House of Flying Daggers
by Christina Lee
Christina Lee is a Doctoral candidate at Murdoch University (Western Australia) in Cinema and Cultural Studies, and teaches in these fields. Her dissertation looks at women's changing representations in contemporary youth cinema.
Following in the footsteps of films such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (dir. Ang Lee, 2000) and Hero (dir. Zhang Yimou, 2002) is Zhang Yimou’s stunning House of Flying Daggers (2004). Seamlessly blending the aesthetic and narrative tradition of the wuxia pian (swordplay movie) with the technologics and special effects of modern filmmaking, House of Flying Daggers is distinctively rooted in Chinese folklore, tailored for a transnational audience. Differing from the chopsockydom of cultish kungfu films, the wuxia pian is characterised by its evocation of “a mythical, fantastical realm that can coexist with real, historical characters and situations” – as was evident in Hero which was loosely based on historical events (1). While the characters in House of Flying Daggers perform impossible martial arts feats typical of the genre – gravity-defying leaps, flying through air and perfect precision in weapon-wielding – the effect is less superhuman and comic than it is visually poetic.
House of Flying Daggers is a tale of love lost and found, set in 859 AD China at the end of the Tang Dynasty. The ruling corrupt government is threatened by an insurgent rogue organisation called the House of Flying Daggers. Two deputies of the army, Leo (Andy Lau) and Jin (Takeshi Kaneshiro), hatch an elaborate plan to infiltrate the outlaw group by gaining the confidence of a blind dancing girl, Mei (Zhang Ziyi), whom they suspect to be the leader’s daughter. Mei is captured and imprisoned, then rescued by Jin who poses as her ally. En route to the headquarters of the Flying Daggers, the two must fend off soldiers who have been ordered to kill upon sight. Shadowing the pair’s movements, Leo’s secret liaisons with his compatriot reveal that Jin’s true identity has been withheld from their assailants for tactical purposes. As their journey into the wilderness deepens, so does the emotional bond between Jin and Mei. Their relationship becomes the focal point of the narrative’s tension as the story gradually arches towards the inevitable decision which Jin must make – heart or hearth, honouring nation or the love of a woman. A sacrifice is imminent.
In comparison to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Hero, House of Flying Daggers is a simpler story. While the former two weave together multiple narratives of their many principal characters, the latter is concentrated almost solely on the trio consisting of Jin, Mei and Leo. Although the blossoming affair between Mei and Jin arguably lacks the tenderness that marked the earlier films, it is replaced with an almost raw and fierce intensity that is equally powerful, in no small part due to the performances of its cast. Replacing Gong Li as Zhang Yimou’s muse, Zhang Ziyi is at once the image of childlike innocence and stubborn fortitude. Takeshi Kaneshiro is convincing as the playboy deputy turned virtuous hero, while Andy Lau makes the successful transition from contemporary pop celebrity into a leading character of this mythical period piece. The taut dynamics between the triptych provides a riveting study of the conflicting emotions of deception, betrayal, jealousy, sincerity, forgiveness and unconditional love.
Borrowing from the aesthetics of classical Chinese paintings, House of Flying Daggers is exemplary of ‘moving art’ with its careful compositions that hark back to an older tradition predating the camera obscura. For instance, characters are frequently dwarfed by the natural landscape – harmonious representations in which humans are but one element in the grander scheme of life. This lends the film a lyrical quality and gentle cadence in between fast and furious action scenes. The richness of the colour palette and almost chameleon-like change in the pastoral scenery – from barren woods, to lush bamboo forests to a snow-covered field – is metaphoric of the story’s narrative shifts and the characters’ emotional trajectories. Shigeru Umebayashi’s original score is a haunting addition to the film, underlaying the mise-en-scene with an achingly beautiful, elegiac texture.
As one of the most prominent filmmakers to have emerged from the Beijing Film Academy after the Cultural Revolution, the extraordinary talent of Zhang Yimou continues to be showcased in House of Flying Daggers (2). Since his directorial debut of Red Sorghum in 1987, he has fluidly shifted between successful low-budget features such as Not One Less (1999) to large-scale epics such as Hero. While various criticisms may point to the increasingly transnational spectatorship that his films hail, the so-called pandering of East to West, the popularisation of the wuxia pian in commercial cinema is a progressive step forwards in bringing to attention the cultural nuances of a genre that has largely been restricted to native audiences, specialist cinemas and cult film followers in the past. House of Flying Daggers is a welcome entry that not only signifies the expansion of our spectrum of cinematic pleasures, but also the deserved recognition of international artists and projects.
Notes
- Bhaskar Sarkar. “ Hong Kong hysteria: Martial arts tales from a mutating world” in At Full Speed: Hong Kong Cinema in a Borderless World. Esther C. M. Yau (ed.) Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2001. p. 165.
- In addition to his directorial credits, Zhang Yimou has also garnered recognition as a cinematographer and actor.
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