REVIEWED - MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA TOWARDS the close of Rob Marshall's vacuously pretty exercise in ethno-barbarism, the characters retire to a country estate famed for its beautiful flora. "All that way to look at a cherry tree," one cynic huffs. I know how he feels.
Memoirs of a Geisha, adapted from Arthur Golden's popular middlebrow novel, lasts two hours and 20 minutes. It begins in Oliver Twist territory, with a young girl being sold to a geisha house run by tyrants and psychopaths. Betrayals, triumphs and reversals follow. Its final act takes place in the aftermath of the second World War.
When, however, the picture finally creaks to a halt, it is hard to remember much else about it bar the glutinous art direction. Each time a match is lit it surrounds itself with a golden penumbra. When the elfin Sayuri (Ziyi Zhang) dances at the opera, she is illuminated by the sort of ultra-violet lamps one expects to find in establishments bearing the name Stringfellow. The exteriors - quaint bridges, cosy laneways and, yes, endless cherry blossom - suggest an attraction at Disneyworld: Japanland perhaps.
Much has been made of Marshall's controversial decision to cast Chinese and Malaysian actors in the lead roles. In truth, the production is so inherently bogus that the nationality of the cast scarcely matters. It doesn't help that Memoirs, an Oscar-trap whose prey may tarry elsewhere, is edited, written and - with one notable exception - acted with such lack of flair.
In his ho-hum Chicago, Marshall cut so frantically that we never got to see just how badly Richard Gere danced. Here the director, fancying himself to be Yasujiro Ozu perhaps, allows his takes to drag on interminably. There is, of course, nothing wrong with leisurely editing, but what is it we are supposed to be looking at?
The mild, unprepossessing Ziyi Zhang, so good recently in 2046, seems unsure as to the meaning of her lines. Michelle Yeoh, playing the more kindly of the young geisha's two mentors, spouts her fortune cookie maxims with as little respect as they deserve. Ken Watanabe, the presumed love interest, never recovers from a creepy early scene in which his character buys the infant Sayuri an ice.
Only Gong Li, as the protagonist's great rival, shines. Chairs, screens and other items of scenery may indeed be seen quaking for fear of gnawing as she passes, but her outrageous, spitting fury provides one of the film's few genuine pleasures.
Dump this in the same file - Books that Should Have Stayed Books - as Captain Corelli's Mandolin, The Shipping News and Charlotte Gray.
Donald Clarke
