little red riding book

in the world today all culture, all literature and art belong to definite classes and are geared to definite political lines. there is in fact no such thing as art for art's sake, art that stands above classes, art that is detached from or independent of politics. proletarian literature and art are part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause; they are as lenin said, cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine. - mao zedong [tse tung], 1942

"before you can fly. you have to be free"...

last week i finally saw mao's last dancer. or the li cunxin story.

as an ardent admirer of bruce beresford's work [breaker morant, driving miss daisy] i arrived with shining eyes & dickin's-like great expectation. while the story did deliver in epic human proportions it left me cold & flat despite the calculated beauty & craftsmanship. the dancing [chi cao], the music are unquestionably beautiful. in a word; breath-taking. however i was unsold.

the film felt like an inferior rendition of mao's little red book, a piece of contrived propaganda which condemned the chinese government but then served as a fabled artifice to elevate western principles specifically the US in contrast. all i could think of was that it became what it most sought to separate itself from. the chairman's words haunted me. with a washington accent.

for those not familiar with the successful autobiography of li cunxin, mao's last dancer is a powerful story of an impoverished chinese boy working his tiny toned ass off against all odds in a harsh communist regime buoyed by the love of his parents to become one of the most accomplished ballet dancers in the world. after being headhunted by the houston ballet on a scholarship he eventually defected to the US under dramatic headline grabbing circumstances.

fade to black, back to screen: li cunxin now becomes a capitalist pig, ditches bare-boned morals & humility along with loving american wife who helped secure him legal course to stay in the country. consumed by his need to dance & be centre stage he wins another blonde ballerina who is obviously even prettier than the last. this is how it works in movies. behold the manifestation of the consumerist american dream. PS. li cunxin is now a stockbroker. an east meets west success story.

where had the money come from & who was the intended audience of this film? was bruce selling out to the americans... i mean why were li cunxin's parent's on stage so long for? was that a political commentary, accurate depiction of real events or merely a deliberate ploy to stage emotional overkill with a less than subtle audience. not quite hollywood but close enough.

i felt a stabbing pain but not as a result of the filmmaker's intention. did the houston ballet fund this film... funnily enough li cunxin was greatly involved in an EP capacity sourcing funding [his company financed the film] and "coincidentally" the americans love the political simplicity. like taking candy from a baby.

billy elliot leaves the big bad iron scarlet curtain wolf & discovers freedom, blonde chicks, hot dogs & defects. only in america. land of the free. shame elton wasn't around for the soundtrack. although christopher gordon's soundtrack is wholly brilliant. not quite guoyue but i'm sure mao would approve.

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think i'm turning japanese

disclaimer: it's me not you. the primary reason there isn't the usual amount of succulent imagery of my free lunch record is not because the food at kobe jones is anything short of a visual kaleidescope in colour & texture.

currently i'm in default mode wielding my N95 phone in camera position number one & although i stubbornly love it dearly in the face of an iPhone pandemic it has certain DOF inadequacies. depth of field for the uninitiated. yep. read: the photos mainly look like shit. NOKIA are yet to build a macro function let alone a manual focus.

enough of technical difficulties which plague the very core of my being & back to the food...

in another of those east meets west traditions maybe where mr kobe married miss jones, IDK, the restaurant combines californian & japanese influences into a palatable mecca of mayonnaise meets wasabi. we're all too familiar in the one stop shop version at the local sushi train but when grazing at king st wharf one is guaranteed of a cut or two above the generic coloured plate vendor.

everything ticked the boxes without smashing them to oblivion although the crowd pleaser had to be the "get off on our rocks" [and oh how i did] where in a variation of the teppen yaki tradition seafood was ordered & brought out to the table then cooked on a piping hot block of stone. just add a cube of butter and stir...

as she skilfully manipulated the fish atop the granite, charlotte advised us that the stones are oven bound for the entire day in preparation stacked in piles at 300 degrees centograde waiting for their moment to be unleashed on to the hungry mob. and there was... the restaurant was full. our scallops, salmon & cubes of tuna ultimately seared to supreme excellence.

if i'd been wearing pants at this stage i would've undone my belt & continued but sadly my karen millen dress zip was most unforgiving so um, there was literally no room left for dessert, only a very straight back & tiny breaths. if only i'd brought a corset. i blame the mushroom medley tobanyaki which threw a selection of exotic mushrooms into an oven baked dish with cream... dear god, yes. HT to ron mann.

still the scattered oyster shooters in sake, perfectly salted edamame & sushi platter were also excellent. in an ideal world i'd want more spice with that but perfection is all evasive & subjective isn't it? sitting out looking through the mysterious opaque view of the wharf filtered through blowing transparent blinds, it's hard to imagine that it's that far out of reach.