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It's funny, what we think we need. Certainly we could use a few more parking spaces, a copy machine that never jams and pizza that doesn't burn the roof of your mouth. But we'd be hard put to rationalise the pressing necessity for yet another telling of British schoolmarm Anna Leonowens' cultural epiphany during her service to the King of Siam in the 1860s, even if it did have something of substance to add to the old chestnut. Of course that matters little in Tinsel Town, where they'll use just about any excuse to drag out the costumes, and where even the law of supply and demand has an agent and wears sunglasses. Hence, the arrival of this pretentious, politically correct travelogue is really no puzzlement.
It's also no surprise that everything seems a bit out of kilter. Naturally every period piece bears the aura of the time from which it emanates. Historical movies need a little bit of present-mindedness to help translate the epoch in question. Too many thees and thous bombarding us in Dolby sound, and folks rampantly spelling pvblic with a v, could be a tad confounding. But the inherent anachronisms here are just too obvious.
Jodie Foster as widow Anna Leonowens, the distaff side of the saga's getting-to-know-you protagonists, offers little help. Betrayed by the screen image she has nurtured, that self-actualising woman of the 1990s follows her all the way back to the 1860s, where she assures the Siamese king, played by Chow Yun-Fat, that she is certainly all that, in a manner of speaking. Much to the chagrin of the Indian servants who accompany her to Mongkut's kingdom, the self-confident widow openly opines that "The way of England is the way of the world."
The king pretty much agrees, or he wouldn't be putting up with this brazen lass, let alone her lousy accent. Miss Foster's oddly disconcerting tussle with an English speaking voice recalls the legions of American rockers during the 1960s who liked pretending they were part of the British invasion. Too bad this is supposed to be pre-abolition Siam, and not Carnaby Street.
Chow Yun-Fat, on the other hand, should be given an Oscar in a completely new category: Best Performance By An Actor In A Totally Impossible, Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don't Role. It would be impertinent to avoid paying homage to the iconic King Mongkut who Yul Brynner made into an international entity with the musical The King and I; but to directly copy the strutting peacock of a monarch could only bring catcalls and cries of impostor. Yet Mr. Yun-Fat, matinee idol of the Hong Kong action genre, rises to the occasion by issuing an impressive, albeit thankless, karate chop to this catch #22 assignment.
Walking an artistically cautious line (barefoot of course), he humanises the otherwise infallible leader without relinquishing Mongkut's dictatorial eminence. And what little credibility can be ascribed to the film's romantic angle is solely attributable to his charismatic demeanour. Mr. Yun-Fat is phat indeed, to coin a phrase. But exposed to his charms, Miss Foster's prim and proper Englishwoman melts without conviction.
For those viewers who have spent the last fifty years or so in outer space, and therefore haven't seen either the 1947 Irene Dunne & Rex Harrison version (Anna and the King Of Siam) or the world-renowned musical featuring Deborah Kerr as the king-challenging teacher, a synopsis of the plot is in order. Note then that Anna Leonowens, staunch subject of the British crown, with adolescent son Louis (Tom Felton) in tow ("Mother, what's a concubine?"), travels to Siam when the ruler of that intriguing land retains her to teach his eldest son and heir apparent "the ways of England." Both teacher and employer have very definite preconceptions. Which of course makes them perfectly suitable opposites.
Trouble brews early when the king informs Anna that she will also tutor his 57 other children in addition to his newest concubine, Tuptim (Bai Ling), who later figures in a rather tragic sub-text that can best be described as an Oriental version of Yentl. And in another contractual abrogation, Miss Leonowens is told she will initially reside within the castle walls, rather than in her own domicile as originally promised. Their first quarrel ensues; but the king is a convincing diplomat. And Anna learns that change comes slowly in Siam. Demurring, she agrees to a measure of patience, for a while.
It is King Mongkut's dream that his son's reign will be less authoritarian than his. Yet in the film's built-in poly-sci lesson, his highness vehemently argues the necessity of upholding old traditions, both valid and regrettable, until such reforms can be adopted.
Like the white elephant emblazoned on the Siamese flag, Anna is a rarity -- a symbol of illumination. Winning both his ire and respect, she has the temerity to challenge her royal boss for his defence of slavery and other despotic practices that no longer exist under the British system of constitutional monarchy. But the romantic in her is smitten by the enlightened soul she knows exists beneath the royal robes. And since behind every great reformist king there is a woman, cheeky Anna figures why not her. She'll be the afflatus who brings enlightenment to Siam. Meanwhile, the sexual tension grows, and they bicker until, oh well, you get the idea.
The script by Steve Meerson and Peter Krikes (based on the diaries of Anna Leonowens), directed sans any definite style and with a curious sense of chronology by Andy Tennant, tosses in a revisionist segue about court intrigue that plays like a Siamese version of King Richard's travail in the "Robin Hood" tale. It's hardly worth all the serious treatment Anna and the King gets. And though one hopes that the picturesque Malaysian locations will lift the film above its mediocrity, Caleb Deschanel's vague and unimaginative cinematography also appears infected by what ails this movie.
Here's the problem. If this particular story about an Oriental king and an Occidental commoner is an especially novel one, you couldn't prove it by any of the renditions to date. What's more, historians pretty much agree that Mrs. Leonowens may have romanticised her adventure in the first place. There can be no claim here of a more accurate exposition. Thus it follows that a lavish musical version in the finest Hollywood tradition is the most entertaining way to tell what is ostensibly a fairy tale. But we already have that version; a landmark film. And since no work of art exists in a vacuum, this effort is dwarfed by that famous movie's shadow. Therefore, if someone should ask, "Shall we dance, to a theatre showing Anna and the King?" the advice here is to sit this one out.
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