Zhang Yimou: Use the Gentle to Overcome the Strong

...closely integrates the clash of two major social concepts – individualism and conformity. Asian culture is dominated by the Confucian teachings of the “Ancient Three Bonds” (subordination of subject to ruler, son to father, and of wife to husband) and the “Three Virtues” (loyalty to superiors, loyalty to father, and the subjugation of women). Although these teachings are credited with Confucius, they form the cornerstones of most Asian cultures. The “Three Bonds” and “Three Virtues” essentially de-emphasize the individual, completely the opposite of American egalitarianism. However, as the West slowly creeps into the East, one can see the two struggle to find a balanced medium. As a result, it is becoming increasingly difficult to define that space between Eastern and Western, between tradition and modernization. As shown in the forum of contemporary Asian film, there is a strong propensity to gravitate toward the older ways of thinking simply due to established social habits. The conflicting philosophies of the Western and Eastern hemispheres can deliver strangely jumbled interpretations of what have long been simply accepted definitions. As is shown by Asian filmmakers, the traditional is no longer the “traditional” as it is mixed with “modern” modes of thinking. Either welcomed or condemned, these transformations of cultures are re-shaping everyone.

Zhang Yimou rises from the wake of the Cultural Revolution and becomes part of the Fifth Generation of Film Makers. One of the first to put forward films in post-Mao China, Zhang’s work deals with the ideas of a massive country in the midst of change. Often banned or restricted, Zhang’s work tends to be controversial as he does not always show China in the best light. Rather than create films purely as propaganda for China’s political agenda, Zhang offers to the rest of the world a vision of China it has never really seen, a China that is torn in the midst of change, a China that is painfully real. Some critics complain that Zhang’s films slightly lose their visceral sensuality when his camera can no longer make love to his lover and star actress Gong Li after their split, but they ignore the fact that his films do not lose impact as he truly is a master of cinematography, unafraid to share what he has to say about China.

...which creates an extremely patriarchal societal structure, it is fascinating that the greater part of the body of Zhang Yimou’s work focuses on the strength and determination of women. Both, “Not One Less,” and, “The Story of Qiu Ju,” presents the woman as the character who refuses to give up despite the odds being played against her. In a country with a number of inhabitants as sprawling as China’s, where the use of bricks have to be outlawed for fear of running out of soil, apathy becomes infectious. There are just too many people in China with too many needs and too many concerns. Not everyone will be heard, nor can everyone be heeded. When Wei, a young girl who becomes the teacher of a small school in the rural backlands of China, finds herself rescuing a young boy who leaves the schoolhouse in search of money in the city, Zhang shows an impossible triumph. The thirteen-year-old-turned-teacher becomes the savior of a poverty-stricken village that has been all but forgotten by the Chinese government.

Likewise, in, “The Story of Qiu Ju,” Qiu Ju’s refusal to be forced into the mold that Chinese society has made for women, Zhang is calling all of China, not just women, to change the way they see the world. Wei and Qiu Ju clearly demonstrates the very Western attributes of strength in individuality while at the same time, serving their greater community, clearly representing the ancient Confucian teachings her society has been built upon. These underlying themes add depth and power to Zhang’s work. Of course, however, Zhang’s portrayal of the ineffective bureaucracy of the Chinese political system creates a stinging commentary of Chinese government. And it is due to this realistic depiction of his country that Zhang finds himself constantly getting into trouble with most of his films getting banned or granted only restricted viewing in his home country.

Here, Zhang shows several different layers of the old Imperial and a newly emerging Communist China, not really favoring one or the other but just showing truths generated from both. The film’s message of struggle in the midst of change is succinctly portrayed in the juxtaposition of two scenes. As the Cultural Revolution is sweeping across China, Fugui is instructed to burn all of his old paper puppets because they depict aristocrats and nobility, clearly representative of feudal China and against the proletarian state. As the beautifully intricate paper puppets burn, however, Fugui sits with Jiazhen and the district overseer to play the ancient roles of matchmaker for Fugui and Jiazhen’s daughter. No matter how many puppets they burn, they cannot simply throw their culture into the heat of hardship in the hopes of purging what might be viewed as counter-communist, for cultural roots run much deeper that any revolution can reach.

