August 5, 1997

"Pretentious (adj.) 1. making an excessive claim to great merit or importance. 2. ostentatious; the attempt or intention to attract notice; showing off" (Oxford English Dictionary).

Thus, succinctly, an accurate summation of my opinion of this film. I endured The Pillow Book for over two hours and spent half the time thinking that, yes, all those rumors about the minuscule size of Asian men's penises is true, not to mention that I'd have to reach for the vomit bucket if I had to read one more excruciatingly pointless statement put up on the screen (e.g., that profound philosophical question, "Does a book have parents?"). For God's sake, does ANYONE CARE???

A pillow book is "a list of elegant things that makes one's heart beat faster." Nagiko (Vivian Wu) grows up being told by her mother that the only two certain things in life are the delights of the flesh and of literature. Seeking to fill her own pillow book, Nagiko combines the two - paper reminds her of the scent of skin - and seeks out lovers ("the quill is like the instrument of pleasure") to remind her of the pleasures of calligraphy. Yes, she gets off by having men write on her. Of course she then has to deal with that great conundrum - what is better: an excellent lover who is a bad calligrapher, or vice versa?

As fortune may have it, she encounters an Englishman, Jerome (the well-endowed Ewan McGregor), who seems to score on both points. He also happens to be the lover of a publisher whom she would like to have produce her books. Cue French music ("un ange blonde, un parfait melange" - a blond angel, a perfect mixture), chiffon blowing in the breeze, much wild interlocking of body parts, and the first of thirteen (yes, thirteen, and you have to sit through them all) books written on bodies. But tragedy lies in the wings. Roll the drums; it's time for the spurned lover suicide scene. I don't feel like I'm giving anything away, as I doubt you'll care one bit; I certainly didn't.

Director Greenaway is famous for his indifference to his actors - they are merely part of his "canvas". Well, he also appears to be oblivious to character and plot development. His inability to relate to arguably his most essential tool, the actors, shows in portrayals I found stilted, forced and wholly unbelievable. Without the assistance of a company of experienced, professional actors like he had in The Cook, the Thief, the Wife and Her Lover, this is one contrived, convoluted, wordy and uncinematic mess.

After much watch-looking and sighing, I was left with the lasting impression that this film is much like a Japanese sports car - sure, it looks and goes fast, and it's comfortable - but it ain't got no soul. It's all very well trying to push the bounds of art, but if picture in picture is the only innovation - hey, I can press some buttons on my remote control at home to see that on TV.

Peter Lewis A true African-American, Peter has led a peripatetic lifestle, and after graduating from UCF with a film degree, he is pondering life as another wannabe, devoting his time to working on a novel, his thesis film, a suntan and the dubious benefits of Rogaine. Other Articles I've Written