Jia Zhangke’s I Wish I Knew

This is Shanghai, but not the glass and steel megapolis Chinese state media tries to project. It is a city of strife and toil—and immigrants from throughout the assorted Chinas. Independent Chinese auteur Jia Zhangke creates a multi-faceted portrait of the Mainland’s go-go financial capital that is part city-symphony and part oral history. Ten years after its initial screenings, Jia’s thoughtful ode to Shanghai finally gets a proper American release when I Wish I Knew opens this Friday in New York, at the Metrograph.

Technically, I Wish I Knew was commissioned to commemorate the Shanghai World Expo, but you can tell Jia will not be towing a party line when his first interview subject’s reminiscences primarily focus on juvenile street gangs and the hardships his family endured during the Cultural Revolution. He will return to the Gang of Four’s institutionalized madness later in the film, at even greater length.

Indeed, Jia is drawn to somewhat marginalized figures, like the daughter of one of Shanghai’s most notorious gangsters. Besides the Cultural Revolution, the Japanese occupation and Taiwan’s White Terror also loom large in the film. Although this is technically a film about Shanghai, there is clearly a sense the mega-city is intrinsically linked to Hong Kong and Taipei, which explains why Beijing is cracking down so hard on Hong Kong and why the Taiwan’s recent independence-affirming election induced a panic attack.

In between interview segments, Jia follows his wife and muse Zhao Tao as she strolls through the city, but instead of the glitzy shopping district, their perambulations mostly take us through docks, bridges, and post-industrial districts. You can tell the disparities of Shanghai just from Jia’s exterior shots.

NYFF ’15: Mountains May Depart

Evidently, in Chinese discos around 1999, “Go West” was like “The Final Countdown” in Czech dance clubs. When they played it, everybody hit the dancefloor. However, when you heard the Pet Shop Boys’ cover, you knew it was 12:00 sharp, the start of a new day. It heralds the dawn of a new era, but not necessarily a better one in Jia Zhangke’s Mountains May Depart (clip here), which screens as a Main Slate selection of the 53^rd New York Film Festival.

Shen Tao and her friends are going to party like it is 1999, because it is. New Year is approaching, when she will once again sing Fenyang’s big celebratory song. Obviously, the school teacher is the village sweetheart, but the well-heeled wheeler-dealer Zhang Jinsheng and her dirt poor childhood chum Liangzi are particularly smitten. A traditional love triangle forms, but Shen is (perhaps willfully) unaware how dirty Zhang is willing to fight.

By most objective measures, she makes the wrong choice and deals with the consequences in the second act set during 2014. Divorced from Zhang, Shen lives a comfortable life as Fenyang’s leading patroness, but it is a lonely existence without her seven year old son Dollar, as his father insisted on naming him, which pretty much tells you what you need to know about Zhang. However, she gets a poignant reminder of what might have been when the long absent Liangzi returns to Fenyang with his family and a nasty case of black lung.

The 2014 arc concludes with Shen attempting to make some sort of peace with Dollar before he immigrates to Australia with Zhang and his trophy wife. Flashing forward to 2025, the eighteen year-old can hardly remember his mother. Zhang’s dodgy dealings have caught up with them, causing no end of embarrassment for the son. For obvious Freudian reasons, Dollar explores an ambiguously romantic relationship with his professor Mia, a Hong Kong immigrant (by way of Toronto) who happens to be about Shen’s age.

Both the 1999 and 2014 sections include documentary footage Jia shot before knowing they would have a place in Mountains, but not the 2025 segment, at least not as far as we know. Frankly, the opening scene of Jia’s muse and now wife Zhao Tao leading a “Go West” get-down is so infectious, it demanded a film be crafted around. Yet, following its sheer retro joy, the rest of the film down-shifts, maintaining an exquisitely bittersweet vibe.

To match his vintage footage, all of the 1999 scenes are in boxy Academy ratio (as per the state of digital cameras at the time) and feature vivid saturated colors (especially the crimson reds of Shen’s wardrobe). In accordance with technological advances and increased pollution, Jia cranks up the 2014 scenes to standard ratio and dilutes the colors, while the 2025 Australian sequences are shot in sterile looking widescreen. You can also notice the population density of the streets and the screen precipitously decline.

It is all rather fitting and clever as a commentary on the impact of technology on human relationships, but what really sticks with you is Jia’s characteristic use of pop songs, which has never been as poignant. In addition to The Pet Shop Boys, HK Cantopop superstar Sally Yeh’s love songs rouse all kinds of sentimental and nostalgic feelings, in the way only effective pop tunes can.

