The visual delight is undeniable; Rob Marshall’s screen rendition of Memoirs of a Geisha excels in cinematographic splendor. Its reproduction of Japan from the early 30s to the late 40s might make Mr. Coppola envious. This is your first impression, as you slump down in your seat for the 2 hour and 25 minute journey that the film promises. To download Memoirs of a Geisha click on link bellow.

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There is a story, or so I am told by an anonymous pundit. The Cinderella story, that has been recounted myriad times, is revisited by the bestselling author, Arthur Golden, with the exotically mystifying air of the orient as a backdrop. Doubtless, this must account for the predictability that every so often punctuates the script like a dull thud.

Poor fishing-village girl, Chiyo, (Suzuka Ohgo, until she reaches her 20s after which the stellar Ziyi Zhang steps in, the unblemished lotus of 2046, amongst many other credits), with little or no future, is sold by family into a house of Geishas – those “moving works of art” of yore that were not, by any stretch of the imagination, prostitutes – and has to fight, literally tooth and nail, to gain ascendancy in a fading profession. Her prince valiant (Ken Watanabe of The Last Samurai fame) is a successful Japanese businessman who lives up to the reputation by buying the then 15 year old Chiyo sweets during a chance encounter on a busy street. He frequents the house of Geisha Mameha (Michelle Yeoh) who he later persuades to become Chiyo’s protectoress.

The evil step-sister, Hatsumomo, magnificently portrayed by Gong Li, (Farewell my Concubine, Raise the Red Lantern) is there to make the upward climb markedly more thorny. The scenes between Li and, both the adolescent and later, 20 something year old, Chiyo range from riveting to over the top. The complexities of being a Geisha are sometimes lost and sometimes subtly amplified in the movie’s depiction of female rivalry.

The lack of fluency in English is surely apparent, irritating the spectator who has just sunk deeper into the seat in search of a lost popcorn kernel that now feels more like a chip of granite. Why wasn’t the movie filmed in Japanese, increasing a much needed authenticity? Well, because the three main female roles (Chiyo, later to be renamed Sayuri after achieving full Geishahood, Hatsumomo and Mameha) were performed by Chinese actresses who, despite their abundant talent, do not speak Japanese. The few times one hears Ziyi Zhang attempting a word or two in Japanese she sounds more American than Chinese.  This wreaks havoc with the pacing that at times drags needlessly, plunging the personages into caricatures of what should have been their true parts.

The interlude represented by WWII is refreshing inasmuch as it provides us with a well-deserved break from the lethargic dialogue.

The soul of Japanese culture, however, makes its presence strongly felt in the movie: the insularity and claustrophobic mystique, the obsessive cult of beauty beyond any measure of practicality, the desire to be perfectly what one is not, the need to defy and modify nature in almost every one of its expressions, the deliberate lack of decisiveness in most of what is said. These traits lend the work a sense of legitimacy and are a testament to the excellence of the acting talent, especially those who are not Japanese. Ken Watanabe is superb, but he had already shown American audiences his depth of emotion in The Last Samurai, despite being snubbed by Hollywood for the Best Supporting Actor Academy Award.

Overall, the film has its moments. Gong Li, Michelle Yeoh, Ziyi Zhang, and the unforgettable Pumpkin (Youki Kudoh), whose drunken sultriness later in the movie contrasts to perfection with her timid school-girl giggles in the pre-war segment, are masters of subtle expression, lending authenticity to what might have otherwise drowned in a sea of trite Hollywood alienation. Several scenes where they embark on the mischievous antics of leisurely female trophies force us to sit up straight in the seat again. They remind us of just how much we are missing when we ignore their work in films that fully showcase their natural talents and cultural fluidity.

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