Yimou’s newest will please a different set of audiences.
In 2004, filmmaker Zhang Yimou dipped into fantasy and mythology with a pair of high octane martial arts films, but for the fifth generation filmmaker it is depictions of Chinese rural communities that have made him an art-house/film festival favorite. It’s safe to say that those who embrace Riding Alone for a Thousand Miles are the sort of audiences who come prepared with packets of tissues and are well versed with the type of films that carry subtitles combined with a slow paced narratives and images that a worth a thousand words. Satisfaction is guaranteed for those who don’t mind their buttons being slightly pushed.
Some folks are better at communicating their sorrow via the spoken or written word; in this case an elderly father uses the filmmaking medium towards a path of reconciliation with his ailing adult son. Based on a classic piece of Chinese literature and located in China’s curvy, mountainous, desolate and isolated Yunnan Province, here Yimou doubles the cautionary father at odds with son tale by first developing an introductory storyline of a father trying to make amends with the past and by doing so by making amends in the present. In Yimou’s generational tale we find that distance is one more factor that adds to the strain and complexities of understanding, but over the long run this drama sparks comparisons to Jan Sverak’s Kolya where elder man and young boy gravitate towards a healthy father and son relationship despite bloodline and linguistic differences.
Embodying the notion of expressing remorse and gratitude through the non-verbal, this is a role that is custom-fitted for actor Ken Takakura as he convincingly plays the man willing to trek many miles back and forth. This character also works as an allegory for the difficulties of a filmmaker. The protagonist often digs himself out of roadblocks being resourceful at obtaining permits for filming, dealing with the lead actor who can’t perform and uncooperative young actors or the vast mechanical failures and communication problems are perhaps some of the situations that Yimou encountered on he sets of Hero and House of Flying Daggers.
Less colorful and most contemporary of his previous films, with more substance in the first 10 minutes than there are in some feature length films, Yimou banks on symbolic value of each scene, on the humor and sincerity of people’s actions and the total sum of life-changing experiences in the classically told narrative form to bring out the film’s rich colors. Choice in shots at location makes this Hong Kong/Chinese/Japanese co-production an even stronger family film. This is a sentimental treat that visibly tries to manipulate, but won’t emphatically make you question why.
