Moulding the Socialist Subject: Cinema and Chinese Modernity 1949-1966 9004423516, 9789004423510

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Moulding the Socialist Subject

Ideas, History, and Modern China Edited by Ban Wang (Stanford University) Wang Hui (Tsinghua University)

volume 22

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ihmc

Moulding the Socialist Subject Cinema and Chinese Modernity (1949–1966) By

Xiaoning Lu

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Wu Jiahua and Yang Guoxun, “Chairman Mao’s Projection Team Has Arrived!” 1953. Stefan R. Landsberger Private Collection, International Institute of Social History (Amsterdam). Retrieved from chineseposters.net. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2019055386

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill.” See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 1875-9394 ISBN 978-90-04-42351-0 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-42352-7 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

To the memory of my father Lu Jiyun (1945–2011)

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Contents Acknowledgements ix List of Figures xi Introduction 1 1 The Socialist Subject for a New China (1949–1966) 3 2 Cinema within a Socialist Society of Spectacle 8 1 Terror and Mass Surveillance: the Counterespionage Film 16 1 The Counterespionage Film and Political Campaigns against Counterrevolutionaries 17 2 Cinematic Articulation of Mass Surveillance: The Might of the People 25 2 The New Physical Culture and Volatile Attractions: the Sports Film 35 1 The New Physical Culture 36 2 Promoting Workers’ Sport and Heterogeneous Laughter: Trouble on the Basketball Court and Big Li, Young Li and Old Li 41 3 Sports, Ethics, and Melodramatic Imagination: Woman Basketball Player No. 5 and Ice-Skating Sisters 52 3 Ethnicity and Socialist Fraternity: the National Minority Film 64 1 Reconfiguring the Ethnic Landscape: From Ethnicity to Nationality 65 2 The National Minority Film 70 3 Flames of War in a Border Village: Cross-Ethnic Performance and the Politics of Recognition 73 4 Daji and Her Fathers from Page to Screen: Typifying Ethnic Fraternity in Socialist China 83 4 Modeling the Model: Red Stardom 96 1 Problematizing “the Star” 98 2 Star Image 105 3 The Stanislavski System and Modeling the Red Star 116 5 The Cultural Politics of Affect: Villain Stardom 121 1 Negative Characters, Performance Context, and Production of Affect 122 2 Villain Performance as Negative Pedagogy 134

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6 Mobile Attraction: Itinerant Film Projectionists and Rural Cinema Exhibition 142 1 Itinerant Film Projection: a New Attraction in Rural China 143 2 Rural Film Exhibition: Problems and Challenges 148 3 Film Projectionists and Their Machines 151 4 Film Projectionists and Their Exhibition Practices 156 Conclusion 165 Bibliography 169 Filmography 189 Index 195

Acknowledgements This book has taken me an unusually long time to complete. From the conception of this project to its completion, I moved across the Atlantic, and then from continental Europe to the UK; I had the joy of welcoming a new life into the world and experienced the intense grief over the loss of my beloved father and a place I call home in China. Had it not been for the support, love, and encouragement I received from so many people I would not have been able to navigate through these major life transitions, let alone write this book. I remain indebted to my teachers Robert Chi, Robert Harvey, Jacqueline Reich, and Sandy Petry who taught me valuable analytical and research skills during my graduate study at Stony Brook University. I am most thankful to Ban Wang for his unwavering support and kindness and for encouraging me to publish this project. Among the many friends and colleagues who provided support, guidance, and inspiration for my intellectual development, I thank Lunpeng Ma, Rossella Ferrari, and Wenchin Ouyang for reading parts of my manuscript and sharing their insights and suggestions. I thank Cosima Bruno for sharing her experience in scholarly writing and publishing during many of our work lunches. My thanks are also due to Wai Hing Tse, the former SOAS China subject librarian for being so helpful in tracking down old film magazines in offsite storage facilities. I am especially grateful to Aga Skrodzka for offering strong encouragement at all stages and for sharing with me our teacher Sandy Petry’s words of wisdom, “Every book will get written in its own due time,” which are so reassuring and empowering! My sincere thanks to my series and senior acquisitions editor Qin Higley for her great patience, and to my copy editor Jon Wilcox for his meticulous readings and probing comments. Parts of this book in their earlier versions have been published elsewhere. Major parts of Chapter 1 previously appeared in Xiaoning Lu, “The Might of the People: Counter-Espionage Films and Participatory Surveillance in the Early PRC,” in Surveillance in Asian Cinema: Under Eastern Eyes, ed. Karen Fang, 13–32 (New York: Routledge, 2017), reproduced here by permission of Taylor and Francis Group, LLC, a division of Informa plc. Portions of Chapters 3 and 4 draw upon materials from Xiaoning Lu, “The Politics of Recognition and Constructing Socialist Subjectivity: Re-examining the National Minority Film (1949–1966),” Journal of Contemporary China 23, no. 86 (2014): 372–386 and Xiaoning Lu, “Zhang Ruifang: Modelling the Socialist Red Star,” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 2, no. 2 (2008): 113–122. They are reprinted here by permission of the publisher (Taylor & Francis Ltd, http://www.tandfonline.com). An earlier version of Chapter 5 first appeared as Xiaoning Lu, “Villain Stardom

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in Socialist China: Chen Qiang and the Cultural Politics of Affect,” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 9, no. 3 (2015): 223–228, reprinted here by permission of Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group, www.tandfonline.com. My most heartfelt thanks go to my husband and friend Jens Grabenstein for showing me what it means to live a full and balanced life, and to my daughter Sophia for sharing jokes, songs, and laughs with me. It is with your love and support that I have become reconciled with myself.

Figures 1 DVD cover featuring original imagery of the “giant palm of the people” 26 2 The opening sequence featuring Shanghai’s Park Hotel and Garden Bridge 30 3 Close-up shot of technologized surveillance employed by the KMT 31 4 A young neighbor knocks on the door of the spymaster’s apartment 32 5 Shot of the sports poster from Xiumei’s point of view 51 6 Farewell ceremony of the basketball team from Lin Jie’s perspective 59 7 Da Qi as Duolong in Flames of the War in a Border Village 79 8 Close-up shots of two anonymous characters of different nationalities 83 9 Daji steps into the “wooden shoes” to demonstrate their use 93 10 Magazine centrefold of Li Shuangshuang and her husband Xiwang 106 11 Li Shuangshuang on the cover of issue 5/6 of Mass Cinema (June 1963) 107 12 The White-Haired Girl screened in the land reform campaign 129 13 The Three Sisters projection team inspects their equipment prior to screening 156 14 Woodcut illustrating film projectionists’ prescreening work 158

Introduction In 1965 a reader contributed an article entitled “Watching Movies like Wang Jie” to Film Literature (Dianying wenxue 电影文学). In response to the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) call to learn from the model soldier Wang Jie 王杰,1 the article elaborates on a particular inspiration drawn from the hero: Thousands and millions of people—grown-ups, children, the literate, and the illiterate—are watching movies days and nights across the country. How should we watch movies? What is the purpose of watching ­movies? Is it merely for artistic appreciation or for pastime enjoyment? Or is it mainly for receiving education from revolutionary films? With regards to this question, Comrade Wang Jie has set a good example for us. Whenever Comrade Wang Jie finished watching a revolutionary film, he felt “he had received a deep political lesson.” He said, “[We] do not watch movies or attend opera performances to follow negative characters and acquire their debased and vulgar tastes, or to imitate their life style. When watching movies or listening to operas, we should use class analysis to look for things that would be beneficial to our learning—to differentiate enemies from friends and to raise our fighting morale.” With such correct viewpoint and attitude, Comrade Wang Jie was able to link the movies that he had watched with his own thoughts. For example, he was so deeply moved by the movie Lei Feng (雷锋) that he decided to “resolutely learn from Lei Feng—to actively study and apply Mao Zedong Thought as he has done; to treat work with the fiery heat of summer and to treat comrades with the gentle warmth of spring as he has done; to be selfless and altruistic like him; and to be a good solider like him.” After watching A Blade of Grass on Kunlun Mountain (Kunlun ­shanshang yike cao 昆仑山上一棵草), he found the grass braving the wind and rain in an extremely harsh environment deeply admirable. Hence, he vowed: “I dare to go to the most dangerous place for the Party; I would sacrifice myself for the Party.”

1  Wang Jie (1942–1965), a People’s Liberation Army (PLA) soldier, died in 1965 during a military exercise in which he threw himself upon a detonating explosive to protect his fellow soldiers from the deadly blast. Together with Lei Feng, he was an early PLA soldier model held up for emulation among both civilians and military in the first half of the 1960s.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_002

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What we should learn from Comrade Wang Jie is his serious attitude towards movie-watching.2 Seemingly just another simplistic and formulaic campaign response piece, the account provides a glimpse into the everyday entanglement of cinema, politics, and social life in the early People’s Republic of China (PRC).3 The ubiquitous presence of cinema was unmistakable. Cinema was made accessible to ordinary people and enjoyed widespread popularity. It had a particularly prominent presence in political campaigns launched by the CCP. More than a form of entertainment or political tool, cinema was also a site of knowledge production. Film-related activities such as film criticism and group discussion provided opportunities for audiences to develop their film literacy, to contemplate the onscreen representation of new characters and the new moral system under socialism, and even to form an actual community and forge meaningful social relations. As much as Wang Jie’s words quoted in the aforementioned account affirm a politicized yet personal way of engaging cinema as a preferred viewing practice at the time, they highlight the effectiveness of cinema in reforming subjectivity: cinema not only aids ordinary viewers in developing their political consciousness but also lends them cultural expressions in articulating such a development. For the writer who resolutely claims to emulate Wang Jie, aside from politically instructive film narratives, film-related social practices provided important venues for self-cultivation. Adopting a “relational” method for watching movies—linking cinematic representation to the actual life for political inspiration as Wang has done—will help raise one’s political consciousness and eventually elevate the person to the rank of good socialist. Contrary to the conventional, rather reductionist understanding of Chinese socialist cinema as top-down ideological imposition on passive audiences, the “Watching Movies like Wang Jie” article opens up a vast array of issues regarding the efficacy of cinema in shaping the desired socialist subject: codes and significations of particular films, the context of visual communication, the malleability of human subjects, individual viewers’ moral predisposition and agency, lateral social relations, and politically oriented social practices. All these issues are pertinent to understanding the operation of ideology and the 2  Min Yu 敏玉, “Xiang Wang Jie tongzhi nayang di kan dianying” 象王杰同志那样地看电影 [Watching movies like Comrade Wang Jie], Dianying wenxue 电影文学 [Film Literature] 12 (1965): 41. All translations are mine unless otherwise specified. 3  The Mao era in general refers to China’s socialist period from 1949 to 1976 when Mao served as the supreme leader of the country.

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mechanism of subject formation in the early PRC, and by extension, Chinese modernity in the mid-twentieth century. This book investigates the role cinema played in the CCP’s political project of moulding socialist subjects in the formative years of the PRC, namely, from its founding in 1949 to the eve of the Cultural Revolution in 1966. Rather than delineating the historical development of Chinese socialist cinema,4 it focuses on areas where cinema and the CCP’s social engineering intersected and interacted closely. 1

The Socialist Subject for a New China (1949–1966)

In his proclamation of the PRC on October 1, 1949, Mao Zedong celebrated the founding of the new China not only as the communist victory in the Chinese civil war but also as a defining moment in the Chinese nation’s century-long heroic struggle against colonial and imperial domination.5 The anti-feudal and anti-imperialist duality of the Chinese revolution that Mao had emphasized persisted into the formative years of the PRC and found a new manifestation in the CCP’s grand project of building a modern socialist state. The Party’s seemingly incompatible pursuits—building a unified nation state that is inherently limited and sovereign and gaining China a strong foothold in the world socialist community that upholds the principle of proletarian internationalism— were in fact inextricable and interdependent. In the years between 1949 and 1966,6 the CCP launched a series of political campaigns including Land Reform, Agricultural Collectivization, the Great Leap Forward, and the Socialist Education Movement in order to lay the groundwork for socialist construction as well as to consolidate its regime. Plunged into the maelstrom of these political campaigns were millions of ordinary people who were at once subject and object of China’s modernization in the mid-twentieth century. Transforming 4  A good example of a chronological study of Chinese cinema in the early PRC is Zhuoyi Wang’s monograph Revolutionary Cycles in Chinese Cinema, 1951–1979 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). It focuses on Chinese cinema’s tumultuous institutional history connected to various political and ideological campaigns. Other notable monographs on mid-twentieth century Chinese cinema include Jay Leyda, Dianying/Electric Shadows: An Account of Films and Film Audience in China (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1979) and Paul Clark, Chinese Cinema: Culture and Politics since 1949 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). 5  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Zhongyang renmin zhenfu gonggao” 中央人民政府公告 [Procla­ mation of the Central People’s Government of the PRC], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], October 2, 1949. 6  This subperiod of the Mao era is commonly referred to as the Seventeen Years in China’s official historiography.

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Introduction

these people into desired socialist subjects was of great importance for the CCP to legitimate its rule, strengthen its governance, and realize its socialist vision. By “socialist subject” I mean actual persons endowed with consciousness, emotion, behavior, and attitude normalized by socialist ideology. Certainly, the term is a retroactive construct. Its historical equivalent is “new socialist man” (shehui zhuyi xin ren 新人), a phrase that prevailed in the Mao era.7 As envisioned by the Party, new socialist persons were the agents of socialist modernization. They were emancipated people who not only mastered their own fates but also decided the country’s destiny; they were selfless citizens who were loyal to the Party and who harboured class consciousness; they were devoted patriots who embraced such socialist values as collectivism, proletarian solidarity, gender equality, and conscientious attitudes toward work; they were versatile socialist builders who were healthy in body and sound in mind. The CCP’s use of the phrase “new man” reveals their belief that the socialist project had a humanistic dimension, that is, socialism would provide favorable historical and material conditions for human beings to be “reborn,” to become independent free men and women unrestrained by feudalism and unburdened by capitalist exploitation, and to develop their potential and attain true happiness. In this book, I use the term “socialist subject” in order to emphasize the process of subjectification: how individuals became recipients of and actors within the multiple forces that transformed them into the desired new socialist persons. The overarching principle for forming socialist subjects was spelled out in Mao Zedong’s 1957 speech entitled “On the Correct Handling of Contradictions among the People” as follows: In the building of a socialist society, everyone needs remoulding—the exploiters as well as the working people…. The remoulding of the exploiters is essentially different from that of the working people, and the two must not be confused. The working class remoulds the whole society in class struggle and in the struggle against nature, and in the process, it remoulds itself. It must ceaselessly learn in the course of work, gradually overcome its shortcomings and never stop doing so…. For myself, I used to have all sorts of non-Marxist ideas, and it was only later that I 7  Variations of this phrase included “new man” and “new communist man.” The phrase “new man” first officially appeared in Article 7 of the Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (see n. 13), which concerns enforcing the counterrevolutionaries to engage in manual labor so as to turn them into “new men.”

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embraced Marxism. I learned a little Marxism from books and took the first steps in remoulding my ideology, but it was mainly through taking part in class struggle over the years that I came to be remoulded.8 Mao, in his idiosyncratically pragmatic manner, specified that the making and remaking of new socialist persons hinges upon “remoulding” (gaizao 改造).9 As a mechanic metaphor, remoulding—related to “tempering” (duan 锻) and “refining” (lian 炼)10—not only presupposes that individuals, like certain objects that are subjected to remoulding, are malleable. It also suggests that desired socialist subjects conform to certain norms set by the “mould.” Despite Mao’s rather mechanical view of how socialist subjects should be shaped, what was operative in the practice of remoulding was what Michel Foucault calls biopower, power that brings life and its mechanisms into the realm of political economy.11 The exercise of biopower in the CCP’s remoulding project manifested itself in two aspects. First, it attended to issues of health and longevity in order to ensure a steady supply of able workers for socialist construction. Second, it generated normative consciousness, habits, and behaviors in order to optimize the productivity of the individual in socialist construction. In actual fact, not only did the CCP incorporate population factors in stipulating national economic policies,12 it also selected model citizens 8  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “On the Correct Handling of Contradictions among the People,” February 27, 1957, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 5, accessed January 20, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-5/mswv5_58 .htm. 9  According to a Chinese transcription of the conference speech, Mao points out that the CCP’s method of reforming the people, “remoulding” (gaizao), is different from US ideological “brainwashing” (xinao 洗脑). His emphasis on the manufacturing process sets off the mechanic orientation that characterized his political thought. See Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Guanyu zhengque chuli renmin neibu maodun de wenti (jianghua gao)” 正确处理人民内部矛盾的问题 (讲话稿) [On the correct handling of contradictions among the people (speaker notes)], February 27, 1957, accessed January 21, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/chinese/maozedong/marxist.org-chinese-mao-19570227AA.htm. 10  In a conference speech delivered later the same year, Mao explained the differences between tempering and refining and emphasized that human beings need tempering too. See Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Beat Back the Attacks of Bourgeoise Rightists,” July 9, 1957, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 5, accessed January 20, 2018, https://www .marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-5/mswv5_65.htm. 11  According to Foucault, biopower develops in two interconnected forms, an anatomopolitics of the human body and a biopolitics of the population. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality. Volume 1: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1990), 139. 12  In his report delivered at the second plenary session of the eighth central committee of the CCP on November 10, 1956, Zhou Enlai compared China’s population reproduction

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Introduction

from various walks of life and different sections of society—model workers, model peasants, model women, model youth—to showcase a meaningful way of living. The questions that Mao left open are the specific techniques of remoulding that shaped individuals into standardized socialist subjects. Here, it is necessary to introduce two political categories, “the people” and “the enemies of the people,” for they invited different techniques of remoulding and embodied ­different ways of relating to the socialist norm. In September 1949 the PRC’s provisional constitution, the Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, stipulated that, “The state power of the People’s Republic of China belongs to the people (renmin 人民).”13 The de facto constitution used the phrase “the people” to refer specifically to “workers, peasants, the petty bourgeoisie, the national bourgeoisie, and a number of awakened democratic personages who used to be affiliated with the reactionary class.”14 The same constitution deliberately used another term, “the Chinese national,” (guomin 国民) in stipulations that only concerned duties and obligations.15 The 1954 Constitution of the PRC reaffirmed that the people (renmin) formed the legitimate basis of all powers. The first and second articles of the constitution stipulated that “The People’s Republic of China is a socialist state with material production and endorsed birth control measures to solve some pressing economic problems. See Zhou Enlai, “Jingji jianshe de jige fangzhen xing wenti” 经济建 设的几个方针性问题 [Problems of policy for economic development], in Zhou Enlai xuanji, xiajuan 周恩来选集下卷 [Selected works of Zhou Enlai], 2 vols., vol. 2 (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1984), 235. In 1957 the Chinese economist Ma Yinchu also argued for population regulation in order to ensure China’s economic development. This excited a heated debate among Chinese intellectuals that continued until 1960. See Ma Yinchu 马寅初, “Xin renkou lun” 新人口论 [New population theory], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], July 5, 1957. 13  Article 12 of Zhongguo renmin zhengzhi xieshang huiyi gongtong gangling 中国人民 政治协商会议共同纲领 [The Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, hereafter The Common Program], September 29, 1949, accessed January 26, 2018, https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/1949-ccp-program .asp. Reprinted from The Important Documents of the First Session of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1949), 1–20. 14  Zhou Enlai 周恩来, “Renmin zhengxie gongtong gangling caoan de tedian” 人民政协共 同纲领草案的特点 (Characteristics of the Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference), in Zhou Enlai xuanji, shangjuan 周恩来选集上卷 [Selected works of Zhou Enlai], 2 vols., vol. 1, (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1980), 366–371. 15  For instance, Article 8 of the Common Program stipulates, “Every national of the People’s Republic of China has the duty to protect the country, abide by law, observe labor discipline, take care of public property, perform military service and pay taxes.” Here, “Chinese national” is almost interchangeable with “Chinese citizen.” The latter term did not appear in any legal documents until 1954.

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under the People’s democratic dictatorship led by the working class and based on the alliance of workers and peasants. All powers of the People’s Republic of China belong to the people (renmin).”16 Scarcely a democratic notion, “the people” is an abstract political concept that differs from the loosely defined term “the Chinese national” and the legal concept of “Chinese citizen.” According to the CCP, the meaning of “the people” varies in different periods of modern China. At the early stage of building socialism in China, “the classes, strata and social groups which favor, support and work for the cause of socialist construction all come within the category of the people, while the social forces and groups which resist the socialist revolution and are hostile to or sabotage socialist construction are all enemies of the people.”17 The Party’s elucidation of the abstract notion of “the people” in laws and regulations gave a specific expression of national subjecthood to a heterogeneous multitude, which together with the process of territorialization,18 in turn contributed to the formation of the state, a new political community. The fact that the new political system instituted in the PRC, namely, the People’s democratic dictatorship, entailed and produced “the enemies of the people,” or citizens without political rights, exemplifies what Giorgio Agamben calls the sovereign exception,19 thus further demonstrating that biopolitical power formed the basis of the CCP’s rule. Highly correlated with “the people,” “enemies of the people” is a slippery category delimited to demands for political campaigns. The category included counterrevolutionaries, feudalist landlords, intellectual rightists, and other undesirable social elements at various moments in the 1949–1966 period, also known as the Seventeen Years. Instead of sequestering “the enemies of the people” from the political realm, the CCP intended to reintegrate them into the new body politic. The production of “the people” and its opposite hence justified the need for the Party to adopt technologies and techniques to manage different parts of its citizenry 16  Articles 1 and 2 of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China (1954) (Zhonghua renmin gongheguo xianfa 中华人民共和国宪法), September 20, 1954, accessed January 26, 2018, http://en.pkulaw.cn/display.aspx?cgid=52993&lib=law. 17  Mao Zedong, “On the Correct Handling.” Italics mine. 18  The process of territorialisation or spatial governance in the early PRC was an ongoing project. Article 2 of the Common Program stipulates that “the Central Government of the PRC must undertake to wage the people’s war of liberation to the very end, to liberate all the territory of China, and to achieve the unification of China.” 19  According to Agamben, the force of sovereign exception operates according to the logic of inclusive exclusion. In the case of the PRC, the enemies of the people were included in the People’s democratic dictatorship precisely by virtue of being excluded. See Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998).

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accordingly.20 Remoulding “the enemies of the people” demands techniques of punishment, domination, and coercion such as imprisonment and compulsory labor. This remoulding is a process of pressing woman or man into the mould and incessantly pounding her or him into the standardized shape. In contrast, remoulding “the people” into good socialists, as Mao conceived, is essentially a continuous process of self-betterment in which woman or man adapts to the mould through self-reflection, self-modification, and reformation.21 2

Cinema within a Socialist Society of Spectacle

Given the urgency of forming a new political subjecthood in the early PRC, literature, cinema, and the other arts were all deployed to build a cultural life that could facilitate individuals adapting themselves to the new society and fulfilling their historical mission. Inevitably, ordinary people’s cultural life was entangled with the Party’s revolutionary politics. Numerous literary works, revolutionary posters, songs, and films were created in response to the demands of various political campaigns. Yomi Braester perceptively points out that the political campaign in socialist China assumed a genre-like function for it served as the meeting point of cultural production, stylistic development, and critical reception. It is in the political campaign that a particular set of artistic idioms, as manifested by recurring images, tropes, and themes across different media, was produced.22 Focusing on the interrelatedness of different cultural objects in communicating political information, Stephanie Hemelryk Donald emphasizes the importance of aesthetic and affective techniques of saturation

20  As the political boundaries between “the people” and “the enemies of the people” became unstable during numerous political campaigns waged in a volatile political climate, individuals in reality were (re)moulded by a range of mixed techniques and served both as the object and agent of state power. 21  Mao’s political vision of remoulding the people echoes the Confucian ideal of selfcultivation in their shared emphasis on cultivating moral agency such as reflexivity and flexibility. However, whereas Confucianism champions a lifelong commitment to learning, either through books or ritualized acts, in order to achieve cognitive behavior ­modification and the eventual attainment of the Confucian ethical ideal, Maoist education and self-education is predicated upon and implicated within the creating of a ­political, cultural, and moral hegemony in a modern nation. 22  Yomi Braester, “The Political Campaign as Genre: Ideology and Iconography during the Seventeen Years Period,” Modern Language Quarterly 69, no. 1 (2008): 121. The political campaign in this article is understood in its broadest sense. It includes propaganda activities which were not declared as campaigns but were deliberately set in motion and assigned specific political goals.

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in closing the gap between everyday experience and political ideology in Mao’s China.23 That the Chinese people’s cultural life was flooded with repetitive and mutually reinforcing images and narratives through mass-media channels prompts us to consider the early PRC as a socialist society of spectacle. Guy Debord coined the term “society of the spectacle” in the 1960s to reflect upon a particular stage of modernization whereby societies are inundated with signs and images. In his conception, “the spectacle presents itself simultaneously as society itself, as a part of society, and a means of unification.”24 This tripartite quality entails consideration of the spectacle not merely as a collection of images or a visual excess produced by mass-media technologies but also as “a social relation between people that is mediated by images” and a materialized worldview.25 He further identifies two forms of the spectacle, the concentrated spectacle and the diffuse one, as two distinct forms of power exercised over individuals. The former, Debord suggests, is primarily associated with bureaucratic economies including the Soviet Union and Mao’s China. Relying on the appropriation of the total social labor and being ultimately epitomized in the personality cult,26 the concentrated spectacle reinforces state authority and leaves the masses no margin of choice. Debord’s view that ordinary people are the victims of the tyranny of concentrated spectacle without agency is, nevertheless, too pessimistic, especially taking account of the particularity of Chinese revolutionary politics—the masses are at once the subjects and agents of the Party’s political projects. Aside from orchestrating mass movements, the Party treasured the “mass line” (qunzhong 群众路线) as its organizational and leadership work method. This work method is inherently a particular process of knowledge formation as it involves repeating the following steps over and over again: [T]ake the ideas of the masses (scattered and unsystematic ideas) and concentrate them (through study turn them into concentrated and systematic ideas), then go to the masses and propagate and explain these ideas until the masses embrace them as their own, hold fast to them and translate them into action, and test the correctness of these ideas in such action.27 23  Stephanie Hemelryk Donald, “Red Aesthetics, Intermediality and the Use of Posters in Chinese Cinema after 1949,” Asian Studies Review 38, no. 4 (2014): 658–675. 24  Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle (Sussex, UK: Soul Bay Press, 2009), 24. 25  Ibid. 26  Ibid., 50. 27  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Some Questions Concerning Methods of Leadership,” June 1, 1943, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 3, accessed January 21, 2018, https://www .marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-3/mswv3_13.htm.

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Introduction

To a large extent, the Party’s ideology is always already infused with the will of the masses. This is what sets Chinese Communist revolutionary politics apart from Western professionalized politics. Suffice it to say that the individual’s relationship to hegemonic culture in the early PRC was tension-ridden and ambivalent. Like Debord, sociologist Jacques Ellul has observed that the structure of modern society and the development of modern technologies together contribute to the rise of all-encompassing media manipulation, what he calls “total propaganda.” However, rather than accusing total propaganda of being all oppressive, Ellul suggests that it is “an inescapable necessity for everyone”28 as it satisfies modern man’s psychological needs and fosters public and human relations. Being aware of the necessity to combine different media in order to maximize the efficacy of propaganda, Ellul draws attention to each medium’s specification. In particular, he points out that “the movies and human contacts are the best media for sociological propaganda in terms of social climate, slow infiltration, and progressive inroads, and over-all integration.”29 In the years between 1949 and 1966 Chinese cinema was increasingly integrated into the CCP’s wider propaganda culture. Shortly after the establishment of the PRC, the Communist government began to nationalize the film industry. It also tasked the Central Film Bureau under the Ministry of Culture with the mission of supervising film production, distribution, and exhibition. Under the Party’s overarching guideline that “literature and arts should serve the people” (particularly workers, peasants, and soldiers), nearly 800 films, including feature films and animated films,30 were produced during these seventeen years. Most of these films not only depicted new subject matter including ­revolutionary history, the countryside under socialism, and industrial construction but also constructed brand-new screen characters, proletarian heroes and heroines, hence creating social imaginaries markedly different from those produced by Chinese cinema during the Republican era (1912–1949). Since cinema was considered an important political tool to propagate the Party’s ideology and to mobilize the masses, the infrastructure necessary to facilitate film exhibition and distribution was built and expanded. From 1949 to 1965, 28  Jacques Ellul, Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes (New York: Vintage Books, 1973), xv. 29  Ibid., 10. 30  Between 1949 and 1965 state-owned film studios produced 621 feature films and 127 animated films. Privately owned studios in the early 1950s produced thirty-eight feature films. Data is compiled from Chen Bo 陈播 ed., Zhongguo dianying biannian jishi: zonggang juan 中国电影编年纪事·总纲卷上 [Records of the Overall Development: Book One, vol. 1 of Annals of Chinese cinema] (Beijing: Zhongyang wenxian chubanshe, 2005).

Introduction

11

the number of movie theaters in China grew from 596 to 2,528.31 In addition, itinerant projection teams were formed in order to bring films to a wide audience in factories, mines, remote mountainous areas, and the frontier regions.32 At the end of 1965, the number of projection teams reached 13,997—nearly twenty-eight times the number in 1950.33 Income generated by all these exhibition and distribution practices made a considerable contribution to China’s national economy.34 More than a modernized institution that the CCP could proudly present as an achievement of China’s socialist modernization, Chinese cinema was instrumental in reconfiguring national cultural life. It created a social space where visual events took place and proper civil conduct and political participation were cultivated. As film exhibition and film study sessions were i­ntegral parts of many political campaigns, the very act of watching movies and discussing movies became a form of political participation. In the meantime, itinerant film exhibitions created many opportunities for ordinary peasants, especially peasant women, to participate in socialist construction and public affairs.35 Just as in many other professions, there emerged model workers in cinema, particularly in the areas of film performance and film exhibition. Because of the wide variety of film-related activities, cinema also offered a social space where multiethnic people could not only gather together but also collaborate on film projects. In this way, cinema produced and nurtured new social relations both at work and in leisure time. All this brings attention to the fact that the domain of representation, the sphere of social life, and the realm of ideology are coextensive, thus echoing Debord’s observation of the society of spectacle. Building on insights from both Debord and Ellul, this book returns to the fundamental question of the relation of spectacle and subjectivity. It takes cinema as a particular form of the spectacle in Mao’s China and asks how it was imbricated in the creation and operation of the new, socialist cultural hegemony in constructing socialist subjectivity and shaping new social relations. 31  Ibid., 345, 532. 32  Renmin ribao 人民日报 (People’s Daily), “Jiji gaijin dianying fangying gongzuo” 积极改 进电影放映工作 [Actively improve the work of film exhibition], editorial, July 13, 1955. 33  Chen Bo, ed., Records of the Overall Development, 355, 532. 34  As early as 1952, the Chinese film industry was ranked 6th among 11 revenue-generating sectors. See ibid., 379. 35  The most influential film magazine Mass Cinema carried several special reports on women projection teams, including: Xiang Ping 向平, “Yige nü fangying dui” 一个女子 放映队 [A woman film projection team], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 10 (1952): 26–28; Anonymous, “San zimei fangying dui” 三姊妹放映队 [Three Sisters projection team], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 10–11 (1964): 54–56.

12

Introduction

Specifically, it explores how the particularities of the cinematic medium were deployed to create affective and memorable images and narratives that intersected with other discursive and social practices in responding to the changing political needs of the state. It also pays special attention to the agents of the spectacle such as film stars and film projectionists and examines how their practices constituted the Chinese socialist film culture and shaped cinematic experience that was both embodied and historically contingent. Since both conscious forms of knowledge and habitual film practices were largely discursively framed, I rely heavily on major national newspapers and popular and influential film magazines in the PRC. Articles, reports, and even letters from the public carried in these officially sanctioned publications were certainly filtered through ideological lenses and as such, they obscure the diversity and complexity of actual film experiences in socialist China and instead foreground how the state presented those experiences. Nevertheless, these accounts provide the powerful epistemological framework within which questions of film apparatus, spectatorship, and cinematic experience are conceived in this book. Moreover, I analyze film texts and the abovementioned accounts in conjunction with historical materials on the CCP’s various political campaigns that record submerged voices and hidden experiences in order to highlight that Chinese socialist cinema was a site of cultural struggle over meaning production and a domain where the agents of the spectacle often entered into a collaborative relationship with the state in exercising social control and producing social order. Each of the six chapters in this book pairs a particular biopolitical measure with specific case studies of Chinese socialist cinema to investigate how they were deployed together to form the socialist subject. Chapter 1, “Terror and Mass Surveillance: the Counterespionage Film,” investigates cinema’s role in the CCP’s political project of purifying the body politic. A cleansed body politic for the new China was constructed upon the conception of political otherness and by the political campaigns against the counterrevolutionaries during the heyday of the Cold War. What arose from these campaigns, I suggest, is mass surveillance in which the masses acted as surveillance agents instead of s­ urveillance subjects in order to safeguard national security. Situating the bourgeoning counterespionage film genre within this historically and culturally specific surveillance culture, this chapter takes as its case study one of the earliest counterespionage films The Might of the People (Renmin de juzhang 人民的巨掌) in order to shed light on how cinema encodes key principles of mass surveillance and how these narrative and aesthetic strategies in turn shaped the vigilant and responsible socialist subjectivity.

Introduction

13

Having delineated the contours of the political community in the new China, I turn my attention to the individuals in the body politic in Chapter 2, “The New Physical Culture and Volatile Attractions: the Sports Film.” With the aim of exploring how techniques of the body became an effective technology of the self which was then co-opted into the Party’s project of shaping desirable socialist citizens, this chapter studies the sports film, an energetic, joyful, and aesthetically varied film genre that was constitutive of the New Physical Culture Movement (xin tiyu 新体育) in the early PRC. I pay close attention to four films which I organize into two groups based on content and style: (1) Trouble on the Basketball Court (Qiuchang fengbo 球场风波) and Big Li, Young Li and Old Li (Da Li, xiao Li he lao Li 大李小李和老李), (2) Woman Basketball Player No. 5 (Nülan wuhao 女篮五号) and Ice-Skating Sisters (Bing shang jiemei 冰上姐妹). These films engage closely with the two main goals of the New Physical Culture Movement, namely, to cultivate new habitual practices in everyday life and to use sport to shape socialist workers sound in both body and mind. I will show how this unique film genre employed diverse aesthetic strategies, some of which have deep roots in pre-1949 Chinese cinema and local popular culture, to communicate the Party’s policies on sports and physical education and lure audiences back to the movie theater. Chapter 3, “Ethnicity and Socialist Fraternity: the National Minority Film,” pays attention to the components of the new China’s body politic. Asking what purpose diversifying ethnicities served to the CCP in governing the Chinese populace in a socialist state, I connect the Party’s cinematic program—the national minority film—with the ethnological project of ethnic classification. While the CCP’s Ethnic Classification Project (minzu zhibie gongzuo 民族识别工作) converted the Chinese population into a statistical amalgam of diverse ethnicities in accordance with scientific methods, the national minority film highlighted the artificiality of ethnic difference while propagating the notion of a unified multinational nation. With focus placed on cross-ethnic performance in Flames of War in a Border Village (Bianzhai fenghuo 边寨烽火) and on the nationwide public debate on the rewriting of Daji and Her Fathers (Daji he ta de fuqin 达吉和她的父亲) from page to screen, this chapter shifts the critical anchoring of the national minority film from questions of representation to those of performance, spectatorship, and extracinematic cultural discourses. It argues that cross-ethnic film performance embedded within film narrative and discerned by historically situated audiences simultaneously constructs and deconstructs ethnicity, thus encouraging a transformative recognition across the ethnic boundary. The ultimate importance of this film genre lies in its modeling of fraternity among citizens which

14

Introduction

is essential to creating socialist subjectivity. However, when such a goal began to dictate the production practices of the national minority film, new aesthetic and ethical stakes started to emerge. Chapter 4, “Modeling the Model: Red Stardom,” links the Red Star—a film actor who embodies the ideal socialist person both on and offscreen—with the widespread social phenomenon of model people in the early PRC in order to demystify the “model socialist.” With a special focus on the film stardom of Zhang Ruifang 张瑞芳, this chapter unpacks the star-making mechanism against the backdrop of dramatic changes in film star culture in the new China and analyzes the sociopolitical function of the Red Star. Specifically, it explores how the Chinese appropriation of the Stanislavski system contributed to the making of Zhang’s stardom, enabling her to deliver excellent onscreen performances and to regulate herself into a model film worker. Chapter 5, “The Cultural Politics of Affect: Villain Stardom,” pairs the Party’s social engineering of class feeling with an aberrant phenomenon in Chinese socialist cinema: villain stardom. Through the case of Chen Qiang 陈强—an actor famous for playing the archvillain in revolutionary China, the evil and exploitative landlord—this chapter calls attention to the importance of the site of film exhibition to the making of villain stardom and argues that Chen’s stardom functioned as an important affective technology in the wider Party propaganda enterprise in that it helped cultivate the class hatred necessary for communist revolution and socialist land reform campaigns. The sixth chapter, “Mobile Attraction: Itinerant Film Projectionists and Rural Cinema Exhibition,” is dedicated to discussing a unique agent of the spectacle—itinerant film projectionists who brought cinema to a broad audience in rural China. This chapter explores how film projection and exhibition offered opportunities and provided a fertile training ground for ordinary people to develop into “Red experts,” that is, socialist citizens with a high level of ideological consciousness and political commitment as well as technical expertise and occupational competence. Specific exhibition practices innovated by film projectionists are framed in a network of interwoven factors, including the economic, the sociopolitical, and the technological, in order to call attention to the problems and challenges in the CCP’s popularization of cinema, the overlay of the state’s interest and intrinsic values of professional practice, and last but not least, the importance of agency on the part of film projectionists. The concluding chapter brings these various threads together. It emphasizes that cinema, when considered as a part of the socialist society of the spectacle and when reembedded into its original social, historical and political context, provides us with a prism through which we can observe a dynamic process

Introduction

15

of the CCP’s ideological production and (re)moulding of the socialist subject. Through inventing popular film genres which not only responded in a timely fashion to the CCP’s political demands but also drew upon deeply rooted cultural traditions, Chinese socialist cinema, at its best, provided the broad mass with politically instructive and aesthetically innovative entertainment. In the meantime, a closer look at the various roles that film practitioners such as scriptwriters, actors, and film projectionists played in shaping Chinese socialist cinema cautions us against reductive accounts that conceive of the state-initiated, politically engaged cinema in socialist countries as the topdown indoctrination of a passive populace. Finally, this chapter suggests some directions for future research. With the advantage of historical hindsight and an increasing accessibility of primary sources, it is certain that more exciting discoveries of this particular historical period of Chinese cinema await us.

Chapter 1

Terror and Mass Surveillance: the Counterespionage Film In October 1949 Mao Zedong proclaimed the founding of the PRC. The announcement, as a performative utterance, both constituted and initiated an arduous process of state-building. However, despite the CCP claim to power, the young PRC was mired in the geopolitical battleground of the Cold War. Having lasted intermittently since 1927, the civil war between the Soviet-backed CCP and the US-backed Chinese Nationalist Party (known as the Kuomintang, or KMT) was not yet over. The remnants of the Nationalist army still occupied much of South China, as well as many of the provinces and outlying dependencies in the west and northwest of the country. After the Nationalist government led by Chiang Kai-shek retreated to the island of Taiwan in December 1949, it continued to implement its national policy of “opposing Communism and resisting the Soviet Union” ( fangong kang’e 反共抗俄) and prepared to “counterattack the mainland” ( fangong dalu 反攻大陆). As the Cold War turned hot in 1950, Mao sent millions of Chinese People’s Volunteers Army soldiers to the Korean battlefront to fight against the US imperialists. In the late 1950s, border crises in both the Taiwan Strait and on the Sino-Indian border erupted. Utilizing the binary logic and oppositional rhetoric of the Cold War and tapping into the social anxiety about national security and stability, the CCP launched two political campaigns against the counterrevolutionaries in the 1950s to cleanse the body politic. These campaigns not only helped quell social conflicts and consolidate the Communist regime but also shaped a vigilant and responsible socialist subjectivity. Through an investigation of the burgeoning Chinese counterespionage film ( fante pian 反特片) genre,1 this chapter examines the role of cinema in 1  Being aware that the counterespionage film was not conceived as an industrial strategy in Chinese socialist cinema, I use the term “genre” here for the purpose of classification. In the early PRC, feature films were grouped mainly by subject matter. However, genre criticism lends film scholars a useful tool to explore the relationship between ideology and Chinese counterespionage films. See Esther Yau, “Leixing yanjiu yu lengzhan dianying: jianlun ‘shiqinian’ tewu zhencha pian” 类型研究与冷战电影: 兼论 “十七年” 特务侦察片 [Genre study and Cold War cinema: Comments on spy-detection films of the “Seventeen Years” period], trans. Zhu Xiaoxi 朱晓曦, Dangdai dianying 当代电影 [Contemporary Cinema] 3 (2006): 74–80; Gong Yan 龚艳 and Huang Lin 黄琳, “Leixing de xiujian yu gaixie: shiqinian

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_003

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the Party’s first major political endeavor to demarcate a political community and create socialist subjects. I shall start with a brief overview of this genre in relation to its production context: the two political campaigns to suppress counterrevolutionaries in 1950s China. As these campaigns attached much importance to mass mobilization at both the discursive and practical levels, there emerged a particular form of surveillance culture, which drastically differs from the Orwellian panopticism that Western media has indiscriminately used to characterize surveillance in totalitarian states. I then present a case study of The Might of the People, one of the earliest counterespionage films, in order to illustrate the key aesthetic characteristics of the film genre and to understand how this genre was configured into a sociohistorically specific surveillance culture in the early days of the PRC. 1

The Counterespionage Film and Political Campaigns against Counterrevolutionaries

Beginning with The Invisible Battlefront (Wuxiang de zhanxian 无形的战线), a production by the Northeast Film Studio shortly after the founding of the PRC, a steady stream of counterespionage films was produced from 1949 to 1966.2 Connected by their common ideological objective, these films depict various battles against the invisible enemies of the people—the spies and their accomplices. Unlike spy films produced in commercially oriented film industries, Chinese counterespionage films betray no consistent narrative patterns. They display differing degrees of narrative sophistication and stylistic maturity and vary greatly in length. Some films, such as Mysterious Travelling Companions (Shenmi de lüban 神秘的旅伴, 1955) and Visitor on Ice Mountain (Bingshan shang de laike 冰山上的来客, 1963), are set in remote frontier regions inhabited by ethnic minorities. The depiction of heroic efforts by PLA soldiers on the frontier to thwart international intrigue, combined with the cinematic representation of local customs and ethnic landscapes, made

fante pian li de xingbie yu zhuti” 类型的修剪与改写: 十七年反特片里的性别与主题 [Genre modification: Gender and themes in the counterespionage film during the Seventeen Year Period], Beijing dianying xueyuan xuebao 北京电影学院学报 [Academic Journal of the Beijing Film Academy] 5 (2013): 7–11. 2  There were twenty-four counterespionage films released during this period, all of which, except The Might of the People, were made under the production quota system by state-run studios.

18

Chapter 1

these films immensely popular among Chinese audiences.3 Other counterespionage films are set in urban centers where a diverse mixture of social classes and the constant influx of visitors from abroad render the city vulnerable to subversion and infiltration. The port city of Guangzhou, given its ­location adjacent to Hong Kong, proved to be a favorite location for filmmakers and serves as the backdrop of several films including Secret Guards in Canton (Yangcheng anshao 羊城暗哨, 1957), The Case of Xu Qiuying (Xu Qiuying anjian 徐秋影案件, 1958), and On the Trail (Genzong zhuiji 跟踪追击, 1963). Still other counterespionage films, such as Track the Tiger into Its Lair (Huxue zhuizong 虎穴追踪, 1956), Intrepid Hero (Yingxiong hudan 英雄虎胆, 1958) and Outpost (Qianshao 前哨, 1959), employ the narrative devices of double infiltration and double identity. In addition to the plotline of overseas spies sneaking into mainland China and lurking in the cities, these films provide another plotline where the resourceful and brave protagonist infiltrates the enemy’s camp—a place full of temptation and danger—in order to search for espionage plans. The films in these two subcategories, though small in quantity, adeptly employ montage and narrative twists to create suspense and dramatic tension. They invited some i­ nteresting discussions of genre-related issues at the time of their release and have since been regarded as the harbinger of a self-conscious thriller genre in the PRC.4 There exists yet another type of counterespionage film which crosses over into children’s film. Films such as The Briefcase (Pibao 皮包, 1956) and The Son of a Fishing Island (Yudao zhi zi 渔岛之子, 1959) construct social imaginaries around the ideal revolutionary successor through concentrated

3  The ethnic elements in these films elicited enthusiastic responses from audiences, as evidenced by letters from the public to Mass Cinema. See Chen Gang 陈刚, “Cong fante ­xinpian suo xiangdao de yixie wenti: jianping Genzong zhuiji yu Bingshan shang de laike” 从反特新 片所想到的一些问题—兼评《跟踪追击》与《冰山上的来客》[Questions inspired by recent counterespionage films: On the Trail and Visitor on Ice Mountain], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 6 (1963): 37–44; Yibing 亦兵, “Yibu xinying biezhi de fante yingpian: Bingshan shang de laike guanhou” 一部新颖别致的反特影片:《冰山上的来客》   观后 (Thoughts on viewing Visitor on Ice Mountain: A new and original counterespionage film), Dazhogn dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 10 (1963): 12–13. 4  Discussions of the thriller genre appeared in major film magazines from 1958 to 1963. For instance, Jin Lüqu 金缕曲, “Jingxian yingpian chuangzuo de qilu: Ping yingpian Xu Qiuying shijian” 惊险影片创作的歧路: 评影片《徐秋影事件》[The thriller film going astray: The Case of Xu Qiuying], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 12 (1958): 59; Wang Qi 王其, “Guanyu jingxian fante yingpian chuangzhuo zhong de wenti” 关于惊险反特影片 创作中的问题 [On the problems arising from the creation of counterespionage thrillers], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 4 (1959): 71; Wu Yinxun 吴荫循, “Guanyu jing­ xian pian” 关于惊险片 [On the thriller film], Dianying wenxue 电影文学 [Film Literature] 12 (1963): 62–65.

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depictions of children’s active participation in ferreting out spies and safeguarding public security.5 In spite of its heterogeneous features, the counterespionage film with its narrative focus on tracking down hidden spies constitutes a particular cultural discourse of surveillance framed by Cold War geopolitics in general and by the CCP’s two political campaigns against counterrevolutionaries in the 1950s in particular. The first campaign, known as zhenfan yundong 镇反运动 (Campaign to Suppress Counterrevolutionaries), was waged from July 1950 to the summer of 1953 against the backdrop of land reform and China’s entrance into the Korean War. It focused on identifying and eliminating ­counterrevolutionaries who commit criminal offences “with the purpose of overthrowing the people’s democratic regime and destroy the people’s democratic cause.”6 The designated targets of this campaign included secret agents, spies, and various actual or “intended” active counterrevolutionaries including bandits and robbers, local bullies and tyrants, and leaders of religious sects, although in reality it was hard to distinguish actual from “intended” in this respect. The second campaign, sufan yundong 肃反运动 (Campaign to Eradicate Hidden Counterrevolutionaries), began as an expansion of the previous campaign against intellectuals who opposed the Party in June 1955 and ended around October 1957.7 Deeply impacted by the 1956 crisis in Hungary, this regimeconsolidation endeavor aimed to eliminate suspected reactionaries within the Party at all levels of state bureaucratic organs and people’s organizations in order to strengthen the Party’s centralized leadership over economic, legal, and security organizations. Despite being primarily an extensive bureaucratic purge, the necessity of the sufan campaign was justified by Mao’s famous 1957 speech “On the Correct Handling of Contradictions among the People” for the sake of deterring foreign invasion and subversion. Using Cold War rhetoric, Mao alerted his audience to the persistent, antagonistic contradiction between the Chinese people and their enemies: “The U.S. imperialists and the Chiang Kai-shek clique are constantly sending in secret agents to carry on disruptive activities. Even after all the existing counterrevolutionaries have been combed

5  Existing studies of the counterespionage film genre largely neglect this type. 6  Anonymous, Zhonghua renmin gongheguo chengzhi fan geming tiaoli 中华人民共和国惩 治反革命条例 [Decrees for the punishment of counterrevolutionaries of the PRC] (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1952), 2. 7  For an introduction of the sufan campaign, see David Bachman, Bureaucracy, Economy and Leadership in China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 15; see also Maurice Meisner, Mao’s China and After: A History of the People’s Republic (New York: The Free Press, 1999), 122–124.

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Chapter 1

out, new ones are likely to emerge. If we drop our guard, we shall be badly fooled and shall suffer severely.”8 When it comes to the purification of the body politic, surveillance has long been deployed at various different historical moments and locations. Anxieties and fears invoked or inflicted upon individuals in the implementation of surveillance by police officers, security staff, and prison guards have been identified as essential for institutionalized surveillance to maximize its efficiency and disciplinary power. In her study of the CCP’s political campaign against counterrevolutionaries, political scientist Julia Strauss also takes note of the affective state of the individual elicited in the specific context of mass campaign. She argues that the efficacy of the campaign resides in the partystate’s deployment of terror in tandem with paternalism: the state bestowed paternalist care, in the forms of normative incentives and material benefits, on “those whom it deemed to be within the realm of revolutionary society,” unleashed terror against “those beyond the pale of revolutionary society,” and deployed “the coercive power to make both stick.”9 Placing an emphasis on coercive statecraft, Strauss’ concept of “paternalistic terror” not only implies a vertical, hierarchical structure of state power but also directs attention to the restrained subjectivity interpellated by the Party via the use of terror. Consequently, it plausibly reinforces the popular imagination of an authoritarian China that struggles for total domination of its population through centralized forms of surveillance. It is necessary to stress that the aforementioned political campaigns were driven forward not only by the CCP’s exercise of coercive power but also by the Party’s masterful creation of consent and skilful mobilization of mass support through its long-tested mass-line work method (qunzhong luxian 群众路 线).10 During the two nationwide campaigns against counterrevolutionaries, the masses were mobilized to inform on suspected counterrevolutionaries and to attend mass accusation meetings where public denunciation of counterrevolutionaries was staged and fear was struck into the hearts of their 8  Mao Zedong, “On the Correct Handling.” 9  Julia Strauss, “Paternalist Terror: The Campaign to Suppress Counterrevolutionaries and Regime Consolidation in the People’s Republic of China, 1950–1953,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 44, no. 1 (2002): 81. 10  The mass line, which is aptly summarized in the phrase “from the masses to the masses,” is a political, organizational, and leadership method developed by the CCP. Predicated upon the idea that the Party’s survival depends on mass support, the mass line refers to a process of consultation and continual adjustment of policy. For a detailed discussion of the mass line, see Brantly Womack, Contemporary Chinese Politics in Historical Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 68–70.

