Jia Zhangke speaks out at a forum held at the 2011 Shanghai International Film Festival (photo: china.org.cn)

Originally published in The Guardian, June 16 2011

He had to abandon one film lest it broke anti-pornography laws. Then he ditched a spy movie rather than fill it with Communist party “superheroes”.

The frustration of making films in a country with “cultural over-cleanliness” has led an internationally acclaimed Chinese director to lash out at its censors, a state news site has reported.

Jia Zhangke won the Golden Lion at the Venice film festival in 2006 – apparently earning the approval of China’s leader-in-waiting Xi Jinping, who is expected to become president next year.

But he began his career as an “underground” film-maker – directing movies that were praised abroad but never saw official release in China– and he complained of ongoing battles with censors as he addressed a cultural forum in Shanghai. Unusually, his remarks were reported by an official news site, china.org.cn.

“The only reason that we cannot make genre movies is the barrier that censorship sets,” Jia said.

He said he scrapped a film about a man’s sex life after an official decided it might break anti-pornography laws. He also abandoned a spy film about the Communist party and Kuomintang due to controls.

“If I want to make the movie here, I have to portray all the communists as superheroes,” Jia said.

“This would betray my original idea and make it difficult to develop the story.”

He added: “This kind of cultural over-cleanliness that bans the erotic, violent and terrifying is cultural naivety.”

China has a vast censorship apparatus, but films and television programmes are particularly tightly controlled. One film director told the Guardian that censors demanded 400 changes before they would pass his movie.

Hong Kong director and producer Manfred Wong told the Shanghai forum that in crime movies made on the mainland all police officers must be portrayed as good guys, while romantic movies cannot show affairs or cohabitation before marriage.

He argued that mainland film-makers need a ratings system. Some believe the government might relax constraints if age restrictions were introduced.

But Li Hongyu, who writes about film for Southern Weekly newspaper, said it was simplistic to suggest a ratings system would result in less censorship.

While western ratings systems focus on issues such as violence and pornography, China has much wider concerns about the content of films, he said.

“China’s control over movies is more detailed. China has a movie censoring committee composed of approximately 30 or so staff whose backgrounds are very diverse, spanning from movie professionals, the Women’s Federation, the [Communist] Youth League, teachers, and a religious committee to various governmental administration departments,” Li added.

“The debate about introducing a ratings system has been going on for many years. But it is hard to implement, since if the system is used, it will not be easy to cover the government’s other considerations. What if it is concerned about political views?”

Official requirements, which concern the moral as well as political qualities of content, can be baffling to outsiders: the head of the State Administration of Radio, Film and Television recently denounced TV time travel dramas for their “frivolous” approach to history.

Jia Zhangke’s film Dong is available through the dGenerate catalog.

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Artist Ai Weiwei (source: Archinect)

By Isabella Tianzi Cai

Chinese architect and artist Ai Weiwei, designer of the famous “Bird’s Nest” Olympic Stadium in Beijing, and whose current “Sunflower Seeds” exhibition is receiving critical acclaim in the Tate Modern Gallery in London, now faces the demolition of his Shanghai art studio demolished later this month. According to the Chinese government, Ai’s studio was erected illegally and had to be removed by law. But according to the artist, the building project was initiated by a high government official who came to him in 2008, soliciting his help in developing a new cultural district in Shanghai. The current accusation against Ai states that he does not have the proper paperwork for the building project, but two years ago before the project started, Ai was told that the paper works were all in place. The contradiction in the government’s statements arouses Ai’s suspicion that the demolition is a retaliatory act against his political activism in China’s human rights movement, which remains a hot-button issue with the Chinese government.

Before the Flood (Dirs. Yu Yan, Li Yifan)

While Ai’s celebrity status as a globally recognized artist makes his eviction particularly newsworthy, it’s certainly not unique. In the past decade, millions of Chinese were uprooted to make way for the Three Gorges Dam project (as depicted in Yu Yan and Li Yifan’s Before the Flood and Yu’s Before the Flood II) and many thousand Beijing residents who were forced to relocate for the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games (as depicted in Ou Ning’s Meishi Street). These are but two instances of a nationwide phenomenon of residents having their property taken or destroyed by force. But there’s one distinction to make with Ai Weiwei’s situation. In the case of the uprooted residents, people’s personal rights were made subservient to more prestigious projects that were supposed to benefit the nation at large. Ai’s case is a more conspicuous situation of harassment by the government. As Ai continued to gain fame and support both internationally and domestically, his political affiliations and beliefs have been increasingly monitored and moderated by the state, lest it pose a threat to the state’s control over public security and national stability.

