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.   

Persona

Bergman on the set with actress Liv Ullmann

Director Ingmar Bergman

Actress Bibi Andersson

Bergman on the set with actress Bibi Andersson

Actresses Bibi Andersson (left) and Liv Ullmann

Bergman on the set with cameraman Sven Nykvist

Bergman

Bergman with actresses Bibi Andersson (left) and Liv Ullmann

Bergman on the set with Liv Ullmannn

PERSONA                 A                    

Sweden  (83 mi)  1966 d:  Ingmar Bergman

The hopeless dream of being, not seeming, but being

Born out of an extensive hospital confinement with a persistent ear infection turning into double pneumonia and acute penicillin poisoning, leaving the director bedridden and miserable for nine weeks, perhaps even imagining his own death, from which Bergman quickly wrote a script in 14 days that may have helped resurrect his own life and career and would go on to become his most influential and written about film.  As to what set the stage, the 60’s was a decade in search of the alienated modern soul, personified by the soul-searching emptiness of Antonioni’s L’AVVENTURA (1960), a film that initially shocked audiences, showing how easily we lose our way, wondering how we became so indifferent to the rapidly changing world around us, delving into the heart of existential angst, featuring Monica Vitti in RED DESERT (1964) as a character lost in the surrounding industrial wasteland, suffering from the toxic effects of technical and psychological overload, where his films moved into an interior landscape.  Fellini’s LA DOLCE VITA (1960) and 8 ½ (1963) intuitively deconstruct the world around us with a surrealist yet withering critique of the alienating effects of modernization, becoming an abstract free-for-all expressing an endless quest for happiness that can never be found, succumbing to dreams, drugs, and imaginary reveries as an alternative reality to the existing horrors that define our times.  This sudden breakthrough into new narrative forms must include the Alain Resnais masterwork Last Year at Marienbad (L'Année Dernière à Marienbad) (1961), a puzzling experimental film that frustrated filmgoers, with actors resembling statues, revealing ghostly yet immaculately dressed characters in opulent settings stuck in a continuous state of utter detachment, deftly exploring themes of time and memory.  Welles followed with THE TRIAL (1962), an apocalyptic version of Kafka, a modern era nightmare about our dwarfed status in the human hierarchy, suddenly, and tragically, tossed aside for greater matters larger than our own, where we are authoritatively dismissed from the human equation, dehumanized, rendered powerless and insignificant, beautifully expressed in one of the more innovative film openings, The Trial / Le procès: Franz Kafka (Orson Welles / 1962) HD - YouTube (2:51), where our individuality is nonexistent, our views deemed irrelevant and absurdly inconsequential, with no explanation given, yet we are blamed for the enveloping crisis that engulfs us all, collaborators of our own demise.  Tarkovsky burst onto the scene with Ivan's Childhood (1962), which certainly caught Bergman’s eye, expressing the following, "Ingmar Bergman - On Tarkovsky":

My discovery of Tarkovsky’s first film was like a miracle.

Suddenly, I found myself standing at the door of a room the keys of which had, until then, never been given to me.  It was a room I had always wanted to enter and where he was moving freely and fully at ease. 

I felt encouraged and stimulated: someone was expressing what I had always wanted to say without knowing how.

Tarkovsky is for me the greatest, the one who invented a new language, true to the nature of film, as it captures life as a reflection, life as a dream.

Having cleansed himself with his extensive inquiry into the effects of God’s silence in his Faith trilogy, God was no longer the oppressive force it had previously been in his life, feeling liberated, suddenly able to walk into a new day unencumbered by past burdens, free to open up his imagination to introduce an entirely new approach, one brimming with originality and psychological scrutiny, written expressly for the two actresses he had in mind, including Bibi Andersson, his former lover, and Liv Ullmann, his new lover, forging their identities into a uniquely experimental modern era search for meaning.  Along with FANNY AND ALEXANDER (1982), this is Bergman at his definitive best, a small film, basically an expanded chamber drama that touches upon themes of horror, with dissonant electronic music, extreme cuts, and extraordinary montage sequences, a formal response perhaps to the experimentalists of the 60’s, where Bergman may be acknowledging a crudeness of art beside the complexities of human existence, a film with one of the more unique opening credit sequences ever, Opening of Persona: Thematic Montage — Critical Commons (6:49), a poem of images which features, among others things, a carbon lamp lighting celluloid as it passes through a projector, and images are born onscreen.  At the same time, similar to the opening from Tarkovsky’s MIRROR (1975), the subject of communication itself seems to be the issue, as subliminal images and early archival prints are shown, perhaps even the Keystone cops, upside down cartoons, as well as a young boy who awakens to an illuminated wall that is projecting an image of a face, like a mother, that he reaches out to embrace (Bergman’s own mother died six months before the release of the film, with some believing his Faith trilogy was the director’s way of addressing his father issues, while Persona might be viewed as addressing lingering maternal issues, (The Mother's Role in Bergman's <em>Persona</em> | Film International).  Also, like Polanski’s REPULSION (1965), there is extraordinary use of offscreen sounds, which enhances jarring images that are meant to incite the emotions of the audience, as they are utilized with abstract images onscreen meant to jolt the senses of the viewer.  It’s an effective technique, especially as the storyline includes an actress who has a personal breakdown onstage, suddenly aware of and disgusted by all the misery in the world and the artifice in her own life, who hasn’t spoken in three months, Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann in her astonishing film debut), and her nurse Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson) who makes startlingly personal confessions that seem to fall on deaf ears, whose frustration grows with her patient’s continual passivity and refusal to speak, becoming a battle of wills, turning angry and hurt, then intensely hostile over time.  

