When I say hardly any, I mean that there is an absence of professional film critics who work for major, national publications and media outlets, and thus a lack of regular film reviews of new Chinese movies, at least for the mass audiences. Sure, there are some academic and/or bureaucratic film publications that are read by few, and others that are commercially centered whose readership is small and reserved. The majority of active, up-to-date film criticism in China today comes from blogs and websites started by film lovers.
Youth Film Journal 《青年电影手册》 can be ordered online via Amazon China:
Issue 1: http://www.amazon.cn/dp/B00134CN3E
Issue 2: http://www.amazon.cn/dp/B002H9WGMW
Issue 3: http://www.amazon.cn/dp/B003DIV22Q
Note: The original Chinese version of the interview will be coming soon in a link. Leave a comment if you wish to see it.
I found this out the hard way. Upon arriving in China, I searched futilely for weeks for Chinese film criticism. My questions were often met with blank stares and prolonged silences. The concept of film criticism was simply foreign to most people not working in the industry, as evident in my daily encounters with family, friends, and strangers. Even within the film circle, in my conversations with filmmakers and professionals, there was little if any acknowledgment of the existence of any kind of consistent, quality film reviewing in China. I asked for specific names of film critics currently at work and did not receive a single one.
Of course, this is not a comprehensive study and I could have just been talking to the wrong people. However, the fact that some of the most well known independent filmmakers in BeiJing are unable to answer such a simple question speaks volumes to the issue at hand. When I asked what kind of media coverage independent filmmakers receive for their films in China, the answer was that it mostly comes through word of mouth, personal connections, or social media (still a relatively new concept). When asked whether journalists from major publications review their films, the reply was that rarely does that happen, and in the event that it does, the journalists usually expect to receive some kind of monetary compensation ("red pocket") for the coverage, which will usually result in a "good" review. If there is no red pocket, then the review may not be so "good."
A natural curiosity gradually turned into sheer befuddlement. So it was in this particular frame of perplexed mind that I first met Wang Yang at the Sundance/CNEX Film Forward documentary filmmakers workshop this April in BeiJing.
When you first meet Wang Yang, you can easily pass him as one of the millions of young men living in China today. With his longish hair and casual stride, there is nothing pretentious or revealing at first glance.
What you may not know is that he is the founder of the first independently published, professional film journal in China today, named Youth Film Journal 《青年电影手册》.
Youth Film Journal is a film publication that started in 2006 by Wang Yang and his friends, stemming purely out of frustration of the barren landscape of film criticism and fueled by a vision to fill such a void. The journal is published in Chinese bi-annually, and boasts an impressive collection of content ranging from in-depth film reviews to feature critiques, trend analysis to special interviews. The contributors are an equally eclectic group, consisting of academics, critics, filmmakers, and cinephiles alike. Publishing quality is excellent and each issue stands on its own as a collectible publication with its unique focus and collection of articles. A recent issue, for example, features a 12 page article by director Jia ZhangKe on female Chinese filmmakers that is part memoir and part reflection, alongside an entire section on Chinese documentaries, with another section focusing on criticism of mainstream Chinese films, as well as a sizable chunk devoted to Taiwan cinema in the 21st century. Think of a Chinese version of McSweeney's, but on film, and that is the kind of professionalism and quality to be expected here.
Our meeting almost didn't happen, as Wang Yang had already left the venue at the end of the night and was called back by a mutual friend. We sat down and within minutes realized that we both studied law and wrote about film. The next day he sent me three issues of Youth Film Journal that I devoured right away, and found within a wealth of information that began to quench my thirst of knowledge for the current Chinese cinema scene. It should be noted that the cost of the latest issue, a bundle of 252 pages of solid loveliness, costs 36rmb ($5usd), and that is considered somewhat pricey. Another reason to visit China: books are ridiculously cheap there.
As a film lover living in North America, film criticism is an indispensable part of my cinematic landscape. Even for the mass audiences, film reviews is a familiar concept and embraced often. It is therefore unfathomable to me that in a land that produced over 500 films last year and plans to have 20,000 theater screens operating by 2015, that professional film criticism, as we know it, simply does not exist. How can this be? What is it doing to the Chinese film industry? What does it mean for the future of Chinese cinema?
These are important questions, and I thought it best to start the discussion with someone who is in the unique position of holding multiple perspectives as a cinephile, a film critic, a film journal editor, and a filmmaker living and working in China today. Below, Wang Yang has graciously agreed to answer some of my questions. The written interview was conducted in Chinese, and has been translated by me into English.
Grace Wang (GW): How did you get into film, first as a fan, then a critic, and now a filmmaker?
Wang Yang (WY): My family seems to have a fated link with film. My father has some relatives who were working at the XiAn film production company. When I was small, I used to be taken to the set to see film shoots, and I remember being fascinated. My interest in cinema just kept on growing ever since, till finally I thought that I should work in film. During high school I frequented movie rental stores. At that time I liked watching Hong Kong cinema and Hollywood blockbusters. Suddenly one day I saw Wong Kar-Wai's "Happy Together" and was very shocked. I realized that a film can be shot like this: breathtaking while expressing such different feelings and emotions. That film watching experience further deepened my desire to work in film. And then of course I started watching large amounts of films on DVDs, gradually learning about the history of world cinema and forming my own cinematic eye as well.
At the same time of watching films, I also read a lot of film criticism books, especially the earlier film theory books, which triggered my interest in the internal structure and expressions of a film, the use of time and space, and the relationship between truth and reality of our existences. I started writing large volumes of film criticisms. Well, earlier on they weren't really film criticisms, but more like keeping a film critique journal. I wrote 300,000 words in one year. That was the peak of my writing passion. Then as I continue to analyze films more deeply, I felt that I should create a professional film publication, and that's where the idea of Youth Film Journal came from.
The more I thought, the more I wrote, and it was only natural to consider diving into the creative part of the process. The hugely complex nature of Chinese contemporary society also motivate people like me to step outside of abstract concepts and ideas and to try to present more realistic criticisms and expressions through concrete visuals. I then had the chance to shoot my first film, "Transition - Space," a documentary about the diminishing of rural culture and the irony of modern society living in villages on the outskirts of a big city.
GW: Once you had the idea for a film publication, how did Youth Film Journal actually become a reality?
WY: In 2006 my friend Song JianJun and I started setting up Youth Film Journal. At the time we've been feeling that for a long time there was not a properly published, consistent film publication in China. We believe that cinematic issues should be discussed in a serious forum in the landscape of world cinema. We especially wanted to actively introduce and discuss the state of Chinese independent cinema. To do so we needed a publication that gets to the heart of the matter, to not only recommend and critique films, but also through film criticism create a sort of intellectual synergy that interact with the current state of cinema today. At that time there was a lot of difficulties starting up such a thing. Suddenly two young people had an idea, but when we approached many publishers no one was willing to take us on. It really was fueled purely by passion. In the end our first issue finally was published in 2007. I remember the introduction of that first issue was titled "Our New Wave." The first issue was more of a call of passion. From the second issue onwards things calmed down a bit and there was a lot more in-depth organization and dissections. Many important Chinese critics also actively joined as contributors.
I should mention that starting from the second issue there was an important change in staff. Cheng QingSong is a film critic and screenplay writer who joined us as Editor in Chief then. We hoped that under his management and direction the Youth Film Journal will have a bright future.
GW: What did you envision when you first created Youth Film Journal?
WY: Youth Film Journal is basically an expression of a hope: to shine a new light upon the non-official stature of film critics in China, and to increase the accessibility of such criticisms by the public. I hope that through a systematic organization to revamp the "cinephilia culture," which is borne from the masses, and place it right beside traditional cinema itself, to actively encourage those two cultures to interact with each other, with the readers and audiences alike. I also hope to create a professional and thoughtful publication that serves as a link between those serious, quality film criticisms already existent on the web, and to connect even more film critics together.
In the future, an intellectual/spiritual quality needs to be distilled from Chinese film criticism. Chinese cinephilia culture should build up an intellectual base, and from within its film critics can better use all the communication channels to encourage the building of a blossoming film culture.
GW: What is the readership of Youth Film Journal like now, and how do you envision it growing in the future?
WY: Our readership is very diverse, including the academic and film critic circle, other disciplines that are interested in learning about cinema, and most of all young film lovers. In the feedback we've been getting on the web it seems that large number of cinephiles and young people, especially the slowly growing university students demographic, are our main readers. Many people in their feedback expressed great passion and professionalism. We feel that this is a generation of promising film lovers. I believe that there are many movers and shakers amongst them and one day they will grow up and trigger a fundamental change in Chinese cinema.
GW: Aside from Youth Film Journal, in what other venues do film criticisms exist in China?
