Curse of the Golden Flower
Directed by Zhang Yimou
Could Zhang Yimou out-do Hero or House of Flying Daggers? That question was made moot by Chen Kaige’s The Promise—an astonishing period adventure that fused mythology, history and sheer graphic beauty and, at the same time, was the intellectual apotheosis of the Hong Kong action movie. There’s no way Zhang’s latest, Curse of the Golden Flower, would prevail; at best Zhang’s ambition only evokes The Promise. And yet Curse of the Golden Flower has enough cinematic wonder to be recognized as Zhang’s masterpiece anyway.
This explosion of color is the film Zhang was destined to make. Ever since his 1987 debut with Red Sorghum, Zhang’s use of chromatic metaphors sometimes seemed facetious since it clashed with his usually mundane storytelling. The sober side of Zhang was seen in last year’s pure and naturalistic Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles, but this is his crowd-pleasing, circusy, operatic side. Golden Flower’s story is an adult view of royal decadence shown in emotional extremes.
Gong Li is the Empress of the Tang Dynasty in the 10th century who wages a battle with her estranged husband, the Emperor (Chow Yun Fat). She plots a takeover with her stepson and lover the Crown Prince (Liu Ye), while her other stepson Prince Jai (Jay Chou) seeks to avenge his father. This story of court intrigue is as elaborate as Patrice Chereau’s Queen Margot, a phenomenal balance of psychological insight and epic vision. What Zhang lacks in comparable depth he compensates for with visual panache. Golden Flower is extravagantly designed—from the décolletage of the court’s maids introduced in a chorus girl line-up to the intricate brocades of the royal wardrobe. Outdoor scenes of the palace and geometric formation of innumerable soldiers are big beyond comprehension, yet their expanse and flow is dreamlike.
While Hero’s look was always meaningful, Flying Daggers was vapid: It became spectacle for its own sake. Golden Flower images have a psychic intensity that elevates and justifies Zhang’s profligate style. For every scene, Zhang devises a color scheme that is then capped by changes in light cues and surprisingly staged wuxia (martial arts) action that counterpoints the stately dramatic blocking. It becomes exhilarating rather than decadent because each sequence is evidence that Zhang’s imagination blooms, provokes and thrills. This is the movie for those who felt sensually and intellectually deprived at Hou Hsiso Hsien’s Three Times.
Not just pageantry, Golden Flower hits a level of dramatic hysteria close to Sternberg’s great Shanghai Gesture. Gong Li is remote for a grand tragedienne, but she, and the usually stolid Chow, lend the melodrama palpable maturity and beauty. Chow has a fantastic moment when he literally lets his hair down. His pantomimed horror at the prospect of revenge turned disastrous is something to see, a perfect example of cinematic expressionism. Golden Flower may be shallow next to Riding Alone and The Promise, but it’s still glorious.
