The Origins of Leftwing Cinema in China, 1932-37 0415971837, 9780415971836, 9780203332245

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EAST ASIA HISTORY, POLITICS, SOCIOLOGY, CULTURE Edited by Edward Beauchamp University of Hawaii A ROUTLEDGE SERIES

EAST ASIA: HISTORY, POLITICS, SOCIOLOGY, CULTURE EDWARD BEAUCHAMP, General Editor HISTORY OF JAPANESE POLICIES IN EDUCATION AID TO DEVELOPING COUNTRIES, 1950s–1990s The Role of the Subgovernmental Processes Takao Kamibeppu A POLITICAL ECONOMY ANALYSIS OF CHINA’S CIVIL AVIATION INDUSTRY Mark Dougan THE BIBLE AND THE GUN Christianity in South China, 1860–1900 Joseph Tse-Hei Lee AN AMERICAN EDITOR IN EARLY REVOLUTIONARY CHINA John William Powell and the China Weekly/Monthly Review Neil L.O’Brien BETWEEN SACRIFICE AND DESIRE: NATIONAL IDENTITY AND THE GOVERNING OF FEMININITY IN VIETNAM Ashley Pettus NEW CULTURE IN A NEW WORLD The May Fourth Movement and the Chinese Diaspora in Singapore, 1919–1932 David L.Kenley ALLIANCE IN ANXIETY Détente and the Sino-American-Japanese Triangle Go Ito STATE AND SOCIETY IN CHINA’S DEMOCRATIC TRANSITION Confucianism, Leninism, and Economic Development Xiaoqin Guo IN SEARCH OF AN IDENTITY The Politics of History as a School Subject in Hong Kong, 1960s–2002 Edward Vickers

PITFALL OR PANACEA The Irony of US Power in Occupied Japan, 1945–1952 Yoneyuki Sugita THE RENAISSANCE OF TAKEFU How People and the Local Past Changed the Civic Life of a Regional Japanese Town Guven Peter Witteveen MANAGING TRANSITIONS The Chinese Communist Party, United Front Work Corporation and Hegemony Gerry Groot THE PROSPECTS FOR A REGIONAL HUMAN RIGHTS MECHANISM IN EAST ASIA Hidetoshi Hashimoto AMERICAN WOMEN MISSIONARIES AT KOBE COLLEGE, 1873–1909 Noriko Ishii A PATH TOWARD GENDER EQUALITY State Feminism in Japan Yoshie Kobayashi POSTSOCIALIST CINEMA IN POST-MAO CHINA The Cultural Revolution after the Cultural Revolution Chris Berry BUILDING CULTURAL NATIONALISM IN MALAYSIA Identity, Representation and Citizenship Timothy P.Daniels LIBERAL RIGHTS AND POLITICAL CULTURE Envisioning Democracy in China Zhenghuan Zhou THE ORIGINS OF LEFT-WING CINEMA IN CHINA, 1932–37 Vivian Shen

THE ORIGINS OF LEFT-WING CINEMA IN CHINA, 1932–37 Vivian Shen

Routledge New York & London

Published in 2005 by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016 http://www.routledge-ny.com/ Published in Great Britain by Routledge 2 Park Square Milton Park, Abingdon Oxon OX14 4RN http://www.routledge.co.uk/ Copyright © 2005 by Taylor & Francis Group, a Division of T&F Informa. Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group. This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to http://www.ebookstore.tandf.co.uk/.” All rights reserved. No part of this book may be printed or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now know or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or any other information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Shen, Vivian, 1961– The origins of left-wing cinema in China, 1932–37/Vivian Shen. p. cm.— (East asia, history, politics, sociology, and culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-97183-7 (alk. paper) 1. Motion pictures—China—History. I. Title. II. East Asia (New York, N.Y.) PN1993.5.C4S52 2004 791.43′0951′09043–dc22 2004018132 ISBN 0-203-33224-5 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-415-97183-7 (Print Edition)

The defiant Ruan Lingyu in The Sainted Woman.

For Bernie

Contents Figures

ix

Abbreviations

xi

Preface

xii

1

I. The Background Chapter One Art and Politics

2 21

II. The Themes Chapter Two Country and City

22

Chapter Three Gender Relations

59

Chapter Four Self and Society

83 104

III. The Style Chapter Five The Melodramatic and the Realistic Chapter Six Conclusion

105 114

Appendix One Interview with Cheng Jihua

117

Appendix Two Filmography

120

Notes

132

Bibliography

154

Index

160

Figures Frontispiece. The defiant Ruan Lingyu in The Sainted Woman.

vi

Figure 1.

The filmmaker is torn between pandering to the audience and promoting art. Chen Jinghan, Yinxing (The movie guide), vol. 4, 1927.

44

Figure 2.

This cartoon lampoons the reality of Hollywood. Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no. 21(1935).

45

Figure 3.

“The star gets special treatment from the boss.” Dong Tianye, Dianying manhua (Movie cartoon), vol. 5 (September 20, 1935).

46

Figure 4.

Lingling watches as the officer gets into a fight with his repressive general in Sun Yu’s Daybreak.

47

Figure 5.

In the sound of her crying, the audience hears the disorder 47 of Yuefen and sees the symbolic rape of the periphery by the center in The Boatman’s Daughter.

Figure 6.

Mrs. Ye and her family enjoy a peaceful pastoral life at the beginning of Small Toys.

48

Figure 7.

Yu’er’s death and Mrs. Ye’s madness are highly dramatized in Small Toys.

49

Figure 8.

This picture of the mother and her son resembles the structural relations of Chinese character “good” in The Sainted Woman.

50

Figure 9.

Ai Xia on the cover of Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no. 9 (March 15, 1934).

51

Figure 10. Aying breaks Dr. Wang’s walking stick in The New Woman.

52

Figure 11. Wei Ming looks at Aying’s shadow on the wall in The New Woman.

52

Figure 12. The Big Road celebrates public space and collectivity.

53

Figure 13. Cameras and camera activities in the 1930s.

54

Figure 14. Cai Chusheng bridges the class gap among the young generation in Songs of Fishermen.

55

Figure 15: Songs of Fishermen: conflict of volume.

56

Figure 16. Songs of Fishermen: conflict of plane.

56

Figure 17. The dramatic actress Li Lili. Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no. 6 (September 15, 1933).

57

Figure 18. Some movie pictorials and magazines of the 1920s and 30s.

58

Abbreviations ZGDY

Luo Yijun, ed. Zhongguo dianying lilun wenxuan 1920– 1989 (The selected articles of Chinese film theories). Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 1992.

SSND

Chen Bo, ed., Sanshi niandai Zhongguo dianying pinglun wenxuan (Selected Chinese film criticism of the 1930s). Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1993.

ZGZY

Chen Bo, ed., Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The leftwing film movement of China). Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1993.

Preface I remember vividly seeing a black and white photo of Chinese movie stars when I was a child during the latter part of the Cultural Revolution in China. This mysterious photo had been copied many times because the black contrasted with the white and there were no shaded or grey areas. The photo bore charming poses of eight or ten movie stars including Zhao Dan, Bai Yang, Zhou Xuan, Zhang Ruifang, Qin Yi, Shangguan Yunzhu and Sun Daolin from the 1930s, 40s or early 50s, all good-looking, fashionably dressed and glamorous. We knew some of the actors were undergoing investigation for their bourgeois past. At the time when the star-system was abolished and the silver screen in China was filled with dull images of workers, soldiers, and peasants, this photo offered welcome but uncommon visual pleasure and provoked much admiration and fantasy from its viewers as it passed from one hand to another. For me, there was something very intriguing about the Chinese cinematic world of the 1930s and 40s. Several years later, I saw A Spring River Flows East, one of the first pre-1949 films in a Chinese commercial theater after the Cultural Revolution. My Chinese composition teacher Mr. Zhang, who had seen the film when it was first released in 1947, gave us a nostalgic and passionate speech on this film before sending us to the theater. I could not relate to Mr. Zhang’s passion for the film, but was struck by its melodramatic power and epic narrative. It was not until 1993 that I was able to see a cluster of films from the 1930s and 40s by these actors, not in China but at UCLA Film Archives. These films were donated by Mr. Cheng Jihua, co-author of Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (A history of the development of Chinese cinema). He was a guest lecturer at the Department of Film and Theater at UCLA, and I was a student in the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures at that time. As an undergraduate in China, I was a Chinese literature major but after only a few years in Los Angeles I was drawn to cinema, especially these black and white Chinese films of the 1930s and 40s. So when Professor Leo Ou-fan Lee suggested that I write my Ph.D. dissertation on the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, I was delighted. Starting in 1995, I made several research trips to the Beijing Film Archives and was able to see more films from the 1930s, some obscure, thanks to friends who led me directly to these sources. The Beijing Film Archives was still at its old location and was in the middle of producing a documentary film to commemorate ninety years of filmmaking in China. Because these diligent scholars often worked late, I was able to watch films and do my own research sitting next to them after 5:00 P.M. Since I began to work for Davidson College, the college has generously sent me back to China several times, to conduct research on film magazines of the 1930s and 1940s at the Shanghai Municipal Library, to attend the Shanghai International Film Festival and to interview filmmakers. In October 1999, at one of these film festivals in Shanghai, I saw a 35 mm screening of Songs of Fishermen and attended a forum on the achievements of Director Cai Chusheng. Cai’s sons and grandchildren as well as Qin Yi, Sun Daolin and Zhang

Ruifang were also present. Both Sun Daolin and Zhang Ruifang accepted my request to interview them. A few days later, when I met Qin Yi again at a reception at the French Consulate on Huaihai Lu, her driver drove us to her home where she allowed me to interview her for almost two hours. So twenty-five years after I saw that mysterious photograph, I was able to meet several of them in person. Left-wing cinema dominated the Chinese silver screen for over fifty years, longer than in any other country in the world. This book examines the origins of this cinema through reviewing films produced from 1932 to 1937 in China, an era known as “the Leftwing Chinese Film Movement” in China today. By analyzing representative films, popular film reviews, and the various declarations, manifestoes and statements made by left-wing filmmakers during the 1930s, I argue that left-wing filmmaking, the dominant Chinese school of thought in the 1930s, involved a potent combination of social reform and nationalist politics. In the 1910s and 1920s Chinese filmmakers were preoccupied with the economic rules of the game and the perceived need to turn out works of entertainment for the market place. But by the 1930s, when filmmaking achieved a definite maturity in China, an increasingly vocal group of socially conscious filmmakers felt that they could no longer treat filmmaking as a mere artistic practice when the nation was facing the social disruptions and undeniable crises caused by the constant threat of Japanese imperialism. The left-wing cinema was initially a response to the call to “save the nation” after the Japanese seizure of Manchuria in 1931. From this point on, a group of Chinese filmmakers used carefully crafted language and images to redefine the function of Chinese cinema. Their films focused on tensions in gender relations, problems in countryside and city under foreign capitalism and imperialism, and the responsibilities between self and society. In aesthetic terms, their work combined elements of realism and melodrama. In so doing, they revealed a historical reality of the 1930s and called for ways to better society and country. The guidance, assistance and friendship from many people have made this book possible. I was most fortunate to have both Leo Ou-fan Lee and Theodore Huters as my advisors. Professor Lee advised me even after he went to Harvard University; he later read my entire work while enduring a bad back pain and offered me valuable advice. When I went to Harvard for my sabbatical in 2002 and 2003, he offered me further guidance and gave me more encouragement. Professor Huters served as the chair of my committee, and was always pleased to help me. He read the entire manuscript word by word and offered me valuable comments and corrections as I wrote each chapter. He even offered to read my work several years after I left UCLA. I am deeply indebted to both of them. My gratitude also goes to Alan Singerman, Yunxiang Yan, and Paul Pickowciz who each read a chapter of this book and offered me valuable comments. Paul has generously allowed me to see some of his collection, which I appreciate very much. I would like to thank Nick Browne who taught me how to read early Chinese films, Robert Buswell who is never tired of answering my questions, Richard Strassberg, Herbert Plutschow, Vivian Sobchack, Teshome Gabriel, and Ban Wang for their advice and friendship, Wang Hui, Zhang Jianyong and Lin Hua for their assistance when I was researching in China. My thanks also go to Patrick Milne for reading the first draft of this book. Finally, I would like to thank UCLA for several scholarships and Davidson College for summer faculty

research grants and a sabbatical grant, Beijing Film Archives and Shanghai Municipal Library for allowing me to view their collections. Appendix One has been previously published in Asian Cinema (John A.Lent, editor), and the discussion on The New Woman in Chapter 3 has been previously published in Asian Cinema and reprinted in Celluloid China: Cinematic Encounters with Culture and Society, edited by Harry H. Hauoshu (© 2002 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University). Reprint permissions have been given by the publishers.

I. The Background

Chapter One Art and Politics What constitutes a “left-wing” or a “right-wing” Chinese film in the 1930s? And where does one draw the line between “left-wing” and “right-wing”? The answers may surprise today’s audience. In 1997, through the help of a friend, I was able to see A Girl in Disguise (Huashen guniang). I had anticipated seeing this film for a long time because it was so controversial when first shown. The plot of A Girl in Disguise is built on the simple premise that Zhang Ju’ong (played by Wang Guilin), an old overseas Chinese from Singapore regards men as superior to women. His male chauvinist attitude forces his son Yuanlan, who remains in Singapore after Zhang Ju’ong settles down in Shanghai, to lie about the birth of his new baby daughter. Zhang Ju’ong is ill, but recovers fully upon hearing of the birth of a new grandson whom he proudly names Shouben. Eighteen years later, Shouben (played by Yuan Congmei) is summoned to Shanghai to meet her grandfather for the first time. Understandably, she is disguised as a young man, wearing short hair and men’s clothing. In Shanghai, Shouben is soon surrounded by a throng of wealthy young men and women. Because she is disguised as a man, the comic part of the movie lies in the mismatched sexual identity. A beautiful girl named Zhu Naifang (played by Zhou Xuan) falls in love with Shouben, not knowing that “he” is actually a woman. Shouben falls in love with a handsome young man named Lin Songbo (Wang Yin), who is romantically involved with another woman and enjoys Shouben only as a good “male” friend. But when Shouben discards her disguise while meeting her girlfriends (who are totally unaware of the situation) from Singapore, Songbo quickly falls in love with her. Naturally, he has taken the female Shouben to be a different person altogether. In the end, Shouben’s true sexual identity is revealed. By then, the stubborn grandfather has become enchanted with his lovely granddaughter, and is at the same time informed by his son of the birth of a real grandson. Shouben, no longer disguised as a man, walks out of the scene with Songbo hand-in-hand in front of the family and friends.1 A Girl in Disguise is told in a very light and entertaining way. It has a few innocent kisses (and occasionally does suggest homosexuality). Judging by today’s standards, there is nothing profane or indecent about this film. But soon after its release, the film was attacked fiercely by the left-wing film critics. The unfavorable criticism of this film resulted in its untimely birth by an unwelcome mother—both now and then in Mainland China—the rightwing filmmakers. The film was produced by Yihua Film Company in 1936, just before the Sino-Japanese War (1937–45) broke out. In the second half of 1935, Yihua Film Company recruited right-wingers Huang Jiamo, Huang Tianshi, Liu Na’ou, etc., advocates of the “soft film.” Not wanting to work with these right-wingers, leftwingers Shi Dongshan, Ying Yunwei, Wei Heling and a few others left Yihua. Although Yihua made several left-wing films in the early 1930s, it totally changed its direction since the arrival of these right-wingers. A Girl in Disguise reflects Yihua’s new

Art and Politics

3

filmmaking policy—“equal emphasis on ideology and entertainment.”2 However, criticizing feudalistic thoughts or accepting women as second class was passé in 1936, said its critics.3 More importantly, entertaining the audience at the time of the national disaster was considered a politically incorrect thing to do. Film critic Mu Weifang, in criticizing A Girl in Disguise, stated that the only task of the film now is propagandizing, educating and organizing. Film should get its materials from real life in order to stimulate the wakening of the national conscious to accomplish the task of national defense. Since A Girl in Disguise does not supply any of these, it obviously is helping the imperialists.4 The screenwriter of this film is Huang Jiamo, who wrote several articles to formulate his “soft film” (ruanxing yingpian) theory in 1933 and 1934. According to Huang, “Film is ice-cream for the eyes and sofa for the heart and soul” (Dianying shi gei yanjing chi de bingqilin, shi gei xinling zuo de shafayi).”5 Huang’s motto is: Film print is made with soft materials, therefore, its content should be soft” (Dianying shi ruanpian, suoyi yinggai shi ruanxing de).6 Huang openly attacks the ideology and revolutionary propaganda of the left-wing films, which made him the target of left-wing film critics. Left-wing film critics Tang Na, Lu Si, Chenwu, Luo Fu and others wrote to strike back. The debate lasted from 1933 through 1935. The whole commotion over A Girl in Disguise and the debate over “soft” and “hard” film in essence reflect the ideological differences between the left-wing and right-wing filmmakers regarding the relationship between Chinese film art and politics in the 1930s. It is not an exaggeration to say that to examine and evaluate the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, one must first understand the relationship between art and politics in China. In Chinese literature, as Theodore Huters points out, the debate over whether literature should be autonomy or dependent upon politics “had polarized itself since the early days of the May Fourth era.”7 With the increasing infiltration and the eventual invasion of the Japanese, however, “the dispersed energies of the literary revolution began to reassemble” and these people put aside their differences to join the war effort.8 It seems that no one has spelled out the relationship between Chinese literature/art and politics more clearly and explicitly than Mao Zedong. In May 1942, Mao gave several talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art, in which he brought up two key issues that would ultimately change the history of Chinese literature and art. One advocates that literature and art should serve the workers, peasants and soldiers. The other regards the relationship between art and politics. He states: [Our purpose is] to ensure that literature and art fit well into the whole revolutionary machine as a component part, that they operate as powerful weapons for uniting and educating the people and for attacking and destroying the enemy, and that they help the people fight the enemy with one heart and one mind.9 Motivated by his political ambitions, Mao Zedong was not at all bashful about his utilitarian attitude toward literature and art. Mao distilled the ideas of the left-wing filmmakers into a coherent and cohesive theory. The effects of his Yan’an Talks, according to Bonnie S. McDougall’s studies, are twofold. The more immediate and striking consequence was the “silencing of the May Fourth writers in Yan’an,” and yangge (“rice-sprout songs”)10 and kuaiban (“quicksticks”)11 were adapted for political

