Dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, France/Italy/UK, 1987, 226mins
Cast:
John Lone, Joan Chen, Peter O'Toole, Ruocheng Ying
On its original release in 1986 The Last Emperor won a total of nine richly deserved Oscars, and now it's being released as a director's cut at a truly stunning length of 226 mins. Epic indeed. Everything about the film is a sensual feast: the cinematography, the music, the sweeping story, the characters; the length. Although the prospect of sitting in the cinema for the best part of four hours may seem quite daunting, it's worth the wait.
The film crafts a dramatic history of the world's oldest continuous nation during its most turbulent period through the story of Pu Yi, the last emperor of China. Spanning his life from the age of three, when he was brought to the Forbidden City and became ruler, to his death during the Cultural Revolution, by which time he was a gardener in Peking, it takes in the first republic, the era of the war-lords, the Japanese invasion and the Communists. The real journey of this epic then is personal, following Pu Yi from imperious ruler at a tender age through a confused adolescence - "the loneliest boy on Earth" in the words of RJ, his English tutor. Through his turbulent life and doomed attempts to reinstate his rule, he learns the nature of power, finally reaching an understanding of his own existence and his right to rule over no one but himself.
Pu Yi is movingly played by John Lone as a complicated man; we gain an intimate understanding of him, yet he can be difficult to like. He turns his back on his wife when she disagrees with him, he struggles to see the humanity in his faithful servant and he consistently fails to find the courage to make a stand. It is testament to Lone's performance that we are able to see his humanity and actually end up admiring him. The power plays in this film are fascinating: as Pu Yi struggles to assert his imperial birthright, it's clear that at all times he's in the power of others, be they the Eunuchs shadow-ruling the Forbidden City, the Japanese or the Communists. There's a magnificent scene between RJ (the young Emperor's English tutor, played by Peter O'Toole) and the Lord Chancellor, as they argue over whether their charge should be allowed to wear glasses. It is feared they would appear too Western, but it soon becomes clear that there is a deeper subtext. Arching his eyebrows, the Eunuch asks RJ what he really wants, to which he replies with an expression only O'Toole can convey, "just the spectacles". O'Toole adds a great weight to the film, just as Joan Chen's beautiful Empress adds a tragic empathy, struggling to no avail against her husband's decision to 'go to bed' with the Japanese before succumbing to Opium addiction.
As the first Western filmmakers allowed into modern-day China, shooting on location in the Forbidden City, it's a coup that Bertolucci and his team were there at all. It's understandable therefore (if intriguing) that they portray the communist revolution as bloodless and without pain to anyone but those unpatriotic types who assisted the Japanese occupiers. In fact it's in the prison - sorry, re-education centre - that the film encounters its most sympathetic character in the form of the Governor (Ruocheng). Always soothing any signs of impending brutality in Pu Yi's interrogations by the Communist Party, we see him reading RJ's account of his experience in the company of the Emperor in an effort to understand him, identifying closely with us as an audience. Yet he's firm with Pu Yi, forcing him to accept his own mortality and the humanity of others, and is the main driving force for the film's idea of redemption. The deep relationship that develops between the two men brings us the touching denouement in the march heralding the Cultural Revolution (obviously the point where Bertolucci loses patience with the regime as he depicts the Governor being paraded through Beijing in shame) when Pu Yi makes a stand on behalf of his friend - a sign that he really has learned from his former teacher.
The vivid colours and textures - the yellow and red silks of the Forbidden City, the blues and greys of the prison - are so perfectly realised in Vittorio Storaro's cinematography and Ferdinando Scarfiotti's design as to be almost tangible. Add to this the genuinely stirring score by Su Cong and you have as close to a masterpiece as Bertolucci is likely to get.
Kerry McLeod
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