This epic martial arts film is the highest grossing film in Chinese history, and the most expensive. It's filmmaking on a grand scale, a sort of Mandarin Ben-Hur. It's the story of the historical beginning of China, when the founder of China's first dynasty had not yet subdued all six Chinese kingdoms. He's been engaged in decades of warfare against his neighbors in his attempt to bring peace to the land at the point of a sword. (He's the guy who would later build the Great Wall and impose a single alphabet.)

The titular hero is Nameless (Jet Li), who has killed three assassins who have plagued the king (Chen Daoming) for the last ten years. He is granted the immense honor of approaching within 100 paces of the king, to share a drink and tell the story of how he vanquished the killers. The three killers are Sky (Donnie Yen), Broken Sword (Tony Leung), and Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung). As Nameless tells his story, he is granted gifts, the most important one being the permission to move closer to the king.

The film takes a Rashomon-like turn when the king disputes Nameless's story. He thinks that Nameless is another assassin. Did Nameless really kill Sky, who had fought off the king's best guards, under his own power, or did Sky die willingly to make Nameless more believable? Did Broken Sword and Flying Snow have a lover's quarrel and fight each other, or did they, too, work with Nameless in his bid to get close enough to the king?

The film has a color scheme. When Nameless tells his story, the dominant color is red, which is, according to the Internet Movie Database, the color of imagination. But when the king guesses at what really happened, blue is dominant, which is supposed to mean perceived reality. Finally, the "truth" of what happened is presented in blazing white. The overpowering color scheme reminded me strongly of Peter Greenaway's The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover; thankfully, this film doesn't end with a barbecue.

This is one of the most beautiful films I have ever seen. Its expressionistic use of color to establish mood is among the best I've ever seen. Each scene is a painting; within those paintings is a ballet of movement, in the guise of wire-aided martial arts. The fighting itself is secondary to the movement, the interaction of shape and color. It's as if the actors are performing in a dance that requires them to flash weapons, but also requires them to be weightless. It's the stylized martial arts of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, but stylized even more, to the point of abstraction. The scenes of the king's court and his armies massing for attack attain a majesty that seems impossible in this era of computer-generated imagery: those thousands of real people on real horses are much more awe-inspiring than the equal number of CGI people. If cinematographer Christopher Doyle doesn't win an Oscar, there's no justice in the world.

The actors are all stunning, even Jet Li, who I don't tend to like. His boring, impassive "acting" worked here, as he was supposed to be completely inscrutable. As the king tells his version of the story, Li must not let on what he's thinking, which is easy for an actor who can't do that when he's supposed to. Zhang Ziyi, from Crouching Tiger, appears as Moon, Broken Sword's doting protege. She's got a tricky part: her character changes almost completely depending on who's telling the story. Is she the sexy temptress who takes advantage of the rift between Broken Sword and Flying Snow to get it on with her master, or is she just a devoted student? She's the only character who is never required to sit back and accept the events that happen to her.

Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung, who also teamed in the other most beautiful film ever made, Wong Kar-Wai's In the Mood for Love (also shot by Doyle), just seem to get better with age. Cheung's beauty has never been more apparent, and she approaches her part with a deep sadness that speaks more than any words could. Leung is able to communicate a stoic manliness that masks a profound romanticism; the various death scenes that he's involved in are wrenching. It's interesting that the Cantonese title of this film is not "Hero" but "Broken Sword." He's the emotional center of the film; he's the one who comes to the grand realization that turns the film into brilliant propaganda.

What an odd movie for Zhang Yimou, the director of such films as Raise the Red Lantern and To Live, to write and direct. It has the look, but not the feel, of his earlier films, most of which have been banned at some point in Zhang's home country of China, whose government views them (correctly) as critical of the state. His films were loved elsewhere, but he was refused permission to travel to receive any of the awards he won for them. Now, here he is, directing an epic film about the birth of modern China under a despot who brought peace to the land by destroying all who opposed him. One message of the film is that it is noble to sacrifice oneself to the greater good; another is more political.

The movie is brilliant, and it is brilliant propaganda. It was funded by the Chinese government, and its central message is a justification for decades of repression; it says that peace under a dictatorship is better, more valuable, than freedom. What I'm trying to figure out is why this message bothers me enough for it to detract from the film. There are many propaganda films that I love dearly: Battleship Potemkin and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington are two that quickly come to mind. There are other films I love but whose worldviews I reject absolutely: Dirty Harry comes to mind. But I think what separates this film from something like Battleship Potemkin is the relationship between the art and the ideology. That film was about regular people standing up to an autocracy; it was funded by a government that had not yet turned into a totalitarian regime—it still seemed like there was hope. This film, though, says that the best thing to happen is to give up and accept the autocracy.