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education in the 1940s. Later, during the Cultural Revolution, Mao’s “Talks” regained their former prominence and were widely quoted and implemented as a basis for policymaking in China until at least the late 1970s.12 However, the tendency of politicizing literature and art did not originate in China in 1942, nor did it cease to exist in 1977.13 I argue that the origin of left-wing Chinese cinema began in the 1930s when an overwhelming number of left-wing films first appeared, politicized by Mao Zedong during the Yan’an period in the 1940s, peaked in the creation of the “model operas” during the Cultural Revolution from the late 1960s to the early 1970s, and concluded in the middle and late 1980s when the “fifth generation” directors started to criticize the Chinese Communist Party in their films.14 The terms that are freely used by Chinese film historians and scholars today—Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (Leftwing Chinese Film Movement)15 and Zhongguo zuoyi dianying jia (Leftwing Chinese Filmmakers)— embody both a historical phenomena and the tendency to politicize such phenomena in China. Strictly speaking, as a movement, The “Leftwing Chinese Film Movement,” I argue, was more a spontaneous patriotic reaction toward the national disaster than a “diffusely organized or heterogeneous group of people or organizations tending toward or favoring a generalized common goal.”16 The main reason is, contrary to Chinese official historian Cheng Jihua’s assessment, that “the Party Film Team”—the would-be organizers at that time—was then underground and too weak to organize a movement.17 Furthermore, I argue that the loosely defined “Leftwing Chinese Filmmakers” must be divided into two categories: the reformers (such as Zhang Shichuan and Zheng Zhengqiu from Mingxing Film Company who endeavored to use film to better society, especially in the 1920s); and the radicals, such as Sun Yu, Yuan Muzhi, Cai Chusheng and many others in the 1930s, who used film to expose the darkness of society and called for change and revolution although they seemed to lack consistency in their radical outlooks and occasionally would cross the line to make different types of films. This book focuses on the left-wing Chinese cinema from 1932 to 1937. It contends that left-wing Chinese cinema is, first of all, a commercial product; like all such products, its success depends on its marketability, or ability to pull in an audience. One cannot talk about such a product without considering its commercial aspect. But unlike most of these products, the left-wing Chinese cinema was produced at a time of national crisis. Therefore, in order to afford left-wing Chinese cinema a more objective assessment, one must position left-wing Chinese cinema in its cultural, historical and political contexts. This requires examination of Chinese cinema first as a modern form of entertainment (including its birth, growth and marketability) before 1932, and then its transformation in the 1930s, when political and social changes in China directed its evolution.

MASS CULTURE IN THE TIME OF MECHANICAL REPRODUCTION Cinema embodies two of the most important aspects of our lives: culture and mechanical production. These two aspects found their home in early twentieth century Shanghai, a city that “served a kind of laboratory function by which institutions and technology of the West’s industrial revolution—itself still unfolding—were tried in a Chinese context.”18

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But China never went through an industrial revolution comparable to that of Europe. Mainland Chinese history books suggest that after the 1840 Opium War, China underwent sudden, massive changes: from being a closed, feudal society to being a “semi-colonial, semi-feudal” society. The economy developed unevenly among the cities, between country and city, and between the densely populated eastern coastal areas and the sparsely populated western mountain regions. In the countryside, the farming economy that had lasted for centuries gradually collapsed. Capitalism appeared in the eastern provinces following the opening of the coastal ports to foreign trade as a result of the war. Shanghai developed from a small town to the largest metropolis in China. Western imperialism and capitalism fostered Chinese urbanization. Politically and culturally, there have always been tensions between the Chinese and non-Chinese in China. Before the arrival of foreigners, Shanghai was a small seaport town. In 1842, the Qing government signed “The Jiangning Treaty” with the British government to end the Opium War. As a direct result, in 1843, Shanghai and four other treaty ports were opened to the outside world for trading. Consequently, foreigners gradually created their own communities in Shanghai. This condition created tension between Chinese and non-Chinese, although the Western occupation of Shanghai fostered industrial development and commercial trade. By 1920, Shanghai was clearly divided into three parts: the international settlement, the French concession and Shanghai under Chinese administration. This division fragmented the space of the Shanghai metropolis, both geographically and politically. In 1929, the Nanjing Chinese national government designed and implemented “The Big Shanghai Project” to control and overcome this division. However, the project was ended in 1937 by the Japanese seizure of the part of the city that was controlled by the Chinese.19 Toward the late nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century China experienced massive cultural and technological transformations. As in the West, printing brought enormous changes in Chinese literature and readerships.20 Other developments, such as photography and the appearance of cinema, were also the direct result of mechanical production. Accompanying urbanization the new social classes, the lower and middle working class, the capitalist class and the comprador class arose to replace the traditional rural-economy based classes. Modern-style education in Shanghai, Beijing and other mega-cities attracted young men and women from all over China. They joined with the urban middle class to become consumers of the new culture, which played an important part in Chinese modernity. In the 1910s and 1920s, artists, writers and critics joyfully celebrated the new cultural wonders that came out of mechanical production. Walter Benjamin’s phenomenal essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” claims that: In the studio the mechanical equipment has penetrated so deeply into reality that its pure aspect freed from the foreign substance of equipment is the result of a special procedure, namely, the shooting by the specially adjusted camera and the mounting of the shot together with other similar ones. The equipment-free aspect of reality here has become the height of artifice; the sight of immediate reality has become an orchid in the land of technology.21

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Shanghai, the largest metropolis in China, became a symbol of Chinese modernity in almost every aspect. Between 1870 and 1930 in Shanghai alone, modern transportation and communication developed rapidly22 and fostered other developments. Banks, hotels, publishing houses and apartments lined the Waitan, the Bund. By 1921, of the 27 most important banks in China, 20 of them had their headquarters in Shanghai. By 1935, there were 109 banks in Shanghai. Shanghai’s financial market was the third largest in the world (after New York and London).23 In 1876, Ge Yuanxu, a resident of Shanghai, recorded all the new wonders he saw in Shanghai. Ge outlined the Shanghai business layout and recorded all the innovations and new customs accompanying the foreign occupation of the city. The appearance of bicycles, gas lamps, foreign circuses, foreign shadow plays, photography, clocks, etc. was documented in great detail. In 1883, Huang Shiwei, who served as editor-director for Shenbao newspaper, wrote Songnan mengying lu in which he described his experience living in Shanghai. Huang’s notation of the introduction of foreign institutions and products was more detailed than that of his predecessor. He noted as novel the appearance of electricity, the telephone, organs, glass, tap water, etc.24 Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the reformers cultural movement rolled on with full force. Zheng Guanying and Wang Tao both raised suggestions for cultural reform. Kang Youwei criticized traditional Confucian culture. In literature, Tan Sitong and Xia Zengyou advocated “the poetry revolution”; Liang Qichao promoted “the new literary style” and Huang Zunxian, a new style poet, wrote in the vernacular. Meanwhile, vernacular newspapers and magazines began to appear everywhere. Political reform, modern style printing and urban consumer life made novels and short stories popular. Accompanying this cultural transformation was the introduction of translated works of Western philosophy and literature. According to one statistic, of the 1,500 novels appearing in the late Qing dynasty, two-thirds were translated from other languages.25 The May Fourth Movement of 1919, a political action initiated by the students of Beijing University to protest the government’s foreign policy, evolved into a cultural and intellectual movement, and had a substantial impact on Chinese society. The advocacy of individualism and women’s rights fostered a new generation of men and women, who were actively involved in Chinese cultural and political activities. The new cultural businesses such as publishing and education began in Shanghai under the influence of European and American missionaries. To speed the spread of Western thought and culture, the missionaries hired educated Chinese to help with the translation and promotional work. These cultural men, or wenren, played an important part in forming the new Chinese culture. Later, many of them started their own newspaper and publishing houses. Some became professional writers. They were joined by those who had graduated from modern private schools in Shanghai. More and more Chinese young people abandoned Confucian learning after civil service examinations were abolished in 1905. Some of these young people put their energy into writing fiction, new style poetry, short stories and, later, screenplays. Gradually, Shanghai evolved into an international metropolis. At the turn of the century, there were more than twenty new-style schools in Shanghai. In 1874, the Shanghai Museum, which had an extensive collection of works of art and artefacts, was opened. Shenbao, the first and the most prominent Chinese language daily newspaper, was distributed in Shanghai in 1872 and continued until 1949. The literary supplement

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sections of the newspaper created a “public space” for free discussions and urbanoriented recreational literature.26 The two largest publishing houses, Shangwu Yinshuguan and Zhonghua Shuju, were established in 1897 and 1912, respectively. By 1900, eighty percent of the translated works in China were published in Shanghai. Half of the circulated newspapers and magazines in the country were also published there. Shanghai was the most important cultural center in China.27 It not only attracted many famous people, but also fostered the birth of other cultural forms, such as modern drama and cinema. Wenmingxi (civilized drama) was born in Shanghai. It was an early form of xinju (new drama). Although it was of European origin, it came to China via Japan where the European spoken theater had been established during the Meiji period. Toward the end of 1906, some Chinese overseas students in Tokyo formed “The Spring Willow Society” (Chunliu she). In June 1907, these students put on a stage play in Shanghai called The Black Slave Cries Out to Heaven (Heinu yu tian lu), which was based on Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin.28 From this moment on, many spoken drama groups were established and spoken drama became popular in China. In addition to “Spring Willow Society,” “Shanghai New Stage” (Shanghai xin wutai) was instrumental in bringing Western style drama into China.29 The actors of wenmingxi were mostly Catholic school students inspired by foreign spoken drama, and they were joined by the students returning from Japan. Together they studied drama, and called it “The new drama” (xinju). By 1913, the new drama was formally established and appeared on stage in Shanghai. The following decade, the “Southern Chinese Drama Association” (Nanguo jushe), gave “the new drama” the title huaju meaning “spoken drama.”30 Films from many countries appeared in China. It is said that between 1896 and 1937, five thousand or more foreign films, most of which were from Hollywood, were shown in China.31 Eight American film companies, known as bada gongsi, established distribution systems in China.32 By the end of the 1920s, films shown in movie theaters in Shanghai and Beijing were often American. There were The Three Musketeers, Robin Hood played by Douglas Fairbanks, The Big Parade starring Joan Crawford, and Way Down East with Lilian Gish and Richard Barthelmess. Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Harold Lloyd were all popular in China. However, according to Nakamura Gen, a Japanese film scholar, the number of ordinary Chinese people who saw American films was not as large as some have thought. It was because the price of admission (to these American films) was four times the price of domestic films (30–50 cents); additionally, it was difficult to read the subtitles of the silents and to understand the words of the foreign talkies.33 Nakamura Gen also suggests that sometimes, films such as Shanghai Express (1932, directed by Joseph Von Sternberg and starring Marlene Dietrich) provoked protests against films that insulted China. The film was cancelled only two days after its initial appearance.34 Meanwhile, Shanghai filmmakers and fans idolized the Hollywood movies and filmmakers whose modern style had become a symbol for the Chinese in their search for modernity.35 The prolific director Sun Yu and the famous dramatist and filmmaker Hong Shen were formally educated in America. According to Cao Maotang and Wu Lun’s study, around the 1910s and 1920s quite many Chinese filmmakers were trained or educated abroad, and they were eager to build a Chinese domestic film industry. The better known ones were directors Li Zeyuan (America) and Xu Hu (France), cinematographers Cheng Peilin (America), Wang Xuchang (France), Ye Xiangrong

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(America), Zhang Feifan (France) and producer Lu Shoulian (America). Upon returning to China, Lu founded “The China Filmmaking Company” and made several influential documentary films for the film department of the Commercial Press in the late 1910s.36 The roles these filmmakers played still need to be studied. Xia Yan stated that Chinese filmmakers often imitated Hollywood plotting and stylization. The reason—Xia explained—was that during the early years of Chinese cinema, most Chinese filmmakers had no formal training in making films.37 Obviously, Xia’s statement is not entirely valid.38 Although documented examples of the impact that Chinese movies made abroad are sparse, seven Chinese films participated in the International Film Festival in Moscow in 1935. Among which, The Songs of Fishermen (Yuguangqu), a left-wing film directed by Cai Chusheng, claimed an honorary award.39 In 1930, Mei Lanfang, the famous Chinese Peking Opera actor, performed in several cities in the United States. He met Charlie Chaplin several times, and was the guest of Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford in Hollywood. It was said that the Chinese actor greatly admired Fairbanks’s performance as D’Artagnan in The Three Musketeers, and respected Chaplin’s comedy so much that he promoted certain comics in Peking Opera who displayed similar abilities in deadpan humor.40 In 1935, Hu Die and the film producer Zhou Jianyun and his wife toured Europe for four months. The event was the headline news and Hu Die published a collection detailing her visit.41 Many prominent Chinese writers shared a love affair with the cinema. Lu Xun decided to be a writer after viewing a slide show in Japan.42 He once translated Japanese film critic Iwasaki Noboru’s “The Modern Film and the Propertied Class” into Chinese.43 His diary records, in the beginning of 1935, the following foreign films: Cleopatra, Resistance, Tarzan and His Mate (twice), The Private Life of Don Juan and Treasure Island. He saw films, foreign films, about twice a month.44 Rey Chow examines Lu Xun’s well-known experience of shifting from the study of medicine in Japan to literary writing, and concludes provocatively that in the twentieth century it was the power of visuality which was “brought along by new media such as photography and film that transforms the ways writers think of literature itself.”45 Furthermore, whether conscious or not, claims Chow, “the new literary forms are, arguably, thoroughly mediatized, containing within them a response to technologized visuality.”46 In a prose work entitled “Kafei dian qiche dianyingxi” (Coffee house, automobile and movie drama), published within a prose collection in 1936, Tian Han, the first Chinese filmmaker from the May Fourth New Culture,47 celebrates film as an urban form of culture while discussing the views of his friend, Sōto Haruo, a Japanese writer, about movies. One magazine article opined that “automobile, movie theater and coffee house” were the three symbols of modern metropolitan life. Satō Haruo did not have much to say about coffee houses. He liked the smell of gasoline. About movies, he states: I begin to feel a slight happiness of living in this time whenever I think about movies. Among human material inventions, I think the movie is one of the few eternal products. Even if the world becomes a primitive Utopia, at least we should pass on the movie as the best inheritance from the old civilization. When watching a good movie with rapt attention, one feels transcendence beyond everything. After more improvement, movie will

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become a very powerful artistic form. There is no harm in sensational movies, and we might as well allow them to develop; but in addition to this, we should try other experiments. To make a brilliant movie requires talents such as writers and technicians. I also want to become a screenwriter.48 In conclusion, Tian Han quotes Satō Haruo: “The invention of trains and steamships makes the world smaller; the invention of cinema causes a revolution in the concept of time and space.”49 In another essay with the English title “Day Dream” from the same collection, Tian Han quotes the comments of Junichiro Tanizaki, a Japanese novelist and one-time screenplay writer, about film: “A story, no matter how vulgar, bad and absurd, when it is made into a movie, will give you a marvelous fantasy. To some degree, a movie is more a clear dream than an ordinary dream. Men not only dream while asleep, they still dream while awake. When we go to a movie theater, we go to have a daydream.”50 In a final essay written in 1933, Tian Han discusses what he would like to accomplish as a creative writer. First, he says, he wrote in the past many plays, and did many things in this field, but his real ambition was in the field of film, the new art form. He reveals his failures in making Going to the Countryside (Dao minjian qu) and Broken Flute (Duandi), and decides to improve himself by standing next to a camera, participating in directing and other functions.51 Such enthusiasm about movie making was not uncommon among writers and philosophers in the early stages of this new art.52 All these comments carry a strong sense of the celebration of film, which was born on December 28, 1895 when Louis Lumière showed a few short films in the basement room of the Grand Café in Paris.53 In August of 1896, China showed movies imported from the West at “Youyicun” of Xuyuan Garden in Shanghai for the first time.54 In the same year, Lumière Brothers sent their cameramen to Hong Kong.55 In the fall of 1905, Ren Jungfeng, the owner of Fengtai Photo Studio in Beijing, using a French camera he purchased from a German businessman, made Dingjun Mountain (Dingjun shan). This movie, starring the famous Beijing Opera actor Tan Xinpei, is considered the first Chinese film.56 Hence, 1905 marks the commencement of Chinese cinema. But the Chinese did not make feature films until 1913, when Zheng Zhengqiu wrote the screenplay, and Zhang Shichuan directed their very first The Hard Made Couple/The Wedding Night (Nanfu nanqi).57 It was approximately at this time that wenmingxi and cinema merged to a certain degree. The actors employed by the Asia Film Company58 during the day were also the actors at night on the wenmingxi stage.59 From 1905 when Chinese cinema was born to 1932 when the left-wing film movement began, the Chinese film industry went through many stages of change. As an important part of an emerging mass urban culture, filmmakers were preoccupied with the economic rules of the game and the perceived need to turn out works of entertainment for the marketplace. Many businessmen saw the film industry as a profitable business, and invested in it heavily. In 1920 a scandalous murder shocked Shanghai. A comprador named Yan Ruisheng pawned his friends’ jewelery in order to gamble in horse race but lost. In desperation, he saw Wang Lianying, a famous prostitute who wore a lot of jewelery. Yan invited the woman for a ride and killed her in a field for her jewelry. Yan fled to Qingpu, Songjiang, Qingdao, Haizhou and was arrested in Xuzhou. In the end, he was sentenced to death in Shanghai. Newspapers in Shanghai reported the event with

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sensational headlines. “The level of detail reflected both the rarity of such a lurid crime and the prominence of the victim; in turn, the reporting itself helped to constitute the murder as an event for public consumption,” says Gail Hershatter in her eight-page study of the incident.60 The “Shanghai New Stage” immediately put the story on its wenmingxi stage. The play lasted for half a year, drawing large audiences. The situation inspired several bank compradors and actors who set up a “Chinese Film Research Society” to adapt the stage play into a film. The film made four thousand yuan within one week after its release.61 It seems that profit was the major motive that attracted many people into the film business in the 1910s and 1920s. According to Cheng Jihua, around 1925 there were 175 film companies in the major cities of China, of which 141 were in Shanghai. But many of these film companies never made any films.62 Among these film studios, the better known are the film section of Commercial Press (established in 1918, with Chen Chunsheng in charge), Mingxing (established in 1922 by Zhang Shichuan, Zheng Zhengqiu, Zhou Jianyun, etc.), Da Zhonghua Baihe (established in 1925 by Wu Xingzai), Tianyi (established in 1925 by Shao Zuiweng), Changcheng Film Studio (established by Mei Xuechou, Liu Zhaoming et al., originally based in New York, but later moved to Shanghai), Shenzhou (established by Wang Xichang and others upon their return from studying abroad in 1924), Minxin (established by Li Minwei in 1921 in Hong Kong) and Lianhe Film Studio (1929 by Luo Mingyou). Toward the beginning of the 1930s, three film companies—Mingxing, Tianyi and Lianhua—gradually took over the Chinese silver screen, forming a tripartite balance of forces. The movies made during the 1910s and 1920s touched many themes. Xia Yan summarizes them into three categories: the first included martial art films such as The Burning of Red Lotus Temple (Huoshao Hongliansi); the second promoted Confucian morality and ethics, such as the popular The Orphan Saves His Grandfather (Gu’er jiuzu ji) and The Heavenly Principle (Tianlun); and the third kind were love stories.63 These films are often described by Chinese film historians as being “pandering to low tastes” and “absurd.”64 Harriet Sergeant, who visited Shanghai film studios at the time, observes the Shanghai film industry to be “aimed to attract the ordinary man and woman on Nanking Road who had never read a Lu Xun essay or appreciated a woodblock print.”65 As a result, “Any rickshaw-puller or factory-worker could have told you about Shanghai films. Film succeeded where the novel, essay and woodblock print failed. It reached into the heart of the worker.”66 Frederick Wakeman, Jr. also believes that the centrality of the cinema to Shanghai’s mass culture is not exaggerated. “Movie actors and actresses were national celebrities and popular idols,” he states.67 Had time allowed, the Chinese film industry would probably have continued aiming at entertaining the urban populace. In the 1910s and 1920s market forces determined the nature and results of the negotiation of art and politics, just like what we see in China today. However, things changed when the political and foreign diplomatic situation mutated in 1931.