“Ju Dou's” sultry use of color highlights the sumptuous carnality of the extramarital affair between the Silk Dyer’s wife and his nephew. Aside from some of the most visually compelling cinematography in Chinese film, such as endless rolls of dyed silk unraveling as lovers reach climax, “Ju Dou” is also a seething social commentary. In this film, Ju Dou is beaten and treated like an animal because she doesn’t get pregnant. It turns out, however, that Ju Dou cannot get pregnant because the man is impotent. So instead of finding fault within himself, the old man tortures Ju Dou like a pig being sent to the slaughterhouse. As exemplified by this work, Asian women have dual roles. They are both completely subservient to their male counterparts, but they are also the symbol of life, as they are literally providers of life. However, because of this role, when a woman fails, she becomes subject to objectification, of which the consequences can prove to weigh too heavily. Just as the films, “Not One Less,” and, “The Story of Qiu Ju,” portrays the Chinese government without the use of propaganda, “Ju Dou,” shows Chinese life without a sieve to filter out the less flattering.

Gaining popularity as one of the most known Chinese directors, right alongside Chen Kaige, Zhang has received a few big-budget movies that did well in mainstream theaters across America. Among them are, “Curse of the Golden Flower,” “Hero,” and “House of Flying Daggers.” These well-funded films allowed Zhang to indulge in his fetish with color as every scene is lavished with rich textiles, tapestries, dyes, and paints. In these wonderfully done period epics, color practically leaps from the set to join the actors as the vibrant colors themselves speak volumes. Interestingly though, these films were connected to popular martial arts actors Chow Yun Fat, Jet Li, and Zhang Ziyi (with a new-found popularity after starring in Ang Lee’s, “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon”. By drawing a connection of the films to these pop-culture icons, the films were “branded” in a way during theatrical previews to let mainstream America know that it would see exciting kung-fu fighting. The danger here is to not get lost in the plastic glitz of Hollywood glamour. Zhang, however, is still able to insert his signature subversive subtlety in these three films as two of them are led by heroines, and the one hero, played by Jet Li, is shown as an individual against an established authority. Although the setting is the stereotypical kung-fu of a comfortably familiar China, and not a jarring presentation of authenticity as in Zhang’s other films, Zhang is still able to deepen the plot to tell a story that would otherwise go unheard. Even in these blockbuster hits, there is a clear voice that is saying look, China is not exactly what you think it is, let me show you another layer.

Here, he uses cinematography to constantly compare the dreary present with a vibrant past childhood. In Zhang’s signature subversive subtlety, he flips the cinematographic norm of portraying flash-backs in black and white. Instead, he renders the “present” timeline in monochromatic shades of gray, while showing the past-tense timeline in vibrant, almost saturated, colors. Highlighting the split between past and present with color and non-color, Zhang emphasizes the blurring of contemporary thought and traditional customs. In the past timeline, Zhao Di breaks tradition by choosing the man she will marry on her own, rather than having an arranged marriage, an almost taboo act that nearly leads to her death. In the present timeline, however, the previously revolutionary woman becomes obsessed with burying her recently departed beloved in the traditional manner of carrying his coffin from the place of his death to the home in which he lived his entire life. During the long journey, traveled on foot, the entire procession of people paying respect chant that the deceased may never forget his way home. In his beautifully eloquent cinematography, Zhang Yimou shows the conflict of Western thought within an Eastern context, but reminds the audience that there is a home which should never be forgotten.

In what many regard as Zhang Yimou’s magnum opus, “Raise the Red Lantern,” Zhang explores a relatively modern woman stuck in an extremely patriarchal world of traditions. Songlian, a woman who drops out of university to marry a rich man to avoid the perils of poverty, steps into a world in which women are reduced to nightly sexual encounters. Songlian’s individuality and strength as an independent woman is apparent in the opening scene when she arrives at Master Chen’s estate. The housekeeper is surprised and asks Songlian if she did not see the wedding entourage that the Master had sent, to which Songlian simply answers something along the lines of, “I could walk on my own.” Songlian seems the most incongruous in Master Chen’s microcosm of China’s highly patriarchal nature, and, in the end, is driven mad by the prison from which she cannot escape. In this masterpiece, Zhang at the same time presents women who are not willing to be dominated with a social structure built on the subjugation of women.

