USA, R, 129 m, 1993
Philip Kaufman's darkly textured, rhythmically elegant thriller Rising Sun, based upon the Michael Crichton bestseller, is the director's most mainstream effort since the problematic, yet intermittently spooky remake of Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. Kaufman, however, lends a refreshingly thoughtful eye to the customarily brutish nature of the action genre and imbues it with his trademark sophistication and, most gratefully, unfettered sensuality. Since Rising Sun is a purely commercial venture (designed as the Brits say "to put bums on seats"), it lacks the refined seasoning and casual pacing of The Unbearable Lightness Of Being. Nor does it offer up the lush tapestries and gloriously unbridled passion of Kaufman's intoxicating masterpiece Henry and June. Still, it's a wildly engrossing whodunit, albeit a thoroughly inconsequential one. The dependable Sean Connery plays semi-retired L.A. homicide detective and foreign liaison John Connor. He's teamed with a much younger dick named Web Smith (the mostly feral but sometimes beautifully animated Wesley Snipes) to investigate the mysterious expiration of a sultry blonde during a gala doings at the headquarters of a powerful Japanese corporation. (The party girl, serviceably played by model Tatjana Patitz, was discovered asphyxiated and sexually traumatized atop a boardroom table.) Connor, who provides extensive knowledge and appreciation of Japanese culture, and Smith, who embodies America's nagging fear that our country is being auctioned off piece by piece to foreign tycoons, are at first barricaded in their inquiry by the usual bureaucratic resistance, but when Connor reminds a rather oily public-relations hack of certain favors granted the corporate big-wigs way back when, the investigation is allowed to proceed. Alas, the "powers that be" have stalled our protagonists long enough to secure the requisite items for launching a grand cover-up. With the assistance of "state-of-the-art" video technology, the business honchos send Connor and Smith through a labyrinthine maze of red herrings. (A cunningly doctored videodisc that appears to reveal the identity of the girl's murderer plays a key factor in the story.) Kaufman grafts the uncertainty of what is and what isn't within the high-tech universe of video upon the entire film's milieu: everything appears inauthentic, locking the viewer into a frazzled state of puzzlement. Connor, impeccably dressed in black Armani suits, is steeped in the long-revered customs of Japan (we're told he once lived there), and it annoys the cocky Smith when Connor insists on adopting the traditional Japanese role of "senpai" (senior partner) during the investigation, appointing the young (and somewhat insecure) lieutenant to the subservient position of "kohai" (to quote Connor, "junior man"). Defensive of his ethnicity, Smith incorrectly detects a racial slur in the delegation of these roles. "Senpai?" he hoots. "That wouldn't happen to be anything like master, would it?" At one point, he refers to the unflappable Connor as "apple pie." Thankfully, the director doesn't permit the discrepancy of culture and investigative techniques between our two heroes to degenerate into obvious Lethal Weapon-style capering. (We should also be grateful, gentle reader, that Connery doesn't utter those immortal words "I'm getting too old for this shit.") The two stars play very well off one another; their subtle horseplay brightens the otherwise somber proceedings. As the quest for the elusive killer intensifies, an embarrassment of dubious underground connections, questionable police tactics and political entanglements are unearthed. It appears there are few areas where the tentacles of the enormous Japanese conglomerate do not reach, and Connor and his sidekick are beginning to question each other about rumored shady dealings. The prime murder suspect, a playboy executive named Eddie Sakamura (played with obvious relish by Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), keeps giving the L.A.P.D. the slip, but as the evidence mounts, so do the hunches that something infinitely more vile (and politically volatile) is afoot. Harvey Keitel pops up as fellow investigator Tom Graham, a grouchy clock-watcher who appears a little too anxious to wrap-up the decidedly messy case. Graham was partnered with Smith years before and they share a somewhat sordid past: both were accused of accepting bribes, but eventually acquitted. Keitel makes the most of this smallish role, supplying each bit of business with his customary fervor and off-center drollery. When he discovers Eddie eating sushi and licking sake off the disrobed bodies of two Caucasian women, he laments how the Japanese lady-killer and his slippery ilk are "plundering our natural resources." It's difficult to begrudge Graham his annoyance; he simply can't abide the flagrant haughtiness of these foreigners or their assumption that they can maneuver with impunity from the law. It's indicative of America's ill-humored ethnological climate that the hypersensitive have roundly condemned Crichton's novel as "racist," but I fear their criticisms are way off the beam. Although the featured Japanese businessmen are players in a cover-up, it's ultimately an Anglo-Saxon that's exposed as being it's chief designer. Nevertheless, the book's detractors have wagged their bony digits at the poor author's nose, accusing him of Japan-bashing, xenophobia, blah, blah, blah. Despite the absurdity of these claims, Kaufman and his co-screenwriters have made several concessions to these middlebrow thought police, being ever so careful not to step on any politically correct toes. Of the many alterations they've made, the most obvious is metamorphosing Web's pigment from white to black. The filmmakers' thinking, I suppose, is that audiences are less likely to attribute intolerant designs to an African-American. Uh-huh. Rising Sun does have its silly patches: a manic karate bout near the movie's coda feels woefully obligatory. It's as if Kaufman threw it in to appease the kiddy set. There's also a thoroughly dreadful, by-the-numbers car chase through the garbage-strewn streets of an urban ghetto. These are minor infractions, though, because the film succeeds in seducing and entertaining its audience. July 30, 1993 © Copyright 2007 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.
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