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ART IN THE TIME OF NATIONAL CRISIS: THE LEFTWING CHINESE CINEMA Many Chinese filmmakers did not have much leisure time to play with their newly acquired art before they decided to tackle political themes. When Chinese filmmaking reached its maturity in the early 1930s, China began to face the national crisis caused by the Japanese invasion and occupation of the Northeast and the bombing of Shanghai. It increased the insecurity of the rest of the country. From this moment on, film became an important medium for filmmakers to intervene in politics. The left-wing film cinema began following the call to “save the nation.” Nevertheless, the tradition of using art to serve political purposes did not begin here.68 The social function of film has also been discussed by many film critics and filmmakers. As early as 1926, Hou Yao (1903–1942), a pioneering film director and screenwriter of the 1920s and a member of “Wenxue yanjiu hui” (The Society of Literature Study) says in his book Yingxi juben zuofa (The method of screenplay writing) that “[f]ilm is a tool for education.”69 In the forward to Dianying yishu (Movie art) magazine, the editors state that movie art is not merely a mirror reflecting society; rather, it has a mission to advance society. Films should reflect the way society moves and the way it progresses.70 In the 1930s, there were many discussions about realism involving both Chinese film critics and filmmakers. These debates usually involved issues regarding the way a film reflected and described reality. This included the material selection, the actual content of the film, how the raw materials were put together, and finally, how to judge a film’s success. In terms of the material selection, it was widely agreed that a self-respecting left-wing film should “reflect” the life of the “lower class.” Any serious drama (a concept that included film71), should reveal human life, criticize human life and reflect the times. The best way to convey this was to draw raw film material from the lower depths of society, said screenwriter Sun Shiyi.72 The work of Sun Shiyi, whose credits include the famous screenplay The New Woman (Xin nüxing), is typical in that it analyzes Chinese society from a sociological point of view and states that the majority of the people lived below the poverty line. Because of this, The New Woman focuses on a poor schoolteacher, low class prostitutes and factory workers. Chenwu, a member of the Party’s Film Team and one of the most prominent left-wing film theorists in the 1930s, not only wanted the filmmakers “to look for raw material from the society,” but also “to look for actors among the masses.” He believed that “this is the only solution for Chinese film.”73 Not surprisingly, Chenwu and other left-wingers were negative about the “star system” that was prevalent in Shanghai at that time.74 They preferred Soviet cinema because it employed the general masses instead of professional actors as stars. When Eisenstein’s highly acclaimed Battleship Potemkin was first screened in Shanghai for an elite cultural and art circle in 1926, Tian Han is reported to have observed that many people, including right-wingers, were impressed “by the beauty and strength of the rebellious mass (the film has no protagonists).”75 (In fact, this fetish of making the masses heroes took a big toll on Chinese literature and art when Mao Zedong made it the party’s policy in 1942 in his talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art.)

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The next question to come out of the discussions of the function of Chinese cinema in the 1930s is: Are subjects that reflect the life of the “lower classes” in a society necessarily more “realistic” than the others? Critic Meng Gongwei wanted a broader definition of “reality.” He complained that the “reality” that many film critics wanted writers to reflect was limited to only economic crises and the contrast between the poor and the rich. He pleaded with writers to pay more attention to the most important issue— the national crisis.76 Meng Gongwei’s wish was soon granted. Many left-wing films made in 1936 and 1937 were radical national defense films. It was also widely agreed that “progressive Chinese films” should reveal social contradictions when putting these materials together. Critic Xi Naifang demanded that filmmakers “show the audience the naked reality of contradiction and the irrational, making them grasp the necessity of social change profoundly and forcing them seek an immediate way out. This is the new road of Chinese film circles.”77 The “naked reality” of the contradiction involved the element of the conflict between the suffering Chinese people and their enemies— imperialism (and feudalism). In a 1933 article called “The Road of Chinese Cinema,” Chenwu observed that Chinese cinema started to change the moment the news of hostilities on September 18, 1931 and January 28, 1932 when the Japanese attack on Manchuria and Shanghai was reported. This change was the shift to militant anti-imperialism.78 The well-known writer A Ying (using the pen name Feng Wu) wrote that the answer of the film industry to the guns of imperialism was an emphatic “down with imperialism.”79 In 1933, as they searched for the future of Chinese film, many filmmakers pointed out that one of the tasks of the Chinese film industry was to oppose imperialism and feudalism. Zheng Zhengqiu, one of the leading directors and screenwriters of the Mingxing Film Company, in answering to his own question of “How to step onto the road to progress,” articulated the “Three Anti” slogans, which included “anti-imperialism, anti-capitalism and antifeudalism.” Zheng hoped that this would become the common goal of those who wanted to march forward, and it would open up a way out for Chinese cinema as well as a way out for the masses.80 After criticizing American films for their ideological content, Zheng advocated that Chinese filmmakers study Soviet films and the Soviet film theories and let this be the proper guide “to the progressive road.”81 (The first time that a Russian film was screened publicly in China was in 1931, when Pudovkin’s militant Storm Over Asia (1929), detailing the life of Genghis Khan, was shown in Shanghai.82) Many left-wingers felt that the best method of revealing social contradictions was to expose what they regarded as the “darkness of society.” In an article written on August 16, 1932, on the new Chinese cinema, critic Zi Yu suggests: Chinese cinema should reveal the conflict and human life through specific images—individual characters, individual events, individual occa-sions and individual social relationships at specific places and times. The method should be “exposure” and “revealing,” not “inference” and “induce.” This requires screenwriters and directors to have a deep understanding of real life.83 The method of “exposure” was advocated even when critics discussed the basic nature of film. For example, Sha Zhongyan, another left-wing critic, believed that the contribution

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of filmmakers was “to communicate the soul of the film in a beautiful way, and to expose social reality in order to reveal the real human life.”84 However, not everyone agreed that “exposure” was the best policy. Film critic Riku felt that “the greatest responsibility of cinema is not to expose and reveal, but to instruct.”85 This comment leads us to didacticism, another concept that was emphasized by the left-wing Chinese filmmakers. In Chinese literature by means of typology, realism is opened to the transmission of ideology and the comprehensive portrayal of social reality. Consequently, realist fiction, like all narrative art forms, “presents itself in part as a kind of instruction or teaching,” says Marston Anderson.86 I argue that cinema’s visuality, accessibility and popularity with the audience could be, and were, far more didactic in form than modern Chinese literature. The national crisis resulting from Japan’s attacks on China in 1931 and again in 1932 gave left-wing Chinese filmmakers an urgent task. Riku points out that, after these assaults, film could no longer be regarded as a pastime for the few. Films that fulfilled the function of “educating the masses, directing the masses, and organizing the masses” would be welcome and supported by the majority of the audience.87 To accomplish this goal, some looked to the former Soviet Union for guidance. Film critic Xiao Luo pointed out in 1932 that “In a socialist country such as the Soviet Union, film is a tool that assists the development of socialism.”88 He criticized America, Britain and other “capitalist” countries for making and selling films that promote sex and religion. In answering “What is Cinema?” he stated, “simply speaking, Cinema is entertainment but it has a function as well. This function is to direct the masses, educate the masses, and inspire the masses to march on a new road of life.”89 I argue that Chinese left-wing cinema in the 1930s was indebted to both Soviet and Hollywood cinemas. Generally speaking, while the left-wingers looked to the Soviet Union cinema for ideological guidance, it was through Hollywood cinema that they found their stylistic inspirations. In the ideological canon, leftist writers such as Qu Qiubai, Hu Yeping, and many others were all indebted to the influence of the Soviet Union. Although the Soviet montage theory was introduced into China in the early 1930s by leftist leaders such as Xia Yan and Zheng Boqi, only a few filmmakers including Cai Chusheng actually utilized this theory. It is because the Soviet montage theories, especially those of Eisenstein, were too abstract and foreign to Chinese audiences. Interestingly, Eisenstein’s dialectic approach to film form, commonly referred to as the “collision” that includes his concept of graphic conflict, conflict of planes, conflict of volumes and spatial conflict within a frame would be ideal for the left-wing Chinese filmmakers to promote their radical ideas.90 Chinese audiences preferred a smooth, linear and story-oriented narrative,91 which they often found in Hollywood cinema at that time that was put together by an editing method known as “continuity.”92 How central was the didactic function of their films? This is another question by the left-wing filmmakers in regard to the function of cinema. Sun Xun, a film critic claimed that “Everyone has to admit that when it comes to art and the education of the masses, film art plays the most active role, which absolutely cannot be matched by literature, drama, painting or music.”93 Chenwu also emphasized the didacticism of cinema. But he went one step further by raising the issue of the propaganda function of film. “Art,” he said, “is propaganda, and film is more of a propaganda art.”94 Left-wing critics agreed that films should be linked with the interest of the masses. “Every film has a purpose, content and a message it wants to convey,” says Gong Lü. “The current task of film

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criticism is first to determine the impact of this message on the society, and how it serves the masses. Then comes the second role which involves establishing how clear this message is and whether the people can understand it or not. This is what we consider the question of style.”95 (Note that this claim echoes the advocacies of the left-wing Chinese writers regarding popularizing Chinese literature and art in the 1930s.) Ultimately, left-wing critics asserted that the social value of a film must be judged by how “real” it felt. Chenwu underscored this point and wrote in 1932: Art expresses itself through images. Without images, art cannot exist. The images are received from objective society, not the mind of writers. Therefore, the artistic value of a product is judged by the extent to which the artist reflects objective reality. Reality is which that is intrinsic at the forefront and is necessary in a society.96 However, it is clear that a notion of “correctness” is central to this sort of value judgment. As Lu Si, another famous left-wing film critic of the 1930s, states: “The value of a film depends on the degree of correctness in its reflec-tion of objective reality. A film is more outstanding and its value is greater if the objective reality it reflects is more accurate and more thorough.”97 Needless to say, the issue of the degree of correctness creates considerable room for the filmmaker’s point of view. On July 1, 1921, the Chinese Communist Party was established in Shanghai. Only a few years later, the confrontation between the Chinese Communist Party and the Guomindang accelerated, punctuated by the 1927 massacre. In March 1930, the Leftwing Writers’ League was established in Shanghai. Its members were all highly prominent. Following this, the Leftwing Theater League, Leftwing Social Science League, Leftwing Journalist League, Leftwing Musician’s League, etc., mushroomed in many big cities. In the early 1930s, left-wing theaters were quite active in Shanghai. Many theater owners joined the Union of Shanghai Theater Movement which was founded in March of 1930. Of these, Shanghai Art Theater and Southern Theater were closed down by the Guomindang. On August 23, 1930, the “Leftwing Theater League of China” was established to “encourage unity and continual struggle.”98 Due to the white terror and internal differences between the different theater groups, the “Leftwing Theater League of China” was changed to the “Leftwing Dramatist League of China” in January of 1931. It was considered a united front organization led by the Chinese Communist Party.99 In September of 1931 the “Leftwing Dramatist League of China” passed guiding principles regarding various aspects of filmmaking. These guiding principles focused on several main areas. The left-wing theatrical movement should first enter the proletariat of major urban centers, and serve the petty bourgeoisie, students and town folk;100 the content should explicate the great historical mission of the Chinese proletariat and expose the darkness of society. Second, the left-wing theatrical movement should lead the Chinese proletarian theatrical theory to struggle against all reactionary theories. And third, it should provide progressive film scripts to the film studios and introduce progressive actors and actresses into the film industry. (The content of the scripts at this time should also expose the darkness of society.) Furthermore, the leftwing filmmakers should find a way to finance their own movies.101 Note that many issues (with the exception of

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intellectual’s self-reform102) brought up here would later appear in Mao’s Yan’an Talks in 1942. Although the first and second guidelines seem to address theater more directly than film, they meant to include film as well, according to Cheng Jihua.103 In its early days, cinema in China was known as yingxi, meaning shadow play. (Tian Han calls it dianyingxi, meaning “movie drama.”) To many early Chinese filmmakers, cinema was a kind of drama or play. The fa-mous film director Zhang Shichuan recalled that when he and his colleagues at Asia Film Company first started making films, he thought that yingxi was just a play, and naturally it would be linked to the existing Chinese drama with which he was familiar. His friend Zheng Zhengqiu, who later became a director and screenwriter, totally engaged himself in the theatrical world. At the very beginning, their camera was always positioned at one angle—a long shot. The actors were asked to act in front of the camera until the directors ran out of film. There was no concept of cinematic apparatus such as cuts or close-ups.104 Most Chinese screenwriters, film directors, actors and actresses had a substantial theatrical background. Consequently, Chinese films during the 1930s had a close relationship with theater art, especially, huaju, the spoken drama.105 On February 28, 1932, the Japanese bombed Shanghai and later occupied the city. This act of aggression had a far greater impact on Shanghai writers than any previous event.106 Readers sent letters to the film magazines asking the studios to produce antiJapanese films and to organize guiding groups that would collect screenplay materials with anti-Japanese, anti-imperialist content.107 In the forward to the first issue of Dianying yishu (Movie art) on July 8, 1932, the editors analyzed China’s current domestic and international situation and declared that “The crisis has arrived!” The authors complained that very few Chinese directors knew much about montage, and very few actors knew how to act. They were furious that “Capitol,” “Grand,” “Cathay,” “Carlton” and many other Shanghai movie theaters played only “My Darling, I Love You.” The authors further pointed out a new road for the Chinese movie industry, consisting of four points: A. We should know that the movies needed by the masses are the movies they will support. The movies that the masses support must reflect reality and point out reality. No movies will do. B. Focus our energy on discussing the main important issues of contemporary movies. Get rid of the obstacles that prohibit film work from going in the right direction. C. Gather all the film talents to study the new filmmaking contents and skills to break the imperialist policies. Kick their poisonous movies out of our theaters. D. Watch out for the investment by the big powers who may control the finances of the Chinese film industry.108 Shortly after Japan’s bombing of Shanghai in 1932, Zhou Jianyun, one of the founders of Mingxing Film Company, went to see Aying and through Aying, met with some leftists, including Xia Yan, a Communist Party member and activist in the Chinese left-wing cultural movement. Zhou invited these left-wingers to join Mingxing. When Xia Yan reported this at the Communist Party’s meeting, the Party leader Qu Qiubai reportedly said, “We should have our own films.”109 Soon, an underground Party’s Film Team was officially set up, Xia Yan being its leader. The team quickly attracted many artists from different fields into Shanghai’s film circles.110 On February 9, 1933, the Chinese Film

