Sen-ti-men-tal
My Blueberry Nights (2007)
directed by Kar-Wai Wong
rating: 3 out of 5 cravats
seen on the screen at the Bijou
The manifestation of memory's pain as a character's withdrawal from the physical world was the counterpoint to the sumptuous sets and colors of In the Mood for Love and 2046. Each close-up and slowed frame redoubled the impact of single instances of regret stretched forward through lifetimes. The frames are so alive in all of Wong's films that it's easy to mistake the vivacity of his movie-making for a consistency in the emotional behavior of his protagonists, when in fact the erratic petulance of Faye Wong in Chungking Express has no corollary in anything he's made since Happy Together.
The first surprise of My Blueberry Nights is how often the faces of its women are swollen with tears (for the first time, there are no men to match the women's appeal), not in asides or stolen angles, but sobbing and inconsolable, their foreheads front, center, and stained in the night lights. But if Britney Spears is really the closest American equivalent to Faye Wong - the pop superstar - it's strange that Wong Kar-Wai supposedly made this movie because of Norah Jones. Jones is pretty, but watching her eat in a New York bakery is more or less in keeping with the Norah Jones who sings songs. It's the same persona, and instead of transforming Maggie Cheung from actress to icon, or recasting Faye Wong as an insolent working-class tomboy (the Android is less of a stretch), Wong Kar-Wai becomes the middleman to Blue Note's PR department.
In other words, why not Britney Spears? The script is undeniably bad, perhaps because Wong's old protagonists were so rarely defeated by something tangible like the death of the man or woman they loved. That Jones's silly emotional awakenings return her to Jude Law's arms changes how these movies are supposed to end (heartbreakingly), so in the end I liked it more than I probably should. I could have used a lot more slow-motion pie and ice cream (there's such a difference between the close-ups and the pie she's actually eating), but Wong was smart enough to cut his nights to ninety minutes, and his willingness to accept that kind of accountability means that he didn't want to waste too much of our time. He didn't.
directed by Kar-Wai Wong
rating: 3 out of 5 cravats
seen on the screen at the Bijou
The manifestation of memory's pain as a character's withdrawal from the physical world was the counterpoint to the sumptuous sets and colors of In the Mood for Love and 2046. Each close-up and slowed frame redoubled the impact of single instances of regret stretched forward through lifetimes. The frames are so alive in all of Wong's films that it's easy to mistake the vivacity of his movie-making for a consistency in the emotional behavior of his protagonists, when in fact the erratic petulance of Faye Wong in Chungking Express has no corollary in anything he's made since Happy Together.
The first surprise of My Blueberry Nights is how often the faces of its women are swollen with tears (for the first time, there are no men to match the women's appeal), not in asides or stolen angles, but sobbing and inconsolable, their foreheads front, center, and stained in the night lights. But if Britney Spears is really the closest American equivalent to Faye Wong - the pop superstar - it's strange that Wong Kar-Wai supposedly made this movie because of Norah Jones. Jones is pretty, but watching her eat in a New York bakery is more or less in keeping with the Norah Jones who sings songs. It's the same persona, and instead of transforming Maggie Cheung from actress to icon, or recasting Faye Wong as an insolent working-class tomboy (the Android is less of a stretch), Wong Kar-Wai becomes the middleman to Blue Note's PR department.
In other words, why not Britney Spears? The script is undeniably bad, perhaps because Wong's old protagonists were so rarely defeated by something tangible like the death of the man or woman they loved. That Jones's silly emotional awakenings return her to Jude Law's arms changes how these movies are supposed to end (heartbreakingly), so in the end I liked it more than I probably should. I could have used a lot more slow-motion pie and ice cream (there's such a difference between the close-ups and the pie she's actually eating), but Wong was smart enough to cut his nights to ninety minutes, and his willingness to accept that kind of accountability means that he didn't want to waste too much of our time. He didn't.
posted by NPK at 8:51 AM
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