Wo ai chu fang, 1997
[Kitchen]
Kitchen opens
to the wistful narration of an eccentric and irresponsible, but
affable young Hong Kong hairdresser named Louie (Jordan Chan)
who, as the film begins, has traveled to a quaint Chinese province
in the rain to attend the funeral of a friend and former client.
Concerned over the plight and well-being of the elderly woman's
beautiful and reticent granddaughter Aggie (Yasuko Tomita) whose
dilapidated apartment building is in the process of being evacuated
for demolition, Louie begins to make periodic visits to her empty
apartment. Finding the emotionally fragile and enigmatic young woman
invariably asleep on the bare floor of the kitchen adjacent to a
partially opened refrigerator door (and on one occasion, oddly
cocooned inside the hull of the appliance), Louie attempts to help
her overcome her crippling depression by inviting her to the home
of his sole remaining family - his 'mother' Wah (Law Kar-Ying) -
a gregarious, kind, and nurturing bar owner who, he later reveals,
was once his father. Years earlier, devastated by the unexpected
loss of his soulmate, Wah underwent a sexual reassignment operation,
perhaps in a desperate attempt to sublimate his late wife's spirit
within his own body and in a way, give his life to her. Similarly,
Aggie's attachment to the aromas and textures of the kitchen seems
rooted in her profound sense of grief, attempting to recapture
memories of home and her beloved grandmother through the familiar
and comforting fragrance of her cooking. However, as Aggie returns
to the routines, goals, and everyday distractions of a normal life,
Louie becomes increasingly restless and withdrawn, and soon, their
seemingly fated connection becomes a transient realization of
lost opportunity.
Adapted from Banana Yoshimoto's contemporary novel, Kitchen is
a languid, sublimely textural, and evocative film on grief, guilt of
survival, healing, and connection. Stylistically recalling a sparer
Wong Kar-Wai
film infused with a more sedated whimsy of Pedro
Almodovar's outré cinema, Yim Ho
creates a suffusive sensuality, voluptuousness, and melancholia
that reflect the characters' innate sentiment of loss and longing:
the lugubrious image of translucent curtains caressing the wind in
Aggie's empty apartment (that is later paralleled in the entrancing
sight of morphing lava lamps in Wah's kitchen); the pervasiveness of
blue lighting against the darkness as she mourns in silence (slightly
reminiscent of Krzysztof Kieslowski's Blue,
a film that similarly explores themes of fate, chance, and grief);
the saturation of metaphoric red decoration in Wah's bar where
she entertains the inscrutably resigned middle-aged businessman,
Mr. Chiu (Lau Siu-Ming). Yim further incorporates parallel imagery
to expound on the theme of interconnected destiny through repeated
episodes of torrential rain that bookend the film, mirrored
relationships through the adoptive lovers Wah and his late wife and
between Louie and Aggie (whom Wah describes as her goddaughter),
and even as a comic device involving shears as Louie's neglected girlfriend
Jenny (Karen Mok) strikes Aggie and subsequently Louie in a jealous
rage after finding the young woman in Wah's apartment. By tracing the
romantic evolution of two adrift souls through the human cycle of love
and loss, renewal and death, Kitchen indelibly
and exquisitely articulates the ephemeral essence of fate, connection,
and synchronicity.
© Acquarello 2003. All rights reserved.
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