Zhao Tao is absolutely perfect for Shen Tao. She truly looks ageless and timeless, yet she can eerily convey so much through so such subtle expression. Probably nobody working in film today can hold an audience rapt with a silent close-up as long as she can. Your heart aches for her, but you have to respect Shen for accepting responsibility for her mistakes and carrying on with dignity.

Zhao brings more than enough presence for any film, but Mountains also has the revered Sylvia Chang, hot on the heels of Office after a five year absence from film. Few people have her combination of maturity and sensuality that is so aptly suited for Mia. Think of her as a potential HK Helen Mirren, in a few years’ time. There are no end of pitfalls to depicting May-Septemberish relationships, but she develops convincingly imperfect chemistry with Dong Zijian’s Dollar that makes it work in dramatic terms.

The more you think about Mountains, the more it gets into your head and your soul. It is the sort of film that might break you out in tears later in the night rather than while you are in the theater, which is rather considerate of it, really. It is also further proof that Zhao Tao is the finest screen actress of our generation, bar none. Very highly recommended, Mountains May Depart screens again tonight (9/29) at the Beale Theater, as part of this year’s NYFF.

NYFF ’15: Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang

Like many filmmakers selected for this year’s New York Film Festival, Jia Zhangke gets more distribution internationally than in his native country. However, in Jia’s case, it is not because he is an elitist or lacks a popular following. In fact, many of his films have been widely seen through bootleg copies. It is simply a matter of government censorship. Despite his uncertain status with the official state film establishment, Jia is received like a favorite son when he revisits his home town and other scenes from his resolutely independent films in Walter Salles’ documentary, Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang (clip here), which screens during the 53rd New York Film Festival.

The concept behind Guy from Fenyang is hardly a new one. Damien Ounouri essentially did the same thing in his hour-long documentary Xiao Jia Going Home from 2008. However, a lot can change in seven years, especially in today’s China. Nor is Jia one to be idol for long. Indeed, as Salles’ doc opens, Jia and actor Wang Hongwei walk through the streets of Fenyang that were lined with karaoke bars when they made their earlyfilms like Platform, but are ominously shuttered now.

For someone who cannot get his films approved for Mainland theatrical distribution, Jia sure has a lot of people approach him on the streets. Yet, he is always gracious about it. He also seems like a dutiful son when he visits his mother and eldest sister. In somewhat oblique fashion, Salles reveals the importance of family to Jia, especially with respects to his father. As a university faculty member, who had the profound misfortune of keeping a diary since his teenage years, the Cultural Revolution was especially difficult on Jia’s dad. It was also hard on his grandmother, who was the widow of a land-owning doctor. Clearly, his family’s experiences have influenced his work, most notably Platform, but there is a nonconformist humanist perspective reflected throughout his work. Of course, that is exactly why he has such trouble with the censors.

In addition to Jia, Salles also talks to several of his key collaborators, notably including his wife, muse, and frequent leading lady Zhao Tao, who explains how her life inspired The World. In accordance with Jia’s democratic spirit, Salles also elicits insights from his frequent cinematographer Yu Lik-wai and sound designer Zhang Yang. Fittingly, he liberally illustrates the film with clips of Jia’s work, but none are as evocative as the visually striking (and perhaps comparatively underrated) The World.

Picking up on Jia’s concerns regarding overdevelopment and callous demolition, Salles often compares and contrasts the locales of Jia’s film as they were then with their present radically altered conditions. It is hard to miss the devastation wrought on working class neighborhoods. Although Jia never gets explicitly political, we get a clear idea of the social inequities that distress him.

At one point Jia suggests he makes films about average people living common lives. That is sort of true, but it is nearly impossible for anyone to be average or common during a period of hyper-reality. Jia captures that zeitgeist with vivid directness (see A Touch of Sin for a particularly blistering example). Salles provides the cultural and political context necessary to understand Jia’s significance in contemporary China, while conveying a sense of his resilient personality. Recommended beyond Jia’s admirers for anyone interested in independent Chinese film and culture, Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang screens this Wednesday (9/30) at the Beale and Thursday (10/1) at the Gilman, as part of this year’s NYFF.

