I wrote and first published the following review on May 07, 1999. It had the title "Fake Art".
For this republication a major modification was made in the text, purging it of an epithet that in my present opinion had been incorrectly employed. A minor grammatical correction was also made.
Just because a movie looks good, it does not mean it is good. Just because it is filled with erudition, it does not mean it has any cultural or artistic value. It must have something to say, and say it in a consistent manner. That is what distinguishes great art from phony art. "The Pillow Book" is not great art, it is not art at all. Its main subject is about writing on people's bodies. It insists on having a plot, although it seems to constantly remind us that it is not a conventional melodrama, but a pictorial essay. In fact it does not work either as a melodrama or as an abstract construction. It stands as sad evidence of a certain "anything goes" quality that pervades much of the noncommercial post-60s cinema that bloomed amidst the disillusionment at the increasing infantilization of Hollywood mainstream films. Madness, it is known, begets madness.
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