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sympathizers.11 Public exhibitions were held in various cities to instruct people of the severity of counterrevolutionary activity;12 anti-counterrevolutionary cartoons and popular songs were created by both professional and amateur artists;13 counterespionage fictions were widely disseminated to win over and educate entertainment-obsessed readers,14 and counterespionage films were produced and widely disseminated to enhance awareness of the struggle against counterrevolutionaries. Take, for example, the production and exhibition of The Invisible Battlefront. The film was made with a clear intention to propagate the Party’s policies on the suppression of counterrevolutionaries. Mao’s famous quote about “enemies without guns”15 appears onscreen at the beginning and end of the film and acts as the narrative frame of a suspenseful story about KMT spies who lurk in northeast China and are weeded out one by one. Central to the narrative is the internal conflicts of a female accomplice to the KMT spies, Cui Guofang, 11  At the outset of the zhenfan campaign, some cities inserted the clause “Report counterrevolutionaries” into local regulations of patriotism. See Renmin ribao 人民日报 (People’s Daily), “Fangshou fadong qunzhong kongsu yu jianju fangeming fenzi” 放手发动群众控 诉与检举反革命分子 [Broadly mobilize the masses to denounce and inform against counterrevolutionaries], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], editorial, May 21, 1951. For mass mobilization in the campaigns against counterrevolutionaries, see also Strauss, “Paternalist Terror,” 96. 12  Reports of exhibitions on counterrevolutionary activity appeared in both local newspapers and the official police magazine Renmin jingcha 人民警察 [People’s Police]. 13  See Xinhua she 新华社 (Xinhua News Agency), “Wuhan wenyijie chuangzuo xuduo ‘sufan’ douzheng de zuopin” 武汉文艺界创作许多 ‘肃反’ 斗争的作品 [Wuhan’s literary and art circles created numerous works for the Campaign to Eradicate Hidden Counterrevolutionaries], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], September 12, 1955. 14  Counterespionage fictions were published in literary magazines and as printed copies throughout the early years of the PRC. In addition to serving as pedagogical materials, they had undeniable entertainment value. It was reported that some counterespionage thriller fictions were so entertaining that they drew many readers away from erotic ­fictions. See Xie Yun 谢云, “Mantan fante jingxian xiaoshuo” [A ramble on counterespionage thriller fictions], Jiefangjun wenyi 解放军文艺 [PLA Literature and Arts] 3 (1957): 30–34. 15  “Zai na qiang de diren bei xiaomie yihou, bu na qiang de diren yiran cunzai. Tamen biran yao he women zuo pinsi de douzheng, women jue bu keyi qingshi zhexie diren.” 在拿 枪的敌人被消灭以后，不拿枪的敌人依然存在。他们必然要和我们做拼死的 斗争，我们决不可以轻视这些敌人。(After the enemies with guns have been wiped out, there will still be enemies without guns; they are bound to struggle desperately against us, and we must never regard these enemies lightly). From Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Report to the Secondary Plenary Session of the Seventh Central Committee of the Com­ munist Party of China,” March 5, 1949. The English translation is taken from Quotations from Mao Tse Tung, accessed March 26, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/reference/ archive/mao/works/red-book/ch02.htm.

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who seeks work as a typist in the Northeast Rubber Factory in order to gather information about production plans and meeting minutes. Touched and further encouraged by her upright and caring coworkers, Cui eventually chooses to confess and assists public security officers in wiping out the hidden spies. The film’s unusual concentrated depiction of a supporting ­character’s psychological state is designed in such a way to demonstrate the Party’s punishment/ leniency policies: “the chief culprit must be punished, the accomplice will be exonerated; leniency for confessions; harshness for resistance” (Shou’e biban, xiecong buwen, tanbai congkuan, kangju congyan 首恶必办，胁从不 问，坦白从宽，抗拒从严).16 It also serves to solicit wider public support for the campaigns against counterrevolutionaries. Shortly after zhenfan yundong was waged, a screening tour of The Invisible Battlefront was organized in Beijing as part of a propaganda drive to raise public awareness of the existence of counterrevolutionaries. As the People’s Daily (Remnin ribao 人民日报) reported, from June 25 to July 6, 1950, the film had been screened in seventeen work units17 including Shijingshan Steel Plant, Mengtougou Coal Mine, and People’s Printing Factory, with approximately 13,000 in attendance.18 While counterespionage films communicated Party policies and imparted a sense of urgency to the general public, film writers also drew on their own observations of mass accusation meetings. Screenwriter Zhao Ming 赵明 recalls that after receiving critical feedback from the Film Bureau’s scriptwriting section on his film script for The Evil Black Hand (Zui’e de heishou 罪恶的黑手) in the summer of 1951, he went to Ha’erbin to gather firsthand materials to help revise it. Amid the local sufan yundong, he had opportunities to participate in public sentencing rallies, to witness executions of counterrevolutionaries, and to watch religious rites conducted by Eastern Orthodox Catholics.19 These experiences inspired Zhao Ming to create a missionary spy, an American imperialist agent acting under the cloak of religion, in his revised script, which was 16  Luo Ruiqing 罗瑞卿, “Wo guo sufan douzheng de zhuyao qingkuang he ruogan jingyan” 我国肃反斗争的主要情况和若干经验 [Key situations and some experiences of our campaign against counterrevolutionaries], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], September 20, 1956. 17  Work unit, a synonym of danwei 单位, refers to a place of employment in socialist China. 18  Anonymous, “Jiaqiang fangjian fangte xuanchuan: Wuxing de zhanxian deng yingpian zai ge changkuang xunhui fangying” 加强防奸防特宣传:《无形的战线》等影片在 各厂矿巡回放映 [Strengthen propaganda work on guarding against enemy agents and counterrevolutionaries: The Invisible Battlefront and other films toured around mines and factories], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], July 18, 1950. 19  Zhao Ming 赵明, “Wo de diyibu dianying Zhanduan mo zhua dansheng ji” 我的第一部 电影《斩断魔爪》诞生记 [The birth of my first film Cutting Off the Devil’s Talons], Zhuomu niao 啄木鸟 [Woodpeckers] 6 (1993): 121–126.

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subsequently made into Cutting Off the Devil’s Talons (Zhanduan mo zhua 斩断 魔爪) by Shanghai Film Studio in 1953. It is no accident that the production of counterespionage films picked up speed in the mid-1950s when the sufan yundong moved into full swing. And social anxiety about national security and stability aroused by the ongoing Cold War is clearly encoded in the cinematic representations of porous borders, literal and metaphorical. Films like Footprints (Jiaoyin 脚印, 1955), An Inescapable Net (Tianluo diwang 天罗地网, 1955) and Track the Tiger to Its Lair use either geographical landmarks or characters who are overseas returnees to indicate the existence of geopolitical Other. Films such as Quiet Forest (Jijing de shanlin 寂静的山林, 1957) and On the Trail present realistic depictions of border crossings—for instance, ordinary folks walking across the border of Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland and even the military dropping KMT spies in the PRC’s territory. Recognizing that the suppression of counterrevolutionaries would be a long-term battle, the minister for public security, Luo Ruiqing, pointed out the importance of combining the power of the masses with the Party leadership. In his 1956 report on the seven-year experience in the campaigns against counterrevolutionaries, he acclaimed the political consciousness and revolutionary vigilance of the masses as the “most invaluable power” and further stressed the necessity of relying on the masses in the battle against the invisible enemies. As long as we mobilize the widest masses of the people especially those who are still wavering ideologically and those who are ideologically backward, enhance their political vigilance and improve their ability to discern counterrevolutionaries, we will lighten up all the dark corners so that none of counterrevolutionaries can escape the scrutiny of our masses.20 Mobilizing the masses to become surveillance agents rather than defining them as surveillance subjects (persons about whom information is sought or reported) characterizes the dominant paradigm of surveillance, namely, mass surveillance, in the early PRC. As a manifestation of the Party’s mass line, mass surveillance was also promoted as an antidote to “isolationism” and “mysticism,” work styles that rely heavily on professional expertise.21 Dispensing with the need for technological infrastructure and innovation, mass surveillance, to a large degree, harks back to the fundamental meaning 20  Luo Ruiqing, “Wo guo sufan douzheng de zhuyao qingkuang he ruogan jingyan.” 21  Ibid.

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of surveillance as “processes in which special note is taken of certain human behaviours that go well beyond idle curiosity.”22 As a social practice largely driven by the CCP’s political campaigns and as a form of what the CCP calls “the people’s democratic dictatorship,”23 mass surveillance downplays the technical means of surveillance or even dismisses technologized surveillance, a type of surveillance that has exclusionist connotations due to its heavy reliance on communication technologies, detection techniques, and other scientifically informed technical know-how. Encouraged and implemented during the CCP’s reign of revolutionary terror, mass surveillance in 1950s China became an effective mechanism for maintaining social order as well as a technique for shaping socialist subjectivity. Its existence and prevalence demystify the entrenched assumption that a totalitarian state mainly relies on panoptic surveillance to exert its control over the masses. The differences between these two surveillant schemes are apparent. Panopticism, envisioned by Michel Foucault and popularized by George Orwell as a model of the workings of power for a modern, particularly totalitarian, state system,24 focuses on the disciplinary power of the all-penetrating and all-pervasive gaze on its presumably passive object. In contrast, participatory surveillance evokes an individual’s agency in fulfilling his or her responsibilities to be a vigilant socialist citizen. If the architectural figure of panopticism is Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon prison, then the diagram of mass surveillance, corresponding to the popular Chinese expression of unavoidable retribution and punishment—“Heaven’s net is vast; its mesh is loose but leaves out nothing” (tianwang huihui, shu er bulou 天网恢恢, 疏而不漏)25—takes the shape of a vast network, with socialist citizens serving as interconnected knots of revolutionary force. In addition, whereas the gaze and a consciousness of the 22  David Lyon, Surveillance Studies: An Overview (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2007), 13. 23  According to Mao Zedong, the people’s democratic dictatorship combines democracy for the people and dictatorship over the reactionaries. See Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “On the People’s Democratic Dictatorship,” June 30, 1949, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 4, accessed January 21, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/ mao/selected-works/volume-4/mswv4_65.htm. The phrase was later incorporated into the 1954 Constitution of the PRC, which defined state power as the people’s democratic dictatorship. 24  See Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1995) and George Orwell, 1984 (New York: Penguin Classics, 2004). 25  This phrase was originally used by Lao Tzu to describe the Tao of Heaven in Tao Te Ching. See Michael LaFargue, The Tao of the Tao Te Ching: A Translation and Commentary (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992), 126. It was later incorporated into popular discourses on justice in China.

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uneven distribution of visibility and invisibility enforce disciplinary power in panoptic surveillance, bodily practices including the act of observing, tailing, and reporting create disciplinary technologies in the scheme of participatory surveillance of the masses. In addition to political speeches and official newspaper editorials, discourses and narratives of mass surveillance found their way into counterespionage films produced in the early PRC, especially those intended as auxiliary materials for the campaigns to suppress counterrevolutionaries. One such example is the film The Might of the People, which was scripted by the renowned playwright Xia Yan 夏衍 at the invitation of Pan Hannian 潘汉年, vice mayor of Shanghai in charge of security work, and Yang Fan 杨帆, vice director of the Shanghai Public Security Bureau, to show support for the upcoming political campaign against counterrevolutionaries.26 Directed by the established filmmaker Chen Liting 陈鲤庭 and produced by the privately owned Kunlun Film Company27 in 1950 as a timely response to the Party’s political demands, the film received a warm welcome upon its release and was screened during the zhenfan campaign across China.28 2

Cinematic Articulation of Mass Surveillance: The Might of the People

The Might of the People is set in Shanghai in the transition period between the eve of the nationwide liberation in 1949 and China’s entrance into the Korean War a year later. Typical of the narratives of the counterespionage film, The Might of the People is premised upon the necessity of using surveillance to counter the KMT’s severe threat to the new China’s national security and socialist construction. Within the film narrative, the KMT, not willing to accept its 26  Zhu Anping 朱安平, “Renmin liliang huicheng Juzhang” 人民力量汇成 “巨掌” (The people’s power converges into a “giant palm”), Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 10 (2013): 38. 27  In the late 1940s the Kunlun Film Company (昆仑影业公司) attracted many leftist filmmakers and produced highly acclaimed films such as Myriad of Lights (1948) and Crows and Sparrows (1949). Between 1950 and 1952 Kunlun and other seven privately owned film companies were conglomerated into the state-owned Shanghai Union Film Studio (shanghai lianhe dianying zhipianchang 上海联合电影制片厂), which was merged into the Shanghai Film Studio in 1953. 28  It is hard to trace the reception of the film in 1950. However, according to Zhu Anping’s memoir, the film received a warm welcome upon its release and had a good impact on audiences during the zhenfan campaign. See Zhu Anping, “Renmin liliang huicheng Juzhang,” 38–39.

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Chapter 1

DVD cover featuring original imagery of the “giant palm of the people” Source: The Might of the People DVD, published by Emei dianying zhipian chang yinxiang chubanshe, 2006. Photograph by the author

defeat, orders its secret agents and remnant forces in mainland China to make every attempt to gather intelligence and to create great social disturbance. Thanks to the assistance of ordinary folks, the PRC’s public security officers eventually uncover hidden spies and hunt down all enemies of the state. Intended as pedagogical material for the zhenfan campaign, The Might of the People encodes in both its title and its narrative the CCP’s official policy of soliciting mass support to crack down on counterrevolutionaries. The original Chinese film title, Renmin de juzhang, which literally means “the giant palm of the people,” employs the common Chinese trope of “palm” to indicate both the intensity of control and the pervasiveness of power derived from the people’s democratic dictatorship (FIGURE 1).29 At the end of the film, the 29  “Palm” in Chinese is often used to refer to control and power. See Ning Yu, “Figurative Uses of Finger and Palm in Chinese and English,” Metaphor and Symbol 15, no. 3 (2000): 159–175.

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political slogan “Suppress ruthlessly counterrevolutionary activities; defend economic construction in new China and safeguard the fruits of the victory of the people!” is strikingly superimposed onto the closing credits, hammering home the CCP’s clear and concise political message. The uniqueness of the film is easily identifiable. Unlike conventional spy films, the development of narrative is neither plot-driven nor character-driven. Instead of focusing on specific crises and heroic individuals’ creative solutions to these crises, The Might of the People reflects upon the form of surveillance in socialist China through its narrative and film aesthetics. Early in the film we are introduced to the chief villain, Zhang Rong, a KMT secret agent. Pretending to be a worker activist in a protest against the KMT’s closing down of a cotton mill just before the Communist liberation of Shanghai, Zhang is arrested by the KMT and then put in a prison where he wins the trust and admiration of a hot-blooded young man named Huang Zihe. After the liberation, Zhang continues to disguise himself as a progressive worker in the cotton mill where he seizes all opportunities to incite internal strife. He continually intimidates his coworker and former accomplice, the timid and apprehensive Li Fusheng, into sabotaging vital machines in the factory. In the meantime, taking advantage of the gullible Huang’s affection toward his innocent sister Zhang Xinghua, Zhang Rong manages to gather important production information about a steel plant and supplies it to his superiors. As a result, the KMT launches a successful air raid against the steel plant, causing civilian casualties and obstructing steel production, which was to support Chinese military forces in Korea. Since the audience knows the true identity of the villain and the KMT’s plot from the outset, the central question of the film narrative then becomes how Zhang Rong and other counterrevolutionaries are to be ferreted out and brought under the power of the people. In fact, much of the film narrative subverts Western, especially Hollywoodengineered, impressions of surveillance as technologically driven, standardized practices and instead calls the audience’s attention to the formation of surveillance. Specifically, the film employs dispersed narratives as well as innovative cinematography to foreground the formation of an ever-expanding network of citizen surveillance in socialist China. Compared with its contemporary films, The Might of the People features an unusually large number of characters from all walks of life. In addition to KMT secret agents and counterrevolutionary bandits, there are public security officers, veteran soldiers, workers, union activists, craftsmen, and office clerks with varying degrees of ideological maturity and political sensibility. At various moments, the film digresses from its narration of spy intrigue and shifts its focal point onto individual characters who would become integrated into the vast surveillance network, thus

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producing dispersed narratives of the individual’s motives and choices behind participatory surveillance. Female characters prove to be essential nodal points in this citizen surveillance network. One such character is Xinghua, the hard-working, tender, and loving girl of humble origins. Earlier sequences in the film show that although she disapproves of her brother’s bad inclinations, she is genuinely concerned about him. When Zhang Rong returns home safely from prison, Xinghua is relieved and is quick to believe her brother’s justification of his previous infamous conduct as carrying out underground work for the Communist army. After a scene showing the devastating aftermath of the air bombing, the film digresses to Xinghua’s story. At their humble home, Xinghua begs Zhang Rong to report their elderly mother’s disappearance to the police, but her request is abruptly rejected by the sullen-looking brother. Becoming suspicious, Xinghua quickly checks his wallet while he is out of the room. She is obviously taken aback when she finds a few American dollar bills and an instructional note for carrying out sabotage inside his wallet. What follows is a scene full of emotional intensity set in a hospital. The ashamed Xinghua reveals her brother’s true identity to her beloved friend Huang Zihe who has suffered a severe injury during the bombing. Upon hearing Xinghua’s words, a fury of self-indignation comes upon Huang Zihe as he begins to realize that his naivety and trusting nature have made him an unknowing accomplice to a counterrevolutionary crime. Only a few minutes earlier, he had vouched for Zhang Rong when his old friend, the chief public security officer Xue Jiaqi, inquired about the leak of steel production plans. With its focus placed on supplementary characters’ shame, remorse, and self-reproach, the film sequence draws our attention to the responsibility of socialist citizens to remain vigilant and illustrates the potential consequences of failing to do so. The scene is also significant because it serves as a turning point in the film. It is in this scene that the surveillance network starts to take shape thanks to strong interpersonal bonds. Instead of reporting directly to a local public security bureau, Xinghua reveals important information about the counterrevolutionary to the person she loves and trusts most. Because of mutual support, ordinary people become more resolute in participating in surveillance to root out hidden spies and saboteurs. Huang is jolted out of his complacency and naivety by Xinghua’s confession; in turn, his integrity and uprightness stimulate Xinghua to place greater priority on collective interests over her blood relationship. After this scene, the girl is seen to take a more active part in monitoring her brother’s secret activities. If Xinghua’s involvement in surveillance is out of her own volition, then the cooperation of the other female character Jin Xiu with public security officers can be regarded as hard-won participation. Working at a local stock exchange

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office as a bookkeeper, Jin Xiu, with her beautifully coiffured hair and carefully applied makeup, is a typical “petty urbanite” in Shanghai. She minds her own business and is concerned only with worldly matters. When Zhang Rong delivers explosives hidden in a biscuit tin to the stock exchange office, she gives no heed to the person in front of her but takes out a biscuit to taste. After Zhang Rong is exposed as a spy, the film digresses into a sequence about Jin Xiu, as she holds important clues about the suspected KMT counterrevolutionary ringleader. Whilst held at a police station for questioning, Jin Xiu shows an indifferent attitude. Although a hot-tempered public security officer repeatedly urges her to provide information, she abides by the principle of “being worldly wise and playing it safe” and refuses to name the person who asked her to cash a check as payment for Zhang Rong. To her surprise, instead of punishing her for her noncooperation, Xue Jiaqi offers her comforting words, encourages her to put the people’s interest first, and then releases her from the police station. Upon returning home, Jin Xiu finds out that two PLA soldiers have been looking after her young child. Before leaving, these friendly soldiers ask her to check that household items are in their proper places and remind her that it is counterrevolutionary spies who have caused grave damage to the state and caused her much trouble. Impressed by her treatment by the Communist officials and touched by the PLA soldiers’ sincerity, she finally goes to the public security bureau and hands in a gold ring as well as a roll of American dollars deposited by the suspect. The significance of this sequence lies not only in the fact that Jin Xiu provides crucial clues which enable security officers to identify and track down the crafty mastermind behind the counterrevolutionary activities but also in that she becomes converted into a conscientious participant in the network of citizen surveillance, or in the officer Xue’s words, “returns to the side of the people.” While episodic dispersed narratives of minor characters thematically highlight the pervasiveness of participatory surveillance, the cinematography used in The Might of the People ingeniously contrasts participatory with technologized surveillance. Whereas aerial shots and military maps—the common surveillance methods that privilege vision and visibility—are utilized in scenes featuring the KMT’s aggression, active, horizontal camera movement is used at various points of the film to connect disparate characters together, thus visually weaving an expansive network of surveillance. For instance, the film opens with a series of aerial shots, showing the Park Hotel, the Garden Bridge (both famous Shanghai landmarks), a large crowd thronged at a big cotton mill’s closing-down sale, and a busy downtown strip with bustling traffic (FIGURE 2). Accompanied by fast-paced music played by string instruments as well as the screech of air-raid sirens, these quickly cut, swirling aerial shots unmistakeably

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Figure 2

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The opening sequence featuring Shanghai’s Park Hotel and Garden Bridge Source: Screenshot by the author of The Might of the People in play

foreground an overhead surveillant gaze which transforms the cityscape from places to targets. The caption onscreen “The Eve of the Liberation of Shanghai” cues the audience to link the surveillant gaze with the aerial perspective of military aircraft and to interpret the looming threat as the KMT’s suppression before its final debacle. The KMT’s technologized surveillance is further elaborated in a sequence revolving around military preparation for bombing the steel plant. It starts with a close-up shot of the spymaster’s hand quickly typing telegraphic codes and then cuts into an extreme long shot of the landscape which is blurred by quick panning and directional shifts of the camera. After signaling a change in geographical setting, the camera stops on a KMT air traffic monitor inside a watchtower issuing orders to get aircraft ready to fly bombing missions. This image dissolves into the next shot that shows the monitor’s contact on the other end of the phone, reading out geographical coordinates. The screen is soon dominated by a large-scale wall map on which a man swiftly marks out the military target according to the telegraphic message. The imminent bombing of the steel plant is then indicated by an ingeniously designed multilayered montage: a close-up shot of the spymaster’s hand is superimposed onto a zoom shot of the encircled target area on the map, which is complemented by voice-over narration of the geographical coordinates—the decoded telegraphic message (FIGURE 3). Through the superimposed images

Terror and Mass Surveillance: the Counterespionage Film

Figure 3

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Close-up shot of technologized surveillance employed by the KMT Note: The voice-over reads: “35 meters northwest, 35 meters northwest.” Source: Screenshot by the author of The Might of the People in play

and the overlapping telegraph-typing sound and verbal commands, this shot collapses geographical boundaries and establishes the causal link between espionage activity and the KMT’s military attack. The sequence culminates in a long shot of dense white smoke arising from the city. Thus the film provides a subtle critique of technologized surveillance, a kind of surveillance that relies heavily on communication, devices, and data, by linking it with danger and destruction. The contrasting affirmation of participatory surveillance in the film is stark. Quick cutting between adjacent spaces in conjunction with horizontal camera movement is used to follow watchful citizens’ monitoring activities and to implicitly suggest interconnectedness between ordinary folks. This is best illustrated by a sequence featuring the concerted efforts made by a shoemaker, a skinny, boyish-looking PLA soldier, and ordinary residents to watch over a suspicious occupant in the neighborhood. The scene opens with a medium shot of an old shoemaker in the foreground, supposedly at an entrance to a residential compound. In the background stands a middle-aged woman with a child in her arms. The shoemaker turns his head and the woman, taking the hint, hurries away. Now we see the spymaster, who has aroused the

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Figure 4

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A young neighbor knocks on the door of the spymaster’s apartment Note: The panning camera movement in which this moment occurs includes a cheat shot that takes viewers inside the door, demonstrating both the lateral imbrication of participatory surveillance and its inescapability. Source: Screenshot by the author of The Might of the People in play

shoemaker’s suspicion, entering the frame and rushing headlong toward the end of the alleyway. The next shot shows a young woman knocking on the door of the spymaster’s apartment, obviously passing the warning from the middleaged woman to the person inside. The camera then sweeps from right to left, revealing the space inside the door—a spacious living room (FIGURE 4). The leftward movement continues until the camera shows the young PLA solider who has disguised himself as a shoemaker’s apprentice dressed in overalls and then stops at the evidence he has just uncovered: a telegraph device, a few pamphlets and some sheets of telegraph codes on the table—belongings that verify the suspicious occupant’s identity. Hearing knocking at the door, the soldier quickly puts what he has discovered back to a moveable block inside the windowsill. This scene is quickly cut into a shot of a staircase outside the apartment. When the “apprentice” is about to descend the stairs, he sees the spy suspect walking up toward his apartment. The quick-witted boy immediately shouts out asking “Whose shoes are these?” and a woman downstairs quickly responds in order to cover for him. As encoded in the film’s cinematography as well as its narrative, the ordinariness of surveillance methods and surveillance agents is the main feature of participatory surveillance. Dispensing with grand surveillance technology,

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vigilant citizens simply watch, observe, seek, and gather information about their suspect. Their surveillance practices are embedded in everyday activities and are carried out in the quotidian space, in contradistinction with the technologized surveillance deployed by enemies of the state. Suffice it to say that aesthetic and narrative strategies employed here are well in line with the CCP’s mass-line formulation of policy on the suppression of counterrevolutionaries. On various occasions, the Party singled out “isolationism” and “mysticism”— the belief that only a minority of security experts can take on the task of detecting counterrevolutionaries—for criticism and condemned them as “the remnant influence of the thought of the reactionary ruling class.”30 It stressed that the guiding principles of public security work in the new China were bound to be different from those of the old China. Specifically, the exclusive and elitist nature of preliberation public security work was derived from the deep feeling of fear that the ruling class harbored toward the masses, whom they had previously oppressed and exploited. By comparison, the interests of the national security organs and of the people in socialist China were aligned. It was only natural for public security officers to widely solicit mass support and rely on the people to maintain national security and social stability. There is no doubt that by detechnologizing surveillance, The Might of the People expediently accentuates the people’s power. Apart from confirming the shoemaker’s initial suspicions and detecting the spy, the cooperation and assistance among ordinary people depicted in this scene is of equal importance. As much as a mechanism of social control, participatory surveillance is shown as a form of sociality. It is this intrinsic sociality that distinguishes participatory surveillance from compartmentalized traditional surveillance in preindustrial societies, despite their common reliance on unaided senses for scrutinizing human behavior. Moreover, this sociality is inseparable from, and in a sense constitutive of, a process of subjectivization in which individuals make conscious decisions and ethical choices in response to the Party’s call of duty, hence turning themselves into socialist subjects. As is manifested by The Might of the People, achieving a balance between conveying official ideology and enhancing the genre’s artistic value, which Chinese filmmakers strove to do, was hard to do. Although The Might of the People suffers from the limitations caused by abrupt disruptions in the narrative flow and lack of in-depth character development, it weaves a narrative net of disparate characters getting involved in surveillance work to clean out the counterrevolutionaries. By offering a cinematic articulation of mass surveillance as it was promoted and practiced in the socialist China, the film ushered in a shift in the social function of spy films in Chinese film history 30  Luo Ruiqing, “Wo guo sufan douzheng de zhuyao qingkuang he ruogan jingyan.”

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from entertainment to a means of political mobilization.31 More importantly, it draws attention to a particular vision of participatory surveillance that is intensely political because of its intimate link with socialist ideology and its illustration of civic responsibility. The ethical concern with surveillance in relation to the construction of vigilant socialist subjectivity, an issue broached by The Might of the People, continued to characterize the distinction between the commercially oriented spy films and the counterespionage films produced in socialist China. As the political campaign against counterrevolutionaries developed into a political purge around 1955, Chinese counterespionage films underwent modifications to raise vigilance against deeply hidden counterrevolutionaries. In addition to foreign imperialists and KMT officers and special agents in various disguises, counterrevolutionaries now included overseas Chinese traveling to China for family visits and backward citizens who degenerate into the accomplices of KMT secret agents. In films such as An Inescapable Net, Track the Tiger into Its Lair, and Quiet Forest, enemy espionage agents become so hidden that their true identities are not revealed until well into the narrative. Meanwhile, public security officers, who are often Party members, perform more heroic feats and demonstrate a high level of intelligence and leadership capabilities. Although the plots of the counterespionage film became more complex over time, participatory surveillance remained an important building block of the film narrative. Minor characters such as primary school students, maids, and housewives are shown as vigilant citizens who often provide a vital piece of information that enable public security officers to catch the spies. As a popular film genre that contained and promulgated the CCP’s official ideology and engaged closely with the political campaigns against counterrevolutionaries, the counterespionage film emphasized both the importance of citizen participation in safeguarding the young PRC’s national security and the fruits of socialist construction. As cultural articulations of surveillance produced within socialist China, this genre subverts the analytic dyad of social control/individual resistance predominant in Western discourses of surveillance, and instead highlights the intertwined relationship of social control/ citizen responsibility. Hence, it demonstrates that a socialist state could well rely on the mobilization of participation and the cultivation of vigilance rather than on repressive panopticism to implement its governance. 31  Commercial spy films thrived in the period from the wake of the Sino-Japanese War to the founding of the PRC. The most prominent director of this genre was Tu Guangqi 屠 光启. See Zhiwei Xiao and Yingjin Zhang, eds., Encyclopedia of Chinese Film (New York: Routledge, 2002), 141.

Chapter 2

The New Physical Culture and Volatile Attractions: the Sports Film In a speech made in 1956, Mao Zedong prefaced his praise of the great achievements of Chinese socialism with the following words, China used to be stigmatized as a “decrepit empire,” “the sick man of East Asia,” a country with a backward economy and a backward culture, with no hygiene, poor at ball games and swimming, where the women had bound feet, the men wore pigtails and eunuchs could still be found, and where the moon was inferior and did not shine as brightly as in foreign lands. In short, there was much that was bad in China. But after six years’ work of transformation we have changed the face of China. No one can deny our achievements.1 In strategically quoting colonial powers’ ridicule of China as an emasculated and ailing man and their casual remarks on Chinese people’s physique, Mao not only drew a distinction between the newly built, youthful socialist nation and the old, decaying China but also evoked a persistent nationalist discourse that correlates the individual’s physical prowess and the strength of the national body politic. Certainly, the remarkable achievements in building a new socialist nation were predicated upon a steady supply of strong and healthy laborers. The party-state’s care for the human body as an economic resource as well as its interest in maintaining a productive socialist workforce was closely linked to its mobilization of everybody into participating in the New Physical Culture Movement (xin tiyu 新体育)2 during the early years of the PRC.

1  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Strengthen Party Unity and Carry Forward Party Traditions,” August 30, 1956, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 5, accessed June 20, 2018, https:// www.marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-5/mswv5_53.htm. 2  Tiyu, a loanword from Japan in the late nineteenth century, is similar to the German köperkultur. It indicates the totality of physical activities including body cultivation, sports, and exercises, but more specifically denotes Western-style athletic activities such as track-and-field, ball games, and gymnastics. On its etymology, see Andrew D. Morris, Marrow of the Nation: A History of Sport and Physical Culture in Republican China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 6, 16.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_004

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This chapter explores how cinema contributed to the production and circulation of a sociohistorically specific discourse of tiyu in the new China. It starts with a contextualization of the New Physical Culture Movement in the early PRC, teasing out connections between the CCP’s understanding of the transformative power of tiyu and earlier discourses of it in modern China. This will be followed by an examination of a novel film genre, tiyu pian 体育 片 (the sports film) with special attention paid to various aesthetic strategies that filmmakers employed to delight and enlighten the audience. I select four unique sports films—Trouble on the Basketball Court (1957), Big Li, Young Li and Old Li (1962), Woman Basketball Player No. 5 (1957), and Ice-Skating Sisters (1959)—as case studies and group them into two sets in accordance with their thematic focuses and aesthetic styles. The first two films provide a rare glimpse into how Chinese filmmakers utilized the comedic mode to promote workers’ sports and to test the politically appropriate boundaries of laughter. The other two, with their common focus on individual athletes and their families, demonstrate Chinese filmmakers’ persistent efforts to construct a new ethical discourse via tiyu in socialist China. 1

The New Physical Culture

In 1952 Mao Zedong calligraphed “Promote Physical Culture and Sports, Improve the People’s Constitution” (fazhang tiyu yundong, zengqiang renmin tizhi 发展体育运动, 增强人民体质) to celebrate the founding of the All-China Athletic Federation (ACAF, 中华全国体育总会).3 At once a personal and public expression, the inscription provided a directive for sports and physical education in the PRC and encapsulated the essence of the New Physical Culture Movement that was to unfold across the nation. It also echoed a speech delivered by Zhu De 朱德 at the Preparatory Meeting of the ACAF in October 1949: “Physical culture and sports must serve the people; physical culture and sports should make our people physically fit and spiritually happy, so that they can take on the arduous task of building a new China.”4 Together they spelled out 3  Anonymous, “Zhonghua quanguo tiyu zonghui chengli dahui kaimu” 中华全国体育总会 成立大会开幕 [Inauguration of the All-China Athletic Federation], Renmin ribao 人民日 报 [People’s Daily], June 22, 1952. 4  See Li Xiumei 李秀梅, Zhonghua renmin gongheguo tiyu shi jianbian 中华人民共和国体育 史简编 [A concise history of sport and physical culture in the People’s Republic of China] (Beijing: Beijing tiyu chuban she, 2001), 2. Zhu De, a veteran Chinese communist and military general, was elected as honorary president of the ACAF. He delivered this speech at the Preparatory Meeting for the ACAF in October 1949.

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the promise of tiyu’s role in moulding the all-around individual for socialist society and distinguished the physical culture in the new China from its counterpart in the Republican era, the allegedly old, target-oriented elite sports and physical culture.5 Situated within twentieth-century China, the foregoing statements are a variation of the grand narrative of tiyu, which is invested with specific ideals of the relationship between individual’s physical strength and Chinese modernization. From the late nineteenth century onward, physical fitness, along with intellectual power and morality had been a key component of the intellectuals’ tripartite solution for rejuvenating the Chinese nation. For instance, in the face of Western colonial encroachment, the well-known late Qing intellectual Yan Fu prescribed “enhancing people’s physical strength, intellect, and morality” (gu minli, kai minzhi, xin minde 鼓民力, 开民智, 新民德) as a remedy to China’s severe illness so as to ensure the country’s survival in a new world system.6 This view was echoed by Liang Qichao 梁启超, who claimed that physical prowess, moral force, and intellectual strength are the three fundamental qualities that differentiate the “people of a nation” from the “people of a tribe” and that these qualities provide a foundation for reforms in politics, science, and technology.7 Beyond the intellectual realm, Western-style physical education and athletic activities were first introduced into the curricula of military academies as part and parcel of the Self-Strengthening Movement and then quickly spread over all China.8 In the 1930s and 1940s the Chinese Nationalist government 5  For recent English-language research on xin tiyu, see Amanda Shuman’s dissertation, “The Politics of Socialist Athletics in the People’s Republic of China, 1949–1966,” PhD diss., University of California, Santa Cruz, 2014. 6  Yan Fu 严复, “Yuan Qiang” 原强 [On the source of strength], Zhi Bao 直报, March 4–9, 1895. Reprinted in Yanfu Ji 严复集 [Collected works of Yan Fu], ed. Wang Shi 王栻 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986), 5–15. Pages references are to the 1986 edition. 7  Liang Qichao 梁启超, “Xin min shuo” 新民说 [On the New People], Xinmin Congbao 新民丛 报, February 2, 1902; reprinted in Yinbingshi heji: zhuanji 4 饮冰室合集 (专集 4) [Collected essays from the Ice-Drinker’s Studio: Special collection 4], ed. Lin Zhijun 林志钧 (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), 1–162; page references are to the 1983 edition. At the high tide of the New Culture Movement, the young Mao Zedong using the pseudonym “twenty-eight-stroke student” wrote an essay elucidating the interconnectedness of the physical, the intellectual, and the moral. See Mao Zedong 毛泽东 (pseud. Ershi ba hua sheng 二十八画生), “Tiyu zhi yanjiu” 体育之研究 [A study of physical education], Xin qingnian 新青年 [New Youth] 3, no. 2 (1917): 47–65. For the English translation of this article, see Stuart R. Schram, The Political Thought of Mao Tse-tung (New York: Praeger, 1963), 94–102. 8  For the development of sports and physical education in China, see Jonathan Kolatch, Sports, Politics, and Ideology in China (Middle Village, NY: Jonathan David, 1972); Susan Brownell, Training the Body for China: Sports in the Moral Order of the People’s Republic (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1995); Morris, Marrow of the Nation.

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promoted tiyu for national defense and integrated it into the KMT’s New Life Movement in order to create a highly disciplined Chinese society.9 In many ways, tiyu, which strongly denotes Western sports and physical culture, became a signifier of modernity. Through introducing new modes of training, measuring, displaying, and using the body, it imbued physical exercises and education with a scientific spirit. By celebrating bodily movement and physical activity, it challenged an entrenched Confucian value, “revering the literary and despising the martial” (zhongwen qingwu 重文轻武), and helped promote new social values including cooperation, sportsmanship, self-mastery, and competitiveness. While modern sports and physical education helped the ordinary people build healthy and strong bodies, it fostered a discursive space in which new knowledge of bodily practice was communicated and the images and meanings of ideal citizens could be explored.10 Despite substantial continuities in institutional arrangements related to sports and physical culture across the divide of 1949,11 the party-state was eager to introduce sports and physical activities into ordinary daily life and to integrate a sports and physical culture into the socialist culture in general. In addition to Party propaganda organizations at various levels, the Communist Youth League of China, the All-China Federation of Trade Unions, and other major governmental organizations were all responsible for promoting and 9  Aspiring to recreate China and build a strictly disciplined, militarized society, Chiang Kai-shek launched the New Life Movement in 1934. Sun Yu’s 1934 film Queen of Sports (Tiyu huanghou 体育皇后), a film that features YMCA bodies and modern interschool athletic competitions, documents how sports and physical education was integrated into this national movement. 10  With regard to literary discourse, such explorations are often characterized by negative imagination. Take, for instance, Lu Xun’s well-known stories Diary of a Madman (1918), Medicine (1919), and A True Story of Ah Q (1921). The author uses recurring tropes and images such as diseases, dismembered bodies, and a ludicrous fascination with the spectacle of decapitation to launch his relentless critique of the pitiable yet pathetic “national character” (guomin xin 国民性) in the hope of enlightening the Chinese people and firing their enthusiasm for modernization. Beneath his cold and sometimes ironic authorial voice is Lu Xun’s persistent yearning for a new people sound in both body and mind. 11  The PRC’s sports and physical culture was built upon the previous government’s institutional legacy. For instance, the ACAF was formed out of the old Republican administrative organization the National Amateur Athletic Federation as the executive organization to promote fitness and health. Other practices which had been established in the ROC, such as incorporating physical culture into the education system and developing international athletic relations, were followed by the new regime. For a detailed discussion of the continuities across the divide of 1949, see Julia Strauss, “Morality, Coercion and State Building by Campaign in the Early PRC: Regime Consolidation and After, 1949–1956,” China Quarterly 188 (2006): 891–912. For an elaborate history of physical culture and sport in the Republican era, see Morris, Marrow of the Nation.

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organizing physical activities and sporting events in armies, schools, factories, mines, and government organizations. More than a manifestation of the new socialist state’s egalitarian vision of sports and physical culture, such endeavors were crucially linked to a normalization process, which enlists what Foucault calls the “technology of self”—a technique that permits individuals to effect “a certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves in order to attain a certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection or immorality”12—in the making of a happy, healthy, and efficient citizenry. Similar to other political movements launched in the young PRC, the successful promotion of the New Physical Culture and unleashing of tiyu’s transformative power in moulding Chinese men and women entailed efficient communication of the Party’s official policies and creation of memorable iconographies and affective narratives that would touch people’s hearts and move their bodies. The establishment of the New Sports and Physical Culture (Xin Tiyu 新体 育)13 magazine in Beijing in July 1950 marked the beginning of a concentrated propagation of mass-oriented New Physical Culture. Following the editorial directive of “advocating the people’s physical culture and sports,”14 the journal published news stories of sporting events in the PRC, featured photographs of folk sports (minjian tiyu 民间体育), introduced athletics in other communist countries, and set up columns with headings like “exchange of pedagogies of physical education,” “short stories,” and “science of exercises and physiology.” In 1957 an English-language journal Chinese Sports was founded as a major venue to publicize the achievements of the New Physical Culture internationally. Cinema, as a powerful visual medium, was also utilized as an essential tool in the propagation of xin tiyu. Between 1953 and 1966, science and education film studios in Shanghai and Beijing produced twenty-one sports science and education films (tiyu kejiao pian 体育科教片), which not only provided general 12  Michel Foucault, “Technologies of the Self,” in Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault, eds. Luther H. Martin, Huck Gutman, and Patrick H. Hutton (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1988), 18. 13  As the first sports magazine targeting the masses in the PRC, Xin Tiyu enjoyed great popularity from 1950 to 1966. As its chief editor Hao Keqiang recalls, the inauguration issue had a circulation of 15,000. Each of the following issues in the journal’s first year achieved a monthly circulation of 20,000. Its annual circulation number was comparable to that of Central Daily News, the KMT’s official newspaper before 1949. See Bai Qiang 柏强, “Xin tiyu suizhe xin zhongguo dansheng”《新体育》随着新中国诞生 [Xin Tiyu: Born together with the New China], Xin Tiyu 新体育 [New Sports and Physical Culture] 4 (2016): 24–25. 14  Xin Tiyu was published from 1950 until the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution. It was the most influential and popular sports magazine in the PRC from 1949 to 1966.

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information on fitness and sport but also demonstrated training methods of individual sports such as basketball, table tennis, shooting, and swimming.15 What deserves special attention is the tiyu pian film genre, comprising a group of feature films that revolved around mass-oriented sports and physical culture in the new China. Despite the relatively small number in production, the sports film made in the 1949–1966 period captures a panoramic view of the New Physical Culture Movement and explores a range of themes that include the physical education of youngsters, various modern sports (both competitive and recreational), sports fandom, and the mass mobilization for physical exercises—as evidenced by such film titles as Two Youth Soccer Teams (Liang ge xiao zuqiu dui 两个小足球队, 1956), Children’s Soccer Teams (Xiao zuqiu dui 小足球队, 1965), Youth on the Water (Shui shang chunqiu 水上春秋, 1959), Women Skydivers (Bikong yinhua 碧空银花, 1960), and Soccer Fans (Qiu mi 球迷, 1962).16 Other than constituting a unique historical discourse of tiyu in modern China, the sports film created new icons and images of the people’s sports and physical culture and thus built an aesthetic dimension to the New Physical Culture. Compared to other film genres produced for political campaigns in the early PRC, the sports film, which first emerged in 1956 amid the Hundred Flowers Campaign17 in response to Chinese audiences’ criticism of formulaic and monotonous domestic films,18 shouldered the specific task of luring audiences back to movie theaters. Tiyu’s strong association with urban modernity and the visual spectacle inherent to athletic bodies and bodily performances made the sports film a promising genre to attract and delight Chinese audiences. However, a close examination of the semantic and syntactic configurations of individual films will show that it took trial-and-error experiments and Chinese filmmakers’ individual talents to find solutions to

15  Feng Wei 冯伟, “Xin zhongguo tiyu kejiao dianying de fazhan lichen yanjiu (1949–1995)” 新中国体育科教电影的发展历程研究 [A study of the development of Chinese sports science and education films: 1949–1995], Zhongguo tiyu keji 中国体育科技 [China Sport Science and Technology] 45, no. 3 (2010): 136–137. 16  Ten sports films were produced during this period. Sports represented in these films include football, basketball, diving, radio calisthenics, skydiving, swimming, skydiving, and taiji quan (known in English as Tai chi). 17  The Hundred Flowers Campaign, launched in 1956–1957, was named after Mao Zedong’s call to “Let a hundred flowers bloom and let a hundred schools of thought contend.” The campaign ushered in a short-lived period of liberalization in the arts and thinking. 18  In 1956 there were heated discussions on the dismaying situation of domestic film production. See Han Shangyi 韩尚义, “Wei shenme hao de guochan pian zheyang shao?” 为 什么好的国产片这样少 [Why are there so few good domestic films?], Wenhui bao 文 汇报 [Wenhui Daily], November 14, 1956.

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the tension between ideological imperatives and audience tastes and to produce ideologically appropriate and cinematically appealing sports films.19 2

Promoting Workers’ Sport and Heterogeneous Laughter: Trouble on the Basketball Court and Big Li, Young Li and Old Li

Workers’ sport (zhigong tiyu 职工体育)20 occupied a particularly important position in the national campaign of xin tiyu. The Chinese government took policy measures to encourage employees at work units to participate in sports and physical activity. For instance, in March 1954 the State Council of the Central Government issued the official notice “On the Development of Physical Exercises During Break Times and Other Sporting Activities in Government Organizations.” In the following year, the All-China Federation of Trade Unions drew up “Interim Measures for Developing Staff Members’ and Workers’ Sport,” which listed a number of specific tasks for local unions including “to consolidate and popularize radio calisthenics (guangbo ticao 广播体 操),”21 “to gradually develop track-and-field sports and ball games based on the principle of voluntary participation and personal preference; to ­organize sports teams and exercise groups,” and “to establish sport club at the grassroots level in industrial work-units and other organizations.”22 Sporting events 19  The close reading of selected sports films below is intended to complement recent Chinese-language scholarship on this film genre, which usually provides a survey of the genre and then discusses the genre’s ideological function. See Li Suyuan 郦苏元, “Shiqinian de zhongguo tiyu gushipian” 十七年的中国体育故事片 [Sports feature films during the Seventeen Years], Dangdai dianying 当代电影 [Contemporary Cinema] 8 (2008): 52–54; Liu Zhiyao 刘智跃, “Lun ‘Shiqi nian’ tiyu yingpian de geming lunli xushi” 论 “十七年” 体育影片的革命伦理叙事 [On revolutionary ethics in sports films during the Seventeen Years], Beijing dianying xueyuan xuebao 北京电影学院学报 [Academic Journal of the Beijing Film Academy] 6 (2012): 15–19. 20  The Chinese zhigong tiyu literally means staff members’ and workers’ sport. I use the term “workers’ sport” in its loose sense to refer to sports and physical activity targeted at all employees of work units. 21  Radio calisthenics are short exercise routines set to music. Since its popularization in China in late 1951, it has become a time-honoured exercise routine, performed by groups of people in public spaces. See Anonymous, “Guanyu tuixing guangbo ticao huodong de lianhe tongzhi” 关于推行广播体操活动的联合通知 [Joint announcement on implementing radio calisthenics], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], November 25, 1951. 22  Hao Guiqiao 郝桂桥, “Zhigong tiyu” 职工体育 [Workers’ Sport], in Tiyu shiliao di shiyi ji 体育史料 [Historical documents of physical culture and sport], vol. 11, ed. Zhonghua quanguo tiyu zonghui wenshi ziliao bianshen weiyuanhui 中华全国体育总会文史资 料编审委员会 (Beijing: Renmin tiyu chubanshe, 1984), 43–44.

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also created incentives for employees and workers to engage in sport. The first National Workers’ Sports Meet, which was held in Beijing in October 1955, boasted 1.25 million participants.23 Characteristic of xin tiyu, workers’ sport was premised upon the close connections between individual bodies and the national body, between individual laborers’ physical fitness and workforce productivity. Yet introducing sports and physical activity into the workers’ daily lives and creating a new social rhythm, however beneficial and important that seemed, encountered difficulties and setbacks at the grassroots level. The problems and challenges that arose in workers’ sport supplied the central plot and narrative drive for two sports films produced in Shanghai: Mao Yu’s Trouble on the Basketball Court (Haiyuan Film Studio, 1957) and Xie Jin’s Big Li, Young Li and Old Li (Tianma Film Studio, 1962). Employing distinctive comedic modes, both films provide imaginary solutions to existing problems in the New Physical Culture Movement. While testing the boundaries of what constituted appropriate laughter in the new China, they demonstrate that entertainment, whether encoded semantically or displayed visually, form an integral part of pleasure of watching a sports film. Trouble on the Basketball Court is a light satirical comedy that revolves around conflicts between Zhao Hui, a young, sporty clerk and his round-faced, middle-aged, and sedentary office director, Zhang Renjie, over setting up a sports club and developing workers’ sport at their work unit, the Bureau of Medical Equipment Supply. Intersecting with this main story line are Zhao’s evolving friendship with Professor Lin at a local sports institute and a farcical ménage à trois consisting of Prof. Lin’s daughter Lin Ruijuan, Zhao Hui, and the latter’s glib-tongued friend Qian Zhengming. These multiple plotlines come together in the film’s denouement: with the newly gained support of Director Zhang, the Medical Bureau team wins the Workers’ Basketball Tournament, coorganized by Zhao Hui and Ruijuan. While working closely to organize the tournament, the mutual affection between Zhao Hui and Ruijuan develops into a deeper and durable romantic relationship. The attraction of the film partially derives from its representation of sports and exercise as part of the fabric of urban life. The opening sequence is a prime example. The film opens with a shot of a big sweeper truck spraying water on a tree-dotted boulevard on an early morning. Paying no attention to the 23  Xu Zhenhua 徐振华, “Pengbo fazhan woguo de qunzhong tiyu yundong” 蓬勃发展的我 国群众体育运动 [The prosperous development of masses’ sport in our country], in Tiyu shiliao di shiyi ji 体育史料 [Historical documents of physical culture and sport], vol. 11, ed. Zhonghua quanguo tiyu zonghui wenshi ziliao bianshen weiyuanhui 中华全国体育 总会文史资料编审委员会 (Beijing: Renmin tiyu chubanshe, 1984), 7.

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approaching truck, Zhao Hui, who is taking his morning jog, gets a fair share of water spray. Following this humorous sequence are the young man’s accidental encounters with the other main characters of the film. Zhao resumes jogging but soon collides with the cycling Prof. Lin, who would later become Zhao’s firm supporter and give him many tips on sporting techniques. Dressed in a tennis outfit and holding a tennis racket, the tall and athletically built Prof. Lin apologizes sincerely for the accident. Broad-minded Zhao again resumes his jog, only to be stopped again by busy traffic at a crossroads. Across the road, a familiar-looking young woman standing next to a bike (whom will soon be revealed to be Prof. Lin’s daughter, Ruijuan) greets Zhao with a nod. As soon as the traffic is clear, the woman gets on her bike and rides past him. Turning his head to follow her, the distracted Zhao bumps into a parked bus. When he lifts his head, he sees Director Zhang sitting in the bus giving him a disapproving stare. Set against the protagonist’s brisk jogging pace, this opening sequence not only introduces the main characters with a lively rhythm and a light-hearted tone, it also showcases a healthy and sporty lifestyle in a clean socialist city. As the film unfolds, urban romance and the spectacle of sport are increasingly interwoven. Embedded in the plotline of courtship are scenes of swimming races and gymnastics classes, in which Ruijuan surprises her suitors with her outstanding athletic ability and delights the movie audience with her sporting femininity. Intending to integrate “promoting sports and physical activity and opposing bureaucratism” as intertwining thematic concerns,24 Trouble on the Basketball Court often pivots and moves the audience’s attention toward its delightful and satirical character, the petty bureaucrat Director Zhang. Seemingly most at ease in a closed-off space, whether a packed bus, at his office desk, or behind the podium in a conference room, Director Zhang’s idiosyncrasies never fail to provoke laughter. He prefers taking medicine to playing sports for he believes the former embodies the “scientific spirit” while the latter is “frivolous”; he arrives at his office earlier than the required starting time, frequently for the sake of getting an early medical appointment at the on-site clinic; while 24  According to Li Tianji, the responsible editor (zeren bianji 责任编辑) of the screenplay of Trouble on the Basketball Court, the script went into several revisions due to its lack of sharp thematic focus. It was not until the screenwriter Tang Zhenchang 唐振常 made a major revision—integrating “promoting sports and physical activity” with “antibureaucratism” to advocate care for the lives of the masses—did the script win approval from the film studio. See Li Tianji 李天济, “Xiqu jiaoxun, dadan qianjin: luetan Qiuchang fengbo” 吸取教训大胆前进：略谈《球场风波》[Learn the lesson and carry on with courage: A brief reflection on Trouble on the Basketball Court], Zhongguo dianying 中国 电影 [Chinese Cinema] 5 (1958): 36–37.

