Only the River Flows (He bian de cuo wu)

 

Director Wei Shujun

Author Yu Hua

ONLY THE RIVER FLOWS (He bian de cuo wu)              B+                                                  China  (101 mi)  2023  d:  Wei Shujun

There’s no understanding fate; therefore I choose to play the part of fate.  I wear the foolish, unintelligible, face of a professional god.                                                                                        —Albert Camus, opening film quote from his play Caligula, 1944, part of his Cycle of the Absurd

Premiering in the Un Certain Regard section at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival before becoming an arthouse box office hit in China, this heavily stylish, neo-noir murder mystery was shot on 16mm in the Zhejiang and Jiangxi Provinces, apparently the first mainland Chinese movie to be shot on film in years, where the film stock had to be scanned and printed in Taiwan, given a beautifully dark and murky look with desaturated colors by cinematographer Chengma Zhiyuan.  Reminiscent of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s neo-noir horror film CURE (1997), and the psychological crime thrillers of Bong Joon-ho’s Memories of Murder (Salinui chueok) (2003) and Diao Yinan’s Black Coal, Thin Ice (Bai ri yan huo) (2014), this was adapted by Wei and Kang Chunlei, who also has a prominent role as a suspected murderer in the film, from Yu Hua’s morally ambiguous short story in his 1988 compilation Mistakes by the River.  A rapper turned filmmaker, having majored in sound recording from the Communication University of China in Beijing, Wei is the only post-90’s Chinese director to have been selected three times for the Cannes Film Festival, working with different combinations of screenwriters on every project, but his earlier film Striding Into the Wind (Ye Ma Fen Zong) (2020), ironically about a sound recordist, left something to be desired, an aimless and empty slacker comedy that was admittedly offbeat and quirky, not something you typically see from China.  Yet here what immediately grabs one’s attention is Emil Gilels coolly playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Beethoven: Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 27 No ... YouTube (6:10), the same pensive piece used in Edward Yang’s Yi Yi: A One and a Two... (2000), while the everpresent flashlight was also prominently featured in Yang’s A Brighter Summer Day (Gu ling jie shao nian sha ren shi jian) (1991).  Opening in December 1995, the film takes place in a small rural town with only 50 homes, where a murder has been committed along the shoreline of a nearby river, with a woman known locally as Granny No. 4 (Yang Cao) emerging as the victim.  By setting the film in this time period, occurring between the events of Tiananmen Square and the more recent economic boom, it evokes a period just before technology brought changes to forensic science, evidenced by boxed desktop computers, cassette tapes, transistor radios, Polaroid photographs, and incessant indoor smoking, a time when citizens led a repressed and silent life, when adherence to social norms was the most important thing, often pushing people to shame and secrecy, yet it was also a time when everyone did everything together, like eat, work, play, where socialization was done face to face, as opposed to now when everybody is isolated on their phones.  The police chief (Hou Tianlai) has given his squad a vast new headquarters in a broken down movie theater that has fallen into disuse (audience attendance in China was at an all-time low in the mid 90’s, so the government decided to allow screenings of Hollywood films), providing an office in what was the projection booth, surrounded by broken projectors and abandoned reels, symbolic, perhaps, that what we’re watching is not always reality, urging his lead detective, Ma Zhe (Zhu Yilong) to wrap things up quickly, as all eyes of the Party bosses are on this case, determined to prevent another serial killer like Andrei Chikatilo, who sexually assaulted, murdered, and mutilated at least fifty-two women and children between 1978 and 1990.  More concerned with appearances and the incarceration of the presumed murderer than any motives that may have driven the crime, the Party assumes the role of the protector of society.  What really stands out, however, is the self-reflective quality of the film, a poignant character study of a man who’s finding it increasingly difficult to ascertain truth and justice, as the conventions of a detective movie start breaking down, placing us directly into the mindset of Ma Zhe, perhaps as much to do with existential angst as the solving of a murder, with offbeat flashes of wry humor and no traces of any graphic violence, while the investigation team is busily stabbing pig carcasses to see which blade may be the most similar to the murder weapon.  The camera revisits the scene of the crime from multiple perspectives, actually assuming the position of the murderer, with the victim showing no fear or apprehension by his presence.

