Outcast

A ruler seeks a less combative way to cultivate his culture's destiny, and denies the throne to his first born son, who flourishes amidst rage and conflict.

But the studious son he chooses is not well-versed in the vicissitudes of intrigue (Bill Su Jiahang as Prince Zhao), and even though he has been chosen, he must flee to avoid his brother's wrath (Andy On as Prince Shing). 

The ruler passes, his heartfelt wishes bluntly ignored and traditionally outweighed, but as coincidence or fate would have it, his vision finds an honourable adherent. 

For a lone warrior ruined by the crusades is randomly wandering his vast kingdom (Hayden Christensen as Jacob), in search of potent spiritual redemption, lost in drink and purposeless posture. 

He senses injustice and agrees to defend the literary lad along with his devout sister (Yifei Liu as Princess Lian), who are trying to reach the wilds beyond a far off mountain, where they believe they'll indeed be safe.

But his brother's minions pursue them everywhere and they're soon betrayed by those they trust, the lone warrior fortunately formidable gallantly gifted focused resolute. 

But he's haunted by ghastly past lives that left him doubtful and woebegone.

The doubts challenged through stern conviction.

Independent freelance, robustly trained.

Outcast presents insurmountable odds disputing courtesy, tact, and diplomacy, as the intellectual spirit yearns for transformation, in an epoch plagued by war.

If I remember details from a Chinese history course I took way back correctly, China generally focused on its own well-being in the past. It was rarely imperialistically disposed and tended to concentrate on its own enlightenment. 

They were so certain of their civilization that when barbarians came to plunder, they had no need to defeat them militaristically, preferring to wait for their culture to win them over (a process called "sinification").

Thus, I tend not to take theories which suggest China is seeking to colonially express itself seriously.

Why would they focus primarily on themselves for millennia and then suddenly embark on crusades? It makes more sense to wait for the world to change than risk losses in some disastrous conflict.

Further, after centuries of woe they've finally reasserted themselves as a preeminent culture.

Why would they risk all that for a bit of land?

When they're already so blessed with so much diversity back home?

Outcast postulates redemption through a noble act unbidden and unrewarded, compensation driven through active spirit, the vigorous rapport of a peaceful life.

I imagine China's much more concerned with peace based upon the learned hypotheses shared by well-read teachers.

What's to be gained from a grandiose conflict?

That they don't picturesquely possess already?

With Nicolas Cage (Gallain). 

Season of the Witch

After willingly and directly embracing the vicious profits of an unrelenting crusade, knights Behman (Nicolas Cage) and Felson (Ron Perlman) desert to find their way home. But representatives of the church are none to happy when they discover them passing through their land, and they quickly have them thrown in the dungeon. Freedom is offered with a price: transport a witch (Claire Foy) who has been blamed for a plague to a remote monastery where she will receive her trial. The knights begrudgingly accept, and, aided by a cast of individuals seeking virtue, or clemency, depart on their most treacherous and psychologically destabilizing journey yet.

Dominic Sena's Season of the Witch is an exercise in bipolarity. Many of Nicolas Cage's lines attempt to sound insightful and wise but come across as questionably delivered hokum. At the same time, he seems to be aware of this as does Sena and at times it seems as if Season of the Witch is subtly lampooning itself. But during other moments its seriousness is genuine which results in a cloying, frustrating affect (occasionally mitigated by Ron Perlman). Everyone within is frustrated however so this affect, albeit irritating, does correspond to the film's internal dynamics. At first, the opening scene seemed rushed and hasty, causing me to fear for the fate of the movie. But as it dragged on, its ridiculousness, qualified by a priest's undying commitment to his calling's principles, had a certain irresistible flair, insofar as it wasn't cut off willy nilly and was given time to grow. The next scene depicts a lacklustre religious figure mundanely yet confidently rallying his troops to combat a group of recalcitrant 'heathens.' The figure lacks the bold, energetic, lively characteristics I've come to identify with those filmically delivering a war cry, and the following scenes do nothing to generate greater sympathy. Hence, one priest is valiant in his fight against evil, another religious figure banal; religion is upheld as just and benevolent and then immediately depicted as rapacious. The dialogue throughout casts doubt on the church's legitimacy as it relates to the hunting of witches, yet witches exist within and logically should therefore be hunted. An over-the-top sensational battle between the forces of good and evil seems ready to be showcased during the conclusion yet instead we receive a brief, run-of-the-mill, laid back encounter which reminded me of Eddie Murphy's The Golden Child. Season of the Witch attempts to play to fans of low budget intelligent horror yet mixes in so many mainstream compromises that its diluted product, once again, occasionally remixed and spiced up by Ron Perlman, who should have been given the leading role, suffocates beneath the weight of its bewitching disorder.