WY: This is just a general introduction. Many excellent film critics are gathered on the web at certain sites. There are also many people writing quietly and thoughtfully on their own -- to be discovered and recommended, much of the responsibility which lies with the media.
http://cinephilia.net -- a group of quality film critics
http://douban.com/ -- a place for individual bloggers/film critics with their pages
http://mtime.com -- more a site for film fans
Below are some examples of personal sites of film bloggers:
http://www.douban.com/people/daqihupi/ http://www.douban.com/people/windbo/ http://www.douban.com/people/film101/ http://www.douban.com/people/Tati/ http://www.douban.com/people/hu-di/ http://www.douban.com/people/1140109/ http://www.douban.com/people/2236316/ http://www.douban.com/people/yunfeiyang2046/ http://www.douban.com/people/elfff/ http://www.douban.com/people/MovieL/
Chinese film criticism also comes in part from academics, who take more of a social studies approach to cinema.
GW: Along with the rapid development of Chinese cinema, so are its audiences. What do you think of this process?
WY: In the past ten years, DVD culture exploded in China, in particular due to the wide spread of piracy it allowed the masses of Chinese audiences to access world cinema, both the classics and the contemporary gems. It is on this basis that Chinese cinephilia culture gradually developed. These film fans started with those in the industry, the filmmakers, and then expanded to the cultured middle class, and now the young intellectuals. In a way this is kind of like a cultural revolution, but much more low-key. The Chinese young people can from the comfort of their homes watch thousands and even tens of thousands movies, from all periods, of all genres and languages, all over the world. These young people not only watch the films - they analyze them, critique them, and even want to make them. In this process the level of film appreciation is constantly being elevated - from watching a film, to critiquing it, to learning about its filmmaker, to collecting further materials and knowledge. If there isn't enough information in Chinese, people translate them from other languages and then share them on the web. Film literature is very popular in China these days, and mostly they are those profiling certain directors, and also some of the classic film criticism books. Many private film groups also formed who host their own private screenings and discussions. As the understanding of world cinema gradually increases, some of these people's film knowledge and level of critique will rise to a certain standard, which differs greatly from the traditional sense of film critics. When that time comes, I think China will finally have film critics of its own that are akin to those in the west.
What follows is also lots of discussion, and that entirely takes place on the web because it is simply too difficult to do so in other channels in China. Through the World Wide Web, many people can access your perspectives; this wide interaction elevates the discussions and criticisms to a higher level. Now, the new wave of Chinese film criticism is still growing, and its main field is on the web. The creation of Youth Film Journal stems from the hope to increase these new film criticisms and their social impact, and in turn help elevate the general quality of Chinese cinema itself. At the very least we can help to refuse garbage and mainstream cinema. In a way our thinking is that even if our generation cannot create something substantial, through our motivation and efforts, at least we can refuse something. This is a long-term preparation. As society produces more and more young people who delve into film and film criticism, and through exposure and interactions with more and more films and film literatures, and through DVDs and other accessible formats to share with more and more others, this new wave can build up through time to create a group of not just film fans, but intelligent, sharp film critics or even filmmakers.
GW: How do you think the contents of Youth Film Journal compares to other Chinese film criticism online and in other publications? Are there any commonality and/or difference between these criticisms depending on the forum in which they exist? How do they affect each other and in turn, the state of Chinese cinema today?
WY: Nowadays most film critics come from the web. Their articles are also being forwarded and passed around on the web. However, restraints of the web are also distinctive, and that is the fact that in the virtual world the right of speech is not a privilege, but something that everyone can enjoy. Being read and listened to, however, has become a privilege. This may diffuse the power of quality articles, and make it impossible to form a professional media platform, therefore making it difficult to create film critics of wide respect and persuasion. A more mature market is needed to make this happen - for example a film critic association or governmental/community funding for such organizations. More community groups and organized film criticism should be expanded under an efficient model. However, the current situation limits the interactions between film critics and box office and filmmakers.
However, I have faith in certain critics. Some of them are naturally talented and have build up a good knowledge base through watching large amounts of films. Another group are those Chinese film critics who grew up or are living abroad. They mostly have some academic background, but just in masters and PhDs. These people have the advantage of their fluency in foreign languages to gain even broader, diverse perspectives, access more information, and in turn are somewhat more mainstream.
Of course, I should also mention that there are some other film magazines in China, which mostly copy the commercial film/music magazines popular in the west. However, it can't be denied that these publications provide a venue, however limited, for some film criticism to be published, and make a contribution to the culture of cinephilia. However, these kind of publications lack professionalism, resulting in many readers or film critics to quickly stop reading them. These different venues of published film criticism are basically all interconnected, and have strong impacts on each other.
Film criticism, as a form of speech of passion, can be deduced into two forms based on their objectives.
The first is motivated by a dissatisfaction with the current state of Chinese cinema, the process of film censorship, the excessive dominance of blockbusters at cinemas, and the rapid commercialization of films in general which also rapidly strips them of their sacredness or artistic nature. These dissatisfaction's fuel the writings of some film critics, who hope to through analysis and critique of the blockbusters in China to burst the bubble, and to reduce the cultural demise brought on by mainstream films. They also hope to through film criticisms to join the film-making process of Chinese cinema, to have their own voices heard through creation to change the face of Chinese cinema. This kind of trajectory eventually produces not exactly film critics, but perhaps a group of film folks with critical minds. These people possibly will have great impacts in the shaping of future of Chinese cinema, because they can view their jobs, whatever they may be, from a more well-informed and well-rounded perspective, and therefore can plan thoughtfully how to, both artistically and commercially, fill in the blanks in Chinese cinema.
Another kind of film critics are closer to the traditional form of film criticism, and that goes back to the roots of watching, critiquing, and understanding a film. Their hope is pure and simple, and that is to see better films, and to through questioning and exploring the nature of film as a medium to help it develop for the better. These film critics are more actively involved in writing, translating, recommending and discussing films. Their main arena is the web. Their criticisms also have many readers and the number may be sometimes astonishing.
GW: Film critics outside of China, especially in North America, hold an important role in the film industry. A respected critic's opinion can substantially influence a film's trajectory and box office. How does that compare to the role of film critics in China?
WY: Chinese film critics have a certain amount of power too. Especially in the last few years as the web becomes more widespread and popular, which increased the influence of the voices of a certain number of popular critics. Of course, their influences are limited, because they are only popular on the web and not in print by independent medias, so of course their influence on the box office will not be so great. But we can see a trend: that more quality critics can have greater influences on Chinese cinema in the future.
I should mention that film critics in China, especially quality film critics, either lack a source of income, or gets funded directly by production and distribution companies. This results in some critics becoming biased in their opinions, and the respectability of their criticism in turn will decrease rapidly. There are a few rare critics who are struggling financially but remain independent from outside influences - their voices are continually being congregated and supported. As film clubs become more popular and widespread, I believe their voices will become even more important in the future.
GW: Let's talk about the issue of ethics in film criticism in China. Some independent filmmakers have told me that if they want journalists from publications to come see their films and write about them, the journalists in turn expect to receive a "red pocket" (monetary bonus). If not given, they usually won't come, or the reviews won't be as positive. Is this common?
WY: These people cannot be called film critics. Their actions will diminish and destroy their reputations and the value of their opinions. The ethics and independence of film criticism is the most important. No matter how many of those corrupted "critics" exist, they will never be taken seriously. This also brings us to another issue: that the real quality and ethical film critics are not thoroughly integrated into the world of cinema. There's also the problem of a lack of cultural appreciation and the unique role of political culture that makes this integration even more difficult. Right now we seem to still be in the process of collecting and building this infrastructure.
GW: What do you think of the future of Chinese criticism? Any hopes? Dreams?
WY: The relationship between Chinese cinema and Chinese film criticism is very complicated. Chinese cinema has been increasingly influenced by power and profits, almost becoming in fashion like economic and real estate investments, as a venue of funneling money and to help the government construct a kind of safe and dependable consumerism culture, a sort of harmless film industry. However, this impact on the nature of films, this restraint on the power of films and its artistic freedom, may be disastrous. So the state of Chinese films and film criticisms can be said to be in a state of divergence that is similar to the state of internal politics in China: the mainstream power will continue to rule over the masses, but individualism and freedom will continue to develop independently, quietly, on a separate track. The current film criticisms cannot have big or small impact on the production of Chinese cinema, they can only try their best to keep their voice aloud and heard, and not letting go of their sense of responsibility. The focus is still on the introduction, digestion, organization, and dissemination of world cinema culture. This is a stage of preparation.
In the meanwhile, quality film audiences are quietly congregating. One day a moment will come, when Chinese film critics will develop to a certain level of excellence, and this may be a surprising level, that they will began to have substantial impacts on Chinese cinema. This impact may be far greater than their counterparts in the culturally developed western countries. They may trigger a great new wave, and this I truly want to emphasize.
