Red Rose, White Rose (Hong mei gui bai mei gui)

RED ROSE, WHITE ROSE (Hong mei gui bai mei gui)          B+                  

Hong Kong  Taiwan  (120 mi)  1994  d:  Stanley Kwan

Maybe every man has had two such women ⸺ at least two.  Marry a red rose and eventually she’ll be a mosquito-blood streak smeared on the wall, while the white one is ‘moonlight in front of my bed’.  Marry a white rose, and before long she’ll be a grain of sticky rice that’s gotten stuck to your clothes; the red one, by then, is a scarlet beauty mark just over your heart. 

⸺Red Rose, White Rose, opening line from Eileen Chang’s novel, 1944, appearing midway through the film 

Adapting a 1944 novella/short story by Eileen Chang, the same author of Ang Lee’s Lust, Caution (Se, jie) (2007), while a decade earlier Kwan was an assistant director to Ann Hui’s version of Chang’s LOVE IN A FALLEN CITY (1984), yet here Kwan has produced a literary work in much the same vein as Fassbinder’s EFFI BRIEST(1974), which is to say literature commenting on earlier times has been transported to contemporary times, finding parallels in each era, though Kwan takes liberties from the original text and may actually subvert Chang’s original intentions.  Chang’s work reflects her own experiences in Shanghai and Hong Kong prior to the Communist takeover in the late 40’s, two cities that during her lifetime underwent some of the most modern transformations in human history, where the Western model was clearly emulated in what became highly cosmopolitan cities, with people from all over the globe living there.  During the time of Chang’s writings, however, Shanghai was occupied by Japan while Hong Kong was a British colony, where this is one of the few Chang works that actually scrutinizes a lead male character, offering a merciless description of male and female relationships in a changing China, reflecting the moral disintegration of men caught up in a Shanghai on the cusp of transforming into a modern society.  While supposedly an idealized portrait of a Chinese modern man, what it essentially amounts to is an existential portrait of a womanizer, where one can easily imagine Marcello Mastroianni in the role.  What’s unique here is the sardonic tone throughout, in the same vein as Kubrick’s BARRY LYNDON (1975), literally mocking the male effort to lead a good and respectable life.  Played with utmost sincerity, always formally dressed in suit and tie, Tong Zhen-bao (Winston Chao) has been educated in the West (in England) during the 1930’s and narrates his role, describing his erotic adventures with a friendly yet common girl with easy relations with men as typical of the West but unheard of in Asia.  He freely mingles with prostitutes, yet time there is temporary, regretting never being able to obtain total control over the situation, vowing from the outset that this is his ultimate goal.  Kwan places throughout highly decorative title cards onscreen with quotes from the book written in very elegant calligraphy, even offering an English translation to imprinted Chinese text, giving the appearance of turning the pages and reading a book, which allows viewers to share Zhen-bao’s train of thought as the film progresses while also retaining the author’s intent.  The red rose describes the woman of elicit passion that every man yearns for, but does not marry, or even bring home to meet the family, as that role is reserved for the pure and innocent white rose with a spotless reputation and a cool demeanor.  In this world, ironically narrated and described from a patriarchal male perspective (mixing misogyny and nationalism), men are free to roam as they please while powerless women remain restricted and trapped by society. 

