If one consistent element fuses the distinct visions of Chen Kaige, Xhang Yimou, Tian Zhuangzhuang, and other rightly celebrated "Fifth Generation" Chinese filmmakers, it's their brave and striking use of allegory to smuggle bold political sentiments past government censors. Chen began this tradition with his spare, gorgeous rural fable Yellow Earth (which was banned by authorities in 1984) and has since expanded into luxuriant period melodramas, including 1993's sweeping Palme D'Or winner Farewell My Concubine and 1997's confused, elliptical opium dream Temptress Moon. Billed as the most elaborate historical epic ever filmed in China, his fitfully exhilarating Shakepearean sprawl The Emperor And The Assassin concerns nothing less than the country's foundation itself, forged in tyranny and blood. Though set during the third century BC, contemporary meanings can be read into the story of an idealistic king (Li Xuejian) who tries to unify the seven dominant Chinese kingdoms under his rule, but eventually succumbs to ambition and an unexpected capacity for violence. The plan begins in earnest when his lover from childhood, played by the incomparable Gong Li, hatches a scheme to provoke an attack on the neighboring kingdom of Yan. To that end, she recruits a glowering killer-for-hire (Zhang Fengyi) for a phony assassination plot but, touched by his desire to change his ways, falls in love with him instead. In its extravagant attempt to plaster history on an immense canvas, The Emperor And The Assassin sacrifices some coherency and depth for the sake of eye-popping spectacle, but its major setpieces are exciting and beautifully orchestrated. Chen's use of broad archetypes instead of more detailed characters makes the film more convincing as adventure than political treatise, but on that level, his skill is undeniable.