GW: Last question -- do you think film criticism is important?
WY: The importance of film criticism is easy to see. Cinema is becoming more complicated and continues to harbor all kinds of possibilities. The risks of the future development of films are still omnipresent and include the transgression of culture and the persistence of film culture. The consumption of film as a medium is already changing and that change will continue. Film as a form of media is directly linked to its fate. The value of film critics lies not only in their recommendations of films to the public, or the contribution of their viewpoints, or to through their critiques help the readers to better understand the films they watch. The importance of film criticism lies in its continuous interaction with films, in its persistence in maintaining a critical passion to observe the development of cinema as a while, to anticipate trends that are emerging, and to provide encouragement. Film criticism in certain regard should go even further, to the forefront of cinema, and not just stand on its sidelines. The relationship between film and reality makes film criticism not only about film itself, but also an active participant of the society we live in. The meaning of cinema lies outside of cinema. Chinese film critics are more like artistic sociologists: they must on one hand be responsible to the spirit and culture of film, and on the other hand be responsible to the environment they live in. Faced with the complexity presented by Chinese society, Chinese film critics still have a long road ahead to go.
A human being's thoughts, artistic appreciation, and spirits are of the utmost value. Filmmakers pursue them, and so do film critics.
]]>• Grace Wang of Toronto
Chinese documentary films are important because they reflect, from the closest distance possible, in the most direct way possible, the rapid social, political, and cultural changes happening in China right now.
You can argue that conventional journalism provides larger quantities of information in faster real-time -- though in a way, it faces greater restraints. The time-sensitive nature of the journalists' occupation, in combination with the bureaucratic red-tape they face in a country such as China, means that information often leaks out in jagged pieces, providing a partial view but lacking the whole.
A well-crafted Chinese documentary can quietly bring together those pieces, fill in the gaps, and provide a deep and thorough look into a country that much of the world is fascinated by, but hardly ever sees, and often misunderstand.
Chinese documentaries are a relatively new cinematic development that dates back to the late 1980s. Much of the earlier decades in Chinese cinema is dominated with fictional features and plagued by propaganda films. It was an interesting time, where what unfolded onscreen, directly and indirectly, subtly and ironically, reflected what was happening in society at large. Times like the Cultural Revolution remain an unspeakable period for many who lived through it, and an unimaginable time for those who did not. Cinema is a strange form of collective memory, and in a place of ancient kingdoms and modern industrialization, it manifests itself in strange, mysterious ways.
To get a general picture of the history of Chinese documentaries, take a look at Lu Xinyu's 2003 book, Documentary China: The New Documentary Movement in Contemporary China, where she described the movement, dated to the late 1980s, as "a new way of looking at the world from the grass-roots up; a way of clearly understanding what drives different classes to survive and what feelings they have. They see history as 'wide open' and 'clear,' promising that everyone has the possibility to be recorded in history. They create history."
For history and character of some of the newer works, take a look at The New Chinese Documentary Film Movement: For the Public Record, edited by Chris Berry, Lu Xinyu, & Lisa Rofel (Hong Kong University Press; distributed in the US by University of Washington Press). A synopsis can be found here, and parts are quoted below:
"The book focuses on independent documentaries. The first Chinese independent documentary appeared around 1990. By definition, in the Chinese context, an "independent" film or video is one that has not been submitted to the authorities for censorship. Without being passed by the authorities, independent documentaries cannot be commercially distributed and exhibited. Furthermore, in terms of government-run archives, it means they do not exist and are not collected. The independent quality of the documentaries is a major part of what makes them interesting. However, it also creates particular circumstances and particular difficulties.
The informal quality of independent film and video culture in China means that systematic information about the films is absent. There are no statistics on the numbers of independent documentaries produced in China, for example. Along with the independent films themselves, a number of independent screening events and venues have developed over the years. New documentaries get known by word of mouth - and blog - as a result of being shown at these sites. But going from hearing about the films to seeing them is not straightforward, because it is not possible to buy most of the documentaries as commercially distributed DVDs. On the other hand, the prevalence of informal distribution circuits in China helps to compensate for this, and in practice people who are interested in independent documentaries copy and swap DVDs actively to build up their collections. Our research would have been impossible without the generosity of numerous documentarians, who were kind enough to give us copies of their own works."
Filmmakers Zhao Liang (Petition) and Lixin Fan (Las Train Home), in Zhao's Beijing studio
Without going into academia and history, my view of Chinese documentaries has been a personal and recent one, built from conversations in the last two months with filmmakers, cinematographers, producers, non-profit organization directors, and people who are simply passionate about documenting the history of China as it happens.
In late night cafes, by breakfast tables, beside yellow liquors and green teas, we talked about why they do what they do, how they do what they do, what do they want to keep on doing, and what do they want to change.
The collective goal seems to boil down to one simple thing: How do Chinese people keep on telling as much truth as possible about their way of life in China, have as much of it witnessed unobtrusively and honestly by the world at large as possible, and at the same time remain commercially sustainable and therefore, ongoing?
The consensus on how to achieve that is equally simple: more artistic success and (yes, and) commercial success.
Better-produced films, continued artistic innovation, attention to details, and much, much needed marketing to get people in front of screens.
The issues have never been lacking. The raw materials have never been lacking. What is lacking is an efficient and effective production system that help the filmmakers who - often working alone, often inexperienced in everything outside of shooting - to make the most and best of their hard, sweat-drenched, sometimes life-risking work, to help bridge what they see with what the world -- all those who are not standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside them -- sees.
That bridge is so, so, so important.
Unlike some of the higher profile documentarians in North America and Europe, the majority of documentary filmmakers in China are working alone or with a skeleton crew, without shooting permissions, and often little to no funding.
Zhao Liang, director of Petition (2009), when asked how he kept on shooting over 12 years to finally complete his harrowing documentary on the journeys of those who struggle within the Chinese legal system, traveling thousands of miles from their impoverished countryside villages to BeiJing to seek justice which remain all but a dim glimmer on the horizon, replied: " It's not that I wanted to shoot for 12 years. It is that once I started, I could not stop. I just could not."
Watching the film, you can see the frame shaking as he runs after a petitioner, and hear the heavy breathing as a police hand swallows the view. Zhao started as a photographer, and continued to work in that capacity throughout all the years of filming. "Gotta live," he said.
Even when the raw footage is painstakingly obtained, edited, and completed into a feature documentary, the struggle is not over. To get a film commercially distributed in China (both theatrically and on DVDs), one must apply for permission from SARFT (State Administration of Radio, Film & Television), an executive government branch that directly controls state-owned enterprises at the national level involved in radio, films and television, such as China Central Television, China National Radio, China Radio International, as well as other movie/television studios and non-business organizations. SARFT is also in charge of censoring any materials that might be objective to Chinese government or cultural standards.
What are the criteria used to measure these "cultural standards," you ask? There are some solid guidelines, like the language of dialogue spoken in film must be that of Mandarin, the official language of PRC. However, the majority of factors that contribute to a decision of grant or denial for theatrical distribution remains a mystery to most. On the other hand, there is an unspoken public understanding of the government's predictable reaction to certain kind of materials, and the invisible yet immovable boundaries that one must remain within, content wise, if one wishes to see one's film play publicly and legally in theaters in China.
Self-censorship? You betcha.
What does all this mean? It means that some of the most socially valuable, artistically merited films will never see the light of a public cinema in China today. It means that if those films, known as underground films, will ever be seen by an audience in China, it will be through a private showing, unmarked, unmarketed, and - yes - uncharged (because by law, selling tickets make it a non-private screening).
It means that the filmmakers who choose to make these kind of films will not be able to make commercial profit from their films in China.
It means that if anyone wants to see these films in China, they need to watch them free of charge (online streaming) or illegally (pirated copies).
Such circumstance results in the livelihood of Mr. L, who I met on my 2nd day in Beijing, as he came to deliver a bunch of dvds to LiXin Fan, director of the award-winning Last Train Home.
The dvds delivered, and bought, by Fan are none other than... can you guess it? Yes, Copies of his own films.
For $10rmb (1.53usd), you get a glossy, colored outer sleeve, an illustrated dvd contained in another matching colored sleeve, with a fold-up mini poster all wrapped in clear plastic and beautifully presented in a package that easily rival a professionally produced copy in the west selling for $20usd.
And the quality of the film? Crisp. Clear. With multiple subtitles. "Pretty good," quipped Fan, "better than what I can make myself for that price."
When asked why he's buying so many copies, he replied that he's giving them away as gifts to friends and family prior to theatrical release of the film in China.