From the outset, one can’t help but be impressed by the fluid camerawork by Christopher Doyle which is simply astonishing, offering a deeply rich, beautifully composed color palette with extraordinary use of light, using shadows, window frames, and mirror reflections of illuminated faces and bodies in dimly lit rooms, literally saturating the opening section in red, while also capturing the changing mindset of Zhen-bao, where the appearance of his surroundings corresponds to his feelings, including broken mirrors, often swirling into hallucinogenic territory.  Returning to Shanghai after university, Zhen-bao and his younger brother Tu-bao (Zhao Chang) are guests in the home of a friend, Mr. Wang (Hua Shen Tong) and his flirtatious young wife Jiao-Rui (Joan Chen, winning Best Actress at the Golden Horse Awards, while also winning Best Adapted Screenplay, Art Direction, Make-Up and Costume Design, and Best Original Film Score by Johnny Chen), whose beauty instantly stirs emotions in him, so Zhen-bao discreetly sends his brother to live at school while Mr. Wang is away on a business trip to Singapore, leaving inflamed passions to volcanically erupt with his wife, who literally exudes sex and sensuality.  Darkly lit, unable to tell whether it’s night or day, Zhen-bao at first pretends to be a gentleman, remaining at arm’s length, but his demeanor changes instantly, where Jiao-Rui is the epitome of a red rose.  Shot in a dreamy fashion, alone in a darkened room playing a rhapsodic version of The Fragrance of Roses theme song on piano, with the music representing her interior awakening, as if fully flowered, Jiao-Rui’s face is lit, but shadows make it appear she is caught in a web, yet this is how Zhen-bao arrives home after work, sitting next to her, both seemingly entangled in the same web, as they rush into a steamy relationship together, shot under a very eroticized orange lens exaggerating her aroused passions, which had been lying dormant prior to that.   While she has a teasing personality, initially ignoring his kisses, cleverly challenging his motives and intentions, her curiosity gets the better of her, wrapping herself around Zhen-bao, falling under his spell, where their bodies and souls are inseparable.  Knowing what he is doing is morally wrong, he nonetheless proclaims good intentions, wanting to be a good citizen and contribute to the nation’s progress, giving what he can back to his mother, who relies on his support, so for all practical purposes he appears to be a good man, yet we’ve seen what lies underneath, where this benevolent side hides his real intent, which is to gain the upper hand and with it, total control.  So he’s shocked when Jiao-Rui proclaims she’s contacted her husband and asked out of the marriage, opening up the door for them to be free, which sends him into a furious denouncement, angered at her thoughtlessness, not realizing how this would affect his societal position.  He was fine when they were just playing around, but to do so publicly would be unacceptable, so he slithers away like a petulant child losing at his favorite game.  The intoxicating style in this section is what 35mm filmmaking is all about, richly expressive and evocative of a distant historical era. 

Moving ahead in time, Zhen-bao is successful at work, having established a reputation for being diligent and hardworking, earning the respect of his younger coworkers who find him old-fashioned, but trust his judgment.  In the interim, Zhen-bao is seen going out to the movies with a new woman, watching THE YOUNG MISTRESS’ FAN (1939), an adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan, a play on moral values adapted to Shanghai, showing how easily people can be deceived.  At home he has the perfect complimentary wife, Yen Li (Veronica Yip, who ironically got her start making adult films, as did actresses Pauline Chan and Shu Qi, yet roles like this paved the way for mainstream success), whose face rarely changes expression, yet she is docile and obedient in every way, with her husband treating her like a servant in her own home, never offering her even a hint of respect, as it’s clear he has finally obtained total control, but has little happiness to show for it, as their sex life is cold and passionless, where she remains aloof and indifferent, as there’s simply no place for her desires.  His demeaning treatment causes unexpected psychological anguish and suffering, with Yen Li spending a massive amount of time hidden in the bathroom, as if frozen in shame, where it’s clear Zhen-bao despises her, returning to his philandering ways with prostitutes, spending most of his earnings there, leaving little left for his family, which now includes a young daughter that he completely ignores.  After the birth of the baby, in a humorous aside, both mother-in-law’s move into their home, yet end up squabbling about the baby’s name until both are asked to leave.  The moral of the story here is that success doesn’t bring happiness, yet Zhen-bao proclaims to the world that he has a perfect wife and a perfect family.  By ignoring his wife so completely, being totally absent from the home, it actually removes Yen Li’s straightjacket, suddenly making her own choices, finding her own friends, and making something of herself (through subjectivity comes autonomy?), developing a life of her own that her husband is blind and completely oblivious about, as if living in two separate worlds.  This is the picture of a happy marriage in modern society, where to Zhen-bao, highly successful at work and valuable to the nation, his family life is just a façade, like a decorative magazine spread shown in glossy photos, yet utterly meaningless to him, especially when his daughter routinely stumbles in miscues during her disjointed efforts to play The Fragrance of Roses theme song on piano, a constant reminder of what he’s missing, while to Yen Li her family is her salvation, where she’s free to make her own choices, so long as it doesn’t anger the emotionally volatile Zhen-bao, who often returns home drunk and in the mood for slapping her around.  Her worst fear is to be reincarnated into the next life as the same couple, as that is quite literally a hell on earth.  After the gorgeous sensory overload of the first section, the slowness and stark emptiness of the second section comes like a slap in the face, offering a heavy dose of grim reality.  By chance, Zhen-bao and Jiao-Rui meet again on a trolley bus, with unremarkable results, though she seems content, showing signs of maturity and wisdom, causing a jealous spark, so true to form, despite his boorish and despicable behavior, Zhen-bao vows to change his ways and become a decent man of good character.   

