The Last Emperor is an engrossing film with a fascinating story—but I must take a moment to explain my personal journey with it. I was introduced to this movie at the Motion Picture Academy’s theatre on Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills back in 1987. This was my first time attending a screening with an honest-to-goodness voting member of the Academy who was also a dear friend. For the next 16 years, following my then-recent move to Los Angeles, I played a “one degree of separation” role with someone directly responsible for the outcome of “And the winner is ….” After the movie, we were stopped on the sidewalk by none other than Robert Wise, who was heading inside to see the next film. Those were the final years before video screeners became the norm, so voting members had to watch eligible films in actual movie theatres. Their membership cards got them into any cinema in town, but many of them preferred attending special screenings at the studios or at the Academy’s main office building on Wilshire. It was not uncommon to rub elbows with celebrated “movie folks” there, and Robert Wise had known my friend for many years. After their reunion hug, he asked us both what we thought of this movie. Yes, it was a bona fide Hollywood moment I shall never forget.

To get back to the point, we were impressed with The Last Emperor—very much so. As I mentioned, it was “engrossing” and “fascinating” but not necessarily moving for either of us. Still, the wow-factor was there. It’s an epic production, spanning many decades, with a cast of thousands, eye-popping art direction, and gorgeous costumes. First-rate filmmaking, all around. The music in particular has stayed with me over the decades. A trio of composers took home the Oscar for Best Original Score, with most of it written by Ryuichi Sakamoto and David Byrne (of Talking Heads fame) and a single track by Cong Su. It’s fascinating to me that the lush, orchestral, quasi-European themes are by Sakamoto while the more ancient, organic, dynastic themes are by Byrne. Their music blurs expected cultural lines. It should also be noted that Sakamoto appears in the film and is quite effective as Amakasu, the Japanese government’s sinister liaison in Manchukuo, who manipulates Puyi and his wife into doing his bidding.

Ryuichi Sakamoto (seated) as Amakasu.

Jumping ahead a bit to another mini-tangent regarding video releases on DVD and Blu-ray that include “director’s cuts” and “extended editions” or, in this case, a “television version” …. Co-writer and director Bernardo Bertolucci was approached by the Italian broadcast network that helped finance this film. They wanted to expand its running time if at all possible. The original theatrical cut is a healthy two hours and 43 minutes, which leaves a scant 17 minutes for sponsor ads in a three-hour time slot. Even decades ago, that wasn’t enough for any substantial revenue, so a deal was struck with these TV backers, and Bertolucci offered up extra footage. He agreed to the idea of a “mini-series” spanning multiple nights to help the network make more money. Later, with the home video release, a “director’s cut” was created at 209 minutes, but the epic television event ran 219 minutes. That’s three hours and 39 minutes—19 minutes shy of Gone with the Wind‘s record-breaking length. The four-disc Criterion DVD release from 2010 includes both the theatrical film and the television version (their Blu-ray release only has the shorter theatrical cut).

Since viewing the longer “television version,” I have never gone back to the theatrical … until now. For the purpose of this Oscar journey, I decided to screen them both again to see which one I prefer. It made for a long weekend, but my instincts and initial impressions weren’t swayed. In all respects, the television version is a masterpiece while the theatrical release, with every plot point still intact, packs far less of an emotional wallop. Does the added 56 minutes slow the movie down? Not at all. It adds depth to characters and many details and nuances to the story. I’m never bored or restless. In fact, quite the opposite. I have no problem watching the entire extended version in one sitting, and I find myself lost in the astonishing tale of a child emperor on his incredible journey through life, during several major turning points in history.

Richard Vuu as the three-year-old emperor Puyi.

The story opens in 1950 with a train full of war criminals pulling into Fushun Prison, which was used by the People’s Republic of China as a communist rehabilitation and “reeducation” center after World War II. A prisoner is recognized by some of the inmates who proceed to kowtow at his feet, causing a commotion. We learn from them that he is Puyi (played by John Lone and spelled “Pu Yi” in the credits), the former Emperor of China. Deeply troubled by the attention, Puyi escapes to a bathroom where he locks himself in and attempts suicide.

We then cut to the beginning of his journey in 1908 when Puyi (portrayed by the remarkable Richard Vuu), just three years old, is taken from his mother and given to his wet nurse Ar Mo (Jade Go). The toddler is summoned to the Forbidden City for an audience with Her Majesty the Empress Dowager Cixi (Lisa Lu in a grandly surreal performance). Having lost the emperor (her nephew) earlier that day, she is on her own deathbed now, surrounded by the imperial court. Before taking her last breath, she proclaims Puyi to be the next Emperor of China, a controversial decision that bypasses his father and several uncles.

