The genesis of Universal's 47 Ronin is almost as tragic as the actual history that the movie is culling from. As the story goes, Universal saw the sprigs of talent sprouting from fresh faced director Carl Rinsch, whose previous experience was limited to just a couple of commercials and a nifty short film. The studio decided to ease the new director into feature filmmaking by cutting him what amounts to virtually a blank check, and giving him charge over a multi-national samurai fantasy epic. Almost impossibly, the film isn't a complete disaster. It's just a minor one.
47 Ronin follows the classic story of the titular team of warriors, a group of disgraced samurai who band together to seek revenge against a merciless warlord that betrayed and killed their master. But this isn't your grandfather's version of the story. 47 Ronin is an international affair, and it's covered with a veneer of Japanese mysticism and a thick coating of Hollywood lacquer, but east meets west rather uncomfortably, and it's mostly due to Keanu Reeves. Reeves' character is clearly crowbarred into the story that has no room for him, and it's plainly obvious where the seams of the story were stretched in order to patch him into the narrative. Reeves plays Kai, a half Japanese, half English orphan who is adopted by the samurai clan. His character serves no real purpose beyond being white, slicing things until they die, and playing the male lead of the most superfluous love story of the year. Rinsch simply can't make the inclusion of the character feel organic in any way, and "Kai" ends up feeling like a calculated studio move. It's a shame that the film spends so much time on Reeves when the real star is clearly Hiroyuki Sanada, who plays off the stoic samurai most believably among the rest of the cast.
It's also shame that with all the mysticism pumped into the story, there's no magic in the actual center of the film, the ronin themselves. The only personality trait a samurai is allowed to possess seems to be unerring stoicism, and between all 47 ronin, there are probably only three distinct samurai with any discernible character traits beyond an intense need to brood, and you'll probably only remember those three by the time the credits roll, only to promptly forget about them only a few hours later. Thankfully, Rinko Kikuchi's slinky and treacherous witch adds some much needed camp and personality to the mostly forgettable human characters.
And that's the issue with 47 Ronin. It's largely forgettable. When your film takes on a historical legend like the tale of the 47 ronin, a story that has been told and told again ad nauseum over the years, you really need to justify your own version. There are reels and reels of film dedicated to this story, and 47 Ronin doesn't manage to add anything significant to the canon. It promises to weld myth and history together, but does so clumsily, and while some of the action scenes are exciting, especially a particularly inspired set piece that involves the ronin noiselessly breaking into a heavily guarded fortress, the film is a bore when it's not clanking swords together.
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47 Ronin is a film with many stories. As much as it is a tale about the revenge of four dozen masterless samurai, it's also the tale of an inexperienced filmmaker swallowed up by the enormity of blockbuster filmmaking. Most of all though, It's proof that you shouldn't cram Keanu Reeves into a movie that doesn't really need Keanu Reeves. What you're left with is a dull and bloated samurai epic that has its moments, but feels largely unnecessary.
At the turn of the 20th century, the vamp was the height of modernity. Plus ça change. In the 21st century it’s still all Vamp, although this time it has a little more bite.
For several seasons, the catwalks of New York, Paris, London and Milan have featured stark demonesses and dark historical references. Rick Owens strapped his power sex goddesses in fur. Marc Jacobs sent dark flappers down the runway. At Chanel it was shredded Goth Victoriana. And Sarah Burton is carrying the McQueen torch for Elizabethan fetish-wear.
You may not want to be a she-creature — at least not in the light of day — but admit it: the Goth looks that are stalking the runway could "glamour" even the strongest soul.
GALLERY: Vamp Stomp
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Every fashion insider knows Paris has been raiding England’s closet for decades. That funny little island which can barely support its own fashion industry is such a tried and true breeding ground for fashion innovation, many of the noteworthy French fashion house revivals of the past three decades have been helmed by boundary-pushing English eccentrics.
And fashion wonks also know that the alma mater responsible for churning them out is Central Saint Martins College of Arts and Design. You will have heard of a few of its alumni: Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Givenchy's Riccardo Tisci and Stella McCartney. Then there are the lesser-known powerhouses, like demented fashion intellectual Hussein Chalayan, print genius Christopher Kane, punk god Gareth Pugh, and little Zac Posen, who is now back in New York.
So listen up, Hollywood. We love the Couture Capital as much as you do, but the UK fashion industry needs your dough. And I understand it's a day trip from Paris.
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