With its lush imagery and muted colors, "Snow Falling on Cedars" is a first-rate example of a feature film that should have been a coffee table book instead. Apparently, director Scott Hicks ("Shine") was so intent on getting the perfect shot of a drop of water sliding off a fern or in finding bicycle bells that perfectly corresponded to the sound of Japanese wind chimes he overlooked the fact that most people who buy tickets to a movie are looking for a story, preferably something with a little action, romance or humor. Those ingredients are in short supply in "Snow," but if you want to see how lovingly an amputated arm can be photographed, by all means, step right up.
Hicks' self-conscious style is crippling to a story which depends on passion and mystery to hold an audience's attention. Set in Washington state in 1950, when much of the country was still grappling with anti-Japanese sentiments left over from WWII, "Snow" follows the trial of Kazou Miyamoto (Rick Yune), a fisherman accused of murdering an American. Covering the court proceedings is reporter Ishmael (Ethan Hawke), whose real interest lies in Miyamoto's wife Hatsue (Youki Koduh).
Hatsue and Ishmael were childhood sweethearts before the war but were ultimately torn apart by Japanese traditions and her family's exile to the Manzanar internment camp. The two barely found time to make love in a hollowed-out cedar (and you thought back seats were bad!) before their separation. Nine years later, Ishmael is still nursing his broken heart.
In its supporting roles, "Snow" employs several reliable character actors -- James Cromwell, James Rebhorn, Richard Jenkins -- but it seems Hicks' only direction to them was to look as morose as possible. Hawke, too, is such a Gloomy Gus he's extremely difficult to identify with and both Ishmael and Hatsue's characters are so sketchy we never get a sense of any bond between them, aside from the tryst in the tree perhaps.
The movie proceeds at a lethargic pace as Hicks stacks his visuals one on top of another, smothering them in echoing dialogue and an elegiac score by James Newton Howard, all of which keeps us even further away from any developing drama. Any genuine emotion seems to have been drained out in the name of art. Even when the camera glides past scores of soldiers' bodies washed up on the beach at Normandy, the movie remains so aloof, you might think you're looking at part of a new campaign for Calvin Klein's Obsession. Like snow itself, the movie is picturesque but chilly -- and a chore to plow through. James Sanford
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