When asked if he has any problem buying pirated copies of his own films, the answer came brief and sure: No.
"I'm glad that it's getting pirated," Fan said, "That means there is a demand for them. The buyers are the best indicators of the market. Besides, what can I do? It's better that someone is paying something to see the film, rather than nothing at all."
"But you're not getting any of the money being paid by the public to see a film that you made." I tried to dissect the logic (or lack of) of the situation: "Instead, you are paying to profit someone else who is illegally making profit off of your hard work, in order to promote your hard work?"
I looked at him. He looked back. A small smile passed in between...expanding.
"Ah, the mystical land of China." He laughed.
Shiqing Wang, the cinematographer for the award-winning Up The Yangtze (2007), told me that he, like everyone else, started out shooting documentaries as a "one-man show," camera on shoulder, into the wilderness. "But that can't last," he said. " You can shoot your first film that way, maybe because you have to, but as soon as you have some credentials and experience you need to get a crew together. Shooting alone is shooting for yourself. Film is a group art. You can't make a good film alone."
(L to R) director Chi Zhang, Grace Wang and cinematographer Shiqing Wang
Perhaps because of the relative youth of documentary cinema in China, the concept of making a film as a group collaboration is still a new one for many to grasp. Some of it has to do with the topics: heavily political, social, and often chilling, they are not instinctive for sharing. Some of it has to do with culture: an emphasis on individual persistence and personal pride in the face of difficulties, resulting in an innate resistance to ask for outside help. Much has to do with the environment: governmental cooperation being a fairytale that most have stopped believing in, making larger crews more visible and easier to track, especially when one doesn't have a shooting permit.
However, all those above are precisely the very reasons that open collaborations are the key to the success of Chinese documentaries in the future. Aside from passion, international producers, good editors, and artistic visions that move and attract the audience is the only way to move these valuable images from the underbellies of the world's fastest growing economy to the front of all those who have yet had the chance to see it for themselves, and those who still see China as a far, strange, mystical land of the East.
The truth is, China is neither far nor strange. Its mystery supplies the jeans you wear, the bowls you eat from, the sheets you sleep on, and the cellphones you talk into. Go to a theater, find a Chinese documentary playing, and buy a ticket. Why not? You have bought everything else. Give it a chance... and maybe you will come to see what I see: a complicated land that is at times easy to like, hard to love, but that you can never, ever look away from.
Midnight café discussion on Chinese documentaries between FanFan Zhuang, Grace Wang and Lixin Fan:
Recommended recent Chinese documentaries:
LAST TRAIN HOME, by Lixin Fan
THE DITCH, by Wang Bing
UP THE YANGTZE, by Yung Chang
24 CITIES, by Jia ZhangKe
HIP-HOP STORM, by Su Che-Hsien
PETITION, by Zhao Liang
1428, by Du HaiBing
Recommended articles/resoueces on Chinese documentaries:
Update on current state of Chinese docs: http://dgeneratefilms.com/critical-essays/profile-on-current-state-of-chinese-documentaries/
A large list and summaries of Chinese docs: http://chinadocs.blogspot.com/
]]>• Grace Wang of Toronto
Running concurrently with the Hong Kong Internatiomal Film Festival is FILMART, an industry film event that attracts buyers, sellers, producers, filmmakers, promoters, journalists, and all kinds of film people. This is a side of cinema not as visible to the public, but just as important. Here the new blockbusters and indie sweethearts of next year are seeded and funded.
Included in FILMART is the Asian Financing Forum (HAF), which is located in a large exhibition hall where hundreds of booths are set up and buyers and sellers meet and greet and do business. Think of your favorite car/food/wine show, but replace the item at hand with film, and the general set-up is much the same. The booths range from simple and modest to the extravagant and gaudy. This being my first year at FILMART, it is easy to get lost in the buzz and frantic energy of it all. Thankfully, I was in the good company of the TIFF team, including Cameron Bailey who kindly showed me around and explained how things work. Along the way we attended meetings, encountered mystical folklore from a Filipino auteur, met an Indian talent with a story that spans life and death, watched Asian movie stars fall over chairs in play-fighting at a reception, and shot the breeze in a late-night pool hall, amongst others. It doesn't get more instructive, illuminating, and fun than that.
FILMART also supports a slew of workshops, panels, and special events. A major event this year is Jia Zhangke's three-hour master class.
The acclaimed director of such films as "Platform," "The World," "Still Life," and "I Wish I Knew" appeared at first glance, gentle, almost meek. It is not until he started speaking that a biting wit and generous candor poured out, and didn't stop for the entire duration of the workshop.
Jia started with a humorous tidbit about himself: he has played various extra parts in his films. For example, in "The World," there was an Arabic character that needed to be filled but could not in time. As a last minute resort, Jia stepped in for the part because someone convinced him that he could pass as Arabic with some makeup. Later on the scene was cut because he realized that he, indeed, does not look Arabic at all.
Jia went on to discuss the importance of language and actors in his films. He is known for using a substantial amount of local dialects in his films. Explaining that his first language being the ShanShi dialect, a very expressive language, he always had a fondness for the distinctive dialects and the characteristics they portray. He feels that having authentic dialects in the film adds much to the characters and the story. Jia also mentioned that he despises actor trainings, the reason of which goes back to his earlier days at the BeiJing Film Academy, where they had mandatory running sessions in the morning through the campus. During the daily run, he would pass actors who are practicing their "actor" voices aloud. "At that time I always thought: no one talks like that in real life," said Jia.
Such early impressions of the "unnaturalness" of actor trainings led Jia to cast many non-actors in his films. When asked of his casting process, he replied that it comes down to "YuanFen", a Chinese term that roughly translates to a combination of fate, luck, and vibe. Jia says that he cannot cast an actor from watching a clip of his/her work, but must meet the actor in person. However, once in the same room he doesn't need to spend much time with him/her, maybe just the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, but he can quickly sense the physicality and sensibility of this individual, and from that he makes his casting decision.
When asked about the decision to amalgamate fiction and reality in "24 Cities," Jia said that he didn't go into the story with the intention of doing such a feat. His initial intention was to make a documentary. However, once into the research, he quickly realized that it would be much more powerful to portray the stories of these people in a bigger story arc. For example, to find the ShangHai woman character in ChengDu, Jia interviewed thirty plus women. Each of their stories, he said, though interesting, was not enough for a story arc, but together they formed a very attractive story. Overall, documentary is an art form, Jia said, and must be treated as such.
Going into more political/philosophical questions, when asked what he believes is important to achieve in a film, he answered: "to be real." Jia emphasizes that this is especially important in China, as so much of the films from the past decades till now are propaganda films where even the breakfast in the story is fake. Jia recalls seeing a Chinese film in the early 1990s where a family is eating bread and milk for breakfast. "That is completely fake," he said. In that time period a typical Chinese family would be eating porridge and buns, not the idealized "western" version of breakfast.
"You're a director, not a social worker. Your job is not to judge, but to honestly show how we live our lives, through art. That is what you should do." - Jia Zhangke
As fascinating as all the above are, Jia made one particular point that substantially deepened my appreciation of him as a filmmaker. Someone asked him how come so many of his films carry a poetic air. He thought about it briefly, and replied: " We are all poets inside, but most of us, I think, don't realize it, or can not realize it. We need to see it in others to be inspired/provoked."
Jia then went on to give a personal example. When he was young and living in ShanXi, he used to be mesmerized by the sounds of long-distance trucks that went past his home - by the sound of the roaring trucks that is broken up by the wind and carried to his ears. He always thought it was indescribably beautiful, but could not exactly understand what that feeling is. One day years later, as an adult, he came across a novel by ShenChong (spl?), where a passage described a couple being at home and hearing an army horn from afar, its sound being torn to shreds by the wind, trailing in the wind, eventually a piece of it falling in their home (obviously phrased much more poetically in the novel). At that very moment of reading this passage for the first time, Jia realized that THAT was his poetic moment, years ago, as a little kid, and that the poetry of that moment was always within him, he just didn't understood it yet.
He said that from that moment on, he always believed the importance of capturing the poetry in life, and to be able to inspire others to find those moments in theirs.
There were much more discussed that was thought-provoking, and every word sank into me somewhere, perhaps waiting to re-emerge at the right moment. It was one of the most useful filmmaker workshops I've attended. Luckily, I also got to experience it from the front row with Shelly Kraicer and David Bordwell, two of the most well-spoken experts on Asian cinema today.
My other times in Hong Kong were preoccupied with two things: Wong Kar-Wai thoughts and food.
It is probably inevitable that I am an appreciator of Wong Kar-Wai films. It is probably inevitable that I will come to think of them while in Hong Kong. It is probably, therefore, inevitable that I come across things that somehow trigger WKW thoughts throughout my time there...or is it?