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detesting sports and physical exercises, he has a strong penchant for holding meetings and making speeches. Regarding recreational sports as a personal indulgence detrimental to work ethic, he repeatedly rejects Zhao’s request to clear out the bureau’s courtyard outfitted with temporary storage boxes of medical equipment to create space for a basketball court. In addition to this unique characterization, the fact that Director Zhang is played by the veteran actor Zhou Boxun 周伯勋, whose successful performance as the powerful yet amicable capitalist Pang Peigong in the enormously popular 1947 melodrama The Spring River Flows East (Yijiang chunshui xiang dong liu 一江春水向东流) may well have still been alive in the memories of film audiences in the mid1950s,25 could also contribute to the appeal of this character. Intended as a comedy, Trouble on the Basketball Court employs coincidence, misunderstanding, and exaggeration to solve its narrative conflicts. For instance, when his effort to establish a sports club is thwarted by Director Zhang, Zhao Hui together with Qian Zhengming visit Minister Zhao in the hope of soliciting support from a higher level. By coincidence, as Minister Zhao finishes a previous appointment in another room, Director Zhang calls him to report his work, completely oblivious to the fact that it is Zhao Hui who picks up the phone and answers. The young man takes advantage of the situation and asks the oblivious Zhang about the status of the sports club at his bureau. The fawning director hastily affirms its establishment and thus unexpectedly gives Zhao his long-awaited permission. In the ensuing sequences, the characterization of Director Zhang is further developed as he becomes increasingly involved in sports development work at his work unit. Self-appointed as the head of the preparatory committee for the sports club, Director Zhang brushes off Zhao Hui’s suggestion of organizing ball game competitions and instead insists on holding a meeting as an indispensable first step to encourage workers to engage with sports and exercises. His absurd efforts are ridiculed in a later scene in which his domineering and spirited demeanor on stage at a conference hall is contrasted sharply with a packed audience suffering in silence. Director Zhang’s pomposity is made particularly explicit as Qian Zhengming grumbles: “There are altogether fifty-five characters including the exclamation mark [in his speech title alone]!” Knowing all too well the director’s favorite “activity,” the resourceful Zhao Hui manages to gain Director Zhang’s approval for a basketball friendship match between the medical bureau and Ruijuan’s 25  T  he Spring River Flows East enjoyed a sensational box office performance shortly before the CCP’s takeover in 1949. See Zheng Junli 郑君里, “Weishenme paishe Yijiang chunshui xiang dong liu” 为什么拍摄一江春水向东流 [Why I made The Spring River Flows East], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], September 23, 1956.

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work unit, the People’s Bank, by promising him an opportunity to deliver a speech in front of 1,000 sports fans. Yet compared with the obsequious and arbitrary petty bureaucrats satirized in Lü Ban’s film comedies such as Before the New Director Arrives (Xin juzhang daolai zhiqian 新局长到来之前, 1956) and Unfinished Comedy (Wei wancheng de xiju 未完成的喜剧, 1957), Director Zhang, although annoyingly out of touch with his employee’s needs, certainly has his loveable traits. Witnessing Zhao Hui and his teammates lose the basketball match by a big margin, the deflated director immediately cancels his speech and decides to “manage” the team himself. As manager, he arranges protein-rich lunches for his players and rallies support as they compete in subsequent tournaments, which ultimately leads to a happy ending. Despite its successful characterization and close engagement with xin tiyu, Trouble on the Basketball Court received a controversial reception. In the northern city of Ha’erbin alone, ordinary audiences had such heated discussion of the film that their movie reviews appeared in the local newspaper Ha’erbin Daily for three consecutive months in early 1958. Some praised the film as “a comedy with aesthetic significance” and celebrated its colorful portrayal of contemporary life, while others were offended by its “distorted and unrealistic depiction” of characters, especially Director Zhang.26 In the mid-1950s, the radical leftist critic Yao Wenyuan 姚文元 joined in the debate and vehemently attacked the film’s inappropriate use of satire, its vulgar, bourgeois taste, and its problematic dark undertones. In his view, Director Zhang, who shows no concern for other comrades, and the many contemptible minor characters depicted in the film could not possibly reflect real people in the new society, but only the remnants of the old China.27 As nationwide criticism unfolded, the ideological aspects of the film came under tight scrutiny. Film critic Qu Baiyin 瞿白音 sharply criticized that the film’s intertwining thematic focus, “promoting sports and physical activity and opposing bureaucratism,” was fundamentally at fault. According to regulations and policies related to sports and physical education, Qu argued, work unit sports clubs are under the direct leadership of municipal or provincial sports associations and have nothing to 26  Benkan yingping jizhe 本刊影评记者 (This journal’s movie review reporter), “Fangshou fadong qunzhongxing de dianying pinglun: Ha’erbin Ribao tan de hao” 放手发动群众 性的电影评论: 哈尔滨日报谈得好 [Give a free hand to mobilize mass film criticism: Ha’er bin Daily has done well] Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 7 (1958): 38. By May 1958 Trouble on the Basketball Court was labeled a poisonous, bad film. See various articles published in the column “Xinpian bitan” 新片笔谈 [Discussion of new films] in the fifth issue of Chinese Cinema published that year. 27  Yao Wenyuan 姚文元, “Bu jiankang de quwei” 不健康的趣味 [Unhealthy taste], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 5 (1958): 32–33.

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do with cadres or leaders in a certain work unit. Hence, the film errs in holding Director Zhang as the target of its anti-bureaucratism message. Even more problematically, the film fails to illustrate the significance of sports and physical education for the general public. All it shows are a few sports enthusiasts playing games and all it advocates is the bourgeois “obsession with championship” (jingbiao zhuyi 锦标主义).28 At the end of 1958 Chen Huangmei 陈荒煤, the director of the Film Bureau of the Ministry of Culture, severely criticized Trouble on the Basketball Court and a few other satirical film comedies for their erroneous ideological tendencies and accused them of being bourgeois rightist attacks against the Party.29 Due to the political trouble the film had invited, the subject of workers’ sports did not find much headway in film production until 1962 when the talented young director Xie Jin 谢晋30 made Big Li, Young Li and Old Li in response to a new wave of political mobilization of mass sports. In the preceding years, workers’ sports in China suffered serious setbacks. Under the influence of the “willful blindness” that plagued the Great Leap Forward, the organizational work done by local trade unions in developing workers’ sport was poorly administered, overly ambitious, and frequently detached from reality. The Great Famine, which claimed millions of lives during 1959–1961, further led to a regression of the development of workers’ sports across China. As the economic situation stabilized and living conditions gradually recovered, the physical fitness of the masses became a major concern to the Party and an essential component of rejuvenating sports and exercise. In 1961 the State Physical Culture and Sports Commission of China instructed sports commissions at all levels to take account of local contexts and realities in promoting sports and physical education. It discouraged factories and government organizations from promoting large-scale, high-intensity sports, and advised them 28  For representative critiques of Mao Yu’s film, see Qu Baiyin 瞿白音, “Dui yingpian ‘Qiuchang fengbo’ de fenxi” 对影片《球场风波》的分析 [An analysis of the film Trouble on the Basketball Court], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 7 (1958): 39–43. 29  Chen Huangmei 陈荒煤, “Jianjue badiao yinmushang de baiqi: 1957 nian dianying yishu pian Zhong cuowu sixiang qingxiang de pipan” 坚决拔掉银幕上的白旗—1957 年电影 艺术片中错误思想倾向的批判 [Resolutely wrench out the white flags on the screens: A critique of mistaken ideological tendencies in 1957 films], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], December 12, 1958. 30  Xie Jin (1923–2008) was the most important film director in socialist China. He studied theater at Sichuan Jiang’an National Theater College and Nanjing National Theater College in the 1940s. This training was to shape his film aesthetics.

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to give priority to developing diverse, small-scaled workers’ sports programs in order to promote mass fitness moderately and effectively.31 Big Li, Young Li and Old Li closely engages with this new national policy on mass sports for the people. It depicts a broad range of characters, male and female, of different ages, covers school sports, competitive sports, and recreational sports (three key components of the New Physical Culture), and introduces a variety of sporting activities including radio calisthenics, wrestling, and tug of war. The film weaves the three title characters and their extended families into an entertaining story of changing habits to improve fitness. The eponymous characters are colleagues of different generations working in a meat-processing factory in Shanghai. Young Li is a hot-tempered sports activist. Big Li, a trade union representative at the factory, is a middleaged man with a gentle and humane disposition. Due to a lack of exercise, his rheumatism accurately predicts the weather, thus winning him the nickname, “weather station.” Old Li is the father of Young Li and the head of a factory workshop. He refuses to take part in sports and exercise because, to him, it is frivolous and inappropriate for his age, and nevertheless a distraction from socialist production—a disguised statement of the entrenched Confucian preference for the literary over the martial. Old Li repeatedly foils his son’s attempts to organize an exercise regime for the workers. Based on their own self-interested calculations, both Young Li and Old Li recommend the genial and inactive Big Li to lead the sports club at their factory. Much of the film revolves around the unexpected changes that Big Li ushers in after taking charge of developing workers’ sports. As the narrative unfolds, not only does Big Li’s unflagging patience and moderate approach help his wife Xiumei, a virtuous mother of their five young boys, to become a competitive cyclist and excite Old Li’s interest in playing taiji quan, Big Li himself recovers from his rheumatism and proudly announces that his nickname is no longer valid! The film is unique in many ways. Among Xie Jin’s oeuvre, it stands out as the only film untainted by the director’s signature melodramatic imagination, which will be discussed in the next section. Among the sports films ­produced in the early PRC, it is rare in its employment of heterogeneous comic elements, including animated opening and closing credits, witty remarks, ­slapstick, and exaggerated performance. Undeterred by the failure of his predecessor Mao Yu, Xie Jin’s experimentation with comedy was somewhat ­stimulated by his intuition that “the subject of sports and physical education 31  Hao Guiqiao, “Zhigong tiyu,” 52.

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needs to be represented in comic forms,”32 a view he had held long before trying his hand at making a sports film. Eschewing the use of satire, the film director resorted to various means to create a light comedy that would generate “healthy laughter” for the new Chinese society. In his depiction of Old Li and Young Li, Xie Jin cleverly overlays a familial relationship (father/son) with a subordinate–superior one (cadre/ordinary worker) in order to target a broader audience and to alleviate potential political tension; he also sets most of the film narrative in a workers’ apartment inhabited by all the main characters, thus enlivening the film with many comic anecdotes about the workers’ leisure time. Of particular note is Xie Jin’s skilful appropriation of the Shanghai huaji xi 滑 稽戏 (literary, “funny play,” often translated as “farce”), a comic performing art which combines slapstick elements with repartee spoken in the Wu topolect and which has held a strong appeal to urban laborers and lower-strata professionals in the Yangtze Delta Region since the early twentieth century.33 The famous Shanghai huaji xi performers Fan Haha 范哈哈, Liu Xiasheng 刘侠声, Wen Binbin 文彬彬, and Nen Niang 嫩娘—who all made their screen debuts in the highly popular Shanmao Studies Business (Sanmao xue shengyi 三毛学 生意, 1958), a film adaptation of a huaji xi of the same title—were cast to play Old Li, Big Li, and two minor characters, respectively. The director displays his artistic ingenuity in modifying the comedic traditions of the Shanghai huaji 32  Xie Jin 谢晋, “Chuangzuo Nülan wuhao de yixie tihui” 创作《女篮五号》的一些体会 [Personal experiences drawn from filming Woman Basketball Player No. 5], in Xie Jin, Wo dui daoyan yishu de zhuiqiu 我对导演艺术的追求 [My pursuit of the art of film directing] (Beijing: China Film Press, 1990), 1. 33  Recent Chinese scholarship has shown a particular interest in treating this film as part of the Shanghai cinematic tradition, a commercialized form that integrates the narrative strategies of classical Hollywood cinema with local cultural elements in alliance with dominant Chinese moral values. For instance, Cui Chen points out that during the filming of Big Li, Young Li and Old Li, all actors spoke in Shanghai dialect when performing their parts. Mandarin Chinese was added to the soundtrack during postproduction. In his view, Big Li’s character exemplifies the best characteristics the Shanghai people possess: meticulous, earnest, patient, and farseeing. According to Liu Chun, farcical comedic elements, costumes, and local landmarks utilized and referenced in Big Li, Young Li and Old Li all demonstrate that the film carried over the petty urbanite’s taste for reality, an important characteristic in the Shanghai cinematic tradition. See Cui Chen 崔辰, “Da Li, Xiao Li he Lao Li nongdan shiyi de haipai shenghuo huajuan”《大李小李和老李》浓 淡适宜的海派生活画卷 [Big Li, Young Li and Old Li: A painting of Shanghai life with appropriate tones and hues], Shanghai yishu pinglun 上海艺术评论 [Shanghai Art Criticism] 4 (2018): 30–35; Liu Chun 刘春, “Da Li, Xiao Li he Lao Li yu Haipai dianying chuantong”《大李小李和老李》与海派电影传统 [Big Li, Young Li and Old Li and the tradition of Shanghai Cinema], Shanghai yishu pinglun 上海艺术评论 [Shanghai Art Criticism] 4 (2018): 26–28.

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xi in a way that takes account of both Shanghai audiences’ cultural and moral preferences and the immediate political demands. As Chinese film scholar Cui Chen observes, rather than following the convention of huaji xi which largely relies on the choujue clown character (a funny, muddle-headed yet good-natured downtrodden character) to create comic effect, Big Li, Young Li and Old Li creates three distinctive characters and gives special prominence to the gentle and patient Big Li.34 This new focus on characterization not only entailed a greater restraint on the part of the abovementioned huaji xi actors to curb the more excessive aspects of their performance. It also correlated the construction of characters with specific methods of propagation. Indeed the narrative of Big Li, Young Li and Old Li opens itself to an interpretation at the metalevel of the New Physical Culture, especially the ­self-reflexivity of the propagation of people’s sports in the new China. A diversity of tactics and media technologies including radio broadcasting and propaganda posters are introduced in the film not only to disseminate the official vision of physical culture but also to lend the viewers some ideas of persuasion techniques. Among them, sports posters occupy a prominent position. They are cleverly integrated into the film narrative, contributing to the vivid portrayal of two contrasting characters, Big Li and Young Li. Initially shying away from physical exercise, Big Li decides to try his best to develop workers’ sport after being unanimously elected to head the sports club at his factory. To induce the hardcore opponents of sport such as Old Li and his fat sidekick nicknamed “Hercules” (Da lishi) to participate in routine morning exercises, he takes seriously Hercules’s half-joking challenge, “I won’t do it unless you teach us radio calisthenics.” Sports posters not only turn out to be instrumental to Big Li learning the basic moves of radio calisthenics, they also function as a narrative device connecting the public and the domestic spaces. The pervasiveness of the poster in the national campaign of the New Physical Culture is well reflected in the film: in a local bookshop one whole wall is covered with posters featuring a variety of sports and the muscular system and it is here that Big Li chances upon an incomplete radio calisthenics poster. Touched by Big Li’s eagerness to learn the range of exercises illustrated in the poster, the long-haired, warm-hearted salesgirl demonstrates the correct movement techniques and teaches him the exercises missing from the poster. Big Li copies her every move in earnest, including the little “braid-flinging” gesture which he will later teach his coworkers, much to their puzzlement and to the audience’s amusement. Furthermore, the incomplete sports poster functions to unfurl the plotline from a public space to a domestic space. Back at 34  Cui Chen, “Da Li, Xiao Li he Lao Li nongdan shiyi de haipai shenghuo huajuan,” 30–35.

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home, unable to recall the sixth section of the exercise routine, Big Li turns to his little boy for help and thus unwittingly picks up children’s radio calisthenic exercises. All these efforts finally lead to Big Li’s confident demonstration and successful launch of morning exercise regime at his factory, albeit not without embarrassing distractions. While the above scene, through constructing the self-motivated and modest character of Big Li, subtly eulogizes the Party’s policy on workers’ sports and provides practical tips on how to develop workers’ sports in reality, the scene that follows domesticates propaganda in order to make the national campaign of sports and physical culture more relatable. The scene takes place immediately after Big Li’s wife Xiumei suffers a setback in learning how to ride a bike. After falling off, she is advised by Old Li not to persist because she is of too mature an age. Instead of broaching the topic directly, Big Li decorates his apartment with posters of sportswomen in order to engage and encourage his wife. Point-of-view shots are used to show the contents of the posters and Xiumei’s reactions to them. The first poster features two young female cyclists with the caption, “Good hands at production and top-notch players in sports.” Visually and textually, this poster pinpoints an ideal social role for woman in the public space. Its failure to address the conflict between women’s domestic roles and their public roles weakens its persuasive power for Xiumei, and she immediate denies any identification with the women in the poster: “Unlike me, those aunties do not have five little pumpkins.” Seeing Xiumei unaffected, Big Li pastes another poster on the wall, this one showing a woman tying her running shoes with two children standing nearby and the caption, “Mama goes to do exercise!” When Big Li’s son asks his mother to look at the poster, the camera, identifying with Xiumei’s gaze, zooms in on it slowly until it fills the whole frame (FIGURE 5). Thus the message of the propaganda poster, like the boy’s unspoken words, becomes an integral part of the film narrative. Clearly aware of Big Li’s intention, Xiumei teases her husband: “You think you are also the head of the sports club at home?” Refusing to be beaten, Big Li starts to read a news story to his wife, “Wu Xiangmei, a young woman worker and mother of three kids has won fourth place in a recent National Women’s Bicycle Competition.” He emphasizes the next sentence: “By doing exercise, she not only improves her fitness but also works more efficiently. Recently she has been elected as a model worker.” Framed within the couple’s daily interaction, the official message of tiyu—playing sports and doing exercise are conducive to socialist work—is not only reiterated by different media but is humanized and communicated with great affection by loved ones. At the end of the scene, Big Li is pleasantly surprised as Xiumei, having tucked her five children into bed, asks him to accompany her to practice cycling outside—a

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Figure 5

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Shot of the sports poster from Xiumei’s point of view Note: Her son has asked Xiumei to look at the second poster Big Li had pasted on the wall. The point-of-view shot is used here to connect the political message with familial love. The Chinese translates as “Mama goes to do exercise!” Source: Screenshots by the author of Big Li, Young Li and Old Li in play

happy ending that brings the couple closer together and demonstrates that only with warmth and consideration for the other party can persuasion work effectively. The film’s concentrated portrayal of Big Li as a modest and amicable factory leader and loving husband departs drastically from the conventional characterizations used in the huaji xi art form. However, the depiction of the intergenerational conflict between the rash Young Li and the stubborn Old Li draws heavily on its traditions of farce and indeed plays with audience expectations associated with Fan Haha, the renowned huaji xi actor cast to play Old Li. As a counterpoint to the domestic scene discussed above, the sequence in which Young Li attempts to use Big Li’s method to change Old Li’s attitude toward sports is characterized by visual excess. The camera tracks Old Li as he returns home and discovers that his apartment has been turned by Young Li

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into a setting of visual bombardment. Various kinds of sports posters featuring scantily clad female gymnasts, agile women skaters, and muscular male sprinters and disc throwers adorn the doors, walls, and furniture. Disoriented and irritated by these visual assaults, Old Li starts ripping down the posters but stops to sit down to have a cup of tea. Sports-themed images continue to jump into his sight. No sooner has he poured tea for himself than he sees the image of a little girl holding a ball printed on the teapot. Hot with anger, he starts to wave a palm-leaf fan with great energy, but this soon frustrates him when he notices the embroidered image of a female gymnast on the fan. Much to his annoyance, the image seems to come alive with his fanning movements! Perhaps ironically, it is not until Old Li ceases his activity and lies down on his bunk bed that he becomes attracted by a sports poster stuck on the bed frame depicting a long-bearded elderly man practicing taiji quan. Throughout the sequence, Old Li’s rhythmic movements and exaggerated facial expressions, emphasized by the throbbing accompaniment of the traditional Chinese string instruments, make Young Li’s unsubtle promotion of sport ever funnier. With its innovative appropriation of the huaji xi local performing art, Big Li, Young Li and Old Li not only enlivens the political message on the New Physical Culture and invites its audience to reflect upon techniques of persuasion and propagation, it also blazes a new trail for comic filmmaking in the early PRC. 3

Sports, Ethics, and Melodramatic Imagination: Woman Basketball Player No. 5 and Ice-Skating Sisters

In addition to propagating workers’ sport, tiyu’s potential in shaping new ethics is another central concern of the Chinese sports film. This theme figures prominently in several films that tell the stories of individual athletes, such as Woman Basketball Player No. 5 (1957), Ice-Skating Sisters (1959), Youth on the Water (1959), and Women Skydivers (1960). Rather than resorting to particular artistic styles, this group of films relies heavily on dramatic plots to entertain and educate the audience. Among them Woman Basketball Player No. 5 and Ice-Skating Sisters deserve special attention. Produced by Shanghai Tianma Film Studio and Changchun Film Studio respectively, these two films enjoyed immense popularity upon their release. In addition to capitalizing on their distinct local strengths (the tradition of Shanghai filmmaking vs. northern sports), both films create a paradigmatic narrative structure of the sports film, that is, they use the melodramatic imagination as an aesthetic approach to explore moral values associated with tiyu and the possibilities of making socialist subjects.

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Directed by Xie Jin in 1957, Woman Basketball Player No. 5 tells the story of two generations of basketball players through two interwoven narratives on “woman basketball player No. 5.” One narrative focuses on the transformation of the young basketball player No. 5, Lin Xiaojie, from a wayward and self-centered athlete into a disciplined and resolute team player. Set in a sports school in the new China, it depicts Xiaojie’s interaction with her fellow athletes, and in particular, the conflicts caused by her problematic attitude toward tiyu. Being talented but self-conceited, Xiaojie occasionally neglects her training and prioritizes her personal needs over the team’s needs. In addition, she feels unable to fully commit herself to a career in sport partly due to her mother’s objection and partly because of her own biased view that “those who cannot excel academically play sports.” It is not until Tian Zhenhua, a newly appointed middle-aged male coach, disciplines her and educates her on the political significance of sports that Xiaojie devotes herself to basketball. The other narrative trajectory, mainly composed of flashbacks, tells of the unconsummated love story between two athletes in the old China, Xiaojie’s mother, Lin Jie, then a basketball player No. 5, and a young Tian Zhenhua, who played basketball in a sports club run by Lin’s father. In a Sino-US basketball match, Tian and his teammates refuse to play a corrupt game for the sake of national pride, thus infuriating their manager. Unknown to Tian and Lin Jie, their love was surreptitiously thwarted by Lin’s father and her rich suitor and the two lovers lost contact with each other. These two narratives converge at a symbolic family reunion in the present where all misunderstandings between Tian Zhenhua and Lin Jie are cleared and all internal and external obstacles to Xiaojie’s growth toward being a good athlete are overcome. The film ends with a farewell scene at the airport where the young generation of women basketball players are about to leave China to compete overseas. The film received phenomenal domestic and international acclaim upon its release and has remained a classic Chinese film.35 Compared to previous efforts in the genre such as Two Youth Soccer Teams (1956) and Trouble on the Basketball Court (1957), Woman Basketball Player No. 5 is refreshing, entertaining, and uplifting for several reasons. Filmed by Huang Shaofen 黄绍芬, China’s top cinematographer, and Shen Xilin 沈西林, Woman Basketball Player 35  In September 1957 Woman Basketball Player No. 5 was included in the program of the Asian Cinema Week (Yazhou dianying zhou 亚洲电影周) in Beijing. It was then circulated among the socialist countries and gained an excellent reception. It won the Silver Prize at the Sixth International Film Festival of the World Festival of Youth and Students (Shijie qingnian lianhuanjie 世界青年联欢节) held in Moscow in 1957. Capitalizing on the film’s success, Xie Jin made a quasi-sequel, Woman Soccer Player No. 9 (Nüzu jiuhao 女 足九号) during the last decade of his life in 2000.

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No. 5 was the first color sports film in the history of Chinese cinema. The use of color not only helps paint a cheerful portrait of young, energetic women basketball players but also evokes warm and optimistic feelings.36 In addition, Xie Jin boldly cast real-life college basketball players as the young women basketball players in the film and assigned established actors like Liu Qiong 刘琼 and Qin Yi 秦怡 to play the older generation of players. The simple and natural performances of nonprofessional actors together with the more nuanced performances delivered by the renowned actors enhance the film’s realistic effect and delighted audiences and film critics.37 Moreover, the film’s concentrated depiction of women basketball players not only helped construct the distinctive iconography of the New Physical Culture but also set a trend of portraying female athletes in Chinese sports films, as is evidenced by such film titles as Ice-Skating Sisters (dir. Wu Zhaodi, 1959), Women Skydivers (dir. Sang Fu, 1960), and Girl Divers 女跳水队员 (dir. Liu Guoquan, 1964).38 This privileged representation of sportswomen in Chinese socialist cinema—a renewed response to the colonial stigmatization of China as “the sick man of the East” in the representational realm—complicates the pro-masculine model of Chinese modernization implied in the earlier discourse of tiyu with an injection of the Maoist ideal of gender equality. 36  Yuan Ye 原野, “Nülan wuhao: yibu dongren xinxian de guochan caise gushipian”《女 篮 5 号》—一部动人心弦的国产彩色影片 [Woman Basketball Player No. 5: A heartgripping Chinese color film], Zhongguo gongren 中国工人 [Chinese Workers] 6 (1957): 31–32. Jay Leyda also praised the film, saying it had “a sense of ease unusual in Chinese films about teenagers and sportsmen.” See Leyda, Dianying/Electric Shadows, 230. 37  For a detailed discussion on the performances of the nonprofessional actors and their counterparts, see Wei Xun 维训, “Lue tan Nülan wuhao zhong de jige renwu” 略谈 “女篮 5 号” 中的几个人物 [A brief discussion of a few Characters in Woman Basketball Player No. 5], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1957): 38–40. Film critics Yiqun and Xia Yan both praised the nonprofessionals’ performance as natural and unaffected. See Yiqun 以群, “Xianming de duibi: jian ping Nülan wuhao” 鲜明的对比—简评《 女篮 5 号》[A distinct contrast: A brief comment on Woman Basketball Player No. 5], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1957): 34–36; Xia Yan 夏衍, “Cong Nülan wuhao xiangqi de yixie wenti” 从《女篮五号》想起的一些问题 [A few questions prompted by Woman Basketball Player No. 5], in Lun Xie Jin dianying 论谢晋电影 [The cinema of Xie Jin], ed. Zhongguo dianying jia xiehui 中国电影家协会 (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1998), 232–234. 38  This practice in filmmaking continued in post-socialist China. The most notable is Zhang Nuanxin’s 张暖忻 Drive to Win (Sha’ou 沙鸥, 1982) which portrays a female volleyball player who, despite tragic events in her personal life, coaches China’s team to victory in an international volleyball competition. The film is also a pioneering work in its modernization of Chinese film language. Other films include Women Volleyball Players (Paiqiu zhi hua 排球之花, 1980), Sailing Girl (Fangban gunian 帆板姑娘, 1985), Ice and Fire (Bing yu huo 冰与火, 1999), and Woman Soccer Player No. 9 (Nüzu jiuhao 女足九号, 2000).

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Above all, Woman Basketball Player No. 5 delighted cultural critics as an exemplary work that combines education with entertainment and represented powerful evidence to continue to engage in the ongoing debate on the future direction of Chinese cinema, a debate unleashed by the film critic Zhong Dianfei’s pointed criticism of the artistic and box-office failures of the new Chinese cinema in 1956.39 For instance, a movie review published in the Literary Gazette in 1958 lavishly praises Woman Basketball Player No. 5 because it effectively counters the anti-Party and antisocialism current in the film world, represented by Zhong Dianfei’s film criticism and Lü Ban’s satirical film Unfinished Comedy. The article suggests that bourgeois rightists vehemently attacked the “worker-peasant-soldier direction” and the quota system on subject matter in the new socialist cinema because they understood that movies dealing with light subject matter were the most convenient vehicles to “sell their own stuff, distort our social life, and promote their vulgar, petty bourgeois taste.”40 As for Woman Basketball Player No. 5, despite the fact that its subject matter renders the film more susceptible to unhealthy influences, the director adopts a serious attitude and uses the light subject matter to impart a profound spiritual lesson, which “is a pleasant achievement in film production in 1957.”41 In fact, the well-balanced achievement of Woman Basketball Player No. 5 can be largely attributed to Xie Jin’s successful negotiation of the political demands of the new Chinese cinema and the aesthetic traditions of pre-1949 Shanghai cinema. This is evidenced by the film’s employment of two interwoven narrative trajectories and its engagement with melodramatic imagination, which not only propagates the official ideology of tiyu but also heightens the film’s emotional impact. The differences between the old and new tiyu are illustrated by many contrasted pairings, including the contrasts made between the cramped, rundown apartment which accommodates young Tian Zhenhua and his teammates and the bright, roomy dormitory of the young women basketball players, between the exploitative and corrupt sports club manager and the caring and conscientious coach. On occasion, Xie Jin’s employment of glossy mise-en-scènes, including beautiful costumes and the spacious and comfortable apartment where the divorced Lin Jie lives by herself, betrays the director’s 39  Zhong Dianfei 钟惦棐, “Dianying de luogu” 电影的锣鼓 [Gongs and drums at the movies], Wenyi bao 文艺报 [Literary Gazette] 23 (1956): 3–5. 40  Yijun 艺军, “Ping Nülan wuhao” 评《女篮 5 号》[On Woman Basketball Player No. 5], Wenyi bao 文艺报 [Literary Gazette] 2 (1958): 31. For a similar view, see also Jia Ji 贾霁, “Nülan wuhao guangan”《女篮 5 号》[Thoughts on Woman Basketball Player No. 5], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1957): 37–38. 41  Ibid.

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deep attachment to the pre-1949 Shanghai cinematic tradition, which had been heavily influenced by the classical Hollywood style and invited Xia Yan’s criticism of the film’s “anachronistic realism.”42 Among all cinematic strategies employed by Xie Jin, the appropriation of the Chinese melodramatic tradition deserves particular attention. As Ma Ning points out, family, rather than the individual or the state, is the most important social unit in China and for much of the twentieth century the destiny of the Chinese nation was depicted through the fate of family.43 In fact, depicting the history of the Chinese nation through the vicissitudes of an ordinary Chinese family accounts for much of the sensational success of two late1940s Chinese films, The Spring River Flows East and Under Ten Thousand Roofs (Wanjia denghuo 万家灯火). In a sense, the metaphorical connection between family and nation encoded in these films bears out Christine Gledhill’s notion of melodrama as a modality, “a culturally conditioned mode of perception and aesthetic articulation.”44 Employing this particular cinematic modality, Xie Jin not only frames the historical shift in modern China through the separation and reunion of Lin Jie and Tian Zhenhua but also infuses the national sentiment of humiliation with Tian’s own individual suffering. For instance, after being deeply disappointed by Xiaojie’s wayward behavior, Tian relates the story of his past to his assembled in order to enlighten the girls to the significance of tiyu: When I was young, I knew an athlete who represented his country at the Far Eastern Games. But the moment when he appeared, foreigners broke into laughter, “Aha, the Sick Man of East Asia also came to the sports meet!” Journalists also asked him to take off his clothes so that they could take a bare-bodied picture of him. At the time he didn’t understand, but now he understands that that was not just an insult to him, it was an 42  Xia Yan, “Cong Nülan wuhao xiangqi de yixie wenti,” 232–234. For a detailed discussion of Xia Yan’s criticism on Woman Basketball Player No. 5, see Mao Jian, “Gender Politics and the Crisis of Socialist Aesthetics: The ‘Room’ in Woman Basketball Player No. 5,” trans. Zhu Ping, in Debating the Socialist Legacy and Capitalist Globalization in China, ed. Xueping Zhong and Ban Wang (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 73–84. 43  Ma Ning, “Symbolic Representation and Symbolic Violence: Chinese Family Melodrama of the Early 1980s,” in Melodrama and Asian Cinema, ed. Wimal Dissananyake (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 29–58. For a discussion of the melodramatic mode in Chinese cinema, see also Chris Berry and Mary Farquar, “Realist Modes: Melodrama, Modernity, and Home,” in China on Screen: Cinema and Nation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 75–107. 44  Christine Gledhill, “Rethinking Genre,” in Reinventing Film Studies, ed. Gledhill and Linda Williams (London: Arnold Press, 2000), 225.

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insult to our country and our nation…. He won a championship at the Games, but it was of no use to China. In order to make a living, he had to play basketball for his boss and for commercials. He was no different from animals in circuses…. Your generation is different. As you are blessed by happiness every minute, you do not cherish such happiness. This verbalization of pain echoes an earlier scene in which Tian is physically beaten by thugs hired by his sports club manager after he had led his teammates to win the Sino-US basketball match. In both instances, the film pits a patriotic, upright athlete against corrupt profit-seekers. The irreconcilable conflict of interests between Tian and his sports club manager leads Lin Jie’s father to devise a scheme to break up the two lovers. To some film critics, the dramatic love story of Tian and Lin Jie held such an emotional sway over audiences that it overshadowed the other narrative on the young women basketball team in the new China.45 Nevertheless, emotionalism generated by the melodramatic subplot is central to the cinematic appeal of the film. This can be evidenced by simply comparing it with Youth on the Water, a film directed by Xie Tian 谢添 in 1959. Like Woman Basketball Player No. 5, Xie Tian’s film employs two narratives to compare and contrast the fates of two generations of swimmers, as represented by Hua Zhenlong and his son Hua Xiaolong.46 Similar to Tian Zhenhua’s experience in the old China, the father, then a fisherman, defeats foreign athletes in a swimming race but is assaulted by ruffians hired by foreign gamblers who had lost their bets on the race. On another occasion he is barred from taking part in a competition because the son of a military officer is aiming to win the championship title and knows he cannot do so if Hua Zhenlong is in the race. It is not until the founding of the PRC that Hua Zhenlong begins to have opportunities to realize his dream. Appointed as a swimming coach in a sports school, he trains his son and another young man into outstanding swimmers who both break the 100m breaststroke world record in a national swimming competition—a hyperbolic film narrative resolution consonant with the idealistic “Surpass Britain and Catch Up with the U.S.” (chao Ying gan Mei 超英赶美) aspiration during the Great Leap Forward (1958–1960). The film, in effect, delivers the same overarching political message as Woman Basketball Player No. 5, that whereas tiyu 45  Yijun, “Ping Nülan wuhao,” 34. 46  Several articles about Woman Basketball Player No. 5 comment on its intriguing narrative structure. See Yi Qun, “Xianming de duibi,” 34–36; Chen Yi 陈亦, “Nülan wuhao ping jie”《女篮 5 号》评介 [Review of Woman Basketball Player No. 5], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1957): 36–37.

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in the old China was a profit-driven business without any moral grounding, in the new China it becomes a socialist enterprise, which defends national honor and cultivates well-rounded athletes. Yet Youth on the Water, which is devoid of melodramatic imagination of family dissolution and reunion, gradually went into oblivion while Woman Basketball Player No. 5 remained very much alive in the memory of Chinese movie audiences. In addition to the many twists and turns in the subplot, Xie Jin’s masterful use of film language47 played an important role in eliciting the audience’s intense emotional identification. Take, for instance, the climactic scene of a farewell ceremony for young women basketball players, which exemplifies what Sergei Eisenstein called the “synchronization of senses.”48 The sequence opens with Lin Jie entering into the stadium amid the solemn melody of the Chinese national anthem. When the national anthem begins to crescendo, Lin Jie sees rows upon rows of young athletes dressed in bright red sportswear standing by the Chinese national flag (FIGURE 6). Identifying with Lin’s gaze, the camera pans from left to right taking in the individual athletes in the first row one by one until it pauses on Coach Tian, his face flushed with excitement. The visual and the aural now form an Eisensteinian vertical montage49 to reveal a strong nationalist feeling. After the camera draws back to Lin Jie, the national anthem starts to give way to a soft melodic tune as her intimate memories of Tian flash before her eyes, one after another: young Tian offering her tactical tips for a basketball match; her bringing her favorite orchid to Tian’s cramped dormitory; Tian playing in a basketball game against the foreigners and being knocked down by thugs afterward. A storm of applause jolts Lin Jie out of her reverie. Amid cheers, the young women basketball players enthusiastically dedicate their medals to their beloved Coach Tian. It is at this moment of glory that Lin Jie catches Tian’s eye and the two former lovers finally reunite. By synchronizing visual and auditory stimulants, the scene interweaves individual 47  Following the semiotic approach to cinema, I use the term “film language” to refer to a system of signification pertaining to the cinematic medium. It consists of semantic and syntactic units (shot, camera movement, etc.) as well as the rules and techniques that are used to communicate ideas and feelings. 48  Sergei M. Eisenstein, The Film Sense, trans. Jay Leyda (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1975), 69–112. 49  Sergei Eisenstein coined the term “vertical montage” to refer to audiovisual montage, a form of montage that abolishes “dualist contradictions and mechanical parallelism between the realms of sound and sight.” According to Eisenstein, this form of montage is a distinctive Soviet achievement in film art as the problems of the unity of audiovisual synthesis “are not even on the agenda of American researchers.” See Sergei Eisenstein, “Dickens, Griffith, and the Film Today,” in Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, ed. and trans. Jay Leyda (New York: Harcourt, 1949), 254.

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Farewell ceremony of the basketball team from Lin Jie’s perspective Source: Screenshot by the author of Woman Basketball Player No. 5 in play

recollections and personal stories with the grand farewell ceremony and elicits a wide range of emotions in the viewer, including excitement, pathos, national pride, and joy. As individual suffering is resolved at an uplifting moment of national joy, Woman Basketball Player No. 5 not only conveys the sublimated message of playing sport for the nation’s sake but also ingeniously legitimizes the new political order through a family melodrama. This cinematic strategy later evolved into Xie Jin’s signature directorial style: embedding the grand narrative of the nation within the vicissitudes of individual lives and using clear-cut moral polarization to supply justification for the prevailing socio­ political order.50 50  From the mid-1980s onward, Xie Jin’s signature style has invited criticism and reflection. Zhu Dake 朱大可, “Lun Xie Jin dianying moshi de quexian” 论谢晋电影模式的缺陷 [The drawback of Xie Jin’s model], Wenhui bao 文汇报 [Wenhui Daily], July 18, 1986; Wang Hui 汪晖, “Zhengzhi yu daode jiqi zhihuan de mimi” 政治与道德及其置换的秘 密: 谢晋电影分析 [Politics, morality and their interchangeability: an analysis of Xie Jin’s films], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 2 (1990): 23–45.

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Whereas the cinematic appeal of Woman Basketball Player No. 5 is mainly the result of Xie Jin’s artistic virtuosity, the attractive quality, or guangshang xing 观赏性, of the 1959 sports film Ice-Skating Sisters was demanded and sanctioned by CCP cultural administrators for the purposes of entertaining the nation on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the National Day of the PRC. No other film production during the Seventeen Years was pushed harder than this one to create a visually appealing and narratively intriguing film in such a short space of time. According to its scriptwriter Fang Youliang 房友良, the film project was hatched at a subject-matter planning meeting in January 1959 when Changchun Film Studio leaders invited film ideas to mark the National Day anniversary. Since the meeting placed great emphasis on telling engaging stories, Fang discarded his original idea of an industrial construction-themed project and instead told a real-life story of two women ice-skaters who are as close as sisters though biologically unrelated to one another. As they compete in trials for the National Games, the younger skater deliberately underperforms due to her deep connection and gratitude to the older skater for helping and coaching her in training. Their story, which would provide the narrative core of Ice-Skating Sisters, immediately aroused great intrigue among those in the planning meeting. Later, when the conception was relayed by the studio cadres to Chen Huangmei 陈荒煤, deputy head of the Film Bureau, and Xia Yan, vice minister of culture (both were established dramatists and cultural critics aside from their official positions), it received warm endorsement.51 Because of its relatively lightweight and enjoyable subject matter, these top-ranking cultural administrators considered Ice-Skating Sisters a good complement to films dealing with more serious topics such as revolutionary history. Thus they recommended the film for inclusion in the Tenth National Day Anniversary Celebration Film Program (guoqing shi zhounian xianli pian 国庆十周年献礼 片), a program intended to showcase the achievements of Chinese cinema as well as to add an enjoyable atmosphere to the day’s festivities. The task of directing this xianlipian 献礼片 (tribute films made to commemorate the founding of the PRC) was assigned to Wu Zhaodi, a politically reliable veteran film artist who had directed well-received war films like Guerrillas on the Plain (Pingyuan youjidui 平原游击队, 1955) and Underground Vanguards (Dixia jianbing 地下尖兵, 1957). The short notice left Wu and his film crew with a race against time to shoot the film in unusually warm weather. 51  Fang Youliang 房友良, “Yi Bingshang Jiemei de chuangzuo” 忆《冰上姐妹》的创作 [Reminiscences of the creation of Ice-Skating Sisters], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 7 (2001): 97.

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In February 1959 they hurried to the northern city of Ha’erbin to film its pristine wintry landscape and to document the figure skating competitions and speed skating races which were being held at the time as part of the National Winter Games. The municipal government spared no effort to assist the film crew. Within two months, it helped enlist about 80,000 extras to play the audience in the film.52 Scenes shot on-location were later seamlessly sutured into the narrative, thus warranting the visual appeal of the film. While outdoor scenes were filmed, Fang worked strenuously to draft the script. Both Chen Huangmei and Xia Yan offered positive feedback and concrete suggestions on his draft. With the script under-length, Chen suggested adding a love story as a subplot in order to accentuate the emotion of the older skater.53 Once the script was restructured, Chen further recommended that Fang make the love plot more “uplifting,” but cautioned him not to inject new political elements into the new version. This was because, as Chen explained, political significance was already encoded in the film and once viewers were affected by the movie’s “free and easy feeling,” they would understand the superiority of the New Physical Culture.54 Thanks to the tutelage of these two top-ranking cultural administrators, the finalized screenplay was evaluated by a board of film censors as a “light-tempoed, good film with positive content, good casting, and beautiful cinematography.”55 Upon its public release in October 1959, Ice-Skating Sisters—China’s first fiction film featuring ice sports—enjoyed great popularity.56 Soon the film was exhibited in many other countries including the Soviet Union, Poland, the German Democratic Republic, and Australia.57 Aside from the novel focus on ice sports and the beautiful wintry scenery, much of the appeal of Ice-Skating Sisters rests on its thematic focus on sisterhood. In comparison with other sports films that center on female athletes, Ice-Skating Sisters is unusual in that it neither follows the conventional 52  Wu Zhaodi 武兆堤, “Bingshang jiemei shezhi suigan”《冰上姐妹》摄制随感 [Random thoughts about the making of Ice-Skating Sisters], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 2 (1960): 12. 53  Fang Youliang, “Yi Bingshang Jiemei de chuangzuo,” 98. 54  Chen Huangmei 陈荒煤, “Chen Juzhang tan Bingshang Jiemei juben de yijian” 陈局长 谈《冰上姐妹》剧本的意见 [Director Chen’s feedback on the script of Ice-Skating Sisters], Changying yishu dang’an 长影艺术档案 [Changchun Film Studio Art Archive], no. 112, March 24, 1959. Quoted in Li Daoxin 李道新, “Wu Zhaodi yu xin zhongguo dianying de yhingxiong xushi” 武兆堤与新中国电影的英雄叙事 [Wu Zhaodi and hero narrative in the New China’s Cinema], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 5 (2007): 77. 55  Ibid. 56  Wu Zhaodi, “Bingshang jiemei shezhi suigan,” 12. 57  Li Daoxin, “Wu Zhaodi yu xin zhongguo dianying de yhingxiong xushi,” 78.

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narrative pattern (the male figures as the moral authority vs. female protagonists yet to be enlightened) nor focuses on a particular female athlete. Unlike Woman Basketball Player No. 5 which draws on the Chinese melodramatic tradition, the film tries to redefine the social unit and introduce socialist ethics through its concentrated depiction of socialist sisterhood among three ice-skaters. The film starts with the breakdown of a friendship between the seasoned skater Wang Dongyan and the up-and-coming skater Ding Shuping after a 3000m speed skating race at the National Winter Games. Outperformed by Shuping, whom she once tutored, Dongyan grows jealous of her fellow skater. Aiming to win back the championship title, she devotes herself to intensive training. To protect her time, she refuses to teach one of her admirers how to skate, a high school girl called Yu Liping, and becomes increasingly estranged from her teammates. In contrast, altruistic Shuping kindly tutors Liping in her spare time and risks her own life to save Dongyan when the latter becomes caught up in a mountain accident. As a result, Shuping’s selflessness nurtures the close friendship between her and Liping and helps improve Dongyan’s sportsmanship. The film concludes with all three skaters breaking their personal records as well as the national records in speed skating—an ending that clearly reflects the Zeitgeist of the ongoing Great Leap Forward Movement. The formation of socialist sisterhood within the narrative is entangled with and, in fact, buttressed by traditional ethics. For the most part, Ice-Skating Sisters depicts a close bond between Shuping and Liping, which is built less upon a common political conviction than upon such feminine qualities as caring and empathy. In one particularly emotional scene, Shuping accidently finds out that Liping’s self-neglect has much to do with her being single-handedly brought up by her father. For the sake of Liping’s health, she forbids the young girl from washing her hair with cold water. Against the nondiegetic swelling music, Shuping’s firm action and oral command not only establishes her as a maternal stand-in but also wins Liping’s trust and love. Later on, when Shuping learns of Liping’s affection toward a singer whom she has secretly loved, she suppresses her own feelings and encourages Liping to pursue her own happiness. Although self-sacrifice is often lauded as a moral quality essential to socialism, in this scene what Shuping does is obviously motivated by empathy and maternalistic instinct and regulated by the Confucian values of restraining one’s feelings, overcoming individuality, and practicing self-sacrifice for the sake of maintaining harmonious relationships among members of the family, or in this case, substitute family. Liping’s actions are bound by similar ethical principles. When she is assigned to compete with Shuping in the same group for a selection trial, Liping cannot bring herself to charge past her sister-mentor and take the lead due to her burden of debt. Such a pure, sisterly feeling, which

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had touched Fang Youliang and inspired him to write the script, nevertheless, could well undermine the intended political message since it pits sisterly love against a higher national interest. The potential disjuncture between ideological intent and narrative signification is skilfully solved through an integration of the ethics of care and the spirit of fair play toward the end of the film. After learning that Liping has trouble in picking up speed in the final few laps, Shuping takes the risk of having an early acceleration in a long-distance skating race in order to push the more promising skater to optimize her performance. This strategy results in a win for both: Shuping breaks her personal best and Liping becomes the new national champion! Converging the ethics of sisterhood with the pursuit of strong performance in the service of the nation, this narrative resolution not only highlights indefatigable effort, selfless dedication, and mutual support as the true athletic spirit in socialist China, but it also demonstrates that good sportsmanship and care are commensurable, thus affirming tiyu’s potential to shape new social relations and cultivate socialist citizens. Summing up, the four sports films discussed in this chapter demonstrate that the tiyu pian genre was a fertile discursive ground and an important means of consolidating the general public’s understanding of the Party policies on tiyu. Through their varied narratives and aesthetic strategies, these sports films propagated the CCP’s self-branded New Physical Culture, including its ideological superiority and beneficial effects on mass fitness and e­ conomical productivity. Generally energetic and joyful, sports films enticed and delighted Chinese audiences. As a distinct cultural imaginary, the sports film in the early PRC not only illustrates how the discourse of tiyu transformed itself over the first part of the twentieth century but also discloses that it became a set of regulatory practices contributing to subject formation in the early PRC.

Chapter 3

Ethnicity and Socialist Fraternity: the National Minority Film The CCP’s project of constructing socialist subjects went far beyond pu­rifying the body politic and training individual bodies. It also involved ­reconstituting China’s multiethnic peoples into a single socialist citizenry. This political calculus of subjects not only calls attention to the dialectic of multiplicity and singularity, pluralism and universalism, but it also poses the question of how the Party conceived, produced, and mobilized such a collective identity as ethnicity in the early PRC. The national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian 少数民族题材影片), a film genre that revolves around minority nationalities, is one place where these issues played out. In the 1949– 1966 period, major Chinese film studios produced about forty-five national minority films that covered various minority nationalities including the Bai, the Miao, the Mongols, the Uygurs, and the Tibetans. As a designated genre among films that were produced for and screened on National Day anniversaries, production of national minority films boomed in 1959 and 1964, the PRC’s tenth and fifteenth anniversaries respectively. Not only did the national minority film constitute a repertoire of symbols, rhetorical devices, and sound which were essential to commemorative practices, its distinct audiovisual characteristics and diverse narrative patterns won the genre immense popularity among audiences at home and abroad.1 In order to explore the role that the national minority film played in the CCP’s political project of building an ideal socialist citizenry, this chapter begins with a discussion of the signification of the term minzu and the reconfigured ethnic landscape in the early PRC, highlighting the diversification of ethnicity in socialist China as a political imperative. After mapping out the sociohistorical context in which the national minority film was produced, I present two 1  Paul Clark points out that the immense popularity of the national minority film in China at this time seems disproportionate to the number that were made; see Clark, Chinese Cinema, 95. The national minority film was also warmly received on the international circuit and garnered several awards. For instance, The Victory of the Inner Mongolian People (Neimeng renmin de shengli 内蒙人民的胜利, a.k.a. Neimeng chunguang 内蒙春光, 1951) won the best screenplay award in the 1952 Karlovy Vary International Film Festival. Wang Jiayi 王家 乙 and Yang Likun 杨丽坤 won Silver Eagle awards at the Second Asia-African Film Festival in Cairo in 1960 for Best Director and Best Actress respectively for their contributions to Five Golden Flowers (Wuduo jinhua 五朵金花, 1959). © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_005

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case studies of the national minority film, Flames of War in a Border Village (1957) and Daji and Her Fathers (1961). In the first case study, I shift the critical attention from questions of representation to issues related to performance and spectatorship2 in order to illustrate that spectatorship is a potential site for the construction of socialist subjectivity. The second case study, with a focus on the adaptation process of Daji and Her Fathers from page to the screen, will demonstrate how under the Party’s ideological dictates about the nationality question a humanistic tale of love set in a minority region was rewritten as a story of the New Socialist Man imbued with ethnic fraternity. 1

Reconfiguring the Ethnic Landscape: From Ethnicity to Nationality

Ethnicity has proved to be central to Chinese nation-building throughout the twentieth century. The political challenge that both the Chinese Nationalist government and the Chinese Communist government faced was how to govern an ethnically diverse population over an immense territory after the ­collapse of Qing dynasty. In his presidential speech in 1912 Sun Yet-sen remarked, “The foundation of a nation is its people. Integrating the territories of the Han, the Manchu, the Mongol, the Hui, and the Tibetans into one nation is also unifying the Han, the Manchu, the Mongol, the Hui and the Tibetans into one people. This is the so-called the unity of nation.”3 This well-known political proposition regarding China’s five ethnic groups provided the political foundation for the Nationalist government to carry out its republican ideas. Bearing in mind Sun Yet-sen’s famous political proclamation of the “Coexistence of Five Ethnic Groups” (wuzu gonghe 五族共和),4 the current widespread idea that “China is a unified nation composed of fifty-six nationalities (minzu 民族)”5 is obviously a recent invention in the People’s Republic. The sheer increase in numbers of ethnic groups within half a century calls 2  This shift is informed by works on ethnicity and cinema including Charles Musser, “Ethnicity, Role-Playing, and American Film Comedy: From Chinese Laundry Scene to Whoopee (1894– 1930)” in Unspeakable Images: Ethnicity and the American Cinema, ed. Lester D. Friedman (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1991), 39–81 and Hye Seung Chung, Hollywood Asian: Philip Ahn and the Politics of Cross-Ethnic Performance (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2006). 3  Sun Zhongshan 孙中山, “Linshi zongtong xuanyan shu” 临时大总统宣言书 [Declaration of the provisional president], in Sun Zhongshan Quanji Di Er Juan 孙中山全集第二卷 [The complete works of Sun Zhongshan], vol. 2 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982), 2. 4  Ibid. 5  See Zhongguo zhengfu wang 中国政府网, “Tongyi de duo minzu guojia” 统一的多民族 国家 [A unified multi-national nation], accessed June 1, 2018, http://www.gov.cn/test/2005 -06/24/content_9200.htm.

