The Last Emperor (1987)

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about The Last Emperor for about a week. I’ve seen many other films since and this is the one sticking in my mind. I even had trouble sleeping the other night because I couldn’t get the score out of my head. “Shut up, Emperor movie. My God, just shut the hell up. I’m trying to sleep”. It took me three insanity driven hours to fall asleep.

I suppose Academy voters might’ve thought the same. For me, the Academy Awards are in “eras”, periods of time where like minded films tended to be the big winners. The Last Emperor began the era of the neo-epics that hit their peak in the 90’s and faded after Return of the King. Proving that lengthy films could both be box office draws and critical darlings, it seemed a win-win for studios and producers. The 90’s gave us Dances With Wolves, Forrest Gump, Braveheart, Titanic, and Gladiator. The opinion of film snobs as the internet dawned made these films a primary target. (Seriously stop telling me how much LA Confidential should’ve beaten Titanic). Even then, The Last Emperor has stayed away from the fray of popular Oscars imagination. It’s minimal discussion of its place in the pantheon of Oscars is surprising.

For decades now, Hollywood has been trying to pierce the Chinese market with mixed success. Questions range from Chinese government censorship to representation, story location and nostalgia. Chinese audiences don’t seem to bite at the same films that appeal to Americans. Despite the ongoing ideological Cold War, China approved production of The Last Emperor. Not only for on-location shooting, but notably as the first western film allowed to film in the Forbidden City. Here is where some of the prestige began. China, closed off for decades to the west, chose cinema of all mediums to begin opening itself to. Even before production began the film had given itself a little place in history. The cinematic world was seeing the real China.

Set in the early days of the 19th century, Puyi becomes Emperor of China at the ripe ‘ol age of two. As the dying elderly Dowager Empress tells the toddler of what awaits him, he hides behind pillars and finds her royal presence frightening. His curiosity in potential toys takes precedence. As a child, the concept of a supreme ruler is nothing. All that he knows is that he gets everything he wants. His home, The Forbidden City, is as sprawling as it is splendorous. But even before he understands the concept of administration, the world outside has grown past its need for him. China’s imperial system gives way to revolution after revolution, chipping away at the child’s mandate of heaven until he’s a figurehead with dissolving prestige.

Puyi is not a hero. The entirety of the film is a reaction to events outside of his control. The older he gets, the clearer it becomes that the walls of the Forbidden City are the only place his power remains. Under his Scottish tutor (Peter O’Toole) he fantasizes about Oxford, cars, jazz and San Francisco. Even that is under the guise of a delusion of self-control. No one is willing to give Puyi control over his own fate. Blocked from every exiting the compound, royalty becomes his prison. The inability to comprehend these mass upheavals of society leads to ruthless manipulation from traditionalists, invaders and westerners.

The softest (and best) moments of the film are the first 90 minutes, where eunuchs and palace staff worship the child like a God. Yellow, a color reserved only for the emperor, lights his childhood until it slowly fades into a green as realizations of the lost power come with age. China’s revolutionary changes are only fed to the audience in little droplets, keeping us as informed as Puyi. Limited information culminates until one day he’s removed from home by men with guns. As a narrative tool, it’s assumed we viewers have no knowledge of this era of China. By only introducing us to Puyi’s world we experience the transformations as he does. His perceptions are ours.

There’s an annoying assumption in the cinephile world that a complex narrative is a necessity, and simplistic tales ought to be given less regard. Yet simplistic ideas can be elevated by how they get expressed, and DP Vittorio Storaro (Apocalypse Now) takes color to a psychological depth. Puyi’s world is literally colored by thoughts, as the old saying goes.

Storaro brings a necessary sense of awe to the project. It comes as baby Puyi looks out at the symmetrical order of his servants. In the progression of his life that dominating, solitary ruler who draws the eye in the frame is replaced by more of a crowd. The composition reflects gray tones by the end of life. The lightning reflects his transformation: red to yellow, yellow to green, green to gray. His mandate of heaven might still exist, but that divine favor reflects in the rays. Even to the divine he seems to be less important.

Director and writer Bernardo Bertolucci (Last Tango in Paris) was an avid Marxist who sympathized with leftist causes. It comes as no surprise a film about the downfall of a royal figure due to his dependence on wealth met with approval by the Chinese government. Decadence is bad, Puyi’s dependence on wealth and importance leads to war crimes, exploitation via capitalism is a war strategy. Not a huge shock China was cool with the film and the project appealed to an Italian Marxist. To Marxists, there’s an inevitability to the masses rising up. Puyi’s lack of control promotes the notion that “shit happens”. His traditional life is contrasted with the modern world beyond the walls. The Last Emperor might not promote the virtues of Marxism, but its influence on the storytelling is readily apparent.

Bertolucci’s skill is his immense knowledge of the subject. It might be too immense, too grand even for a film of this scale. The direction of the native Chinese actors leads to some stilted delivery, difficult for anyone (let alone an Italian directing Chinese to speak English) to accomplish. From the start Puyi’s life is portrayed as a tragedy, one that works backwards from everything to nothing. We’re never left guessing why Puyi makes the choices he does, however abhorrent they might be.

It is oft-quoted as a complaint that Puyi’s agency is a handicap in the film. As noted earlier, he exists in a world where things happen to him, not that he controls. His fate is decided before he is aware he must even make a choice. Like us viewers, he is a witness to his own fate. But I like to consider that a subversion of the epic rather than a total misfire. Great heroes of cinematic epics are usually the masters of their fate. They live to set the rules. The very point is in the criticism: he cannot have agency. A man who cannot function without others cannot master his own fate, just as any society trapped in tradition cannot prosper. The movie, at its core, is about losing control of your life. The sad realization at the end of days is that the mastery of yourself was nothing more than an illusion: a choreographed series of servants to convey importance that was all for show.

It’s not the most successful Best Picture winner out there. But more often than not it’s the images that stay in your mind that can make a film successful to me. Yes yes yes, I know that cinematography is just one part of a whole. For all the criticisms one can make, it cannot be said The Last Emperor is ever a dull time.

(The Last Emperor was a joint British-Italian production, shot in China and Rome. As of October 2020, the film is available to stream on HBO and is a selection of the Criterion Collection.)