Opening with a sequence in which a young boy dressed as a policeman and carrying a toy gun chases his friends around an upper floor through a maze of corridors of an abandoned building, opening and closing doors without finding anyone, until he reaches a door which dangerously opens into the emptiness of free-falling space, where there is a precipitous drop down to the rubble of a construction site below, with the child seen staring out into the abyss, a premonition, perhaps, of the detective coming up blank in his search for answers, yet otherwise having no relation to the story, and the boy is never seen again, with the unfinished construction reflective of a time when the rapid development across small villages had come to a sudden halt.  All the director’s titles invoke spatial metaphors, not really the point in making the film, but somehow the people in the story connect to that physical space, becoming a thematic point of emphasis that viewers are drawn into.  Essentially a police procedural movie, like a puzzle piece, with Ma Zhe examining the murder site, interrogating witnesses, always accompanied by his more excitable second in command, Xie (Tong Linkai), while meticulously exploring the clues, with the film playing out as a work in progress.  Of peculiar interest is the overly descriptive name of one of the potential suspects, known only as the “madman” (Kang Chunlei), who has suddenly disappeared, someone the victim adopted after becoming a widow, something of the village idiot, instantly becoming a person of interest, but it’s rare for a name to connote such an ominous nature.  When he’s found, Ma Zhe’s interrogation techniques are not what we suspect, as the “madman” never utters a word, described by others as harmless, so the detective attempts a non-threatening approach, silently hanging around, observing from a distance, gathering what information he can, while still pursuing the evidence.  His arrest somewhere around the midway point seems to suggest the case has been solved, with Ma Zhe’s seemingly satisfied superior pondering “Why haven’t you wrapped up your report yet?”  Indicating he still needs to sort things out, this opens the eyes of viewers, who suspect more is lurking in the darkness.  A woman’s purse is discovered near the crime scene, containing cassettes of familiar pop songs, but at some point a woman’s voice breaks in, where she is clearly speaking to a secret lover, as the town’s buried secrets emerge, exposing a couple in a secret relationship and a gay hairdresser who tries to hide his identity, yet seemingly wants to be arrested, already having a criminal record for public indecency, described here as “violations of morality.”  Running down these leads proves to be difficult, and may not have anything to do with the case, but they are part of the process of moving from suspect to suspect, where the stress takes its toll on Ma Zhe’s professional and private life, as his wife Bai, Chloe Maayan from Lou Ye’s SUMMER PALACE (2006), Bi Gan’s 2019 Top Ten List #6 Long Day's Journey Into Night (Di qiu zui hou de ye wan) (2018), and Diao Yinan’s The Wild Goose Lake (Nan Fang Che Zhan De Ju Hui) (2019), is a primary school teacher who is expecting a baby, with the ultra sound informing them that this child may be suffering from an incurable congenital defect and might have cognitive development problems.  Coming against the background of a mentally challenged suspect and possible murderer, also strained by the effects of China’s one-child policy, Ma Zhe suggests she have an abortion, but his wife thinks otherwise, turning into a debate about the value of life, becoming an aggravating source of tension between them, as he’s completely invested in the murder case, but she is seen calmly attempting to put together a gigantic jigsaw puzzle of a mother and child, yet in a fit of rage, he flushes a few of the remaining pieces down the toilet.  Moments later, however, we see the entire puzzle framed on the wall with no pieces missing, completely at odds with reality.  In more mundane moments of domestic tranquility, watching them slurp noodles with chopsticks is a thing to behold, taking us back to filmmakers Wong Kar-wai and Hou Hsiao-hsien, where it was a signature trademark with both. 