I generally like films which play with conventions and offer a broad taste of ambiguous potential to a wide audience, but Season of the Witch's steady reliance on unimaginative proclamations, unless these proclamations are seen as Behman's unconscious absorption of his crusading leader's disproportionate dialogue, distorts its edge and sickly sentimentalizes its grit. Sena does a lot with his script and there's certainly much to discuss but it lacks the less disheartening developments found in a film like Christopher Smith's Black Death, and falls far short of its intellectually entertaining goals.

Robin Hood

Ridley Scott's Robin Hood presents an epic, complicated tale almost worthy of the designation legend. The plot is dense and starts out intense but its momentum relents as its second half falters. Here's the situation: King Richard the Lionheart (Danny Huston) has been crusading for a decade and is about to return home. In England, his less courageous brother Prince John (Oscar Isaac) has been ruling in his stead. Prince John's right-hand-man Godfrey (Mark Strong) strikes a deal with King Philip of France (Jonathan Zaccaï) in which he agrees to kill Richard and then convince John to brutally tax his citizens, thereby fomenting revolution. Then, after civil war has ravaged England, the French can invade and ruthlessly plunder the country.

However, Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe), an honest member of King Richard's crusade, has other plans in mind. After rescuing the English crown from Godfrey's clutches, he returns it to the Royal Family and then sets out for Nottingham in order to reunite a fallen comrade's sword with his father. When said father (Max von Sydow as Sir Walter Loxley) discovers his son is dead, he asks Robin to pretend that he is that very same son, so that if he should pass on, his lands won't fall into the hands of King John. Robin agrees, and, after convincing his new wife, the somewhat upset Marion Loxley (Cate Blanchett), that he's not a scoundrel, begins to restore justice to the region with the help of his Merry Men (Mark Addy as Friar Tuck, Kevin Durand as Little John, Scott Grimes as Will Scarlet, and Alan Doyle as Allan A'Dayle). Fortunately for Robin, Sir Walter also remembers his father (Mark Lewis Jones), who was killed when Robin was 6, and is able to help him rediscover related memories.

There's much more to Robin Hood's plot than what I've presented above. Political intrigue, ethical imbroglios, spiritual reflections, working class rights, aristocratic wisdom, feminine strength, and feudal customs are also synthesized within to create a byzantine portrait of Polanskian proportions. Even with all these intertwined dimensions, each presenting their points directly and/or covertly, Scott and scriptwriter Brian Helgeland still manage to create deeper layers of provocative sensation, showing how the defenders of a French castle take the time to eat during a siege, dealing with 12th century orphanage issues, depicting greed as a conniving hydra, delicately integrating provincial and "urban" life, and lampooning conceptions such as the divine right of kings. Then, as if worried that all of these plot twists have alienated their audience, the film's last section concerns itself with Godfrey's revenge quest and a ridiculous battle, shooting arrows to the wind, building cliché on cliché stick by stick, the multitude of twists and turns requiring closure which is rushed in order to prevent the film from lasting three hours. Robin Hood's ambitions are grand and its narrative multidimensional, but its dénouement suffers beneath the weight of its bulk, and can't support its synthetic structure. It's nice to see the legend of Robin Hood reimagined and intellectualized, Scott's film providing it with unprecedented layers of historical intensification. But the ending made me wish they had localized the story so we could have spent more time with Robin Hood and his Merry Men, its ineffective grandiose form causing me to wish for more regionalized content. Which is the perfect recipe for setting up a sequel, which I'll probably see, and then complain about having seen.