Lust, Caution (Se, jie)

LUST, CAUTION (Se, jie)         B+               

USA  China  Taiwan  Hong Kong  (157 mi)  2007  d:  Ang Lee 

The mood is stifling, yet like the best Asian films, everything is revealed in subtle glances, with Lee's acute sense for details, in the smallest of all possible movements, which tell all.  Lee’s first Chinese language feature since CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON (2000), this is an old-fashioned, sprawling love story gone wrong set in Japanese-occupied Hong Kong in 1938 and Shanghai in 1942, adapted from an Eileen Chang 54-page novella drenched with murky details and political intrigue.  Told nearly entirely through flashback, where attention to the look and the customs of the period are favored over detailed historical facts, which are largely assumed in this film, designed to appeal to Asian audiences, as one would think all Chinese are familiar with pre-WWII Japanese atrocities from a foreign invader, while American viewers may need more historical prodding.  To its credit, the film foregoes any backdrop and instead immerses the viewer instantly into a realm in Hong Kong that resembles an invisible bubble, a highly protected world within a world revealing a small segment of ultra rich Chinese who are continuing to live as they are accustomed, buying what is unavailable in stores on the black market, but maintaining their Chinese identity while the Japanese declare martial law on the streets.  To these women, there is no reference to a war going on, a total block out of what’s happening on the streets where citizens are routinely clubbed and arrested and where there are long lines of Chinese attempting to obtain their miniscule rations in order to survive.  Instead the women sit in a room and play mahjong all day while sipping tea, gossiping about each other’s lives, discussing the China they once knew, each impeccably dressed in the latest styles.  Occasionally the men briefly enter the room before they are whisked into hidden corridors or into waiting chauffeur-driven cars where they have important business meetings long into the night.  The women never discuss the men’s affairs. 

In this women’s social circle the mahjong game is hosted by Mrs. Yee, the irrepressible Joan Chen, whose dapperly dressed husband Mr. Yee (Tony Leung), occasionally drops in to pay his respects.  Newcomer Tang Wei plays a younger woman Wong Chia-chi, alias Mrs. Mai, pretending to be the wife of a rich merchant, but is actually a member of the Chinese resistance whose goal is to assassinate Mr. Yee, a woman whose irresistible manner and beguiling allure catches Mr. Yee’s eyes.  The way this plays out is in a series of table glances, all carefully guarded under his wife’s eyes, yet messages are mysteriously sent and received.  A secret affair ensues.  Mr. Yee is suspected of collaborating with the enemy (the Japanese), eventually becoming head of a heavily guarded secret police division that rounds up, interrogates and tortures Chinese sympathizers, eventually authorizing their disappearance.  But mostly his life is layered in secrecy and his motives throughout remain shrouded in mystery, where until the end little is even known about his actual profession.  Wong Chia-chi’s life, on the other hand, is revealed through flashback sequences to be a young college student in Hong Kong who is recruited to perform a melodramatic propagandistic theater piece designed to arouse the sympathies of a Chinese audience (“China will not fail!”), hoping to raise money for their cause, as Hong Kong has not yet fallen to the Japanese.  Motivated by deaths and betrayals to his own family, the leader of the theater troupe Kuang Yu Min (Chinese pop star Wang Leehom) decides to join the Chinese underground and train them for secret missions to assassinate enemy collaborators, targeting Mr. Yee.  Wong Chia-chi, whose beauty and acting skills are unsurpassed, is lured into this idealistically naïve group and used as bait in the role of a seductress, having never even kissed a man, tempted perhaps by an unexpressed longing to please this director, searching for approval after being abandoned by her own father who has been exiled to England.  As soon as she gets surprisingly close, however, Mr. Yee and his wife move to Shanghai.  In a stunning moment of disarray, the rag tag group chooses to kill another operative which reveals their clumsiness and utter unprofessionalism.  Disheartened, Wong Chia-chi separates from the group, but discovers them again several years later where the plot begins again in Shanghai, this time directed by more experienced resistance fighters.