From the bus ride from the airport, where the theme of "2046" drifted from a teenage girl's headphones, to my tiny hotel room that resembled uncannily the one from "Fallen Angels" with its low ceilings and long rectangular shape, to the "Days of Being Wild" soundtrack that looped endlessly while I wrote under fluorescent lights on rumpled sheets (all I needed was a cigarette), to the famous/infamous ChungKing Mansions that I passed by every time to and from the ferry dock, to the beige trench coat and sunglasses that I donned everywhere, and pulled close as I found myself in the back of a taxi at midnight, speeding through the tunnel toward Kowloon, heady on 25 years aged scotch.
And then of course, there is his hotly anticipated "The Grandmasters," which seems to be on the tip of everyone's whispers. Even in my awe-inspiring coffee break with Mr. David Bordwell (who also may be the nicest person alive), we couldn't seem to stay away from the name at hand.
I never did resolve the WKW mystery, but then, who does?
What I did manage to do, was seeking out as much of the delicious food I could get my hands on in the time I was there. Hong Kong food is amazing not only in the abundance of options available, but the abundance of access in indulging those options. There are cafes, restaurants, bakeries, and various pockets of deliciousness everywhere. Even in the 7/11, steaming buns and hot skewers await by the cashier. I ate entirely too much of everything from out-of-this-world dimsum to unbelievably fresh sushi to authentic ramen at a supermarket counter to desserts that are too pretty to be consumed.
My favorite thing in Hong Kong though, has to be the star ferry. Every morning, I would wake up to the rumbling of Nathan Road below, step out into the sticky street, and walk south towards the ferry dock to get to the Convention Centre where FILMART is held across the water. Going through the pedestrian underpass, I emerge in a small garden on the other side of Salisbury road, veering right, and stop at a little bakery tucked beside the entrance of the station. Trays and trays of freshly baked buns, rolls, and pastries lay welcome, each individually wrapped. I linger a little in front of the counter, the air sweet with promises of a new day. Telling myself that I'm on vacation, I pick up an extra or two treats, along with a coffee, and the clerk assembles them carefully in a white paper bag and hand it to me with a smile.
I skip up the stairs to the ferry, lightly swaying the paper bag in my hand, feeling its weight and hearing the soft swish of golden bliss. Putting a token in the rusty machine, I slide through the gate and sit down on the far end of the row of green plastic spoon-like chairs that line the waiting hall. It's quiet. People stand, sit, and doze around. I rummage through the bag and select the first indulgence of the day - usually the tuna bun - and devour it. By now the ferry has docked, and I make my way on it with the rest of the crowd, coffee in hand. I choose a seat by the rail with a view of the water and settle in. The boat starts to move, and so does the horizon in front of me. I lift my gaze to the skyline, so dramatic and familiar already, hovering in between a wash of sea and sky. The waves start their rhythmic massage against the ferry, and amidst the soothing rocking of back-and-forth, I take out the second treat - usually an egg tart - bites into the creamy flakes, and put my feet up.
Somewhere in between the sea and the sky, in those brief ten minutes, there was nothing asked of me but the wind in my hair, the hazy blue-green that floods my vision, the hot coffee in my hand, the delicious creaminess on my tongue, and the cool metal of grey railing that my red shoes lean quietly against, frozen in a time that is lost all too soon in the heat of day.
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• Grace Wang of Toronto
It's my last day in Hong Kong and I'm spending it indoors - specifically - at a Starbucks in Kowloon Station across from the cross-border bus terminal, of which I'm booked to get on a bus in 3 hours back to Mainland China.
Across from me in the cushy tan sofa, a woman is dozing over an English newspaper. The headlines reads "EU summit puts off the tough decisions"... Hmm, not exactly light Sunday afternoon readings (or is it Saturday? I lose count). She has long curly dark brown hair that is half-dry and is dressed fashionably in jeans and a black leather jacket. She looked a little anxious when asking whether the seat was taken, and a little taken aback when I blurted out "no" in English (caffeine hasn't quite sank in then yet). Is the newspaper part of an effort to brush up on her English? I wonder. Did she have a rough night? Is she waiting for someone?
Pushing my curiosity aside, I return to my own waiting. The bus I intended to take was canceled and the next one was full, so here I am, waiting, happily. Today, I am happy to be still. For the past five days I've indulged in all my favorites: films, food, shopping, food, and awesome people. Hong Kong is a relentless provider of sorts, and I'm all out of power of consumption. Settling back in my corner, tucked into the wall and overlooking the line-ups at the counter, I think back to the cinematic highlights of this past week.
The Hong Kong International Film Festival (HKIFF) is one of the largest film festivals in Asia. It screens over 300 titles from over 50 countries across Hong Kong, and draws an annual audience of over 580,000 people. The 35th HKIFF runs from March 20th to April 5th. If you are a fan of Asian films, this is your annual buffet of heaven.
Due to scheduling, I was only able to see ten films in my four days there. Some of the foreign selections I was familiar with from TIFF 2009. There are a couple stand-outs, some walk-outs, and one film that stays with me still.
After walking out of two films in a row on the first day - one looking like a 20 year old version of "Under the Hawthorn Tree" but without all the charm, and another a seemingly Asian version of "Valentine's Day" - it was with a heavy heart that I walked into Sonthar Gyal's "The Sun Beaten Path" (2011, Tibetan, 89min). Meditative and absorbing, the first thing that strikes you about the film is the sheer power of cinematography: Set in the bare landscapes of Tibet, against roads that stretches into the horizon and yellow earth that covers infinity, even on the relatively small screen, the images project a bare epic-ness, a mystical beauty that is almost distracting. It is no wonder to learn that this is the directorial debut of Gyal who is Pema Tsedan's cinematographer on "The Search." The bare beauty doesn't only linger on the landscapes but spill into the narrative structure as well, which lulls in between memories of guilt and physical reminders of the present. The story centers on Nima, a young man who sets out on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, after a freak accident in which his mother was killed. But despite reaching Lhasa, he continues to be haunted by sorrow and guilt, and on his way back, weighted down in every step by his inner demons, the young man encounters an old man, who takes an interest in his well-being. Together and separate, they wander through the epic, haunting earth of Tibet, through aged wisdoms, youthful regrets, and humanistic sufferings. The film is quiet in a way that may be unnerving to some - as the camera focuses on the face of Nima as he walks, and walks, and walks (in gorgeous Tibetan light). The dialogue is minimum, and the shots are long. The narrative is more to be felt than understood, and the film could do with a tighter edit. However, even if you don't understand the story, it is hard to miss the strange, haunting beauty of its ebbing vibe: the inevitability of life, the guilt of our youthful mistakes, and the things we do to come to terms with those that we can not change.
Also spare but set in today's urban cities is Zhao Liang's "Together" (2010, Mandarin, 83 min). Director of the much-acclaimed and must-see "Petition"- a 12 year effort that culminated in a breathtaking portrait of the injustice of modern China social/legal system which won the Humanitarian Award for Best Documentary at HKIFF last year - Zhao Liang presents a compassionate and contemporary look at the plight of real-life AIDS-afflicted individuals living in China today. Intended as a companion piece to Gu Changwei's "Til Death Do Us Part," some of the main characters are cast/crew members who are afflicted with the disease. The film explores interviews with movie stars like Zhang Ziyi in an effort to dispel stigmatisms against AIDS. More than a making-of documentary though, Zhao goes beyond interviews and finds little moments of heartbreak and inevitability: a sad face in a chatroom; a child acting out a scene; a family meal of restrained caution and love; The call is unabashed and the message is clear: Together, we are all searching for love and happiness. Together, we have a responsibility to love each other. And then just maybe, we all have a chance to be happy, together.
"In life I am always acting. In the movie though, I don't need to act." Speaking is one of the cast members of Gu Changwei's "Til Death To Us Part," a young girl with AIDS. The film scouted for AIDS patients, and Zhao Liang took the lead with his camera, through the country-wide chatrooms, hospitals and elementary schools. How deep is the AIDS stigmatism in China? Some people said if their mother saw them on the screen she will collapse. Some said no one will speak to them ever again after the film. AIDS is a secret of life, and a life-afflicted secret. In front of the cameras, these people honestly speak of their everyday struggles. The six individuals who end up being part of the cast of Gu's film live and work with the crew and stars like Zhang Ziyi, whose star power here casts a most positive light on this important issue. (Translation of Chinese film synopsis in HKIFF program book)
Aside from the arthouse fare, there were also some big-screen choices, two of which I saw.
