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March 18, 2008
My Blueberry Nights
For Wong Kar Wai, there's nothing more lyrical than a broken heart; one might tell him to get over it already if it wasn't so obvious that he already has, long ago, and is simply foisting the shell of some worn out sentiment on his audience. Hence his new film, My Blueberry Nights, which has the emotive substance of an overlong commercial. It pretends to want to make you feel.
Which is a shame, because all the way up until 2046, with which he hit the apex of reflective themes and cinematic rhyme schemes, Wong's films did make us feel, and quite strongly. But he's reached a point, much like Godard (his most openly obvious precedent) did near the end of the 60s, when the same old tricks have begun to sour. Godard got wise and exchanged romance for politics; Wong, with this film, is like an eighteen year-old so caught up in his latest crush that he forgot to register to vote.
If I was a snarkier writer, I'd say that this is a love story to New York from someone who's still afraid of Manhattan subways. Which is true, as evidenced by some of the dialogue in the film, but Wong's foreign perspective on Americana isn't necessarily a problem; nor is it the English delivery that makes his dialogue so bad, or Norah Jones' lack of acting experience that makes her lovelorn monologues so cloying. It's just that it's all so damn trite, a problem exacerbated by a serious case of self importance.
These are problems that are cast into especially sharp contrast by the one scene that doesn't have them. It's a random encounter, completely isolated from the rest of the narrative, between Jude Law's character and an old flame played by Chan Marshall, aka Cat Power. They stand outside in the snow and talk about relationships, and as they do, something magical happens: with her smoky voice and winsome humor, Marshall deflates all the trite, gossamer trappings that Wong's exchanged for the raw, quiet passion that used to fuel his work. For just a few minutes, My Blueberry Nights is not about movie stars pretending to know about love, but about a person who has loved, who can love. It's there in her face, there in her voice, and as long as she's on screen, it's there in the film too. And then she's gone, and with her goes any reason to keep watching.
I should note here that the cut of the film I saw is the one that played at Cannes last spring; I'm curious to know what effect the publicized edits the Weinsteins made might have on the picture, but I don't know if I'm curious enough to go back to see it again when they finally release it.
One mildly interesting aspect of the film, though, is that, almost from the get-go, Wong openly disregards conventional cinematic language. His camera is all over the place; his compositions jump from one side of the 180 degree line to another. This is nothing new for him, but because the film is otherwise so gilded, so precisely gorgeous, such affronts stand out more (in the same sense, his trademark use of stop-printing here feels like nothing more than a faux-rough edge). In looking for something formal to grab onto amidst all the dripping sweetness of the cinematography, I wondered if the upset in screen direction was supposed to signify disconnect between the characters. Then I recalled a NY Times article on Wong from a year or so ago in which the reported described the crew shooting the kiss between Jude Law and Norah Jones. Over and over again this one fleeting moment was photographed, from every conceivable angle. All of which goes to signify that Wong has no idea what he's after when he's shooting.
Again, this is nothing new. Wong's more recent shoots are famous for stretching on for years, as he constantly refines whatever it might be that he wants (a mode of work which is actually incredibly appealing and inspiring to me, albeit in a more limited capacity). But watching My Blueberry Nights, I felt the distinct difference between two types of cinematographic intention - that conceived beforehand and achieved through the production, and that borne of juxtaposition - and, resultingly, the potential limitations one has over the other. I don't think Wong went into his production looking to create a sense of emotional disorientation by breaking the 180 degree line; if that was indeed his intention, he came up with it in the editing process. But the danger of making such a bold choice after the fact is that, if the rest of the film doesn't support it, it runs the risk of sending a mixed message: it can be just as legitimately read as a mistake as it can be a choice.
My Blueberry Nights feels like it's full of mistakes. But I wonder if it's time we stopped looking at a disregard of traditional cinematic language as a statement (as per my initial reaction) or as an error, which historically (to the extent of my knowledge) are the only two responses afforded to it. I'm not sure (and I'd wager that any filmmaker actively pursuing a third alternative would essentially be playing catch-up to Brakhage). My Blueberry Nights is too trifling a film to make a decisive statement, but its certainly bound more by the whims of decorative aesthetic than the rigors of traditional form (not that the two should be disparate, but they certainly aren't uniform here). In the end, I think Wong might have picked his shots based on prettiness more than anything else; but maybe there's some cohesion there that's worth paying more attention to.
I don't think any of the above ideas are quite worth the amount of words I just spent on them, but whatever. I'm procrastinating!
Posted by David Lowery at March 18, 2008 12:10 AM