Meishi Street (dir. Ou Ning)

For the time being, no one in China – not even those like Ai whose international stature would seem to glorify their country – has the power to fight against the state. However, the upside of the current situation is that it is easier to report their predicaments to a worldwide audience, through video, internet sites and social networks.  Chinese nationals are increasingly getting behind the camera and acquiring proactive roles in using other means of media exposure. Ai Weiwei is almost without peer in this regard, as reported earlier this year in a feature by the New Yorker. Still, Ai is by no means the first to tap into newly accessible media to document his hardships with authorities.  In Ou Ning’s Meishi Street is the subject of the documentary, Zhang Jinli, uses the video camera himself to film the demolition of his neighborhood as it was happening around him. By acquiring the means to tell their own stories, people like Zhang are no longer completely disadvantaged but are empowered to take some action on their own behalf, if only to make others aware of their plight. Although Zhang did not receive justice in the end as he would like to have, his case exists for others to learn from and take action in the future.  Following this spirit of preserving the facts, the film’s unobtrusive reportage editing approach shows the director’s intention to keep everything as factual as possible, with no deliberate narration or any other kind of interference. Meishi Street stands as both a valuable historical archive as well as a statement of concern for the disempowered, made with the hope that its existence may inspire actions on behalf of social justice.

Isabella Tianzi Cai is a regular contributor to the dGenerate blog. She is a graduate student in Cinema Studies at the Tisch School of the Arts of New York University.

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Director Liu Jiayin answering questions at Get It Louder (photo: Get It Louder)

Get It Louder (Da Sheng Zhan), one of China’s hottest showcases for emerging creative talent, followed its first session in Beijing with a run in Shanghai. The film program was particularly intense, featuring 26 movies (9 documentaries and 17 narrative) by both Chinese and non-Chinese filmmakers. The screenings included dGenerate titles Er Dong (dir. Yang Jin), Oxhide I & II (dir. Liu Jiayin) and Street Life (dir. Zhao Dayong).

Get It Louder’s stated theme of “Sharism,” emphasizing a spirit of collaboration and exchange among audiences and artists, was especially pertinent to the independent films on display, which otherwise are largely inaccessible to audiences in China.  Director Q&A sessions were characterized not only by technical and artistic topics, but often went in depth over the the directors’ intentions. The concept of “Sharism” was demonstrated in the exchanges between viewers and directors, enriching the cinematic experience. One’s individual experiences of the film is not cancelled but amplified in exchanging perceptions with others.

The artistry and complexity of the works shone through in the screenings. The hard life of homeless migrant workers is realistically and poetically told by Zhao Dayong in Street Life. The fiction work by Yang Jin is deeply rooted in his own experience growing up in rural Shanxi province. Liu Jiayin’s exploration of time and space creatively transforms gestures and rituals we all pass through daily. Once again, art and life are not that far from each other, and sharing the experience of feeling and commenting on them is enriching and worthy. Hope there will be more and more events and occasions – in China and elsewhere – to have a look at ourselves through the eyes (and lens) of independent directors.

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Jia Zhangke, director of I Wish I Knew and Dong (photo: AFP)

In an article for the American Free Press, D’Arcy Doran recaps some of Jia Zhangke’s latest accolades: he received this year’s life achievement award at the Locarno Film Festival; the Museum of Modern Art in New York City also held a retrospective on him in March this year. But luckier than other contemporary arthouse Chinese directors, several of whom have also been issued bans for making films, Jia is having his documentary I Wish I Knew screened at the World Expo in Shanghai, where an estimated number of 200,000 visitors will have seen the film by the end of October.

In terms of content, I Wish I Knew resonates with the rest of Jia’s oeuvre. As Doran puts it, this documentary “tackles a theme that is present in much of Jia’s work — global forces turning individuals’ lives upside down.”  But in Jia’s own words, the film “touches many sensitive issues.” Jia thinks that open acknowledgment and expression of these sensitive issues, in this case through the wide reception of the film, ought to help Chinese people forge “a common sense of Chinese society.”