Chen Kaige's "Sacrifice" (2010, Mandarin, 127 min) is a historical drama set in ancient China. Cheng Ying, a court doctor who tends to the pregnant wife of his master, accidentally gets tangled in a war of life and death when his master's entire clan is massacred by a political opponent, General Gu. Cheng Ying manages to save the new-born baby, only to be forced to sacrifice his own child in a series of ironic mistaken identities. Unable to cut his loss, the doctor plots a scheme of revenge spanning 15 years that eventually carries unexpected consequences of its own. Brimming with opulent costumes and sets that are typical of Chinese historical epics, "Sacrifice" works as an entertaining blockbuster overall, and will likely do well with mainstream audiences. The first half of the film sets up the dilemma convincingly, with the irony of mistaken identities involving themes of morality, self-interest, and sacrifice handled succinctly and with polish. However, the film starts to lose its narrative focus in the second half, and all but falls apart in the end to an expected, exasperating finish. The potential energy for intrigue, so lushly built up in the first half, through under-developed characters and generic dialogue, all but dissipates as the film rolls to its 127 minutes conclusion. As I left the theater, a guy behind me said to his friend: "Man, what was that? "Yellow Earth" was soooo good." The let-down is gentle, but sticks.
Another costume-heavy and lushly illustrated commercial fare is Chen Hung-I's "Honey Pu Pu (2011, TaiWan, 100min), which is set in the cool urban landscapes of TaiWan amongst its young and hip inhabitants. The film blasts its audience with pretty androgynous faces, stylish outfits, experimental vignettes, and nonsensical musings, all sprinkled freely in an equally androgynous, stylish, experimental, and nonsensical narrative circle. The film has an uniformly young cast, including Vicky (Tseng Pei-Yu), Dog (Lee Ta-chi), Cola (Chiu Shen0Yi), Money (Lin Chen-Shi), Assassin (Lin Po-shen), and Playing (Hsieh Hsin-Ying). Vicky is looking for her boyfriend Dog, who disappeared without a trace. She gets in touch with Cola, Money and Assassin in a chatroom, who decide to help Vicky track down Dog. Along comes Playing, a black-widow seductress of men who entice them into erotic/childish games with dangerous consequences. This is a movie for the Millennium population, and there are many things that will attract their attention and keep them there: The clever-display of texting; the universal teenage love triangle; the cool girl that you always wanted to be; the bad boy that you always wanted to have, the cute onlooker that you always felt like; and the sexy girl that you always wanted to be/ be with. With its intended audience, the plot doesn't really matter, especially when everyone and their clothes look so damn cool. There are some musings of the mystery of bees and the extinction of mankind and maybe even a parallel universe, but the intricacies of such philosophies were lost on me (and probably the rest of the audience). It was a packed house though, and as I looked back in the dark, each face was utterly engrossed in the flashing cool hues of lights of TaiPei from the starry, silver screen.
Being in Hong Kong, it is hard to forget the great role of the city itself in its cinema. Two films that finely illustrate this nostalgia are "Quattro Hong Kong" and "Last Romance," both screening at this year's HKIFF.
"Last Romance" (1988, Cantonese, 100min), directed by YonFan and starring Maggie Cheung, Cherie Chung and Tsurumi Shingo, is a Hong Kong classic and a memorable melodrama. It spans decades, and follows Nancy (Cheung), So So (Chung) and their friendship as they meet in high school, step into society, and grow into adult women. Along the way, a rich tycoon with a heart of gold and a handsome boy comes along, but those only stir the plot to create the dilemmas that drives the narrative along. Make no mistake, this is a film about two women and their coming of age in the golden years of Hong Kong. Maggie Cheung and Cherie Chung have never been younger, and it is interesting to see certain trademarks of their charisma evident and budding even then. The wildness of So So, the predictability of Nancy, their loyalty to each other, and their contrasting but inseparable lives, are themes that resonate universally. The casting is right. The directing fine. The inevitable nostalgia of seeing such a film more than two decades later, in its native land, is to be treasured. In an interview with YonFan by the Hollywood Reporter, when asked why he picked "Last Romance" as a restored work to be shown at HKIFF, Yonfan answered:
"I picked Last Romance to present at the HKIFF because the film was closely related to Hong Kong's past. Most people perceive my work as imaginative, playful and they're known for my aesthetics, but Last Romance was set against the backdrop of Hong Kong in the 1980s and 1990s, where the rise and fall of the stock market, speculation on the property market, of a society in turmoil, are still themes that have relevance to Hong Kong today."
If "Last Romance" looks fondly back on Hong Kong's past, "Quattro Hong Kong" (2011, Hong Kong, 59 min) looks optimistically upon its future. Not really a feature but a series of four HKIFF commissioned shorts created for the festival, "Quattro" is a delightful, charming reminder of the voices working in Asia today. Only one of the four filmmakers is a native of Hong Kong, but all the stories take place in the city and evoke, through charm, whimsy, quirk, and thoughtfulness bits of the place that ties into the whole.
First is Brillante Mendoza's "Purple," which unfortunately I missed (especially given the title). According to the synopsis, it is inspired by the color of bauhinia, a purple that is mysterious and regal, and takes place in Hong Kong's flower market and Tai O, the fishing village in Lantau Island. Travelogue, anthropology and an ode to beauty of life in Hong Kong and life itself, this is a meandering start. Next is "Open Verdict" by Ho Yuhang, where a mysterious tourist checks into a seedy hotel with a suitcase of unknown contents, until... The nod to the gangster and police dramas with the Hong Kong narcotic agents and their Malaysian counterparts adds a smirking touch. The news reports at the end are at once comical and newsworthy. This short bounces along with a cool energy that contrasts neatly with the next in series: Apichatpong Weerasethakul's "M Hotel." An AW film in every sense, the story vibrates with a lazy, surreal energy as two filmmakers take portraits of each other by the window on a 17th floor hotel room on a HK afternoon. The camera is handheld on both counts, and sways in and out of perspectives. The afternoon seems to be suspended in a fog, and time seems to freeze and flow with each click of the shutter. Fans of "Uncle Boonmee" will not be disappointed. Finally comes Stanley Kwan's real-time "13 Minutes in the Live Of..." bus ride from the airport to Kowloon. Abroad are a slew of colorful characters: two middle-age women returning from an art exhibition of the most famous Chinese painting in history (also about a slice of life on a day); a mainland couple here on holiday and their friendly host; a touring Japanese musician; and a thoughtful local who's seen it all. A mini-collision of lives and perspectives, along with bursts of revealing dialogue clearly showcase the many different and similar people who populate this slice of land, and make this a surprisingly delightful, if neat conclusion to the ode to Hong Kong.
Moving onto Mainland China cinema, which from the little I saw this week, sprawls a range of tones and genres. Aside from the opulence of SACRIFICE, there is the lukewarm and semi-odd "Wild Strawberries" by Chen Bing (2010, Mandarin, 100min), a film about the ill-fated romance between a war hero's widow and a factory worker, set against the backdrop of the Communist party. The budding romance is adequately portrayed given the setting. However, the film wanders into strange land near the end when its time shifts decades forward into current day, and the actors seem to reincarnate into other people who carry an opposite tone to their original characters. The title fruit, a symbol of the unabashed romance, is irrevocably tarnished in this later segment, and it is still unclear to me whether this was an intentional choice.
Then there is "The Ditch" (2010, Mandarin, 109min), screened at TIFF 2010 and directed by the renowned documentarian Wang Bing. Being his fictional film debut, this is a bleak look into the harrowing accounts of those who experienced the 1950s forced labor camps in China's Gobi desert. The harsh landscape produces matching actions in the men who struggle to survive on dirt and not much else. Of the more than 3000 "rebels" sent there, only 400 returned. A lack of supplies triggered a great famine, and those who survived went to extraordinary, sometimes sub-human lengths to do so. Human and moral limits are tested, and it is unbearable to watch. However, Wang's firm grip on reality through his documentary background makes this a fictional drama that is thoroughly affecting, and that much harder to shake. There is no sense of the tragedy unfolding far away in a safe land. With his camera held steady, it is right there, beside you, and don't you dare look away.
Finally, there is my personal favorite of the Festival: Li Yu's "Buddha Mountain" (2010, Mandarin, 105 min).
