that truth in the spirit of the original author, but dressing it according to your own zeitgeist.

Ever since my parents took me to see The Taming of the Shrew when I was eight years old, I've had kind of a love/hate thing going on with it. I've loved the humor, the cleverness, and the fact that everybody who deserves happiness and love gets it in the end. The parts I've hated are, first, the part where Kate is privately humiliated, and then the part where she has to appear subservient to her husband, even though she does it for love. Without spoiling it for you, I can tell you this is not quite what happens in 10 Things I Hate About You.

Strip away all the business and temporal context of Shakespeare's Shrew and this is the message you are left with: Love, trust, and respect must be earned. They are not simply consequences of being young and cute. Having a good relationship, loving well and being well loved, require trust and respect. These are earned in a relationship when two people are kind, generous, and honest with each other, and bound up in all that, a little humble and a little nakedly needful and desirous of each other.

And guess what? When you strip away all the business and temporal context, this is also the message of 10 Things I Hate About You! Of course, it's been put into modern context, young language and dress. And I love the fact that this version has also been thoroughly adapted to the modern consciousness that a young woman can learn this stuff herself, just by being smart and true to herself, and without being forced there by a bunch of men. I also love the way that the boys in this version of the story have to go through the same painful process and learn the same lessons. But all the best elements of the original - the timeless truth, the humor, the cleverness, and the just deserts - remain intact.

The really cool thing about this version, though, is something I don't remember from the original. In 10 Things, we really get to watch all the main characters grow up. We get to watch them make choices, right and wrong, hurt each other, heal each other, and learn. We get to watch them all become more human.

And that's the kind of transformation that makes a classic.

Years ago, in California, I walked into a gas station convenience store to buy some consumable or other. The man who took my money was a Mexican emigre, and he saw that I was carrying a copy of the book Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel. He asked how I liked it, and I told him I was loving it. He told me not to miss the movie.

"Oh," I answered, "but I always worry that the movie will never be as good as the book."

"It doesn't matter," he told me. "This is a very great film. And it is the first real Mexican film I have ever seen shown in this country. You know, to everybody, not just the Mexican community."

I smiled and told him I would check it out, but honestly, I had no idea what he was talking about. After all, I knew who Dolores Del Rio and Cantinflas were, and the movies with them that I had seen were shown in L.A., to everybody.

But now, at last, I have seen this movie, and now, at last, I know what this guy was talking about. Like, wow! This really is a real Mexican film! Art! Cinema! More than just a bit of popular fluff!

Tender, compassionate and very witty, like the book on which it is based, this movie celebrates Mexican culture -- not just on the food, the preparation of which forms the premise of the story, but as kind of a rollicking take on the history of the young country at the turn of the century. It celebrates the music, the style of life on a ranch, the strength of the extended family, the beauty of the land, and the ethnic mixing pot that is every Mexican.

There is so much reckless joy and passionate love in this film, even when it portrays pain. It openly depicts female eroticism. (Plus, for a big change from US cinema, we get to see beautiful men and women of many shapes, sizes and colors all on the same screen.) The acting is flawless, and the star, Lumi Cavazos, is absolutely charming, full of life and credibility.

The only flaws I found in this film were minor and had to do with timing. For example, the final ascent to the climax seems to have been shortchanged a little bit. I would have liked to reach through this scene a little more slowly.

To judge Mexican cinema by the type of films I had seen before this one would be like judging U.S. cinema on the basis of Jerry Lewis or some cheesy melodramas from the '40s and '50s, but not taking into account any of our real film art. I'd love to know what else I've missed. Can't wait to find out.