In terms of style, I Wish I Knew is consistent with Jia’s other works as well. Its “long scenes and lush cinematography” are unmistakably the pace and look of his films. They are designed to aid a contemplative gaze at China’s rapid development. “When you are observing a fast-changing society,” Jia said. “You need to pay full attention.”

dGenerate Films is the distributor of another one of Jia’s documentaries, Dong, which bears all of the aforementioned signatures of Jia. In Dong, Jia follows painter Liu Xiaodong as the subject of the film. He shoots everything in realistic settings as the painter works, and speaks about his interpretations of the role of an artist constantly. Jia embeds Liu’s thought-provoking monologues within an unforgettable background of semiotically rich images.

View excerpts from Dong below, and find out more about it here.

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In film, censors in China are still quick to restrict gay cinema and homosexuality as a theme. But independent film makers have developed ongoing interest in this theme and have delved into the topic with great insights.  We at dGenerate will be adding some of these pioneering titles of queer Chinese cinema to our catalog soon.

One of our most respected directors, Cui Zi’en, the first Chinese gay to openly come out publicly on TV, documented the changes and development in LGBT issues in China over the last 80 years in his new documentary Queer China. As the opening film of ShanghaiPRIDE festival, this is the most comprehensive cinematic overview of LGBT history and culture in China.  It includes interviews with gay club organizers, doctors, laws, NGO workers, as well as famous scholars, such as Li Yinhe and Lisa Rofel.  From the repeal of sodomy law to the submission of a same-sex marriage bill to the National People’s Congress, Cui Zi’en uses his camera to record China’s changing attitudes towards homosexuality.  We at dGenerate Films are proud to announce that we’ll be distributing Queer China as well as Cui Zi’en’s film Enter the Clowns soon!

Thanks to Yuqian Yan for compiling links and info for this post.

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The persistence of the past, and the present’s attempts to colonize it, tame it, and re-engineer it, is a remarkable phenomenon of recent Chinese culture, including Chinese cinema. There is no other place I’m familiar with where the past is so constantly present.

Shanghai Film Studio, pre-demolition (photo by gumbase)

Fundamentally, the past here in China is both utterly disposable and simultaneously completely re-creatable. This was brought vividly to mind while I read about the recent demolition of the Shanghai Film Studio (SFS). Located in the Xujiahui neighbourhood of downtown Shanghai, the Shanghai Film Studio’s land is apparently far too valuable to continue to house the sprawling and outdated facilities of this fabled centre of Chinese mainstream film production. I was lucky enough to visit twice. The second was an official working visit, when the very helpful staff assisted me in finding prints for the retrospective on the Fourth Generation of Chinese Filmmakers that I presented at the Rotterdam International Film Festival in 2008. My first visit, though, was somewhat surreptitious. After visiting the neighbouring St. Ignatius Cathedral, I wandered around the Xujiahui neighbourhood just southwest of central Shanghai, a vast area that formerly contained the grounds of the the substantial Jesuit mission to China (the wonderfully restored library, the late 19th century Bibliotheca Zi-Ka-Wei remains, along with part of the former Jesuit school). Just across the street was an ancient-looking stone barn-like structure enmeshed in a wall. The wall was decorated with a flamboyantly kitschy 70s style gate. The gate turned out to be the entrance to the Shanghai Film Studio. The guards seemed too bored to bother to stop me, so I wandered in and strolled around the grounds, where I found some sound stages, a fleet of 1940s style cars marshaled for some period film, perhaps, and a general air of somnolence.

It was thrilling, though, to think of the Shanghai Film Studio’s illustrious past, the amazing movies that were created on this spot, in these buildings. Founded in 1949, the SFS absorbed workers from Shanghai’s golden age of movies (which was led by Lianhua Film Studio and Mingxing Film Studio’s 1930s productions of modernist melodramas and comedies, featuring great directors like Sun Yu and Yuan Muzhi, and sublime film stars like Ruan Lingyu and Zhao Dan). The SFS was responsible for its own post-golden age of great movies, including Xie Jin’s series of classic films (Women Basketball Player No. 5, The Legend of Tianyun Mountain, Hibiscus Town) and many of the foundational works of the Fourth Generation (Evening Rain, My Memories of Old Beijing).