In a way, this is a typical coming-of-age story, where three aimless teenage friends rebel against parental and societal expectations by skipping college and trying to make it in the city on their own. They rent rooms from Yue Qin (Sylvia Chang), a retired Peking Opera singer living alone. The initial conflicts come as expected, where the kids think she is crazy, and she scoffs disapprovingly at their recklessness. However, the naiveté sheds and emotions flood in when the layers behind Yue Qin's loneliness are revealed in a brutal fashion. One personal tragedy reveals another, and pretty soon all the wounds are opened and bleeding raw. Such catharsis, however, lovingly brings the four together into an unusual bond, and triggers a series of reveals in each of the other three characters. Nothing is simple. Everyone has a story. Here, each is given its moment. Never rushed and always sensitive, Li Yu paints a breathtaking, melancholy, trembling picture of the joys and sorrows that thrives in modern China today across generations. The acting is uniformly superb: from Fan Bingbing and Chen Po Lin's youthful and wounded charms to FeiLong's sincere comic relief to Sylvia Chang's fierce portrayal of a woman trapped in the past and in pain of life itself, it is a case of pitch-perfect. There is a scene involving Chang and a birthday cake that will break you, and another with Chang and Fan in bed of unspeakable understanding. A seven minute train sequence through tunnels and countryside makes you wish that it will never end, and a moment of young lovers holding hands under water I have never quite so believed, until now.
You know how every time you sit down in a theater, and the lights darken, and you try to not have any expectations and just welcome what is about to come next...but in a small corner of your mind, a little voice whispers: I hope this is what I dream of it being. Well, here it is: free and unexpected, real and raw, "Buddha Mountain" is the kind of movie I dream of seeing every time I sit down in a theater... the kind that stays with me long after the lights have dimmed and brightened.
Those are just the films that I managed to see in my short time here. HKIFF is still ongoing until April 5th and many great films remain to be watched. If you are around, I encourage you to check out some. The bulk of my remaining time is spent at FILMART, the industry film market that runs concurrent to HKIFF. That, along with my undying love for Hong Kong food, and a friendly surprise, will be to come in the next column.
Now, sitting in three layers, huddled under a blanket in JiangMen, a coastal city about an hour outside of GuangZhou in southern China in a cold spell, Hong Kong seems more than a day away, even though in reality it is only about a 3 hours bus ride apart. Writing about all the films I've seen this week though brought them all back to me in such fresh, vivid hues. I feel so lucky to be, however miniscule, a part of this creative medium called film, and I hope it never stops.
]]>The past week has been a whirlwind of food, work and discovery, not always in that particular order, but always an interesting combination of sorts.
Let's start with my favorite indulgence while traveling: Food. Fresh food, persevered food, homemade food, street vendors food, gourmet food... you name it, I love it. Gastronomic adventure is, in my opinion, one of the greatest pleasures in life, and I've never shied away from its waters. I don't just dip my toes, I jump in headfirst and splash around like a five year old.
I've had some of the best food in Beijing this past week. Monday brought lunch at a Mongolian restaurant with family. Mongolian cuisine mainly consists of meat and dairy products because of the extreme climate. Compared to other China local cuisines, vegetables and spices are much less used in Mongolian cuisine, where camels, yaks and sheep raised by them are the main food of the daily life. The restaurant would not catch a second glance from the street, and its interior décor is similarly average and Asian - lots of wallpaper and white porcelain dishes - but it was the dishes that really caught my attention. If I've ever had better lamb skewers, I have not known it. Same goes with the veggie dishes, which were simply arranged and cooked to the perfect succulence and flavor.
Another highlight is the long-awaited Peking duck, which I first had as a child but was too young to recall fully its charm. Funnily enough, I had turned down an earlier invitation in the week for Peking duck due to a persisting cold. However, a second invite a second night in a row made it seemed like a call from fate, and on that fateful night I ventured out to "Made in China" at the Grand Hyatt Beijing to check out this imperial dish.
Make no mistake, Peking Duck is one of the last imperial dishes being prepared today in China. Its heritage goes back to the Yuan dynasty in 1330, where it was first recorded in the imperial kitchen. Through the centuries, the dish survived and thrived, and now still flourishing in the numerous Peking duck restaurants around Beijing. BianYiFang, the first restaurant specializing in Peking Duck, was established in the Xianyukou, Qianmen area of Beijing in 1416 and still operates today.
Of course, such a particular taste requires a particular preparation. Duck of a particular kind is well fed to a particular weight, slaughtered, dressed, pumped, hung dry and honey mixture coated, roasted in a wood-fired oven. Peking Duck is known for its thin, crispy skin, with authentic versions of the dish serving mostly the skin and little meat, sliced in front of the diners by the cook. The skin is usually served first, dipped in sugar and literally melts on your tongue.
The meat is eaten with paper-thin pancakes, doused in hoisin or sweet bean sauce, sprinkled with plenty of spring onions and other options like shredded cucumber, radish, mango, etc. The carcass of the consumed duck is boiled with vegetables to make a light and savory soup that perfectly cleanses the plate and prepares you for some tea and dessert.
Though no matter how great an imperial cuisine can be, nothing beats a home-cooked meal from scratch that is simple and fulfilling, just like the emotions carried by their creators.
Sometimes, food and work intersects...and the result can be quite fantastic. One of those occasions took place when Cameron Bailey arrived in Beijing last week for the first of his numerous visits to China this year, and met Lixin Fan (director of "Last Train Home") and I for dinner at a great Chinese restaurant. The cuisine is northern and tasty, and the conversation flowed from the current state of Chinese documentaries to Confucianism to travel to the future of Chinese cinema. Together at that table there were probably enough frequent flyer miles to run a small travel agency.
The next couple days consisted of TIFF meetings with some of the top film people in Beijing, whose perspectives ranged from the academic (Beijing Film Academy) to the commercial (China Film Group) to the governmental (State Administration of Radio, Film & Television) to the individual (producers). As a translator, coordinator and programming associate, I was fortunate to be thoroughly present for them all. It has been, to put mildly, an eye-opening experience. The people differ and personal interests vary. However, there is an uniform opinion across the board that Chinese cinema is still yet to be fully appreciated and understood on the world stage. The gap between what non-Chinese audiences are able to access and appreciate and what Chinese filmmakers have been trying to communicate is visible and standing, and all agree that more efforts are needed to bridge that gap both culturally and commercially. A word mentioned many times is co-production, co-production, co-production. If you're reading - China is awaiting.
On an unrelated note, if you happen to be in Beijing, a gem to check out is the Today Art Museum (www.todayartmuseum.com) in the ChaoYang District. It not only has a great exterior design of some giant sculptures out front and on roof, whose metal sheen sentimentally contrasts against the smoggy Beijing sky and the skyscraper constructions that tirelessly whirl behind it, but also boasts some unique programmes. I was rushing on time and only managed to see one exhibition on Chinese Painting Style (March 6 - 21), which looks at ways contemporary Chinese artists express ideas and techniques that lie within the unique painting style of traditional Chinese painting and calligraphy. The result is epic: scrolls that hang from 30 feet ceilings and span the entire width of an exhibition hall. Walking across these giant canvases and scrolls, I couldn't help but feel like in a way, those ink carried shreds of history within their carvings, and I was merely a grain of dust caught within one passionate stroke.
There are still much left to write and no time to do so. Many firsts: First time ordering custom-made Chinese gift boxes from a Korean woman in English by a French store in a Beijing mall; First time watching a Canadian band in Beijing with a fellow Canadian. First time directing a clueless cab driver with mobile GPS from the backseat while paying him to do a job that we're doing; First time going to a book reading by an American travel writer in Chinese, on China, in China; First time meeting a new filmmaker as one of us packs and another unpacks in a room that belongs to neither of us, paths crossing. And indeed paths are crossing all the time, everywhere, miniscule and serendipitous, it is a small and wonderful world after all.
As this entry comes to an end I am already in Hong Kong, starting the second day of Hong Kong International Film Festival. Film festival is not a normal world and comes with a matching schedule. I haven't been able to get more than 4 hours of sleep a night since landing, and don't expect that to change until I leave. However, perched now by open windows tucked into a corner high above Nathan road in Tsim Sha Tsui, the never-sleeping neon district of HK, as morning fog/smog hovers in the distance and incessant traffic roars below, there is an indescribable peace. The sheets are white. The curtains a washed-out apple green. The room tiny. The wifi predictably unreliable. I tap a key and Los Indios Tabajaras seeps through the air, soundtrack of "Days of Being Wild" hanging onto every drop of soulful humidity that soaks through this bubble of calm, painting the walls a rolling deep bluish-green. I look out through the metal-barred windows: in between stretches of skyscrapers, a piece of cloudless sky looms close, and my thoughts flutter through the cracks toward it to smoggy, foggy freedom.
]]>First of a series as our Far-Flung Correspondent returns to her birthplace - RE
• Grace Wang of Toronto
I've always thought about coming home.
As a person of Chinese descent, I was born and raised on this yellow earth until my early teens. It was my home, my roots, my place.
Then, one day, that place shifted... across the ocean to another continent, to a place called Canada, and along I went. In a strange country where everything was bewilderingly new, where even the light seemed different (less pollution, probably), I had to learn to be who I was all over again. I loved books, and suddenly I couldn't read. I loved writing, and suddenly I couldn't write. Well, not in a way that was understood to be the norm anyway. To a kid, there was no more important thing in the whole, wide world.