Ten Thousand Waves, Now Installed at MoMA

There are two goddesses now gracing the walls of MoMA.  Mazu was a traditional Chinese marine deity thought to protect seafarers, while Ruan Lingyu (widely hailed as “the Chinese Greta Garbo”) starred as the saintly fallen mother in Wu Yonggang’s silent classic, The Goddess.  The term “character” might not be particularly apt, but both appear as figures in Isaac Julien’s Ten Thousand Waves, a nine screen video installation now installed at the MoMA (behind-the-scenes video here).

Waves was originally inspired by the tragic deaths of twenty-three Chinese cockle pickers, illegally laboring along the northern shore of England for the gang that had smuggled them into country.  Afraid to abandon their work for shelter, they were washed away by a flash storm.  Julien incorporates footage of the rescue attempts mounted by the local British emergency response team.  It might have provided Wave’s impetus, but it is probably the least visually intriguing element of the project.

Julien hopscotches around quite a bit, both thematically and across the nine screens suspended in the MoMA atrium.  For younger patrons, following the darting images, much like a tennis match, is a good deal of the show.  For amateur Sinologists, it is quite fascinating to see the large scale images of contemporary, extremely go-go Shanghai alongside footage of the Red Cadres marching about during the Maoist era mass movements.

However, the most dramatic and cinematic portions of the installation feature Jia Zhangke’s muse (and wife) Zhao Tao appearing as Ruan Lingyu, recreating scenes from The Goddess and appearing ghostlike in the penthouse floors of Shanghai’s gravity defying skyscrapers. Proclaiming her the “definitive and defining actress of our day and age” right here in a review of A Touch of Sin might have sounded somewhat bold at the time, but seeing her expressive countenance shining forth upon the multiple screens in MoMA rather supports the claim.  After all, as the undisputed actress of her era, Ruan should only be entrusted to someone of similar stature.

Of course, Zhao was not the first to portray Ruan on film.  In Stanley Kwan’s Center Stage, she was portrayed by Maggie Cheung, who also appears in Waves as Mazu. Cheung’s iconic looks are well suited to the marine goddess, bringing to mind some of the imagery from her classic films, particularly Wong Kar Wai’s Ashes of Time (Redux), which Julien seems to deliberately evoke.  Watching her float past Zhao’s Ruan through Shanghai’s stratosphere on MoMA’s large suspended screens is almost dizzying.

Some of the audio recordings get lost in the open space of the Marron Atrium (the same space where Marina Abramović faced the public) and subtitles would have helped convey greater meaning in several points.  Nonetheless, Zhao and Cheung have undeniable screen presence regardless of the context or medium. 

More than a mere meditation on migration or globalization, Waves presents a dramatic contrast between China’s presumed futures (that envisioned by the leftist affiliated Ruan in the 1930’s and those essentially driven mad by ideology in the 1970’s) with the strange hybrid-capitalist reality of today, with Mazu looking on as the goddess grieving the age-old values thrown by the wayside. Given its super-star power and some very cool green-screened images, Ten Thousand Waves is considerably more cinematic than most video installations.  Recommended for fans of Chinese cinema that happen to be in the neighborhood, Ten Thousand Waves runs through February 17^th at MoMA.

NYFF ’13: A Touch of Sin

It is hard to imagine Jia Zhangke releasing a wuxia martial arts epic. Despite the hat-tips to King Hu (who directed A Touch of Zen), it would be more accurate to describe his latest film as a meditation on violence, offering a challenging glimpse into the heart of a lawless contemporary China.  American partisans on either side of the gun control debate could find themselves squirming at its morally ambiguous portrayal of a lone shooter as well.  Of course, Jia has never displayed a compulsive need to make things easy.  Nonetheless, A Touch of Sin (trailer here) may yet prove to be one of his most accessible films when it screens as a main slate selection of the 51^st New York Film Festival.

Right from the opening sequence, viewers will know they are in a different sort of Jia Zhangke film—one with a body count.  The mystery motorcyclist will reappear later.  Instead we will follow Dahai, a disillusioned labor leader, who returns home to stir up trouble for the corrupt village party boss and the new fat cat factory owner greasing his wheels.  Instead, it is Dahai who is beaten and humiliated.  Eventually, the mockery he endures pushes Dahai to the edge.

Without question, Sin’s first arc is its most unnerving.  Much like Rafi Pitts’ criminally under-appreciated The Hunter, Sin openly invites viewers to condone or at least mitigate a shocking act of violence.  Yet, the consistently contrarian Jia further complicates our emotional response by implying some of Dahai’s rage might be tragically misplaced.  It is keenly disturbing filmmaking, perfectly served Wu Jiang’s tightly wound performance.