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attention to the ever-changing localized discourse of ethnicity (minzu) as well as the CCP’s endeavor to reconfigure the ethnic landscape in China. Composed of min (people) and zu (lineage), the compound word minzu is a very slippery term. Functioning as a dominant organizing concept in social groupings and a key marker of collective identity in China, it evokes a range of different meanings, such as “people,” “nation,” “nationality,” “ethnicity,” “ethnos,” and so on.6 In the Republican era, as Frank Dikötter points out, three different interpretative communities advanced disparate views of minzu. The Chinese Nationalist government regarded minzu as race-nation; social scientists at the time mainly understood minzu as ethnicity; and the CCP interpreted minzu as nationality, following Joseph Stalin’s articulation of nationality (natsia) in his essay “Marxism and the National Question.”7 Specifically, common territory, common language, common economic ties, and psychological nature served as four determining factors of the existence of a minzu, or in Marxist terminology, a nationality. With the CCP’s coming to power in 1949, the Marxist view of minzu, with its territorial, social, and political implications, began to gain dominance.8 In particular, it provided theoretical basis and set criteria for the CCP’s monumental Ethnic Classification Project in 1953. As an integral part of the CCP’s social engineering, the Ethnic Classification Project aimed to identify and designate minzu that are economically, geographically, or culturally distinct from the so-called Han majority population. Within a year, Chinese ethnologists and linguists identified thirty-eight minority nationalities.9 In the same year, the CCP promulgated the Constitution of the PRC which set up the terms of equality, unity, and mutual assistance among all nationalities. By 1964 the state 6  In different sociohistorical and political contexts minzu incorporates and enmeshes the notions of race, nation, and ethnicity to a varying degree, as evidenced in phrases such as wuzu gonghe 五族共和 (coexistence of five ethnic groups) and zhonghua minzu 中华民族 (Chinese nation). 7  Frank Dikötter, The Discourse of Race in Modern China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2002), 108–109. 8  In the 1950s and 1960s, the word minzu was widely used in translations of works by Marx, Engels, and Stalin. It was also used to translate the German words volk and völkerschaft as well as the Russian terms natsia, narod, and narodnost. Chinese scholars finally agreed upon employing minzu in all cases and acknowledged that minzu embraced a biological as well as political meaning. For a detailed discussion of terminological inquiries into minzu, see Dikötter, Discourse of Race, 108–109. 9  According to the Party’s official account, non-Han ethnic groups were referred to as minority nationalities because their population size was rather small. This explanation is also a self-staged departure from the traditional Han-centric ethnoscape, in which ethnic minorities were produced as the effect of the Han civilizing project. See Huang Guangxue 黄光学, Dangdai zhongguo de minzu gongzuo 当代中国的民族工作 [Work related to nationalities in contemporary China] (Beijing: Dangdai zhongguo chubanshe, 1993), 2, 148.

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had acknowledged another fifteen minority nationalities. In 1965 and 1979 two more were added.10 Hence the project shaped the configuration of the Chinese ethnic landscape that has persisted to this day: fifty-five minority nationalities and the Han. As the prevailing socialist ideology provided an important interpretive frame for coding and classifying minzu, evolutionary theory and socialist teleology further justified the historical scaling of minzu in China. In accordance with its mode of production, such as primitive, slave, feudal, capitalist, or socialist, each minzu was attributed to a specific historical stage in a universal linear history.11 In theory, the socialist discourse of minzu countered the entrenched Han-centric ethnocultural discourse in Chinese society for it promised all nationalities that they would march together on the road to socialism, disregarding their current social, cultural, and economic status. Anthropologists and historians who specialize in Chinese ethnicity have noted discrepancies between scientific narratives and practices in the Ethnic Classification Project.12 In his recent historical study of ethnic classification in modern China, Thomas S. Mullaney argues for the importance of the production of ethnic taxonomy to the creation of social identity in modern China. According to his observation, Chinese ethnologists’ taxonomic framework offered a menu of identity options and helped orient the creation of national identities. In reality, the Chinese state intervened and oversaw the actualization of potential minzu, and eventually transformed the ethnic landscape to emulate the findings of the Ethnic Classification Project.13 Subsequent to the launch of the classification project, the state took various measures to institutionalize nationalities. For example, it regulated minzu identity as an obligatory ascribed status. On identification cards and in household registry certificates, all Chinese citizens were required to register themselves not as Chinese but as Han, Hui, Manchurian, or any of the other stipulated nationalities. The Party also formulated nationality policy, aiming to discard traditional Han ethnocentrism and promote a horizontal and fraternal relationship among nationalities, as well as encourage minority nationalities to develop themselves into a “modern nationality” on the country’s road to socialism. An interesting but overlooked question emerges: Why did the rapid diversification of ethnicity become the driving force of socialist modernization in China? What mattered here was not the exact number of ethnicities that the 10  Ibid, 150. 11  Stevan Harrell, Culture Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 23. 12  See Dru Gladney, Muslim Chinese: Ethnic Nationalism in the People’s Republic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 1996). 13  Thomas S. Mullaney, Coming to Terms with the Nation: Ethnic Classification in Modern China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011).

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Chinese government declared but the political project that the presence of diversified ethnicities legitimized and facilitated. I suggest that the structural change of China’s ethnic order enabled the Party to articulate and justify its project of transforming China into a modern multinational socialist nation. The Party’s fascination with multinationalities is itself fascinating. This fascination on the one hand indicated a specific conceptualization of nation that sought structural similarity between China and its socialist counterparts and thus rode the wave of political trends in socialist states during the Cold War period. Apparently, the multinational structure in countries such as the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia provided immediate examples. By seeking to form a multinational nation, the CCP aimed to win China recognition as a modern nation from its political alliances. On the other hand, such a fascination was in line with the Marxist view of historic development. Given that socialism aspires to emancipate all human beings, nationality is merely a transitional stage for mature socialist societies which would ultimately nullify ethnic and national boundaries. Equally significant is that the multinational structure provides a precondition for the formation of egalitarian citizenship and the creation of socialist beings who could negotiate their intranational identity (minzu), national identity (being Chinese), and supranational identity (being socialist). To be sure, identifying ethnicities was a biopolitical measure for the Party to govern China’s populace. While it legitimized the Party’s ambition to build a multinational socialist nation, the diversification of ethnicities required the CCP to adopt a new statecraft that differed from imperial rule to govern an ethnically diverse populace. Fundamentally, building a multinational nation for China involved two aspects: creating a unified national identity among multinational peoples, and constructing a common socialist identity. Both aspects are predicated upon flourishing nationalities, yet both aim to overcome nationality differences. Considering that the communist revolution mainly took place in “inner” China and not the frontier regions, building a multinational unified China entailed the CCP legitimizing its rule over the vast extent of China’s territory. The effective way to achieve this was not by direct coercion but by seeking to win the consent of the ethnically diverse Chinese populace. To this end, the CCP deployed various cultural practices to disseminate the official discourse of minzu and to propagate the hegemonic vision of a multinational socialist China. Aside from institutionalizing ethnicities through policies and regulations, redefining interethnic relations and creating new feelings and perceptions of a multinational China were also crucial components of the discursive practices of ethnicity employed by the Communist government. To reach a wide

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audience, the Party resorted to multimedia cultural practices to cultivate a popular awareness of the multiethnic configuration of China and its significance to national sovereignty. The official message of minzu was aurally delivered and visually presented. As early as May 22, 1950, China National Radio (zhongguo zhongyang guangbo diantai 中国中央广播电台) started broadcasting programs in Tibetan, and programs in Mongolian, Korean, Zhuang, and Kazakh went on air soon after.14 These programs reported on the contemporary life of minority nationalities, propagated the Party’s nationality policies, and informed the audience of the Party’s stance on issues pertaining to China’s borderlands. Besides serving minority nationality listeners, multilingual programs aurally registered the ethnic heterogeneity in China. In March 1955, Nationalities Publishing House (Minzu chubanshe 民族出 版社) founded the monthly magazine Nationalities Pictorial (minzu huabao 民族画报) and published it in six national languages: Mandarin, Mongolian, Tibetan, Uygurs, Korean, and Kazahk.15 Running photo-reportage series such as “Introduction to Nationalities” (minzu jieshao 民族介绍) and “In the Big Family of Our Motherland” (zai zuguo de dajiating li 在祖国的大家庭里), the magazine popularized officially sanctioned ethnological knowledge, introduced political, economic, and cultural developments of minority nationalities, and propagated equality and solidarity between and among nationalities. Numerous photos published in this magazine displayed beautiful landscapes of minority regions and spirited minority laborers. As a mediated product of lived reality, these photos not only helped document and “verify” the existence of diverse nationalities, they also presented an enticing picture of the happy life that was defined by ethnic pluralism and hard work in socialist China. The Chinese government attached much importance to ethnic languages and cultures to authenticate the diversity and distinctiveness of ethnic minorities. The state sponsored scholarly efforts to excavate, collect, and study the cultural heritages of minority nationalities; it also helped establish literary magazines such as Grassland (Caoyuan 草原), Tianshan (天山), and Tibetan Literature (Xizang wenxue 西藏文学) to encourage the creation of literary works by and about national minorities.16 14  Lin Qing 林青, ed., Zhongguo shaoshu minzu guangbo dianshi fazhan shi 中国少数民族 广播电视发展史 [Broadcasting and television history of China’s minority nationalities] (Beijing: Beijing guangbo xueyuan chubanshe, 2000). 15  Anonymous, “Minzu huabao chuangkan” 民族画报创刊 [Nationalities Pictorial launched], Xinhua she xinwen gao 新华社新闻稿 [Xinhua News], 1750 (1955): 9. 16  From 1956 to the early 1960s, the Association of Chinese Writers initiated discussions and research on the development of national minority literature. During the same period, this state-sponsored organization actively recruited national minority writers.

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Among all cultural practices, the CCP’s cinematic program of building a multinational China deserves special attention. If print media, as Benedict Anderson suggests, enables readers to “[form], in their secular, particularly, visible invisibility, the embryo of the nationally imagined community,”17 then cinema, a type of mass entertainment predicated upon physical enactment and participation, not only projected an imaginary community of multinational peoples onscreen but also created opportunities off it to convene ethnically diverse people together to form a physical community of multinational peoples. 2

The National Minority Film

In the early PRC, the lives of national minorities became a sought-after theme in Chinese cinema and were made into documentaries, animations, opera films (xiqu pian 戏曲片), and feature films.18 The national minority feature film, in particular, made impressive achievements. Produced in parallel to the ascendance of the Marxist discourse of nationality and the ongoing Ethnical Classification Project, this film genre displays a variety of themes. Films such as Hasen and Jiamila (哈森和加米拉 Hasen he Jiamila, 1955), Love Song on the Reed-Pipes (Lusheng lian ge 芦笙恋歌, 1957), Dai Doctor (Moya dai 摩雅傣, 1960), and Serfs (Nongnu 农奴, 1963) concentrate on disclosing the oppression that minority nationalities suffered from primitive/feudal sociopolitical systems and the rule of the Chinese Nationalist government. Other films, instead of dwelling on minority nationalities’ historical sufferings, tell heroic stories of their participation in and contribution to China’s national liberation. Set against the backdrop of the Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945), The Detachment of the Hui (Huimin zhidui 回民支队, 1959), Sparks from Afar (Yuanfang xinghuo 远方星火, 1961), and Jindalai Flowers (Bingxue Jindalai 冰雪金达莱, 1963) construct a particular narrative of China’s revolutionary past in which minority nationalities played a significant role. Still other films focus on See Tian Li 天粒, “Qingdian shaoshu minzu wenxue wushi nian” 清点少数民族文学 五十年 [Sorting out fifty years’ national minorities literature], Minzu tuanjie 民族团结 [Nationalities Unity], 10 (1999): 45–47. 17  Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (New York: Verso, 1983), 44. 18  For instance, Happy Road to Lhasa (Tongwang Lasa de xingfu daolu 通往拉萨的幸福 道路, 1954) and Stand Up, Million of Serfs! (Baiwan nongnu zhan qilai 百万农奴站起来, 1959) are documentaries that celebrate Tibetans’ new life in the PRC. Heroic Sisters on the Grassland (Caiyuan yingxiong xiao jiemei 草原英雄小姐妹, 1965) is an animated film targeted at children; Red Sun over Keshan (Keshan hongri 柯山红日, 1960) is an opera film about the revolutionary history of the Tibetans.

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potential threats that might split the nation and depict the Han and the national minorities’ mutual efforts to offset reactionaries’ espionage and sabotage activities in China’s border regions. These films include Mysterious Travelling Companions (1955), Flames of War in a Border Village (1957) and Visitor on Ice Mountain (Bingshan shang de laike 冰山上的来客, 1962). There are also a large number of national minority films that portray national minority peoples’ socialist undertakings in connection with political movements such as the Great Leap Forward and the People’s Commune. Among these films, Morning Song of the Grassland (Caoyuan chenqu 草原晨曲, 1959), Five Golden Flowers (Wuduo jinhua 五朵金花, 1959), Daji and Her Fathers (1961), and The Red Flow­er of Tianshan (Tianshan de honghua 天山的红花, 1964) are perhaps the most memorable ones. In addition, a small number of national minority films are adaptations of well-known minority folktales or myths. Taken as a whole, the national minority film genre provided a panorama of the history and presence of national minorities as they fit into the trajectory of Chinese modernization. Studies of national minority films thus far have concentrated on two interlocking issues: the attraction of this film genre and the representation of ­ethnic others. Paul Clark, in his pioneering study of Chinese socialist cinema, pinpoints a few distinctive characteristics of the genre, such as exotic sceneries, the spectacle of dancing and singing, and subjects normally avoided in other major genres, notably, love stories. He further identifies two subgenres and attributes their characteristics to the specificity of geographical areas that these films depict: films set in Xinjiang and Inner Mongolia, a “hard” area, more often emphasize class conflict and foreign espionage; films set in subtropical southwest China, a “soft” area, feature more love stories.19 In short, Clark maintains that the national minority film provides exotic attractions that are ­comparable to Chinese audiences’ first exposure to cinema, then considered an exotic Western viewing apparatus. In the late 1980s and 1990s, as film studies incorporated such analytical models as psychoanalysis, poststructuralism, and postcolonialism to address issues of difference, including gender, race, and ethnicity, studies of national minority films found a new direction by engaging Edward Said’s influential work Orientalism. Drawing upon Said’s original observation that aspects of the Oriental were interpreted and integrated into nationalistic and ethnocentric formulations of Western knowledge, Esther Yau suggests that the national minority film manifests the Han Chinese’ Othering practice. By marginalizing and exoticizing minority cultures, these films reinscribe the dominant Han 19  Clark, Chinese Cinema.

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Chinese discourse. She writes, although non-Han personnel, including consultants, interpreters, and performers, joined film productions, “Han control measures were omnipresent in every film: Han performers played national minorities’ roles; slogans written in the Chinese language appeared in the scenes; a male Han cadre present in every story judged political and folk matters; and the government’s agendas informed the narrative strategies.”20 This view is echoed by Yingjin Zhang in his study of the production of minority discourse in China. Zhang notes that despite the high visibility of the minority nationalities in this film genre, they are depicted as naïve and backward people who remain to be educated and liberated by outsiders—the enlightened and progressive Han Chinese. Through subjugating national minorities to an object position, the national minority film creates an unmistakable Han-centered viewing position, and therefore reinforces the Han ­cultural hegemony.21 These Saidean critiques surely call attention to power dynamics embedded in the representation of the national minorities in Chinese socialist cinema. However, they run the risk of asserting ethnicity as a product of textual effect and undermine the CCP’s political endeavor to construct ethnicity. In addition, the application of the binary opposition of Western Self and Oriental Other to the Chinese context neglects the local knowledge production of ethnicity in China. Furthermore, the binary opposition of the Han as an active observer and the minority nationalities as passive objects presupposes a distinct ethnic border and presumes that identification with a certain ethnic category characterizes the viewing experience of the national minority film. Chris Berry and Mary Farquar’s recent study of the national minority film provides a revisionist reading. They argue that representations of national minorities are “syncretic and performative productions of the intersection of the self-and-Other model with other local discourses of cultural and ethnic difference.”22 According to their observation, residual cultural elements such as Han ethnocentrism (where China is the center of civilization bestowing generosity on its supplicants) and Confucianism surface and even structure film narratives; the new egalitarian metaphor of brother nationalities is constantly framed within the patriarchal image of the family, where the Han is the elder brother and minority nationalities his young brothers. Taking account of 20  Esther Yau, “Is China the End of Hermeneutics? Or Political and Cultural Usage of Non-Han Women in Mainland Chinese Films,” Discourse 11, no. 2 (1989): 118. 21  Zhang Yingjin, “From ‘Minority Film’ to ‘Minority Discourse’: Questions of Nationhood and Ethnicity in Chinese Cinema,” Cinema Journal 36, no. 3 (1997): 73–90. 22  Berry and Farquar, China on Screen, 174.

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the negotiation of older and newer concepts of ethnic identity in China, Berry and Farquar’s analysis avoids the reductionism of postcolonial critiques and averts further confining minority nationalities to a marginalized and victimized position. All these studies have granted priority to the representation of minority nationalities, and hence ignore the possibility that historically situated film reception may accept, reproduce, alter, appropriate, or overthrow the intended message that national minority films aimed to deliver. To address this oversight, I pay special attention to questions related to performance and spectatorship as well as critical discourses surrounding the national minority film genre. 3

Flames of War in a Border Village: Cross-Ethnic Performance and the Politics of Recognition

Directed by Lin Nong 林农 in 1957, Flames of War in a Border Village is an important yet understudied national minority film. It tells the story of the Jingpo people in China’s southwest border area and their relationship with the newly arrived Han communists, the PLA. In particular, the film revolves around Duolong, a young Jingpo villager who harbors deep prejudice against the Han. It depicts several confrontations between Duolong and Han communist soldiers. Believing the rumor that the PLA intends to exploit Jingpo villagers, Duolong thwarts their attempts to mobilize the villagers to build an irrigation reservoir. Later, after a hidden KMT spy sets up an innocent PLA army doctor by poisoning Duolong’s son, the outraged Duolong seeks revenge against the doctor. After a failed attempt, he swims across a border river and falls into the hands of the KMT remnants. Taking advantage of his resentment toward the PLA, the KMT members instigate Duolong to sabotage the PLA. When Duolong sneaks back to the border village, he is amazed by the newly built reservoir and terraced fields and surprised by the fact that his son is still alive and healthy. Touched by the PLA’s benevolence and regretting his wrongdoing, Duolong assists the PLA by luring the KMT remnants into an ambush. After several twists and turns, the Jingpo villagers and the PLA clear up the misunderstanding between them and cooperate in defending the new China and engaging in socialist construction. The film ends with a scene where the Jingpo villagers and communist soldiers joyfully celebrate the opening ceremony of the reservoir, an unmistakable symbol of industrialized agriculture in this remote region. A couplet etched into the gate to the ceremony site delivers a clear political message: “All brother nationalities unite closely / Work hard to build a happy new life.”

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Upon its release, the film became popular with Chinese audiences all over the country. Like many other national minority films, Flames of War in a Border Village uses Mandarin instead of the local ethnic language to reach a wider audience. With the development of public transportation in autonomous minority regions and various distribution and exhibition practices, minority audiences were able to access regular film screenings. To make the film understandable for them, film studios sometimes dubbed dialogues in national languages, such as Mongolian, Korean, and Tibetan.23 Although it is unclear whether the film was ever dubbed in the Jingpo language, it was nevertheless well received in the minority region. In Mang Shi 芒市, a small town on the Sino-Burmese border where the Jingpo people live, a movie theater had to hold nine screenings of the film in response to audience demand—an unprecedented event in local history.24 In many ways, Flames of War in a Border Village is characteristic of the national minority film. For example, the film used on-location shooting, a common production practice for this genre. Shot in color, the film displays the grandeur of the rugged landscape unique to the Jingpo minority region. Thematically, it promotes the unification of the Han and its brother nationalities in the new China. In particular, the film addresses urgent nationality issues in the early years of the PRC: consolidating multinational solidarity, eliminating remnant enemies, and protecting national frontiers. At the level of film narrative, Flames of War in a Border Village resonates with some earlier national minority films. The film’s subplot, focusing on the love affair between Duolong and Manuo, intermingles with the main plot of “enlightened” Jingpo people and Han communists fighting espionage activities side by side. As early as 1954, a young Tibetan viewer wrote a letter to the Mass Cinema (Dazhong dianying 大众电影) film magazine and complained about the triteness of similar plots. My hometown is in Ganzi [Sichuan province]. [Before the liberation] there were no movies for us to watch. Now we can see movies every week…. I have seen over 300 movies in a couple of years since the liberation. They include movies depicting Tibetan life such as The Gold and Silver Sandbank [Jinyin tan 金银滩], Dawn over Meng River [Menghe 23  Duan Rui 端瑞, “Xiezhu yizhi minzu yu yingpian de renmen” 协助译制民族语影片的 人们 [People who assisted in dubbing films into ethnic languages], Dazhong dianying 大 众电影 [Mass Cinema] 9 (1957): 36. 24  Liu Jienong 刘介农 “Bianzhai fenghuo shi yibu you genben quexian de dianying”《边寨 烽火》是一部有根本缺陷的电影 [Flames of War in a Border Village is a film with fundamental defects]. Bianjiang wenxue 边疆文学 [Borderland Literature] 3 (1959): 64–68.

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de liming 猛河的黎明], and movies portraying Mongolian and Miao peoples, including Victory of the Inner Mongolian People [Neimeng renmin de shengli 内蒙人民的胜利], People of the Grasslands [Caoyuan shang de renmen 草原上的人们], and The Horse Caravan [Shanjian lingxiang mabang lai 山间铃响马帮来]. We especially welcome these films. However, I always feel that stories [about minority nationalities] are too similar. Other folks have also commented: “Aren’t there stories other than mediating blood feuds and catching spies?” I think that minority peoples’ lives are rich and colorful. Why can’t we adapt poetic folktales and myths into films? Why can’t we depict minority peoples’ new life? We are looking forward to watching national minority films with new contents.25 This filmgoer’s comments reveal that the national minority film, regardless of the specific nationality depicted, proved to be appealing to audiences in minority regions. The call for filmic innovation demonstrates more a concern with the vitality of the film genre than any anxiety over the extent to which representations of the Tibetan or any other single nationality were considered realistic and truthful. The impact of this viewer’s response on the general development of the genre is hard to measure. His empirical knowledge of the film genre is nevertheless amazing. More importantly, by foregrounding an awareness of ethnic multiplicity, he questions the “Han-centered viewing position,” a formulation of spectatorship, which has dominated previous studies of the national minority film. Such an account is problematic because it presupposes that identification is a de facto mechanism of the viewing experience. One should further ask whether Western theories of film identification that draw heavily on the Lacanian conception of desire as narcissistic can serve as an adequate and pertinent theoretical model to explain filmic experience in socialist China, a society that aimed to form collectives out of atomized individuals. The reason that Flames of War in a Border Village gripped Chinese audiences despite its conventional plotline is that it creates a distinctive minority character, Duolong, a man of valor and vigor. Indeed, he outshines other characters, including the PLA political officer and his comrades. Conventionally depicted as the liberator, the protector, and the guide of minority nationalities in their path to socialism, the PLA officers are dull stock characters. In contrast, Duolong is sympathetic and complex. He loves his wife, yet he sometimes behaves roughly to her; he is candid yet gullible; he is courageous but acts impetuously. 25  Luosan Zeren 洛桑泽仁, “Wei shenme lao shi da yuanjia” 为什么老是打冤家? [Why is it always about blood feuds?], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 3 (1954): 28.

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One viewer praised the film for creating a credibly constructed minority character, rather than an exotic novelty.26 Another, a Jingpo viewer, commended, “Duolong’s personality is very much like that of the Jingpo people.”27 It is worth nothing that Da Qi 达奇, a young Han Chinese actor of stalwart build and robust physique, gives a compelling performance as Duolong and delivers a certain ethnic aura.28 Evidently, the representation of minority nationalities is fundamentally a question of how to perform ethnicity. During the 1949–1966 period, it was common for Han Chinese actors to play ethnic minority roles. Song Xuejuan 宋雪娟 plays a Jingpo girl in Love Song on the Reed-Pipes. Wang Xiaotang 王晓棠 is cast as Duolong’s wife in Flames of War in a Border Village in 1957 and then plays a Mongolian woman in the 1962 film Storm Over Ordos (E’erduosi fengbao 鄂尔多斯风暴). However, cross-ethnic performance was by no means exclusive to the Han Chinese actor. A famous yet largely neglected example of cross-ethnic performance is the case of Yang Likun 杨丽坤, a Yi actress who made her name by playing a Bai character, the deputy commune director Jinhua in the romantic comedy Five Golden Flowers. Along with cinematic techniques that aimed to highlight ethnic authenticity, such as the careful use of ethnic costumes and ethnic musical instruments, cross-ethnic performance was employed to construct distinct iconographies of various nationalities. Without denying the unequal power relation between the Han and the minority nationalities that lay beneath the cinematic program of China’s multinationalities, I suggest that we contextualize cross-ethnic performance and understand it in socioeconomic terms. Since very few minority nationality film artists had received any kind of cinematic education before or after 1949, casting comparatively experienced Han Chinese actors to play ethnic roles was an efficient means to speed up the production of individual films and indeed the development of the genre as a whole. Moreover, cross-ethnic casting would not harm the credibility of minority nationality characters in films because the physical attributes of the diverse nationalities of China are not prominently 26  Feng Zhi 封植, “Yi bu fuyou bianjiang secai de yingpian: ping Bianzhai fenghuo” 一部 富有边疆色彩的影片—评《边寨烽火》[A film full of local color of borderland: On Flames of War in a Border Village], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1958): 56–58. 27  Bai Jingcheng 白景晟, “Minzu xueyuan shisheng tan Bianzhai fenghuo” 民族学院师生 谈《边寨烽火》[Discussions of Flames of War in a Border Village by teachers and students at the Institute for Nationalities], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 9 (1958): 59. 28  Da Qi’s outstanding screen debut performance won him the Young Actor award at the eleventh Karlovy Vary International Film Festival in 1959.

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distinguishable and because physical appearance or observable traits are not regarded as a determining factor of the Marxist concept of nationality. The fact that many categories of minority nationality had only been recognized very recently further opened up the creative space to construct particular ethnicities visually. To a large degree, cross-ethnic performance heightens the fact that ethnicity is performative—an act of reiteration. In parallel to cross-ethnic casting, ethnic natives were cast to play their own ethnic roles in some national minority films. For instance, Mongolian actors played major roles in the PRC’s first national minority film Victory of the Inner Mongolian People. In 1963 a Tibetan young man gave an excellent performance as the protagonist in the highly acclaimed film Serf set in Tibet. Considering that most of these minority actors were nonprofessional performers, this type of casting was concerned more with showcasing the emancipation of minority nationalities in the new China than with their “authentic” depiction onscreen. In an interview with Mass Cinema in 1954, Falida, a Kazakh translator in the Xinjiang Bureau of the CCP, recounts her involvement in the making of Hasen and Jiamila, a film that depicts the lives of the Kazakhs. She had participated in discussions about the screenplay in the course of her routine responsibilities at the bureau and, at the encouragement of her supervisor, signed up for casting. Contrary to her expectation that Han Chinese actors would play all the major roles, the film turned out to have an all-Kazakh cast and she was asked to play the female lead. The casting decision was evidently not based on her acting ability, since all the cast members were subsequently sent to the Shanghai Film Studio to receive intensive performance training. “Had it not been for Chairman Mao and the Chinese Communist Party, we would have never dreamed [of playing our people onscreen]!” she tells her interviewer.29 In addition to instilling a strong sense of emancipation in minority actors, filmmaking and its related events provided good opportunities for all nationalities to gather together, thus forming a physical community of multinationalities. Falida further recalls her experience of brotherly love across ethnic divides. When the entire film crew was invited to appear together in the People’s Square in Shanghai, she was overwhelmed by the warm welcome Kazahk actors received from local Shanghainese.30

29  Jiang Yi 姜薏, “Yi duo xunlan de minzu zhi hua: fangwen Hasen yu Jiamila de Kasake zu yanyuan” 一朵绚烂的民族之花—访问《哈森与加米拉》的哈萨克族演员 [A brilliant flower from national minorities: An interview with Kazakh actors from Hasen and Jiamila], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 21 (1954): 28–29. 30  Ibid.

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Casting minority actors to play their own ethnic roles and cross-ethnic casting are not contradictory practices. Both were utilized as convenient tools to nurture the sentiment of ethnic solidarity and both foregrounded filmmaking as social practice, which enabled actors to approximate the socialist ideal of ethnic fraternity. Nevertheless, extradiegetic discourses regarding cross-ethnic performance, which were circulated in popular film magazines and trade journals, brought the complicated spectatorial experience to the fore. Examinations of cross-ethnic performance informed by gender studies and performance studies have highlighted the radical potential of such a practice in subverting prescribed and normative identities. One way of looking at cross-ethnic performance is to see how it creates differentiated spectatorial positions and facilitates community-making. In addressing racial and sexual passing, Amy Robinson formulates the comprehensive mechanism of passing as “a triangular theater of identity” that requires three major participants: the passer, the dupe (one who cannot see through passing), and the in-group clairvoyant (one who can see through passing and discerns its artificiality). She notes, “The moment of passing in drag is always a moment of collaboration. It is precisely the silence of the third term (the literate member of the in-group) that establishes the conditions for the successful pass. The perverse pleasure of duping the dupe, which transforms a painful scenario of collaboration into an occasion to make and remake community, is always and already a qualified pleasure.”31 In Robinson’s model, a politics of optics is instrumental to understanding identity. In the case of passing, this politics includes the visibility of the apparatus of passing and optic censorship exercised by the in-group. The visible functions as the vehicle of knowledge and determines different spectatorial positions. Cross-ethnic performance in Chinese socialist cinema offers a different paradigm. It is not a cultural performance of preferred ethnic identity but an institutional practice endorsed by the socialist ideology. It also intends to be transparent in order to cue the spectator to overcome his own ethnic specificity. This is evidenced by the casting of famous Han Chinese actors to play ethnic roles. The best example is Qin Yi, a veteran drama and film actress who had won wide acclaim for her performance in Woman Basketball Player No. 5 (1957) and Song of Youth (Qingchun zhi ge 青春之歌, 1959) before being cast to play a double role (mother and daughter) of Dai ethnicity in Dai Doctor in 1960. In addition, behind-the-scenes articles on national minority films lay bare the fact of cross-ethnic performance. These articles often recorded 31  Amy Robinson, “It Takes One to Know One: Passing and Communities of Common Interests,” Critical Inquiry 20, no. 4 (1994): 716, 736.

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Da Qi as Duolong in Flames of the War in a Border Village Source: Screenshot by the author of the film in play

many noncinematic activities that involved Han Chinese actors and minority peoples as an important part of the experience of filming on-location. For instance, Han Chinese actors worked and lived with local minority peoples in order to learn their ethnic language and customs; minority peoples, in turn, offered assistance in translation and scene-setting, and performed as extras.32 Such extracinematic knowledge—what the actual audience brought to their viewing—already precludes a total immersive spectatorial experience. The discrepancy between visual and aural codes onscreen further discloses cross-ethnic performance and creates a verfremdungseffekt (distancing effect) on the audience. In Flames of War in a Border Village Da Qi as Duolong wears a turban, carries a long sword, drinks liquor from bamboo tubes, and participates in folk dances (FIGURE 7). These visual markers help define Duolong’s Jingpo identity onscreen. They also reveal that the popular understanding of ethnicity in the PRC operated through an economy of optics. Since physical differences between China’s diverse nationalities are not prominent and biological essentialism was never part of the CCP’s discourse of nationality, the intelligibility 32  See Li Ming 李明 and Xia Tian 夏天, “Zai xibei caoyuan pai Jinyin Tan” 在西北草原拍 《金银滩》[Shooting   The Gold and Silver Sandbank in Northwest Grasslands], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 4 (1952), 10–12; Gong Wen 工文, “Moya Dai waijing suiji”《摩雅傣》外景随记 [Notes on on-location shooting of Dai Doctor], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 4 (1960): 25.

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of a certain ethnicity relied heavily on the visual representation of superfluous things such as clothing, hairpieces, and habitual or religious practices. The cinematic depiction of Duolong clearly sets him apart from the Han Chinese army officer who wears a military uniform, carries a firearm, and draws the blueprint of the irrigation reservoir. These depictions link certain traits to the Han (advanced/civilized/rational) and to the minorities (backward/ primitive/emotional), and therefore support the official discourse of minzu, particularly the sociohistorical differences between the Han and minority nationalities. Although the national minority film visually creates compelling ethnic iconography, the soundscape of this genre reveals a contradiction inherent to the construction of ethnicity. Sound not only functions as a background to a scene or shot but also serves as a form of editing strategy by suturing different images. Thus it orients the audience’s expectations and influences its perceptions. For instance, accompanying the opening credits of Flames of War in a Border Village and the shot of palm tree leaves trembling in the wind, the background music begins with fast-paced tumultuous martial music and gradually eases into melodic outlandish folk music. Preceding the film narrative, the music fleshes out the image, provides its own narrative, creates an emotive space, and prompts viewers to expect a story about the minority nationalities. The rich acoustic realm of Flames of War in a Border Village suggests that the viewer’s experience of the film is not entirely visual but rather an experience of multisensory involvement. In addition, Flames of War in a Border Village frequently employs distinctive audio codes, such as melody produced by Jingpo pipe instruments, to create an ethnic ambience that supplements the visual code in enhancing the effect of verisimilitude. However, the use of Mandarin in dialogues disrupts this illusion of ethnic authenticity. With regard to cross-ethnic performance, visually Da Qi can easily pass as a member of a minority nationality, but aurally his impeccable Mandarin betrays his identity to multilingual Chinese audiences. Even in a few musical numbers with a strong ethnic flavor, which are integrated into the film narrative, Da Qi sings love songs in Mandarin. The use of the so-called common speech, Mandarin, in national minority films has a specific ideological function. It aurally promotes national unification; it also normalizes ethnic subjects into political subjects. For multilingual Chinese audiences, aside from their prior knowledge of the actor’s offscreen identity, their knowledge of linguistic differences enables them to discern a diegetic rupture. The discrepancy between the visual and the aural in Flames of War in a Border Village indicates the textual normalization of the clairvoyant position, a position that the actual audiences

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in China at the time also assumed. It also cues the audience to rationalize the semantic messages of such audiovisual codes. The blend of the familiar and unfamiliar in ethnic iconicity induces an uncanny feeling in the spectator and opens an intersubjective realm. For the cognitive spectator, cross-ethnic performance simultaneously renders “differences of nationality” visible and reveals a possible merger of different nationalities. In the meantime, the spectator’s recognition of cross-ethnic ­performance creates a critical distance necessary for them not to be interpellated into any fixed ethnic position, but to overcome his own ethnicity to ­identify with Duolong, whose action advances the film narrative. The familiarity with the official discourse of minzu may influence the spectator’s p ­ rocessing of audiovisual codes and lead them to realize the structural significance of ethnicity in the film narrative. Just as in the official discourse of a multinational nation, the importance of any given minority nationality does not lie in its ethnic distinctiveness but in its position in the newly promoted horizontal ethnic order. Perhaps, with exception of the Han, the big brother, all other nationalities are interchangeable. The fact that stories of minority nationalities are similar, as observed by the aforementioned Tibetan audience, and that ethnic roles are accessible to people of diverse ethnic backgrounds, evidence this point. If performing the minority nationalities enables the actor to take on a new perspective of the brother nationalities and experience trans-ethnic unity with his onscreen surrogate, then the recognition of crossethnic performance establishes imagined communities between the audience and the actor through a shared knowledge of the fraternity of nationalities in socialist China. What cross-ethnic performance onscreen cues the spectator to respond to has its parallel in the film narrative. Constructing ethnic boundaries is to deconstruct them. Flames of War in a Border Village makes it clear that the ethnic border is porous. Gedang, the KMT spy, who takes a Jingpo name and adopts Jingpo people’s demeanors, is indeed a Han Chinese. Ethnicity, shown to be easily worn and removed, is no longer the determinant of communitymaking in the new China. While the film dismisses any ethnic norm, it does set up the norm of identity: being a patriotic socialist. Within the film narrative, geopolitical border crossing is far more threatening and alarming than ethnic border crossing. When Duolong comes back to his village from the other side of the border river, his arm already bears a tattoo that says, “Oppose the Chinese Communists and Resist the Soviet Union.” This bodily inscription attests to his territorial border crossing and spells out his political membership. Its message also reminds the audience of the grim geopolitical situation that China faces, and in particular its precarious border security in the age of Cold War.

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The incident of Duolong’s transgression successfully deflects the viewer’s attention from ethnic conflict to the issues of border security and political reconfiguration. However, the film’s negotiation of the Party’s interests on the one hand and the audience’s tastes on the other generates a textual friction. Although the film intends to suggest that political orientation rather than ethnic affiliation is the driving force in community-building, it presents Duolong’s transformation as less a result of his developed political consciousness than as an emotional reaction to the benevolence of the Han communists (they save his son and pardon his wrongdoing). In a similar way, the KMT remnants’ planned sabotage of the newly built irrigation reservoir shifts the audience’s attention from ethnic conflict to political confrontation, thus questioning the Self/ethnic Other binarism. At the same time, this ingeniously designed plot conveniently helps evade the thorny question of potential tension among fraternal nationalities, considering that the Han Chinese may well use their scientific and technological advantage to justify their broad industrial modernization plan across the country, disregarding the ecological, economic, and social interests of minority nationalities. The ending of the film further directs the spectator’s attention away from the question of the authenticity of individual ethnicity to the importance of the fraternity of nationalities. This fraternity is desirable because it safeguards the fruits of socialist construction. Moreover, it not only liberates the minority nationalities from oppression and elevates their social status but also promises them higher productivity and improved livelihood. As the scene of the jubilant inauguration of the irrigation system indicates, due to a concerted effort made by local villagers and the PLA soldiers, the minority nationality can develop itself into a full member of the new multinational socialist state and advance on its path to socialism. What is remarkable is that the scene lures the spectator into positioning himself within the political order of fraternal nationalities. A paean of the Party, which accompanies several sequences of ethnic dance, guides the spectator to interpret the visual spectacle as the minority nationality’s expression of belonging to the new political order rather than its exoticization as the ethnic Other by Han Chinese discourse. A few close-up shots of several characters who take turns to lead the chorus are telling. These shots not only suggest the elevated status of ordinary folks in the new society but also reveal their inner pride. An odd juxtaposition of two close-ups, one being an old man with ambiguous ethnicity and the other a Jingpo woman, visually creates a horizontal relation between nationalities (FIGURE 8). It also indicates that this horizontal community of nationalities is extensible and open-ended, and it thus signals to the spectator to insert himself into this horizontal community.

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Close-up shots of two anonymous characters of different nationalities Source: Screenshot by the author of Flames of the War in a Border Village in play

Daji and Her Fathers from Page to Screen: Typifying Ethnic Fraternity in Socialist China

Flames of the War in a Border Village imparts an important lesson: Forming the fraternity of nationalities is crucial to ensuring national unity and territorial integration. Similarly, Wang Jiayi’s 1961 film Daji and Her Fathers c­ elebrates ethnic fraternity and affirms it as an essential quality of the New Man in socialist China. Adapted from Gao Ying’s 高缨 short story of the same name and coproduced by the Emei Film Studio in Sichuan and the well-established Changchun Film Studio in northern China, Daji and Her Fathers is an unusual tale of the tension between universal humanism and ethnic fraternity. Upon its release, Daji and Her Fathers enjoyed great popularity at home and sold over twenty copies abroad.33 Set in the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture in Sichuan province during the Great Leap Forward, the film weaves together two storylines of socialist construction and family reunion. To help the Yi ethnic minority to build a water conservation and hydropower project in the Liangshan Region, Han Chinese technician Ren Bingqing and his colleagues take up a temporary residence in Nigulada People’s Commune where he has become well acquainted with the Head of Commune, Mahe, and his beautiful and warm-hearted daughter Daji, the leader of the Youth Squad at the Commune. By accident, Ren discovers that Daji is his long-lost daughter, who was abducted by Yi slave owners thirteen years before. Mahe, then 33  Gao Ying 高缨, “Buxi de gouhuo” 不熄的篝火—凉山民主改革与我的创作 [Campfire never dies: Democratic reform in the Liangshan region and my literary creation], Dangdai wentan 当代文坛 [Contemporary Literary Forum] 6 (1991): 44–47.

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a middle-aged slave, saved Daji’s life at a crucial moment. Henceforth they had both looked after each other and lived together as father and daughter. This inconvenient truth causes a dilemma for all three characters. For Ren and Mahe, the predicament they face is whether one should claim the daughter and disregard the feeling of his “brother”; for Daji, choosing between her foster father and her biological father is not easy. Out of her deep love for the Yi people, Daji decides to stay in the Liangshan prefecture and persuades Ren to live with her and Mahe together. The film concludes with a happy get-together of Daji and her two fathers in a symbolic union of all nationalities in one family, thus reaching a harmonious resolution of the problems of personal happiness, ethnic fraternity, and national unity. The ideological message that Daji and Her Fathers conveys—all brother nationalities thrive in one big socialist family—is by no means unique among national minority films. What sets the film apart is its distinctive affirmation of common familial emotions at a time when the revolutionary rhetoric of class struggle drowned out all other voices and emotional demands. There is no doubt that this humanism contributed greatly to the film’s success outside the PRC. For instance, when Daji and Her Fathers was screened in Hong Kong under the title A Bright Pearl from Liangshan (Liangshang mingzhu 凉山明珠) in 1962, a movie review published in the Hong Kong newspaper New Life Evening Post (Xinsheng wanbao 新生晚报) made the following statement: “[The film] is very touching not because of its story line about building water conservation projects, but because of its popular plot: it is a story about a girl and her birth and foster fathers, full of twists and turns. In an original way, the movie offers a modest and refreshing rendering of a familiar family melodrama.”34 However, for Chinese audiences who had been familiar with Gao Ying’s short story, the film had betrayed the original work’s humanistic spirit. The drastic differences between the prose and cinematic versions of Daji and Her Fathers excited an unprecedented nationwide debate during 1961 and 1962 on the artistic merits of the short story and its film adaptation, involving many writers, artists, literary critics, editors, and ordinary readers in the PRC. The very fact that the film version of Daji and Her Fathers injected a heavy dose of ethnic fraternity into a story of familial love not only brings to the fore the importance of the Party’s political ideas of nationality and ethnic unity but also calls attention to strategies of adaptation that Gao Ying devised in 34  Anonymous, “Xianggang Xinsheng wanbao zai wen ping wo dianying Daji he ta de fuqin” 香港《新生晚报》载文评我电影《达吉和她的父亲》[New Life Evening Post in Hong Kong published movie reviews on Daji and Her Fathers], Cankao xiaoxi 参考消息 [Reference News], September 25, 1962.

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response to changing sociohistorical circumstance and imperatives. To understand all the modifications the original story underwent, it is necessary to revisit its journey to the silver screen. Gao Ying’s original story, which draws on his fieldwork in the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Region in 1957, was first published in the third issue of the Sichuan-based literary magazine Red Crag (Hongyan 红岩) in 1958.35 It did not cause a stir until it was reprinted in the widely circulated national journal, the New Observer (Xin guancha 新观察), and drew high praise from the journal’s chief editor Chen Xiaoyu 陈笑雨 in 1959.36 In an essay published under the pen name Qiao Yu 樵渔, Chen Xiaoyu passionately recommended Daji and Her Fathers as a poetic and heart-stirring story. In his view, the central conflict— Daji being torn between her love for her biological father, a Han farmer, and her foster father, a Yi peasant—is so uniquely designed that it catapults the reader immediately into the breathtaking climax of the story. In addition, the film’s conclusion—Daji decides to stay with Mahe and to visit her birth father once a year—not only sensibly resolves the conflict but also successfully blends familial emotion with ethnic fraternity. At the end of his essay, Chen reaffirms the artistic merits of the story: “This refreshing and smoothly flowing story of the parting and reunion of Daji, Mahe, and Old Ren invites the readers to share the joys and sorrows of the protagonists. If you’d like to know what the magic power of art is, this is a good illustration.”37 Before long Daji and Her Fathers attracted extensive public attention. The story was circulated as an offprint, put on stage, and adapted into a palm-sized picture book.38 Despite Chen’s commendation, a harmonious ethnic relationship is hardly at the heart of the story. In fact, much of the story’s affective power is derived from the uninhibited lyricism enabled by the story’s formal strategies. Framed as a letter, the story opens with a greeting from the sender, Li Yun, to the unspecified recipient, “my friend,” thus inviting the reader to assume the role of a trusted confidant. The epistolary form conveniently allows the narrator to offer a glimpse of his private life: 35  Gao Ying 高缨, “Daji he ta de fuqin” 达吉和她的父亲 [Daji and Her Fathers], Hongyan 红岩 [Red Crag] 3 (1958): 33–40. The full text of the story was also reprinted in the sixteenth issue of the New Observer (Xin guancha 新观察) in 1959 and the tenth issue of Wenyi bao 文艺报 (Literary Gazette) in 1961. 36  Gao Ying, “Buxi de gouhuo,” 46. 37  Qiaoyu 樵渔 (Chen Xiaoyu 陈笑雨), “Yi pian yinren rushing zhi zuo” 一篇引人入胜 的作品 [A fascinating piece of work], Xin guancha 新观察 [New Observer] 16 (1959); reprinted in Daji he ta de fuqin taolun ji 达吉和她的父亲讨论集 [Essays on Daji and Her Fathers] (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin zhubanshe, 1962), 1–2. 38  Gao Ying, “Buxi de gouhuo,” 46.

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Every evening when I return home, my little girl (she is already three years old) would throw herself into my arms, hug my neck with her soft little hands, and press her warm cheeks against mine while giggling. I would lightly close my eyes to immerse myself in the moment and enjoy being a father…. At such a moment, the silhouettes of a girl from Liangshan and her father would flash before my eyes. And my heart would pound so fast … Ah, how I wish to immediately pour out my story, a story about a father, about a daughter, about love and hate in this world.39 The beginning of the short story not only sets an emotive tone wrapped in tender affection but also suggests paternal love as the theme that threads through the stories of the two fathers, disregarding their ethnicities. What follows are thirteen diary entries, written by Li Yun during his stay in a small village in Liangshan. These diary entries construct a realist narrative that draws the narrator—a Han cadre sent by the Autonomous Prefecture Committee, and thus an outsider—into a gripping tale of Daji and her two fathers. They allow the versatile narrator to express his emotion uninhibited and effortlessly shift his roles between insider and outsider, between compassionate observer and resolute Party member. Take, for instance, one of the lengthy entries that records Daji’s revelation of her true Han ethnic identity and the narrator’s emotional response. Upon hearing Daji’s recount of her childhood suffering at the hands of Yi slave owners, the narrator feels a surge of parochial ethnic solidarity well up inside him. “How I wish to shout out, ‘My pitiful little sister, I will take you back to the Han region and I will help you to find your mom and your dad …’ ” This genuine emotion is quickly suppressed, or in the narrator’s words, “my reason soon overcomes my impulse,” as his political identity as a Party member lifts him from narrow ethnic self-interest and reminds him that he is “the son of the people of all nationalities!” However brief it may be, the narrator’s momentary gush of emotion untainted by political ideology reads refreshingly sincere. Emotionalism is also central to the construction of the main characters. The portrayal of Mahe is a case in point. He is distrustful of outsiders and wary of Han people but extremely affectionate toward his daughter. Ever since he learned that an old Han man was looking for his long-lost daughter, he had become anxious and distressed. Much of the character’s appeal no doubt lies in his unflinching desire to keep Daji. The diary entry below vividly depicts Mahe’s fiery temper as he confronts Daji’s birth father Ren Bingqing: 39  Gao Ying, Daji and Her Fathers, 33.

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When I was about to wipe away my tears, I heard Mahe’s angry voice: “Who is here to grab away my Daji?” I stood up nervously and Daji hurriedly hid away. Old Mahe stormed inside, opened his cape and stood in the middle of the room, with his eyes burning with hatred. Fixing a hard stare at Ren Bingqing, he cried, “Get out of here! Like obstructing stones, roll out, roll out of here! Don’t ever dare to steal my daughter, get out!” Although I know that people of Liangshan are known for their ferocious character, I have never seen anyone so irritable as Mahe. To my bigger surprise, the old, frail Ren also flew into a rage. In a thundering voice, he shouted, “You get out. You, a barbarian, get out of here.” In that instant, I knew things would go wrong. Mahe’s face turned leaden, deep furrows on that face tightened like full bows, and his yellowish eyeballs seemed to be popping out from their sockets. Coldly, he yelled and squeezed curses through his clenched teeth, “I will kill you.” Then he drew a half-rusty dagger out of his bosom.40 While this scene convincingly creates two memorable loving fathers, it hints at the rift between Han and Yi ethnic groups and echoes the subtle depiction of the deeply rooted ethnic barriers insinuated in other places in the narrative. Chen Xiaoyu recommended the story on the grounds that the resolution of the conflict between Mahe and Ren Bingqing, or a type of “contradiction among the people” (renmin neibu maodun 人民内部矛盾), manifests classbased ethnic fraternity—the two characters’ common hatred against the exploitative ruling class leads to their final reconciliation.41 A closer reading of the story reveals otherwise. The story’s ending is in fact another manifestation of the power of human emotions. Mahe accedes to Ren Bingqing’s original request for he cannot bear seeing Daji tormented and miserable. Ren ultimately decides not to take Daji away from Liangshan upon realizing Mahe’s profound love for Daji. Tapping into the success of the short story, Emei and Changchun film ­studios promptly joined forces in spring 1960 to turn it into a film. They appointed Wang Jiayi, who had established his name with the smash-hit national minority film Five Golden Flowers in 1959, to direct it, and sent Zhang Bo 张波, a ­filmmaker from the Emei Film Studio, to assist Gao Ying with turning his short story into a screenplay. Given the political sensitivity and importance of the national minority subject, it should come as no surprise that the film production process was closely scrutinized by local Party committees. Contrary to c­ onventional assumptions about censorship in authoritarian regimes that 40  Ibid., 37. 41  Qiaoyu, “Yi pian yinren rushing zhi zuo,” 1–2.

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pit the state against the artist, reminiscent accounts on Daji and Her Fathers highlight a more nuanced relationship between the Party bureaucrats and the artists. As Gao Ying recalls, the CCP committee of Puxiong county gave him and Zhang Bo much support so that the two of them could “plunge into the thick of life” in the Yi nationality area in preparation for writing the screenplay.42 Yang Zeping 杨泽平, who served as the deputy director of the General Office at the E’mei Film Studio in the 1960s, also mentions the Party propaganda organ’s direct contribution in shaping the film script. In one of his essays, Yang recalls that Gao Ying’s first draft of the film script, which stayed close to the original story, failed to win official approval from the Liangshan Autonomous Prefecture Government. However, Li Yaqun 李亚群, vice director of propaganda in the CCP Sichuan Provincial Committee, gave the writer much encouragement and advised him to emphasize the ethnic solidarity of the Yi and the Han in his revision. Film artists at the time also seemed to be politically attuned to making necessary adjustments in order to have their works approved for publication and release. For example, after reading Gao’s redraft, the astute Wang Jiayi provided further comments for revision: “Character creation needs to take account of the new historical circumstances and the basic tone of the movie should be joyful.”43 These comments were not symptomatic of the filmmaker’s subservience. Rather, they were made as a calculated manoeuvre amid nationwide critical attacks on “bourgeois theories” of human nature and humanism by a group of radical leftists. The central target of these attacks was “On Human Feelings” (Lun renqing 论人情), an article written by editor and literary theorist Ba Ren 巴人 in 1957.44 To rectify the formulaic and dogmatic tendency in literature, Ba Ren calls writers not to hold bias against common human feelings and sensibilities but to value humanism that is rooted in human nature in their writings, because “although literature and arts must serve class struggle, the ultimate goal of literature and arts is to emancipate human beings 42  Gao Ying, “Buxi de gouhuo,” 46. 43  Yang Zeping 杨泽平, “Zhou Zongli yu Daji he ta de fuqin” 周总理与达吉和她的父亲 [Premier Zhou and Daji and Her Fathers], Wenshi zazhi 文史杂志 [History and Literature Magazine] 3 (2011): 30–33. 44  Other works that came under attack include Qian Gurong’s 钱谷融 essay, “Lun ‘wenxue shi renxue’” 论 “文学是人学” [On “Literature is the Study of Man”], Wenyi yuebao 文 艺月报 [Literature and Art Monthly] 5 (1957): 39, and some fictions written during the Hundred Flowers Campaign such as Deng Youmei 邓友梅, “Zai xuanya shang” 在悬崖 上 [On the cliff], Wenxue zazhi 文学杂志 [Literature Magazine] 9 (1956): 8–69 and Zong Pu 宗璞, “Hongdou” 红豆 [Red beans], Renmin wenxue 人民文学 [People’s Literature] 7 (1957): 14–25.

