I really wanted to like The Pillow Book. Intriguing story, interesting character outlines, Ewan Macgregor in the utterly glorious altogether. Unfortunately, I hated every minute of it. Greenaway got so enamoured with presenting the movie uniquely, and not to the film's benefit. I won't even get into Vivian Wu's abysmal acting.<br /><br />You get distracted from the story with 4 billion teeny windows and calligraphy that rolls on the bottom of the screen displaying the lyrics of the music that's playing. It seems he lost sight of presenting the actual story and developing the plot, and got entangled with foo-foo embellishments that have nothing to do with anything. It's a bit like presenting a John Singer Sargeant portrait in a chintzy Hallmark frame that says "GRANDMA LOVES ME!" in big sparkly letters.<br /><br />This movie seems to be a casualty of the director auteur's ego instead of what it could have been - disturbingly and horrifyingly beautiful. In another director's hands (Jeunet? Coppola?), it could have been a masterpiece. In Greenaway's hands, it's best relegated to fine arts classes that also take themselves too seriously.