Jia then shifts his attention to Zhou San, the sociopathic wanderer who started the film with a bang.  He has returned Chongqing, but his family is not too sure how they feel about seeing him again.  Zhou’s story holds considerable potential, given the sense of danger that follows the drifter wherever he goes, but it is not nearly as well developed as those that immediately precede and follow it.

The presence of Zhao Tao, Jia’s longtime muse and now wife, promises and duly delivers a return to form.  Zhao’s Zheng Xiaoyu is the receptionist at a half-sleazy sauna in Hubei, carrying on a long distance affair with Zhang Youliang, a factory manager in Guangzhou.  Unfortunately, the family of the betrayed wife discovers their furtive relationship, sending goons to rough up Zheng.  It will not be the only incident of injustice she witnesses first hand.  When an abusive sauna client tries to force himself on her, she finally responds in much the same manner as Dahai.

For the concluding segment, Jia shifts to Guangdong, where a rootless migrant worker takes a series of jobs, including assembly line work in Zhang’s factory.  However, it is Xiaohui’s experiences in the local luxury hotel-brothel that will be his emotional undoing.  Luo Lanshan and Li Meng are quite engaging, developing some touching chemistry together as Xiaohui and the young working girl he courts.  However, their storyline feels rather rushed (something you would never expect in Jia’s films), hustled to its untimely conclusion before all the necessary psychological bases have been touched.

Granted, A Touch of Sin is uneven, but it is major cinematic statement, spanning class and geography.  Without question, it is Jiang Wu and Zhao Tao who administer the arsenic with their fearless, visceral performances.  In fact, with her work in Sin, one can make the case Zhao is the definitive and defining actress of our day and age.  Don’t even counter with Streep.  Unlike her Rich Little impersonations that consistently pull you out of the movie, Zhao always draws viewers into her films and characters.  She is beautiful, but chameleon like, playing parts that are emblematic of globalism (as in The World) and Chinese social alienation (a la 24 City).  Yet, she is also achingly moving in a straight forward chamber drama like Jia’s short Cry Me a River.

It is hard to miss the implications of Sin.  Jia unequivocally takes the Chinese state bureaucracy and their corporate cronies to task for their pervasive corruption.  He also casts a disapproving eye on the burgeoning sex industry.  For all its trenchant criticism, Sin is arguably somewhat encouraging—simply because Jia was able to complete it as he intended.  Given his perpetually half pregnant state as a former independent filmmaker partially and uneasily incorporated into the state system, one always wonders if he will still be allowed to make his films according to his aesthetic and ethical principles.  A Touch of Sin might be something of a stylistic departure, but it is very definitely a Jia Zhangke film, which is happy news indeed. 

Even with its odd imperfections here and there, A Touch of Sin packs a whopper of a punch.  Highly recommended for China watchers and fans of social issue cinema, Sin screens this Saturday (9/28) at Alice Tully Hall and the following Wednesday (10/2) at the Beale, as part of this year’s NYFF, with a regular theatrical opening to follow next Friday (10/4) at the IFC Center.

Jia Zhangke at MoMA: 24 City

A funny thing happened on the way to the Workers’ Paradise in Chengdu. The state factory turned into a luxury condo. It was known as Factory 420, but it will soon be 24 City, a high-rise hotel and apartment complex, which takes its name from a classic poem that extolled the city’s beauty. A traditional staple of Communist propaganda, the factory story gets a subversive twist in Jia Zhangke’s 24 City (trailer here), which screens during MoMA’s upcoming Jia retrospective.

Some proud veterans of Factory 420 refer to it as a place where they fought “American Imperialism.” They produced munitions and airplane parts for China’s Communist allies during both the Korean War and Viet Nam, but recent years were not kind to the state enterprise. After several rounds of layoffs, management has decided to pull up stakes, selling the Chengdu factory to a real estate developer.

Many former workers tell their stories in 24 City, but Jia throws the audience frequent curve balls, mixing in fictionalized interviews filmed with professional actors, several of whom would be quite recognizable to Chinese audiences. For Americans, there will be at least one familiar face: Joan Chen, well-known for her work in The Last Emperor and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. In a bit of self-referential casting, Chen plays a woman supposedly nicknamed after the title character of the film Little Flower, because of her resemblance to its young star—Joan Chen.