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and liberate humanity.”45 Criticism of Ba Ren’s theory of humanism escalated in 1960 when several young critics, including Yao Wenyuan, Li Xifan 李希凡 and Hu Jingzhi 胡经之, not only challenged Ba Ren’s theory for obliterating the necessity of class struggle but also accused the theorist of being revisionist and a class enemy in the service of imperialist interests.46 In film circles, Xu Huaizhong’s 徐怀中 Heartless Lovers (Wuqing de qingren 无情的情人), a film script that tells the story of two star-crossed Tibetan lovers, a chieftain’s daughter and a horse-thief, attracted severe criticism. Critical essays coauthored by both Han and Tibetan writers repudiated Xu’s script for it “distorts class struggle, covers up class conflicts and advocates the theory of human nature.”47 As a consequence, Xu was soon pressured to publish a self-criticism,48 which was in effect an apology.49 Around the same time, Gao Ying’s early works on the lives of the Yi people such as The Song of the Great Liangshan (Da Liangshan zhige 大凉山之歌) began to attract criticism, leaving the writer deeply anxious, or in his words, “like a bird startled by the twang 45  Ba Ren 巴人, “Lun Renqing” 论人情 [On human feelings], Xin gang 新港 [New Port] 1 (1957); reprinted in Xinhua banyuekan 新华半月刊 [New China Biweekly] 4 (1960): 144–145. Page references are to the 1960 edition. 46  Yao Wenyuan 姚文元, “Pipan Ba Ren de ‘Renxing lun’” 批判巴人的人性论 [A criticism of Ba Ren’s human nature theory], Wenyi bao 文艺报 [Literary Gazette] 2 (1960): 31–40. For other criticism on Ba Ren, see also Li Xifan 李希凡, “Bo ‘renlei benxing de rendao zhuyi’: cong Ba Ren de ‘Lun renqing’ tanqi” 驳 “人类本性的人道主义”—从巴人的 “ 论人情” 谈起 [Critique of Ba Ren’s “Humanism Based on Human Nature”: Starting from Ba Ren’s “On Human Feelings”], Xin jianshe 新建设 [New Construction] 4 (1960): 15–22; Hu Jingzhe 胡经之, “Lun rendao zhuyi: pipan Ba Ren de rendao zhuyi lun” 论人道主 义—批判巴人的人道主义论 [On humanism: Critique of Ba Ren’s views on humanism], Xueshu yuekan 学术月刊 [Academic Monthly] 11 (1960): 61–69. 47  Tong Yu et al. 潼雨, 夏果, 安只, 菊楼, “Yibu xuanyang ‘Renxing lun’ de zuopin: ping Xu Huaizhong tongzhi de dianying juben Wuqing de qingren” 一部宣扬 “人性论” 的 作品—评徐怀中同志的电影剧本《无情的情人》[A literary piece that advocates the theory of human nature: On Comrade Xu Huaizhong’s film script Heartless Lovers], Jiefangjun wenyi 解放军文艺 [PLA Literature and Arts] 4 (1960): 66–72. See also Zhang Xishen et al. 张西申, 馬宏驥, 格桑吉村, 泽明顿珠, “Chuanzuo buneng waiqu xianshi: pipan Wuqing de qingren dui zangzu renmin xianshi shenghuo de waiqu” 创作不能歪 曲现实—批判《无情的情人》对藏族人民现实生活的歪曲 [Creation must not distort reality: Criticizing the distortion of the lives of the Tibetans in Heartless Lovers], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 6 (1960): 57–61. 48  In Mao’s China, self-criticism (ziwo piping 自我批评 or ziwo jiancha 自我检查) was one of many governmental techniques that the CCP employed to create desirable subjects. Generally speaking, it refers to a public act of dissecting one’s previously erroneous thoughts in the light of socialist ideology. Self-criticism could take the forms of group discussion, public speeches, and writing. 49  Xu Huaizhong 徐怀中, Wo de chubu jiancha 我的初步检查 [My preliminary selfcriticism], Dianying chuangzuo 电影创作 [Film Creation] 4 (1960): 88–91.

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of a bow” (jinggong zhi niao 惊弓之鸟).50 Redrafting the film script in such a climate, the writer cautiously eliminated traces of ethnic conflict, downplayed the universal human emotions such as familial love that had been so important in the original short story, and incorporated many suggestions into his revision. When the final version of the film script was published in the tenth issue of Film Literature in 1960, Gao Ying specifically added a postscript detailing the approaches he had employed in writing the script: Thanks to the Party’s instruction, I now clearly understand that the nationality question needs to be analysed through the lens of class in order to correctly reflect the brand-new ethnic relations in our country. I now also understand that I should employ the creative method of “revolutionary realism and revolutionary romanticism” to depict our real life and to portray the lofty spirit of our laboring masses…. Through writing this script, I have personally experienced [the truism] that we cannot create literary and artistic pieces without the Party’s leadership and without the support of the collective.51 With hindsight, we can infer that this statement was intended to preempt negative responses and personal attacks, rather than to share his writing tips and assert his allegiance to the Party. Daji and Her Fathers greeted audiences in cinemas across China in the summer of 1961, and its distinct departure from the source short story took many by surprise. Formal features that helped heighten the original story’s affective appeal such as the epistolary form along with the subjective observations of the third-person narration had all vanished in the film. The original story’s gloomy undertone of the family melodrama gives way to cheerful enthusiasm for the construction of an irrigation system in Liangshan as the film sets the story during the Great Leap Forward instead of the mid-1950s. The two male protagonists are elevated from ordinary peasants in the short story to highstatus members of the new society in the film—Mahe serves as the head of a local people’s commune and Ren Bingqing is an engineer in a hydraulic engineering team. What is more, the conflict that is central to the original story, namely, the two fathers’ fight for Daji, is removed. Each of the fathers disregards his personal feelings and persuades Daji to stay with the other father out 50  Gao Ying, “Buxi de gouhuo,” 46. 51  Gao Ying, Daji and Her Fathers, quoted in Li Houji 李厚基, “Geng shang yi ceng lou” 更上 一层楼 [Reaching a higher level], in Daji he ta de fuqin taolun ji 达吉和她的父亲讨论 集 [The Daji and Her Fathers Debate] (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin zhubanshe, 1962), 3–10.

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of his class-based compassion and deep concern for his “brother nationality.” Despite all these major changes, the issues of humanism and human nature still plagued the reception of the film. It was not until Premier Zhou Enlai admonished against subjectivism and dogmatism in literary and art criticism and voiced his personal support of Daji and Her Fathers at the Literature and Art Conference and Fictional Film Creation Meeting in June 19, 1961,52 that many writers and ordinary readers joined in the nationwide debate about the film adaptation of Daji and Her Fathers without apprehension and voiced their diverse opinions.53 In retrospect, the film Daji and Her Fathers aroused much controversy not because it is deprived of emotion, but rather because it is excessively emotional. A conventional tale of family reunion is turned into an unusual story of personal happiness and ethnic unity. As the film defines socialist fraternity as an essential quality of the New Man, class-based fraternal love overpowers all other emotions. Compared to the original fiction, the cinematic version of Daji and Her Fathers invents new biographical details of the main characters to foreground the representation of ethnicity and to elicit multilayered cross-ethnic identification. Like Flames of War in a Border Village, Daji and Her Fathers employs various audiovisual codes, including clothing with colorful embroidery and group dance accompanied by reeds and other folk musical instruments, to construct Yi ethnicity. Using Daji’s unusual life experience, the film further 52  In his speech Zhou specifically states that he had enjoyed both versions of Daji and Her Fathers but laments that the movie was designed in such a way that it suppressed the audience’s emotional response. Zhou Enlai 周恩来, “Zai wenyi gongzuo zuotanhui he gushi pian chuangzuo huiyi shang de jianghua” 在文艺工作座谈会和故事片 创作会议上的讲话 [Talks delivered at the Literature and Art Conference and Fiction Film Creation Meeting], June 19, 1961, accessed July 20, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/ chinese/zhouenlai/134.htm. 53  During the year-long debate, numerous articles were published in Sichuan Ribao 四川 日报 [Sichuan Daily], Sichuan Wenxue 四川文学 [Sichuan Literature], and Wenyi bao 文 艺报 [Literary Gazette]. A selection of essays published before February 1962 were collected in the anthology Daji he ta de fuqin taolun ji 达吉和她的父亲讨论集 [Essays on Daji and Her Fathers], published by Sichuan renmin chubanshe in 1962. While some artists such as Zhao Dan 赵丹, Xie Jin 谢晋, and Huang Zongying 黄宗英 praised the original story for being more affective, others including Li Houji 李厚基 and Lü Bing 履冰 held that the film created more realistic and typical characters in socialist China. Carried out in a relatively liberal environment, this year-long debate reached no consensus. For a brief summary of the debate, see Chen Chaohong 陈朝红, “Youguan Daji he ta de fuqin de zhenglun” 有关《达吉和她的父亲》的争论 [Concerning the Daji and Her Fathers debate], Xin wenxue shiliao 新文学史料 [Historical Materials on New Literature] 11 (2001): 199–208.

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demonstrates that ethnicity is built around performativity, self-identification, and recognition. In a memorable scene of role-playing, Xiao Wang, a Han woman technician, and Daji exchange their clothes as an act of friendship. Several Yi girls happily help Xiao Wang to put on Daji’s colorful Yi dress and adornments. Then they jokingly ask the engineer Ren to let Xiao Wang stay with them because he mistakes her as a Yi girl. Daji, dressed in dark blue uniform, now “appears” to Ren as a Han girl. Undoubtedly, ethnicity is presented as artificial here. The plot revolving around Daji further suggests that ethnicity is contingent and situational. After Daji’s true ethnic identity is disclosed, she is reluctant to leave Liangshan as she chooses to adopt the Yi ethnic identity out of her love for the local people. At the same time, the film heavily relies on the idea of “authentic ethnicity” to tell a story of socialist fraternity. Not only is its plot premised upon Daji’s “real” ethnicity, ethnic identity also supplies particular characteristics to the protagonists and enables the screenwriter and the director to flesh out Mahe and Ren as “typical characters in a typical environment” in accordance with the principles of Marxist realism. Furthermore, highlighting ethnic differences allows a class-based history for all nationalities to seep into the film narrative. This is not exclusive to Daji and Her Fathers. Picturing the past of minority nationalities as a history of class struggle is the central theme of a number of national minority films including Dai Doctor (1961), Anaerhan (阿娜尔罕, 1962), Serfs (1963), and Jingpo Girls (Jingpo guniang 景颇姑娘, 1965). What sets Daji and Her Fathers apart is its conscious staging of compassionate cross-ethnic identification that is evoked by recognition of a common past. Take, for instance, the scene where Ren and Mahe narrate their past experiences to a group of newly arrived Han Chinese workers and Yi villagers. The scene mobilizes cross-ethnic identification through two unique objects: kouxian, a kind of jaw harp that is popular among the Yi people, and “wooden shoes,” an instrument of restraint used by Yi slave owners. While representing the distinctiveness of Yi culture, these items are also the objects of moral attention, which initiate memories and provoke comparisons. At the beginning of the scene, Han guests arrive accompanied by the beautiful melody of the kouxian, created by the simple touch of Daji’s fingertips. The exoticism of this ethnic musical instrument is immediately diluted by Mahe’s morally laden explanation of the kouxian: “All Yi youngsters know how to play the kouxian. In the past, if we were whipped by slave owners and had no place to pour out our bitterness, we played it to express our hatred. Now that we lead a happy life, we play it to express our joy.” Responding to Daji’s i­nvitation to take kouxian lessons from her, Ren reveals that he used to be a stonemason before the liberation and his fingers are too stiff and rough to handle the delicate instrument. He goes on to explain to the

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puzzled Yi villagers how the Han ruling class oppressed the ordinary working people in the past, “At that time, the Han bureaucrats and landlords were like heavy stones that pressed upon poor people. The poor folk didn’t just suffer from hunger and cold, they were also charged as rebels for no reason. Once put in jail, they were locked in handcuffs and foot-fetters …” Half of Ren’s narration is delivered as the voice-over of a close-up reaction shot of Daji’s teary eyes. This sequence thus foregrounds an affective cross-ethnic identification that is deeply rooted in class solidarity. Following Ren’s conversation with the young audience, Mahe adds, “There was no poor person who did not suffer in the old society.” To further elucidate that class conflict is beyond ethnic boundaries, he flips around the wooden plank on which he has been sitting in order to show his Han guests the notorious “wooden shoes,” a torture instrument that the Yi slaveowners used to punish him and other slaves before the liberation. The ensuing close-up shot shows a heavy piece of wood with two foot-shaped holes, each with a chain attached. Eager to show Han visitors how this device works, Daji puts her feet into the shoes and locks the chains, saying “My dad wore this for thirty years!” (FIGURE 9). Her mischievous friend

Figure 9

Daji steps into the “wooden shoes” to demonstrate their use Source: Screenshot by the author of Daji and Her Fathers in play

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then drapes around her shoulder Mahe’s “precious coat”—a heavy, dark, and patched-up quilt in which Mahe had draped himself in the past to fight off the intense cold. A reaction shot shows Ren and his assistant both wearing grave expressions. Standing next to Daji, Mahe explains that he has kept this tattered quilt for the younger generation: “We need to remind children of the bitterness in the past, so that they would appreciate the sweetness of the present.” Employing two unique everyday objects to facilitate individual recollection, the aforementioned scene not only adds substantial detail to the reinvented biographical profiles of the two fathers but also presents the histories of the Han and the minority nationality in a dialogical relation. Reaction shots which punctuate this scene at once present and model cross-ethnic compassion, a kind of empathy which is rooted in the proletariat’s shared experience. Aside from conversation and reenactment, Daji and Her Fathers visualizes the comparability of the past sufferings of the Han and the Yi and weaves cross-ethnic compassion into its story line. This is clearly manifested in a flashback scene of Daji’s wretched childhood—another new supplement to the original story. After being abducted by Yi slave owners, little Daji was sold many times. Her new master ordered her to chop wood and herd the sheep on a snowy mountain. When one little sheep went missing, she was given a good beating. Afterward, the cold-hearted master told footmen to dump “the useless girl” in the woods to feed wolves. Shot in dim lighting, this sequence brings back a grim past and creates a chilly atmosphere. The scene also contrasts the fellow slaves’ warm humanity with the slave master’s cruelty. Mahe, then a young slave, is particularly sympathetic to little Daji. He wants to stop the master from beating the little girl but is pulled back by his fellow slaves lest he endanger his own life. Seeing Daji dragged out of the yard, he wants to follow but is restrained by his wooden shoes. The scene frustrates all the fettered slaves. However, their helplessness is soon overcome by a profound proletarian compassion and solidarity in a memorable sequence that opens with a closeup of a lantern blown violently back and forth by howling winds in the dark of the night. In the next shot, the camera pans from left to right to show fettered slaves, one by one in each frame, until it fixes on Mahe’s anxious yet determined face. This slow horizontal pan not only builds an emotional crescendo in the process but also creates a visual metaphor of fraternity among the slaves. As his fellow slaves try hard to pull the chains apart, Mahe lifts his feet out of the wooden shoes, bearing his pain with great fortitude. The scene ends with Mahe’s reunion with little Daji in the snowy woods. Hugging her tight in his arms, Mahe says in a determined voice, “Let’s run away from here. If someone questions us, just say I am your dad.” Clearly, violence engendered by socioeconomic injustice has inscribed itself on both Daji and Mahe somatically. The

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scars they bear—emotional and physical—have bonded the two together. This entire flashback scene not only clarifies Daji’s early life, but more importantly it points out that proletarian fraternity is the origin and essence of this father– daughter relationship. This message is repeated many times throughout the film and is finally sealed in Ren’s words that “Mahe and Daji are bonded by blood and tears. This bond is stronger than the relationship between father and daughter.” In redefining humanism as specifically class-based proletarian humanism, the film encourages cross-ethnic socialist compassion. As a result, the conflict between the two fathers in the original story is eliminated in the cinematic version. Socialist compassion not only motivates members of the laboring class to care for one another but also orients them to act in a way that nurtures proletarian solidarity. Therefore, even after he confirms Daji’s real identity, Ren decides to keep this secret to himself in order not to hurt Mahe. His decision has much to do with his vision of a new socialist Yi region, as he believes that Daji, who is now a commune cadre, should stay and make a valuable contribution to building a better Liangshan. Likewise, Mahe’s paternal love gives in to his socialist compassion: Since Ren is such a good Han brother who supports the locals in socialist construction, Daji should leave with him. The film’s happy ending, which is nevertheless a compromise made by all three characters, creatively propagates and reaffirms the then prevailing Party slogan, “All nationalities are in one big family.” Emblematic to the national minority film, Flames of War in a Border Village and Daji and Her Fathers propagate and supplement the official discourse of minzu. Through creating intelligible audiovisual signs and affective stories, these films enhance the visibility of the multinational ingredients of Chinese citizenship while calling attention to the artificiality and performativity of ethnicity. Ethnicity that is constructed and mobilized in the national minority film calls for its own destruction. This is because the national minority film in the early PRC by no means intends to advocate autonomous ethnic consciousness to create normative ethnic identities or to construct a hierarchical ethnoscape. Instead, as a constitutive discourse of a new socialist nation, this film genre ultimately aims to cultivate socialist fraternity and to shape socialist subjectivity that transcends any kind of ethnic and national boundaries.

Chapter 4

Modeling the Model: Red Stardom You are models for the whole Chinese nation, activists propelling the people’s cause forward to triumph in all spheres of endeavor, a firm pillar of support to the People’s Government and a bridge linking the People’s Government with the masses. Mao Zedong1

⸪ In addition to various practices mentioned in the previous chapters, propagating the socialist ideal of the New Person was crucial for the CCP to reform its citizens in the new China. The gap between the theoretical notion and the actual construction of the new socialist person seems insurmountable. In reality, however, the gap was smaller than we think because the concept of the New Person was elastic. Due to its dialectical relationship with the modernization of socialist China, the new socialist person designates not a fixed subject position but one that corresponds to contemporary material conditions and ­political demands. During the different stages of socialist modernization, the CCP found and promoted the social embodiment of the new socialist p ­ erson— the so-called model people (mofan renwu 模范人物). As early as the 1950s numerous model people emerged from various social realms including industry, agriculture, and the military. According to the Party, model people were individuals who possessed an advanced political consciousness, struggled for the socialist cause, and strived in the interests of the masses. In news reports model people’s exemplary deeds ranged from protecting public property to innovating new methods that improve production efficiency. The CCP spared no effort in making these model people “public figures” and called for the masses to learn from them. The central and provincial governments held conferences to commend model workers, peasants, and soldiers; the state published books and articles and broadcast news stories about model 1  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “You Are Models for the Whole Nation,” September 25, 1950, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 5, accessed July 20, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/ reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-5/mswv5_09.htm.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_006

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people in order to disseminate their exemplary deeds;2 various institutions organized visits with model people so that the masses could directly consult these “advanced elements” of the new China. The significance of model people, as the epigraph to this chapter suggests, lies in their functionality in the social structure as a whole. As activists devoted to the socialist cause, model people were held up as good examples for ordinary people to follow. As the advanced elements among the masses, they were the people the Party could count on. Ultimately, they were the link between the Party and the masses. In this light, model people occupied the center of the entire social structure. For sociologists, model people mainly serve as a testimony to social changes in China.3 What also deserves attention is the question of embodiment. Not only were model people the living embodiment of the socialist ideal of the New Person, their extraordinary deeds called attention to another level of embodiment—the bodily aspects of socialist subjectivity. Aside from real-life model people, there is a rich repertoire of cinematic representations of model people in the 1950s and 1960s. Huang Baomei (黄宝妹), a 1958 “artistic documentary film” (yishu jilupian 艺术纪录片) based on a true story, introduces Huang Baomei, a national model worker, and particularly the remarkable contribution she made to high-quality textile production. The 1963 fiction film Lei Feng 雷锋 was a timely production commemorating the exemplary socialist soldier Lei Feng. Other films, such as My Day Off ( Jintian wo xiuxi 今天我休息, 1959) and Li Shuangshuang (李双双, 1962), both directed by Lu Ren 鲁韧, created a number of memorable fictional socialist models such as the warm-hearted and cheerful policeman Ma Tianmin and the exuberant and selfless peasant woman Li Shuangshuang. This chapter investigates the intersection of the cinematic representation and real-life social practice of model people, with special focus on the unique type, the Red Star—film stars who embody the ideal socialist person both on and offscreen. As iconic figures at the initial stage of socialist modernization and agents of the spectacle, the Red Star encapsulates issues such as the paradoxical coexistence of individualism and collectivism in the socialist state and the dynamic relationship between the public figure and the masses. It thus provides us with a different route to understanding model people. If model 2  For instance, both published in 1951, Mofan xin jiaoshi 模范新教师 [Model new teachers] and Zuguo youxiu ernü: gongchan dangyuan de mofan shiji 祖国优秀儿女—共产党员的模 范事迹 [Outstanding sons and daughters of the nation: Exemplary deeds of Communists], are books that eulogize model peoples. Throughout the 1950s news reports from Xinhua News Agency featured several articles praising model people and model work units. 3  See Mary Sheridan, “Young Women Leaders in China,” Signs 1, no. 2 (Autumn 1976): 59–88. This is possibly the earliest English-language study of model people in the PRC.

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people, as the CCP envisioned, are the center of the Chinese nation and help shape the masses into desired citizens, then the question arises, does this center have certitude, immobility, and essence? Using the notable Red Star, Zhang Ruifang 张瑞芳, as a case study, this chapter explores stardom in Chinese socialist cinema as well as the mechanism of modeling that was crucial to the construction of socialist subjects. 1

Problematizing “the Star”

In the early PRC Zhang Ruifang (1918–2012) was a well-known actor in Chinese socialist cinema, especially for her onscreen persona of the progressive woman activist who kept abreast with the times.4 Throughout the 1950s Zhang was cast for major positive female roles, as a woman militia leader in the classic revolutionary film Conquer South, Victory North (Nanzheng beizhan 南征北战, 1951), as an underground female communist in the biopic Nie Er (聂耳, 1959), and as an urban housewife who actively participates in a Mutual Aid Team in The Myriad of Colors of Spring (Wanzi qianhong zong shi chun 万紫千红总是 春, 1959). All these films demonstrate a great effort to commemorate the glorious cause and wise leadership of the CCP at different phases of revolutionary struggle and socialist construction. However, Zhang was best known for her title role in the rural film Li Shuangshuang 李双双 (dir. Lu Ren, 1962). Adapted from Li Zhun’s 李准 novella Brief Biography of Li Shuangshuang (Li Shuangshuang xiaozhuan 李双双小 传), the film tells the story of a young peasant couple in a people’s commune. Li Shuangshuang, the wife, who is presented as a model commune member, is forthright in character, selfless at heart, and quick in unmasking others’ selfish thoughts. Her husband Sun Xiwang, a mild character with patriarchal habits and conservative attitudes, often feels embarrassed by Shuangshuang’s activism and holds her back from taking public responsibilities. After several 4  Like many renowned Chinese film actors in Mao’s China, Zhang had rich performing experience in spoken drama before embarking on a career in cinema. During the Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945) she actively performed in street dramas such as Putting Down Your Whip (fangxia ni de bianzi 放下你的鞭子), and in about twenty stage dramas in Chongqing including Beijingers (Beijing ren 北京人) and Qu Yuan 屈原. Her stage characters are gentle, sophisticated, and tragic women. Zhang had her screen debut in Sun Yu’s 1941 film Baptism of Fire (Huo de xili 火的洗礼). As she recalls, she played rather clumsily the character of a repentant female spy sent by the Nationalist Party to sabotage a munitions factory. See Zhang Ruifang 张瑞芳, Nanyi wanghuai de zuori 难以忘怀的昨日 [Unforgettable yesterday] (Shanghai: Xuelin chubanshe, 1998).

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quarrels and splits between the peasant couple, the film ends with the couple’s reunion. Xiwang, now sincerely convinced of Shuangshuang’s merits, reconciles with his wife, learns from her, and develops into a good commune member. With this film Zhang established her most famous screen persona: the new peasant woman of the socialist countryside. Produced by Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, Li Shuangshuang was a phenomenal success upon its release. As one staff member at the Huaihai Movie Theater in Shanghai recalled, during the period when Li Shuangshuang was being shown the theater had to hold extra screenings at noon for the general public and special screenings for students just to meet public demand.5 Soon Chinese audiences began to identify Zhang Ruifang endearingly as Li Shuangshuang. Her stardom peaked in 1963 when she won the Best Actress award of Hundred Flowers, a readers’ choice award sponsored by Mass Cinema.6 Yet, to call Zhang a star is problematic. During the Mao era, as socialist ideology prevailed, the very word “star” fell out of fashion in everyday speech. “Star” carried a spectrum of connotations: corrupted lifestyles, loftiness, individualism, and liberalism, all of which originated from the same source: capitalism. Specific to cinema, “star” immediately evoked images of the glamorous and fashionable movie stars of Hollywood and of Shanghai cinema in the preliberation period, considered by the new ideology to be the most sensual symbols of commercial culture. It comes as no surprise that movie actors, even the stellar ones, along with film directors, scriptwriters, cinematographers, and other personnel in Chinese socialist cinema began to share one common designation: “the film worker.” This appellation may bluntly call attention to stars as primarily laborers who utilize their natural talent and acquired skills to perform or to work. It nevertheless demonstrates a particular socialist ethic—to work is glorious—and reveals a deep-seated egalitarian understanding. Since socialists in the early PRC believed that work cultivated a proletarian consciousness and 5  Zhou Tao 周涛, “Zai Shangying Li Shuangshuang de rizi li” 在上映《李双双》的日子 里—一个影院工作人员的日记 [During the days of screening the film Li Shuangshuang: A movie theater staff’s diary], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 1 (1963): 15. 6  The Hundred Flowers Awards (Baihua jiang 百花奖) were the most distinguished film awards in Mao’s China and were influential until the 1980s. After the premier Zhou Enlai proposed creating the awards to strengthen the connection between the masses and cinema, Mass Cinema host the first Hundred Flowers Awards in 1962. The following year over 180,000 public votes were cast in the second iteration of the awards. See Anonymous, “Shiba wan duo guanzhong yongyue canjia toupiao pingxuan, dierjie guochanpian ‘Baihua jiang’ pingjiang jiexiao” 十八万多观众踊跃参加投票评选, 第二届国产片 “百花奖” 评奖揭 晓 [More than one hundred eighty thousand audiences cast votes, results of the second Hundred Flowers film awards are announced], Wenhui Bao Index 文汇报索引 [Index to Wenhui Daily] 5 (1963): 15.

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defined class boundaries, stellar actors were endearing not because they possessed exceptional, mysterious, and ethereal qualities, but because they were self-supporting and accomplished workers, to whom the masses could relate. The designation of “film workers” helped reconceptualize the rela­ tion between the star and the spectator, encouraging an intimate camaraderie between them rather than the spectatorial craze for the star. The film star culture, as a site where the spectator’s engagement with film is predominant, and hence film’s impact on social life most tangible, naturally became an important battlefront of “People’s Cinema,”7 the new cinematic tradition the CCP aimed to build. Not surprisingly the Party made great endeavors to transform film star culture. It launched criticisms of Hollywood cinema and “harmful” domestic films8 and encouraged newly established film magazines to steer clear of vulgar display and voyeuristic report. Well aware of the role that Republican movie magazines such as Star Pictorial (Mingxing huabao 明 星画报), Fan Club (Yingmi julebu 影迷俱乐部), and Qingqing Movie (Qingqing dianying 青青电影) had played in perpetuating memorable star images, breeding blind idolizations of individuals, and fostering frivolous behaviors before the liberation,9 famous leftist film critics and CCP members including Xia Yan 夏衍 and Yu Ling 于伶 enthusiastically pushed the Shanghai Film Critics Group (Shanghai yingping gongzuo zhe lianyi hui 上海影评工作者联谊会) to set up Mass Cinema, a film magazine committed to fostering the healthy exchange of information about film artists as well as domestic and foreign films. In addition to reforming print culture, the CCP deployed the testimonies of former movie stars to repudiate Republican-era film star culture. For instance, soon after its launch in 1950, Mass Cinema published an article written by Shangguan Yunzhu 上官云珠, a movie star famous for her femme fatale roles 7  From 1950 to 1953, Mass Cinema in fact entitled one of its columns “On the battlefront of people’s cinema.” 8  In his 1950 report Guo Moruo 郭沫若 noted that before the liberation seventy-five percent of all the moviegoers in Shanghai went to see American films. Quoted in Leyda, Dianying/ Electric Shadows, 188. 9  During the Republican era, it was common for film studios to produce special issues in which their contracted movie stars could advertise their newly completed film projects. As for popular movie magazines, in addition to featuring glamorous photos and carrying voyeuristic reports of movie stars, they hosted the readers poll on “Movie Queen” and “Movie King.” For instance, actor Liu Qiong 刘琼 was voted the Movie King of 1940 by readers of Qingqing Movie. For a broad discussion on the role of print culture in cultivating film culture in Republican China, see Leo Ou-fan Lee, “The Urban Milieu of Shanghai Cinema, 1930–40: Some Explorations of Film Audience, Film Culture, and Narrative Conventions,” in Cinema and Urban Culture in Shanghai, 1922–1943, ed. Yingjin Zhang (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999), 74–96.

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in the 1940s, to illustrate the detrimental effects of the old film culture. Looking back at her ten-year movie career in Republican China, Shangguan repents her vanity: The fundamental reason I chose acting as my profession is “my interest”…. How did I develop this “interest”? To be frank, all sorts of things that surrounded “stars” held great appeal to me. I yearned for the glory hovering around “stars” and I envied the comforts of stars’ lives. Indeed, during my first few years as an actress my lifestyle and my consciousness were no different from those of “movie stars.” I sought comfort and pleasure; I was proud and vain; I was lax in discipline … I aimed to achieve the same status as those established “big stars” and set my mind on distinguishing myself from others. So, I only desired to play leading roles—those prominent, beautiful, and charming leading ladies. Later, I changed a bit. I was certainly delighted to play leading roles, but I was also willing to play negative characters; it would be great to play young characters but playing older character would also be fine. Why? Simply to show off my talent and to be extraordinary.10 Apparently, the old film star culture was presented here as the breeding ground for the moral ills, especially hedonism and selfish individualism. The fact that this article was published in an officially sanctioned magazine reminds us that Shangguan’s self-reflection was a social performance with a specific textual formula and intended audience. Whether the words quoted above were genuinely held or not is less important than the official vision of the old film star culture it revealed. Very soon Shangguan Yunzhu and other established film stars who were particularly associated with the vulgar and degenerate aspects of the old Chinese cinema—including the so-called “Oriental Laurel and Hardy,” Han Langen 韩兰根 and Yin Xiucen 殷秀岑—would find themselves deprived of the opportunity to play film roles.11 Even Bai Yang, a movie star who had made 10  Shangguan Yunzhun 上官云珠, “Yanyuan shenghuo shinian” 演员生活十年 [Ten years of being an actress], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 15 (1950): 12. 11  It was not until the Hundred Flowers period that these actors vocalized their frustrations over their “wasted talent” and were given limited opportunities to perform on the silver screen. See Shangguan Yunzhu 上官云珠, “Rang wushu maizang de baozang ­fangguang” 让无数埋葬的宝藏放光 [Let buried treasures shine again], Wenhui bao 文汇报 [Wenhui Daily], November 21, 1956. See also Han Fei 韩非, “Meiyou xiju ke yan” 没有喜 剧可演 [There is no chance to act in film comedies], Wenhui bao 文汇报 [Wenhui Daily], November 30, 1956; reprinted in Zhongguo dianying yanjiu ziliao 1949–1979 中国电影研

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a ­considerable contribution to leftist cinema in the Republican era, had to appear self-critical and demonstrate her break from the old film world and resolution to remould herself. In a quasi-confession she wrote for Mass Cinema in 1952, the actress identifies her previous sins: “petit-bourgeois individualism and ambition; an individualistic pursuit that is divorced from the masses; attaching importance to artistic techniques and theatricality while playing no attention to politics.” Since Bai Yang was well known for her kind and pathetic female roles onscreen12 and her connection with the morally corrupt film star culture was not apparent, she had to reveal her innermost thoughts in order to disclose the persistent negative effects of star culture. She confessed her ­self-conceit and secret wish: having played a good number of powerless and suffering women before the liberation, she now yearned to play heroic figures. She was quick to pinpoint her bourgeoisie thought behind such a yearning: “This is in fact to gratify my feverish sentiment and my desire for fame and status.”13 Because of this “impure motivation,” the actress continued, when she was at a textile factory to prepare for her role in the 1950 film United Until Tomorrow (Tuanjie qilai dao mingtian 团结起来到明天), she only spent time with, as she saw it then, the “advanced workers” and was reluctant to approach and understand the “backward” ones. During filming she was largely concerned with the formalistic aspects of cinema rather than with the political significance of the film’s message. All these shortcomings prevented her from capturing the essence of her character and resulted in an ineffective screen performance. To a certain degree, personal accounts of former movie stars helped substantiate the Party’s repudiation of the old film star culture. Star culture needed to be discarded not only because it produced a morality-eroding star mentality, but also because it cultivated a type of professionalism that alienated the actors from the masses and posed great impediments to their development in the new Chinese cinema. Political intervention in film culture was hardly exclusive to China. But a particular question that the CCP had to deal with when forming Chinese socialist film culture was this: How do we legitimize stars ­without engendering the once prevalent notion of “subjective individuality?” The 究资料 1949–1979 [Source materials for Chinese film studies: 1949–1979], 3 vols., vol. 2, ed. Wu Di 吴迪 (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 2006), 56; page references are to the 2006 edition. 12  Bai Yang performed in Chinese film classics such as Crossroads (Shizi jietou 十字街头, 1937) and The Spring River Flows East (1947). 13  Bai Yang 白杨, “Cong tou xue qi, cong tou zuo qi” 从头学起, 从头做起 [Learning from the beginning, starting from scratch], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 8–9 (1952): 40.

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solution was to alter the signifying process of the star. Under the Party’s leadership, symposiums, workshops, and cultural exchanges were held to introduce and consolidate new interpretive strategies that reframed the question of “the star” within the larger question of how individuals grapple with social and historical forces. The CCP’s effort to reshape film star culture in the early PRC was by no means isolated from the wider interpretive community of socialist cinema. Among all socialist states, the influence that Soviet cinema exerted on Chinese film culture was indelible. The CCP held up Soviet cinema as the model of socialist cinema14 and as such, film exchange and film practitioner visits became particularly prominent in the 1950s as part of a broader program of Sino-Soviet cultural exchange. From 1949 to 1957, China imported from the Soviet Union 206 feature films and fifty-nine documentaries.15 Among them, Chapayev, The Young Guard, and The Village Teacher enjoyed immense popularity among Chinese audiences. In the meantime, Chinese films such as Cutting Off the Devil’s Talons, The Letter with Feathers (Ji mao xin 鸡毛信), and The White-Haired Girl (Baimao nü 白毛女) were shown to Soviet audiences at the China Film Week, a film exhibition program held across the USSR.16 Regular exchange visits between Soviet and Chinese film delegations were also arranged. In 1954 alone, two Chinese film delegations, one led by Wang Lanxi 王阑西, the head of the Film Bureau, and the other by Wang Yang 汪洋, head of the Beijing Film Studio, were sent to Moscow to learn from Soviet experience in film administration and film production.17 When Soviet film delegations came to China to attend the Soviet Film Week in 1952 and 1956, leading Soviet actors including Boris Petrovich Chirkov (who had starred in A Trilogy of Maxim), Marina Ladynina (Tractor 14  See Cheng Yin 成荫, “Xuexi Sulian, tigao yishu chuangzuo” 学习苏联提高艺术创 作 [Learn from the Soviet Union, improve our artistic creation], Dazhong dianying 大 众电影 [Mass Cinema] 3 (1954): 8; Zhang Junxiang 张峻祥, “Genghao di xuexi sulian, baowei shehuizhuyi de dianying shiye” 更好地学习苏联, 保卫社会主义的电影事 业 [Learning from the Soviet Union, defending the cause of socialist cinema], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 11–12 (1957): 8–14. 15  Sha Lang 沙浪, “Sulian dianying he zhongguo guanzhong” 苏联电影和中国观众 [Soviet cinema and Chinese audiences], Zhongguo dianying 中国电影 [Chinese Cinema] 12 (1957): 81. 16  Starting from 1951, the Soviet Union held China Film Week in dozens of major cities. See Chen Bo 陈播, ed., Zhongguo dianying biannian jishi: zhipian juan 中国电影编年纪 事: 制片卷 [Film Production, vol. 3 of Annals of Chinese Cinema] (Beijing: Zhongyang wenxian chubanshe, 2005), 147; See also Xiao Feng 晓风, “Sulian Mosike deng di juxing zhongguo dianying zhanlan zhou” 苏联莫斯科等地举行中国电影展览周 [China film week was held in Moscow and other cities in the USSR], Shijie dianying 世界电影 [World Cinema] 2 (1955): 94–97. 17  Bo Chen, Film Production, 103.

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Drivers), Vera Maretskaya (The Village Teacher), and Sergei Bondarchuk (The Young Guard) attracted particular media attention.18 In addition, Chinese film journals such as International Cinema, Chinese Cinema, and Mass Cinema actively introduced Soviet film culture, including its critical discourses about stardom. As shown in Chinese translations of Soviet critical essays and editorials, the Soviet state employed “people’s actors” (renmin yanyuan 人民演员) as an analytical category and as the highest acknowledgment of outstanding actors. Contrary to Western discourses of stardom, which mainly drew attention to actors’ idiosyncratic charisma, Soviet discourses of the people’s actors highlight their political functions, historical roles, and social responsibilities. An editorial published in the Soviet Art Newspaper and reprinted in the Film Art (Dianying yishu 电影艺术) magazine elucidates this point: In our country, actors are not only citizens’ artists, social activists, and masses’ educators but also people who are able to evaluate the arts and to represent our lives from the perspective of the state…. Soviet actors, first and foremost, are intelligent people well equipped with [political] ideas. They can deeply and correctly grasp the task that our people are facing.19 Supplementing these discourses was the state’s official conferral upon actors of such titles as “Soviet People’s Actor” and “Meritorious Actor.”20 These Soviet discourses and practices, which established people’s actors as vanguards of socialist causes instead of antagonists of collective interests, offered a paradigm for the new film star culture in socialist China. Among people’s actors in socialist China such as Zhao Dan 赵丹, Tian Hua 田华, and Wang Xingang 王心刚,21 there was a most distinguished group of film 18  Chirkov and Ladynina visited China in 1952 while Bonarchuk and Meretskaya paid their visit in 1956. See Fang Hong 方弘 et al., “Sulian dianying yishu gongzuo zhe daibiao tuan” 苏联电影艺术工作者代表团 [The Soviet film workers delegation], Renmin huabao 人 民画报 [People’s Pictorial] 12 (1952): 35–36; Anonymous, “Sulian dianying gongzuo dai­ biao tuan zai Beijing de huodong” 苏联电影工作代表团在北京的活动 [The Soviet film workers delegation’s visit to Beijing], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 22 (1956): 34–38. 19  Sulian yishu bao 苏联艺术报 (Soviet Art Newpaper), “Sulian yanyuan de chonggao shi­ ming” 苏联演员的崇高使命 [Lofty missions of Soviet actors], editorial, trans. Yang Xiushi 杨秀实, reprinted in Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 2 (1952): 18–22. 20  Anonymous, “Sulian dianying yanyuan de rongyu chenhao you jizhong” 苏联电影演 员的荣誉称号有几种 [How many kinds of honorable titles are there for Soviet film actors?], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 7 (1957): 33. 21  Both veteran and new actors were clearly aware of the importance of “serving the people.” See Qin Yi 秦怡, “Wo juexin zuo yige renmin suo xuyao de yanyuan” 我决心 做一个

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actors whom I call the Red Star—model film workers who embodied socialist values and helped propel socialist movements both on and offscreen. Zhang Ruifang is a case in point. As a model woman socialist and good worker on and offscreen, Zhang attracted identification and emulation. Her case not only problematizes the dominant understanding of a female film star informed by psychoanalytical film theory22 but also draws attention to the relationship between the wider management of propaganda and cultural production in socialist China. 2

Star Image

Zhang Ruifang’s star image as a model socialist person was stabilized over the course of 1962 and 1963 as her public image was visually modified and subsidiary discourses accrued. In June 1962, three months before the release of Li Shuangshuang, the film magazine Shanghai Cinema published some publicity shots of the film. These included half a page of downsized black-and-white film stills and a centerfold featuring portraits of two protagonists set against a watercolor backdrop of serene countryside. The film stills, accompanied by brief captions, introduce the film’s major episodes and delineate its simple story line. The latter, with its bright color and full-scale size, accentuates the film’s leading male and female actors, who appear as their screen roles (FIGURE 10). There is no doubt that Chinese folk art lends essential conceptual ideas and formalist expressions to the images, and the use of popular folk art helps prepare audiences for this

人民所需要的演员 [I am determined to be an actor that the people need], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 7 (1952): 20–21; Tian Hua 田华, “Dang ba wo jiaoyu cheng yi ge wei renmin fuwu de yanyuan” 党把我教育成一个为人民服务的演员 [The Party has educated me into an actor who serves the people], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 26 (1951): 14–16. 22  According to Laura Mulvey’s famous article on visual pleasure and narrative cinema, the female film star, as the extension of her body onscreen, is still a fetish. She is the object of desire but not the subject of identification. The Mulvian model is later questioned and complicated by media studies of audiences, which highlight moviegoers’ role in producing and reinventing the star image and its associated discourses of stardom. Given that we can hardly regard Chinese audiences in the Mao era as an autonomous interpretive community, these approaches fall short of explaining the Red Star phenomenon. See Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16, no. 3 (1975): 6–18; Henry Jenkins, Textual Poachers (London: Routledge, 1992); Matt Hills, Fan Cultures (London: Routledge, 2002).

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Figure 10 Magazine centrefold of Li Shuangshuang and her husband Xiwang Source: Centrefold of the June 1962 issue of Shanghai Cinema featuring the two central characters of Li Shuangshuang. Photo by the author

relatively new film genre, regulates their expectations, and facilitates the popularization of the film. More importantly, the centerfold draws attention to a particular kind of femininity imagined within folk tradition. The verso features a tainted color picture of Xiwang, who is attentively playing a flute. The depiction of Xiwang is so detailed that wrinkles on his forehead and the folds of his off-white peasant garment are clearly visible. Yet his image is dwarfed by an even bigger portrait of Shuangshuang, which nearly occupies the entire recto of the centerfold. In her portrait, the pink flower-patterned shirt, softened facial outline, bashful smile, and flushed cheekbones, which are commonly used formalist elements in folk paintings of female characters, serve as visual cues of the feminine quality of Shuangshuang. Overall, Shuangshuang’s image is sedentary. Resting her chin in her right hand, Shuangshuang wears a carefree smile. Her bangs rest serenely on her forehead, and her eyes seem to express a sincere longing for the happy days to come. She is pretty yet passive. A small picture of the couple and their sleeping daughter, which is superimposed on the lower left corner of the verso, further defines Shuangshuang’s role in domestic terms. Ironically, although Zhang’s public image was framed by the publicity of the film, it heavily relied on aspects that seemingly contradict her screen persona.

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The image of the highly conventional and anonymous peasant woman in the watercolor provides a good point of reference to understand the drastic change underwent in the construction of Zhang’s star image within that one year. In June 1963, immediately after Zhang won the Best Actress award, the fifth and sixth issues of Mass Cinema published the most famous and widely circulated publicity picture of Zhang Ruifang on its cover: a painted color ­portrait of Zhang as Li Shuangshuang (FIGURE 11). This painting presents a neatly dressed peasant woman wearing a beaming smile and sunburned complexion. With her right hand raised to her open mouth and her eyes looking diagonally out of the frame, Shuangshuang seems to be calling out for her companions in the distance. Far different from the abovementioned idyllic watercolor, the portrait is filled with dynamism, at both the level of composition and of ­feeling. With Zhang’s face positioned in the diagonal axis of the frame, this low-angle portrait avoids the conventional and static front-view portrait of a single character. Corresponding to composition, details of the portrait relegate

Figure 11 Li Shuangshuang on the cover of issue 5/6 of Mass Cinema (June 1963) Source: Photo by the author

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the figure’s feminine qualities and instead emphasize her strength, energy, and spirit. A blue-and-white checkered pattern garment, a northern woman’s hairstyle, healthy-looking suntanned complexion, clear facial outline, thick, black eyebrows, and bright eyes beaming with enthusiasm all help to transform the image of a tender and loving woman into one of a determined and energetic socialist activist. The plain, light-colored background of this picture makes the image more prominent and suggests that the public space where the peasant woman plays an active role is vast and infinite. With its quasi-realist depiction, bright color scheme, and evident masculinization of a female character, this cover picture highlights the distinctive physiological features and physical actions of Zhuang/Shuangshuang as woman activist. It thus created a m ­ emorable icon of the new socialist person, and presaged the ­dominant aesthetics in revolutionary visual culture, an aesthetics that aims to bring ­proletarian heroes to great visual prominence. The choice of painting as the medium of Zhang’s publicity images was a strategic one. It countered the common use in the pre-1949 era of cinema of using photography, an imported technology, to publicize film stars. While sleek photographs of glamorous stars create a spectacle of a modern or even outlandish feel, paintings invoke the long tradition of how the Chinese populace has visualized the world, and particularly evoke feelings of familiarity in the masses. In this sense, using painting in publicity images was a political gesture of promoting the national, which is less a territorial marker than a mode of modernization that acknowledges and manipulates established conventions in order to evoke the feeling of unity. Moreover, unbounded by the limits of mechanical recording, painting allowed artists more room for subjective intervention and allowed them to materialize what could be imagined. While the transition from idyllic folk painting to socialist realist picture certainly contributed to the making of Zhang’s star image as an exemplary woman socialist, the state media’s deliberate suppression of heterogeneous responses to Li Shuangshuang further helped stabilize it. With the film’s phenomenal success, the press showed great interest in exploring the significance of the character of Shuangshuang as well as Zhang Ruifang’s performance. In the winter of 1962, Mass Cinema sponsored two symposiums on Li Shuangshuang to invite discussion of the film. Participants, most of whom were film and drama actors, reached a consensus that the cheerful, exuberant, and principled commune member Shuangshuang distinguished the film from its contemporaries, and thus “brought the rural film to a higher level.”23 23  Yu Jin 于今, “Fanying nongchun shenghuo yingpian de xin shouhuo: Ji yingpian Li Shuangshuang zuotanhui” 反映农村生活影片的新收获—记影片 “李双双” 座谈会

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Indeed Zhang’s popularity had much to do with the rise of a novel genre in Chinese socialist cinema—the rural film. With optimistic, energetic, and cheerful peasants as its central characters, the rural film not only introduced new characters to the screen but also changed the representational convention of pre-1949 performing arts and literature that portrayed peasants as poor, wretched, and suffering folk. The rural film tailored its narrative to the ongoing socialist education and movements in the Chinese countryside including the propagation of a new marriage law and the Great Leap Forward campaign. Through the concentrated representation of village life and the employment of local forms of entertainment,24 as well as the frequent use of a self-explanatory plot, the rural film rendered the CCP’s political message comprehensible and drew in a peasant audience. The 1949–1966 period saw a large production of films in this genre, including Spring Comes to Both Families (Liangjia chun 两 家春, 1951), Blooming Flowers and Full Moon (Huahao yueyuan 花好月圆, 1958), Young People of Our Village (Women cunli de nianqing ren 我们村里的年轻人, 1959), The Broad Road (Kangzhuang dadao 康庄大道, 1959), The Withered Tree Revives (Kumu fengchun 枯木逢春, 1961), and A Young Generation (Nianqing de yidai 年青的一代, 1965). Li Shuangshuang distinguished itself because of its unique narrative angle—focusing on depicting peasant women to register social change in the countryside—and its distinctive title character. The character of Li Shuangshuang, who is outspoken, bold, and selfless, won Zhang Ruifang a large following and drew much admiration from audiences. Participants in the film symposium organized by Mass Cinema and well-known movie reviewers showed great interest in exploring the appeal of this character. They were particularly keen to elaborate on Shuangshuang’s “lofty and admirable” character: she defends collective interests courageously but treats individual interests lightly; she boldly fights against the feudalism and individualism with which her husband is associated. For the symposium participants Shuangshuang is “an emerging new character in Chinese cinema” and a “typical character embodying the Zeitgeist.”25 Ironically, without attending to the specificity of film art, these highly publicized public discussions of Shuangshuang made her character the most conventional one. By resorting to [A new harvest in the rural film: A symposium on the film Li Shuangshuang], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 11 (1962): 6–7. 24  This goes two ways. After the film’s success, Li Shuangshuang was adapted into various forms of local entertainment, including pingtan 评弹, yuju 豫剧, and huagu xi 花鼓戏. 25  See Yu Jin, “Ji yingpian Li Shuangshuang zuotanhui,” 6 and Huang Zongying 黄宗英, “Xi kan Li Shuangshuang” 喜看李双双 [Watch Li Shuangshuang with joy], Wenyi bao 文艺 报 [Literary Gazette] 11 (1962): 7.

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an individualism—collectivism binarism these comments neither unraveled the distinctive characteristics of the cinematic model heroine nor helped distinguish the movie from its contemporaries, most of which address the same conflict. Perhaps the plainer words of peasant moviegoers more pertinently explain the appeal of Shuangshuang. Interviewed by two staff writers of Mass Cinema, a commune member said, “I have already watched the film once, but I want to watch it again. Why? The film is authentic. The characters are lifelike, and the story is about things that we have experienced. So, it is very pleasant to watch.”26 Apparently, it was the “lifelikeness,” rather than “loftiness,” of the character that caught audiences’ attention and won their hearts. Zhang’s performance certainly breathed life into the character, turning the literary figure into a vivid screen icon who would be emblazoned in the minds of Chinese audiences for years to come. Lifelikeness and vividness are both central to the Chinese critical term xingxiang xing 形象性 (vividness of image/figure). I suggest that it is only through the lens of xingxiang xing that we can understand the contradictions and complexities intrinsic to the stabilization of Zhang’s stardom. As a compound word, xingxiang xing 形象性 is comprised of xingxiang (image or figure) and xing (-ness). In general, it means the vividness of image. Originating from art criticism in premodern China, xingxiang (formal image), which is the opposite of yixiang (idea-image), refers to the outward appearances of objects or physical conditions of things and events. Despite the dichotomy between formal and spiritual resemblance in the Chinese art tradition, formal resemblance did not take on pejorative connotations. The master painter of the Jin dynasty, Gu Kaizhi 顾恺之, recommended “using formal resemblance to impart spiritual resemblance” (yi xing xie shen 以形写神).27 This view proposes a d­ ialectical relationship between formal resemblance and spiritual resemblance and would set a central idea to Chinese aesthetic thought.28 Since acting is an art

26  Chao Yu 朝玉 and Jing Nan 竞男, “Nongmin xihuan Li Shuangshuang” 农民喜欢李 双双 [Peasants like Li Shuangshuang], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 11 (1962): 30. 27  Gu Kaizhi 顾恺之, “Weijin shengliu hua zan” 魏晋胜流画赞 [Encomia on famous paintings of the Wei and Jin], in Zhongguo meixue shi ziliao xuanbian 中国美学史资料选编 [A selection of texts from the history of Chinese aesthetics], ed. Beijing daxue zhexue xi meixue jiaoyan shi 北京大学哲学系美学教研室, 2 vols., vol. 1 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980), 175. 28  On mimetic theory in Chinese aesthetics, see Ming Dong Gu, “Mimetic Theory in Chinese Literary Thought,” New Literary History 36 (2005): 403–424.