Although the film is a commentary on Chinese society’s treatment of women, it is difficult to not read between the lines. The interest of “Raise the Red Lantern” goes beyond the subject of female subjugation, as that theme becomes painfully obvious right from the opening scene with Songlian being lectured by the voice of an older woman. In this film, the theme is heightened by Zhang’s brilliant cinematography. Aside from his signature use of saturated colors, Zhang also uses omission. The women are treated as property by Master Chen, who is able to marry as many women as he can afford financially. It is cinematographically fascinating that the ruler of this microcosm for Chinese social hierarchy, Master Chen, is never shown clearly. By never showing Master Chen’s face, Zhang dehumanizes his character to strengthen the presence of the women on screen. Although the complex is financially owned by Master Chen, it is clearly run by the women. Even though the tradition says that every night the Master will choose which Mistress he will sleep with, Zhang’s cinematography makes it clear that the Master really is not the one doing the choosing. The Mistresses of the household manipulate each other as well as the Master to ultimately get what they want. So, Zhang is not saying, look world, China treats women badly; rather, the film is a call for close inspection of Chinese culture. For although the film seemingly denounces the male dominated social structure, Master Chen is never shown and the only other real male figure, the Master’s son Feipu, is shown as touchingly sincere. In addition, Zhang’s juxtaposition of the servant girl’s death with Songlian’s discovery of the of the Fourth Wife’s adultery which leads to her execution, brings to question who exactly is doing the killing. Everyone is trapped in centuries-old traditions, which the haunting ending locks into place as the Fifth Mistress is receiving the coveted foot massage.

In examining Asia’s repertoire of film, we learn that “struggle” would be a more apt label. With the borders of Western ideals quickly growing and spreading into the long-anchored cultures of the East, strange dichotomies are formed in which there is a clash between the traditional and what is perceived to be the more modern – some clashing more vehemently than others. As most Asian cultures are predominantly based on patriarchal structures, Asian films tend to find recurrent examinations of the role of women in the modern world within the context of established traditions. Due to the fact that the struggle of women in Asian societies spans socio-political and economic boundaries, it is here that the dichotomies formed by the ebb and flow of change seem to be the most turbulent. Zhang Yimou seems to bring these issues to the forefront of the Asian forum, for discussion, as his films usually deal with a heroine rather than a hero. Zhang’s heroines are strong-willed and slightly subversive but still stalwartly fastened to the Chinese culture.

It is this level of truth and realism in Zhang Yimou’s work that is being recognized worldwide as China rises as a socio-economic and political powerhouse. Although mostly regarded as a troublemaker in China, for not making only propagandist movies, Zhang is so widely known that he’s been asked to direct the staging of Giacomo Puccini’s, “Turandot.” Although having no prior experience in the stage direction of operas, conductor Zubin Mehta insisted that Zhang’s expertise in the world of film would be needed to give the opera an authenticity it has never achieved. So Zhang finds himself standing, quite literally, in this crossroad between East and West as Turandot, the story of a Chinese princess, is sung in Italian. Furthermore, the Western concept of Opera is very different from the Eastern concept, which is based mainly on the Peking style of Opera. Although put up against such cultural barriers, Zhang is able to mediate and create an Opera that stays true to Puccini while still being authentically Chinese.

Zhang Yimou, more than anything, is one who presents the truth. As can be clearly seen in the use of full-bodied, and what Zhang calls “real color.” Zhang uses methods of cinematography to eloquently emphasize his ideas and themes. By zooming in on Chinese life and deciding what to show and what to hide, as Master Chen’s face in, “Raise the Red Lantern,” or slowly pacing the film to mirror that of a real life as in, “The Road Home,” or even hiring non-professional actors as in the Italian Neo-Realism movement, Zhang is able to create a haunting reality to his films. As Zhang said in an interview during the production of “Turandot,” there is a Chinese proverb that roughly translates to “use the gentle to overcome the strong.” This proverb epitomizes the director’s work as he chooses the most unlikely characters to show a China that is being torn between East and West, between the encroaching modern and the all-encompassing traditional. Zhang’s signature subtlety makes sense, as he is trying to overcome the strong with the “weak” creating films that are anything but weak.