By Patrick Macias

IT'S NOVEMBER 2003 , and I'm in Japan standing in the outrageously posh lobby of the Tokyo Park Hyatt, a building destined to go down in somebody's idea of history as "the hotel where they filmed Lost in Translation." Movie Treasures magazine has asked me to meet and interview Four Star Theatre favorite Jimmy Wang Yu here in his penthouse suite. And meeting Wang Yu, director and star of numerous '60s and '70s martial arts films like The Chinese Boxer and The Master of the Flying Guillotine, is no casual affair.

See, there are these stories about Wang Yu. The last time Wang Yu was in Japan, a journalist asked about long-rumored links to the Taiwanese underworld, to which he replied, "That's the kind of question you shouldn't ask if you want to live another day."

So there's a sense of drama and tension in the air as an army of publicists escorts me through an Escher-like succession of elevators and waiting rooms. For half a second, it feels like I'm in a Junk Film reedit of Game of Death with Wang Yu as Kareem waiting at the top of the Hyatt. But it's too late now to learn the Way of the Intercepting Fist. Better check those interview questions again to make sure I'll live another day.

Me? Bruce Lee? Well, why not. Lots of Americans tried on Asian identities at the movies this year, and to much acclaim. Kill Bill: Vol. 1 and The Last Samurai imagined Uma Thurman and Tom Cruise, respectively, as invincible masters of the sword. Lost in Translation saw Bill Murray selling out for Suntory Whiskey.

Of the bunch, Kill Bill did the best job of conjuring up the feeling of actually being there. Tokyo, like Quentin Tarantino's movie-addled brain, often feels as if it's made out of bits of borrowed celluloid, most of it disreputable. There's that forced-perspective skyline in Kill Bill, as seen from the airplane, primed for a giant-monster attack; and Thurman's motorcycle ride through the seedy Shinjuku streets, a locale where it seems as if several Takashi Miike-directed gangster movie story lines are playing out nearby (which they probably are).

But it was the first 45 minutes of Kill Bill that wound up connecting with me the most: a Mad Magazine revenge movie, where you're never sure if it's appropriate to laugh. The second helping was too much a cult-movie wax museum. Take out the swipes from Lady Snowblood and The Chinese Boxer and there's nothing left in the Beijing set of the House of Blue Leaves but some nice choreography. Couldn't Kill Bill have amounted to something better? Its not like real greatness can't be mined from other's people's pulp. After all, look what Sergio Leone did with Yojimbo and Johnny Guitar.

While Tarantino was content to celebrate trash culture, Cruise and director Edward Zwick sought to take the high road with The Last Samurai. Every sound bite from these two yammered on about "the nuance and ritual" of Japanese culture and flaunted Akira Kurosawa's name, as if he'd personally endorsed their flick from beyond the grave. Unfortunately, merely assuming a position of greatness doesn't make for a great movie. Samurai was textbook Hollywood bullshit: all stereotype, maudlin emotion, "great white warrior" chest thumping, with swords and armor that looked fresh off the rack. The Japanese mainstream press, their patriotism egged on by decades of recession, loved it. It had respect for Japanese warrior culture, they said. So mission accomplished. The Last Samurai was an epic all right, but only of shameless ass kissing.

Of all the Japanese-flavored concoctions served up this year, it was Lost in Translation that went down the best with American viewers. I'll never understand why. It's the sort of film aspiring producer Ally Hilfiger (of MTV's hellish reality show Rich Girls) is bound to make some day; a surrogate therapy session for bad marriages and the woes of privilege. And poor Bill Murray, reduced to that vile "lip my stocking" scene and Mr. Bean-like antics on exercise equipment. But perhaps I'm only jealous of Sofia Coppola, who got to spend her aimless debutante 20s roosting at the Tokyo Park Hyatt, instead of sneaking in the back door a decade later like me.

When I finally do make it to the penthouse, Jimmy Wang Yu turns out to be a wonderful human being, blessed with the biggest diamond watch I've ever seen. Happily, he doesn't go on the attack with the Flying Guillotine, but he does tuck his hand in his pants for a few photos in One-Armed Boxer mode.

Afterward, on the way back down to planet Earth, being an American in Japan doesn't seem like such a stressful proposition anymore. You needn't go for revenge, to rewrite history, or to hide in the hotel room to find the best seat in the house.

Patrick Macias's top 10

1. Millennium Actress (Satoshi Kon, Japan)

2. Wattstax rerelease (Mel Stuart, USA)

3. Freddy Vs. Jason (Ronny Yu, USA)

4. Running on Karma (Johnny To and Ka-Fai Wai, Hong Kong)

5. Gozu (Takashi Miike, Japan)

6. The Eye, opening credits only (Oxide Pang and Danny Pang, Hong Kong/ Singapore)

7. X2 (Bryan Singer, USA)

8. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Peter Jackson, USA)

9. Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (Quentin Tarantino, USA)