An interesting twist on this tale is Tang Wei’s brilliance with illusion, how she skillfully plays her part moving so seamlessly between real and make believe.  She and Leung are so secretive in every respect with each other, much like Bertolucci’s LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972), except for their sexually explicit scenes in bed, the only moments of “trust” they ever have, a cat and mouse game of dominance, cruelty and surprise, where she is actually manhandled and raped, though with consent, where the psychological allure is as transfixing as the sex, as the two delve into an Ôshima IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES (1976) mindset, where the tables are turned by her apparent inexhaustible ability to outlast him, becoming completely captivated by one another.  The attraction feels so real that we sense she’s not really going ahead with her mission, but time and again she surprises us, revealing the full extent of her mental anguish only in a moment where she pleads with the resistance leaders to quickly kill him and put an end to her prolonged agony.  Along the way we get a series of hints from movie posters and clips, as she identifies with Joan Fontaine’s fear of Cary Grant’s suspected dark motives in Suspicion (1941) or post WWII heroine Ingrid Bergman kidnapped and drugged by Nazi agents in NOTORIOUS (1946), two films with women at the mercy of bad men.  This film draws a much more vivid portrait of Leung than any of the other men in her life, so at all times the audience feels their irresistible desire may alter her original plans.   

The excruciating period detail and lurid Douglas Sirkian melodrama resembles Stanley Kwan, whose historical pieces set in Shanghai are legendary, ACTRESS (1991), RED ROSE, WHITE ROSE (1994, based on another Eileen Chang novella), or EVERLASTING REGRET (2005), where the roving eye of the camera becomes an unseen character, luminously shot here by Rodrigo Prieto, featuring exquisite costumes and beautifully designed sets, with exceptional music by Alexandre Desplat.  What’s missing in this film is Kwan’s ability to elevate the city’s historical context into his films, where the streets, the back alleys, the food vendors, the bars, or the musical set pieces all come to life within the telling of the story, so the audience literally gets a “feel” for this place in time.  Instead Lee excludes much of this built up historical detail in order to enhance the dark complexities of the developing psychological interior world, much like Ôshima’s IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES, which was also set during war time which is all but unseen.  So despite the paper thin plot where the minor characters all but disappear, the real story of this film is a character exposé of how pretensions of love go painfully awry during the wretched times of war, featuring two Chinese characters ensnared in a web of deceit under the psychological mindset of a Japanese occupier, reflected in their sexual deviation and their own deeply disturbed moral delusion. 

Of interest is how Wong Chia-chi’s background is also shrouded in a gulf of mystery, offering no clues why she was driven to this destiny, as she appears to have little political motivation, or how she can be so much smarter than the rest, more self-assured and sophisticated, offering an unusual sense of calm, so completely at ease mixing with the social customs of the upper class.  The audience is completely at a loss to understand how she could be an accomplice to murder.  The length of the film accentuates the kind of patience that is needed from an audience in order to understand what kind of patience and commitment Tang Wei’s character must have had, continually molding and developing her make believe persona, becoming thoroughly entrenched in her role as a seductress, but always balancing her sensuality with the mental strength needed to outmaneuver a man of this caliber.  She is an indomitable spirit caught up in the horrors of the times, all but abandoned by her family, used by the political powers that thought only of their own gains, and easily discarded as yesterday’s news once the mission is over.  The point of this film is that the mission is never really over, as it’s a pointed reminder of how shameless and cowardly men hide behind the bold actions of women in order to accomplish their so-called political and humanitarian aims, taking all the credit for their accomplishments, discarding them completely when they are no longer useful.  By creating such an alluring perspective of female torment, much like the fierce dramas of Almodóvar, Lee is attempting to express a sense of gratitude to great heroines of the past.