By Christine Chiao
Cruelly dropped by its former distributor, the notoriously fickle Weinstein Brothers, Chen Kaige's much-ballyhooed The Promise finds new life in the United States theatrical circuit. If only we could say the same about the film...
Once upon a time, there was a director whose ambitions for international acclaim eclipsed any artistry and talent for storytelling he may have displayed in masterpieces such as Yellow Earth and Farewell My Concubine. What could have been a happy ending since the critical and commercial success of Chen Kaige's Farewell My Concubine has receded further into the Tinseltown sunset with the ill-conceived The Promise, a film which embodies the clichéd denouement that befalls many a modern-day Icarus of the industry.
It is impossible to pinpoint the exact component that thwarted the film's unmet potential. This is largely thanks to its Rubik's cube quality of too many problems vying for attention -- you don't know which overarching issue is responsible for ultimately unraveling the film. Like the popular toy of the ‘80s, the more you try to rationalize the film, the more you become aggravated at the entangled mess. And just like any child of the ‘80s, the inevitable ensuing frustration does not preclude me from trying my hand at the puzzle.
Two major problems stand out in the slew surrounding The Promise: the storyline -- or lack thereof -- and the hackneyed acting. In essence, the storyline defies all logic and order -- unfortunately, not in some thought-provoking, postmodern manner. Chen had expressed in a December 25, 2005 interview with Variety that he wanted his film to appeal to Chinese viewers, while making the Chinese elements still palatable to the international audience. This intentional rendering of the culture by Chen Kaige and co-writer Zhang Tan refracts negatively as the script neither introduces new approaches nor incorporates any tried and true magical elements that mark great wuxia films. Instead, each supposed nod to Chinese myth becomes a parody of the genre.
Sadly, the dazzling pan-East-Asian cast could do little to prop up the film's sagging storyline. From a positive standpoint, though, the project can be seen as successful in showing how humans can triumph over political disputes. Despite recent tensions between China, Japan, and South Korea, the multinational cast cooperated nicely with each other as evinced by the actors' shared sense of exaggeration as acting. The actors were not so much playing characters as they were playing caricatures of the characters.
In the topsy-turvy world of The Promise, none of the characters engender any sympathy. It is easy to forget the poor little orphan girl who grew up to be Cecilia Cheung's Princess Qingcheng. A relatable Qingcheng would require a nuanced performance from an actress aware of the character's complex emotions. Cheung's portrayal of Qingcheng, instead, flitted from inane helpless victim to inane scheming temptress. Likewise, Hiroyuki Sanada's lecherous portrayal of General Guangming does little to evoke any reaction except mild disgust for a character that experiences a complete reversal in fortune. Aside from helping to produce the film, Chen Hong appears as Goddess Manshen who is the thin thread that binds the fates of the other characters together. She is also somewhat of a mother figure as she guides Qingcheng in her toughest moments. Despite the pivotal role, Hong's Goddess Manshen wasn't cultivated enough to breathe more depth into the storyline; she could have single-handedly established the much-needed intricacies of the film's mythic world.
Korean actor Dong-Kun Jang does not engage the audience at all as the protagonist. If Tom Hanks' turn as Forrest Gump can serve as the standard by which lovable simple-minded heroes are measured against, Jang's wide-eyed Kunlun fails miserably. Similar to Gump, Kunlun is pitted in a number of implausible circumstances he has no control over. Yet, Jang effects little of Hank's unshakeable optimism or genteel strength. At one point, you cannot help but side with Nicholas Tse's one-dimensional General Wuhan in his attempt to destroy Kunlun. That's one on the long list of perverse wishes one ends up making. Any animosity toward the film can be blamed on the way it distorts one's sense of compassion and decency, which is precisely where Chen and Zhang broke the ultimate wuxia rule.
When done well, wuxia films can elicit strong reactions: a rosy-lensed nostalgia for more innocent times, deep attachment to the hero's struggle, or the catharsis often brought on by watching great epics. In The Promise's case, the plot provokes a dull sense of resentment as it perpetually hangs in the constant purgatorial state of embryonic development. Fans of Chen Kaige, and maybe even the director himself, may point out that the 24-minute shave from the original 121 minutes extracted the key details that tie the story together. The ballyhoo over the cut, however, is unnecessary as the rest of the 97 minutes still beg for life support. Personally, I am thankful for the humane 24-minute cut. It meant the torture was abbreviated.
The Promise did little to live up to expectations engendered by its loaded title or the hype pumped by Chen's publicity machine. While the title may allude to several different symbolic messages, it's difficult to avoid ruminating on the irony of the film's unfulfilled potential. If the title was kept as The Master of the Crimson Armor, the film may have had slightly smaller proverbial shoes to fill. In the end, the publicity hype surrounding the cast, big budget, and special effects only amplified its fall from grace, tantamount to the disaster fondly known as Gigli.
Published: Thursday, April 13, 2006