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Culture Association was established in Shanghai. Its members consisted of many prominent figures in the film circles, including Zheng Zhengqiu, Zhou Jianyun, Bu Wancang, Shi Dongshan, Sun Yu, Jin Yan, Hong Shen, Hu Die, Chen Yu (Tian Han’s alias), Cheng Bugao, Zhang Shichuan, Dong Keyi, Li Minwei, Cai Chusheng, Ying Yunwei, Shen Xiling, Li Pingqian, Wu Yonggang, Chen Yanyan, Huang Zibu (Xia Yan’s assumed name), Nie Er and others.111 In a statement published in the Chenbao’s (Morning news) “Everyday movie” section on March 26, 1933, the association criticized the Chinese film industry for not being able to move at the same pace as the rest of the social cultural movement. The association further declared: “Time is pressing. We can no longer passively let things drift. We can no longer fumble in the dark. We must unite together cordially, gather our strength, recognize our previous mistakes, search for a bright future, expand out our powerful vanguard movement of film culture, and build our new film world.” The association called for an entertainment event to collect donations to support the Northeast volunteers.112 In the summer of 1932, Mingxing Film Studio started to recruit left-wing screenwriters. Using assumed names, Xia Yan (Huang Zibu), Zheng Boqi (Zheng Junping) and Aying (Qian Xingcun) were joined by Zheng Zhengqiu, Hong Shen and others, forming the screenwriting and story-adopting committee for the studio. Lianhua Film Company recruited prominent left-wing filmmakers Cai Chusheng, Sun Yu, Shen Fu, Tan Youliu, Tian Han, Shi Dongshan and Fei Mu. To compete with the other studios, Yihua Film Company recruited Tian Han, Yang Hansheng, Xia Yan, Su Yi, Shu Xiuwen, Hu Ping, Bu Wancang, Yue Feng and other left-wing film creators. Meanwhile, Tang Xiaodan, Gao Jiling, Wu Yinxian, Xu Xingzhi, Shen Xiling, Situ Huimin and Tian Fang joined Tianyi Film Studio. As a result, the whole film industry was suddenly filled with left-wing filmmakers and their messages.113 Stressing national crisis became a commercial and political priority. This condition facilitated the production of left-wing films that fanned anti-Japanese sentiments. It is estimated that sixty percent to seventy percent of the screenplays produced by the left-wing screenwriters were anti-Japanese.114 Fifteen years after its establishment, the prominent Mingxing Film Studio reformed itself to solve its financial crisis and to better fit the changing situation. A statement published in 1936 in the first issue of Mingxing banyuekan (The Mingxing biweekly) announced several plans for this reform. The first was to expand its operations. In addition to many technical aspects, it also included setting up a screenwriters’ committee. The second plan was to declare principles of filmmaking. The first and the most general aspect of these principles was that the content and ideology of the screenplays should serve their time, and should have appropriate social values. Furthermore, the studio realized that the nation had reached a crucial point of life and death, and the film industry naturally did not ha ve the right to give up the responsibility of contributing to its defense. For the nation and for Mingxing itself, Mingxing declared that it would make national defense movies. Mingxing also planned to make movies with English subtitles to promote Chinese culture and to compete in European and American markets.115 In the field of cultural production, it must be noted that one should not underestimate the power and influence of the general public who made popular culture in China possible. Official Chinese film historians are predisposed to overemphasize the roles played by Xia Yan’s Party’s Film Team, ignoring the fact that film is a mass culture and

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that the public plays a large part in deciding the fate and future of it. In this sense, Pierre Bourdieu’s points are worthy of consideration: Among the makers of the work of art, we must finally include the public, which helps to make its value by appropriating it materially (collectors) or symbolically (audiences, readers), and by objectively or subjectively identifying part of its own value with these appropriations. …It is the field of production, understood as the system of objective relations between these agents or institutions and as the site of the struggles for the monopoly of the power to consecrate, in which the value of works of art and belief in that value are continuously generated.116 An accurate evaluation of the left-wing Chinese films, therefore, must take into consideration the many agents of their society, principally the filmmakers (screenwriters, directors, producers, actors) and the audience (moviegoers and critics). The marriage between the left-wing filmmakers and the studios worked. Over seventy films were made during the five years of their cooperation between 1932 and 1937.117 The films, says Sergeant, “have nothing in common with the ‘Ice Cream for the Eyes’ of the twenties, or the doctrinaire propaganda made after 1949. Like Shanghai itself, they exist as a magnificent aberration.”118 In the history the left-wing filmmakers were in and in the history they were making, “the alliance between capitalist producer and communist scriptwriter resulted in some very good films indeed.”119 This was accomplished under conditions that were extremely difficult. Starting from 1929, a movie had to go through two kinds of censorship before it could be shown in Shanghai: one by censors in the concessions, and the other by the Guomindang film censorship bureau.120 Between 1930 and 1934, the national government issued more than a dozen regulations regarding film censorship, which made it more difficult for the leftwing filmmakers to publicize their message of social reform and social change.121 Shanghai Twenty-four Hours (Shanghai ershisi xiaoshi), written by Xia Yan and directed by Shen Xiling, was made in 1933 by Mingxing Film Company. The censors charged this film for “stirring up class struggle”122 and demanded that changes be made. Shen Xiling ignored the order and the film was kept for a year without permission for release. Later, the producers negotiated with the censors and the film was previewed in June of 1934 in Nanjing. So much of it had been cut by the censors that many scenes made no sense to the unforgiving audience. But the censors continued making cuts and the film was finally released to the public in the middle of December in 1934 after it had been censored over ten times.123 By then the film had been totally altered. Regardless of director Shen Xiling’s objections, the producers, who were determined to get their investment back, insisted on releasing it publicly. The result was devastating. The audience was unfamiliar with the inside story of the censorship process and they expressed deep disappointment. Shen Xiling was so angry that he left the film circle.124 In addition to facing severe censorship, left-wing filmmakers also met with violent attacks. On November 12, 1933, a dozen or so “Blue Shirt” members showed up at the newly established Yihua Film Company and destroyed the furniture, automobiles and film equipment. These members called themselves “The Comrade Society of Shanghai Film Circle to Uproot the Communists” (hereafter, “The Society”). The second day, The

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Society published a statement to the media that if Yihua continued its left-wing filmmaking policy, it would use more violent means to deal with the situation. And The Society was making a close investigation on Lianhua, Mingxing and Tianyi Film Companies as well. The Society further threatened that if any theater should show films by Tian Han, Shen Duanxian (Xia Yan’s alias), Bu Wancang, Jin Yan, etc., the theater would be met with violent measures. This incident stirred up rage among cultural activists including the famous writer Lu Xun who recorded the warning letter by The Society and wrote an essay to analyze the situation.125 Every movie embodies two aspects; it is a cultural product; it is also a commodity. Often economic factors determine whether it will become a cultural consecration.126 Writer Yang Hansheng recalled that a movie had to pass three checks before it could be viewed by the general public: The first check was by the producer. By reading a story treatment or synopsis, the producer(s) decided whether the potential film would be profitable and how risky the venture might be. The second check was by the director. Some directors did not want to direct movies written by left-wing screenwriters for fear of political repercussions. Others were skeptical about what the leftwingers had to say. The third check was by the censors. Censorship would occur at two stages: the first stage was after the writing of the screenplay; the second was after the production of the movie itself. This was the stage that producers feared most, because a movie would be totally aborted if permission could not be obtained.127 The difficult situations mentioned above had predetermined how far these left-wing filmmakers could go with their radical messages. Perhaps Yang Hansheng’s summary in 1983 offers a reference regarding their success: During the five years from the summer of 1932 to “The July 7 Incident” of 1937, we had no capital, no machines or equipment. Being underground in the colonial and semi-colonial Shanghai, we were under the white terror. However, we were able to unite the majority of screenwriters, directors and actors from the five major film companies (Lianhua, Mingxing, earlier part of Yihua, Diantong and Xinhua) that were owned by the capitalists, and lead the filmmaking under the direct or indirect influence of the Party toward a path of anti-imperialism and antifeudalism. The reason for our success is that we did our best to most of the progressive force in the film circles, and this power could do anything.128 One does not need to agree entirely with Yang regarding the party’s influence; but leftwing filmmakers were indeed able to attract Jin Yan (known as the screen emperor), Hu Die (The Chinese Garbo129 and the screen empress), the legendary Ruan Lingyu, Cai Chusheng and many more who had the highest box-office value to star in or direct their films. In sum, the tradition of employing literature and art to serve politics, initiated by and compounded with the anti-imperialist sentiments evoked from Japan’s invasion of China, invited and encouraged art to participate in the struggle to end the national crisis. It was from their intention to better their society and nation that the left-wing Chinese filmmakers turned cinema into something that was much more than just a popular form of

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entertainment. However, due to the fact that left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s were commercially produced and had to go through various censorships before they could be released to the public, there were crucial discrepancies between critical left-wing and textual left-wing.130 In fact, many of these films may not be as radical as the left-wing screenwriters and film critics of the 1930s intended, and the Mainland Chinese film historians including Cheng Jihua and Chen Bo later claimed. An objective overview of these films shows that left-wing Chinese cinema was a mixture of many elements. Thematically, they involved conflicts of gender relations, tensions between country and city, and negotiation of self with society at the time of national crisis. Artistically, they combined mainly melodramatic and realistic forms.

II. The Themes

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Chapter Two Country and City “Shanghai is too complicated, I will get lost here.” —Mao Dun, Rainbow1

In Rainbow, writer Mao Dun skillfully portrays a young woman, Mei, who runs away from her unhappy marriage in Chengdu. She teaches in a small city for a while, and then comes to Shanghai. Mao Dun describes Mei’s feelings after four months in the city: To Mei, the dark shadow before her was simply another self at whom she ought to laugh. This was a new, second self that had emerged since her arrival in Shanghai: a self stripped of self-confidence, an irresolute and hesitant self, a more feminine self. She did not know how this self could have become such a disgrace. Four months ago, when she had ridden the steamship Long-mao down river through the Wu gorge, how proud and confident she had been. She had expected Shanghai society to be vast, complex, all-encompassing, and fast-paced. Here she would find a suitable life-style for herself. She wanted to stand tall among this boundless sea of humanity. Should she not have thought this way? Since escaping from her “prison of willow branches,” she had really been quite successful: she had conquered her environment and had also conquered the defects in her own character. She had attracted numerous men, and she had kicked them of the way nonchalantly, as though nothing had happened. No one could move her heart, yet there wasn’t one person whose heart she could not see through. But in the more than three months she had spent here in Shanghai, she had felt that the good life she had promised herself was becoming more and more remote. Moreover, like a fish out of water, since coming to this place, she had changed only for the worse. Now all of a sudden there was even a second self causing trouble for the original Mei.2 Mei’s inability to cope with her situation in Shanghai here reflects a political, social and cultural gap between Shanghai and other Chinese cities in the early twentieth century. This underlines an even larger gap between Shanghai and the countryside. As Jay Leyda observes, although Chinese peasants were not much touched by films of any kind, “the portrayal of peasant problems was nevertheless a crucial revolutionary claim for the left filmmakers to emphasize.”3 This chapter contends that most of the left-wing Chinese cinema in the 1930s involves the issues of country and city, center (mega-city such as

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Shanghai) and the periphery (small and remote cities), and the borderline crossings between the two. It will demonstrate that borderline crossings from country to city (mainly Shanghai)4 in the 1930s reveal disparities and conflicts between the center (typically Shanghai) and the periphery (small and remote cities). These crossings also reveal even more profound conflicts between men and women, between the Chinese upper and lower classes, between modernization/Westernization and Chinese traditions, between agrarian society and industrial society, and between patriotism and imperialism. The modernization and Westernization that China experienced after the Opium War dramatically changed the symbiotic relationship between China’s country and city. On the economic front, the age-old self-sufficient agrarian economy collapsed before a modern economic system could be built. Although many civilizations followed a path from pre-agrarian society to agrarian to industrial, the progress from agrarian to industrial is not necessarily a natural transition. Often two societies exist simultaneously, which creates an antithesis between country and city. In discussing the transition to an age of nationalism, Ernest Gellner believes that “Mankind is irreversibly committed to industrial society, and therefore to a society whose productive system is based on cumulative science and technology” and “Agrarian society is no longer an option, for its restoration would simply condemn the great majority of mankind to death by starvation, not to mention dire and unacceptable poverty for the minority of survivors.”5 Gellner’s theory validates the move made by Chinese peasants from country to city. Nevertheless, this theory does not address the situation when the relocation from country to city is a direct or indirect result of imperial aggression. In left-wing Chinese films, the move from indigenous developments to industrial society is forced by external pressures, not an intentional one. Furthermore, China’s social, political and economical reality potentiated problems and disasters of her march toward an industrial age. The first Chinese state-owned factory was built in 1863. But the Chinese did not have much luck with such attempts after that. For years, Chinese industry had little opportunity to grow, partly because foreign countries acquired the privilege, either by force or by diplomatic means, of dumping their goods of lower price and better quality on the Chinese markets.6 Modern capitalism took strong root in China, especially Shanghai, after the First World War because Shanghai industry was able to take advantage of the war to be competitive.7 The imperialist presence was well established and powerful. Throughout the 1930s, pressured by foreign influences, the Nanjing National Government constantly fought for autonomy, but still was not able to handle the pressure and was forced to modify its policies to accommodate foreign interests. It was reported that even regarding the policy of setting the tax rate on cigarettes and cotton yarn manufactured in China, foreign influence was a main determinant.8 In the West, country is often conceptualized as kind, natural, beautiful and backward; city as artificial, industrial and polluted, as Raymond Williams expresses eloquently: On the country has gathered the idea of a natural way of life: of peace, innocence, and simple virtue. On the city has gathered the idea of an achieved centre: of learning, communication, light. Powerful hostile associations have also developed: on the city as a place of noise,

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worldliness and ambition; on the country as a place of backwardness, ignorance, limitation.9 Williams’ comment has its universality, especially if regional culture, politics and history are excluded. The disparity between country and city is one of the major themes brought up by Chinese left-wing filmmakers. In their films, this disparity is more dramatic when the country people migrate to the city (often, Shanghai) or when city people visit the country. But these filmmakers pointed out critically that what made the relationship between country and city more complex in China is foreign imperialism, which was blamed repeatedly for the breakdown of China’s rural economy. In their films, the leftwingers tried to redefine what Chinese modernity should be, in sometimes vague but emotionally charged language. Shanghai as a city in left-wing Chinese films is a tinsel town with many dark sides. It is modern, civilized and cultured on one hand; it is distant, inhuman and senseless on the other. In addition to providing a space for urban expansion, the nearby countryside supplied Shanghai with manpower, food and raw materials. In the background of the beautiful pastoral landscape, left-wing filmmakers showed the exploitation and suppression of the peasants by feudal rulers, warlords and imperialists. Sooner or later shadows would cover the countryside and crisis would prevail, especially along the coastal areas. In the 1910s and 1920s, the discord was often directly linked with the warlords. Therefore, it was “to save the country that warlords and the traitors had to be eliminated.”10 In the 1930s, left-wing filmmakers attempted to demonstrate that the crisis in the countryside mainly resulted from foreign imperialism. The May Fourth Chinese writers such as Mao Dun, Wei Jinzhi, Sha Ding, Ai Wu, Wu Zuxiang, Ye Zi and Wang Luyan paid a great deal of attention to Chinese country life and probed the causes of rural bankruptcy. City (Shanghai) had its own profound problems. Rapid urbanization and industrialization caused class divisions in the city. Since imperialism was associated with Chinese urbanization, the “city” in China was not just a place of “learning, communication, light” or just a place of “noise, worldliness and ambition.”11 The mass movement of Chinese peasants from the countryside to the city reflected the evolution of Chinese society from agrarian to industrial, the same trend that Ernest Gellner sees as inevitable.12 In depicting this transition, left-wing Chinese filmmakers emphasized the tremendous suffering of the Chinese peasants. Similarly, the city people (mainly the affluent Shanghainese) are out of place in the countryside as well. As people cross the borderline of their every day and familiar territory, they become disoriented. The immediate reality faced by the peasants in the countryside may be wars between warlords, but in the distance (and it is a threat that comes closer and closer daily) is the city’s industrial development propelled by foreign capital, foreign equipment, and foreign control. In the left-wing Chinese films, the fear and rage over the loss of control are sensed both in the countryside and in the cities. But because Chinese peasants appear to be the primary victims of the situation as they take refuge in the city to escape rural disasters, they seem to be more aware of China as being a fragmented nation. This is also the case with the people who come from the Northeast after they have lost everything to the imperialist aggression. Hence, we see in some left-wing Chinese films that the dissemination of nationalism travels from country to city, from periphery to the center.

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This is especially true in the films of Sun Yu (Small Toys), Cai Chusheng (Songs of Fishermen) and Shen Xiling (The Sorrow of the Hometown).

THE WORLD OF SHANGHAI INSIDE A PEEPSHOW What constitutes the modern world of Shanghai? Leo Ou-fan Lee’s study of Shanghai examines Shanghai modernity from the background of urban culture, print culture, the urban milieu of Shanghai cinema and literary modernism through writers, texts, books and journals.13 Although perception and ideology vary among individual writers, Shanghai school writers14 Ye Lingfeng, Liu Na’ou, Mu Shiying and Zhang Ailing wrote mainly about the human conditions of the upper classes in modern Shanghai, accommodating themselves to urban tastes. Their literature had a strong commercial flavor.15 Modern life in Shanghai came from many different sources, as Shi Zhecun wrote in 1933; it came from the seaport where big ships were gathered; it came from the factories where noises were loud; it came from the ballrooms where jazz music was being played, it came from the department stores in skyscrapers, and it came from grand horse races.16 Contrary to the above views, left-wing filmmakers often concentrated on the human conditions of poor people and regarded Shanghai in a totally different light: it was dark, grotesque and cruel. This was especially true when there were outsiders (people from the country or periphery) involved. Director Yuan Muzhi (1909–1978) projects his vision of Shanghai through expose and parody. In his Street Angels (Malu tianshi), an all-time masterpiece, two sisters, Xiaoyun and Xiaohong, are forced out of their hometown in the Northeast by Japanese invaders. They become homeless and destitute. After leading a vagrant life for a long time, they eventually settle in Shanghai, where Xiaoyun becomes a streetwalker and Xiaoyun a singer in local restaurants. Xiaoyun’s life becomes a constant battle against the cruel madam and the city police. Here Director Yuan Muzhi exposes the city of Shanghai as “a destructive animal, a monster, utterly beyond the individual human scale.”17 In addition to directing and writing, Yuan also played leading roles in several leftwing films. Metropolitan Scenes (Dushi fengguang), made in 1935, incorporates music, and is often considered the first Chinese comedy.18 The twenty-six-year-old filmmaker stated that he felt belittled when he realized that the films from Europe and America attracted larger audiences because of their superior artistic quality, and that as a result, the audience for domestic films had grown smaller. He wanted to do something about it, and the result was his brilliant directory début of Metropolitan Scenes. His goal in making this movie was not to show scenes of silly staggering or fighting farce, but to show ugliness in laughter.19 This musical comedy is a satire on Shanghai modernity. The story centers around four peasants and their metamorphosis into cosmopolitan city dwellers. What makes this film unique is that although the vision of Shanghai is anchored in reality, the actual possible human condition has been preconceptualized. Introduced in a transition between rural Zhejiang and Shanghai, and casting their glances about, the peasant family of four, father, mother, daughter and a nephew, hand in hand, comically sidles into a train station. When an office clerk asks them where they would like to go, the whole family an-swers in one voice: “Shanghai! Shanghai!