Essentially a crime drama, what’s unique is the contemplative, existential aspect of the protagonist, where the root of his discomfort is never established, but is apparent throughout.  While his trustworthy dedication and loyalty to the job are never questioned, it’s his intelligence and adherence to rational thought that stands out, as Ma Zhe has a moral outlook that rises above his coworkers, as he is capable of seeing things they don’t, with lingering questions that dig deep into his soul, creating a personal conflict, yet the film is completely invested in his character, with all the moral ambiguities, taking us on a journey that continually feels overly understated and discreet, delving into unexplored territory, as facts and evidence become interlinked with subjective memory, pure conjecture, and even guesswork.  After the prisoner escapes and more murders occur, including a student poet and a young boy, the “madman” again becomes the focal point, but something interesting happens, as the psychological mindset of the criminal and the lead detective somehow merge, with Ma Zhe so obsessed with the case that he begins seeing the suspect everywhere, contaminating his mind, burrowing deep into his subconscious, undermining his police instincts, creating an impressionistic, off-kilter montage that seemingly takes place entirely in his imagination.  A turning point occurs when he falls asleep in an empty movie theater and experiences a surrealistic, David Lynch Twin Peaks style dream sequence, with each of the murder victims speaking to him, concocting an entirely different conclusion to the case, driven by a projector that bursts into flames, becoming a metaphor for the fallibility of truth.  This unexpected aspect of the film is quite surprising, taking us where few films are willing to go, essentially five minutes of an homage to cinema like few contemporary directors still dare to do, with a lead protagonist unraveling into a descent of madness, obsession, and personal isolation, as it defies all rationality and deductive reasoning typically associated with police work, instead creating a muddled netherworld that feels more symbolic than real, yet all the evidence is re-evaluated in this new light, filtered through an altered mindset, where it’s hard to distinguish between what’s real and what’s imagined.  This only heightens the mystery, drawing viewers into a mystifying unknown, yet the film inscrutably builds Ma Zhe’s character throughout, rarely seen without a cigarette, becoming familiar to us, where we appreciate what we know about him, as his integrity and ardent professionalism continually stand out, becoming the driving force of the film, dominating all that we see, yet there’s something else happening here, an undercurrent of doubt, with no cut and dry answers, which elevates this into unexplored territory, expressing a disarming honesty, becoming an unfinished and incomplete portrait of moral authority, which is rare in a police procedural.  This plays into Yu Hua’s literary vision, an author known for his abstract writing style, whose stories portray disturbing personal realities of modern China, accentuating the interplay of diverse meanings, particularly between imagination and reality, innocence and guilt, blurring the lines between postmodernism and tradition, often venturing into the absurd, examining the dark side of human psychology and society in a non-traditional way, with subjective storylines that investigate and illustrate the challenges of cultural disintegration and identity loss.  Defiantly ambiguous, this absorbing yet completely atmospheric crime drama is heavily punctuated by images of abandoned and neglected houses, narrow streets, and torrents of rain, apparently washing the sins away, generating a suffocating atmosphere that blurs the lines between good and evil, but the film’s exploration of complex social and moral themes, such as fetishes, identity, and the intricacies of human emotions, play a significant role in allowing viewers to draw their own conclusions.  This is a uniquely innovative film built upon a classical film noir structure, which looks to the past as a way of trying to understand the present, becoming an impressionistic mosaic on the ephemeral nature of truth, which is one of the more dangerously perplexing problems of modernity.  

2020 Top Ten List #8 Swimming Out Till the Sea Turns Blue (Yi zhi you dao hai shui bian lan)

 

Director Jia Zhang-ke

 

 

SWIMMING OUT TILL THE SEA TURNS BLUE (Yi zhi you dao hai shui bian lan)  B+         China  (112 minutes)  2020  d:  Jia Zhang-ke

