I cannot recommend this movie.

Rating: 1/10 (19 January 2001)

As proof positive that I attended this film and did so with an open mind, I even arrived on time and saw a delightful promo for Hannibal. With one hand in the popcorn and the other on my cell phone, I eagerly awaited one of the most anticipated films of the year. Such promise, and so easily thwarted. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Ang Lee's meticulously crafted, odious tone poem, together with its Lawrence Welk-ish soundtrack, left me mortified. But before I get into the details, let me first thank Mr. Lee for challenging all of my romanticized assumptions about 19th century China.
China, long open to outsiders like Bernardo Bertolucci who were unable to offer an authentic critique, has finally permitted one of its own to do just that. Enter Ang Lee, attempting to set the record straight with his own brand of revisionist history as told through a cliché kung fu morality tale. As visually stunning as Crouching Tiger arguably is, one cannot help but notice Mr. Lee's overbearing reliance on cheap, gimmicky special effects and tediously over-choreographed swashbuckler sequences, of which there are far too many. If this film has a point, it is buried under the weight of its snobbish nods to Shakespeare and Moliere. Gone, apparently, are the days when a film could survive on its own merits rather than rely on the tiresome crutch of allusion and mimicry. Yes, the film is dazzling and glitzy, but those attributes are no substitute for accuracy, authenticity, originality and grace. Exactly how many sunsets and moonscapes can one cram into a two hour movie? Just ask Ang Lee.
Unlike past projects where Mr. Lee has proven himself to be an arguably competent director and storyteller, Crouching Tiger is a formidable and inaccurate mess. It is no English Patient. I have often been fascinated by Asia Minor, and China is no exception. This film so completely whitewashes the Tienamen Square incident that perhaps Mr. Lee was unconsciously expressing a repressed love for the works of Leni Reifenstahl. Seeing this movie, you wouldn't think that the Chinese ever ate rice, grew or smoked opium, or went to the bathroom. You would think that self-censorship was a good thing. You would want to run out and build hydroelectric dams to wipe out whatever beauty remains in Taiwan. You would want to subsidize plastic surgery for the ugly, guns for the unstable, and showers for the homeless. But Crouching Tiger's artistic license does not end there.
With the principal actors suspended from barely erased wires like marionettes, I half expected Fran, Kukla and Ollie to take up arms and battle the equally riveting Jade Fox. Each character is a caricature; each misplaced and overwrought emotion a manipulative scam. It is as if Mr. Lee dug a little too deeply into his emotional core, defiantly putting onscreen a half-hearted project that would have been much better left on stage at the local dinner theater. Such audacity is unbecoming. That being said, I have little doubt that Crouching Tiger will nonetheless have certain less discerning critics soiling themselves with diarrhea-like approval.
In the interest of full disclosure, I confess that I have not and do not intend to read the source material, which undoubtedly has all the poetry of a Harlequin romance, and the style of a bad television miniseries. Still, one must give Mr. Lee brownie points for setting a new low watermark for cinema. In appealing to the lowest common denominator of soothing the audience with hypnotic images and mind-numbingly familiar content, Mr. Lee here joins the ranks of Steven Spielberg and Nora Ephron. It's like going to church, only it's easier to fall asleep. It's as if Mr. Lee conceptualized and edited the movie while on autopilot. Which guarantees a smooth ride, but I fear that life's complexities are not best explored through paint by numbers, plug and chug filmmaking.
Please don't mistake my constructive criticisms as bitterness. I have full confidence that Mr. Lee will one day make a movie that meets with my approval. But until that day, I shall not forget the saccharin aftertaste of his latest effort.