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Shanghai!” When the two young people cry from hunger, the mother says promptly: “There will be food for us once we arrive in Shanghai.” Her comments immediately generate enthusiasm in the family as they shout together: “Good! Go to Shanghai to eat good stuff!” As they are waiting for the train, a one-eyed peepshow man (wonderfully played by the director himself) talks them into watching scenes of Shanghai. Like those Shanghai school writers, Yuan also introduces a web of material attractions created by the modernity of Shanghai. We see that at night the city is brightened by thousands of neon lamps. Shining upon the city are signs such as “Metropolis,” “First Drawing Prize $250,000 Monthly,” “Yangcheng Wine house,” “Butterfly Massage,” “The Dutch Village,” “Indian Curry Food,” “Shunfeng Automobile,” “White Horse Whiskey,” “Far Eastern Hotel” and so forth. In this peepshow, night scenes are then replaced by day. Motor cars, a replica of the Statute of Liberty, banks, a British stone lion showing its teeth, churches, the big Shanghai Theater, cars and more cars come into view. In a ballroom, men and women, some of them Western, are dancing. These panoramic views of Shanghai at night and day show that time is in flux, and that space, both foreign (mainly Western) and Chinese, modern and traditional, reflects the material and cultural aspects of urban China’s semi-colonial and semi-feudal reality of the 1930s. As these peasants watch further, however, Shanghai becomes their imagined community. In Metropolitan Scenes, Yuan Muzhi’s narrative style is influenced by classical Chinese literature, especially, Shen Jiji’s (c.740– c.800) influential “Zhen zhong ji” (The world inside the pillow) of Tang chuanqi tradition. In Shen’s story, a scholar dreams of his life as being full of fame, fortune and happiness. Ironically, his dream takes place inside a pillow and lasts only the time of his nap.20 Director Yuan borrowed the method of the dream-like, invisible transformation in Shen’s story. Through the same peepshow, he transforms the four peasants who are watching it in rural Zhejiang into modern people living in Shanghai. The father (played by Zhou Boxun) becomes a shopkeeper supporting his wife (Wu Yin) and daughter Xiaoyun (Zhang Xinzhu). The young nephew Li Menghua (Tang Na) becomes a poor writer. Their encounters in Shanghai are miserable, and will be discussed in more detail in the next chapter. The significance of Metropolitan Scenes is that the film imagines the life of these four peasants in Shanghai through a peepshow. Metropolitan Scenes is paralleled with “The World Inside the Pillow” in that both Yuan Muzhi and Shen Jiji believed that human dreams and endeavors were illu-sive. While Shen Jiji targets the pursuit of fame and fortune, Yuan Muzhi suggests the ultimate vanity of the country people in crossing the border to search for a better life in the metropolis. He does so by lampooning Shanghai modernity at the peasants’ expense. Metropolitan Scenes creates a few minutes of a pipedream of what life would be like for peasants in Shanghai. They only wake up at the sound of the train that they have been waiting for. By now, they have all got their fill of the city. When this awful experience is over, the four totally confused peasants comically move in a small circle between the two moving trains going in two opposite directions, utterly lost. The film ends with a huge “?” on the screen. Although Yuan Muzhi is not able to offer the Chinese peasants any tangible solutions, his didactic projection, although comic, is enough to make his audience ponder. Yuan’s contribution lies in his questioning of this process. If adjusting to life in Shanghai is hard for Mao Dun’s capable city girl Ms. Mei, it is enigmatic and more difficult for peasants.

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THE LOST COUNTRY CHILD IN THE CITY Shanghai, the most fascinating urban center in China in the 1930s, always attracted country people. Its vertical modern architecture, busy streets lined with shops and filled with the noises of dense traffic and people, formed a striking contrast with the peaceful, pastoral rice field and the clear ripples of lakes in the countryside. Is this contrast a sign of the progress of civilization, or a display of the destructiveness of what man has done to nature?21 The pastoral rural innocence and peacefulness attracted many left-wing Chinese filmmakers. The Lost Lamb (Mitu de gaoyang) was written and directed by Cai Chusheng (1906–1968) in 1936.22 Cai began his entertainment career as an actor. In 1929, he entered Mingxing Film Company to work as an assistant director. Two years later, Cai worked at Lianhua Film Company where he wrote and directed several key left-wing films. The Lost Lamb takes place in the beautiful peach blossom countryside. Here is the opening scene: (Long shot) In the vast and hazy dawn mist, the clouds surrounding the mountains are dreamlike, the surface of the lake is like a mirror. The Hua village, poor, peaceful and beautiful, like a peach blossom land outside the world. (Long shot) The solemn and quiet rice field and village. Egrets looking for food in the field (fade out). (Medium shot) A few grass insects fly on the surface of a river next to trees. Occasionally, they touch the water (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Dew on the surface of vegetable flowers (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Lotus flowers sleep in the dawn dew (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Sheep are asleep (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Dogs are asleep (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Pigs are asleep (fade out). (Medium shot, fade in) Cows are asleep (fade out). These depictive shots, single in meaning, smoothly combined into montage, paint an innocent, pastoral Chinese countryside. In this film, as in many other left-wing films of the 1930s, the painting of the country is often served as a contrast to the industrialism and urbanism. Additionally, the allure of the country appears as brief as the broad-leaved epiphyllum. Soon it is overshadowed by the spread of rural exploitation and urban industrialization. In The Lost Lamb, when Xiao Sanzi (played by Ge Zuozhi), a country boy, arrives in Shanghai, there are many elaborate shots of how he becomes lost in the city. He is shocked at the sight of the metropolis the moment he steps off the boat. The camera follows his gaze, first to the top of the buildings and then the streets, where cars and people are traveling at the same pace. An old servant (Zheng Junli) beckons Xiao Sanzi to follow, but the child is so engrossed in what he sees that he cannot hear the old man. By the time Xiao Sanzi wakes up from this modern shock, everyone has got into a car and is ready to leave. Hurriedly, he tries to catch up, but only finds himself caught in between two lines of moving vehicles, like the peasants at the train station in

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Metropolitan Scenes. The confused child does not know where to go or what to do. This scene suggests symbolically the potential problem for country children settling down in the city. Being an orphan and alone in a big city, life is a constant struggle for this country boy. Through the windows of the houses he passes by, he sees food being cooked and placed on the tables, families gathering together, and children being loved. In contrast, this homeless country child has to sleep on park benches. Often he is awakened from his dreams and rousted by a policeman. Sometimes he sleeps on street corners and is often awakened by the muddy water splashed from cars passing by. He wanders streets fighting for food with cats and other homeless children. He looks for his food in garbage cans. Poor, hungry but kind, he and his friend bravely save a rich man, Shen Cihang (played by Shen Fu) who attempts to commit suicide in his drunkenness because his wife (Li Shaoshao) is cheating on him with a younger man. In this scene, Cai Chusheng is indebted to Charlie Chaplin (1889–1977) in his comic portrayal of Xiao Sanzi being dragged into the water by Shen Cihang, like that pantomime tramp who tries to save a suicidal millionaire but is himself dragged into the water in City Lights (1931).23 The inter-title reveals the differences between the rich and poor, city and country in 1930s’ Shanghai: Xiao Sanzi wonders. (Insert title): “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Shen, in a state of delirium. (Insert title): “Ah, hardship!” (Medium shot, the camera pans). The children look at each other, totally confused. Cui’er takes a pig bone out of her bag and sincerely offers it to Shen. (Insert title): “Is it because you are hungry?” (Medium shot) Shen cries. (Insert title): “How can I be hungry? What I need is spiritual food.” Considering that later, Xiao Sanzi and Shen enter each other’s life again for a brief moment, one needs to read a little deep into this dialogue. Shen and these children are all suffering: the children from lack of basic food and shelter, and Shen from absence of love. But the children save him and offer him what little they have. The country is so poor in material comforts but so rich in love; the city is so rich in material comforts but so poor in love. One would expect that the reunion of the two would produce a happy ending for everyone, but the result is drastically opposite. Here, director Cai Chusheng quickly inserts a message about class differences. Because Xiao Sanzi’s physical appearance coincidentally resembles that of Shen’s dead son, Shen decides to adopt Xiao Sanzi. The banquet celebration progresses like a circus. The country child is uneasy with the whole situation and is made to behave like a rich city boy wearing his uncomfortable new attire. At the time Xiao Sanzi is expected to be at the banquet to meet the guests, he is playing with his old homeless friends, distributing bread that he has stolen from the kitchen. His fancy leather shoes are left on the ground nearby. When he finally shows up to greet the guests, the complicated city rituals totally confuse him. He falls because his shoes are untied. When he gets up, he ties a corner of tablecloth inside his pants by accident. As he walks to meet more guests, everything on the table is dragged to the ground, creating a huge commotion. Later, the country boy makes another mess when he shakes too much pepper into the soup, which

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causes him to sneeze. The embarrassed Mrs. Shen angrily throws her napkin on the table and stalks out of the room. Xiao Sanzi’s experience in the city classroom is equally unsuccessful. As this country boy tries to fit into his new surroundings, the city kids are undiplomatic and even cruel. Boy A amazes all his classmates by telling them how he remembers Xiao Sanzi begging for food. Boy B’s story involves Xiao Sanzi laboring like an old man. Later, they openly insult him by sending him uncomplimentary caricatures. Xiao Sanzi accidentally discovers Mrs. Shen’s tryst in a coffee shop. Realizing that her secret is known, she sets the boy up and accuses him of stealing her diamond ring, which she has actually offered to her lover. Xiao Sanzi and the old servant are thus kicked out of Shen’s residence forever. The Lost Lamb is very class-conscious revealing the failure of Xiao Sanzi moving from a lower class to the upper class. It also tries to stop the Chinese peasants from sending their children to the city. In The Lost Lamb, Xiao Sanzi’s friendship with the poor children indicates that he cannot cut his ties with his poor country background even when he is being transformed into a city dweller. The failure of this transformation further suggests the left-wing filmmakers’ disbelief in the possibility of successfully achieving such a transition.24

ENGENDERING COUNTRY AND CITY In Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood (Taohua qixue ji), a Mandarin Duck and Butterfly film produced by Lianhua Film Company in 1931, director Bu Wancang reveals the tensions between China’s country and city through the relationship between a poor country girl Lingu and a rich city boy, De’en, whom she has known since childhood. Lingu’s father rents land and cattle from De’en’s family. Here, Lingu is up against two obstacles that neither she nor her very creator—Director Bu Wancang, could overcome in the early twentieth century: the class differences and the gap between China’s countryside and the city predetermine Lingu’s tragic fate in her pursuit of De’en’s love. Mrs. Jin, De’en’s stubborn and socially prejudiced mother is furious when she discovers that her son is romantically involved with Lingu when the latter is visiting in the city. De’en deceives his mother and Lingu by hiding the poor country girl in a rented complex where the two cohabit. When her father comes to the city to reclaim his daughter, the surprised father finds that his precious daughter, dressed in a fashionable city girl’s outfit, is pregnant. Mrs. Jin absolutely refuses to allow her son to marry the poor country woman. Lingu is forced to return to her home in the countryside, and eventually dies heartbroken. In discussing this film, Paul Pickowicz critically states that “Corrupt, evil, and unChinese, the big city, and especially Shanghai, is the symbol of an aggressive Western presence in China. The dubious moral conduct of the mother and son is linked directly to the alien and un-Chinese ways of the city. The pristine countryside, by contrast, represents the essence of China.”25 Pickowicz’s political interpretation can also be reviewed at the level of gender relations. Here the romance between the city (represented by the young man De’en) and country (represented by Lingu) only brings suffering and destruction to the country, the woman. Why? It is simple because, in Mandarin Duck and

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Butterfly culture, a good woman’s conviction of love is too often “subjected to the control”26 of reality, and her culture, education and virtue do not liberate her from the system; they only guarantee the reproduction of the system.27 In discussing the differences between a man working as a farmer in the countryside and a man working in an industrial environment, Ernest Gellner says: Agrarian man can be compared with a natural species which can survive in the natural environment. Industrial man can be compared with an artificially produced or bred species which can no longer breathe effectively and survive in a new, specially blended and artificially sustained air or medium.28 This difference predicates the potential problem of crossing the boundaries between the agrarian community and the industrial community. In none of the films by the Chinese left-wing filmmakers in the 1930s do we see successful attempts to realize the possible new order and human unity in the transformation of country characters to city dwellers. Border crossing refers to a situation where people leave their familiar territory to go to another region. It involves country people going to the city, and city people going to the country. In every example of this kind of movement in left-wing movies, there appears some degree of crisis, not only physical but mental and economic as well. City people in the countryside are often projected as ill fitted. For country people, their ties to the countryside are gone. They cross the boundary trying to survive in a new world. The problems arising in border crossing may have been, as Raymond Williams points out, “a real structure of values has grown.” Furthermore, borderline crossing draws on many deep and persistent feelings, “an identification with the people among whom we grew up; an attachment to the place, the landscape, in which we first lived and learned to see.”29 In left-wing Chinese films, when country people go to the city or city people go to the countryside, they are out of place and lack survival skills in their new environment. When it involves an attractive young countrywoman, the relationship between country and city sometimes is engendered. The city is seen as masculine and modern while the country is feminine and traditional. Her beautiful feminine body makes her vulnerable to the physical violence of the urban male. Director Sun Yu’s (1900–1990) cinematic aesthetics often involves a comparison between beauty and ugliness, honesty and guile, hand and mind that plays out the contrast between country and city. The transformation of Lingling (played by Li Lili) a country girl, to a Shanghai woman, is forcibly done through a rape, and later prostitution in his Daybreak (Tianming) of 1933. Lingling comes to Shanghai from the countryside with her lover Zhang Jin in search of a better life. They are received by Lingling’s cousin, who finds them jobs in the factory where she works. The owner of the factory, a young Shanghai playboy, is attracted to Lingling’s beauty, so he manages to separate Lingling and Zhang Jin by transferring Lingling to the night shift. Zhang Jin is eventually forced to work on a fishing boat, and later, joins the Northern Expeditionary Army. Just a few days after his departure, the innocent country girl is called upon by the factory owner for a nonexistent business meeting in a hotel room. He gets her drunk and then into bed. Three hours later, Lingling returns home in a trance. That same night her foreman shows up at her place and insults her. As she escapes running into the darkness of the Shanghai night,

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she falls into the hands of three traders-in-human-beings who sell her into a brothel. She lives an inhuman life there for a year, until one day, the soldiers of the revolutionary forces come to the city. In the chaos, Lingling leaves the brothel and returns home. She becomes a sympathizer of the revolution and unselfishly helps the poor. Two years after Zhang Jin left, he returns to Shanghai on a revolutionary mission, and the two lovers meet again. But Zhang Jin is under the surveillance of the enemy. Lingling, protecting him, is arrested and executed. In the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, many Shanghai prostitutes are of rural origin, which reflects the historical reality of the period. After the Opium War in 1840, the rural economy in Jiangsu and Zhejiang provinces went through considerable changes. Guoqun’s study of the prostitution in Shanghai shows that many bankrupt peasants were forced to sell their children to pay off their debts. Girls sold in jiamai (sold in open markets with price tags on them) became the main source of Shanghai prostitutes.30 Sometimes, traders-in-human-beings abducted young country girls and sold them to brothels against their will. Japan’s invasion of the Northeast made many people homeless. Some of them ended up becoming prostitutes in Shanghai. Daybreak was produced by Lianhua Film Company. It begins at a ferry where steam whistles welcome the crowds, and boats are busy transporting people from the country to the city.31 However, this bustling scene does not suggest a promising tourist season; rather, it is a display of disorder in the countryside as the audience hears the following discussion between an old man and his assistant as they observe what is going on from their basket shop: The old man shakes his head. “Going to the city!… It is like this every day! It is like this every year!…” Lingling, the female protagonist of the movie, is followed by a group of children while walking with her cousin. Lingling hands food to the children. The old man’s assistant says surprisingly: “What, Lingling also goes to the city?!” The old man answers: “Why shouldn’t she! The endless taxes! The insufferable oppression from our ferocious adversaries! Why shouldn’t she escape to the city!” The meaning of the title “Daybreak” suggests the total transformation of the country girl Lingling. Her move to Shanghai indicates her escape from the “endless taxes” and rural oppression. But the director makes it very clear that becoming a Shanghainese does not bring in “daybreak” for this peasant girl. In other words, settling down in the city itself does not solve the problems of the Chinese peasants. In Daybreak, Lingling’s transformation from a peasant to a city worker is typical in left-wing Chinese films. First is the sightseeing. The insert title reads: “Usually, the country people would always do sightseeing in Shanghai….” She and her cousin’s husband, who has already settled in the city, visit the famous Chenghuangmiao temple. Seeing animals in the zoo, the peasant girl comments happily, “Shanghai is a lot of fun. Everyone is smiling.” Symbolically, the animals she was used to seeing in the countryside are now caged in an artificial environment. Like these zoo animals, Lingling has lost her social ground now that she has been transplanted from her natural environment.

