In the 1990s I was
fairly obsessed with the work of director Zhang Yimou and actress
Gong Li. Their collaboration began with the adultery dramas RED SORGHUM (1987)
and JU DOU (1990) but I didn’t become aware of their work until the breakout
hit RAISE THE RED LANTERN (1991), which garnered international attention. Zhang
was greeted as the great artistic find of the so-called Chinese “Fifth
Generation” of filmmakers (the first generation of filmmakers to emerge in
China since the Cultural Revolution), and Gong became the biggest star in
Chinese cinema. (The two also made a little seen 1989 thriller called CODENAME
COUGAR—which, in addition to sounding like a bad porno, seems to have been
disowned at one time or another by everyone involved.)
Their working
relationship went on to include the films THE STORY OF QIU JU (1992), TO LIVE (1994),
and SHANGHAI TRIAD (1995). After that the two went their separate ways—professionally
and personally. Gong enjoys the life of an international superstar (including
some roles in American films) and Zhang has moved on to other projects, mostly of
the large-scale epic variety.
Although the two
reunited briefly for the costume epic CURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER in 2006, I think
it’s safe to say that their legend rests largely on the amazing work they did
in the 1990s. It was an amazingly creative period for the duo, resulting in a
body of work that ranks up there with von Sternberg and Dietrich.
It’s all worth seeing,
but perhaps the best place to start is their most famous film RAISE THE RED
LANTERN. Set in the 1920s, it tells the story of a young woman (Gong) married
off as a concubine to a rich older man. She’s the Fourth Mistress, a situation
she’s none too happy with. This sets up a battle of wills between the young
woman and her fellow wives and, eventually, with the entire system.
RAISE THE RED LANTERN
isn’t so much a historical drama (there’s a lot of doubt about how accurate a
picture it paints of its time period) but rather a chamber drama about how one
woman attempts to survive in a world that seems to be closing in on her. It’s a
full on visual masterpiece—a triumph of cinematography and art direction—but it’s
also a deeply moving filming, owing much to the beautiful performance of Gong.
From there, I suggest
going to a much different film, but the one that I would argue represents the
greatest achievement of Zhang and Gong, 1994’s TO LIVE. It tells the story of
one married couple (Gong and the wonderful actor You Ge) in China from the
1940s to the 1960s. In doing so, it shows how ordinary people endured the
massive changes that swept across that country from the fall of the
Nationalists to the Rise of Maoism to the terrifying purges of the Cultural
Revolution. What works brilliantly here is that the film never misplaces its
focus. It never preaches, never needlessly underlines. It stays centered on
Gong and You and their children as they attempt to negotiate political winds
that are as random as they are deadly. It works, first and foremost, as a
drama. The last few scenes—which I will not reveal—are shattering.
Its political statement
may be implicit—seen in the progress of time through the film, the way the
bright red murals of Mao fade and chip as the years limp by—but it’s also
unmistakable (not surprising considering that Zhang was a victim of the
Cultural Revolution himself, having been pulled out of school and sent to work
as a farm laborer for three years after he was deemed in need of re-education).
The film was banned in China, and Zhang was forbidden to make films for two
years. Today, however, TO LIVE can be seen as one of the truly great movies of
Chinese cinema, an essential document of the country in flux through years of
revolution and hardship.
Zhang is widely seen as
a feminist filmmaker, which owes something to his preference for female protagonists
(even after his association with Gong ended). RED SORGHUM and JU DOU are both
dramas about a young woman (Gong in both cases) married to an older man, having
an affair with a younger man. These have distinct echoes of THE POSTMAN ALWAYS
RINGS TWICE (particularly JU DOU) and owing to the racy subject matter both were
both banned for a time in China. These are gorgeous works, with JU DOU in
particular being a work of stunning color cinematography—famously, the film was
shot with a color process far richer than any one currently used in America,
and the colors fit a story of large passions writ large.
That’s an impressive
run of films. TO LIVE and RAISE THE RED LANTERN I’d submit, are two of the
truly essential films of the 1990s (up there with PULP FICTION and Kieslowski’s
Colors Trilogy). RED SORGHUM and JU DOU are excellent.
If you want to finish
things out, then check out THE STORY OF QIU JU—the smallest, quietest film they
made—about a poor pregnant woman trying to navigate an endless bureaucracy in
her attempt to punish the low-level government employee who kicked her husband
in the balls. It’s an odd film, a comedy of manners that subtly indicts a
system that seems almost to have been designed to deny real justice.
Their last film of the
nineties was the neo-noir SHANGHAI TRIAD. While by no means a bad film, it’s
still their least substantial work, a film that is beautifully shot and well
acted (and Gong looks amazing) but that nevertheless pales in comparison. It
seemed obvious that the duo had done their best work.
I suppose Zhang and
Gong could be criticized for selling out. (I’m certain this criticism has been leveled.) He decided
he’d rather produce action movies and big events like the opening of Beijing
Olympics and she decided she’d rather be a rich international movie star. But their
work since the 90s hasn’t been without its interest. In addition to his epics,
which are fun, he made small lovely films like NOT ONE LESS and the sweet romance
THE ROAD HOME, featuring a winning performance by Ziyi Zhang. And Gong has
mixed her work in big budget films with work with Wong Kar Wai (the freaky 2046)
and Chen Kaige (the wonderful epic THE EMPEROR AND THE ASSASSIN). More to the
point, Zhang and Gong put in their time together making art films in the 1990s.
Those films work not just as explorations of China’s past but, perhaps more importantly
(and, in a sense, more genuinely) as documents of the time in which they were
made.
