Part of the Picture: The Good in the Bad and the Ugly
THE GOOD IN THE BAD AND THE UGLY
JULY 5, 2008 - WHEN WE FIRST SET EYES ON JADE FOX (Cheng Pei-Pei) in Ang Lee’s Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, she isn’t a governess fussing over her aristocratic charge (Jen, played by Ziyi Zhang) so much as a mother hen clucking over her daughter before bedtime. “I’ve made you silk pajamas,” she announces. “Do you want to change into them?” And Jen, with the casual cruelty of a youngling determined to rebel against the stifling attentions of a well-meaning elder, commands, “Put them down.” The dynamics of this interaction are so familiar, so universal, that if we didn’t know this was a scene set during the period of the Qing dynasty in China, it could be a tug-of-war between generations taking place today, at a house next door. Jade Fox does as ordered, turns to Jen, begins to free her ward’s hair that’s been sculpted into an elaborately frozen arrangement, and gets into the real reason for her presence there, that night.
“I heard you met Shu Lien today,” Jade Fox enquires, referring to the famous martial arts warrior (played by Michelle Yeoh), who – like Jen and her family – is a guest of Sir Te. Shu Lien has come to Peking to entrust her host with the Green Destiny sword, which belongs to the great Wudan swordsman, Li Mu-bai (Chow Yun-Fat). “Do you know her?” Jen wonders. “She’s one of those,” Jade Fox says, her eyes still fixed on her ward’s hair. “Your mother would not want you consorting with her kind.” And then, slowly, Jade Fox’s eyes wander, seeking out Jen’s reaction in the mirror. Jen looks at her governess looking at her in the mirror. As their eyes lock, the elder woman blinks, as if suddenly reminded about the limits of her authority.
“I’ll socialise with whomever I please,” Jen declares, hinting at a stubborn streak that will soon prompt her to steal the Green Destiny sword and kick the plot of the film into graceful, wire-choreographed motion. Jade Fox knows Jen all too well, but can’t resist issuing this warning. “Don’t invite danger into your father’s house.” But Jen has had enough. She says she’s tired. “Go to bed then,” says Jade Fox, but she doesn’t stop what she’s doing. Jen repeats her desire to be left alone, a little stronger this time. “Enough. I’m tired.” Jade Fox knows she’s beaten. She makes a last stab at a controlling, motherly gesture. “Autumn is coming. I’ll shut the windows for you.” She leaves.
And she goes on to do terrible things. She brings about the death of a police inspector, by hurling into his skull a weapon made of interlocking crescent blades. And most unforgivably, she ensures that the long-simmering union of Shu Lien and Li Mu-bai will never occur, as she fires a poisoned dart into the swordsman’s neck. With all this, Jade Fox is certainly a prime candidate for that staple of good-versus-evil movies known as The Villain We Love To Hate. But hate is not a part of Ang Lee’s noble, now-extinct world and, by emphasising the relationship between Jade Fox and Jen in that earlier scene in front of the mirror, Lee suggests that this isn’t a villain to be pilloried so much as pitied.
Jade Fox isn’t just the mother who made sure that her young one was ready for bed, she was also the teacher who trained Jen in the ways of the Wudan, with the aid of the martial arts manual she stole. But eventually, the student became better than the master, and contemptuous of the fact. “You think you’ve been teaching me all these years from the manual? You couldn’t even decipher the symbols.” A rare tear rolls down an eye as Jade Fox defends herself. “I studied the diagrams. But you hid the details.” Possibly disgusted by this display of weakness, Jen heaps more scorn on the older woman. “You wouldn’t have understood even if I had tried to explain… I hid my skills so as not to hurt you.”
And this frustration of being outstripped and outclassed by everyone around – by the Wudan master who refused to teach her but did not mind sleeping with her; by Shu Lien and Li Mu-bai, each possessing of loftier reputations than she could ever hope to achieve; and, now, by this reed of a girl whom she’s given her all to – is what Lee points us to as Jade Fox meets her end, after firing that poisoned dart into Li Mu-bai. “You deserve to die,” she croaks at the great warrior. “But the life I was hoping to take was Jen’s.” Jade Fox makes an effort and turns to her one-time charge, whose mouth is open with disbelief. “Ten years I devoted to you,” she rages. “But you deceived me. You hid the manual’s true meaning. I never improved. But your progress was limitless. You know what poison is? An eight-year-old girl full of deceit. That’s poison.” But as Jade Fox nears her dying breath, this poison inside her evaporates. She raises an arm and cries, “Jen. My only family. My only enemy.” And she closes her eyes.
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A movie that gets frequent spins in my player. What’s amazing is the way Lee seemingly serves up a traditional martial arts epic while gleefully subverting the genre’s cliches at every turn:
Li Mu Bai is supposed to avenge the death of his master but abandons his intentions within the first half hour of the movie.
As is the norm in these movies, a budding figher (in this case, Jen) would hanker after the tutelage of a seasoned master like Li Mu Bai, but here, it’s the master who repeatedly asks to train the novice, only to be spurned repeatedly.
And in the midst of all the action and intrigue, Lee manages to spin yet another gorgeously romantic variation of Sense (Jen and her Desert Nomad’s passionate affair) and Sensibility (Li Mu Bai and Shue Lien’s repressed feelings for one another).
Lee, easily the most successful Asian Transplant to Hollywood, manages to effortlessly transplant Austen to the Steppes of China, underlying the universal appeal of certain themes. Which makes this a wuxia masterpiece in my humble book.
Damn, now you’ve gone and done it Mr. B…CTHD gets another spin tonight:-)
KayKay: That Austen angle is a great way of looking at the two relationships. Never thought of it that way. Thanks.
KayKay: I too liked the Austen angle you call attention to — completely missed it thru the three viewings of my only Chinese language film thus far.
And oh, I too went looking for the DVD this weekend after reading the piece, and instead wound up with this other (equally fabulous, IMO) Chow Yun-Fat Romance-On-Mute: Anna and the King. This movie too had the(also brief and extremely tragic) parallel romance track: Tuptim and her lover, who eventually becomes a Buddhist monk. It killed me to see how she follows him to the monastery, posing as a monk, and although he couldn’t recognize her, be content from merely being his “brother”…And of course, she is caught (they both are) and brought before court, callously caned and then…Oh well. And right before all of that happens, she says to Anna, “If love was a choice, who would ever choose such exquisite pain?” I’m sure this had some of us feeling like it was our heads the executioners cut off.
P.S: Speaking of quotes, I thought this movie was chockful of memorable nuggets such as these two below:
1) King Mongkut says to Anna,”When a woman who has much to say says nothing, her silence can be deafening.”
2) And the movie’s closing lines…words from the crown prince as he watches his dad, the King, dance with the woman he loves for the very last time, “It is always surprising how small a part of life is taken up by meaningful moments. Most often they’re over before they start, even though they cast a light on the future and make the person who originated them unforgettable.”