Like a pebble thrown into the sea, I lodged myself into the first safe crack and tried to keep still. I filled up journals with a fierce determination. I finished all the Chinese books in my local libraries, at that time was a pathetic amount. When there were no more books to read and English still seemed to be the predominant language, I decided that if I couldn't make the norm come to me, that I would go to it. Around that time I discovered "America's Funniest Home Videos," a TV series that was on every weekday afternoon before the six o'clock news, just in time for getting back from school. I loved Bob Saget's perky voice - he seemed like a cartoon character with that goofy smile and those peppy, perfectly enunciated words - and started watching religiously.
It was there in the living rooms and backyards of America, beside grinning toddlers and silly pets, with close captioning, that I laughed, repeated, and learned to speak the way of this new world I came to inhabit in. Years later, when people ask how I came to learn English as a second language, I always smile and reply that it was from watching too much TV. That usually gets a few chuckles and some questioning looks suggesting that I am withholding a secret formula, when indeed I am telling the whole truth: There is no shortcut, only hard work, laughter, and Bob Saget.
If TV was responsible for introducing me to my new home, it was films that somehow led me back to my old one.
When I started writing about movies, it was as always, for me, a form of communication. Not an objective or critical one, but a subjective and personal one, a choice that I hold fast to today. I didn't write in desire to receive anything in return, except to cast my voice into the void and listen for any echoes, rare and faraway as they may be. To my surprise, somehow through a serendipitous chain of events they came: whispering at first, before growing louder and louder. Then, one day last March, I saw a film called LAST TRAIN HOME and wrote a review for Roger Ebert's Far-Flung Correspondents feature. Half an hour after the article was posted, I received a direct message from Cameron Bailey, the co-director of Toronto International Film Festival, on twitter: "Grace, I'd like to talk to you on a TIFF-related matter."
A year later, I find myself back on familiar soil, in a city that I last saw more than a decade ago, on behalf of a job that I love.
It has been both surreal and natural, and I feel incredibly grateful and fortunate for my every minute here.
In the past ten days I've traveled throughout Beijing, in company of friends, family, and myself. Staying at a filmmaker "hostel" pad, where ideas and film crews are constantly shuffling through the door and you never know who's going to be crashing on the couch at any given night, it's hard to not be provoked and inspired. I've had countless conversations with directors, cinematographers, writers, and even a local film festival director. The consensus is that independent film-making is hard, but independent film-making in China is downright non-sensible. There is so little room to maneuver, that it seems that getting a film finished is sometimes all one can wish for. The fact that the majority of these efforts will never be seen by the majority of audiences in China and elsewhere is heartbreaking, often as much as the contents carried by those particular films. More on this in the next post.
Aside from work, everywhere I turn, Beijing the city has been on my mind.
Beijing is vast. The subway map is a maze of colored lines and rings not unlike those that mark the famous Beijing opera masks. The longest west-east subway line counts 34 stations. Mind you, one subway stop here is not the same as one subway stop in Toronto, or New York, or even Tokyo. It is not measured in blocks but in kilometers. When I asked someone if we can walk to the next station, I received a blank stare. Moreover, there is a myriad of transportation choices aside from subway to suit every need and budget: buses, cars, taxis, scooters, streetcars, and rickshaws -- both motorized and man-powered ones in certain HuTongs (ancient Beijing alleyways) draped in red embroidered fabrics. Want to seem like a tourist? Ride one of those and smile, because you're likely to be caught on another tourist's candid camera.
Beijing is deep. As the capital city of People's Republic of China and many dynasties before, it holds a long and rich history that goes back 3000 years. This is common knowledge. But to physically be in the city, to walk through its massive streets and tiny HuTongs, to stand in front of soaring towers and meander through ancient arches and ascend steps that were once only walked on by emperors, is another feeling completely. It's hard to not be in awe of everything: the sheer size and volume and density of everything that fill up a day of life in Beijing.
Beijing is fresh. Waking up in the morning to sound of bicycle bells and morning hellos as the city stirs into motion. Make your way through rows of apartment buildings to the local mom-and-pop eatery, and have your choice of hot soy milk, porridge, steaming buns and sizzling pancakes of various fillings and sorts. A bowl of rice porridge and two pork buns will fill you up and set you fresh back $2.60rmb ($0.40usd). Feeling hungry? Live large: a plate of dumplings with porridge costs $7rmb ($1usd).
Beijing is busy. Cars flow like rivers. Crossing the street is an art. If you live near a subway station though, that will likely be your main hub of transport. Descending the stairs as you approach the ticket entrance, you are greeted by security officers who direct you to put your bag through an airport-like scan machine before being allowed to proceed to the gate. This takes place at every station, every entrance. Once you pass through the scans, press your subway card (a plastic card onto which you can load funds) to the electric sensor, the gate snaps open silently and you're through. Each trip costs a flat fee of $2rmb (0.30usd) with unlimited transfers. The trains are modern, with flashing TVs and advertisements throughout. The platforms are wide and roomy, but perhaps not roomy enough for the population of China, as it is still almost always full and at times, crushing. If you plan on getting off at the next stop during rush-hour, it is best to start making your way towards the door two stations in advance.
Beijing is modern. All the public transport signs are in both Chinese and English, as are subway announcements informing you of the upcoming stops. There are cuisines to be found from every country imaginable. Walking into the nearest shopping mall, you can easily be convinced that you're in any other world city. All the familiar storefronts from budget to luxury to household lay welcome. The only difference is the food court, which instead of the typical North American fast-food brands in a big court, comprises of rows and rows of small eateries with flavors from all over the country and world. Want to snack on some sticky rice from HaiNan before going for a Korean BBQ, followed by sweets from Taiwan and Italian gelato? No problem. And yes, you can also find the McDonalds and KFCs and Subways and Starbucks, should you be feeling homesick.
Beijing is complicated. A meal can cost two dollars and a coffee can cost thirty. Police dress warmer than street cleaners, and seem to do less. Service can be impeccable, though there is no tipping. Things can get done in an hour or a minute, depending on who is doing it and who you know. It is a place of both extremes and harmony, black and white, where shades of gray abound when no one's looking.
Beijing is... still to be discovered. From the food to the sights, the morning stalls to the noon fruit carts to the night markets; there is always another layer to peel back.
My favorite part of Beijing so far, though, has been its people. The northerners, or people from the northern parts of China, carry a reputation for being open and generous, and I've never found that to be more true than here in the past week. Countless times people have given me directions to where I was going. Shop owners have given me back money when I accidentally handed them the wrong bills. One night I got into a cab and told the driver where I was going, without missing a beat he replied that I was better off hailing another cab from across the street which is in the direction I'm going, where as it'll take him a couple extra blocks to make a turn. I should note that cabs are ridiculously cheap here (10rmb/$1.5usd flat rate for the first 3km, with 2rmb/km after), and based on my accent, it is evident that I'm not a Beijing native and would not have been any wiser if he took the extra few blocks to get some much-needed business. Instead, he called me "Guniang" (a dear term for "Girl") in that warm, distinctive Beijing accent, and helped me save a few extra bucks that he probably needed more than I.
Earlier that same day, a young woman and I started talking as we both stood in line for a tiny bakery. The bakery only has a window-front and a single cashier, but the line stretched across the sidewalk onto the afternoon traffic. I was walking by and got in line out of simple curiosity, having no idea what is being sold. The girl warmly explained that this was one of the most popular bakeries in the area and suggested items for me to buy. I learned that her name is Hu Dee, and she is about to graduate from college and already working her first job as an administrative assistant. She then, after hearing where I was going, offered to take me there - on her scooter - despite having to head back to work after. "As long as you are not afraid of me kidnapping you," she chuckled. I looked down at her three inch tasseled boots and decided that I can take her, in my flats, should I need to. So there I went, in the fading afternoon light, racing through a maze of narrow Beijing Hutongs on the back of an electric scooter driven by a 22-year-old girl in 3 inch heels.
"Do you need a license to drive these things?" I shouted into the wind.
"Nope. Anyone can get one!" She yelled back as she hit the throttle expertly.
"How fast can it go?" My next instinctive thought.
"Umm, pretty fast!" She laughed, and hit the throttle again.
"Hold on! This is fun, right?"
Right.
And on that note, on that dusky, Beijing afternoon, it was indeed right. Everything right.
As I finally got into the right cab at the end of the night, on the other side of the street, I nestled into the seat and thought about my day. I thought about the girl on the scooter, the man in the cab, the places I'd been, and the path that took me through all of them.
The cab driver, another Beijing-er with a kind face, looked at me in the rearview mirror: "Guniang, where are you going?"
"Home." I replied without missing a beat.
Home.
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