Another ruminative documentary that provides a personalized oral history of China’s changing landscape, told in 18 chapters of varying length, recalling significant writers featured at a literary festival in Shanxi province, each from different eras, using elderly citizens to provide fond recollections of the late writer/activist Ma Feng, who helped shape and implement the rural collectivization movement of the Communist Party in the late 1940’s, recommending water filtration systems prior to irrigation to eliminate excessive salt, which helped replenish the soil, allowing crops to flourish, while the other three, Jia Pingwa (born in the 50’s), Yu Hua (born in the 60’s), and Liang Hong (born in the 70’s), provide their own reflections on the changing times they endured.  Viewed from the New York Film Festival just prior to the Chicago event, another virtual festival where anyone in the U.S. could view the films, the film is structured using a then and now format, taking a look at the director’s hometown of Fenyang in 1997 where he shot his first film, THE PICKPOCKET (Xiao Wu), and then showing how it looks today, radically transformed into urban sprawl.  Perhaps more eye-opening, his film PLATFORM (2000), Opening - Platform (2000) YouTube (8:05), opens in Fenyang’s Jia Family Village in 1979 with a group of villagers chatting and smoking in front of a giant mural oil painting outside a local theater entitled “Plan for a New Village.”  When Jia returned to that same location today, that original painting was gone, replaced by a new painting in the Village History Museum accentuating high-rise buildings and electronic communication technologies, none of which appeared in the earlier painting.  Also uniquely different are the multitude of tourists mulling around in front of the painting taking pictures on their iPhones, with Jia contrasting how it looked in 1979 with how it looks today, Swimming Out Till The Sea Turns Blue - Clip “The Old and ... YouTube (2:19), given a classical elegance with the piano music of Vladimir Ashkenazy playing the opening Andante theme of Rachmaninoff’s Variations on a Theme of Corelli, Vladimir Ashkenazy: Rachmaninoff - Variations on a theme of ... YouTube (1:05).  This artful depiction sets the stage of what follows, revealing a massive transformation from a rural economy based upon an agriculture model of collective socialism from the 50’s through the 80’s, shifting to a capitalist urban modernization in the 90’s where cities are transformed overnight, resulting in a migratory pattern of young people uprooted from the villages and towns where they were born seeking work in the great urban metropolises, trying to stay connected by sending money home to their families.  For a country with thousands of years of agriculture history, this changed and challenged the nation’s collective identity, yet the concept of home as one’s birthplace remains surprisingly unchanged.  Many Chinese writers bucked the trend, finding their success in the big cities where they were educated, but started moving back to the rural countrysides where they grew up, writing about their own experiences in these rural locales, offering their own commentary on Chinese life. 

Continuing in the elegiac style of Jia’s earlier work, I Wish I Knew (Hai shang chuan qi) (2010), using voices, in effect, as living theater, the director films prominent writers and local citizens offering personal testimony to the changes they have witnessed, where perhaps more than anything this becomes a history lesson, using artists as griots, an African tradition of storytelling, where history is passed down through a mosaic of personal testimony reminding viewers what strength of resolve it took just to survive particularly hard times.  Jia Pingwa, for instance, grew up in a family of more than twenty, raised mostly by women, all fed from a single wok, where simply finding food and nourishment was a daily struggle, yet books opened the door for him to the West, discovering painters like Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Picasso, which motivated him to become an artist.  Ma Feng’s daughter describes her father’s life with reverence, describing how he first gained attention while serving in the army by drawing an ink painting in a woodcut style that won a newspaper competition.  His talent quickly got him transferred to a theatrical troupe that traveled rural regions, eventually becoming a journalist, but he couldn’t resist sending stories to newspapers, gaining an audience without realizing it, as readers complained when the stories stopped, which became the basis of the first book he wrote, eventually becoming part of the Beijing literary establishment.  She recalls an amusing story about how her father was teased after writing a book on marriage, but wasn’t married himself, so a friend provided a group photo of a theater troupe containing a woman he wanted her father to meet, asking if he could pick her out ahead of time.  After some study and evaluation, he successfully picked the woman who eventually became his wife.  Jia Pingwa’s life, in stark contrast, was mired in poverty and near starvation during the Cultural Revolution, a time of trauma and helplessness, made even worse when his father, a teacher, was accused of being a secret agent for the Nationalist Kuomintang Army, which couldn’t have been further from the truth, but the accusation alone was enough, as he and his family were sent to forced labor camps as punishment, a stain that prevented his entire family from obtaining positions of employment, listing off a litany of attempted jobs he sought only to be rejected time and again, eventually hired to write revolutionary slogans because of his ability to write in a region where that was a precious commodity.  Jia Pingwa basically reinvented himself by returning back to the region where he was born, exploring the countryside by bicycle, discovering newfound freedoms simply by being on his own, interacting with locals, subject to no outside authority, and writing about his experiences.  In this manner he analyzes and interprets China’s place in the world community, offering reflective commentary where readers experience life through his vivid depictions, helping them develop new understandings.  In an age of technological advancements and rampant consumerism, art often gets pushed aside when it comes to cultural relevance, but this film reminds us of the intrinsic value art and literature can add to our lives, initially finding common ground, while also expanding our field of knowledge.  When farmworkers start spouting poetry, however, this surrealist quality feels strangely overstaged.   

