Untied to anything concrete, "The Pillow Book" presents the interesting perspective of a young woman's sexuality. Directed oddly; it expositions through screen in screen images, by swift changes in time, and repetitious cues of music. The plot, Nagiko's retaliation against a lecherous book publisher for his abuse of her father, remains secondary to the stunning visual and emotional work.
The cultural of practice of writing on the body is Nagiko's erotic challenge. A ritual performed on childrens' birthdays, Nagiko carries this body art into her adulthood, recreating it into her mode of sexual communication. In a lover, she seeks both a man who will appreciate her sexuality and have proper calligraphic form to please her sense of art. It is difficult (she tells us in voice over,) since the best calligraphers are shy and inhibited, and, the best lovers are easily distracted. Her search presents amusing situations: she asks a man in an elevator to write his name under the soft flesh of her breasts, a sort of cold call for prospective lovers. Ultimately, Jerome (Ewan McGregor,) a young English translator, presents the necessary credentials. Jerome challenges Nagiko to use him as her canvas, an idea that confuses her at first. She can not discern the pleasure of writing on someone other than herself. Intrigued, she tries it. The transition from canvas to writer binds Nagiko to Jerome in a way in which lovers become more than lovers. This is the best work of the film. Their lust is conceived in a strange nudity marked with the figures of their poetry; in these scenes the cinematography overwhelms. Brushed black, gold and red paint on their bodies swirls as they go from writing table to bed to bath. The director can make black ink running down the drain of a bathtub look beautiful. Their emotional development culminates in a test of betrayal. Jerome stands outside Nagiko's apartment screaming to be let in, while she sits on the other side, barren in a pale dress, crying. Spending most of the film undressed, it is jarring to see her the most naked she has ever been, in a floor length gown.
The film is not for literal minded people. Nagiko's lifestyle is vague and the constant camera work drifting by is not easy to follow. Dialogue is sparse and many embellishments, such as French subtitles to a French song seem eye-rollingly arthouse. The plot includes various uncomfortable turns. But the film has much to offer: a female lead not only comfortable in her sexuality but driven to satisfy it, beautiful poetry, imagery, ideas to pick over days after seeing the film. I won't forgot this one.
The cultural of practice of writing on the body is Nagiko's erotic challenge. A ritual performed on childrens' birthdays, Nagiko carries this body art into her adulthood, recreating it into her mode of sexual communication. In a lover, she seeks both a man who will appreciate her sexuality and have proper calligraphic form to please her sense of art. It is difficult (she tells us in voice over,) since the best calligraphers are shy and inhibited, and, the best lovers are easily distracted. Her search presents amusing situations: she asks a man in an elevator to write his name under the soft flesh of her breasts, a sort of cold call for prospective lovers. Ultimately, Jerome (Ewan McGregor,) a young English translator, presents the necessary credentials. Jerome challenges Nagiko to use him as her canvas, an idea that confuses her at first. She can not discern the pleasure of writing on someone other than herself. Intrigued, she tries it. The transition from canvas to writer binds Nagiko to Jerome in a way in which lovers become more than lovers. This is the best work of the film. Their lust is conceived in a strange nudity marked with the figures of their poetry; in these scenes the cinematography overwhelms. Brushed black, gold and red paint on their bodies swirls as they go from writing table to bed to bath. The director can make black ink running down the drain of a bathtub look beautiful. Their emotional development culminates in a test of betrayal. Jerome stands outside Nagiko's apartment screaming to be let in, while she sits on the other side, barren in a pale dress, crying. Spending most of the film undressed, it is jarring to see her the most naked she has ever been, in a floor length gown.
The film is not for literal minded people. Nagiko's lifestyle is vague and the constant camera work drifting by is not easy to follow. Dialogue is sparse and many embellishments, such as French subtitles to a French song seem eye-rollingly arthouse. The plot includes various uncomfortable turns. But the film has much to offer: a female lead not only comfortable in her sexuality but driven to satisfy it, beautiful poetry, imagery, ideas to pick over days after seeing the film. I won't forgot this one.