But that’s merely history, and the buildings were looking shabby in 2006. Today, the SFS is just rubble. Presumably to be replaced by something of real, contemporary value: another shiny glass shopping mall or luxury condo complex reflecting Shanghai’s imagination of what its future should look like. What particularly caught my attention in the account I read of the demolition was the fate of that old building I noticed in the corner of the wall. It was one of Shanghai’s oldest structures, a Carmelite convent, St. Joseph’s Convent of Carmel, constructed in 1874. It is also now rubble. But not gone forever, or so the guardians of China’s physical history would have it. As the invaluable blog Shanghai Scrap describes it, a city bureaucrat explained that “they are knocking it down and rebuilding it on the old foundation. It will be a new version of the old convent. It’s much cheaper this way. Restoring it would take too much time and money.” Instant history! It will be a brand new-old, an “improved” copy of the original, but presumably much less shabby and much more appealing.

That’s the key: it is fake, re-constituted “history”, built right on top of the smashed rubble of the actual past. In China, this is quite common, and from a Chinese perspective, one might ask why Westerners like me fetishize actual relics of the past, with their supposed aura of authenticity. We worship this authenticity, and insist that it gives some kind of mystical, direct, non-mediated access to what we think of as a real, objective past. But is it not also a complicated proposition, that needs critiquing and unpacking too?

The key popular mainstream films of this holiday season are about trundling out, as mass entertainment, official versions of history. Both Chen Kaige’s Forever Enthralled and Wilson Yip’s Ip Man devolve into Party-approved accounts of patriotic resistance against Japanese invaders (coincidentally, one of the key historic pillars of the Party’s own legitimacy). John Woo’s Red Cliff epic plays it a bit safe: its history is set far back in the Three Kingdoms era (220-280 CE). But it still updates, with state of the art cinema technology, a foundational myth about heroism, Chinese unity, and legitimacy that, on the surface at least, nicely harmonizes with the Party’s current view of things.

Outside of the zone of official discourse, there are independent artists and filmmakers whose works are obsessed with documenting this disappearing past before it succumbs completely to State-defined ideological re-construction. Jia Zhangke’s recent 24 City digs deeply into a moment of transition: the obliteration of a socialist-era factory in Chengdu. Jia insists on animating, through documentation and reconstruction, the lives and social history that are about to be obliterated. Hu Jie’s controversial series of documentaries, offering radical historical re-investigations of the most controversial episodes of China’s post-1949 history, are one filmmaker’s act of resistance against faked, ideologically massaged history.

Qianmen during renovation, April 2008 (photo courtesy china.org.cn)

On a grassroots level, Ou Ning’s documentary Meishi Street addresses the human cost of Beijing city government’s policy of near-total obliteration of its traditional residential quarters. The inhabitants of Meishi Street have a special burden to bear. They are in the way of a “re-creation” of the Qianmen district just south of Tiananmen Square. This vast urban demolition project is the Carmel convent story writ super-large. Beijing has prepared a modern copy of an imaginary late Qing dynasty commercial district , this time ready for visitors to Beijing’s 2008 Olympic Games (I wrote a bit about my visit there in my last blog entry). This for the sake of a master plan that sanitizes the city’s real history — this area was a vibrant commercial district of Qing dynasty Beijing, where Manchu courtiers and Chinese subjects could mingle and enjoy the city’s famous brothels, among other things. Today’s Qianmen is a purified zone, a 3-D diorama that tourists can safely consume..Some of the people who actually lived on Meishi Street, as the film shows, were creative enough to mount a form of resistance, but were ultimately powerless against the collusion of government regulation, police power, and property developers’ interests.

Here, in the People’s Republic of China, history still actively determines contemporaneity. In a place with China’s still heavily contested history, political power’s ultimate responsibility, to safeguard and bolster its own legitimacy, is deeply rooted in its control of that past, or, to be more specific, in its control over the discourse surrounding the past. As long as power can control that discourse, in its essentials, it maintains a lock on what it perceives to be the historical foundations of the legitimacy of its own rule. Copies are more “real”, in an ideological sense, than the “real thing”, or at least more stable, more reliable. Shanghai will have its new-old Carmelite Convent, as part of a newly projected Shanghai Film Centre. And what version of the history of Chinese cinema will that film centre offer? I’m pretty confident that it will be as problem-free, as purged of messy thought-provoking details, as reassuringly consumable as Qianmen today.

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