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The next scene shows Lingling sitting in a cart with other women workers while holding her lunch basket, being wheeled to the factory in the morning, happily and hopefully. But the city of Shanghai is all too quick to turn into a dark, evil and masculine place. The transformation of this peasant woman to a city worker and of a country girl to a city woman is predicated on her first losing her innocence and virginity to the city factory owner, an unworthy Shanghai playboy, and later selling her body to other men in the city. Here, as in Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood, “The helpless young woman is China. Her innocent and childlike beauty is natural; she is a virgin; and she has never left the womb of the unspoiled countryside. But, like pure and innocent maidens everywhere, she is vulnerable and naive. The slick young man recognizes her Chinese virtues and the uniqueness of her beauty.” And in the end, “he seduces and corrupts the virgin.”32 Examining Daybreak in feminine detail as Rey Chow does in her reading of Chinese literature,33 several points are worthy of attention. Lingling’s transformation from a naïve country girl to a sophisticated metropolitan prostitute is, artificial but effective, signified largely through her apparel. She appears like a typical country girl when she first arrives in Shanghai, wearing a cotton jacket, braids and a necklace that is made of old water chestnut shells. She changes her hairstyle after she starts to work in the factory. The necklace disappears when she tours Shanghai. On the night that marks her fall, she returns to her apartment from the hotel, and the first thing she does is to grab the necklace from under her pillow. The film then flashes back to the old country, where she and her lover Zhang Jin were enjoying picking water chestnuts and lotus roots in the lake. Zhang said to Lingling that the old dark water chestnuts were very interesting. Lingling asked Zhang to give her more because she wanted to make a necklace out of them. The beautiful and tranquil scenery suggests their joy in the carefree natural environment. But when she returns to reality, Lingling throws the necklace back to the bed, screaming in tears. This simple necklace is a token suggesting that the price this country girl has paid to transform herself to a city woman is much higher than she can afford. Her hometown represents the countryside, pure, beautiful and full of sunshine. The city, Western, deceitful and dark, like the owner of the factory, violates her and robs her of her innocence. This contrast is projected more violently (although unconvincingly as a story) when the foreman tries to rape her and, after she escapes, three Shanghai men sell her to a brothel on the same night. Daybreak can be divided into three parts. Part one, shot mainly in daylight, shows Lingling and Zhang Jin leaving their countryside hometown and settling down in Shanghai. Here Lingling’s rural innocence is untouched. Part two, all night scenes, shows Lingling’s journey to become a city girl in Shanghai. Here, the vision of the city lies in the characterization and typification of evil and darkness. Obviously, becoming urbanized does not bring daybreak in this country girl’s life; it only damages her. Part three shows Lingling running away from the brothel and becoming a sympathizer of the Chinese revolution. Although Lingling’s suffering has enlightened her, she still works as a prostitute. Sun Yu’s critics consider this part of the film a major failure.34 The scenes of part three occur mostly at night, but end at daybreak, when Lingling is executed by the Guomindang. So, the message of the film is that transforming a country girl into urbanity is not the solution but linking her with the Chinese revolution is. However, Sun Yu, the American

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trained film director, although often very progressive, viewed Chinese women mainly as sexual beings in the revolution. In his Big Road (Dalu), his sexy leading lady Moli (also played by Li Lili) used to be a sing-song girl who later seduces the traitor to China in order to capture him.35 In Daybreak, the audience sees little of revolution, but much of modernized and Westernized Lingling’s sexual allure. Surrounded by men, Lingling powders her face and assures the first man that she loves him the most, winks at the second man from across the table while, under the table, holding the third man’s hand and reaching for the fourth man’s foot. In Daybreak Sun Yu attempts to justify his country girl’s total transformation into a metropolitan femme fatale by making her a revolutionary sympathizer. This fails to work because the audience has no clue what Lingling’s role is in the revolution.36 True, Lingling is kind to the poor and the suffering, but this alone does not make her a revolutionary. Later when Zhang Jin, her former lover, comes to visit her while on a revolutionary mission in Shanghai, Lingling is arrested because she tries to protect him. But as film critic Yao Xiaoqiu points out, the danger that Zhang Jin puts himself and Lingling in is totally unnecessary and could have been easily avoided.37 Sun Yu’s nostalgia about pastoral life is evident in his depiction of rural innocence and beauty which often overshadows and contradicts his vision of reality—considering “The endless taxes” and “The insufferable oppression” that the old peasant complains about at the beginning of the film when he sees Lingling leave for the city. The film twice flashes back to the beautiful countryside when Lingling and Zhang Jin were courting among the blossoming lotus flowers, running streams and cool hills. Lingling’s requests before her execution indicate that she longs to restore her rural innocence. She first asks for country clothing to wear at her execution (of course, she also wears her hair the country way). Right before her execution, she asks the officer to shoot her after she has affected her most beautiful smile. “I’m originally a simple fool from the countryside…” she states. She smiles and poses like a model facing all the guns pointing at her. The officer is so infatuated with her that he orders the soldiers to point their guns at his repressive general (see figure 4), which creates another failure of the film, says a critic.38 My interpretation is that the film wants the audience to believe that even the enemy approves her charming country looks. For at a superficial level, Sun Yu’s Lingling exits Shanghai the same way she enters—with her country identity. The only change, through a cinematic double exposure, is that Zhang Jin and the revolutionary army he is with are marching in the battlefield with full force.

THE CONFLICT OF THE CENTER AND PERIPHERY After having left the film circles to protest against the KMT censors’ unjust treatment of his radical Shanghai Twenty-four Hours (Shanghai ershisi xiaoshi, 1933), director Shen Xiling(1904–1940) returned, wrote and directed two films in 1935 for Mingxing Film Company, The Sorrow of the Hometown (Xiang chou) and The Boatman’s Daughter (Chuanjia nü). The Sorrow of the Hometown, a silent film with a sound track containing music, songs and occasional background sounds, sentimentally deals with conflict of the center and periphery39 by focusing on Yang family’s ordeal of surviving Shanghai after escaping from the Northeast. Time in this film is punctuated politically by Japan’s

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invasion of China, first in the Northeast on September 18, 1931 (known as “The 918 Incident”), and then on February 28, 1932 (known as “The 228 Incident”) in Shanghai. Definitely patriotic, The Sorrow of the Hometown paints a peaceful and beautiful life in the Northeast prior to Japan’s invasion. During its heyday, the affluent Yang family of nine—Yang Ying (played by Gao Qianping), her parents, her brother who serves in the volunteer army, his wife, their three children and an older servant (beautifully played by Zhao Dan) enjoy a peaceful life together. Yang Ying, an elementary school teacher, is romantically involved with her colleague Meihua (Mei Xi). When the political situation intensifies, Meihua is forced to leave for Shanghai. Then the Japanese come. Yang Ying’s brother goes off to the battlefield. Yang Ying’s father, sister-in-law and the three children all die in bloodbath. Yang Ying, accompanied by the old servant, escapes to Shanghai with her mother (Xuan Jinglin), who has gone mad witnessing her family’s tragedy in the Northeast. Yang Ying tries to locate her Meihua, but has no success. As Yang Ying and her family struggle in Shanghai, the film plays out a chain of conflicts of gender and class between the Northeast and Shanghai. Shanghai, the center of Chinese modernity in the early twentieth century, is affected very little by the national disaster in the periphery. Young men and women sing and dance night after night in bars and nightclubs. Yang Ying and her family reside in a crowded shelter. The old servant puts on his old puppet shows trying to help make ends meet. But his meager income is far from enough to pay for the doctor’s bills of Yang Ying’s mother. Their ruthless Shanghai neighbors (whose economic situation is better off) have no un-derstanding of their situation and laugh at Yang Ying when she dresses up like her deceased father in order to comfort her anguished mother. Right across from her building, the rich college dandy (played by Sun Min) is surrounded by friends and waited on by servants. He, of course, soon notices the beauty of this refugee while watching her cross the street. He tries to get close to her and eventually manages to hire her as his personal secretary. But their relationship soon erupts into a series of conflicts, attributable to the political and cultural differences between the center and periphery that was underlined by “The 918 Incident.” First is the class gap. Yang Ying’s refugee status forces her to accept the dandy’s condescension. This is hard for her to swallow, considering that her family used to be wealthier than his family. Accompanying the dandy to participate in a charitable activity in a school (the dandy is sent by his father to investigate the property for purchase), Yang Ying is seen by Meihua, who now teaches at the school. Financially, Meihua is not much better off than those refugees. Watching her stepping into the dandy’s shiny car, Meihua mistakes Yang Ying as the dandy’s lover. He smashes her picture and trashes other reminders of her. Here the anger and jealousy that Meihua expresses shows a marginalized man from the Northeast feeling cheated and abandoned by his girlfriend who is now linked with the element of the tinsel town. In the meantime, Yang Ying follows the dandy home for his birthday celebration. The party scene involves forty film shots. The first fifteen shots, cutting back and forth between Yang Ying and the Shanghainese, juxtapose the decadence of Shanghai and the sorrow of the Northeast. Shot 1, a long shot of the party (the dandy plays the piano, and “the Queen of the University” sits on the piano singing in the front as well-dressed guests walk into the room in the background). Shot 2 is a high angle, pan shot of the party. This shot functions as a transition connecting shot 1 and shot 2. Western music is played in the background. Shot 3, a medium close subjective shot, shows Yang Ying looking in at the

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partying people (especially the dandy and the “Queen of the University”) through a thin veil in the next room. Shots 4 through 11 repeat the party scene and the observation of the party by Yang Ying who is standing at the entrance. The director’s point of view identifies with the Yang Ying’s. Between the Shanghai party crowd and the lonely woman from the Northeast, we see what Leo Ou-fan Lee describes as “the loner and the crowd,” or “awakened few” versus the “sound sleepers” that he found in Lu Xun’s stories.40 Although Yang Ying represents the “awakened few” and as a refugee from the war, her message to the Shanghainese is a political one, she has only sorrow, like the movie title suggests, and is too depressed and sentimental41 to wake up these Shanghainese from their hibernation. Shot 12 shows the Shanghainese partying as seen through the subjectivity of Yang Ying (who is off-screen), but here the screen is cut in two, showing two simultaneous scenes. The screen below continues to depict these Shanghai young people who are totally intoxicated in wine, dance and Western music while the scene above shows Chinese young people in the Northeast bravely fighting against Japanese imperialists on the battlefield. This shot is immediately followed by Yang Ying’s comments (intertitle): “Are these the new youth of twentieth century China? Are these the masters of China in the future? The weak China depends on them to be vitalized. My family has sacrificed for nothing.” These mismatched emotions between the youths of the Northeast and of Shanghai begin to surface when the dandy’s friends ask Yang Ying to sing a song soon after the “Queen of the University” finishes singing. Yang Ying’s song has a strong political message. It compares the decadent life of Shanghai with the destruction of the Northeast. These Shanghainese start to walk away the moment Yang opens her mouth (which forms a striking contrast with the “Queen of the University,” who receives a standing ovation before she begins and toasts when she finishes). The conflict between the center and the periphery reaches its climax in the following scene, when Yang Ying returns home only to learn from the old servant that her brother has died in battle defending the Northeast. As the Yang family grieves over the loss of their loved one, the dandy and his friends, mostly drunk, come up and force Yang Ying to go out with them. Between the two extremes of human emotions, the conflict between what Shanghai stands for and what the Northeast stands for in the early 1930s erupts like a thunderstorm. When Yang Ying’s sick mother, who mistakes the dandy for her son, tries to hug him, she is pushed down on the ground by the unsympathetic and ruthless young Shanghainese. As the poor old woman lies painfully on the floor, the Shanghai boys laugh at her. This cruel act makes Yang Ying burst out. “Stop being such a bully,” she yells at the dandy. “The day is coming when you will become homeless like us.” Yang Ying’s provocative remarks irritate the dandy who gets into an intense fight with her, first verbally then physically. Consequently, Yang Ying is arrested, sentenced and jailed. Her family comes to visit her, joined by Meihua upon discovering what really has happened. In this reunion the contrast of the warmth of the people from the Northeast and the coldness of the people from Shanghai further underlines the cultural and political distance between the center and the periphery in the early 1930s. Ironically, this distance is shortened when Japan bombs Shanghai on February 28, 1932. By then, Shanghainese have become the sympathetic victims of bloody imperialism, just like the people from the

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Northeast. The “bullies” have turned into victims by the imperialists. In this catastrophe Yang Ying’s mother finally recognizes Shanghai as “just like our hometown.” Director Shen Xiling suggests through The Sorrow of the Hometown that all the Chinese will meet same kind of fate facing the imperialist. Indeed, throughout this film, imperialism underlines the gender and class gap between center and periphery. This is as close to the united front politics as the left-wing filmmakers could get in the 1930s. The Boatman’s Daughter (Chuanjia nü) explains the social background of prostitution (the beginning and the end of the film involve the discussion of Abolish Prostitution Movement),42 but a central element of this film deals with the conflict of the center and the periphery. The people from the “center” are ill fitted and destructive in the periphery.43 Here Shanghai (and Hangzhou), Westernization and imperialism are depicted in the crushing suburbs of Hangzhou where people eke out a hard living. The film centers around a beautiful and innocent girl named Aling (played by Xu Lai) and her aging father who live by ferrying people on Xihu Lake. They have a very limited income, but many debts. Aling is in love with Gao Tie (Gao Zhanfei), a young man from the countryside who now works in a factory in Hangzhou. Gao Tie often helps Aling and her father with their humble business, as he commutes daily from Hongzhou to Yuefen. The promise of love between the two honest and hard working young man and woman is threatened by two unwelcome guests: foreign imported goods which forced many factories to close, including the one Gao Tie works for, and a Shanghai artist Sun Yizhou (played by Sun Min) and his friends Wang and Shen, two playboys of Hangzhou. Two conflicts, both are clashes between center and periphery, are played out. One is the conflict between Aling, her father and Gao Tie and these bad boys; Another conflict is between the Shanghai playboy and the Hongzhou bad boys. Residing at a hotel in Hangzhou, Sun Yizhou represents the Westernization of Shanghai: rich, trendy and decadent. Lying in his hotel bed late one morning, Sun brags to Wang and Shen, who listen to him with admiration, that his wealth allows him to pursue his artistic interests, which is to find beauty in women through painting. “The beauty of women is true beauty,” claims Sun. But to Aling and Gao Tie, the Shanghai playboy and Hangzhou bad boys are disruptions of their lives. One day, the bad city boys pursue Aling on the lake and, without her consent, rudely photograph her. The conflict between center and periphery becomes more intense in the scene in which Aling is forced to act as a model for the city boys to pay off her debts and save her father. Here the two conflicts mentioned earlier are being played out simultaneously. Wang tries to impress the Shanghai artist by asking Aling to pose in different positions. But Sun is annoyed by his provincial taste and interference with what he paints. In their argument, Aling endures her suffering and humiliation silently. She is brought into this hotel room to be with these men who insulted her on Xihu Lake while she was working. Now they totally separate her active physicality and untouched, natural beauty, which have always been associated with working on the lake with her loved ones, and dress her up, like a rich city lady, in a fashionable high collar qipao, and seat her on a sofa chair. As the Shanghai artist is busy painting her eyebrows, applying color to her lips and making her pose in different positions, tears fill her eyes. Here her body and mind are being separated. While the Shanghai artist tries to duplicate the image he saw in a French painting through this country beauty, the poor woman can only think about her sick father, her suffering lover and her ill fate. This separation causes a mismatch between these men and this woman,

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between the subject and the object, between country and city. In the sound of her crying, the audience hears the disorder of Yuefen and sees the symbolic rape of the periphery by the center (figure 5).

THE SONGS OF FISHERMEN FROM DONGHAI TO SHANGHAI In the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, every move made from country to city is directly associated with disorder and disaster in the countryside. Destitute and driven by wars and oppression out of their country homes and away from the land and waterways they used to belong to, these country people have lost their identities. The substitution of city life only worsens their situation. Now, they try to survive in a mainly urban and industrial world. None of them seems to fit well in their new settlements. Their shelters are temporary; so are their jobs. Nothing has prepared them for the dramatic changes involved in moving from a rural community to an urban town. They move from job to job, work for low wages, serve city people, and become casualties of the city and of Chinese modernity. The examination of Chinese country and city and their relationship reveals a large gap. Many reasons have attributed to this social distance. Since the left-wing Chinese cinema in the 1930s involved many people with different backgrounds and ideologies, no single conclusion can account for everything. However, one message is loud and clear: China needed a better national society that was free of foreign imperialism. Contrary to some beliefs that our understanding of popular nationalism seems to depend crucially on the view of cities,44 this study will show that the dissemination of the idea of the nation also moves from country to city. Songs of Fishermen (Yuguang qu) was directed by Cai Chusheng in 1934. It has a strong anti-warlord and anti-imperialist theme. The story, beginning in 1910 in Donghai (the East China Sea), juxtaposes the lives of two generations in two families, one poor and one rich. Xu Fu, his mother and his wife live in a shabby house rented from the landlord He Renzhai. Mrs. Xu gives birth to twins: a son named Xiaohou and a daughter called Xiaomao. At almost the same time, He Renzhai’s wife also gives birth to a son named Ziying. In order to support his family, Xu Fu has to go out fishing on a stormy day. He dies in the sea when his boat is crushed by the waves. The burden of supporting the family passes to Mrs. Xu. She has no choice but to leave her own infants at home with their grandmother so that she can work as a wet nurse for He Renzhai’s son Ziying. Although class difference separates the older generation of the two families, the young generation—Xiaomao, Xiaohou and Ziying are friends throughout their childhood (Figure 14). Ten years pass. Due to illness and lack of nutrition, Xiaohou becomes emaciated and retarded, which makes Ziying feel guilty. “It is all because your mother nursed me instead of you,” Ziying apologizes to Xiaohou. Eight years later, Ziying is sent by his father to study fishery abroad. The twins by now have taken up their father’s profession and go fishing daily near where they live. One day local bandits come to rob the village, making off with the fishnet that Xu family has labored to make. The shock is so great that Mrs. Xu loses her eyesight. The commotion created by the bandits has made He Renzhai realize that his countryside is no longer a paradise. He decides to join his good friend