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that uses external forms to reveal and create substance, xiangxiang xing is particularly relevant to the performing arts. Shortly before the production of Li Shuangshuang, xingxiang xing became an important artistic criterion for socialist arts in China. In the early 1960s, as the Party relaxed its political control, a move in response to radical socialist movements in the late 1950s, it reaffirmed the importance of diverse thought and artistic creation. With respect to film production, there was an urgency to rectify the trend of massive and crude film production that started with the Great Leap Forward. In 1961 Xia Yan, vice minister of culture, emphasized the importance of improving the artistic quality of film to the ­rejuvenation of Chinese cinema. After addressing the existing problems in film production, such as limited subject matters and repetitive styles, Xia Yan pointed out the differences between art and politics: while politics is usually quite dry and rigid, the arts possess a particular characteristic: xingxiang xing. He stated, “Literature and arts should not start from ideas. They must employ xingxiang to convey themes…. Literature and arts must use authentic and vivid depiction of characters, events and situations to convey ideas.”29 Responding to the new directive on Chinese cinema, Li Shuangshuang deployed multiple techniques and stylistic conventions to create truthful and vivid representations of rural life and attract audiences. Apparently, xingxiang xing finds its manifestation in the film’s authentic depiction of communal life. The meticulous design of northern peasants’ clothing and hairstyle, the use of the local language, the on-location shooting, the humanistic depiction of characters and their conflicts; these all helped enhance the credibility of the story of village life represented onscreen. In the meantime, theatricality also constituted xingxiang xing. A conspicuous example was the use of Henan local opera music, along with opening and closing credits to frame the film narrative. The music, with its fluctuating melodies, aggrandizes festivity and joyfulness and creates a local ambience. Considering the close relationship between image/figure and the conceptualization of xingxiang xing, it is easy to note that the character of Li Shuangshuang itself attests to a high degree of theatricality. As the single most memorable positive character in the film, Shuangshuang is reminiscent of characters in Chinese operas, who are distinguishable and identifiable yet lack psychological complexity. Throughout the film, Shuangshuang is an able and affectionate wife, a selfless commune member, and later a determined woman 29  Xia Yan 夏衍, “Ba woguo dianying yishu tigao dao yige gengxin de shuiping” 把我国电影 艺术提高到一个更新的水平 [Improve our film art to a new level], Hongqi 红旗 [Red Flag] 19 (1961): 5–17.

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cadre. However, her various social roles, and even her socialist consciousness, never overshadow her unique and almost one-dimensional personality: bold, determinate, frank, and selfless. This theatricality lurking beneath the cinematic representation of a model peasant undoubtedly contributed to the film’s popularity among the masses. What perhaps best encapsulates the complexity of xingxiang xing is a scene in which villagers gather together to elect a bookkeeper (jigong yuan 记工员) to record commune members’ work points (gong fen 工分).30 The sequence opens with the outgoing commune secretary explaining the responsibilities of the job to a group of villagers who sit on the ground in a circle. Soon they begin to exchange words and discuss their nominations. They realize that only a person who is impartial and capable of reading and doing calculations on an abacus would be able to do the job. The quick-witted Shuangshuang immediately nominates Guiying, a high school graduate, who sits next to her. The girl is too shy to respond. Her father, who knows the importance of the position, quickly stands up and backs her, before further nominating Xiwang on the grounds that “since his grandpa’s generation, none in his family has ever quarreled with others and Xiwang gets along with everybody.” No sooner is the suggestion welcomed by the commune director and other villagers than Xiwang, who has hidden himself in the back row, comes forward and tactfully declines the nomination. He gives a series of excuses: he knows neither “foreign numbers” (Arabic numbers) nor how to use an abacus; the responsibility of tracking work points, which concerns the interests of each family in the village, is too great for him to shoulder. Hearing her husband’s evasive answers and excuses, Shuangshuang, who sits among the villagers, grows anxious. Then, there is a sudden change in her facial expression. A swift leftward pan follows Shuangshuang’s quick steps toward Xiwang. The subsequent medium shot nicely juxtaposes the couple within the same frame. With a beaming countenance, Shuangshuang proudly speaks, “Folks, he knows how to calculate. Last fall when we got our bonuses, he did calculations at home for a whole night. He added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided quite fast! Also, he knows those foreign numbers. He has even taught me how to write them!” At her side, Xiwang, knitting his brows, fretfully looks 30  After agricultural cooperativization in the mid-1950s, the system of ping gong ji fen 评工 记分 (evaluating work and allotting work points) was implemented by each cooperative to assess the value of each day of labor contributed by individual members of the cooperative in order to facilitate an evaluation of work done. The units of work were known as gong fen (generally, a standard day’s work was worth ten work points). At the year’s end, wages were paid according to the accumulated work points. The jigong yuan was the person responsible for estimating and assigning work points at the end of each day.

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away from the crowd and then refutes his wife’s words. Shuangshuang, who is now back in the crowd, chides her husband with a knowing smile, “When you are pulled, you won’t move; when you are whipped, you will go backward. I can’t bear people like you!” Witnessing this little quarrel between husband and wife, the other villagers break into laughter. An elderly villager then deliberately nominates Shuangshuang to be the bookkeeper. Realizing that he risked appearing weaker than his wife, Xiwang finally accepts the offer, thus eliciting another round of laughter. Toward the end of this sequence, the newly elected bookkeepers, Guiying and Xiwang, start to distribute notebooks among villagers. When Xiwang lifts his head from his work, he sees Shuangshuang lovingly looking at him in the distance. There is a mixture of expectation, affection, and admiration in her eyes. Xiwang’s response is equally complex. A seemingly resentful look cannot suppress his gratitude and innermost happiness. Seeing her husband’s reaction, a big smile forms on Shuangshuang’s face, which hints at a deep and unspoken understanding between the couple. Thanks to the vivid performances of the actors and the use of local idioms, the scene is an exemplary representation of commune life that attains a high degree of xingxiang xing. It contains multiple interpretive possibilities and illustrates that xingxiang xing’s potential to effectively convey official ideology relies heavily on its investment in presenting a traditional value system. At the heart of this scene is a visual event in which commune members act as collective spectators of both the public election and the young couple. If, as claimed, the film truthfully depicts the life of Chinese peasants, then the spectatorial pleasure enjoyed by the commune members in this scene, the diegetic spectators inside the film, is instructive of the actual viewing experience of the spectators outside the film, the moviegoing public. Given the impossibility of retrieving genuine audience responses from the public at the time the film was screened (they were either mediated by popular sociopolitical discourses or selected in accordance with the editorial directives of specific media outlets), the significance of this sequence cannot be overstated. As an encoded viewing event, it lays bare the discrepancy between the official account and the peasant audience’s actual viewing pleasure. According to the official account, audiences enjoyed Li Shuangshuang because collectivism, which is personalized by Shuangshuang, triumphs over the backward feudalism embodied by Xiwang. However, the scene above clearly shows that the subtle traditionalism, which underlies the dynamic interaction between the timid Xiwang and his bold wife, creates a sense of “lifelikeness.” Not only do elements that are familiar in life—the husband’s little tricks, the wife’s disclosure of the familial secret, the bickering between the married couple—evoke knowing laughter and draw audiences back to

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the cinema again and again, the traditional patriarchal paradigm is shown as an effective means to the socialist end. Whether it is the old commune member’s strategic appropriation of tradition or an entrenched belief on the part of Xiwang, the thought that the “man should not be overtaken by the woman” and that “the husband should take charge of public affairs and the wife should look after domestic affairs” prompts Xiwang to take an active part in their commune. To be sure, Zhang’s virtuoso performance in this scene is also part of the viewing pleasure. Through the use of physical gestures and arresting expressions, the actress brings the spirited woman activist to life onscreen; using pauses, eye movements, and facial expressions, she allows us a glimpse into the mind of a tender and affectionate wife. As Paul Clark once remarked, “The delight of some audiences in Li Shuangshuang perhaps derived more from admiration for a skilled theatrical performance than from any concern for authenticity of setting.”31 Supplementing the film narrative, Zhang’s performance as a shrewd wife provides opportunities for audience engagement that cannot be reduced to political interpretation. The fact that official discourses had to efface peasants’ attachment to the traditional moral system and reinterpret the audience’s complex viewing experience into a simplistic juxtaposition of political positions bespeaks the Party’s need to project and eventually to construct a stable identity for its citizens. This act of discursive condensation in fact became indispensable to the construction of Zhang’s stardom. Subsidiary discourses including young actors’ study notes of Zhang’s performance and epistolary correspondence between Zhang and the seasoned theater actress Zhao Yunru 赵蕴如 further contributed to making Zhang a Red Star.32 These discourses evaded exploring Zhang’s private life, including her divorce and second marriage, despite the centrality of the peasant couple’s married life to the film narrative. They instead probed for the reasons why Zhang was able to consistently deliver natural and realistic film acting throughout the film and demonstrated particular interest in drawing the connection between the model heroine and the actress herself. An observation made by Huang Zongying 黄宗英,33 Zhang’s colleague at the Shanghai Film Studio, provides a representative answer to the question. In her view, Zhang’s 31  Clark, Chinese Cinema, 107. 32  See Yu Lan 于蓝, “Wo ai Li Shuangshuang: Xuexi zhaji” 我爱李双双—学习札记 [I love Li Shuangshuang: Study notes], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 6 (1962): 20–24; Zhang Ruifang 张瑞芳 and Zhao Yunru 赵蕴如, “Zhang Ruifang Zhao Yunru shujian” 张 瑞芳赵蕴如书简 [Zhang Ruifang–Zhao Yunru correspondence], Dianying yishu 电影艺 术 [Film Art] 3 (1963): 50–53. 33  Like Zhang Ruifang, Huang Zongying started her acting career in spoken drama in the 1940s and then moved into film circles. By 1960 she had starred in several famous Chinese

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performance style was closely linked with her self-cultivation, worldview, artistic training, life experience, and attitudes toward people and matters. Zhang was such a warm-hearted, candid, determined, and selfless person in real life that she could transcend her intelligentsia-class background and naturally and skillfully play the peasant character. However, Huang hastened to add that what distinguishes Zhang from ordinary actors is her social performance outside her profession: “[Zhang] is not obsessed with the acting profession. Whenever the Party needs her, she spares no effort and gives all her time to work for the Party’s cause. Isn’t this an illustration of what [the great poet] Lu You once said, ‘the true mastery of poetry lies beyond prosody’?”34 These words demonstrate the most salient feature of the star discourse in socialist China: that it highlighted the star’s socialist subjectivity. Rather than delineating ethereal qualities, discussions about the star frame the actor’s superb performing skill within his/her various social roles and political responsibilities, and ultimately make him/her a model person with both admirable skills and respectable socialist ethics. Huang further affirms Zhang’s realistic performing style by delineating the process involved: Ruifang performs in a simple way. When you watch her performance, you feel that she doesn’t use much technique. In actuality, as soon as she gets the film script, she actively enters her role. The spirit of the role attaches itself to her. In daily life, you can detect subtle changes in her mood and spirit. In her behaviors and manners, you find traces of the character. Through experiencing real life and attending numerous rehearsals, she fuses herself and the character into one. This actor’s charm does not come from showing herself off, but from immersing herself in the character.35 As Huang observes, self-overcoming and self-transformation, rather than the spontaneous overflow of emotion, contributed to Zhang Ruifang’s vivid depiction of her character. Huang’s comment is significant not merely as a professional observation. It is emblematic of a set of interpretive strategies used in the film star culture in the new China, which counteracted the discursive patterns of the commercially oriented star culture in Republican China. The analytical vocabularies that permeate Huang’s observation, such as the films, including Crows and Sparrows (Wuya yu maque 乌鸦与麻雀, 1949), The Life of Wu Xuan (Wu Xun zhuan 武训传, 1950), and Nie Er (Nie Er 聂耳, 1959). 34  Huang Zongying, “Xi kan Li Shuangshuang,” 7. 35  Ibid.

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fusion of actors and characters and experiencing life, are reminiscent of the Stanislavski system or method, an approach to acting developed by the Russian theater director Konstantin Stanislavski. To fully understand the Red Star, we must examine how Chinese cinema appropriated the Stanislavski system into its own practices and methods. The system not only enabled Zhang to give an outstanding onscreen performance, but it also proved to be a regulatory force that melded her into a model socialist. 3

The Stanislavski System and Modeling the Red Star

The system created by Konstantin Stanislavski is a set of rules that helps actors to achieve natural and complex acting. The word system not only identifies what the actor does when she performs correctly but also indicates acting as a process rather than imitation. Central to Stanislavski’s system are the following concepts. First, he differentiates formalist acting from realistic acting. He ­dismisses formalist acting as imitative performance and promotes realistic acting as truly theatrical and artistic. He emphasizes that to achieve realistic acting the actor should experience her part. Second, Stanislavski proposes psychophysical techniques to help the actor to merge herself with the character, and best embody it. Specifically, the psychological technique enables the actor “to put himself, when the need arises, in the creative state, which invites the coming of inspiration.” The physical technique “consists in preparing his bodily apparatus to express the role physically and to translate his inner life into stage terms.”36 Stanislavski’s popularity in socialist China was not accidental. A shared political allegiance to communism paved the way for Sino-Soviet cultural exchange. Lenin’s personal support for Stanislavski made this Russian director an appropriate candidate for Chinese artists to emulate. Moreover, Stanislavski’s inclination toward realism coincided with the then prevailing Marxist notion of realism in China, which ascribed historical truth to typical characters in typical circumstances.37 Since it was introduced to China in the late 1930s, the Stanislavski system has generated transcultural passion in Chinese spoken drama production, drama performance, and drama theory.38 The 1950s and early 1960s saw a 36  Jane Benedetti, Stanislavski: An Introduction (New York: Routledge, 2000), 75. 37  When differentiating realism from naturalism, Stanislavski once said, “Realism in art is the method which helps to select only the typical from life.” See Benedetti, Stanislavski, 17. 38  From the late 1930s through the 1940s, drama and film directors such as Zheng Junli and Zhang Min 章泯 translated parts of Stanislavski’s An Actor’s Work on Himself. The drama critic Qu Baiyin translated My Life in Art. In the late 1940s the theater director Jiao Juyin

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renewed interest in translating and introducing Stanislavski’s works with a stronger intensity and wider scope. In 1952 the Beijing People’s Art Theater was modeled after the Moscow Art Theater with which Stanislavski had a close engagement. In 1955 and 1956 the journal Dianyingyishu yi cong 电影艺术译 丛 (Film Art Translation Series) ran a column titled “Xuexi Sitannisilafusiji tixi” 学习斯坦尼斯拉夫斯基体系 (Study the Stanislavski System). The column carried Chinese translations of Soviet essays on the Stanislavski system, including several articles by Stanislavski’s collaborator, the Russian playwright Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko. More impressively, by 1963 the Chinese film press had published the first four volumes of The Complete Works of Stanislavski, which include An Actor’s Self-Cultivation (Parts I & II) and An Actor’s Work on a Role.39 In the meantime, film actors actively applied the Stanislavski system in practice. Zhang Ruifang’s performance in Li Shuangshuang is one such example. She brilliantly chose to speak in a loud voice and to emit infectious laughter as physical expressions of her forthright character; she accurately enacted northern peasants’ chores; she also delicately handled a spectrum of emotions ranging from pride and courage to attentiveness and tenderness. The cinematic apparatuses of lighting and close-ups captured the nuance of her expressions and enhanced the effect of her performance. However, the transcultural practice of the Stanislavski system in China was never a pure and transparent transmission of the Russian system. It was e­ ntangled with various artistic and social missions and was infused with Chinese artists’ creative reinterpretations of the method. Most prominently, Chinese practitioners overlooked Stanislavski’s deep affirmation of individuality, which undergirds his theory of psychophysical techniques, in ­particular emotion memory (also known as affective memory) and physical action. According to Stanislavski, in preparing for a role, an actor should evoke her own experiences and memories to find equivalent feelings experienced by the characters. If the intellect inhibits the drawing forth of emotion, an actor should use her body, her most immediately available asset, to stimulate 焦菊隐 applied the Stanislavski system to three Chinese dramas in Beijing, including Dragon Beard Ditch (Long xu gou 龙须沟). See Tong Daoming 童道明, “Jiao Juyin he Sitannisilafusiji” 焦菊隐和斯坦尼斯拉夫斯基 [Jiao Juyin and Stanislavski], Wenyi yanjiu 文艺研究 [Literature and Arts Studies] 5 (1992): 87–95. 39  Konstantin Stanislavski, An Actor’s Work, trans. Lin Ling 林陵 and Si Mintu 司敏徒 as Yanyuan ziwo xiuyang, diyi bu 演员自我修养第一部 [An actor’s self-cultivation, I], (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1959); trans. Zheng Xuelai 郑雪来 as Yanyuan ziwo xiuyang, dier bu 演员自我修养第二部 [An actor’s self-cultivation, II] (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1961); Konstantin Stanislavski, An Actor’s Work on a Role, trans. Zheng Xuelai 郑雪来, Yanyuan chuangzao juese 演员创造角色 (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1963).

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imagination and the unconscious. The intertwined process of using emotion memory and physical action eventually yields external physical expressions that accord with the inner essence of the role.40 Whether it is his quasiFreudian theory of emotion memory as a vast reservoir of authentic experience or the notion of the actor’s body as the conditioned instrument, both techniques are predicated upon the authenticity and reliability of individual experience. For Chinese practitioners in the early PRC, the significance of the Stanislavski system went far beyond offering a pragmatic method for realistic acting. It provided a discursive pattern for performance critique and proved to be a regulatory force in transforming actors into good socialists. The system not only ruled the stage but also regulated individuals. Stanislavski’s notion of the “fusion of actor and character” is particularly central to this regulatory process. According to his theory, this fusion occurs when the actor learns how to align her psyche with the imagined psyche of the dramatic character. Once the actor attains this fusion, not only does she make the spectator forget that she has a lived identity other than the character, but she also creates the conditions in which intuitive creation can ensue. For Stanislavski, the actor’s ­merging with her character is crucial to healing the rift between the actor as human being and as performer and, consequently, in creating realistic and affective performance on stage. In the Russian context, the concept of “the fusion of actor and character” was significant because it propelled actors to perfect their performance skills. In the Chinese context, it was significant primarily because it became a driving force for actors to engage in self-transformation in accordance with socialist ideology. The Chinese actors’ pursuit of professional perfection coincided with the Party’s effort to build ideal socialist subjects. Zhang’s remarkable performance is clearly Stanislavskian. When contemplating her acting experience in Li Shuangshuang in an article in Film Art, she writes: I wish to pursue such a spiritual state: my own mental outlook can reveal the character’s mental attitude. I should feel the character is in me. I can use her eyes to see, her logic to think. I can play episodes that are not penned down in the screenplay. I always believe that the actor’s mental attitude can be molded…. Playing different roles is similar to attending different schools and getting on with different classmates. By immersing ourselves in different life ambiences, consciously and attentively observing, experiencing, and approximating, we can have our temperament changed toward that of the character. Therefore, I particularly approve 40  Benedetti, Stanislavski, 85–96.

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of the idea that we should finalize the location where filming takes place first. This way, the environment in which the character lives can gradually exert influence on the actor.41 Her faith in the fusion of the actor and character, as well as the constructiveness of the actor’s temperament, echoes Stanislavski’s view that the actor needs to cultivate herself into a superbly conditioned instrument in order to create eloquent truthfulness on the stage. Despite her belief in the need for the actor to restructure herself, Zhang’s understanding of the premise of “experiencing the part” clearly differs from Stanislavski’s. Based on a conception of universal human nature and a deep affirmation of individuality, the Stanislavski system holds that the actor’s personal experience provides her with a sufficient arsenal to perform the ­character, her fellow humankind. For Chinese actors assuming the new role of film worker in the newly established PRC, one lesson they had learned was that as history marched, a new subject emerged. Since the gap between actual actors and socialist heroes was wide, Zhang believed that the actor’s selftransformation is the precondition for their vivid depiction of the character, in both form and spirit. Hence, unlike American followers of the Stanislavski system, who favored the method acting school, Zhang and her fellow film workers downplayed the role that the unconscious plays in “experiencing the part.” Perhaps Chinese practitioners at the time found the unconscious too unreliable. Contaminated by historical debris, how could the unconscious lend support to actors performing workers, peasants, and soldiers in the new China? Instead, they adopted the common and pragmatic practice of going to the countryside or factories in order to “experience life”: this was how they prepared themselves for their roles. Zhang recalls that experiencing life in the countryside was instrumental to her performance of Shuangshuang, a typical character in new circumstances. In Lin County in Henan Province, where the film was made, she worked in the fields with peasants, made friends with them, and tried to find traces of Shuangshuang among them. These experiences, alongside her reading of the screenplay itself and of literary works on rural life, helped her to visualize Shuangshuang, particularly her appearance and disposition, and later to play her onscreen.42 The practice of experiencing other ways of life for an extended period of time introduced actors to new sensory events and familiarized them 41  Zhang Ruifang 张瑞芳, “Banyan Li Shuangshuang de jidian tihui” 扮演李双双的几点 体会 [Thoughts on playing Li Shuangshuang], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 2 (1963): 14–29. 42  Ibid.

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with the lives of workers and peasants. In the process actors not only had opportunities to learn new gestures, expressions, and other physical movements for performance. They also discovered new visualization techniques. More important was the potential of this practice to transform the actor. As Zhang implies, this long-term practice helped her to develop new habits, social routines, and to a perception of one’s being-in-relationship with others and the environment. Thus the unconscious was rewritten by the socialist culture at the depth of habit, and consequently, effected a radical change in perception and disposition. Indeed, the actor’s performance and self-transformation are interconnected. Zhang’s offscreen performance, for instance being a good cadre in the film studio, sharing her experiences with fellow film workers, and imparting her understanding of playing new film characters to younger actors, was equally as impressive as her onscreen performance. It was the real-life equivalent of her Stanislavskian performance onscreen. Suffice it to say, performance was no longer just a matter of an actor bringing out her own creativity in representing a character, nor was it a problem-solving process involving the tension between the actor as a human being and as a professional. Performance onscreen converged with social performance in real life, thus blurring the distinction between the representational and the actual. For the Red Star, performance was at once a process of finding a correct way to approach the character and of reforming herself into a good socialist. Consequently, the actor’s embodiment of the character involves the questions of representation and of experiencing one’s capacity to do right things in the socialist state. Whether onscreen or offscreen, Zhang’s conscious and consistent effort to mould herself into a model socialist was striking and instructive. This effort was a practice of reiteration, involving the performer’s mind and body, the psychological and the physical. Not only did this reiteration reflect Zhang’s professionalism, it also became the normative force, which made her a good socialist. Seen in this light, there was hardly any distinction between Zhang the superb performer and Zhang the ideal socialist person. Seemingly paradoxical, the rise of Zhang Ruifang as a Red Star in Chinese socialist cinema was a result of the restructuring of Chinese cinema, the state’s propagandistic constructs, and the confluence of the actor’s cinematic and social performances. Because of its visual prominence and its being related to various extracinematic discourses, the Red Star was perhaps the most effective model person. It crystalized socialist ideas and moulded the masses. Nevertheless, the Red Star helps us demystify the power of the model. As Zhang’s case illustrates, being at the center of the social structure, the Red Star is constantly decentered. It is at once an object of emulation and an object being remodeled by socialist ideology.

Chapter 5

The Cultural Politics of Affect: Villain Stardom If the Red Star, the model film worker whose social performance aligns with their screen persona, was indispensable to shaping ordinary people’s imagination of the New Socialist Person and modeling desirable behavior in the new China, villain stardom—film workers who thrived on notoriety—posed intriguing questions about the relationship between aesthetics and politics. If we understand stars as agents of the spectacle who reveal the dominant model and internal logic of life in a given society, then it is necessary to probe the sociopolitical function of villain stardom in socialist China. In the 1949–1966 period, actors like Chen Shu 陈述, Fang Hua 方化, and Ge Cunzhuang 葛存壮1 became household names because of their screen performance as “enemies of the people.” That category included Japanese “devils,” KMT intelligence personnel, and traitors of China. This chapter investigates the much-neglected topic of villain stardom in cinema of the early PRC with a case study of Chen Qiang (1918–2012), an esteemed actor best known for playing the evil and treacherous landlord. Rather than embodying the socialist ideal, he was first and foremost associated with what the socialist ideology negates: the old feudal order and exploitative class relations. In 1962 when Mass Cinema launched the first Hundred Flowers Awards, over 100,000 readers voted Chen the Best Supporting Actor for his memorable performance of the archvillain in Xie Jin’s film The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun 红色娘子军, 1960).2 He clearly gave a convincing performance for when young moviegoers bumped into Chen in everyday life, some would openly show their distaste for this evil landlord!3 The representation-centered analytical model of stardom is apparently insufficient to account for Chen’s stardom since social 1  Chen Shu is known for his role as a KMT intelligence officer in Scouting Across the Yangtze River (Dujiang zhencha ji 渡江侦察记, 1954); Fang Hua made his name by playing a Japanese military officer in Guerrillas on the Plain (1955); Ge Cunzhuang has played various villains including landlords, Japanese “devils” and local ruffians in films that include The Song of the Red Flag (Hongqi Po 红旗谱, 1960), Little Soldier Zhang Ga (Xiao bing Zhang Ga 小兵张嘎, 1963), and Little Blacky Gets Married (Xiao Erhei jiehun 小二黑结婚, 1964). 2  Qi Yanming 齐燕铭, “Qi Yanming Zai Baihua jiang banjiang dianli shang de jianghua” 齐燕 铭在百花奖颁奖典礼上的讲话 [Qi Yanming’s talk on the Hundred Flowers Awards ceremony], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 5/6 (1962): 8. 3  See Chen Qiang 陈强, “Jieshi fanmian renwu de choue xinling” 揭示反面人物的丑恶心 灵 [Revealing the negative characters’ despicable souls], Renmin ribao 人民日报 [People’s Daily], November 18, 1962.

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discourses about this remarkable actor largely revolved around audiences’ negative emotional responses, particularly, their hatred toward the landlord class, which was aroused and intensified by Chen’s performance. To understand the necessity and mechanism of villain stardom in the CCP’s political project of moulding socialist subjects, this chapter starts with a discussion of the Chinese conception of the villain in conjunction with Chen’s acting in specific performance contexts. It then draws on recent critical theories of affect as well as Chen’s personal reflections on his performances to illustrate how villain stardom became part of the political pedagogy. 1

Negative Characters, Performance Context, and Production of Affect

Prior to performing on the silver screen, Chen Qiang received theater training at the Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts in 1938 at the Chinese communist base Yan’an. For much of the 1940s he traveled with drama troupes and wartime service corps (zhanshi fuwu tuan 战时服务团), bringing agitational theater to soldiers and the rural masses in the border regions.4 It was not until 1948 that Chen made his screen debut in Save Him to Fight Chiang Kai-shek (Liuxia ta da lao Jiang 留下他打老蒋) as an old and sensible peasant. Between 1949 and 1966, as the new Chinese cinema that aimed to serve the workers, peasants, and soldiers gradually took shape, he played various types of roles in a dozen or so films, including bit parts in Marriage (Jie Hun 结婚, 1953), Searching for Evidence in the Shipyard (Chuanchang zhuizong 船厂追踪, 1959) and The Weather Woman (Gengyun boyu 耕云播雨, 1960). He also played lead roles: as a calculating middle peasant5 in an agricultural cooperative in No Mystery Three Years Ago (Sannian zao zhidao 三年早知道, 1958); an enthusiastic and experienced factory worker who pushes forward technological innovation in Trial Voyage (Shihang 试航, 1959); and an overseas Chinese magician who returns to

4  Anonymous, “Dianying yanyuan Chen Qiang tongzhi” 电影演员陈强同志 [Film actor: Comrade Chen Qiang], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 23 (1959): 6. 5  The rich peasant, the middle peasant, and the poor peasant were class statuses conferred upon peasants in the work of land reform in rural China. According to Mao Zedong’s definition, middle peasants may or may not own their own land. A middle peasant derives his income wholly or mainly from his own labor and as a rule he does not exploit others. See Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “How to Differentiate the Classes in the Rural Areas,” October 1933, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 1, accessed May 20, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/ reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-1/mswv1_8.htm.

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his homeland in Wondrous Encounter of a Magician (Moshushi de qiyu 魔术师 的奇遇, 1962). In spite of Chen’s efforts to present himself as a well-rounded actor, he was best known for playing villains: the hypocritical young landlord Huang Shiren in The White-Haired Girl (1950) and the treacherous local despot Nan Batian in The Red Detachment of Women (1960). Produced a decade apart, both films deal with the conflict between oppressive landlords and innocent peasants. The former dwells on the sufferings that the vicious Huang Shiren inflicts on the “white-haired girl,” Xi’er, while the latter focuses on how Wu Qionghua, a defiant maid of the local despot Nan Baitian, develops into a disciplined communist soldier. For many filmgoers in socialist China, Chen Qiang came to represent the ultimate incarnation of evil within a socialist state—the class enemy. It is noteworthy that villain stardom was often rendered as “master-actors of negative characters” (fanpai dashi 反派大师) in socialist China. The subtle differences in these two phrases concern less linguistic preferences than culturally specific conceptualizations of the villain’s role in the film. The term “villain,” as it is used in Anglo-American playwriting and film and theater scholarship, emphasizes moral deficiency or the deviation of a person whose wickedness of mind, selfishness of character, or abnormative motivations form an important element of the plot. In contrast, “the negative characters” ( fanmian renwu 反面人物) signifies a politically conceptualized character category. Standing in direct opposition to positive characters (zhengmian renwu 正面人物)—the laboring masses and communist soldiers—negative characters are individuals who either oppose or obstruct Chinese communist revolution and socialist construction. In the Chinese literature and arts of the socialist period, these characters range from foreign imperialists, through traitors and spies, to feudal landlords and local bandits. They inevitably possess despicable moral qualities, but these are more derived from their political affiliations than they are the manifestations of inherent wickedness. As we have discussed in this book, there is little doubt that the primary concern of literature and performing arts under Mao was to create and depict new and progressive characters who are workers, peasants, and soldiers. As early as 1953, Zhou Yang 周扬, then vice minister of culture, proclaimed that “Creating typical characters of advanced figures to cultivate our people’s noble character should be the central and fundamental task of our film and other arts.”6 6  Zhou Yang 周扬, “Zai quanguo diyijie dianying juzuo huiyi shang guanyu xuexi shehuizhuyi xianshizhuyi wenti de baogao” 在全国第一届电影剧作会议上关于学习社会主义现 实主义问题的报告 [Report on learning “Socialist Realism” delivered at the first All-China

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By 1959, as the aesthetic principles of revolutionary realism and revolutionary romanticism was actively promoted among writers and artists, the ­emphasis on creating heroic characters reached such prominence that it began to exclude the portrayal of other categories of character, for instance more nuanced characters who demonstrate hesitation and contradiction.7 Yet those at the other end of the spectrum, the villains, were deemed indispensable to cinema throughout the Mao era. This was not only because their inclusion would ostensibly fend off partisanship and thus more accurately reflect the real world. It was also, and more importantly, required by the Marxist dialectics the Chinese state had adapted as its guiding philosophy. This conceives of all human history as derived from material conditions and as an inevitable process of development in which conflict lays bare the contradictions of society at a given time. Naturally, in any representation this conflict needs more than just heroes. Despite their ideological importance, most villains occupy a marginal narrative position in cinema of this period. Underdeveloped characterizations in film scripts as well as film actors’ formulaic renditions often reduce these c­ haracters to indistinguishable, lacklustre screen villains if not outright flat ­caricatures.8 Chen Qiang stands out partly because he was cast to play a ­particular type of villain, the landlord whose presence was intricately interwoven into the daily life of peasants, who were of course the majority of China’s ­population in the Mao era. Moreover, compared to other cursorily and stereotypically presented villains, the two landlord characters in The White-Haired Girl and The Red Detachment of Women are more fleshed out, distinct individuals, thanks partially to the well-crafted film scripts. Furthermore, Chen’s villain stardom was a cross-media one. His reputation as an actor talented at playing the villain was first established when he became involved in stage ­performances of The White-Haired Girl9 during the preliberation era. Film Scripts Conference], in Zhou Yang Wenji 周扬文集 [Collected works of Zhou Yang], ed. Luo Junce 罗君策, vol. 2 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1985), 192–233. 7  Lan Yang, “‘Socialist Realism’ versus ‘Revolutionary Realism Plus Romanticism,’” in In the Party Spirit: Socialist Realism and Literary Practice in the Soviet Union, East Germany and China, ed. Hilary Chung et al. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), 88–105. 8  See the stereotypical representations of Japanese military officers in films such as Struggle in an Ancient City (Yehuo chunfeng dou gucheng 野火春风斗古城, 1963) and Tunnel War (Didao zhan 地道战, 1965) and underdeveloped sinister spy characters in Mysterious Companion (Shenmi de lüban 神秘的旅伴, 1954), and The Bell Rings at the Old Temple (Gusha zhongsheng 古刹钟声, 1958). 9  The White-Haired Girl was first staged by the troupe of players of the Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts at the Seventh National Congress of the Communist Party of China in 1945. The enthusiastic response of the Chinese Communist cadres to the theatrical production encouraged further dissemination of the play in revolutionary base areas. See Ai Ke’en 艾克恩, Yan’an

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Based on northern Chinese folklores and written by He Jinzhi 贺敬之 and Ding Yi 丁毅 in Yan’an, the revolutionary play dwells on the unbounded misery of a peasant girl named Xi’er. First Xi’er loses her father, a destitute widower, who takes his own life on New Year’s Eve after his landlord Huang Shiren pressures him to pay off the full amount of his debt. She is then forcibly taken to Huang’s house to work as a maid while her fiancé Dachun is evicted from the village. Later she is violated and then abandoned by the landlord. Hiding in a mountain cave, Xi’er survives by eating wild fruits and food sacrifices left in nearby temple. As her hair turns completely white, she is taken by the villagers for a white-haired fairy spirit. The drama reaches its climax when Dachun, who has since joined the Eighth Route Army, returns to the village to rescue Xi’er, overthrow the landlord’s rule, and initiate land reform. As has been well acknowledged, the melodramatic mode of The White-Haired Girl makes the tale particularly effective in imparting the CCP’s ideology of class struggle.10 Xi’er’s fall into an abyss of misery and suffering never fails to induce tears and provoke sympathy from the audience, and polarized characterization of her and the landlord does not merely offer moral clarity but also functions as a strategic means of representing history. In addition, the necessity of class struggle, which originates with socioeconomic conflict, is justified through the popular notion of the struggle between good and evil.11 Since the 1940s The White-Haired Girl has become a seminal text within the popular discourse of land reform.12 Although land reform had begun in many of the liberated areas prior to the establishment of the PRC, it did not sweep the country until June 1950 with the passing of the Land Reform Law.13 Over the ensuing months the reception, dissemination, and propagation of the wenyi yundong jisheng 延安文艺运动纪盛 [Chronicle of literary and art movements in Yan’an] (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 1987), 603–606. 10  See Esther Yau, “Compromised Liberation: The Politics of Class in Chinese Cinema of the Early 1950s,” in Hidden Foundation: Cinema and the Question of Class, eds. David E. James and Rick Berg (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 80–201; See also Stephanie Hemelryk Donald, chapter 1 of Public Secrets, Public Spaces: Cinema and Civility in China (Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000). 11  Meng Yue 孟悦, “Baimao nü yu Yan’an wenxue de lishi fuzaxing”《白毛女》与延安文 学的历史复杂性 [The Whited-Haired Girl and the historical complexity of Yan’an literature], Jintian 今天 [Today] 1 (1993): 171–188. 12  Other well-known texts include The Sun Rises Over the Sanggan River (Taiyang zhao zai Sanganhe shang 太阳照在桑干河上) by Ding Ling 丁玲, The Storm (Baofeng zhouyu 暴 风骤雨) by Zhou Libo 周立波, and The Golden Road (Jinguang dadao 金光大道) by Hao Ran 浩然. 13  Victor D. Lippit, Land Reform and Economic Development in China: A Study of Institutional Change and Development Finance (White Plains, NY: International Arts and Sciences Press, 1974).

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law from the east coast to the heart of central and southwest China received particular media attention. Considering that the implementation of land reform meant not only administering laws and polices but inciting passive and atomized peasants to political action, it was indispensable to produce supplementary cultural texts that would educate people on the necessity of reform as well as win hearts and minds. In the meantime, the newly emerging People’s Cinema under the CCP’s leadership strove to cultivate film literacy among the laboring masses and to build up its audience base in both urban and rural areas. These conditions made adapting The White-Haired Girl to the screen at once a politically viable option and useful strategy for developing film production. After winning the Special Award at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival, the film was premiered in 1951 in 120 cinemas across twenty-five cities in China, attracting six million Chinese viewers.14 Drawing in audiences who had prior knowledge of Chen’s stage performance, the success of The White-Haired Girl established Chen’s cross-media villain stardom. More importantly, enthralling accounts of audiences’ kinetic responses to the actor’s performance onstage as Huang Shiren supplied the foundational legend, which would help distinguish Chen from his contemporaries. In 1946 the troupe of actors from the Yan’an Lu Xun Academy of Arts and Literature traveled to Huailai, a small town famous for growing fruit, to stage The White-Haired Girl as a means of providing a temporary respite to battleweary soldiers. As the actors onstage shouted the slogan “Struggle against the landlord Huang Shiren” at the climax of the final act, audiences threw fruit at the stage to express their indignation at the evil landlord. One hit Chen so hard that he had a black eye the next day.15 On another occasion, the audience responded so violently it was almost life-threatening. The troupe was performing in Hebei to an audience of army soldiers immediately after their “speaking bitterness” meeting.16 Toward the end of the final act, most of the soldiers were sobbing. A rookie soldier, who had been a victimized peasant, loaded his gun and aimed at the stage. The squadron leader intercepted just in time. When 14  Anonymous, “Di liu jie guoji dianying jie huojiang yingpian Baimao nü” 第六届国际电 影节获奖影片《白毛女》[Award-winning film at the 6th International Film Festival: The White-Haired Girl], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 26 (1951): 8. 15  Chen Qiang 陈强, “Dejiang yougan” 得奖有感 [Thoughts upon accepting the Hundred Flowers Award], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 5/6 (1962): 12–13. 16  Speaking bitterness meetings were where the oppressed spoke about their exploitation in a public gathering. It was regarded and used as an important political tool to form class consciousness by the CCP. For the processes of such meetings, see William Hinton, Fanshen: A Documentary of Revolution in a Chinese Village (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1966).

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asked what he was about to do, the solider replied firmly, “I will shoot him dead!”17 These anecdotes were so captivating that they have since been quoted and retold in many articles and memoirs. However, an overreliance on them may lead us into a tautological trap in which we invoke Chen’s remarkable performances to explain these extraordinary audience responses and use these same responses to validate the excellence of Chen’s performance. Critical theories of affect provide a useful analytical tool to help us better understand the experiences evoked by Chen’s performance. Drawing on Benedict de Spinoza’s notion of affect as both “affections of the body by which the body’s power of acting is increased or diminished, aided or restrained” and “the ideas of these affections,”18 philosophers and cultural theorists such as Gillies Deleuze, Brian Massumi, and Teresa Brennan conceive affect as an energetic stream that emerges from an encounter between manifold beings which can be transmitted by collective or atmospheric forces.19 Compared to affect theories animated by the work of the psychologist Silvan Tomkin, the Spinozan-Deleuzian strand approaches affect with a notion of broad tendencies and lines of force rather than psychological topology. It pays great attention to a processional logic intrinsic to the transmission of affect and is concerned with the capacities of a body (human, nonhuman, partbody, and otherwise) to affect and to be affected.20 Thus, Spinozan-Deleuzian theories of affect are pertinent to the discussion of the kinetic responses and ­impulsive reactions to the stage performances of The White-Haired Girl, which are clear registers of the intensity that audiences experienced and of the changing state of their bodies induced by their encounter with the performing bodies onstage. Among these theories, Robert Seyfert’s conception of affectif is particularly useful in exploring the affective operations of Chen’s site-specific villain performance, as it heightens the situational nature of affect. By affectif Seyfert refers to “the entirety of all heterogeneous bodies involved in the emergence of an affect.”21 He coined the neologism mainly to redress a conceptual ­inconsistency 17  Chen Qiang, “Dejiang yougan,” 12–13. 18  Benedict Spinoza, “The Ethics,” in A Spinoza Reader: The Ethics and Other Works, ed. and trans. Edwin Curley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 85–265. 19  Gilles Deleuze, Essays Critical and Clinical, trans. Daniel W. Smith and Michael A. Greco (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997); Brian Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002); Teresa Brennan, The Transmission of Affect (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003). 20  Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth, “An Inventory of Shimmers,” in The Affect Theory Reader, eds. Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 1–28. 21  Robert Seyfert, “Beyond Personal Feelings and Collective Emotions: Toward a Theory of Social Affect,” Theory, Culture & Society 29, no. 6 (2012): 27–46.

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in earlier cultural theories of affect that affect is simultaneously defined as an effect emerging from the encounter between bodies and a force external to those bodies. Since the notion of affectif emphasizes a heterogeneous ensemble of elements and thus highlights the importance of performance context for the production of affect, Seyfert’s theory cautions us against perceiving Chen’s body or his bodily performance as a single point from which affect emanates. Specifically, it prompts us to consider how changing scenes of bodily presence constantly configure the affective environment and how audiences’ interactions with one another influence their resonance with a highly charged and agitated atmosphere on-location. Moreover, the idea of affectif not only incorporates Spinoza’s non-anthropologically centered idea of the body as a myriad bodily form (both human and nonhuman) but also takes account of the varied circumstances and temporal experiences of individuals. It thus allows us to expand our investigation of Chinese audiences’ affective experience with stage actors’ physical enactment of The White-Haired Girl to ­audiences’ affective engagement of objects, such as its film screening. Furthermore, Seyfert foregrounds the issue of the receptivity of bodies and reconceptualizes the ­transmission of affects as “the different affective frequencies modulating the diverse ways in which various types of bodies interact (through tactile, olfactory, gustatory, electrical, etc., modes).”22 His theoretical insights draw attention to auxiliary political programmes that not only fostered the individuals’ capabilities of being affected but also constituted various modes of affective transmission. As Chen’s reminiscence clearly suggests, the effect of The White-Haired Girl on audiences was amplified by the participants’ affective receptivity, which was cultivated by prior propagandistic programmes such as the speaking bitterness meeting. It comes as no surprise that the rookie soldier who had just poured out his feelings of victimization in public was one of the most affected members of the audience, since his voluntary evocation of memory and venting of grievance made him more susceptible than usual to resonating with the stage enactment of mass struggle against the evil landlord. Applying Seyfert’s notion of affectif, we can see that the highly politicized context in which The White-Haired Girl was staged played a crucial role in enhancing the affective effect of Chen’s villain performance. Hence, an investigation of Chen’s villain stardom entails a closer examination of the i­ntersection and interaction between cultural production and the Party’s political campaigns, in particular, the circulation of Chen’s villain image in specific contexts. Film exhibition practices of The White-Haired Girl in the early PRC particularly 22  Ibid., 30.

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Figure 12 The White-Haired Girl screened in the land reform campaign Source: Illustration features in “Peasants from the outskirts of Shanghai watched The White-Haired Girl at the height of Land Reform Campaign.” Mass Cinema 26 (1951): 20

attest to the entanglement of the CCP’s political engineering of affect and affective operations of Chen’s villain stardom. Apart from being screened in movie theaters in urban areas to showcase the achievements of the new era of Chinese cinema, the film was frequently screened in the early 1950s as an integral programme of local land reform campaigns in villages and suburbs of major cities including Hankou and Shanghai.23 A special report on “Peasants from the Outskirts of Shanghai Watched The White-Haired Girl at the Height of the Land Reform Campaign”24 published in the September 1951 issue of Mass Cinema offers a rare glimpse into one such unconventional yet common film exhibition practice and brings the issue of the political use of Chen’s villain performance to the fore (FIGURE 12). 23  Xia Yanghu 夏阳湖, “Baimao nü zai Zhoujiang Cun”《白毛女》在周江村 [The White-Haired Girl in the Zhoujiang Village], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 3 (1952): 37–38; Lu Fu 路夫, “Shanghai jiaoqu nongmin zai huore de tugai yundong zhong kan yingpian Baimao nü” 上海郊区农民在火热的土改运动中看影片《白毛女》 [Peasants from the outskirts of Shanghai watched The White-Haired Girl at the height of the Land Reform Campaign], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 26 (1951): 20–22. 24  Lu Fu, “Shanghai jiaoqu nongmin zai huore de tugai yundong zhong kan yingpian Baimao nü,” 20–22.

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As the Mass Cinema journalist reports, an open-air screening of the film was purposefully arranged on the evening before the “class-status approval meeting” (tongguo jieji dahui 通过阶级大会) held in Xinle Village, the first such meeting in the Xinjing township. The actual screening of The White-Haired Girl was preceded by a careful introduction to the film by a member of the local land reform work team, delivered in the local dialect to over 2,500 peasants. During the screening, many peasants were moved to tears and were compelled to make sympathetic comments. The screening was then followed by a film symposium on the spot, with over sixty cadres from all villages within the Xinjing township in attendance. Apparently, these participants practiced their newly acquired political vocabularies of class and extrapolated revolutionary lessons from the film. Besides reiterating some heart-wrenching episodes, much of their guided discussion dwelled upon the landlord Huang Shiren’s despicable qualities as well as the nature of the entire landlord class. According to the report, peasant audiences drew the following conclusions: The landlords were able to play tyrants because they had ganged up with the KMT reactionary forces; now that the peasants had been emancipated, vengeance against the landlord class must be sought and land reforms must be unwaveringly carried out.25 Interestingly, this account of the open-air screening is framed within an elaborate narrative of the class-status approval meeting. With this textual strategy, the journalist not only called attention to the broader political context of the film screening, he also accentuated the significant bearing it had on the running of the mass meeting. As the report goes, over 1,500 peasants in the meeting were briefed on the personal history and exploitative deeds of a select group of six people by village cadres. Afterward, they cast votes, conferring the status of “landlord” upon two of the group, “rich peasant with quasi-landlord status” upon another two, and “rich peasant” upon the remaining two. Then ensued a struggle session26 against the newly labeled landlords which unleashed the peasants’ bitter enmity: When the previously enslaved, oppressed peasants enumerated the landlords’ many crimes and indignantly pressed upon them their wrongdoings, a thunderous roar shook the meeting place. Holding their hands up, thousands of peasants shouted slogans like “Eliminate the landlord 25  Ibid. 26  The struggle session refers to a public accusation session in which the victim is humiliated and made to confess his or her “crimes” by the revolutionary masses. It was often carried out in a highly theatrical way in the land reform campaign.

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class!” “Punish dishonest landlords!” “Brother Peasants, Unite! Utterly destroy the landlord class!” When a landlord named Shi Bopan—a typical landlord—tried to deny his cruelty and exploitation of peasants, an enraged villager pointed his finger at him, demanding “Lower your head! Lower your head!”27 To be sure, such a detailed account of the participants’ actions, moods, and emotions was intended to set this mass meeting as an exemplary event to inspire the land reform campaigns in other villages across China. What is striking is that the documented struggle session mirrors the one featured in the film: a political scene infused with intense emotions. Evidently the film did not just teach the audiences a revolutionary lesson but also forged their dispositional propensity and their emotional relations with the landlord class. In short, hatred agitated by Chen’s villain performance was partly retained and converted into political passions in the struggle against real-life landlords. That Chen’s villain persona was conveniently used as an affective technology to induce desired behaviors in the mass campaign points to the intertwined relationship between the production of affect and the cultivation of political feeling. The differences between affect and emotion have already been well noted. Whereas affect can be conceived as an autonomous communicable force, emotion and feeling, which are often used interchangeably, are believed to have their origins somewhere or in somebody. While affect is considered to be ineffable and noncognitive, emotion and feeling are understood as the subjective and conscious experience of sensations that can be expressed in culturally specific vocabularies.28 Thus it is necessary to introduce the CCP’s official discourse on emotion, which can be traced back to Mao’s elucidation of the Marxist view of human nature, emotion, and aesthetics in his influential 1942 “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art.” Combining the Marxist tenet of “social being determines consciousness” with the wartime realities of Chinese society, Mao refutes humanism, which had been holding much sway among Yan’an’s intellectuals, for its fallacious abstraction. He dismisses the ideas of a universal human nature or an inclusive love of humanity and instead stresses the decisive role that the objective realities of class struggle and national struggle play in forming people’s thoughts and feelings. He concludes

27  Ibid., 20. 28  Nigel Thrift, “Intensities of Feeling: Towards a Spatial Politics of Affect,” Geografiska Annaler, Series B: Human Geography 86, no. 1 (2004): 57–78.

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that in a class society there can only be class-bound feelings and that members from antagonistic classes can only feel enmity toward each other.29 What emerges from Mao’s terse and plain formulation is in fact an ethics of emotion, an ethics that stresses the imperative and appropriateness of emotion in a time of revolution. Knowing what to love and what to hate is no longer a matter of personal preference or taste but an issue of political attitude and motive. Moreover, Mao’s aphoristic pronouncement that “there is absolutely no such thing in the world as love or hatred without reason or cause”30 posits that feeling, thinking, and judging are intimately related, if not interdependent. Consequently, one may surmise that expressing class feeling affirms or even reinforces one’s class consciousness. However, class feeling should not be taken for granted. As Marx argued, a class of itself is not necessarily a class for itself. Thinking along this line, class feeling is by no means intrinsic to class but needs to be cultivated for any particular class. The cultivation of class hatred against the landlords was particularly pressing from the Yan’an era31 to the early years of the PRC when the CCP first introduced land reform on a regional scale and then expanded it nationwide. Although land reform purported to redress distributive injustice and to give land to the tillers, it was by no means carried out smoothly or without local obfuscation. Among factors that seriously hindered the progress of China’s land reform, the irresolute attitude of the peasantry informed by their petty-producer mentality was the most notable one, as revealed by the few firsthand documentations of land reform, which are untainted by ideological leanings or political obligations. As William Hinton observes, the peasants at Long Bow village in Shanxi province were hardly in agreement on “the exploitative nature” of the landlords. Some believed that where the land belonged to the landlords, through legitimate purchase or inheritance, rents should be paid while the others maintained that rent itself was exploitation.32 When a public accusation of a local landlord’s collaborator was staged, despite their fascination with the scene the villagers were so passive and timid that the local cadres had to put off the meeting until the next

29  Mao Zedong 毛泽东, “Talks at the Yenan forum on literature and art,” May 1942, from Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, vol. 3, accessed June 20, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/ reference/archive/mao/selected-works/volume-3/mswv3_08.htm. 30  Ibid. 31  The Yan’an era refers to the period from 1935 to 1948 when Yan’an, a small town in northern Shaanxi province, was the headquarters of the Chinese communist revolution. This period proved to be decisive for Mao Zedong in establishing himself as an independent Marxist theoretician and building the Chinese communist army into a formidable force. 32  Hinton, Fanshen, 129.

