Movie Review of ‘The Last Emperor’ (1987)
By Ancroo Fandet
It surely has been a constant brilliance and startle to see an epic film with a great person involved in a
period of either kind of convulsion. A traditional epic of this kind seems to always feature a giant
acting their magnificence on history, as in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ (1962) we see T.E. Lawrence, and in
‘Gandhi’ (1982) we have Mahatma Gandhi. However, an alternative epic movie can still manage to tag
on our inner strings with its nontraditional characters. And ‘The Last Emperor’ (1987) possesses the
exact qualities to make that possible.
To define ‘nontraditional’, the outstanding director Bernardo Bertolucci with his writing pal Mark
Peploe takes on the arduous chore of depicting the volatile landscape of China’s first half of 20th
century around the portrait of China’s last emperor Aisin Gioro Pu Yi (adult by John Lone), who was at
the center of all the upheaval while exerting almost no influence on it. The boy was 3 when he was
first crowned as emperor of China, and only four years passed when he abdicated. He had barely
reached what is seen in the West the age of reason, and already events beyond his control had shaped
his life forever. Manipulated as a pawn and clown throughout his life, Pu Yi hadn’t really done anything
for himself. He was controlled by the eunuchs and high consorts, imprisoned by his servants, exploited
for purposes of others, and valued for what he actually wasn’t.
Covering a long span in history, the film is crosscut between Pu Yi’s days later at the reeducation camp
after the Great War and his early life in and out of the Forbidden City (the imperial palace of Manchoo
Dynasty), built upon the recall of his memories. And it is the powerless puppet paralleled with the
revolutionary turmoil of early 20th century of China that makes the feature an elegiac tragedy. Several
splendid match cuts makes the switches smooth as possible where we sail along with Pu Yi through his
life of elegance and woe.
The movie reveals his impotency almost immediately and then all along: his forced separation from his
mother and transfer to the Forbidden City, his being stopped by his own guards from leaving his house,
his dealings with the eunuchs and his manipulation by the Japanese while maintaining the false belief
of still being the emperor of the so-called Manchukuo under actual control of Japanese. And as you
may imagine that, all of this eventually generates fear and disillusion in being an independent and
useful man after he is seized and held in the deprogramming camp and afterwards, for life has already
deprived him of that hope of taking even some bit of control by himself.
There is a scene at the coronation of little Pu Yi, a majestic long take of the great irony in him. The
little emperor, seated on the Dragon Throne as he grows restless as small boys would do, then
captured by the billowing drapery at the entrance of throne room (a yellow one-the color reserved
only for the emperor), runs toward the door trying desperately to poke the drapery aside. Then the
obstructed sight is cleared with arrays of light coming in, showing an incredible view: thousands of
minions are kowtowing to him lined up in geometric precision, whilst on his face we only see
confusion and dread. The image is effectively meaningful because the bowing means nothing to a boy,
and the servants are dedicated to nothing with few real value.
The entire story narrated from the view of Pu Yi, together flows with ups and downs, grandeur and
pity, glory and lament of a lifetime. Also to our credit is the soft scores composed by a joint trio of
musicians (Ryuichi Sakamoto, David Byrne and Cong Su), which see a fascinating blend of eastern and
western music traditions. There isn’t much action in the film, as we would expect from a powerless
man who can do nothing to things happening on and around him. Vittorio Storaro’s velvety and
delicate cinematography sufficiently adds to the smooth texture of the narrative, too. Organic shots
and motions presented a reality created of unaffected nature, fitting well into other remarkable
neorealistic works. His original use of light for the duration of his life inventively molds the iconic tonal
montage that accurately delineates his fluctuating mood and situation. All of these elements lend
themselves together to a gentle sense of rhythm fused with looming tension that is inherent in the
dynamics of the characters.
After ten years of detention at the camp, reeducation finally makes him into a gardener, perhaps his
happiest occupation ever, while he at least can live a life on his own. As in ‘Citizen Kane’ (1941)’s end,
one of the tycoon’s friends says, “I was there to before the beginning - and I’m here, beyond the end.”
In the final sequence, which is a way transcendent ending for the film, Pu Yi buys a ticket into his
former house (which is now open to tourists), and as he gazes upon the Dragon Throne, we seem to
be crushed on with an amalgam of emotions from his face: melancholy? bittersweet? Embodying all
of the paradoxes of 20th century China, the man encompasses the whole answers. There is much to
mull till the end, but what I am pretty sure is that, the post-watching thinking is more than
worthwhile.