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As a series of beautifully ornate costumes, moody cinematography, exotic locations, and observation of shifting tastes – politically, culturally – in various eras, The Last Emperor is a grand statement. A movie in big emblazoned letters, a movie that rests in the truest sense of the term cinematic, but it’s a pity that there’s no good script to go along with all of the detailed craft and pretty images on display. As an epic, it has more in common with the bloated likes of Gandhi than it does Lawrence of Arabia.
The story follows around a footnote of an emperor; he was crowned when he was two and abdicated the throne at seven, through the transition from dynasties to Communism, from feudalism to a revolution. But it never engages our emotions or provides a rooting interest in the main character. It offers up a powerless character, one with no true identity, and watches as he stumbles through various ideologies, frequently as a mere pawn in a grander scheme.
Bernardo Bertolucci is a great director, and he bathes The Last Emperor in rich colors. The fact that he was allowed to film inside of the Forbidden City makes the film have a very authentic flavor, and provides a unique setting for various events to take place in. But Bertolucci isn’t much of a writer, and The Last Emperor has a problem maintaining interest and momentum as it goes on, and on, and on. Bertolucci co-wrote the script, and the pacing problems cause the film to at times feel incredibly sluggish or too remote to draw us in. And this, I believe, is the reason why a film can win 9 Oscars and have an indifferent reputation. A film from the man who gave us Last Tango in Paris should be a cause for debate, but Emperor is stately, lacking in the unflinching emotions and deep connections of his other works. Sure, it deserved the Oscars it won for Cinematography, Art Direction-Set Decoration, Costume Design, Original Score, and Director, but Picture, Editing, and Adapted Screenplay are three awards too much.