Lisa Lu as the Empress Dowager Cixi on her deathbed.

These initial scenes are more or less identical in both versions, but they diverge soon after. The extended cut deep-dives into Puyi’s upbringing, schooling, and extraordinary way of life. We see him surrounded by yes-men eunuchs who attend to his needs and honor his every whim. All the while, he asks, “When can I go home?”, which I find heartbreaking. He is a spoiled and pampered prisoner, an absolute monarch only within the confines of this impenetrable sanctuary, trapped in a bygone era. The film crosscuts interrogation scenes from the 1950s prison camp with flashbacks to Puyi’s early life as an isolated emperor growing up inside the Forbidden City. All plot points remain intact for the theatrical release, but the immersive experience just isn’t the same. What audiences experienced in theatres, the film that won all the awards, feels like a “Reader’s Digest” version of this story by comparison. It’s missing wonderful, personal moments, such as Puyi at eight years of age (Tsou Tijger) and his younger brother (Henry Kyi) studying in the classroom with their first tutor (Victor Wong). Other vignettes from his formative years are truncated or skimmed over. It’s through his brother that Puyi eventually learns the truth: he is no longer emperor outside of these walls, and China is now a republic. Puyi’s second tutor arrives from Scotland—Reginald Johnston (the marvelous Peter O’Toole). He educates the teenaged emperor (Wu Tao) in Western customs and current events while assembling notes for his forthcoming book, called Twilight in the Forbidden City.

Peter O’Toole as Reginald Johnston, Cary Hiroyuki Tagawa as Chang, and Wu Tao as Puyi.

The world is in turmoil, and keeping with tradition, 15-year-old Puyi is advised to take a wife. In the end, two are selected for him. His number-one wife, now the empress, is 17-year-old Wan Jung (played by Joan Chen) while Wen Hsiu (Wu Jun Mei) becomes a secondary consort. Not long after the wedding, Puyi learns of rampant corruption and thievery among the 1,200 eunuchs and other members of the court inside the city. They have been pillaging his food supply, stealing valuables, and taking full advantage of his youth and inexperience. Puyi demands a list of the inventory, and later that night, a mysterious fire breaks out, destroying the warehouse in question. In retaliation, he expels all eunuchs, banishing them from the city forever. Following a military uprising, Puyi and his wives are told to pack up and leave as well, something he has longed for his whole life, but he now has just one hour to do it.

These historical flashbacks are bookended by written and verbal confessions from the older Puyi in the prison camp during the 1950s. The governor of the camp (Ruocheng Ying) and interrogator (Ric Young) work hard to reform Puyi, his brother, and his longtime servant Big Li (Dennis Dun). Subsequent flashbacks reveal the exiled emperor and his wives relocating to a remote palace in Manchuria, now called Manchukuo by the Japanese. Puyi is set up as their “puppet emperor,” with all decisions manipulated and scrutinized. In time, Puyi and Wan Jung become anglicized, adopting the English names Henry and Elizabeth while sporting fashionable European clothes and dancing to jazz music.

Joan Chen as Empress Elizabeth and John Lone as Emperor Henry Puyi.

Throughout the film, John Lone and Joan Chen give outstanding performances. Both endure enormous transformations in their roles, and they anchor the story. It’s devastating in particular to watch Chen go from an innocent teenaged bride to a lost soul in Hollywood-style gowns to an opium addict to an abused and decayed shadow of her former self when her mind ultimately snaps. Her final moment staggering into their evacuated palace, barely able to walk, while she spits into the faces of the people who once worked for her should have earned Chen an Oscar nomination. But again, the emotional payoff of her tragic coda is better contrasted by earlier extended scenes in the “television version.” Lone’s performance is less linear, since we start with him as a war criminal, then flashback to three other actors portraying Puyi as a child and adolescent before Lone assumes the role again. As Puyi, Lone goes from fresh-faced groom to romantic playboy to a colorless prison-camp inmate, ultimately emerging as a humble, reformed, elderly gardener in communist China.

Whether you watch the original theatrical release or the superior TV edit, The Last Emperor is a great movie with a bold, thought-provoking narrative. It’s a story like no other, told on a massive scale by a consummate filmmaker—a film that, for me, has improved with age, well worthy of its nine Academy Awards.

The Last Emperor