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No pillow talk The obtuse style of Peter Greenaway by MATTHEW HAYS
Prospero's Books was his followup, and most critics and audiences were clearly hoping Greenaway would sell out at the right price. Go a little mainstream, keep the over-the-top elements, but don't get so steeped in film theory. Remember: not everyone went to film school. To his credit, Greenaway has never tried to lose his unique edge. Prospero's Books was a risky and fascinating adaptation of The Tempest, and while a handful of critics got it, others were put off by a film which was made up largely of John Gielgud reciting monologues. His next film, The Baby of Macon, managed to infuriate some feminist critics due to an arduous rape scene. The film received a half-assed distribution in North America and Greenaway suffered the indignity of critics actually cancelling interviews while he was on the promo circuit at film festivals. Greenaway cheerleaders are declaring his latest film, The Pillow Book, his most accessible. It isn't--Greenaway hasn't softened his touch.
The Pillow Book is a highly intelligent film. It is, however, so steeped in film theory as to undoubtedly turn off the vast majority of filmgoers, especially in this particularly mindless summer movie season. Even as a highfalutin' oddity, though, The Pillow Book is not without faults. It's difficult to wade into and feels overlong (two critics fell asleep during the screening I attended; one snored quite loudly). Perhaps the motto for this film should read: soon to be playing in film school Deconstruction 101 classes everywhere. The Pillow Book opens this Friday, June 20. See film listings for showtimes |
Peter Greenaway has been having a rough time over the past few years. The darling of the art-house film circuit made a series of stunning films in the '80s and early '90s, including The Draughtsman's Contract, A Zed and Two Noughts and Drowning By Numbers. His apotheosis came in 1989 with The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover, a brilliant, hilarious and terrifying film about interactions between several bizarre characters. This film, whose gratuitous imagery pushed cinematic excess to its limits, was the closest thing to a crossover success Greenaway ever had.
Based on the Japanese tradition of pillow books (which are essentially diaries), Greenaway's screenplay is set in 1999, when a woman (Vivian Wu) with a fetish for having her lovers paint words on her body comes into contact with McGregor. He's hopeless at body calligraphy but, in a bid to bed her, suggests she take up the pen and paint his body as part of their foreplay. Greenaway's plot is typically convoluted and complicated, full of endless twists, turns and tangents (no room for a flow chart here).