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Liang Yuebo, a comprador in Shanghai working for the Japanese, also in the fishing business. He Renzhai and Liang start a new company called “Huayang Fishing Company,” with the Japanese as their consultants. Soon, the company’s big Japanese fishing ships move into the East China Sea. This situation forces the poor Chinese fishermen out of business. Eventually Mrs. Xu and her twins decide to join her brother, a street performer, in Shanghai. Fighting with thousands of the other unemployed, Xiaomao and Xiaohou end up picking garbage in the city. Later, Xiaohou follows in his uncle’s footsteps to become a street clown. Difficulties in finding work convince them that life in this modern city is no different from that by the East China Sea. Later, Mrs. Xu and her brother die in a tragic fire, while Xiaohou, who has been doing hard labor with Xiaomao, falls and dies in Xiaomao’s arms. Songs of Fishermen is a classic example of the Chinese melodrama that prevailed in many left-wing films during that period. The emotional climax comes at the end when the Xu family is shattered, culminating with the death of the son, who has been consistently portrayed as the symbol of innocence and purity. Thematically, the villains are urban imperialism and the Chinese compradors, while the victims are Chinese fishermen. To project this notion, Cai Chusheng made He Renzhai, the fish-lord of Donghai and a Chinese nationalist capitalist in Shanghai, a sympathetic figure. This invited attack by the radical left-wing film critics.45 But in Songs of Fishermen, the director is definitely patriotic. Although He Renzhai exploits the poor Xu family in the East China Sea, he is victimized in Shanghai by imperialism and urbanism. The Xu family lives in a grass hut in the lower side of Shanghai. Xiaohou and Xiaomao are not able to find work in Shanghai. All of which suggest that these fishermen are marginalized in the city and their transformation from country to city is a failure. In dealing with urbanism and imperialism, He Renzhai is marginalized as a provincial fishlord. His new wife, a Shanghai femme fatale, openly mocks his rural and traditional Chinese appearance and manners. He is pressured to shave off his mustache and dress in a Western suit to please her. But in the end, she still abandons him and runs away with her lover and his partner— Liang Yuebo. Ultimately, He Renzhai is cheated by the Japanese, their comprador Liang Yuebo and his own wife after he invested all of his assets from his rural fishing business in his new urban company. This situation drives him to bankruptcy and suicide. Chinese film critic Zheng Boqi missed the point in 1934 when he criticized Cai’s portrayal of He Renzhai’s transition from a cruel landowner to a victim of the metropolis.46 In a broad sense, He Renzhai’s failure suggests the impossibility of transforming the rural Chinese economy directly into an urban industrial economy controlled by the Japanese imperialists. It also signals the doomed fate of the domestic industry under the same political and social conditions. These are the crucial points that the Chinese film critics in the 1930s failed to see or acknowledge. What is the future for these fishermen? Director Cai was both realistic and pessimistic. Xiaohou, the only son of the Xu family, is weak and retarded. His inability to continue his father’s profession symbolizes deep troubles in the countryside and the end of hope for fishermen. The deaths of several Xu family members and He Renzhai ensure that the future of these Chinese fishermen will be dominated by foreign imperialism and urbanism. The future thus lies in Ziying, who has been educated abroad in oceanography. Like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926), whose “biblical myth is used to construct the ideological message about the division of labor into the hands that build and the brains

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that plan and conceive, a division which, as the film suggests, must be overcome,”47 Songs of Fishermen hopes that Ziying, like Freder, son of the master in Metropolis, will bridge the class gap between rich and poor. Ziying is kind and sympathetic toward the poor, quite different from his parents. The fact that he was born in Donghai and had been nursed by Mrs. Xu explains his ties with the poor and with rural China. While still a child, Ziying tried to stop the twins from addressing him as their master. Later, in Shanghai, he offers them money and helps them. The link between rich and poor among the younger generation suggests that there is still hope, and probably the only hope. In Songs of Fishermen, Director Cai shows the suffering of poor Chinese fishermen to such a degree that some have called this film “a successful tragedy.”48 But Cai was not able to find a solution the way he did in The New Woman or to call for revolution as director Sun Yu often proposed in his films. Ziying is still young and inexperienced and can do very little to change the fate of the poor. Hence the film ends with Xiaomao’s “Song of Fishermen,” which is about the suffering of the Chinese people. Songs of Fishermen is highly stylistic in its filmic narration. It depends mostly on imagery and rapid cuts to tell a story rather than on explanation through inter-titles as many films of the 1930s did. The entire film is accompanied by melodramatic music, which heightens the theme. Director Cai Chusheng poured out his heart and soul for the Chinese fishermen. The film premiered at Shanghai’s Jincheng Theater on June 14, 1934, the day the heat set a sixty-year record of 103.8 degrees in Shanghai. It showed for eighty-four days, setting a box office record.49 It won China in 1935 its first international film award at Moscow International Film Festival. Chinese audiences would have to wait thirteen years for A Spring River Flows East (Yijiang chunshui xiang dong liu), director Cai’s another melodramatic masterpiece, to match this record.

FROM COUNTRY TO CITY TO NATION During modern times, as the gap between China’s countryside and cities grew wider, life in rural China became harder. Domestically, as some have pointed out, the Nanjing national government was too busy fighting with the Chinese Communists to work on improving the conditions of the Chinese peasants.50 Additionally, in the early 1930s, the flow of silver into Shanghai caused a “silver crisis,” pushing the rural depression even further. As a result, it tightened “the supply of money and credit in the interior.”51 The following is from Small Toys (Xiao wanyi) made in 1933. Directed by Sun Yu and produced by Lianhua Film Company, the film is set in 1910, in a village named Taoyecun (The Peach Leaves Village) on the shores of beautiful Taihu Lake: Taihu Lake at dawn. Like a thin veil, the morning fog covers the surface of hazy and waving water. A fishing boat slowly appears in the mist… (dissolve) The fishing boat gently glides past the lake embankment, the blooming lotus flowers and the other boats that are casting their nets. The cast net falls into the water, breaking the reflections of mountains in the water …(dissolve)

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The fishing boat slowly passes the streets. Smiling, a fisherman uses willow branches to hang a big carp on the side of his boat…(dissolve) Seen from the stone bridge, the fishing boat progresses slowly. The Ye family lives on the river. Outside the house, there are stone steps leading to the water where vegetables are being washed. One can compare the above passage with the following translation from Tao Qian (365– 427), a pastoral poet’s well-read prose “A Record of Peach-blossom Spring”: The land is flat and open, on which the houses are standing in an orderly fashion. The fields are fertile, and ponds are beautiful with mulberry and bamboo trees. The roads go in all directions. The sounds of chickens and dogs can be heard. Young and old enjoy themselves. 52 The influence of traditional Chinese literature on director Sun Yu is readily apparent. Utopia has often been painted as a peach blossom land where people enjoy a peaceful and simple country life. Tao Qian’s prose expresses his love for nature and is commonly accepted as the Chinese version of an ideal world. In Small Toys, by asserting the pastoral beauty that Mrs. Ye, her family and her villagers have so enjoyed, the audience is led to the left-wing filmmakers’ sentiment of anti-urbanization and anti-imperialism after seeing Mrs. Ye’s family being totally destroyed. Her husband dies when the local bandits rob the village, and her only son is kidnapped while this tragedy is taking place. The destruction of her family is very melodramatic. Everything about her husband—the sweetness and simplemindedness—suggests a kind of innocence that one associates with the country. His death results in his widow cutting away this part of life which was essential to her. Her only son, who is expected to carry on the family line, is sold to a rich woman in Shanghai. Here, the city Shanghai is already associated with evil before this countrywoman lands there. As Qian Xingtun observes, many films made in the 1930s show that the city is evil, and suggest that we return to the country. The reason, he explains, is “for thousands of years China has been sustained by agriculture. Why should we forget our roots, and squeeze each other to death by living in the cities?” He further complains that films about rural China are not Chinese materials. They either come out of the relatively utopian life style of Europe or America, or merely describe rural romance. The best these films can do is to show a spontaneous rural struggle.53 Qian’s complaint is partially valid. There are several left-wing Chinese films, however, that do go one step further to show the shadow in the peach blossom land. This shadow represents the combined forces of feudal and imperial exploitation subverting the semi-agrarian and semi-industrial economy that one sees in Mrs. Ye’s village. Many left-wing Chinese films try to establish a dichotomy between country and city, suggesting a simplistic comparison of good and evil. But dominated as it was by local wars and the national disasters brought on by the Japanese invasion, the country could hardly be projected as a paradise of peach blossoms. Furthermore, capitalism has created additional problems “through and by means of urbanization, under the pressure of the world market; and, in accordance with the law of the reproducible and the repetitive, by abolishing spatial and temporal differences, by destroying nature and nature’s time,” says Henri Lefebvre.54

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What makes the Chinese theme of country and city different from that of Raymond Williams, is that China’s country and city host an unwelcome power—the omnipotent and omnipresent foreign imperial influence which overshadows China’s rural economy. No writer has projected Chinese rural reality more compellingly than writer Mao Dun. Taking place right after the Japanese bombed Shanghai in 1932, Mao Dun’s Spring Silkworms55 exposes “the declining agrarian mode of production in the countryside vis-àvis the rise of modern technology and speculative investment in the city.”56 The film Spring Silkworms,57 directed by Cheng Bugao and produced by Mingxing Film Company in 1933, takes place after the Purity and Brightness Festival. Like rest of the villagers, Lao Tongbao, the protagonist, and his family raise silkworms. Lao Tongbao has to take a high interest rate loan to buy mulberry leaves. The whole family goes through many sleepless nights to tend the silkworms. Their hard work pays off. The silkworms are so responsive that according to Lao Tongbao, this is only the second time he has ever seen them this productive during his sixty years of life. They are awarded with the best silkworm cocoons. Ironically, because of the Japanese bombing of Shanghai, the cocoon factories there are all closed. To make the situation worse, the lenders pressure the peasants to pay back their loans. Although in the end, Lao Tongbao’s family is able to sell most of their cocoons to a factory in Wuxi, what they have in return is far less than what they paid for the mulberry leaves. Hence, they become bankrupt. In Spring Silkworms, the urban exploitation of the countryside, which is orchestrated by the imperialists, is blended into the scenery and the painstaking process of raising the silkworms. The story, says David Wang, “highlights the confrontation of modern machinery with provincial handicraftsmanship; of Western know-how with native values; and of a capitalist monopoly with the rural struggle for cultural and socioeconomic autonomy.”58 In Small Toys, the boisterous development of urban and foreign industrial production ruthlessly diminishes the peaceful traditional Chinese rural economy where handmade toys are Mrs. Ye and her countrymen’s source of income. In Small Toys, the perfect family of four, the charming, perceptive and clever Mrs. Ye (played by Ruan Lingyu), her plain but good-natured husband Lao Ye (Liu Jiqun), and their daughter Zhu’er (Li Lili) and son Yu’er enjoy an idyllic country family life (figure 6). The wife designs and crafts many new and clever small toys, which her husband sells at the market. Because of their hard work, they enjoy a life far better than that of their neighbors. In this movie, the audience sees the countryside as no longer being dominated by agricultural production. The peasants may live in rural areas, but their source of income comes from what they can manufacture by hand. This situation links them constantly with the city, which is both their market and their adversary, and makes them most sensitive trying to survive between country and city and between the industrial and agricultural worlds. What is wrong with Mrs. Ye’s seemingly happy life is that from around 1910, their pastoral landscape is constantly overshadowed by the nearby urban industrialization. Mrs. Ye and her countrymen’s primitive handicrafts are threatened by the overwhelming numbers of machine-made products from the city, manufactured under foreign management. This is the concern Mrs. Ye harbors secretly until one day she voices it to her fellow villagers: “Do you know? If our toys are not as good as those of foreign countries, we’ll all eventually starve to death…. Our toys are hand-made and it takes time to make them. No one respects us.”

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Director Sun Yu’s representation of this historical reality does not stop here. Throughout Small Toys, there is a strong subjectivity of the left-wing filmmakers that has been filtered through some of the characters. This subjectivity is a “collective consciousness,” a paradigm of Mrs. Ye’s to go beyond the physical boundary of either country or city to “save” China through modern industrialization. Mrs. Ye embodies one thing that came from the May Fourth tradition: science. Small Toys’ attitude towards the forces that are destroying the old Chinese rural economy is somewhat ambivalent. On the one hand, Mrs. Ye and her fellow villagers are resentful at seeing their livelihood being taken away. As Paul Pickowicz states, “In Small Toys the accusing finger is pointed directly at the ravenous economic and political appetites of domestic and foreign class enemies, who are presented as dehumanized ‘others.’”59 On the other hand, Mrs. Ye and her fellow villagers hold in awe and veneration the more advanced foreign technology. The difference between Lao Tongbao in Spring Silkworms and Mrs. Ye in Small Toys is that Lao Tongbao accepts his reality, while Mrs. Ye fights it fearlessly. The temporality of the borderline crossing can also be seen in the way people settle once they cross the border. When city people go to the countryside, they often stay in a hotel. This shows a lack of connection with the country people. When country people go to the city, they live in temporary shelters in the poorest region of the city. This shows the marginality of their existence and an absence of “ordinary connection and development”60 in the city. Driven out of their village by the gunshots and fighting of the warlords, Mrs. Ye, her daughter and the other villagers in Small Toys seek refuge in Shanghai. Upon arriving in Shanghai, Mrs. Ye leads her villagers to build their new home in this metropolis: a grass hut, which instantly makes them temporary and marginal in their new social environment. Expectedly, Shanghai life is arduous for the peasants. The year is 1920. Zhu’er turns fifteen. Like her mother, Zhu’er also enjoys making small toys, and she has the ambition to build a better China. Yuan Pu (played by Yuan Congmei), the romantic Shanghai college student who was infatuated with Mrs. Ye in Peach Leaves Village, returns from studying abroad and builds the toy factory he had planned. When the Japanese invade Shanghai, Zhu’er is killed while ministering to wounded Chinese soldiers. It is not difficult to view the deaths of Xiaohou of Songs of Fishermen and Zhu’er of Small Toys in a more melodramatic way and to sympathize with the destruction of the families. However, there are more implications in their destruction. Both children tried to continue the professions of their parents: rural fishing and making traditional, handcrafted toys. Their efforts are frustrated because of the Japanese invasion. Their deaths, therefore, become emblematic suggesting the end of the hope for this kind of rural economy that has sustained China for many years. The climax reaches another level in the film when Mrs. Ye, who seems insane after her daughter’s death but actually acts as the agent of the left-wing filmmakers, speaks about her country and nation. Upon hearing the sound of firecrackers, she screams: “The enemy is coming! Go to fight! Let’s fight together! Save your country! Save your family! Save yourself!” When Yuan Pu and the others show up trying to help her, she looks at them and points at the street, saying: “Don’t you go fight?… Wake up! Stop dreaming!” In Small Toys, Mrs. Ye’s family has been ruined by both capitalism (urbanization) and imperialism. Traveling from country to city, alone and a loner, she appears to be the only one who is aware of what is happening to her nation, very much like Lu Xun’s madman.

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But the Shanghai city crowds only treat this countrywoman as if she is crazy. One policeman grabs her angrily. Here, the social and political conflict between country and city reaches its ultimate level, forming the situation of “the loner and the crowd,” or the “awakened few” versus the “sound sleepers” that Leo Ou-fan Lee finds in Lu Xun’s stories.61 In Small Toys, through Mrs. Ye’s last call, the left-wing filmmakers prioritize the nation above country and city, making saving the nation a more urgent issue; however, such ideology is predicated on the destruction of Mrs. Ye’s family and her rural economy. But the patriotic seeds that she disseminates are germinating (in a melodramatic way, much like the entire film): Her son Yu’er who was kidnapped earlier has now turned into a lovely eleven-year old boy. Although the mother and son no longer recognize each other, upon seeing the toy military ships and airplanes in her basket, the boy asks: “Is this domestically made?” He also tells Mrs. Ye that when he grows up, he wants to save China. Moving from country to city, as she struggles along with others trying to survive in Shanghai, she has one mission in life: to build a strong domestic toy industry, to fight the enemy (the Japanese) and to save China. But what is her China? China as an ideology is obviously not limited to where Mrs. Ye lives nor what she sees or what it used to be. China is Mrs. Ye’s (or shall we say, the left-wing filmmakers’) imagined nation. Nation is defined by Benedict Anderson as “an imagined political community—and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign.”62 If we do not take a politically correct view, and forget how He Renzhai exploits his fishermen in Donghai, it is easy to see that the path he has taken is a transformation from being the ruler of a feudal, agrarian society to being the headman in an industrial society under the influence of the imperialists. His destruction suggests that such a transformation does not work for the native Chinese under the dictatorship of foreign invaders. What characterizes this imagined nation then? First, it is free of foreign invasion. It is built on advanced science and technology. It is able to compete with the other advanced nations on earth. Both Yuan Pu in Small Toys and Ziying in Songs of Fishermen are sent abroad to study advanced technology to improve the domestic fishing and toy-making industries. They both want to save China. When Ziying comes back, it is too late for him to utilize his knowledge to save his father’s company. After his father’s death, all the assets devolve to the Japanese and other investors. Now Ziying realizes that as long as foreigners, their compradors and bullies control Shanghai, his hopes are only pipedreams. In order to live, he eventually finds himself a position as captain of a small ship. His future role in this industry is vague. On the other hand, Yuanpu carries on the legacy that Mrs. Ye began and becomes a capitalist. She once told him that the domestic Chinese industry was very backward; she advised him to go abroad to study, and when he returned to work hard to win honor for the Chinese. Yuan Pu takes her advice seriously. He goes to Germany to study and is determined to serve his country and his people. Less than seven months after his return, his “Big China Toy Manufacturing Company” is formed and in production. How strong is his factory when in competition with foreign owned companies? And how realistic is it for the left-wing filmmakers to set their hopes on one particular individual? Toy factories only make toys. Mrs. Ye’s nation, therefore, is imagined. It is free from foreign invaders. It is build upon advanced technology. Poor people are happy, children have good toys to play with, and her China is strong.63

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Fig. 1. This cartoon, drawn by Chen Jinghan and appearing in Yinxing (The movie guide), vol. 4, 1927, shows that the filmmaker (in the middle) is torn between pandering to the audience (left) and promoting art (right).

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Fig. 2. This cartoon, which appears in Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no. 21 (1935) lampoons the reality of Hollywood.

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Fig. 3. “The boss offers personal service when a famous star perfoms” by Dong Tianye, Dianying manhua (Movie cartoon), vol. 5 (20 September, 1935).

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Fig. 4. Lingling watches as the officer who is infatuated with her gets into a fight with his repressive general in Sun Yu’s Daybreak.

Fig. 5. In the sound of her crying, the audience hears the disorder of Yuefen

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and sees the symbolic rape of the periphery by the center in The Boatman’s Daughter.

Fig. 6. Mrs. Ye and her family enjoy a peaceful pastoral life at the beginning of Small Toys.

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Fig. 7. Yu’er’s death and Mrs. Ye’s madness are highly dramatized in Small Toys.

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Fig. 8. This picture of the mother and her son resembles the structural relations of Chinese character “ ”, good, with a woman to the left and a son to the right in The Sainted Woman.