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day.33 Similarly, C. K. Yang notes peasants’ hesitance to participate in village land reform in Guangdong province. Some poor peasants even took temporary land ownership from the larger landlords and thus helped the latter avoid being classified into the landlord class, either because of their uncertainty about the durability of the new Communist regime or because of long-term friendships or family relations.34 Hence the state’s need to stir up the peasants into active hostility. Utilizing affective films to fan smouldering resentments and grievances among peasants into open antagonism was a vital part of engineering political feeling and modeling political participation. Chen’s screen image as the evil landlord expediently rendered itself as an effective tool in revolutionary pedagogy. Indeed, the actual project of cultivating class feeling concerned less the inculcation of a qualitatively distinct feeling than it did the creation and transmission of objects or signs of emotion, which would bind some subjects to others and consequently form political communities. The question of class feeling is essentially not an ontological one—what is class feeling?—but a practical one: What can class feeling do? Not simply an icon of evil, Chen’s screen image became a fetishized object of hate within an affective economy. His physiognomy and psychology concretized the abstract notion of the landlord class. Not only did his evil deeds substantiate physical and psychological threats that “his kind” posed or would pose to the innocent and the vulnerable, they also evoked reflections on personal experiences. More importantly, this figure of hatred stimulated the ­circulation of hatred. As one participant in the Xinle film symposium stated: In the past, we were oppressed by landlords in the same way. Every winter, my heart was in my mouth whenever I thought about paying back debts. In the film, doesn’t Dachun [Xi’er’s fiancé] have to risk his life to cut firewood on a steep cliff in order to pay off debts? The landlord doesn’t give a damn about his life and death. All he demands from Dachun is to pay back the debt with interest! … Now that we have been emancipated, we must fight back against the landlords!35 Here we see evidence that the emotional hatred excited by Huang Shiren moved sideways through associations between this fictional character and 33  Ibid., 114. 34  C. K. Yang, A Chinese Village in Early Communist Transition (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1965), 140. 35  Lu Fu, “Shanghai jiaoqu nongmin zai huore de tugai yundong zhong kan yingpian Baimao nü,” 21.

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landlords in real life; it also moved backward by evoking repressed memories and feelings of apprehension. The circulation of hate produced a sense of “apartness” of us (peasants) and them (landlords); it led this peasant to firm up his class position and even think about political action. As this case attests, Chen’s compelling villain performance made Chinese audiences more prone to accept the official ideology of class, particularly the landlord’s intrinsic exploitative nature. At the same time, the incessant invoking of Chen’s villain character by the film’s audience in symposiums, political study sessions, and print media allowed this specific cultural sign of hatred to acquire a cumulative affective value that was essential to the making of Chen’s villain stardom. 2

Villain Performance as Negative Pedagogy

While Chen’s reputation for playing the landlord so brilliantly had been grounded in the politically framed, site-specific performance context of the early 1950s, his villain stardom from the early 1960s onward has been largely sustained by discourses of realist performance, especially the actor’s own metanarrative. Although nationwide land reform campaigns waned around the mid-1950s,36 unscrupulous landlords continued to occupy a marginal position in Chinese revolutionary films.37 Given the importance of class hatred to the CCP’s political project of building a socialist citizenry and its ultimate goal of building a classless society, it is no surprise that signs or objects of hatred were continually produced, circulated, and conserved to sustain the masses’ d­ estructive hate relation with the landlord class. Among them, Chen’s character Nan Batian in The Red Detachment of Women, a master of treachery, is an unrivalled screen villain. Aiming to commemorate the Party’s revolutionary past instead of agitating immediate political action, the 1960 film combines the history of the CCP with a tale of the coming-to-consciousness of an oppressed slave girl, Wu Qionghua, in Nan’s household. To that end, the film was screened in movie theaters rather than being integrated into political campaigns. This change in film exhibition practice partially helped shift the focus of public discourses of Chen’s stardom from the contextually specific affect of Chen’s performance to the villain performance itself. The then dominant critical discourse of performance which focused heavily on the issue of realism impelled film actors and 36  Meisner, Mao’s China, 134. 37  Such films include Guerrillas on the Plain (1955) and The Song of the Red Flag (1960), among others.

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critics to discuss performance along the lines of representation, rather than affect. Chen’s own reflective accounts of his performance constituted the majority of these discourses. These accounts were published in People’s Daily, Mass Cinema, and a special anthology on the production of The Red Detachment of Women. They not only revealed the considerable public interest in the actor, as well as in the art of fine acting, but also closely engaged with the heated discussions within drama and film circles at the time about realist performance. Undeniably, performing negative roles posed challenges for actors in Chinese socialist cinema at both the technical and the theoretical level. Some actors assumed that playing such characters vividly was easier than playing heroes since the villain normally features at moments of dramatic conflict or key action, thus providing ample opportunity to showcase their skills. Chen refuted such an assumption based on his own experience. He pointed out that most negative characters were not fully developed in film scripts, thus leaving little room for originality. In addition, while actors who played positive characters could make use of their observations about the plethora of real-life combat heroes or model workers, those cast as villains had less raw materials to work with.38 Due to these constraints, many actors believed that so long as they held a critical attitude toward the negative character and made them appear hateful, they would fulfil their performing task. As a result, pretentious and exaggerated performances dominated both stage and screen, giving rise to many stereotypical villains. Chen disapproved of such crude portrayals and elucidated the drawbacks of these types of performance: If an actor exaggerates the ugly and horrid aspects of a negative character so much that the character loses credibility, his performance will depart from the truth of our life and will weaken the persuasive power of art. Such a practice will not induce hatred toward a negative character from our audiences, nor will it deepen spectators’ sympathy toward a positive character. As a result, this kind of performance destroys truthfulness and makes audiences aware that you are merely acting and that you are just making your character a laughingstock.39 In Chen’s view, a successful rendition of a villainous character, which can be measured to a degree by audiences’ affective states, is predicated upon its truthfulness. To create truthful and distinct villains, actors should not only 38  Chen Qiang, “Dejiang yougan,” 13. 39  Ibid.

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“re-create physical resemblance to class enemies but also probe their inner world.” In so doing, actors can “disclose a negative character’s despicable soul and hence repudiate his reactionary essence.”40 Chen’s formulation of his aesthetic ideal is realist in spirit and bears the im­print of a Stanislavskian conception of performance. As we saw in the last chapter, during the 1950s and 1960s the Stanislavski system of realist performance over plastic imitation and formalist representation gained ­predominance over other performance theories in China and held great appeal to Chinese actors. Crucial to realist performance is the notion of the fusion of actor and role: an actor must enter the inner life of a role and, insofar as is possible, become the character. Through conducting research into the character’s time and place in history, the actor is responsible for creating and enacting an underlying “subtext,” that is, the character’s deeper thoughts, feelings, and life context. A good actor becomes so fully immersed in a role, and believes so deeply in it, that the part is inside her even as she is inside the part.41 Strongly influenced by the Stanislavski system, many Chinese actors went to factories, rural towns and villages, and military bases to experience the lives of their characters, the workers, peasants, and soldiers. This process not only prepared them to merge themselves with their characters onscreen but also helped them to regulate themselves so as to approximate the ideal socialists in real life. However, when applied to creation of villains, this approach incurred much contention and invited theoretical debates among drama and film professionals. In an article entitled “On the Question of Experiencing the Negative Character’s Emotions,” a theater actor named Sun Bin 孙滨 pinpoints the absurd implications of rigidly applying the Stanislavski system in this context. The prospect for those who are to play class enemies that they must live evil lives in order to experience the emotions required of the role would simply be politically implausible. How else then could actors truthfully play negative characters? To tackle this methodological conundrum, Sun Bin set out to demystify the concept of “experience” (tiyan 体验) by explicating the differences between political attitude and artistic technique, between life experience and stage experience, and between truth in life (shenghuo zhenshi 生活真实) and truth in art (yishu zhenshi 艺术真实). For him, “playing a role” should not be understood as “being that role,” nor should the actor’s experience in life be equated to his self-conscious experience of performance onstage. For the 40  Chen Qiang, “Jieshi fanmian renwu de choue xinling.” 41  Constantin Stanislavski, An Actor: Handbook, trans. E. R. Hapgood (New York: Theatre Arts Books, 1963).

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actor playing a villain, his emotional experience of the role is fundamentally a technical issue. He may use various techniques of “affective memory” to present appropriate and credible psychological states of the character, for instance drawing upon his own feelings or resorting to emotions in experiences that are analogous to those prescribed.42 By broadening the signification of experience and by stressing the importance of affective memory, which Stanislavski believed to be “the best and only true material for inner creativeness,”43 Sun encouraged his fellow actors to transcend self-imposed ideological constraints and assured them of the vast space for creativity. Chen’s performing experience well illustrates Sun Bin’s view. In his essay “How I Played Nan Batian,” he points out that vicarious experience, analogous emotion, and external stimuli, rather than direct and immediate experience, aided him to create his multilayered characters. Specifically, his observations of the inconsistent behaviors of a school acquaintance and his family lent him valuable insights into man’s complexities and helped him set the inner tone for his negative characters. As he recalled, however overbearingly his schoolmate acted in front of his peers, he never failed to comport himself with grace and respect when meeting his elders and those in authority. The boy’s father also behaved in a contradictory way: although he had ruined lives and destroyed families, he persisted in teaching his children the cardinal virtues of Confucianism. From this, Chen inferred, to create a negative character one needs first and foremost to portray a true-to-life human being who has his own logic of action and his own joy and sorrow.44 While Chen’s understanding of the psychological depth of villains was partially inspired by his lived experience, his crafting of film performance greatly relied on the techniques advocated by Stanislavski. Before the shooting of The Red Detachment of Women began, the female lead, Zhu Xijuan 祝希娟, asked Chen whether they could build an animosity toward each other in daily life for the sake of preparing themselves for the roles. Chen happily complied. Later, even when on a break from filming, the two still acted as foes and hurled insults

42  Sun Bin 孙滨, “Tantan tiyan fanmian juese qinggan wenti” 谈谈体验反面角色情感问 题 [On the question of experiencing the negative character’s emotion], Xiju bao 戏剧报 [The Drama Newspaper] 1 (1963): 44–45. 43  Constantin Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares, trans. E. R. Hapgood (London: Methuen Drama, 1988), 177. 44  Chen Qiang 陈强, “Wo zenyang yan Nan Batian” 我怎样演南霸天 [How I played Nan Batian], in Hongse niangzi jun: cong juben dao yingpian 红色娘子军从剧本到影片 [The Red Detachment of Women: From script to film], ed. Zhongguo dianying chubanshe 中国 电影出版社 (China Film Press) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1962), 320–341.

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at each other.45 With such habitual practices, Chen gradually approximated the psychological objectives that he had designed for Nan Batian. In addition, he meticulously designed his characters’ personality traits in accordance with the concrete social milieu in which their real-life equivalences lived. For example, as the film script of The White-Haired Girl describes, the young master Huang Shiren grows up in a feudal family steeped in Confucian and Buddhist values. Chen thus envisioned this character as a frivolous, hypocritical scoundrel who occasionally smacks of childishness yet displays ruthless ferocity and great cunning at other times.46 As for Nan Batian, this landlord controls the local militia and colludes with the local authorities in Hainan Island in the 1930s when the seeds of Communist revolution were just germinating. Thus Chen conceived of him as a despotic, treacherous, and calculating landlord with great political ambition.47 His much-acclaimed use of small gestures in The Red Detachment of Women particularly evinces the influence of Stanislavski’s technique of “scenic action.” Scenic action refers to “the movement from the soul to the body, from the center to the periphery, from the internal to the external, from the thing an actor feels to its physical form.” Since it is “action in the spiritual sense of the world,” scenic action is essential to the truly powerful realist performance.48 Employing this technique, Chen produced a memorable performance in a scene in which Nan Batian is placed under house arrest by the red detachment of women led by Qionghua. When I played my role in this scene, I did not shed tears, nor did I beg for mercy by putting on a pitiable expression. Instead, I looked around coldly with a sneer, plotting. I said to myself, “Wait and see, someday when you fall into my hands, I will make you taste my severe punishment.” … I cut a sorry figure when I sat on the chair before execution. When the camera zoomed, I used my hand to cover my left eye, as if I was massaging the bruise. However, when the camera zeroed in on my eyes, the audience could see a glint in my uncovered eye…. Since this uncovered eye was now the focus of the audience’s attention, rolling that eye created immediate suspense.49 45  Ibid., 327. 46  Ibid., 322–323. 47  Ibid., 329. 48  Constantin Stanislavski, Creating a Role, trans. E. R. Hapgood (New York: Theatre Arts Books, 1978), 49. 49  Chen Qiang, “Wo zenyang yan Nan Batian,” 325.

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The actor’s physical action was called forth by living feelings instead of dull reason. With the assistance of the cinematic apparatus, the effect of his move and gesture is greatly enhanced. Since Chen’s seemingly ordinary gesture is bracketed by the close-up shot, it appears quite dramatic, hence bringing attention to the character’s psychological state. The ingenious design of small gestures not only helped Chen to attain psychological realism in performance, it also became the actor’s unique solution to constructing typical characters that possess both the universal characteristics of the landlord class and distinct personalities. Chen suggested actors should deploy a small act, a brief dialogue, or a casual look at decisive moments of the narrative conflict to portray their negative characters. When delivered appropriately and effortlessly, these seemingly insignificant actions would not only give idiosyncratic expression to a certain villain but succinctly reveal his despicable soul. In his view, such performance methods embody the aesthetic principle of realism that “art typifies the essence of life.”50 His methods offer an antidote to the two contradistinctive yet equally problematic ways of playing villains—plain and dull rendition versus exaggerated and stereotypical representation. Although Chen embraced his characters onscreen, he spared no effort to intervene in the then prevailing discourse of realist performance in order to create a (politically) necessary critical distance between himself and his character. In an essay written for Mass Cinema in 1962, he puts forth his notion of “negative pedagogy” (fanmian jiaoyu 反面教育), which serves as a powerful metanarrative frame for his villain performance. The article details how he had become willing to play negative characters, focusing particularly on the impact of his political epiphany on his perception of villain performance. Chen confesses that when he was a young theater actor in Yan’an, he was initially reluctant to play the evil landlord Huang Shiren. He grumbled about the work assignment, was worried about his professional competence, and was even concerned about the repercussions on his career. To straighten him out and to ensure the timely rehearsal of The White-Haired Girl, Chen’s comrades in the performing troupe urged him to study Mao’s “Talks at Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art,” in which the Communist leader calls for cultural workers to adopt correct attitudes to create works that satisfy the needs of the masses. According to Chen, after reading the document several times and having examined his thoughts against it, he came to a sudden realization that “whether playing positive characters or negative characters, it is first and foremost a 50  Ibid., 323.

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glorious political task given to an actor.”51 With this new understanding of the political importance of artistic performance unleashed in Chen a renewed enthusiasm for his work and a burst of creative energy. He began to adopt bold and fresh methods to portray Huang Shiren onstage, hoping to disclose “the ruthless nature of the despotic landlord class,” to arouse hatred among audiences, and to agitate them into overthrowing the landlord classes.52 Since it was published in Mass Cinema, Chen’s self-reflection may well have been a self-conscious textual performance interpellated by the CCP’s official ideology and hence needs to be taken with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless, his account deserves attention for three reasons. First, it discloses political subjectification as a process of complex negotiation between individual agency and political ideology. Instead of accepting Mao’s talks as a call for compromising artistic standards, Chen discerned the possible reconciliation of his ­artistic aspiration with his political obligation, and the commensurability of the artistic value and the political significance of performance as well. Second, this self-reflective narrative broadens the discursive framework of performance from an artistic to a political one. According to Chen’s conception of negative pedagogy, an actor’s role should be defined in a larger political culture, as an embodied pedagogical agent who helps induce desired political feelings through compelling performances. By emphasizing the importance of affect in political education, Chen was able to affirm the necessity of well-crafted artistic performance. He maintained that while actors cast in positive roles feel ­content when their performance elicits great sympathy and identification, actors playing villains should pride themselves on exciting immense hatred. Such responses confirm the excellence of the performance.53 Lastly, with his notion of negative pedagogy Chen carefully shifted critical attention from immediate theatrical presence to the issue of theatrical enactment, thus strategically calling attention to the actors’ double role as an essential medium of film narrative and a pedagogical agent of Party politics. In so doing, he successfully established a critical distance between himself and his roles. His self-narrative thus opened up a space for audiences to acknowledge their ambivalent viewing pleasure of Chen’s performance, a pleasure that oscillates between fascination and aversion—fascination with Chen’s original and nuanced performance and aversion to his morally despicable onscreen character. Chen Qiang’s villain stardom appears as an aberrant case in the galaxy of film stars of Chinese cinema. Defined largely in affective terms rather than by 51  Chen Qiang, “Dejiang yougan,” 12. 52  Ibid. 53  Ibid.

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the structured polysemy of star image, Chen’s stardom reveals the imbrication of political art and affective politics in the early PRC and unveils a hidden link between the CCP’s use of affect and its exercise of power. Politically framed site-specific performance contexts contributed greatly to the affective operation of Chen’s performance and led audiences to feel their way into political thinking, thus establishing the actor’s reputation as a remarkable villain actor. Chen’s metanarrative of his villain performances as a negative pedagogy in the early 1960s, which powerfully intervened in the predominant discourse of realist performance that conflates the actor and the character, not only offered a political articulation of professionalism but also carved out a space for audiences to guiltlessly enjoy screen villains in Chinese socialist cinema. More importantly, conceptualizing the villain star—audience relationship into a pedagogical bond within a wider political culture subtly directs attention back to the importance of villain stardom as an affective apparatus, helping to mediate and sustain the receptivity of the masses to the CCP’s official ideology and political campaigns.

Chapter 6

Mobile Attraction: Itinerant Film Projectionists and Rural Cinema Exhibition A man’s usefulness to the revolutionary cause is like a screw in a machine. It is by connecting and fastening numerous screws that a machine can become a solid working entity, running smoothly and bringing its potential to the full. A screw is small, yet its usefulness cannot be ­underestimated. I am willing to be a screw forever. Screws need regular maintenance and cleaning to stay rustless. A man’s thoughts need constant inspection to stay on the right track. Lei Feng, April 17, 19621

⸪ In 1963 Mao Zedong called for the whole nation to learn from Comrade Lei Feng 雷锋, a modest and self-sacrificing soldier who was posthumously made a model socialist.2 The spirit of Lei Feng, or the “spirit of the rustless screw” as elaborated in the soldier’s diary, soon became a “‘spiritual atomic bomb’ unleashing nuclear chain reaction across the country,” according to an editorial published in China Youth (Zhongguo qingnian 中国青年) in 1964. This spiritual force soon turned into political power and propelled millions of youths to participate in the campaign to increase production and to take part in other socialist causes.3 The prominence of technology-themed metaphors in these accounts is hard to miss. The model soldier used the image of a 1  Lei Feng 雷锋, Lei Feng Riji Shiwen Xuan 雷锋日记诗文选 [Selected diaries and poems of Lei Feng] (Beijing: Zhanyou chubanshe, 1983), 77. 2  For a detailed discussion of the mythification of Lei Feng and its national implications, see Wendy Larson, From Ah Q to Lei Feng: Freud and Revolutionary Spirit in 20th Century China (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009). 3  Zhongguo qingnian bao 中国青年报 and Zhongguo qingnian zazhi 中国青年杂志编辑部 (Editorial departments of China Youth Newspaper and China Youth Magazine), “Shehui zhuyi shidai qingnian chengzhang de daolu” 社会主义时代青年成长的道路 [The growth path for the youth in the age of socialism], Zhongguo qingnian 中国青年 [China Youth Magazine] 6 (1964): 2–4.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_008

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little screw being welded into a big machine to express his psychic interiority and to articulate socialist ethics; the editorial department of China Youth utilized the symbol of an atomic bomb unleashing explosive energy to affirm the power of political consciousness and to highlight the seamless transition from the spiritual to the material, from the individual to the collective. The national call to “mechanization” is particularly striking in that it poses questions about the meaning of human life and of man’s relationship with the machine in socialist China. In the film world there were numerous “little rustless screws”—anonymous and seemingly insignificant film workers who were nevertheless indispensable to the smooth running of the CCP’s propaganda machine. This chapter takes a closer look at itinerant film projectionists, a special agent of the spectacle whose professional excellence is predicated upon their intimate relationship with screening equipment and film technology. Not only did itinerant film projectionists make cinema more accessible to millions of Chinese peasants in both physical and symbolic terms, they also created new cultural forms in everyday life through their innovative activities. More importantly, encapsulating complex relationships among the technological, socioeconomical, and political factors that undergirded the development of Chinese socialist cinema, their presence and practice highlights the importance of individual agency to the effectiveness of film propaganda. In the following, I will first introduce mobile film projection as a new attraction for rural audiences and then investigate how rural cinema exhibition became a training ground for technologically savvy and political responsible socialist citizens. 1

Itinerant Film Projection: a New Attraction in Rural China

For many socialist states, Lenin’s oft-quoted statement “that of all the arts the most important for us is the cinema” is a truism with an unspoken precondition—cinema encounters its audience. Making films accessible to the populace, most of whom in China were illiterate4 and spread over a large expanse of territory, was of the utmost importance if the CCP was to communicate its political message and cultivate a new national identity. Shortly before the establishment of the PRC, sixteen left-leaning film artists including 4  When the PRC was founded in 1949, the national literacy rate was 32%. Among the new elites, namely, the members of the CCP, only 31% were literate. See Glen Peterson, The Power of Words: Literacy and Revolution in South China 1949–95 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1997), 4, 48.

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Ouyang Yuqian 欧阳予倩, Cai Chusheng 蔡楚生, Shi Dongshan 史东山, and Xia Yan submitted a joint proposal on various film policies that the CCP should adopt in preparation for reshaping Chinese cinema. With respect to film exhibition, they specifically recommended the government “build more state-run movie theaters, first at provincial capitals, and then in cities and towns, and set a wide network of mobile projection teams so that films can be screened in the countryside, factories and mines, and military bases.”5 Well aligned with the CCP’s political interest in building a socialist culture across the country, this proposal received much support from the central government of the newly established PRC. Policies and training programs were established to build a force of skilled personnel who could bring film to the broadest audience possible, especially those population groups with hitherto little exposure to this modern medium. As early as in 1950, a special training program for the operator of 16 mm movie projectors was set up in Nanjing by the Film Bureau, which trained 1,886 people of various ethnic backgrounds from thirty-one provinces and one autonomous region.6 By 1953 various government organizations, trade unions, and military branches had set up their own projection units.7 Such endeavors resulted in a rapid development of a national film exhibition network consisting of movie theaters that served urban populations, film clubs that targeted the expanding urban working class, and mobile film projection units for remote rural populations. From 1950 to 1966, the number of film projection unit leaped from 522 to 13,997, 90% of the latter being traveling projection units in the vast rural areas of China.8 5  Ouyang Yuqian 欧阳予倩 et al., “Dianying zhengci xianyi” 电影政策献议 [Offering suggestions on film policies], in Zhongguo dianying yanjiu ziliao 1949–1979, ed. Wu Di 吴迪, 3 vols., vol. 1 (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 2006), 3–5. 6  “Zhongguo wenhua bu dianying ju dierci kuoda xingzheng huiyi baogao tigang” 中国文 化部电影局第二届扩大行政会议报告提纲 [Outline of report to the second enlarged administration meeting of the Film Bureau under the Ministry of Culture], quoted in Liu Guangyu 刘广宇, “Huiwang zhongguo nongcun dianying fangying 50 nian” 回望中国农村 电影放映 50 年 [Fifty years of film projection in the Chinese countryside], Sichuan xiju 四 川戏剧 [Sichuan Drama] 4 (2011), 66–68. 7  Wang Zhongyi 王忠义, “Ba yinmu guadao zuguo de bianjing Huoerguosi: Zhongguo youdian gonghui diwu fangying dui” 把银幕挂到祖国的边境—霍尔果斯: 中国邮电工会第五放 映队 [Hanging the silver screen at the border of our homeland: Khorgas, the fifth projection team of the China Postal Workers Union], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 8–9 (1952): 54–56; He Lin 贺林, “Fangying dui zai Chabei caoyuan shang” 放映队在察北草原上 [Projection teams on the Chabei Grassland], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 15 (1952): 32–33; Zhu Dannan 朱丹南, “Zhandou zai chaoxian qianxian de dianying fangying dui” 战斗在朝鲜前线的电影放映队 [Film projection team on the Korean battlefront], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 9 (1953): 27. 8  Chen, Records of the Overall Development, 355, 532.

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Itinerant film projectionists, a special agent of the spectacle, were the most distinctive addition to Chinese cinema and the new cogs of the revolutionary machine.9 Their emergence was a result of complex interactions among economic factors, technological development, political mandate, and cultural demand. In the context of economic underdevelopment and infrastructural constraints in the early PRC, training and mobilizing a contingent of proletarian projectionists was not merely an expedient solution to disseminate films to rural audiences. It was also a concrete manifestation of China’s overall strategy of developing science and technology, which attached great importance to building a skilled workforce.10 In order to develop film projection teams without increasing the government’s fiscal burden, some provinces set up ­projection training programs for both spare-time and professional projectionists and encouraged peasants to set up spare-time film projection teams.11 Cultivating screen personnel through various modes of training, whether formal or informal, exemplifies “personnel-embodied technology,” which, according to Jon Sigurdson, was a distinctive form of technology transfer from the urban sector to rural areas in socialist China.12 Since it ­transferred competence or “technological capacity” rather than physical artefacts that embody film technology, cultivating rural film projectionists was bound to bring about concomitant and far-reaching social and cultural changes in rural China. Although mobile film exhibition was commonly practiced in socialist states for the sake of extending cinema’s reach and educating the masses,13 this practice in the early PRC was markedly characterized by its reliance on the most meagre equipment and individual manpower. Whereas in the Soviet Union trains, steamships, and cars were used to transport film reels for rural cinema

9  Both Jay Leyda and Paul Clark mention the film projectionist in their seminal works on PRC cinema. See Leyda, Dianying/Electric Shadows and Clark, Chinese Cinema. 10  Leo A. Orleans, “Scientific and Technical Manpower,” in Science and Technology in the People’s Republic of China, ed. Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (Paris: OECD, 1977), 93–110. 11  Wu 武, “Hubei sheng Macheng xian peiyang nongcun yeyu dianying fangying yuan” 湖北 省麻城县培养农村业余电影放映员 [Macheng County in Hubei Province cultivated spare-time peasant film projectionists], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 11 (1964): 22. 12  Jon Sigurdson, “Transfer of Technology to the Rural and Collective Sectors in China,” in Science and Technology in the People’s Republic of China, ed. Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (Paris: OECD, 1977), 171–182. 13  See Vance Kepley, Jr., “‘Cinefication’: Soviet Film Exhibition in the 1920s,” Film History 6, no. 2 (1994): 262–277; Darko Tadic, “Yugoslav Propaganda Film: Early Works (1945–52),” Journal of Film and Video 63, no. 3 (2011): 3–12.

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exhibition,14 in China film reels were usually delivered using rubber-tired wagons pulled by horses and mules—in peasant parlance, “movie tractors” (dianying tuolaji 电影拖拉机) or “movie carts” (dianying che 电影车)15—which carried a small team of three to five film projectionists along with the standard portable package (projector, generator, and attachments). Despite or perhaps because of the rudimentary means of transport, mobile film projection teams were able to penetrate inaccessible rural zones and to cultivate a new audience who had no or little prior experience of cinema. A two-page special report published in the fourteenth issue of Mass Cinema in 1952 documents the enthusiasm aroused by mobile cinema on the part of hundreds of thousands of peasants and herders. A projectionist from the Qinghai Province Film Projection Unit recorded a very warm welcome that his team had received from local Tibetans. Upon arriving at Gongguomamu Tribe in Gangcha District, we saw our Tibetan compatriots—men and women, old to young—all dressed in colorful ethnic clothing with adornments. Some rode galloping horses and others played Tibetan musical instruments. The locals staged a grand ceremony to welcome “Chairman Mao’s Film Team” as if they were celebrating their annual festival. Some of them even competed to arrange our accommodation and to invite us to their tents for a good chat.16 His experience is echoed by many other accounts from projectionists: crowds often lined up along the road to welcome the arrival of the “movie cart”; the locals spread the word quickly and some of them even fetched their friends and relatives from neighboring villages to watch movies together.17 One film projectionist from Guizhou Province recalled an occasion when her projection team arrived in a multiethnic district in which villages were spaced about 100 14  The well-known agitational train system, which had been initiated during the Russian Civil War, continued into the early years of the Soviet Union. At the same time, a permanent, peacetime rural film distribution and exhibition network was developed and sustained by co-operatives, which set aside a budget for purchasing portable projection equipment and planned an itinerary of film projection. See Kepley, “ ‘Cinefication,’ ” 262–277. 15  See Xue Feng 薛峰, “ ‘Dianying tuolaji’ ” “电影拖拉机” [The “movie tractor”], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 6 (1952): 32. 16  Zhang Runlin 张润林 et al., “Xiongdi minzu reai renmin dianying: zai Qinghai caoyuan shang” 兄弟民族热爱人民电影: 在青海草原上 [Brother nationalities love People’s Cinema: On the Qinghai Prairie], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 14 (1952): 28. 17  Xiang Ping, “Yige nü fangying dui,” 26–27.

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miles apart. Their film exhibition attracted people from various ethnic groups, including the Miao 苗 and the Lisu 傈僳, and the number of viewers reached around 5,000 in one evening.18 Two other projectionists who worked in the China–Vietnam border region were similarly impressed by the tremendous effort that rural people had made: peasants from the surrounding villages had to take with them food for three or four days and to trek for eighty to ninety miles in order to attend one film screening!19 Since mobile film exhibition was few and infrequent in remote areas, the village film showing was usually permeated with a festive atmosphere. Bracketed from mundane life, it became a special event that would gather people and enhance community cohesion. It is certainly the case that from the outset rural cinema exhibition did not just aim to enliven the cultural life of rural people. It was also a good occasion to interpellate audiences into the national subject of a new socialist China. A mixture of fiction and documentary films were widely exhibited in these regions during the early 1950s, including A Pastoral Song from Shanbei (Shanbei muge 陕北牧歌), The Victory of the Inner Mongolian People (Neimeng renmin de shengli 内蒙人民的胜利), The Birth of New China (Xin zhongguo de dansheng 新中国的诞生), The Whole World Joins in Celebration (Putian tongqing 普天同 庆), and Liberated China (Jiefang le de zhongguo 解放的中国).20 These films, whether narrating the revolutionary history or documenting the founding moment of the “new nation,” not only construct a new historical narrative but also invite viewers to position themselves in an imagined community that holds much promise. However, such ideological interpellation did not take place automatically in the audience’s spectatorial experience, not least because many rural people barely knew how to even “watch film.” This applied to rural folks in both China’s hinterland and in the more developed coastal regions. An itinerant film projectionist in Shandong province remarked that in 1951 local peasants were merely rubberneckers who “got confused with movie characters and could not tell friend from foe.” They flocked to film screenings not to be enthralled by the film narrative but to enjoy the “wonder show.” Fascinated with moving images and cinematographic verisimilitude, these peasants often 18  Huang Jinbi 黄锦碧, “Xiongdi minzu reai renmin dianying: zai Yizu, Yaozu he Miaojia” 兄弟民族热爱人民电影: 在彝族、瑶族和苗家 [Brother nationalities love People’s Cinema: In regions inhabited by Yi, Yao, and Miao people], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 14 (1952): 28. 19  Guo Renlong 郭人龙 and Chen Jihan 陈继汉, “Xiongdi minzu reai renmin dianying: zai Yunnan bianjing” 兄弟民族热爱人民电影: 在云南边境 [Brother nationalities love People’s Cinema: In Yunnan border regions], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 14 (1952): 28–29. 20  Zhang Runlin et al., “Xiongdi minzu reai renmin dianying,” 28–29.

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commented on the novelty of cinema: “How come people on the screen are like real people? They can even talk!”21 Unfamiliar with cinema, a technology-based entertainment, these rural folks in the early 1950s were naïve audiences compared to their urban counterparts. Their curiosity in cinema, as a form of visual entertainment instead of a narrative art, as well as the prominence of exhibition practices allow us to construe cinema in rural China as a particular kind of “cinema of attractions,” a term that Tom Gunning uses to characterize the distinctive spectatorial experience and film aesthetic of early cinema.22 Whereas the cinema of attractions at the turn of the twentieth century was conditioned by urbanization and the growth of the consumer society, this vernacular cinema of attractions was shaped by the CCP’s effort to transmit knowledge and cultivate a socialist consciousness, and was thus intimately linked with the ritualization of a new cultural life in socialist China. The task of improving rural audiences’ film literacy, satisfying the cultural needs of the masses, and propagating the state ideology fell on the shoulders of the many traveling film projectionists, who had close interactions with their audiences. As we will see, owing to various exhibition strategies created by the screening personnel, the film projectionist in rural cinema exhibition became an important source of cinematic interpellation. 2

Rural Film Exhibition: Problems and Challenges

Acting as a special agent of the spectacle, traveling film projectionists had various opportunities to command attention and change minds. In the meantime, socioeconomical, technological, and political factors together shaped mobile film projection into a training ground for “red experts,”23 in this instance,

21  Li Tongji 李统绩, “Shandong sheng wenjiaoting dianying fangying dui zai nongcun de xuanchuan gongzuo” 山东省文教厅电影放映队在农村的宣传工作 [Propaganda work in the countryside by the film projection team of Shandong Provincial Department of Culture and Education], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 8–9 (1952): 57. 22   See Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 6, no. 2 (1986): 63–70; Tom Gunning, “An Aesthetics of Astonishment: Early Film and the (In)credulous Spectator,” in Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, ed. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 5th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 818–832. 23  Although “red expert” has often been associated with the intellectuals, here I use this term in its broadest sense. To call itinerant film projectionists red experts is also to acknowledge their multifunctional roles which go beyond their expertise in film projector operation.

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technologically proficient film projectionists and politically reliable film propagandists.24 Contrary to the conventional assumption, film exhibition in the early PRC was not entirely funded by the Chinese communist government. Due to the rapid development of film distribution networks and a steady rise in film attendance during the initial four years of the PRC, the central government held great hope in the potential of film exhibition to generate national revenue. This expectation, along with a tax break for rural cinema exhibitions, which was introduced by the State Administration of Taxation in June 1953,25 posed challenges for mobile film projection teams to strike the balance between the economic and political interests of their work and yielded unwanted results. Unsurprisingly, some film projection team leaders were more concerned about selling tickets quickly and developing enterprise strategies (qiyehua 企业化) than realizing the political potential of film projection.26 Similarly, projectionists who lacked ideological consciousness cared primarily about running film screenings smoothly and did only perfunctory work in explaining films and elucidating their political significance. Some film projection teams refused to screen documentaries and newsreels; others made serious mistakes in their propaganda work.27 For instance, when screening The Cossacks from the Kuban, a Soviet film that eulogizes the happy life of the peasants in two collective farms, the projectionist who was in charge simply explained the movie as a love story and showed no understanding of the film’s “intended” political message—“the enormous material and cultural benefits brought by ­agricultural collectivization.”28 Another film projectionist interpreted Xinghuo Collective Farm (Xinghuo jiti nongchang 星火集体农场)—a documentary 24  Chenshu Zhou provides a detailed discussion of the film projectionist’s versatility. See Chenshu Zhou, “The Versatile Film Projectionist: How to Show Films and Serve the People in the 17 Years Period, 1949–1966,” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 10, no. 3 (2016): 228–246. 25  In order to support the development of new socialist culture, the Central Finance and Economic Committee suggested amending certain tax regulations in 1953. The tax on special consumption activities was abolished, but a culture and entertainment tax was imposed on movies and theaters. The State Administration of Taxation specified that film exhibition at schools, factories, and reception events was exempted from the cultural and entertainment tax and that rural film exhibition was exempted from the industrial tax. See Bo Chen, Film Production, 383. See also Liu Zuo 刘佐, Xin zhongguo shuizhi liushi nian 新中国税制六十年 [Sixty years of China’s tax system] (Beijing: Zhongguo caizhen jingji chubanshe, 2009). 26  Yiyun 亦云, “Xunsu jiuzheng fangyingdui xunchuan gongzuo zhong de cuowu xianxiang” 迅速纠正放映队宣传工作中的错误现象 [Quickly correct the propaganda mistakes made by film projection teams], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 16 (1953): 3. 27  People’s Daily, “Jiji gaijin dianying fangying gongzuo,” editorial. 28  Yiyun, “Xunsu jiuzheng fangyingdui,” 3.

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about China’s first collective farm established by Chinese peasants of Korean ethnicity in Jilin province—as a reflection of the happy life led by the Koreans, who recently moved from their homeland to China. Another one confused the enemy army with the PLA when lecturing about the film. Moreover, film projection work was plagued with formalism (xingshi zhuyi 形式主义). Treating postscreening feedback merely as a formality, some projectionists did not even bother to answer questions raised by the audience on the spot.29 Aside from their still deficient political consciousness, film projectionists’ low technical skills and malpractices remained a big concern. The negligent inspection of projection equipment and failure to properly follow operational procedures frequently resulted in accidents during film projection, causing much inconvenience to audiences.30 Film projection mishaps are vividly described in the following poem written by one peasant viewer from Hebei province: You see a screen of either static snow or nonstop drizzle but, without a single silhouette. For some unknown reason no sound was heard. See, finally came sound. All of a sudden, the reel was broken off. Beads of sweat formed on the enthusiast projectionist’s forehead.31 In January 1954, taking account of the earning potential of the Chinese film market and the persistent problems in rural cinema exhibition, the State Council of the PRC announced its “Decision on Establishing Film Exhibition Network and Film Industry” to provide specific guidelines for the development 29  Anonymous, “Jin yibu zuohao nongcun dianying fangying de xuanchuan gongzuo” 进一 步作好农村电影放映的宣传工作 [To further improve propaganda work in rural film projection], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 17 (1954): 32–33. 30  Accidents during film projection are mentioned in several sources, including journal editorials and newspaper articles. See People’s Daily, “Jiji gaijin dianying fangying gongzuo,” editorial; He Zhenzhong 何振中, “Buduan qianjing de nianqing fangying yuan” 不断 前进的年轻放映员 [A young projectionist continuously marching forward], Dianying ­fangying 电影放映 [Film Projection] 20 (1959): 15–16. 31  Zhang Jianqiu 张鉴秋, “Wei nongcun guanzhong xiangxiang” 为农村观众想想 [Think about the rural audience’s interests], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 13 (1956): 35.

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of cinema distribution and exhibition. With respect to film exhibition, it stipulates, Film projection teams should gradually realize enterprise management and must achieve a decrease in state subsidies year on year. However, in border regions, ethnic minority regions, and sparsely populated areas with poor transport provision, this transition should be advanced steadily, according to varying circumstances and avoiding undue haste. Film distribution organs and state-run cinemas must all implement enterprise transformation and improve business management systems. Hereafter they should not only be self-sufficient but also be able to turn extra profits to the state.32 As qualified film projectionists were an important prerequisite for achieving this economic goal, the central government encouraged all ­administrative areas to devise plans to train screening personnel and, particularly, “to pay special attention to attract educated youth from workers’ and peasants’ families to get involved in film projection and exhibition.”33 Ultimately, these screening personnel, the Decision states, “should not only be technologically savvy and d­ utiful projectionists but also propagandists with good political consciousness.”34 3

Film Projectionists and Their Machines

In the early 1950s rural film projection was hardly considered an attractive profession. It would “require frequent travel to the countryside, entail endurance and hardship, and offer little opportunities for career development.”35 The high level of attention that the media bestowed on model film projection teams and outstanding individual film projectionists probably reveals as much about the challenges posed by inadequately skilled personnel as it does testify

32  Zhongyang renmin zhengfu zhengwuyuan 中央人民政府政务院 (State Council of the People’s Republic of China), “Guanyu jianli dianying fangyingwang yu dianying gongye de jueding” 关于建立电影放映网与电影工业的决定 [Decision on establishing a film exhibition network and film industry], Wenyi bao 文艺报 [Literary Gazette] 2 (1954): 5–6. 33  Ibid., 6. 34  Ibid. 35  Xiang Ping, “Yige nü fangying dui,” 26–27.

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to the effectiveness of good film exhibition practices.36 Despite the various problems in film exhibition work, a career in film projection held great promise for people with a restless spirit, especially those whose personal aspirations overlapped with the state’s economic and political interests. Surprisingly it proved to be a good avenue of championing gender equality and women’s emancipation. Shortly after the founding of the PRC, rural women demonstrated much enthusiasm in entering the profession. There even emerged an increasing number of all-female projection teams. The first was set up in Suiyuan province in 1952,37 and others include one founded in the midst of the nationwide Sino-Soviet Friendship Month campaign in Hubei province and the nationally well-known “Three Sisters” film projection team in the Laishui County of Hebei province.38 The practical need for more film projection teams in various political campaigns aside, the personal pursuit of gender equality, albeit by working in so-called “masculine” professions, played a big role in motivating women to join the profession and form all-female teams. For one thing, women projectionists believed that working in an all-female team would compel them to be more self-reliant because, based on their own experience with mixed-gender film projection teams, the emotional dependence of some women on male colleagues had more or less inhibited the full realization of their potential.39 For another, in contrast to domesticated and “feminine” technology such as spinning and weaving, being an itinerant film projectionist entailed mastering modern technology customarily associated with masculinity. Thus female projectionists took pride in joining female pilots and female train drivers in breaking into a male-dominated occupation and became a new icon for liberated women in socialist China.

36  Anonymous, “Yige kugan shigan de nüzi fangying dui: ji Jiangsu sheng yiyang xian ‘Sanba’ hongqi dianying dui” 一个苦干实干的女子放映队—记江苏省射阳县 “三八” 红旗 电影队 [A hardworking female projection team: “March eighth” red-banner film projection team in Yiyang County, Jiangsu Province], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 13 (1960): 7; Hong Jiang 洪江, “Fangying yuan, Jieshuo yuan, Xuanchan yuan” 放映员解说员宣传员: 记张子诚同志放映工作片段 [A film projectionist, film lecturer and propagandist: Fragments of Comrade Zhang Zicheng’s film projection work], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 5 (1964): 31–34. 37  Xiang Ping, “Yige nü fangying dui,” 26–27. Suiyuan 绥远 is a former province located in northern China. In 1954 it was made part of the Inner Mongolian Autonomous Region. 38  Li Shu 李书, “Xin Chengli de hubei nüzi fangying dui” 新成立的湖北女子放映队 [Newly established female projection team in Hubei], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 1 (1953): 18–20; Anon., “San zimei fangying dui,” 54–56. 39  Li Shu, “Xin Chengli de hubei nüzi fangying dui,” 18–20.

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Film projection in turn was important in giving shape and new meaning to the lives of women in the early PRC. What was featured prominently in news stories about women projection teams was a distinctive model of human–machine relationship. No longer being passive beneficiaries of modern ­technology, female film projectionists actively engaged with machines, using them, taking care of them, and loving them. A 1953 article on the Hubei women’s film projection team gives a good illustration of such an interaction. According to the article, the five young women in this team “love their machines like they love their own lives.”40 To conserve state investment and to ensure the smooth functioning of the film projector, not only did they carry a generator weighing over 200 pounds by themselves across forested terrain to the exhibition site, they also maintained all the machines with great care. For instance, the projectionists would thoroughly clean their equipment, including the film gate in the projector and the tiniest screw in the generator; when the starting mechanism of the generator failed to work in cold weather, they would resort to operate by hand (a strenuous task), rather than use spark ignition, in order to extend the life of the spark plugs in the generator; when encountering bad weather, they would spare no effort to protect the film equipment. When the weather turned stormy during an open-air film screening, they used all the tarpaulins and umbrellas to cover the film projector while standing in the rain themselves, unsheltered. When it was time to change film reels, Comrade Little Han unbuttoned her padded cotton coat and pressed the finished reel against her bosom. To prevent raindrops from falling on the reel, she then bent over the reel storage box and slowly and lightly put that reel inside the box.41 This depiction of a projectionist’s tender care for her film apparatus provides a vivid illustration of what Tina Mai Chen has termed as the “human–machine continuum” in Maoism, a dynamic human–machine interaction that effects qualitative changes in social transformation and mass subjectivity.42 The relationship that the film projectionist developed with her machine was, or at least was presented as harmonious, a drastic departure from the alienated labor 40  Ibid. 41  Ibid. 42  Tina Mai Chen suggests that the human–machine continuum can be viewed as a new form of human subject and that human–machine interaction was central to the socialist transformation envisioned by Mao. See Tina Mai Chen, “The Human-Machine Continuum in Maoism: The Intersection of Soviet Socialist Realism, Japanese Theoretical Physics, and Chinese Revolutionary Theory,” Cultural Critique 80 (2012): 151–182.

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that Marx has astutely observed; and the language used to describe this new relationship was couched in affective terms. Xu Shifen, the projectionist who insisted on using her hands to start the generator, said, “Every time a spark plug fires, its life-span is shortened. It pains my heart to fire a spark plug. I’d rather spend more effort than putting the burden on the machine.”43 While young women may have relished the opportunities to realize their personal aspiration, state media was keen to accentuate the socialist ethics, such as self-reliance, cooperation, and revolutionary friendship, which the collaborative work of film projection cultivated. As the Chinese political climate became radicalized in the 1960s, articles that share experiences in film projection were increasingly framed by the prevailing political discourse. For instance, when introducing the work of the Three Sisters projection team in 1964, the team leader Zheng Yizhen 郑义珍 had to express her gratitude to the Party for its support and to Chairman Mao for his inspiring works. The very name of her projection team, Zheng explained, was given by the Party and the masses. When the projection team was set up in 1958, shortly after three junior secondary school graduates had completed a forty-five-day training program in Laishui County, rumors circulated this all-female projection team would not last because “women are usually petty-minded and gossipy, and thus they can’t work well together.”44 From that moment on, these strong-willed young women were determined to dispel such a myth. However, women’s agency seemed to be co-opted by the CCP’s socialist education. Local Party leaders soon advised these young women to “strengthen unity” and instructed them to study Mao’s essay “Against Liberalism” (Fandui ziyou zhuyi 反对自由主义). Zheng stated, Through study, we realize that we, as old classmates from the same home village and as colleagues, should be more attentive to master the [revolutionary] principles. Whoever is wrong needs to be criticized and this cannot be done with a light touch for the sake of maintaining peace and friendship…. Because we are related to each other not just as friends, classmates, and colleagues, but more in the sense of being class sisters and revolutionary comrades, we formed a very good unity. The villagers saw us as close as real sisters, so they called us Elder Sister, Second Sister, and Third Sister. Subsequently our superiors approved the name of our projection team, the “Three Sisters Projection Team.”45 43  Li Shu, “Xin Chengli de hubei nüzi fangying dui,” 18–20. 44  Zheng Yizhen 郑义珍, “Mao Zhuxi zhuzuo gei le women wuqiong de zhihui he Liliang” 毛主席著作给了我们无穷的智慧和力量 [Chairman Mao’s works gave us infinite wisdom and strength], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 1 (1964): 21. 45  Ibid.

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Although Zheng sprinkled her essay with references to Mao’s essay in order to emphasize the importance of Party education, specific examples provided in her article reveal that the bond among these young women was forged through their concerted effort to overcome technical challenges and master film projection technology. The team’s first public film screening in their home village was a flop. Due to errors in operation, they failed to project the film with any sound and thus disappointed the audience. On another occasion they were unable to identify the causes of the generator failing and could not complete their prescheduled screening task. This failure came at a disastrous time for the screening was part of a supplementary program to an important county meeting about wheat field management. Things improved. Normative principles inherent to the profession seemed to have played an important role in upskilling these young female projectionists into qualified red experts. Undeterred by their early failures, the Three Sisters improved their skills on the job and learned how to properly maintain equipment through a combination of self-study and trial and error. By disassembling and reassembling the generator and the film projector several dozen times, they gained a good understanding of the internal workings of each part. During their spare time they used broken film reels to practice threading film through the projector and eventually reduced the time spent in changing reels from three minutes to thirty seconds. Although there was a tangible division of labor at work, the three projectionists learned new skills from each other and eventually all became competent in electricity generation ( fadian 发电), film projection ( fangying 放映), and propagation (xuanchuan 宣传), with each scoring a distinction in the provincial technician qualifying examination in 1962. Moreover, the Three Sisters created a record by running 1,135 screenings without accidents for five consecutive years (FIGURE 13).46 Their dedication to work also led to technical innovation. Learning from the experience of other projection teams, they successfully made two-lens and three-lens slide projectors, which transformed inanimate slideshows into lively moving images.47 Complemented by the projectionist’s approachable and lively film introduction, these animated prescreening slideshows, which incorporated local audiences’ familiar cultural forms such as riddles, were well received by local peasants as “indigenous film” (tu dianying 土电影) and were considered by film professionals as an important step forward in the massification of cinema (quanzhong hua 群众化).48 46  Ibid. 47  Ibid. 48  Ming Yu 明禹, “Xuexi tamen, zhichi tamen” 学习他们支持他们 [Learn from them, support them], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 11 (1964): 19.

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Figure 13 The Three Sisters projection team inspects their equipment prior to screening Source: This panel of a photospread illustration features in: Anonymous, “San zimei fangying dui” 三姊妹放映队 [Three Sisters projection team], Mass Cinema 10–11 (1964): 54

4

Film Projectionists and Their Exhibition Practices

Entrusted with the arduous task of propagating socialist ideology and building socialist culture in rural China, itinerant film projectionists were expected to master not only technological know-how but also techniques of persuasion— to persuade potential viewers to watch and to help them understand movies and get their “intended messages.” To preempt and rectify problems such as substandard film introductions or negligence and formalism in film propaganda work, state media continually published articles to promote good rural cinema exhibition practices. As early as 1952, the film projection team of the Shandong Provincial Department of Culture and Education wrote to Mass Cinema to share their work experiences. Prior to film screening, the team members had parked themselves in town centers or at crossroads to advertise the films that they were to screen and explain film plots with the aid of supplementary materials such as

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posters and palm-sized picture storybooks (lianhuan hua 连环画). They also made use of local blackboards, newspaper reading groups, and cultural forms popular with peasants such as clapper talk (kuaiban 快板)49 to retell film plots and familiarize the locals with the films on their screening program. During film screenings, projectionists interjected with comments on main characters and explained unusual camera shots to help the audience to follow the plot. When they were off-duty, team members worked in liaison with local schools to hold symposiums where they could discuss films and teach elements of cinema by demonstrating the workings of the projector.50 All these methods provided incremental training for the audience and resulted in a considerable increase in film attendance within one year. The projection team was particularly pleased to report that the local peasants had matured from viewers who were easily dazzled by moving images into film audiences who began to be conversant with film narrative.51 These practices can be broken down into three essential stages— prescreening publicity, commentary during film screening, and postscreening feedback—and were echoed in the routines of many other itinerant projection teams, although inevitably with idiosyncratic variations (FIGURE 14). Before long Mass Cinema published a set of proven tips to enhance the effectiveness of film projectionists’ propaganda work. For example, during film screening the projectionist should introduce positive and negative characters, provide explanations on the relationship among characters, and highlight distinct features of the main characters so as to help audience members retain relevant information. Film projectionists should also “train quick eyes, deft hands and a fast mouth” so that when “complicated” scenes such as a montage or flashback representing fantasy or memory appear, the projectionist can interject his or her explanation at the right moment and at the right speed. In addition, the projectionist was advised to proactively respond to the technological constraints of single-reel projector systems by providing a “reel-change summary,” an intermission minilecture that sums up the first part of the story.52 The importance of integrating film education and propaganda into the entire process of film exhibition was affirmed in a 1954 Mass Cinema editorial about further improving propaganda work in rural cinema exhibition. This principle was upheld not only to ensure the effectiveness of film propaganda 49  Clapper talk is a traditional oral performing art popular in northern China. It is essentially rhythmic storytelling coordinated with bamboo claps. 50  Li Tongji, “Shandong sheng wenjiaoting dianying,” 57. 51  Ibid. 52  Xu Ruzhong 徐如中 and Lin Fang 林放, “Nongcun fangying dui xuanchuan gongzuo jingyan jieshao” 农村放映队宣传工作介绍 [Introduction to rural projection teams’ propagation work], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 17 (1954): 32–33.

