I hate the saying “style over substance” because it implies a dichotomy between those two things, when style itself can be substance. But in the case of Only the River Flows, it may very well be applicable, because the movie keeps hinting at a “substance” – themes and socio-politics – that isn’t there.
Adapted from a novella by Yu Hua, Only the River Flows is set in the 1990s, in the rural Banpo town of Xi’an, China. Three consecutive murders shock the town, and detective Ma Zhe is tasked to investigate. He may have come up with a solution that explains everything, but he keeps digging deeper into the strange coincidences and clues, upsetting his superiors who desperately want the case closed.
Yu is one of the most famous authors from the last hundred years of Chinese fiction, and it doesn’t take long for the movie to reveal a lot of literary conceits (not sure if invented by Yu or director Wei Shujun), such as a decrepit movie theatre operating as a police station. But that literariness doesn’t point to much; the scattered devices are empty ciphers of meanings that aren’t there, more like cool easter eggs than anything that coalesces into an argument. The literal poster child for this is the film’s teaser poster, a bloody spin on Edvard Munch’s famous “Scream,” except the film bears forced relevance or resemblance to the painting.
For a movie that feels so literary, the script is actually quite weak. I at least commend it for its lack of bullshit and cutting to the chase, until it arrives at the third act, when I assume the censorship machine clamped down on any resolution or point. The film becomes quite lost into itself, and perhaps tries to make that loss its point, but it’s a little too late. It appears that a lot of the original story’s painful ironies have been smothered away. I asked my Chinese friends if they see any sociopolitical point in this movie, and they alluded to allusions against the hierarchical machinations of the Party, but I’m not convinced there’s enough in the text. It’s all a bit of mumbo-jumbo that is perfectly encapsulated by the Chinese idiom 故弄玄虛—pretending there’s something there when there simply isn’t. At least Wei is able to sneak in a tinge of uncertainty and melancholy in the required status quo–upholding (維穩) ending.
When there is not much in the script to offer, the film mostly relies on its visuals. It can make a very strong argument that its style is its substance, because this is a stunning film to behold, maybe the most beautiful that’s come out of the recent Chinese neo-noir wave. Wei is boasting with confidence, not only for shooting on celluloid, but also deservedly for his great eye for visuals. He directs with layers and designed conceits that make you think.
But the general look and aura of the film is very derivative and been-there-done-that – think the hazy Memories of Murder, Zodiac, etc. There is nothing necessarily wrong with derivation – I believe that we can’t possibly require every movie made nowadays to be original – but this does feel like pale imitation without soul. The lead (plastic surgery levels of handsome in real life) looks just like Tony Leung in Infernal Affairs, and lo and behold, there’s a moment that’s a 100% faithful copied-and-pasted homage from that movie. So indebted to ’80s/’90s Hong Kong crime is this movie that there’s also a “vase” (花瓶) wife as we call it – pretty with nothing to do – but thankfully, Hong Kong Film Award Best Actress Chloe Maayan rescues the role with palpable emotion.
Memories of Murder succeeds not only because of all of Bong Joon-ho’s directorial genius, but even more because it’s such a direct, tortured cry against the South Korean dictatorship, a little movie that encapsulates all the darkness of that era. As such, Only the River Flows is like the best Chinese counterfeit products: a near-perfect replication of the exterior, derivative to its own excellence, but lacking the interior sociopolitical soul that haunts the best crime thrillers.
I couldn’t disagree more. Only the River Flows was one of the few cinematic films I watched during this lacklustre edition of the festival. I was never a fan of Memories of Murder, which I found over sentimental like many of Bong’s films. It is certainly not a match for this one.
The weird thing with this review is that you acknowledge its strengths in the fifth paragraph, but for some reason, you seem obsessed with the plot instead of the truly cinematic aspects of the film.