Memoirs of a Geisha: What a Bust

I used to love the book by Arthur Golden. The image of dancing geishas, adorned in those flowing kimonos was always so clear in my mind. In spite of their notorious reputation in history, geishas held a sort of lore to me. They were beautiful, but almost inhuman in their beauty.

So I convinced my finacee to rent the movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha" as a tribute to one of my favorite novels. The cover featured Sayuri, the main character in traditional make up, alluring, seductive, yet sweetly innocent.

Five minutes in and I was ready to turn it off.

Okay, so I should have expected the poorly accented english, because after all, it's not like this film was released for Japanese audiences. But if you're going to script the entire movie in another language, just drop the asian inspired accents. It not only distracted from the visual beauty, but it was, sadly to say, almost comical.

The storyline was poorly done, relying more on special effects and stunning shots to keep the film rolling. If I hadn't read the book, I highly doubt I could have followed the movie. As it was, I spent the entire time running background commentary to my very confused fiancée.

Hatsumomo, the Geisha equivalent to the bad guy, was, to put it bluntly, awful. Her character was overacted, overdone, and lacked any subtlety. Appearing in numerous scenes, I expected more than the one dimensional bitch I saw.

Going with this bad guys, good guys thing, the film separated characters too tidily to fit these molds. I wanted to see the real emotion behind the stark masks, but all I got were the bare bones of a person. Nobu, who in my opinion is one of the best people Sayuri encounters, is painted as desperate and ignorant. We see nothing beyond his scary physical demeanor.

Even the chairman, Sayuri's prince in shining armor, is nothing more than a handsome ghost who haunts the screen. Her love seems to be that of a childhood fantasy and nothing more.

The only good thing about the movie is the absolute beauty. I feel like I'm watching a play more than a movie, as the scenery is more artistic than realistic. If it hadn't been for the endless footage of cherry blossoms, Kyoto, seductive faces, I would have turned off the film.

Maybe a geisha is too complicated to be captured by a mere movie, but this one doesn't even begin to try. There is no agony, little pain, and lots and lots of sexual innuendos. I'm deathly afraid to hand Hollywood another novel for fear of what monstrosity they'll make of it.