My Blueberry Nights

directed by Wong Kar-Wai
written by Won Kar-Wai and Lawrence Block
Hong Kong, China, France 2007

So I come to Hong Kong, and Wong Kar-Wai goes to New York. Maybe we both needed to tread water for a little while.

Craftsmanship has always been idealogically divided against itself. The perfection of mass production is balanced by the imperfection of authenticity. Likewise, in the past Wong Kar Wai's strict formalist visual tendencies (i.e. In the Mood for Love, 2046) have made for such flawless delivery, while his playful chaos of shutter speed effects and hand-held trickery (i.e. Chungking Express, Fallen Angles) has beautifully roughened the edges of his ouevre.

My Blueberry Nights may be Wong's first to attempt a reconciliation of these contrasting styles, and he is aware of the craftsman's existential trap. Norah Jones gives a perfectly atrocious performance as Lizzie, an impossibly naive fish out of water, despite hailing from New York of all places. Wong's foray into the American experience is so wonderfully similar, a non-actress fills this title role with that universal authenticity of imperfection. To Jones' credit, this script is so clunky that even naturals Jude Law and Natalie Portman can't escape without some black and blues. But the blacker the blueberry, the sweeter the juice, and Wong seems to run with the idea, forsaking naturalist dialogue for a few excellent lines between clunks ("I'm the king of the white chips," "I beat that game on its ass!"). It's another extension of his reconciliation, like some impossible-to-deliver David Mamet script; stumbling gives the auteur some cred.

The theme of dishonesty is so auspicious in this film, as well. It's not only that Jones can't sell her lines, or that much of these characters' backstories is left unsaid. It's hard to believe that Leslie in fact beat that game, or that Lizzie really was mugged on the subway, or even that Jeremy's key stories are all true. Like Wong himself, his characters struggle with success. A winning image isn't authentic. It's only when we've been roughed around the edges that we've actually lived through something.