So, in order to attempt at least a temporary release from
this grubby little drainage ditch, last night I watched this:
It was made by the same director as made House of Flying Daggers, and cost a
great deal of money. The chrysanthemums alone must have cost a king’s ransom.
Millions of them, there were, and when the first batch had become blood-soaked
and trodden under foot by inconsiderate soldiery, they rolled out another few wagon
loads.
So was it any good? Mmm… seven out of ten. It was a tale of
underhand goings-on at the Emperor’s court in tenth century China. Frankly,
the plot was just a modest Shakespearian pastiche, but the characters were fun.
There was:
The Emperor. He was good at two things – swordplay and skulduggery,
although the occasional revelation that he wasn’t a complete psychopath was a
little unconvincing. He was the principal bad guy.
The Empress. She was a bit of a player and a bit of a snob,
but was generally more sinned against than sinning.
First Brother. He spent the whole film looking miserable:
first because he felt guilty about having had an affair with his mother (which
she wasn’t, biologically speaking) for the past three years, then because he
didn’t really want to be Crown Prince at all, but only wanted to go and
live in the hills with his cute little girlfriend (the doctors’ daughter,) then
because it was revealed that said girlfriend was actually his half sister so
there’d be no going off to the hills with her, then because he tried to commit
suicide and was pathetically unsuccessful, then because he had to be carried
everywhere – even to the Chrysanthemum Ceremony, no less – in a chair with a blood-stained
handkerchief around his neck, thus proving to the assembled court and peasantry
that he was pathetic and unsuccessful (which was maybe a little harsh,) and
finally because snivelling little Third Brother ran him through with a sword in
a fit of self-important pique. But he died of it and never looked miserable
again.
Second Brother. AKA The Hero. Moody and magnificent, but
never mean. He led an unsuccessful rebellion against his father in order to
protect his mother, but was rather more successful than First Brother at
committing suicide. He did so largely to escape being ‘torn apart by five horses.’
Why five? Two arms, two legs… What else? Surely not the head; death would have
been too quick and merciful. So?
Third Brother. Obsequious, snivelling little rat. Having run
First Brother through with a sword, but with little genuine excuse, he got
beaten to death with a big belt by his father, the rather more powerful Emperor. Good riddance,
I say.
The main problem came near the end when the identity of the
various armies became a little confusing. So whose men are these, then? Mmm…
let me see…
The guys in billowing black with their faces covered –
highly skilled but not very numerous – are the Emperor’s men. The ones in
wishy-washy tunics and black trousers are Third Brother’s pathetic band. They
lasted about thirty seconds. The massive host in yellow armour are Second
Brother’s valiant crew. They’re the ones we’re rooting for, even if they did
inconsiderately trample on the chrysanthemums. They carried all before them
until they came up against an even more massive host in functional grey armour. They’re the Emperor’s real
army, and they had a portable twenty-foot-high wall to fight from, which was
cheating a bit – and gave them the critical edge – but that’s what Emperors do
best.
The bad guy won.
* * *
I didn’t mind the bad guy winning, except for one thing. The
Emperor’s name was Emperor Ping, a name that evokes an inappropriate but
indelible association with toothpaste ads and The
Goon Show. Shame, that.
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