After a very direct appraisal from Ullmann’s doctor (Margaretha Krook), describing it not as a pathological symptom but as strategic behavior, lapsing into yet another role that she’ll abandon once she grows tired of it, rejecting the outside world, passively taking safe refuge from the storm (which forces others to assertively face the inherent dangers she’s avoiding), with no apparent medical ailment, seeing no need to keep the patient in the hospital, sending her instead to the doctor’s own private seaside retreat, which evolves into dramatic shoreline shots of what eventually became Bergman’s own home on Fårö Island, leaving his position as chief executive of the Royal Dramatic Theater in Stockholm for the remote Baltic island retreat, which he utilizes brilliantly in one endless tracking shot that recalls the loneliness and personal isolation of Antonioni’s L’AVVENTURA (1960).  Of interest, Andersson is the director’s former lover, and Ullmann becomes the new love of his life, so of course Bergman sets them opposite one another.  Both offer phenomenal performances, enhanced even further by the spare minimalist structure of the film, which is surgically precise, especially the use of archival prints, which include Ullmann’s silent horror witnessing a televised newscast of a Buddhist monk (Thích Quảng Đức) setting himself on fire to protest the American incursion into Vietnam, and later she is aghast as she looks at a war photo from the Warsaw ghetto of Nazi soldiers pointing their guns directly at children, where the camera zooms in on close-ups of the terrifying faces.  Faces are prominently featured in this film, projected like masks hiding who they really are inside as they stare blankly at the camera, joined by one another, where like a lava lamp they merge, co-mingle as one, perhaps representing an unrecognizable mixture of dreams and reality, art and humanity, and then converge into a completely new identity.  Andersson’s lyrical, rambling monologues are incredible, intensely personal, even erotic, Persona (1966) -- One Time At The Beach - YouTube (5:24), but like Ullmann, she reaches a point of recognition where she becomes acutely aware of the role she’s playing, where the roles reverse and she herself becomes the neurotic patient, observed and evaluated by a silently impassive Ullmann, which comes as a shocking revelation.  The celluloid itself appears to burn out at this point midway through the film and everything must start anew with a reawakened understanding.

No longer the austere and brooding Swede, Bergman’s film is fearlessly incendiary, meant to shock and incite provocation, capturing the immediacy of the present along with the turbulency of the times, suspended in a place between reality and dreams, becoming his most radical film, also among his shortest and most economical as well, creating a choreography of extreme facial close-ups, like a window into the soul, beautifully shot by Sven Nyqvist, using various tactics to examine underlying motives, going surrealistic with an imaginary image of Ullmann drinking the blood from Andersson’s cut arm in a vampire-like expression of consuming her soul.  This enigmatic film bears a similarity to Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), where viewer’s relationship to a film is shattered, having to build a new one, where this film is not so much about an exchange of identities on a personal level as a merging metamorphosis of two entirely different states of consciousness, eliminating all the extraneous protective facades, reconstructing something entirely new.  Once the projector breaks down, everything is observed in a different light, where an extreme degree of uncertainty sets in, as the film exposes even the film crew itself at one point and challenges the viewer to examine the artifice in their own lives and relationships, perhaps best represented by a revelatory scene about their aversion to motherhood, and even marriage, that repeats itself from both women’s perspectives, as the actress and the nurse are too wrapped up in their own careers to offer themselves over completely to such an all encompassing new role.  With suggestions of Ullmann’s abandonment and neglect, sacrificing her child for her illustrious stage career, Andersson is unmarried and childless, having aborted an earlier pregnancy, seemingly happy to be engaged, yet even she begins to question her role in that relationship, as both women are seen as somehow less than whole, incomplete, even inadequate, until they can lose themselves completely in the love of an “other,” something neither of them has ever been able to do.  The boy who appears at the beginning and the end of the film, Jörgen Lindström from The Silence (Tystnaden) (1963, another film featuring two women drifting apart with a neglected child), could symbolically represent a range of characters, from an aborted fetus to a young boy his guilt-ridden mother may wish was dead, especially when viewed lying on a slab in a morgue, but may also represent the maternal yearnings of the director as a young boy or our own perplexing struggles to establish an identity in a world too confusing and cruel to call our own.  The film asserts that the jagged pieces of our lives require reassembly, reevaluation, coming clean with one’s own conscience, never really offering any clues on how this might be done.