Beautifully shot by Yu Lik-wai, accompanied by eclectic musical choices that include healthy doses of Dmitri Shostakovich (who himself represents a complex relationship between an artist and an overly repressive political regime), the more obscure Alexander Tikhonovich Gretchaninov, and even American silent era film composer John Stepan Zamecnik, part of the expressive nature of the film is captured in transitionary shots, including multiple shots revealing the timelessness of rivers flowing, the release of illuminated lanterns on paper boats floating down the Yellow River at night, scenes of villagers harvesting wheat, resembling the bright saturated colors of a Van Gogh painting, or a steady stream of close-ups on faces that resemble the experimental imagery of Chantal Akerman’s D'Est (1993), moving from the old to the young as the film progresses, including masses of people simply waiting, occasionally using tracking shots on busy streets, or finding people driving peculiar two-wheeled vehicles through the crowded streets, with the camera inevitably finding people of interest, the ones who stand out in a crowd.  Easily the most humorous character with his own individualistic style is Yu Hua, seen at the outset watching an NBA basketball game on his cellphone, always upbeat and jovial, viewed as having a more carefree nature.  While Jia Pingwa is almost always seen speaking alone, isolated from everyone else, Yu Hua is found sitting on busy sidewalk café’s watching the world quickly passing him by, but he doesn’t miss a beat.  He educated himself by reading books banned during the Cultural Revolution that had the beginning and end pages torn out of them, forcing him to make up his own endings, a neverending challenge that required him to use his imagination.  Unhappily working as a dentist, his chosen profession, he quickly tired of looking inside of people’s mouths, finding nothing more dreary than that, writing short stories instead, often for his own amusement and sending them off to various publishing houses, where he hilariously recounts receiving a neverending stream of rejection letters, where even his father poked fun at him with every new arrival.  Miraculously, he received a phone call from Beijing one day, where it took most of the day just to make the connection to his isolated community where phones were scarce, recalling the relief heard on the other end of the line when they finally spoke, with an editor offering him an opportunity to come to Beijing and be published, which altered the trajectory of his life.  Yu represents that generation which followed the changing of the guard, including the arrest of the Gang of Four, repudiated by new leader Deng Xiaoping, ushering in a new era where the entire country seems to open up, yet his quick wit simply feels revelatory (“We’re all atheists”).  Though barely mentioned, one of his books, To Live, was adapted into a film by Zhang Yimou in 1994 starring Gong Li, implanting him directly into the center of a major cultural shift.  The last writer is Liang Hong, the lone female whose childhood experiences more closely resemble that of Jia Pingwa, growing up in a small village, enduring catastrophic poverty, made worse by the endless prejudice her mother faced after having a stroke, becoming more and more debilitated until she was totally paralyzed.  With no medical facilities nearby, the family faced the unfortunate situation on their own, largely ostracized and isolated from the village, where they had to learn to take care of themselves.  She recalls the stigma of having to stand outside the classroom, as her parents couldn’t raise the tuition money.  The emotional crescendo in this section is heavy, bringing tears to her eyes each time she speaks about her mother, where she still hasn’t come to terms with it, at one point saying “I’m lost for words.”  Offering acute observations on contemporary village life, her writings are based on in-depth interviews with her neighbors and their families, as so many have left home to seek work elsewhere.  Her work seems to capture the trauma of being left behind in a rapidly changing world, but she also exhibits the grace of maternal love, suggesting mothers are the teachers of each new generation, instilling a healthy curiosity to question and learn about the world around us.