kate_lee-movie
Joined Nov 2005
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kate_lee-movie's rating
A meticulously crafted picture-book world, that are resided by decisively quirky characters, whose lives are governed by the principle of offbeat humor. These are the qualities that define what is almost a genre of its own that is a Wes Anderson film. In his most recent work, Anderson brings these qualities to yet another level with an unprecedented control and maturity.
The Grand Budapest Hotel takes us to a made-up country deep in central Europe in the bygone era of the 1930's–the furthest away from here-and- now among all the Wes Anderson film destinations. Being a perfect concierge, the writer/director arranges a proper trip across the distance by triple-framing the core story: a girl visits the statue of a writer, who materializes on screen to recount his decades-old memory, in which the owner of a decrepit hotel of an old glory tells the story of m. Gustave H.. Once there, we are pampered, not only with the exquisite sets and locations of a grand scale and pleasing aesthetics, but also by the sweeping plot that grabs the viewer like no other Wes Anderson stories do.
It would not be an exaggeration to call Ralph Fienne's m. Gustave H. the most fascinating and lovable Wes Anderson character that lived on screen. He is imperious, flamboyant, and finicky, and yet, gentle, delicate, and understanding. Arguably a ridiculous fellow, he still strikes us as a decent man, and through the narrator's affectionate eyes, is rendered as an endearing character that elicits a protective instinct from the viewer. We cannot take our eyes off the screen as he navigates through the threat of violence with squeamish grievances and stubborn adherence to his own peculiar set of protocols.
An astonishing thing about The Grand Budapest Hotel is how it evokes complex emotions about rather unsuspected subjects. There surely is the bittersweet nostalgia about the world long lost, but there is something more. Although what m. Gustave is running away from is neither totalitarianism nor the threat of a war, we catch ourselves subconsciously grieving this aspect of the history by the end of the story. It is this tinge of soulfulness that makes The Grand Budapest Hotel truly special.
I came to see Wes Anderson's films as perfectly confected pieces of pastry with tiny hammers and chisels in them. They allow us to escape from the banality and brutality of reality. Two hours in his theater is our brief stay in a grand old hotel of fantasy. As I realized, escapism is not just analgesic, but it can also be therapeutic. Escapism at its best allows us to address obliquely the things that are difficult to be faced headlong. In its strange way, it helps us cope. And of course, it takes us to wonderful places that delight our hearts and expand our world.
The Grand Budapest Hotel takes us to a made-up country deep in central Europe in the bygone era of the 1930's–the furthest away from here-and- now among all the Wes Anderson film destinations. Being a perfect concierge, the writer/director arranges a proper trip across the distance by triple-framing the core story: a girl visits the statue of a writer, who materializes on screen to recount his decades-old memory, in which the owner of a decrepit hotel of an old glory tells the story of m. Gustave H.. Once there, we are pampered, not only with the exquisite sets and locations of a grand scale and pleasing aesthetics, but also by the sweeping plot that grabs the viewer like no other Wes Anderson stories do.
It would not be an exaggeration to call Ralph Fienne's m. Gustave H. the most fascinating and lovable Wes Anderson character that lived on screen. He is imperious, flamboyant, and finicky, and yet, gentle, delicate, and understanding. Arguably a ridiculous fellow, he still strikes us as a decent man, and through the narrator's affectionate eyes, is rendered as an endearing character that elicits a protective instinct from the viewer. We cannot take our eyes off the screen as he navigates through the threat of violence with squeamish grievances and stubborn adherence to his own peculiar set of protocols.
An astonishing thing about The Grand Budapest Hotel is how it evokes complex emotions about rather unsuspected subjects. There surely is the bittersweet nostalgia about the world long lost, but there is something more. Although what m. Gustave is running away from is neither totalitarianism nor the threat of a war, we catch ourselves subconsciously grieving this aspect of the history by the end of the story. It is this tinge of soulfulness that makes The Grand Budapest Hotel truly special.
I came to see Wes Anderson's films as perfectly confected pieces of pastry with tiny hammers and chisels in them. They allow us to escape from the banality and brutality of reality. Two hours in his theater is our brief stay in a grand old hotel of fantasy. As I realized, escapism is not just analgesic, but it can also be therapeutic. Escapism at its best allows us to address obliquely the things that are difficult to be faced headlong. In its strange way, it helps us cope. And of course, it takes us to wonderful places that delight our hearts and expand our world.
Can a group of American men and Chinese actresses render the world of a Japanese geisha? The answer is yes, with stunning beauty
and regrettable flaws.
Truth be told, this movie was not as bad as its trailer led me to expect it to be. It had a story to tell (although it crumbles in the end),images to show, and material to present. There were ample displays of exquisite beauty -- the trailing tails of silk kimonos, the subtle allure of hand gestures, and the captivating scene of kabuki dance theater ...
On the other hand, the American director was not able to pull the Japanese out of Chinese actresses. (This movie was so crowded by famous Chinese idols that I found myself inadvertently searching for Joan Chen among the cast.) To be fair, all three main actors (Gong Li in particular) show strong performances that made me sympathetic to Rob Marshall's choices. However, they remain utterly Chinese throughout this movie. The look and accent are not the only problems. They lacked the kind of extreme femininity and excessive felicity of the delicately mechanical gesture and movements of traditional Japanese ladies you see in custom dramas of Japanese production. (Michelle Yeoh seems to be the only one trying a little bit of those, but it did not quite work for some reason.)
So, let me re-address the question: Can a group of American men and Chinese actresses render the world of a geisha? The answer, I guess, really depends on what you are looking for. If you would like a little bit of delight from an aesthetically pleasing picture with a dubious authenticity and realism, this movie delivers it. I would not say Rob Marshall failed completely. Memoirs of a Geisha is not the first, nor the last, movie that subjects another culture to the crude lens of American exoticism. It definitely is not the worst one.
Truth be told, this movie was not as bad as its trailer led me to expect it to be. It had a story to tell (although it crumbles in the end),images to show, and material to present. There were ample displays of exquisite beauty -- the trailing tails of silk kimonos, the subtle allure of hand gestures, and the captivating scene of kabuki dance theater ...
On the other hand, the American director was not able to pull the Japanese out of Chinese actresses. (This movie was so crowded by famous Chinese idols that I found myself inadvertently searching for Joan Chen among the cast.) To be fair, all three main actors (Gong Li in particular) show strong performances that made me sympathetic to Rob Marshall's choices. However, they remain utterly Chinese throughout this movie. The look and accent are not the only problems. They lacked the kind of extreme femininity and excessive felicity of the delicately mechanical gesture and movements of traditional Japanese ladies you see in custom dramas of Japanese production. (Michelle Yeoh seems to be the only one trying a little bit of those, but it did not quite work for some reason.)
So, let me re-address the question: Can a group of American men and Chinese actresses render the world of a geisha? The answer, I guess, really depends on what you are looking for. If you would like a little bit of delight from an aesthetically pleasing picture with a dubious authenticity and realism, this movie delivers it. I would not say Rob Marshall failed completely. Memoirs of a Geisha is not the first, nor the last, movie that subjects another culture to the crude lens of American exoticism. It definitely is not the worst one.