In both the real voices of Factory 420 and Jia’s fictional characters, we hear tangential references to the dramatic upheavals of Communist-era Chinese history. The Cultural Revolution is mentioned in passing. A relative’s homecoming from the countryside is remembered, but not elaborated on. Although nobody states it directly, many former workers of 420 clearly seem to be wondering why they went through all that chaos, just to get to this point.

Jia, the skillful cinematic gamesman, matches the look and tone of his scripted sequences to that of his legitimate interview footage quite well. Generally though, the more attractive the talking head, the more likely it is to be a professional ringer. Joan Chen in particular is still a strikingly luminous screen-presence. Post-modern playfulness aside, her segment is a touching dramatization of alienation in contemporary Chinese society.

24 City fittingly concludes with its other standout dramatic performance, which encapsulates all of the cultural and generational divides at play in Chengdu. Jia regular Zhao Tao plays Su Na, the grown daughter of factory workers who makes her living as a personal shopper for the nouveau riche. Though her relations with her parents were long strained, a chance visit to her mother’s workplace opened her eyes to the difficulties they endured. In gratitude for their labor, she resolves to make her fortune so she can buy them an apartment in that future capitalist Mecca: 24 City.

Although Jia’s pacing can tend a bit toward the languid, he effectively captures China’s mood of uncertainty. His use of nostalgic music and film clips evokes a sense of a past which failed to live up to its promises. 24 City is a subtle, intriguing film freely mixing fact and fiction to represent its own subjective truth. It screens at MoMa this Saturday (3/6), with the director in attendance, as well as next Friday (3/12).

Jia Zhangke at MoMA: The World

If you want to talk about globalization in China, Jia Zhangke is your filmmaker. He has specialized in dramatizing the societal impact of china’s radical change of course, from top-down state planning to more market-driven policies designed to make China an economic super-power. Leaving behind his hometown setting of Fenyang, Jia found the perfect physical manifestation of the tension between China’s globalization and its rigid social controls in Beijing World Park, the theme park known for its recreations of famous landmarks. The park’s employees see the Eiffel Tower and the Tower of Pisa every day, yet they lack both the means and the freedom to travel themselves in The World (trailer here), which opens MoMA’s retrospective of the director’s films this Friday.

There is definitely something surreal about World Park in a Vegas kind of way. It even features a troupe of showgirls performing dance numbers ostensibly based on world cultures. It is not exactly the superstardom Tao dreamed of when she came to Beijing from the provinces, but it is a job. Her boyfriend Taisheng also works at the park as a security guard and shuttle driver. While they spend most of their time amid the gaudy splendor of the park, they still live mean and desperate lives.

Tragedy and romantic strife are no strangers to park employees, most definitely including Tao and Taisheng. However, the bickering of their amorously linked co-workers Wei and Niu far exceeds their own. Is it possible to find happiness in the park? Well, in Jia’s vision, it is a lot like finding it in real life, except more so.

The World is an outstanding film, but it requires viewers to synch-up with Jia’s cinematic aesthetic. He presents the world of The World from a fly-on-the-wall perspective, never really letting us into his characters’ inner psyches. All we know of them in psychological terms comes from what we are able to pick up along the way (which is not inconsiderable).

In a touching and ever so real performance, the lovely Zhao Tao is absolutely fantastic as Tao. However, her most effecting scenes are not with Chen Taishen’s Taisheng, but with Alla Chtcherbakova as Anna, a Russian dancer who befriends Tao, despite their lack of a common language.

Jia’s fourth film is a departure in more ways than one. Not only is it not based in his native Fenyang, it was also his first film produced with the approval of the Chinese government. While Jia’s films have always been marked by his naturalistic Vérité sensibility, The World seems hyper-real. It characters are often dwarfed by outlandish backdrops of the counterfeit wonders of the world. Indeed, the visuals are often quite dramatic, given a glossy sheen by cinematographer Yu Likwai. Lim Giong’s ethereal electronic soundtrack also heightens the otherworldly vibe, and the sense of alienation by extension. Jia even allows brief fantastical intrusions, like the short animated interludes that symbolically accompany the characters’ text messaging.

The World is a great film and a fitting kick-off to the MoMA’s retrospective, but it is not those with the short attention span Avatar crowd. It is sad and demanding, but also beautiful, offering rich rewards for those that can appreciate them. It screens at MoMA on Friday (3/5) and Sunday (3/14) with Jia and Zhao in attendance for the opening night of his retrospective.