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Figure 14 Woodcut illustrating film projectionists’ prescreening work Source: Liang Shengmin 梁生民, “Zhunbei jinwan de dianying xuanchuan (Muke)” 准备今晚的电影宣传 (木刻) [Woodcut: In preparation for tonight’s film propagation], Mass Cinema 3 (1962): 22

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but also to foreground film exhibition as an essential site in which ordinary film projectionists could develop into socialist new persons with technological proficiency and political consciousness.53 Political consciousness, in Chinese Marxist parlance, indicates more than an awareness of the political principles and goals set out by the socialist state. It also implies the ability to observe and discern the political implications of social practices and phenomena as well as the willingness to take appropriate actions to realize the Party’s political ideals. On the part of Chinese film projectionists, political consciousness was often embodied in their flexibility and adaptability to contingent situations and local contexts to deliver effective performances on film propaganda work throughout cinema exhibitions. For instance, to make their film propaganda work more pertinent to local life, some film projection teams were active in soliciting support from Party committees at various levels of propaganda departments and in gathering information about local production plans. Projectionists also built up good relationships with local peasants by mingling with them and availing themselves in the field during the planting season.54 By gaining good knowledge of local communities, they were able to pepper their prescreening introduction with exciting village news.55 For example, the Guo village film projection team in Li county of Hebei province routinely performed the clapper talk below, which they composed as a part of the village chronicle: A film projection team came to our village with Stealing the Seals56 and Li Shuangshuang. In their clapper talks before screening, they talked a good deal about Party policies, the production situation, good commune members and good deeds. 电影队, 来山庄 放的是《夺印》、《李双双》。 映前还把快板数, 把党的政策、当前生产、好人好事说端详。57

53  Anon., “Jin yibu zuohao nongcun dianying,” 32. 54  Anonymous, “Youxiu fangying yuan: Ji Miaozu qingnian fangyingyuan Zhang Hongquan tongzhi” 优秀放映员张洪权同志 [An outstanding projectionist: Comrade Zhang Hongshu], Dazhong dianying 大众电影 [Mass Cinema] 22 (1959): 10. 55  Ibid. 56  Stealing the Seals (Duo yin 夺印), a film produced in 1963 by the August First studio, focuses on class struggle in the countryside. 57  Hong Jiang, “Fangying yuan, Jieshuo yuan, Xuanchan yuan,” 31–34.

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Familiarity with local people’s customs and emotions also allowed projectionists to appreciate specific difficulties that their audience would have with watching films and to find the most engaging ways to communicate with them. As various forms of traditional folk arts enjoyed immense popularity in the countryside, some projectionists made an effort to practice ballad-singing and storytelling and even record well-received pieces of traditional oral and performing arts word for word. In ethnic minority regions, film projectionists honed their skills in lip synchronization and tonal inflection in order to convincingly dub Mandarin dialogues into ethnic languages in real time.58 Further interaction with audience members, whether in the form of on-site observation, casual conversation, or feedback gathering, made film projectionists perceptive “sensors” of the CCP’s revolutionary machine. They noted discrepancies between the intended pedagogical power of newly produced Chinese films and their actual reception, and they took measures to remedy the situation in order to fulfil their role as intermediaries between state and people. In the mid-1950s cultural administrators like Cai Chusheng, then deputy head of the Film Bureau, took it for granted that rural films, regardless of their artistic limitations, would attract rural audiences because the political struggles against impetuous adventurism in agricultural cooperatives depicted in those films bore much relevance to the lived reality of the peasant classes.59 Film projectionists knew better that these were the very films that rural audiences tried hard to avoid. Whether in the coastal areas or in the hinterland, it was common for peasant audiences to walk away during screenings of Spring Breeze Reaches the Nuomin River (Chunfeng chui dao Nuomin he 春风吹到诺敏河) and Marching Forward (Ren wang gaochu zou 人往高处走), finding these films, which center on agricultural cooperatives, “boring and dull, dimly lit and slow-paced.”60 Being well aware of these audiences’ preferences—the older generation loved opera films like Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai (Liang Shanbo yu Zhu Yingtai 梁山伯与祝英台) while the younger generation preferred action-packed revolutionary war films (zhandou 58  Ming Yu, “Xuexi tamen, zhichi tamen,” 18–21. 59  Cai Chusheng 蔡楚生, “Dui 1954 nian dianying chuangzuo gongzuo de buchong fayan” 对 1954 年电影创作工作的补充发言 [Additional remarks on 1954 film production work], in Zhongguo dianying yanjiu ziliao 1949–1979, ed. Wu Di 吴迪, 3 vols., vol. 1, (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 2006), 399–414. 60  Anonymous, “Di er ci dianying fangying guanli huiyi zuotan guanzhong dui yingpian de fanying” 第二次电影放映管理会议座谈观众队影片的反映 [The second conference on the management of film exhibition: Audience responses], Yewu tongbao 业务通报 [Film Profession Bulletin] 9 (1955); reprinted in Zhongguo dianying yanjiu ziliao 1949–1979, ed. Wu Di 吴迪, 3 vols., vol. 1, (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 2006), 451–452.

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pian 战斗片)—experienced film projectionists would work out a more or less appealing screening program. For instance, projectionists in the rural area of Shanxi province used double bills—strategically combining an uneventful and predictable rural film like Spring Days in Water Village (Shuixiang de chuntian 水乡的春天) with a quick-paced and exciting revolutionary war film like Guerrillas of the Plain (Pingyuan youji dui 平原游击队)—in the hope of attracting their audience and fulfilling their political task.61 To cater to local audiences, film projectionists also made efforts to master the versatile skills required for their “live performance” or film lecture. This part of a screening was an important source of attraction to audiences and opportunity for ideological interpellation and became more so the greater the skill of the projectionist. A case in point is Zhang Zichen 张子诚, a young projectionist from the Guo Village Film Projection Team in Hebei province, who was well-known for his “live lecture”—a terse dialogue or monologue that he delivered during film screenings to help peasant audiences understand film characters and plots. At the All-China Film Distribution and Exhibition Conference in 1964, Zhang demonstrated his abilities with a marvelous live performance accompanying Struggle in an Ancient City (Yehuo chunfeng dou gucheng 野火春风斗古城, 1963), a revolutionary film set during the Sino-Japanese War. When the lights dimmed, the film’s protagonist Yang Xiaodong, an underground Party member, appeared onscreen along with his elderly mother in a Japanese military commander’s office. Their meeting had been purposefully arranged by the Japanese officer who had just arrested Yang. To bolster her son’s resolve to fight the Japanese, the mother unexpectedly throws herself out of the open window in the office. Zhang delivered his oral narration in solemn tones to the screened scene, comforting and encouraging Yang to fight to the end. Toward the end of the scene, the projectionist said: “They [the reactionary Japanese military officer and the traitor] abused their power and tyrannically ruled over people, but, like a rabbit tail, it won’t last long. The dark clouds that cover the whole sky will disappear sooner or later, and there will be clear moonlight again.” Zhang’s narration was at once comprehensible and artistic. Well attuned to the peasants’ sedimented habits of cultural consumption, Zhang sprinkled his narration with Chinese idioms and riddles. His lecture was both vivid and entertaining and served as an effective voice-over narration seamlessly blended into the film narrative. Toward the end of his narration, the words “dark clouds” coincided exactly with the visual

61  Li Ye 犁野, “Cong nongcun lai de yifeng xin” 从农村来的一封信 [A letter from the countryside], Dianying yishu 电影艺术 [Film Art] 12 (1956): 73.

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representation of clouds floating across the moon onscreen, which amazed many conference attendees.62 Not only was this talented projectionist able to clarify the signification of complex film language, his lecture also helped augment the film’s political message. We need only refer to Zhang’s treatment of one critical scene in which Yang Xiaodong attempts to persuade Guan Jintao, a regiment commander of the collaborationist KMT army, to immediately launch a military uprising. To depict Guan’s wavering position, much of the sequence is composed of superimposition. A series of shots, of menacing Japanese troops, a cunning Japanese military officer and his sycophantic Chinese aide-de-camp, the earnest yet worried face of Yang Xiaodong, Yang’s elderly mother and a self-sacrificing female Communist Party member, are superimposed onto a close-up of the brooding regiment commander. Devoid of dialogue, the quick succession of these shots speaks volumes about Guan’s inner turmoil. Considering the possible challenges such cinematography could pose for rural audiences, Zhang “performed” a running commentary to explicate the implied meaning of all the superimpositions. Picking up the thread of the narrative and narrating against the superimposition of the marching Japanese troops, he said indignantly, Is there any need for Comrade Yang Xiaodong to tell you about all these? Guan Jiantao, you should have a deep understanding of the situation! How many people have been trampled by the iron hooves of the Japanese imperialism? How many families have been torn apart? The Japanese flaunted their imperial power before us and shoved their way forward. They killed people and burned villages, doing all kinds of evil!63 Rather than indoctrinating his audience, the projectionist excited emotional responses to the tacit visual message through his masterful use of rhetoric questions and his measured control over tone and inflection. He was also flexible at adopting various narrative perspectives, assuming the position of an objective third-person narrator in one moment and a sympathetic implicated narrator in another. This enabled Zhang to drive home the film’s political message but still draw the audience into the character’s inner world.64 A journalist who observed Zhang’s demonstration remarked, “We all have watched Struggle in an Ancient City before. However, when we watched the movie with Zhang 62  Hong Jiang, “Fangying yuan, Jieshuo yuan, Xuanchan yuan,” 31–34. 63  Ibid. 64  Ibid.

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Zicheng’s commentary, we somehow gained a new understanding of the film and had a fresh experience.”65 Adopting various mediating tactics, Zhang’s live performance was at once compensatory, inasmuch as it clarified the film, and autonomous, in that it acquired distinctive characteristics. Impressed by Zhang’s performance, Yan Jizhou 严寄洲, the film’s director, thanked him for his performance, saying that it had inspired him to think further about “how to create films from the perspective of 500 million peasants and how to make films more comprehensible.”66 To a certain extent, the itinerant film projectionist’s performative virtuosity is comparable to that of the benshi, the “photo-interpreters” in the early history of Japanese cinema. As Isolde Standish and other film scholars of Japanese cinema have pointed out, through their live performance of interpretation and narration, benshi not only helped local audiences to adapt to new technologies and worldviews, but they themselves became a commercial attraction that enticed audiences to movie theaters.67 Like the benshi, itinerant projectionists in socialist China mediated traditional cultural forms and the modern technological spectacle, guided audiences through film narrative and manipulated their attention, and most importantly, attuned spectators to watch films through a political lens. The viewing experience of Chinese rural audiences, as a consequence, was characterized simultaneously by attraction and distraction, absorption and fascination, and hence was drastically different from the immersive mode of the spectatorial experience commonly shared by urban audiences in movie theaters. The presence and performance of itinerant film projectionists was a central element of the film experience in rural China. It was constitutive of that particular “cinema of attractions,” a cinema that aimed

65  Ibid. 66  Ibid. 67  See Isolde Standish, “Mediators of Modernity: ‘Photo-interpreters’ in Japanese Silent Cinema,” Oral Tradition 20, no. 1 (2005): 93–110; Hideaki Fujiki, “Benshi as Stars: The Irony of the Popularity and Respectability of Voice Performance in Japanese Cinema,” Cinema Journal 45, no. 2 (2006): 68–84. Standish’s observation that the benshi functioned as mediators of modernity is echoed in Germain Lacasse’s study of early American cinema. According to Lacasse, the narrator or film lecturer in early cinema is the “proof of the cinema of attractions” as it was he who stimulated and presented cinematic entertainment, softening the shock that seeing moving images would inflict upon audiences while amplifying the surprise. See Germain Lacasse, “The Lecturer and the Attraction,” in The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 181–192. The Chinese itinerant film projectionists are more comparable to the benshi because both were institutionalized by their respective film industries and government administrators as both educators and film narrators.

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to facilitate socialization, provide recreational choices, and open a window to the wider world, all while imparting critical political lessons. A closer look at itinerant film projectionists and their exhibition practices reveals that a dynamic interplay of socioeconomic, cultural, and ­political fac­ tors shaped the viewing experience of rural audiences. Overseeing the entire process of rural cinema exhibition, itinerant projectionists implicitly and symbolically welded themselves to the film apparatus, thus becoming i­ ndispensable “rustless screws” in the revolutionary propaganda machine. However, this by no means suggests a mechanization of human life. Rather it was in part because individual motivations may have colluded with or been co-opted by the Party’s political interests and in part because the successful massification of cinema heavily relied on and called for the film projectionist’s ingenious innovations.

Conclusion Having had been disparaged or deliberately forgotten for decades, Chinese socialist films made in the 1949–1966 period have gained a new lease of life since the turn of the twenty-first century. This is due partly to the capitalization of the nostalgia for an extraordinary, bygone era and partly to the development of film preservation technology. During the first decade of the twenty-first ­century, many of these films were reissued on VCD and DVD as part of the “Chinese Film Classics in 100 Years Collection” (Zhongguo dianying bainian jingdian 中国电影百年经典) and the “Red Classics Collection” (Hongse yuanxian jingdian shoucang 红色院线经典收藏).1 With the popularization of d­ igital ­technology in everyday life in the past few years, they have been made increasingly available on various digital platforms, including China Central Television’s online movie channel (www.cctv.com/movie). When watching Girl Divers (Nü tiaoshui duiyuan 女跳水队员) on YouTube, two user comments caught my attention: An age filled with a healthy and uplifting spirit! ( jiankang xiangshang de niandai 健康向上的年代) A self-deceiving age? (Ziqi qiren de shidai 自欺欺人的时代) It is not hard to imagine that the movie and its kind could excite a range of reactions from nostalgic sentiment to critical cynicism. Though consumed in an entirely new media environment, the aesthetic experience of an “old movie” from the Mao era is never an end-in-itself. It excites political comments and reflections. With historical hindsight, today’s viewers are quick to note the gap between appearance and reality, but they are also struck by a fresh spiritual attitude (jingshen mianmao 精神面貌) displayed by the screen characters. Despite the CCP’s failed experiment, the imaginary of the new socialist person that flickers onscreen is indelible. I have tried in this book to illuminate various facets of Chinese socialist cinema that had great bearing on the CCP’s political project of moulding 1  Beauty Media Group (Qiao jiaren 俏佳人) based in Guangzhou and China Sanhuan Audio and Video Community based in Beijing are the two major media production companies that have (re)introduced about 100 Chinese socialist films to older movie fans and younger Chinese audiences.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004423527_009

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the Chinese populace into ideal socialists in the early PRC. When the Party embarked on a journey to build a modern socialist state, a “socialism with Chinese characteristics” had already begun to emerge. The Party’s excessive focus on reforming the people in preparation for socialist construction departed from the classical Marxist notion that the new socialist man and woman are naturally born in the process of building socialism and that human beings’ true emancipation and self-realization correspond with the final arrival of communism.2 Aiming to rid China of the old customs, habits, and ideas that still prevailed, and instill new thoughts and shape desired behaviors, the CCP relied more on a pervasive mode of propaganda than on material incentives, as well as on coercive thought reform and punishment. Not only were images and discourses manufactured and widely disseminated for specific political purposes, everyday activities were converted into opportunities for political education and self-transformation. Cinema in this period, at once an important political instrument, an enjoyable yet instructive form of entertainment, and a specific manifestation of the socialist society of the spectacle, was one such everyday site where the moulding of the new socialist person unfolded. Conscious of the pitfalls of topological approaches and reductionist interpretations of Chinese socialist cinema as a body of aesthetically unique filmic texts that either reflect or propagate socialist ideology, I have instead tried in this book to reembed it within the CCP’s wider propaganda enterprise and the prevailing political culture. As we saw in Chapters 1 and 2, cinema was employed as one of many methods in political campaigns to mobilize the masses to take action—not only political action to safeguard national security but micro-action to discipline the individual body. Distinct iconographies, compelling film narratives, and ingenuous cinematography manifested in counterespionage and sports films not only communicated the Party’s policies and accommodated audience interests but also helped model the audience’s behavior. Contrary to the conventional understanding of Chinese communist propaganda as “bland indoctrination” and its implicit premise that audiences are passive receptacles, the effectiveness of Chinese socialist cinema often relied on spectatorial complicity. As I have shown in Chapter 3, through cross-ethnic performance 2  Similarly, Che Guevara held that the new man and woman are naturally being born in the process of building socialism. See Che Guevara, “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” first published March 12, 1965, as “From Algiers, for Marcha. The Cuban Revolution Today,” reproduced in The Che Reader, accessed January 26, 2018, https://www.marxists.org/archive/guevara/1965/03/ man-socialism.htm.

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and transparent audiovisual inconsistencies, the immensely popular national minority film activated spectators’ prior knowledge and interpellated them via recognition, hence constituting them as members of a unified multinational socialist nation. In order to counter a hierarchical, top-down approach to studying Chinese communist propaganda culture, one which frequently results in a reductionist understanding of the subject position, and to challenge the p ­ oststructuralist mantra that the subject is the effect of discourse, the book has also paid close attention to human agency as it is implicated in various film practices. Whether it is negotiating the competing demands of official ideology in scriptwriting, performing model socialists onscreen, rendering oneself as an e­ mbodied pedagogical tool to induce desired political feelings, or bringing c­inema to the broad masses in rural China, film professionals played their parts in building Chinese socialist film culture and making the new socialist ideology hegemonic. Neither fully determined by state power nor a fully determining force, their agency, which expressed itself in specific situations, is multilayered and eclectic. The writer Gao Ying rewrote his humanistic tale into a socialist story of ethnic and class solidarity to meet the Party’s demands and to avoid personal risks; the actress Zhang Ruifang’s pursuit of professionalism contributed greatly to her internalization of the dominant political ideology; and the actor Chen Qiang chose to adapt to adverse circumstances in his career development and excelled himself in playing villainous characters. Suffice it to say, self-reflexivity and individual adaptability played an intrinsic role in the CCP’s remoulding project. Undoubtedly, in the 1949–1966 period there was a far wider range of film narratives and film practices than what has been examined here. The revolutionary war film, which I only briefly discussed in Chapter 5, certainly deserves more attention. Instrumental in constructing collective history and social memory, this popular genre had a great impact on shaping young people’s political activism. It comes as no surprise that Red Guard factional battles in Chongqing as reported in local newspapers in the 1960s seemed to be the enactment of an imagined revolution based on scripts familiar to those involved.3 Another interesting area deserving of critical attention is the central government’s conscious investment in cutting-edge film technologies including ­wide-screen movie theaters and stereoscopic films in China’s most ­sophisticated urban centers such as Beijing and Shanghai in the early 3  Guobing Yang, The Red Guard Generation and Political Activism in China (New York: Columbia University Press, 2017), 43.

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1960s. The plurality of sensory and affective modalities these new technologies enabled opens up interesting questions about materiality and senses of the future in moulding the new socialist person. With selected case studies, nevertheless, I hope this book will contribute to the understanding of Chinese socialist cinema as an essential form of cultural governance and a slice of cultural life in Mao’s China.

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Filmography Anaerhan (Anaerhan 阿娜尔罕), dir. Li Enjie 李恩杰, Beijing Film Studio, 1962. Baptism of Fire (Huo de xili 火的洗礼), dir. Sun Yu 孙瑜, Chinese Motion Picture Corporation, 1941. Before the New Director Arrives (Xin juzhang daolai zhi qian 新局长到来之前), dir. Lü Ban 吕班, Changchun Film Studio, 1956. The Bell Rings at the Old Temple (Gusha zhongsheng 古刹钟声), dir. Zhu Wenshun 朱文 顺, Changchun Film Studio, 1958. Big Li, Young Li and Old Li (Da Li, Xiao Li he Lao Li 大李小李和老李), dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Shanghai Tianma Film Studio, 1962. The Birth of New China (Xin zhongguo de dansheng 新中国的诞生), dir. Gao Weijin 高 维进, Central Newsreel and Documentary Studio, 1949. A Blade of Grass on Kunlun Mountain (Kunlun shanshang yike cao 昆仑山上一棵草), dir. Deong Kena 董克娜, Beijing Film Studio, 1962. Blooming Flowers and Full Moon (Huahao yueyuan 花好月圆), dir. Guo Wei 郭维, Changchun Film Studio, 1958. The Briefcase (Pibao 皮包), dir. Wang Lan 王炎, Changchun Film Studio, 1956. The Broad Road (Kangzhuang dadao 康庄大道), dir. Wang Yan 王炎, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. The Case of Xu Qiuying (Xu Qiuying anjian 徐秋影案件), dir. Yu Yanfu 于彦夫, Changchun Film Studio, 1958. Chapayev, dirs. Sergey Vasileve and Georgi Vasilyev, Lenfilm Studio, 1934. Children of China (Zhonghua ernü 中华儿女), dir. Shen Xiling 沈西苓, Central Film Studio, 1939. Children’s Soccer Teams (Xiao Zuqiu dui 小足球队), dir. Yan Bili 颜碧丽, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1965. Conquer South, Victory North (Nanzheng beizhan 南征北战), dir. Cheng Yin 成荫 and Tang Xiaodan 汤晓丹, Shanghai Film Studio, 1951. The Cossacks from the Kuban (Xingfu de shenghuo 幸福的生活), dir. Ivan Pyryev, Mosfilm, 1949. Crossroads (Shizi jietou 十字街头), dir. Shen Xiling 沈西苓, Mingxing Film Company, 1937. Crows and Sparrows (Wuya yu maque 乌鸦与麻雀), dir. Zheng Junli 郑君里, Kunlun Film Company, 1949. Cutting Off the Devil’s Talons (Zhan duan mo zhua 斩断魔爪), dir. Shen Fu 沈浮, Shanghai Film Studio, 1953. Dai Doctor (Moya Dai 摩雅傣) dir. Xu Tao 徐韬, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1960.

190

Filmography

Daji and Her Fathers (Daji he ta de fuqin 达吉和她的父亲), dir. Wang Jiayi 王家乙, Emei Film Studio and Changchun Film Studio, 1961. The Detachment of the Hui (Huimin Zhidui 回民支队), dir. Feng Yifu 冯一夫 and Li Jun 李俊, August First Film Studio, 1959. Drive to Win (Sha Ou 沙鸥), dir. Zhang Nuanxin 张暖忻, Beijing Youth Film Studio, 1981. Five Golden Flowers (Wuduo jinhua 五朵金花), dir. Wang Jiayi 王家乙, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. Flames of War in a Border Village (Bianzhai fenghuo 边寨烽火), dir. Lin Nong 林农, Chuangchun Film Studio, 1957. Footprints (Jiaoyin 脚印), dir. Yan Jizhou 严寄洲, August First Film Studio, 1955. Girl Divers (Nü tiaoshui dui yuan 女跳水队员), dir. Liu Guoquan 刘国权, Changchun Film Studio, 1964. The Gold and Silver Sandbank (Jinyin tan 金银滩), dir. Ling Zifeng 凌子风, Shanghai Film Studio, 1953. Guerrillas of the Plain (Pingyuan youji dui 平原游击队), dirs. Su Li 苏里 and Wu Zhaodi 武兆堤, Changchun Film Studio, 1955. Happy Road to Lhasa (Tongwang Lasa de xingfu daolu 通往拉萨的幸福道路), dir. Li Jun 李俊, August First Film Studio, 1954. Hasen and Jiamila (Hasen he Jiamila 哈森和加米拉), dir. Wu Yonggang 吴永刚, Shanghai Film Studio, 1955. Heroic Sisters on the Grassland (Caoyuan yingxiong xiao jiemei 草原英雄小姐妹), dirs. Qian Yunda 钱运达 and Tang Cheng 唐澄, Shanghai Animation Film Studio, 1965. Heroic Sons and Daughters (Yingxiong ernü 英雄儿女), dir. Wu Zhaodi 武兆堤, Changchun Film Studio, 1964. A Horse Caravan (Shanjian lingxiang mabang lai 山间铃响马帮来), dir. Wang Weiyi 王 为一, Shanghai Film Studio, 1954. Huang Baomei 黄宝妹, dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Tianma Film Studio, 1958. Ice and Fire (Bing yu huo 冰与火), dir. Hu Xueyang 胡雪扬, Shanghai Film Studio, 1999. Ice-Skating Sisters (Bingshang jiemei 冰上姐妹), dir. Wu Zhaodi 武兆堤, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. An Inescapable Net (Tianluo diwang 天罗地网), dir. Gu Eryi 顾而已, Shanghai Film Studio, 1955. Intrepid Hero (Yingxiong hudan 英雄虎胆), dir. Yan Jizhou 严寄洲 and Hao Guang 郝 光, August First Film Studio, 1958. The Invisible Battlefront (Wuxing de zhanxian 无形的战线), dir. Yi Ming 伊明, Northeast Film Studio, 1949. Jindalai Flowers (Bingxue jindalai 冰雪金达莱), dir. Zhu Wenshun 朱文顺, Changchun Film Studio, 1963. Jingpo Girls (Jingpo guniang 景颇姑娘), dir. Wang Jiayi 王家乙, Changchun Film Studio, 1965.

Filmography

191

Lei Feng 雷锋, dir. Dong Zhaoqi 董兆琪, August First Film Studio, 1963. The Letter with Feathers (Ji mao xin 鸡毛信), dir. Shi Hui 石挥, Shanghai Film Studio, 1954. Li Shuangshuang 李双双, dir. Lu Ren 鲁韧, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1962. Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai (Liang Shanbo yu Zhu Yingtai 梁山伯与祝英台), dirs. Sang Hu 桑弧 and Huang Sha 黄沙, Shanghai Film Studio, 1954. Liberated China (Jiefang le de zhongguo 解放了的中国), dir. Sergei Gerasimov, Beijing Film Studio and Gorky Film Studio, 1950. The Life of Wu Xun (Wu Xun zhuan 武训传), dir. Sun Yu 孙瑜, Kunlun Film Company, 1950. Little Blacky Gets Married (Xiao Erhei jiehun 小二黑结婚), dir. Gan Xuewei 干学伟, Beijing Film Studio, 1964. Little Soldier Zhang Ga (Xiao bing Zhang Ga 小兵张嘎), dir. Cui Wei 崔嵬, Beijing Film Studio, 1963. Love Song on the Reed-Pipes (Lusheng lian ge 芦笙恋歌), dir. Yu Yanfu 于彦夫, Changchun Film Studio, 1957. Marching Forward (Ren wang gaochu zou 人往高处走), dir. Xu Suling 徐苏灵, Northeast Film Studio, 1954. Marriage (Jiehun 结婚), dir. Yan Gong 严恭, Northeast Film Studio, 1953. The Marriage of Sons and Daughters (Ernü qinshi 儿女亲事), dir. Du Shenghua 杜生华, Beijing Film Studio, 1950. Maxim, A Trilogy (The Youth of Maxim, The Return of Maxim, The Vyborg Side), dirs. Grigoriy Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg, Lenfilm, 1934–1938. The Might of the People (Renmin de juzhang 人民的巨掌), dir. Chen Liting 陈鲤庭, Kunlun Film Company, 1950. Morning Song of the Grassland (Caoyuan cheng qu 草原晨曲), dir. Zhu Wenshun 朱文 顺, Inner Mongolian Film Studio, 1959. My Day Off (Jintian wo xiuxi 今天我休息), dir. Lu Ren 鲁韧, Shanghai Film Studio, 1959. The Myriad of Colors of Spring (Wanzi qianhong zong shi chun 万紫千红总是春), dir. Shen Fu 沈浮, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1959. Myriad of Lights (Wanjia denghuo 万家灯火), dir. Shen Fu 沈浮, Kunlun Film Company, 1948. Mysterious Travelling Companions (Shenmi de lüban 神秘的旅伴), dirs. Lin Nong 林农 and Zhu Wenshun 朱文顺, Changchun Film Studio, 1955. Nie Er 聂耳, dir. Zhen Junli 郑君里, Shanghai Film Studio, 1959. No Mystery Three Years Ago (Sannian zao zhidao 三年早知道), dir. Wang Yan 王炎, Changchun Film Studio, 1958. On the Trail (Genzong zhuiji 跟踪追击), dir. Lu Jue 卢玦, Zhujiang Film Studio, 1963. Outpost (Qianshao 前哨), dir. Daoerji Guangbu 道尔基广布, Changchun Film Studio, 1959.

192

Filmography

A Pastoral Song from Shanbei (Shanbei muge 陕北牧歌) dir. Ling Zifeng 凌子风, Northeast Film Studio, 1951. Plunder of Peach and Plum (Taoli jie 桃李劫), dir. Ying yunwei 应云卫, Diantong Fim Company (a.k.a. Denton), 1934. Queen of Sports (Tiyu huanghou 体育皇后), dir. Sun Yu 孙瑜, Lianhua Film Studio, 1934. Quiet Forest (Jijing de shanlin 寂静的山林), dir. Zhu Wenshun 朱文顺, Changchun Film Studio, 1957. Railroad Guerrillas (Tiedao youji dui 铁道游击队), dir. Zhao Ming 赵明, Shanghai Film Studio, 1956. The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun 红色娘子军), dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Shanghai Tianma Film Studio, 1962. The Red Flower of Tianshan (Tianshan de honghua 天山的红花), dirs. Cui Wei 崔嵬 and Chen Huaiai 陈怀皑, Beijing Film Studio, 1964. Red Sun Over Keshan (Keshan hongri 柯山红日), dir. Dong Zhaoqi 董兆琪, Shanghai Film Studio, 1960. Sailing Girl (Fanban guniang 帆板姑娘), dir. Wu Guojiang 吴国疆, Changchun Film Studio, 1985. Save Him to Fight Chiang Kai-shek (Liuxia ta da lao Jiang 留下他打老蒋), dir. Yi Lin 伊琳, Northeast Film Studio, 1948. Scenes of City Life (Dushi fengguang 都市风光), dir. Yuan Muzhi 袁牧之, Diantong Fim Company (a.k.a. Denton), 1935. Scouting Across the Yangtze River (Dujiang zhencha ji 渡江侦察记), dir. Tang Xiaodan 汤晓丹, Shanghai Film Studio, 1954. Searching for Evidence in the Shipyard (Chuanchang zhuizong 船厂追踪), dir. Lin Nong 林农, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. Secret Guards in Canton (Yangcheng anshao 羊城暗哨), dir. Lu Jue 卢玦, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1957. Serfs (Nongnu 农奴), dir. Li Jun 李俊, August First Film Studio, 1963. Shanmao Studies Business (Sanmao xue shengyi 三毛学生意), dir. Huang Zuolin 黄佐临, Shanghai Film Studio, 1958. Soccer Fans (Qiumi 球迷), dir. Xu Changlin 徐昌霖, Tianma Film Studio, 1962. The Son of a Fishing Island (Yudao zhi zi 渔岛之子), dir. Xu Yan 徐严, Zhujiang Film Studio, 1959. Song of Qiang Flute (Qiangdi song 羌笛颂), dir. Lin Shan 林杉, Changchun Film Studio, 1960. The Song of the Red Flag (Hongqi Puo 红旗谱), dir. Ling Zifeng 凌子风, Beijing Film Studio, 1960. Song of Youth (Qingchun zhi ge 青春之歌), dirs. Cui Wei 崔嵬 and Chen Huai’ai 陈怀皑, Beijing Film Studio, 1959.

Filmography

193

Sparks From Afar (Yuanfang Xinghuo 远方星火), dir. Ou Fan 欧凡, Xinjiang Film Studio, 1961. Sports For Health and Beauty (Jianmei yundong 健美运动), dir. Dan Duyu 但杜宇, Shanghai Sound Film Company, 1930. Spring Breeze Reaches the Nuomin River (Chunfeng chui dao Nuomin he 春风吹到诺敏 河), dir. Ling Zifeng 凌子风, Northeast Film Studio, 1954. Spring Comes to Both Families (Liangjia Chun 两家春), dirs. Qu Baiyin 瞿白音 and Xu Bingduo 许秉铎, Changjiang Film Studio, 1951. Spring Days in Water Village (Shuixiang de chuntian 水乡的春天), dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Shanghai Film Studio, 1955. The Spring River Flows East (Yijiang chunshui xiang dong liu 一江春水向东流), dir. Cai Chusheng 蔡楚生 and Zheng Junli 郑君里, Kunlun Film Company, 1947. Stand Up, Millions of Serfs! (Banwan nongnu zhan qilai 百万农奴站起来), dir. Hao Yusheng 郝玉生, Central Newsreel and Documentary Studio, 1959. Stealing the Seals (Duo yin 夺印), dir. Wang Shaoyan 王少岩, August First Film Studio, 1963. Storm Over the Grassland (Caoyuan fengbao 草原风暴), dir. Lin Feng 林丰, Xi’an Film Studio, 1960. Storm Over Ordos (E’erduosi fengbao 鄂尔多斯风暴), dir. Hao Guang 郝光, August First Film Studio, 1962. Struggle in an Ancient City (Yehuo chunfeng dou gucheng 野火春风斗古城), dir. Yan Jizhou 严寄洲, August First Film Studio, 1963. Track the Tiger into Its Lair (Huxue zhuizong 虎穴追踪), dir. Huang Can 黄粲, Changchun Film Studio, 1956. Tractor Driver, dir. Ivan Pyrev, Mosfilm, 1939. Tractor School (Tuolaji xuexiao 拖拉机学校), director not known, Central Newsreel and Documentary Film Studio, 1950. Trial Voyage (Shihang 试航), dir. Lin Nong 林农, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. Trouble on the Basketball Court (Qiuchang fengbo 球场风波), dir. Mao Yu 毛羽, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1957. Tunnel War (Didao zhan 地道战), dir. Ren Xudong 任旭东, August First Film Studio, 1965. Two Youth Soccer Teams (Liang ge xiao zuqiu dui 两个小足球队), dir. Liu Qiong 刘琼, Shanghai Film Studio, 1956. Under Ten Thousand Roofs (Wanjia denghuo 万家灯火), dir. Shen Fu 沈浮, Kunlun Film Company, 1948. Underground Vanguards (Dixia jianbing 地下尖兵), dir. Wu Zhaodi 武兆堤, Changchun Film Studio, 1957. Unfinished Comedy (Wei wancheng de xiju 未完成的喜剧), dir. Lü Ban 吕班, Changchun Film Studio, 1956.

194

Filmography

United Until Tomorrow (Tuanjie qilai dao mingtian 团结起来到明天), dir. Zhao Ming 赵明, Shanghai Film Studio, 1950. The Victory of the Inner Mongolian People (Neimeng renmin de shengli 内蒙人民的胜 利), dir. Gan Xuewei, Changchun Film Studio, 1951. The Village Teacher, dir. Mark Donskoy, Soyuzdetfilm, 1947. Visitor on Ice Mountain (Bingshan shang de laike 冰山上的来客), dir. Zhao Xinshui 赵心水, Changchun Film Studio, 1963. Volleyball Flowers (Paiqiu zhi hua 排球之花), dir. Lu Jianhua 陆建华, Changchun Film Studio, 1980. The Weather Woman (Gengyun boyu 耕云播雨), dir. Wei Rong 魏荣, Beijing Film Studio, 1960. The White-Haired Girl (Baimao nü 白毛女), dirs. Wang Bin 王滨 and Shui Hua 水华, Northeast Film Studio, 1950. The Whole World Joins in Celebration (Putian tongqing 普天同庆), dir. Jiang Yunshan 姜云山, Central Newsreel and Documentary Film Studio, 1950. The Withered Tree Revives (Kumu fengchun 枯木逢春), dir. Zheng Junli 郑君里, Shanghai Haiyan Film Studio, 1961. Woman Basketball Player No. 5 (Nü lan wuhao 女篮五号), dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Tianma Film Studio, 1957. Woman Soccer Player No. 9 (Nü zu jiu hao 女足 9 号), dir. Xie Jin 谢晋, Xie Jin Hengtong Corporation, 2000. Women Skydivers (Bikong yinhua 碧空银花), dir. Sang Fu 桑夫, Xi’an Film Studio, 1960. Wonderous Encounter of a Magician (Moshushi de qiyu 魔术师的奇遇), dir. Sang Hu 桑弧, Shanghai Film Studio, 1962. Xinghuo Collective Farm (Xinghuo jiti nongzhuang 星火集体农庄), director not known, Central Newsreel and Documentary Studio, 1953. A Young Generation (Nianqing de yidai 年青的一代), dir. Zhao Ming 赵明, Shanghai Tianma Film Studio, 1965. The Young Guard, dir. Sergy Gerasimov, Gorky Film Studio, 1948. Young People of Our Village (Women cunli de nianqing ren 我们村里的年轻人), dir. Su Li 苏里, Changchun Film Studio, 1959. Youth on the Water (Shuishang chunqiu 水上春秋), dir. Xie Tian 谢添, Beijing Film Studio, 1959.

Index acting system, of Stanislavski 116–120, 136–139 actor and character, fusion of 118–120, 136–139 affect, production of 127–134, 141 affectif 127–128 affective memory 117, 137 Agamben, Giorgio 7 agency 9, 24, 140, 143, 154, 167 agitational train system 146n All-China Athletic Federation (ACAF) 36, 38n Anderson, Benedict 70 Association of Chinese Writers 69n Bai Yang 101–102 Ba Ren 88–89 Beijing People’s Art Theater 117 benshi 163 Berry, Chris 72–73 Big Li, Young Li and Old Li 42, 46–52 biopower 5–6 Blade of Grass on Kunlun Mountain, A 1 Braester, Yomi 8 Bright Pearl from Liangshan, A. See Daji and Her Fathers Cai Chusheng 144, 160 calisthenics 41n, 49 Chapayev, The Young Guard 103 Chen, Tina Mai 153 Chen Huangmei 46, 60, 61 Chen Liting 25 Chen Qiang 121–123, 124–127, 128–129, 131, 133–141 Chen Shu 121 Chen Xiaoyu 85, 87 Chiang Kai-shek 38n children’s film, crossovers between counterespionage film and 18–19 China National Radio 69 China Youth 142–143 Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and building of modern socialist state 3–8, 165–166

cinema integrated into propaganda culture of 2, 10–11 cultivates popular awareness of multinationalities 64, 68–70 interpretation of minzu 66 and itinerant film projection 143–144 and model people 96–97 organizational and leadership work method of 9–10 political campaigns against counterrevolutionaries 16–25, 33 self-criticism employed by 89n and transformation of film star culture 102–103 Chinese melodramatic tradition 56–59 “Chinese national, the” 6, 7 Chinese socialist films, reissuance of 165 cinema effectiveness of, in reforming subjectivity 2 entanglement of politics, social life, and 1–2 as form of spectacle 11–12 integrated into CCP’s propaganda culture 10–11 and reconfiguration of national cultural life 11 ubiquitous presence of, in PRC 2 See also counterespionage film; itinerant film projection; national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian); Red Star; sports film (tiyu pian); villain stardom cinema of attractions 147–148 clapper talk 157, 159 Clark, Paul 64n, 71, 114 class feeling 132–133 class hatred against landlords 124–134 Cold War 16, 23 commentary, during rural film screenings 161–164 Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference 6–7 concentrated spectacle 9 Confucianism 8n, 137

196 Cossacks from the Kuban, The 149 counterespionage fictions 21 counterespionage film 16–17 mass surveillance in The Might of the People 25–34 and political campaigns against counterrevolutionaries 17–25 counterrevolutionaries CCP political campaigns against 16–25, 33 identities of, in counterespionage film 34 See also counterespionage film; “enemies of the people, the” countryside, actors’ experiences in 119–120, 136–137. See also itinerant film projection cross-ethnic performance, in national minority film 73–82 Cui Chen 48n, 49 Cutting Off the Devil’s Talons 23 Daji and Her Fathers 83–95 Da Qi 76, 79, 80 Debord, Guy 9 “Decision on Establishing Film Exhibition Network and Film Industry” 150–151 Deleuze, Gilles 127 Diary of a Madman (Lu Xun) 38n diffuse spectacle 9 Dikötter, Frank 66 Donald, Stephanie Hemelryk 8–9 double bills 161 double identity / double infiltration, in counterespionage film 18 Drive to Win 54n education, during rural film screenings 156–159 Eisenstein, Sergei 58 Ellul, Jacques 10 emotion, ethics of 132–133. See also affect, production of emotional impact, of Woman Basketball Player No. 5 55, 57–59 emotion memory 117. See also affective memory “enemies of the people, the”

Index as political category 6, 7 remoulding 7–8 See also counterrevolutionaries ethics, sports film’s potential in shaping new 52–63 Ethnic Classification Project 66–67 ethnic fraternity 82, 83–95 ethnicity, in Chinese nation-building 65– 70. See also national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian) Evil Black Hand, The 22–23 experience, and acting method 119–120, 136–137 factories, actors’ experiences in 119–120, 136–137 Falida 77 family, in Chinese melodramatic tradition 56–59 Fang Hua 121 Fang Youliang 60, 61, 63. See also IceSkating Sisters Fan Haha 48, 51 Farquar, Mary 72–73 film education, during rural screenings 156–159 film equipment maintenance 153–154 film exhibition, funding for 149 film lectures 161–164 film star culture 98–105 Flames of War in a Border Village 73–76, 79–81 Footprints 23 formalist acting 116 Foucault, Michel 5, 24, 39 fraternity, ethnic 82, 83–95 fusion of actor and character 118–120, 136–139 Gao Ying 84–85, 87, 88, 89–90 Ge Cunzhuang 121 Girl Divers 165 Gledhill, Christine 56 Guangzhou, as setting for counterespionage films 18 Gu Kaizhi 110 Gunning, Tom 148 Guo Moruo 100n

Index Ha’erbin Daily 45 Han ethnocentrism 66–67, 71–72, 74–76 Han Langen 101 Hasen and Jiamila 77 Heartless Lovers 8 Hinton, William 132 huaji xi (farce) 48–49, 51, 52 Huang Baomei 97 Huang Shaofen 53 Huang Zongying 114–116 Hu Jingzhi 89 humanism 88–89, 91, 95, 131–132 human–machine continuum 153–154 Hundred Flowers Award 99n, 121 Hundred Flowers Campaign 40 Ice-Skating Sisters 52, 60–63 identity, and cross-ethnic performance 78 illiteracy 143 Inescapable Net 23 Invisible Battlefront, The 17, 21–22 itinerant film projection 142–143 exhibition practices in 156–164 impact of women’s employment in 151–155 as new attraction 143–148 problems and challenges in 148–151 Jiao Juyin 116–117n Jingpo people, in Flames of War in a Border Village 73–74, 75–76, 79–80, 81 Kunlun Film Company 25 Kuomintang (KMT) 16 as antagonist in socialist films 21–22, 25–26, 27, 29–31, 73, 81–82 New Life Movement 38 Lacasse, Germain 163n land reform 125–126, 129–131, 132–134. See also White-Haired Girl, The Lei Feng 1, 97, 142 Lenin, Vladimir 116, 143 Leyda, Jay 54n Liang Qichao 37 lifelikeness 110–113 Lin Nong 73–82. See also Flames of War in a Border Village

197 Li Shuangshuang 97, 98–99, 105–116, 117, 118–120 literacy 143 Li Tianji 43n Liu Chun 48n Liu Qiong 54 Liu Xiasheng 48 Li Xifan 89 Li Yaqun 88 Lü Ban 55 Luo Ruiqing 23 Lu Ren 97 Lu Xun 38n Lu You 115 machine maintenance 153–154 Ma Ning 56 Mao Yu 42, 47. See also Trouble on the Basketball Court Mao Zedong “Against Liberalism” 154–155 on Chinese physical and social prowess 35 on counterrevolutionaries 19–20 and founding of PRC 3, 16 on human nature, emotion, and aesthetics 131–132 and Hundred Flowers Campaign 40 on model people 96 on moulding of socialist subjects 4–5, 8 and New Physical Culture Movement 36 on people’s democratic dictatorship 24n quoted in The Invisible Battlefront 21 “Talks at Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” 139–140 Marching Forward 160 Marxism 4–5, 66, 131 Mass Cinema 100–101, 102, 107–108, 121, 129–130, 146, 156–159 mass-line work method 9–10, 20 mass surveillance in The Might of the People 25–34 theory and practice of 23–25 Ma Yinchu 5–6n mechanization, national call to 142–143 Medicine (Lu Xun) 38n melodramatic tradition 56–59, 62 method acting 119 Might of the People, The 25–34

198 minority nationalities. See national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian) minzu 65–70, 80, 81, 95 mobile cinema. See itinerant film projection model people 96–98. See also Red Star modernity, tiyu as signifier of 37–38 “movie tractors / movie carts” 146 Mullaney, Thomas S. 67 multiethnicity. See national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian) Mulvey, Laura 105n My Day Off 97 narration, during rural film screenings 161–164 National Day 60 Nationalities Pictorial 69 Nationalities Publishing House 69 national minority film (shaoshu minzu ticai yingpian) 64–65 cross-ethnic performance and politics of recognition in 73–82 ethnic fraternity in 83–95 international reception of 64n scholarship on 71–73 sociohistorical context of 65–70 themes in 70–71 negative pedagogy, villain performance as 134–141 Nen Niang 48 New Life Movement 38 New Physical Culture Movement (xin tiyu) 35–41, 49 New Socialist Person/Man 4, 83, 91, 96, 121 New Sports and Physical Culture magazine 39 “On the Correct Handling of Contradictions among the People” 19–20 On the Trail 23 Orwell, George 24 Ouyang Yuqian 144 painting, in publicity images 108 Pan Hannian 25 panopticism 17, 24, 34 participatory surveillance. See mass surveillance

Index passing 78 paternalistic terror 20 “people, the” as political category 6, 7 remoulding 8 people’s democratic dictatorship 7, 24, 26 People’s Liberation Army (PLA), in Flames of War in a Border Village 73 People’s Republic of China (PRC) cinema’s impact on national cultural life of 11 founding of 16 moulding of socialist subject in 3–8 New Physical Culture Movement in 35–41 population regulation in 5–6n reconfigured ethic landscape of 65–70 as socialist society of spectacle 9, 11–12 ping gong ji fen (evaluating work and allotting work points) 112n political consciousness 2, 23, 150, 159 population regulation 5–6n publicity images 105–108 Qiao Yu (Chen Xiaoyu) 85, 87 Qin Yi 54, 78 Qu Baiyin 45–46 Queen of Sports 38n Quiet Forest 23 racial passing 78 radio broadcasts 69 radio calisthenics 41n, 49 realistic performance 116–120, 134–139 recognition, in national minority film 73–82 Red Detachment of Women, The 121, 123, 124, 134–139 red experts 148–149, 155 Red Star 96–98 and Chinese cinema’s appropriation of Stanislavski system 116–120 and transformation of film star culture 98–105 Zhang Ruifang’s image as 105–116 Revolutionary Cycles in Chinese Cinema, 1951–1979 (Wang) 3n Robinson, Amy 78

199

Index rural cinema exhibition. See itinerant film projection rural films 109 Said, Edward 71–72 scenic action 138 self-criticism 89 self-cultivation 8n self-overcoming 114–116 self-transformation 114–116, 118, 120 Serf 77 sexual passing 78 Seyfert, Robert 127–128 Shandong Provincial Department of Culture and Education 156–157 Shangguan Yunzhu 100–101 Shanghai Cinema 105–106 Shanghai huaji xi (farce) 48–49, 51, 52 Shen Xilin 53 Shi Dongshan 144 Sigurdson, Jon 145 sisterhood 60–63 socialist films, reissuance of 165 sociality, participatory surveillance as form of 33 society of spectacle 9 Song Xuejuan 76 sound, and ethnicity construction in Flames of War in a Border Village 80–81 sovereign exception 7 Soviet cultural exchange 103–104, 116–120, 145–146 spatial governances 7n spectacle cinema as form of 11–12 concentrated spectacle 9 diffuse spectacle 9 society of 9 Spinoza, Benedict de 127, 128 sports film (tiyu pian) 35–36 and New Physical Culture Movement 36–41 potential of, in shaping new ethics 52–63 workers’ sport promoted through 41–52 Spring Breeze Reaches the Nuomin River 160 Stalin, Joseph 66 Standish, Isolde 163

Stanislavski system 116–120, 136–139 star culture 98–105. See also Red Star Strass, Julia 20 Struggle in an Ancient City 161–163 sufan yundong (Campaign to Eradicate Hidden Counterrevolutionaries) 19–20, 22–23 Sun Bin 136–137 Sun Yet-sen 65 surveillance and counterespionage film 19 mass, in The Might of the People 25–34 participatory surveillance 24 participatory versus technologized, in The Might of the People 29–34 and purification of body politic 20 theory and practice of mass surveillance 23–25 Tang Zhenchang 43n tax breaks, for cinema exhibitions 149 technologized surveillance, in The Might of the People 29–33 “technology of the self” 39 territorialisation 7n theatricality 111–112 Three Sisters film projection team 152, 154–155 tiyu 35n, 36, 37–38, 55. See also New Physical Culture Movement (xin tiyu); sports film (tiyu pian) total propaganda 10 Track the Tiger to Its Lair 23 Trouble on the Basketball Court 42–46 True Story of Ah Q, A (Lu) 38n unconscious 119–120 Unfinished Comedy 55 United Until Tomorrow 102 vertical montage 58 Victory of the Inner Mongolian People 77 Village Teacher, The 103 villain stardom 121–122 of Chen Qiang 122–123, 124–127, 128–129, 131, 133–141 Chinese conception of 123–124 as negative pedagogy 134–141

200 and production of affect 127–134 vividness 110–113 Wang, Zhuoyi 3n Wang Jiayi 83, 87, 88. See also Daji and Her Fathers Wang Jie 1–2 Wang Lanxi 103 Wang Xiaotang 76 Wang Yang 103 “Watching Movies like Wang Jie” 1–2 Wen Binbin 48 White-Haired Girl, The 123, 124–131, 138, 139 Woman Basketball Player No. 5 52–59 women as itinerant film projectionists 151–155 in sports film 52–63 workers’ sport (zhigong tiyu) 41–52 Wu Zhaodi 60 Xia Yan 25, 56, 60, 61, 100, 111, 144 Xie Jin 46, 47–48, 53, 54, 55–56, 121. See also Big Li, Young Li and Old Li; Woman Basketball Player No. 5 Xie Tian 57 Xinghuo Collective Farm 149–150 xingxiang xing (vividness of image/ figure) 110–113 xin tiyu. See New Physical Culture Movement (xin tiyu) Xu Huaizhong 8 Xu Shifen 154

Index Yan’an Lu Xun Academy of Arts and Literature actor troupe 126–127 Yan Fu 37 Yang, C. K. 133 Yang Fan 25 Yang Likun 76 Yang Zeping 88 Yan Jizhou 163 Yao Wenyuan 45, 89 Yau, Esther 71–72 Yi ethnicity, in Daji and Her Fathers 83–95 Yin Xiucen 101 Youth on the Water 57–58 Yu Ling 100 Zhang, Yingjin 72 Zhang Bo 87, 88 Zhang Nuanxin 54n Zhang Ruifang 98–99, 105–116, 117, 118–120 Zhang Zichen 161–163 Zhao Ming 22–23 Zhao Yunru 114 zhenfan yundong (Campaign to Suppress Counterrevolutionaries) 19, 21n, 22, 26 Zheng Yizhen 154–155 zhigong tiyu (workers’ sport) 41–52 Zhong Dianfei 55 Zhou Boxun 44 Zhou Enlai 5–6n, 91, 99n Zhou Yang 123 Zhu Anping 25n Zhu De 36