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The Pillow Book (1996)

A review by Damian Cannon.
Copyright © Movie Reviews UK 1997
A hauntingly beautiful, complex binding together of love and literature, The Pillow Book is a compelling and difficult piece of work. In Kyoto, Nagiko Kiohara (Vivian Wu, when adult) has become accustomed to having her face painted in an annual birthday ritual. On the very same date, her father (Ken Ogata) is visited by his publisher (Yoshi Oida). Since Nagiko's father is a far better calligrapher than he is an author, his writings are only printed in exchange for sexual favours. These are witnessed by Nagiko when she is 4, while her aunt (Hideko Yoshida) is reading from The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, but there is no comprehension of her brief observation.

When she is 6, again on her birthday, Nagiko visits the publisher's workshop and sees the publisher's 10 year-old nephew. Such is the publisher's hold over her father that this boy has been selected as her future husband (Ken Mitsuishi). Unfortunately, he is nothing but a lout, concerned only with archery and devoid of affection for books. In fact, so limited is his imagination that he refuses to paint her face and tries to restrict her literary travels. Constrained so brutally, Nagiko can only pour her troubles and negative thoughts into her diary (which she's kept since becoming 6). However, her husband discovers these, whereupon her unflattering comments drive him into a rage. Her writings are consumed by fire.

Forced to flee from Japan to Hong Kong, Nagiko became a fashion model (her present day occupation). The journey was tough, from dish-washer to designer's clerk, but a fortuitous discovery cemented her fortune. Now a cultured lady, fluent in English and Chinese, Nagiko still desires the pleasures of brush-strokes upon her skin. The difficulty is in finding a man who is both a creative calligrapher and a satisfying lover. During her endless search, Hoki (Yutaka Honda), a freelance photographer, becomes obsessed by her. He fails to match up to her criteria though, so Nagiko is quick to dismiss him. A far more alluring possibility is Jerome (Ewan McGregor), an English translator whom Nagiko comes across in the Cafe Typo. Despite being a scribbler, he holds a special fascination for Nagiko.

In the typical Peter Greenaway fashion, The Pillow Book appears to represent a triumph of style over substance. The screen is filled with a dazzling succession of images, manipulated and displayed in a variety of formats (while the story unfolds below). However, the storyline only appears initially weak when contrasted with the overwhelming visual strength of the film -- in normal terms, the story is easily as fulfilling as that found in any good movie. Trying to describe the ways in which Greenaway uses the screen as a canvas is ultimately pointless, since the results demand to be watched, but in simple terms the picture is divided into several elements. The dominant view is often of the current scene while smaller frames, fragile text, informative juxtapositions and pertinent symbols are overlaid. The combinations are stunning, gorged with information and positioned with surgical precision.

While the visual aspects are ground-breaking, particularly in the sparing use of colour, the characters and their actions are no less impressive. Nagiko, from a very young age, is taught the joys of calligraphy and the joy that it can bring. As her need to act as someone's fleshy paper becomes an erotic drive, so a central part of her personality develops. A link is made between sex and the written character, symbols which are innately sensuous with their smooth curves and sweeping strokes. Together with the wish to exact revenge upon the publisher, for a selection of heinous sins, the core motivations of Nagiko are apparent. The catalyst which allows release is Jerome, an outsider who makes Nagiko aware of an opportunity that she wasn't even aware she was waiting for. These are a pair of fine roles, which Wu and McGregor play to perfection.

The inherent drawback of The Pillow Book is that it requires two viewings to unravel the complex web of past/present, image/word and life/death. Typically, the first encounter reveals a fabulously attractive but empty film, obtuse, confused and pretentious. It's only on the succeeding attempt that the pieces snap into place and the story takes shape (the delicate construction then becomes obvious). The key to this transformation is that all of the secondary prompts can be recognised when the main picture has been seen before (and it's in these visual fragments that fleeting but vital clues are given). With thought and effort expended upon the plot behind the images, clarity awaits. Once this point is reached, The Pillow Book unfurls like a flower in the dawn, baring a tale of power, resonance, closure and great (if subdued) emotion.

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