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Fig. 9. Ai Xia committed suicide on February 12, 1934, at the age of twenty-two, by eating raw opium (cover of Dianying huabao [The screen pictorial], no. 9 (March 15, 1934).

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Fig. 10. Aying breaks Dr. Wang’s walking stick in The New Woman.

Fig. 11. Wei Ming looks at Aying’s shadow on the wall in The New Woman.

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Fig. 12. In The Big Road, private space has totally given way to public space, and self is totally subservient to the collective.

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Fig. 13. The narrative apparatus of the Chinese left-wing cinema of the 1930s is more sophisticated than many people realize.

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Fig. 14. Although the film juxtaposes the two families’ (one rich and one poor) experiences while migrating from Donghai to Shanghai, Cai Chusheng clearly intends to bridge the class gap among the young generation in Songs of Fishermen.

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Fig. 15. Songs of Fishermen: conflict of volume.

Fig. 16. Songs of Fishermen: conflict of plane.

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Fig. 17. The dramatic actress Li Lili who often stars in Sun Yu’s melodramatic films. Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no. 6 (September 15, 1933).

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Fig. 18. Some movie pictorials and magazines of the 1920s and 30s.

Chapter Three Gender Relations “There were thirty-five of us girls at our high school graduation. However during the past ten years, some of them went far away, some of them died and some of them simply disappeared. I was talking with our high school principal the other day, and learned that less than one third of those classmates can be found in Shanghai now.” —Hu Ying in The Bible of Women

This is how Hu Ying (played by Hu Die) explains to her husband why she expects fewer than a dozen women to show up at the ten-year high school reunion she hosts in The Bible of Women (Nü’er jing, s: Mingxing, 1934). It suggests an unstable populace of urban women in the early twentieth century. Scholars attempted to explain why such a situation existed. Although women’s emancipation was one of the key issues brought up by the intellectuals of the May Fourth Movement, Kay Ann Johnson’s study of the family crisis in the twentieth century China suggests that, these intellectuals were “neither fully united nor single-mindedly committed to the pursuit of women’s rights and family reform as political priorities within the revolutionary movement.”1 Christina K.Gilmartin further points out that the cause of a full-blown gender transformation lost its political backing and public attention as China underwent many political, social and national struggles, including the disastrous unraveling of the alliance between the Communists and the Nationalists, political repression, civil war and the Japanese bombing and subsequent occupation of China.2 China in the 1930s was described by Chinese film critics in 1935 as being kongqian weiyou de hunluan or “of unprecedented chaos”3 and nanxing zhongxin de shehui or “a male-centered society.”4 This chapter argues that there were two kinds of male dominance, based on the films by the radical and reformist filmmakers (both were regarded as left wing) in the 1930s. One kind of male dominance was patriarchy and the other was androcentric power. Both were blamed for the suffering of Chinese women. In criticizing these social forces, left-wing filmmakers introduced an “authorian voice.”5 This voice in Chinese cinema is often expressed through male characters who act as the alter ego of the male directors. This male authorial voice overpowers and sometimes silences a woman’s voice. It is well known that Peking Opera used to employ only male actors to play female roles. This was acceptable because the characters wore heavy makeup and the audience was relatively far away from the actors. At the early stages of Chinese cinema this practice continued.6 However, the huge silver screen showing everything larger than life made this practice absurd. Some people felt sick watching men on the screen dressing

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and walking like women.7 It is no surprise that in 1913 when Yan Shanshan (1896-?), a woman revolutionary who was active in the 1911 Revolution, played the role of a maid in Zhuangzi Tests His Wife (Zhuangzi shiqi), that women’s roles on the silver screen began gradually to be taken over by female performers. Nevertheless, this process did not happen overnight because even in Zhuangzi Tests His Wife, the leading female role, Zhuangzi’s wife, was played by Yan Shanshan’s real life husband Li Minwei (1893– 1953), who later became a very well-known producer. After Zhuangzi Tests His Wife, many actresses followed in Yan Shanshan’s footsteps. Among them, Wang Hanlun (1903–1978), the only actress with bound feet, Xuan Jinglin (1907–1992), Zhang Zhiyun (1905– ?) Yang Naimei (1904–1960), Li Minghui (1910–?), Chen Yumei (1910–?), and Lin Chuchu (1904–1979) were the most prominent. Their participation in Chinese cinema in the 1920s became an important factor in establishing the Chinese domestic film industry. The growing popularity of Chinese cinema during the 1920s and especially the 1930s gradually changed the public perception of female performers.8 By the 1930s, film actresses like Hu Die (1907–1989)9 and Ruan Lingyu (1910–1935)10 gained fame and fortune that no other Chinese female performers in history had been capable of reaching. However, regardless of these women’s professional success, their private lives, especially their relationships with men, often erupted into scandals, while this situation seldom happened to male actors. This one-sided social standard consumed at least two of the most talented actresses in the 1930s, Ruan Lingyu and Ai Xia, who both committed suicide in their twenties. The Chinese film industry, even with the participation of the left-wing filmmakers of the May Fourth tradition, did very little to promote women’s liberation.11 One of the dilemmas for the official Mainland Chinese film historians is how to evaluate the roles played by Chinese women in the loosely defined Leftwing Chinese Film Movement (1932–1937). What has never been discussed is the imbalanced composition of membership in this movement. Photographs of forty-seven prominent left-wing film activists were printed in Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The Leftwing Chinese Film Movement) edited by Chen Bo.12 These activists included screenwriters, directors, actors and film critics. Forty were men and only seven were women, all actresses.13 Many films made by left-wing Chinese male filmmakers were about women, but a close look at these films reveals that there was very little empathy for Chinese women. Part of the reason is that Chinese filmic tradition never took women seriously. For example, in The Love of a Fruit Seller (Laogong aiqing or Zhiguo yuan, 1922), a woman’s marriage to a fruit seller is comically arranged after the fruit seller successfully brought her father, a doctor, more business by having injured the people who used the stairs outside his apartment. In A String of Pearls (Yichuan zhenzhu, 1925), which was based on Guy de Maupassant’s (1850–93) short story “The Necklace,” women’s vanity is blamed again and again for men’s, as well as women’s, suffering. This chapter examines gender relations in left-wing films of the 1930s. These films address love, marriage, motherhood, career and equality in relation to Chinese modernity. In portraying these complex relationships, left-wing filmmakers mocked patriarchal and androcentric social forces. At the same time, however, they showed no mercy for “golddigger” women who use their sex appeal for material gain and pleasure. Consequently, these women are often consumed by their own games (Metropolitan Scenes, A Ready Source of Money). A “good woman” is sometimes judged by the sacrifices she makes for

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her son (The Sainted Woman). In its early years, Mingxing Film Company’s movies often reflected urban bourgeois values in dealing with women’s issues. These movies often carried the reformist outlook. One theme was for women to gain their financial independence; however, these women are, at the same time, made to sacrifice their emotional happiness. A woman can be independent as long as she is totally detached from her womanhood (The Cosmetic Market). When the filmmakers from Mingxing Studio failed to find a workable solution to women’s suffering, they suggested that, in a man’s world, women join together to help each other (Twin Sisters). Lianhua Film Company’s more radical approach took place fifteen years after the May Fourth Movement. They created an urban, left-wing proletarian model with a strong collective identity and collective consciousness to replace all previous models for women in the 1930s. An examination of this model shows, however, that she is too ideal and too abstract to be convincing (The New Woman).

THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES IN THE MATERIAL WORLD OF SHANGHAI In an essay entitled “The Young Women of Shanghai,” Lu Xun discusses his observation of clothing in Shanghai in 1933. He notices that it always appeared better to wear clothing more fashionable than dowdy in Shanghai because trolley bus drivers, park door keepers and door keepers at big houses often gave people a bad time if they dressed poorly. As a result, many Shanghainese would rather live in very small places and put up with bedbugs, but have a pair of serviceable Western pants that they placed under their pillows every night for a perfect crease in the front. Here, he continues: The best dressers, however, are the fashionable women. One will see this in the shops: these women vacillate back and forth, indecisive, but the shop salesmen are very patient with them. However, if these women take too much time, they have to bring one condition: they have to be coquettish and to be able to handle being teased. Otherwise, they have to face to be treated commonly with disdain. Those women who are used to living in Shanghai knew long ago the glory they have, and also the danger in the glory. Therefore, the air these fashionable women have is a combination of many things: it is to act ostentatiously, to defend firmly, to enlist the services and to resist. Like all the loved ones of the opposite sex, and like all the enemy of the opposite sex, they like them and they are also angry with them. This air has infected the young girls. Sometimes we see them shopping in the stores with their heads turned to one side, pretending to be somewhat irritated as if they are facing a big enemy. Naturally, the salesmen will tease them as they do mature women. The young girls know, however, the meaning of being teased. In short, they have matured early.14 This passage shows the relationship of women and Shanghai modernity through the subject of clothing. It is hard to miss Lu Xun’s sarcastic tone here. However, this passage

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can be written quite differently if the writer situates himself on the point of view of women. True, both men and women were expected to dress up in Shanghai, but women were expected to dress more fashionably than men. Because of this, they had to put up with things men did not. Shanghai modernity offered many attractions to women. Women helped to make modernity in Shanghai possible. The tailors from southern China who had served the imperial court all moved to Shanghai after the Qing Dynasty was overthrown, and they offered the best service available. Shanghai was also the place where famous brands, foreign and Chinese, were sold.15 Beauty parlors attracted many women. The Miss Shanghai Pageant created beautiful dreams for young women in the city. Material possession and display became an important aspect of living in Shanghai. As Lu Xun observes above, life appeared to be a little easier for the more fashionable, but this came with a price: they always faced the possibility of being harassed by men. Left-wing filmmakers addressed this phenomenon in more detail, focusing on one situation where a young woman is caught in the material world of Shanghai. Metropolitan Scenes (Dushi fengguang), was written and directed in 1935 by Yuan Muzhi (1909–1978), a very talented young left-wing filmmaker. I think this is one of the best films ever made in China. The movie was received very well by the critics for its social consciousness, smart story structure, hilarious plotting, good montage and editing.16 In the movie, four Zhejiang peasants, the father, the mother, daughter Xiaoyun and the young nephew Li Menghua, are transformed into Shanghainese to live their modern lives in Shanghai. Xiaoyun, young and beautiful, immediately attracts several suitors. Her great weakness is that she is so much into material wealth that she behaves like a gold digger. As women, both Xiaoyun and her maid are portrayed negatively. In Metropolitan Scenes, both Li Menghua and Wang Junsan, a rich man who operates a company in Shanghai, make frequent visits to her home. Her preference is always for the one who can contribute to her immediate material needs. Her discrimination is fully understood by her well-trained maid (beautifully played by Bai Lu) who knows exactly when and when not to let a visitor come inside the house. When the maid thinks that Li Menghua comes empty-handed, she would tell the young man: “The miss is not home.” However, when the poor young man drops in with a box from Hongyu Clothing Company (the best women’s clothing company in Shanghai at the time), she immediately notifies Xiaoyun by describing the size of the box with her hands. The box is what this maid equates with the young man throughout the meeting that day. When Xiaoyun wants to see a movie, Li Menghua has to pawn his watch for tickets. But when the movie is over, the material girl quickly jumps into Wang Junsan’s car, allowing him to drive her home. She tells the very disappointed writer to go home and write her a long love letter. Xiaoyun is constantly being associated with materialism in Shanghai. There is one scene where she passes a shopping district with her father. The whole city seems to be for sale. There are people who play brass-wind instruments to attract customers. There are also signs from Mow Chong Optical Co. One advertisement from a stocking company shows a man (a puppet) standing on the left, looking at a woman’s leg (also a puppet) wearing a stocking and reaching out from the right side of the screen to seduce him. These shots throw a web of fragmented and critical concepts of Shanghai modernity. Director Yuan Muzhi puts women in the middle of this sale circus both as the seducer (the woman puppet) and as the consumer (Xiaoyun). To a large extent, this scene serves as an emblem of gender relations in Shanghai defined by the director. When Xiaoyun’s

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girlfriend is getting married, Xiaoyun needs a new dress, a hat, shoes and a handbag for the wedding. Fortunately, the bride pays for Xiaoyun’s dress. It is through a combination of careful calculation, a lot of pretense and manipulation that she finally has her male friends pay for the other items. For instance, she wants Wang Junsan to buy the presents that she needs, so she invites him over to eat birthday noodles. But when Wang shows up with a totally impractical doll, Xiaoyun is very disappointed, not because she senses that Wang equates her with a doll but because she mistakes the present as a cheap one. She then invites Wang to go out with her to have some coffee. To her disappointment, Wang has business to attend to, and sends his secretary Chen instead. When the bill arrives, Xiaoyun pretends to fight with Chen to pay it. Chen refuses to let her do that, and takes her purse so she cannot pay. Using her foot, Xiaoyun secretly kicks her purse down to the floor. Chen pays the bill, and accompanies her to a department store to pick up the coat she has ordered earlier. By the time the waiter sees the purse Xiaoyun left on the floor, Xiaoyun and Chen have left. The waiter curiously opens the purse and finds that there is nothing inside. Meanwhile in the department store, Xiaoyun conveniently blames Chen for her forgetting her purse in the coffee shop. Chen has no choice but to pay for the coat that she could not afford in the first place. One need not be charmed entirely by Yuan Muzhi’s comic talent here. Being a woman, Xiaoyun openly uses her desirability as a weapon to get what she wants from men. Her character, therefore, is a far cry from the all-too-familiar traditional image of the filial daughter or “virtuous wife and good mother.” Neither does she resemble those educated, modern new women who took over the spotlight during the May Fourth period. Xiaoyun’s characteristics, according to Carolyn Brown’s study of May Fourth literature, would make her a bad woman.17 Nevertheless, Xiaoyun’s character lacks the sophistication that one often finds in Chinese women writers’ literature at the time. In the shadow of Xiaoyun’s manipulation and negotiation of her sexual appeal for material gain, the audience is tempted to side with the poor young writer, Li Menghua, only to learn that he is not an angel either. His exhausting effort to win the heart of the girl he loves, which constantly sends him to endless misery, forms a strong contrast with the ease of the rich urban playboy Wang Junsan, who can please the young beauty effortlessly. In Metropolitan Scenes, the traditional concept of caizi jiaren, or a talented scholar wins the heart of the beauty, is gone. Time has changed. To the modern women in Metropolitan Scenes, the attraction of men is ultimately wealth, not literary talent. Interestingly, in the battle to win Xiaoyun, Li Menghua may have lost to another man, but however, he is not the real victim of a woman’s manipulation, and his investment in her also has a return. For Li Menghua, the emotional suffering over Xiaoyun always provides inspiration for his writing. He often makes two copies of his love letters: one to Xiaoyun, and the other directly to the newspapers for publishing. Additionally, his sincerity is in serious question when he is seen consulting Three Hundred Love Letters From European and American Celebrities and Dictionary of Love Description for ideas to write those letters. To add to the insult to Xiaoyun, the sealing of the envelope containing the love letter is comically accomplished by the diligent tongue of Li’s little dog. Eventually, it is the wealthier and more macho Wang Junsan who wins. Xiaoyun loses her virginity to him, not on her wedding night, but on a casual night out followed by a few drinks. The movie, set in the early 1930s, is quite subtle about any sexual content. Earlier, on her birthday, Xiaoyun had manipulated Wang to give her a present by inviting

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him over for her birthday noodles. The present he gave her is a girl doll. Now while she lies in bed with him, and just before he turns off the light in the bedroom, Wang Junsan runs his hand over the bare legs of the girl doll. This toy immediately equates Xiaoyun as a plaything for men, and their sexual relationship instantly becomes one sided. If on her birthday, Wang was the object of her subjective manipulation for her material benefit, now the situation is reversed. The toy as a simple prop transforms the object into a subject, and the old subject is now objectified. From this point on, Xiaoyun has totally lost control over her life. This displacement between subject and object changes Xiaoyun further from a manipulator of men to a victim of men in this male dominated society. The core of Director Yuan’s irony is a simple, classic commodity exchange: men offer material advantage, women offer companionship and sex. Unfortunately, in this comic portrayal of this relationship, the director failed to realize, and the critics failed to see, that although Xiaoyun can be called a gold digger or an “empty-headed”18 pleasure seeker, she is a brave rebel in that all her acts are against the protocols of Chinese tradition when examining her in a broader cultural perspective. But her rebellious role will be cut short because her life is controlled by both patriarchy and androcentric social forces. Soon, she would be auctioned off by her father to marry Wang Junsan. By then, her existence as an “empty headed” femme fatale will be diminished to that of a simple object. This is particularly demonstrated by the theme of commodity exchange where Yuan Muzhi’s comic farce reaches its climax. Here, what is being bartered is not a commercial good, but a full-blooded female human being. Upon discovering her affair with Wang Junsan, Xiaoyun’s father goes to Wang’s office and browbeats Wang into agreeing to marry his daughter. But, this is not a simple demonstration of fatherly love in order to save his daughter’s face. He sees Xiaoyun’s relationship with Wang Junsan as a way to solve his deep financial problems.19 This interaction reveals the most hilarious part of the entire movie. In the office, while Wang Junsan is busy negotiating a deal with a businessman surnamed Liu, Xiaoyun’s father sits next to Wang, anxiously negotiating with Wang his daughter’s marriage at the same time. Liu requests that Wang turn over goods to him before the end of the year. The father, inspired by the business language these men are using, turns to Wang and demands that Wang and Xiaoyun be married before the end of the year. This cleverly arranged timing equates a woman with commodity in the world ruled by her father and her lover, the two most important men in her life. So, Xiaoyun marries Wang Junsan. Now the battle between the sexes is finally concluded. As a result, the men celebrate their new business deals. The woman, like a war slave, is locked in a marriage that is doomed to failure. Not long after the marriage, Wang’s questionable business deals bankrupt him. Wang’s secretary and Xiaoyun’s maid elope, taking with them all Xiaoyun and Wang have. Wang Junsan also runs away to avoid punishment. Xiaoyun is left with nothing and is thus punished again. Director Yuan Muzhi is critical of all the characters in the film. However, Xiaoyun as an urban material woman is punished more severely. Yuan did not seem to know how to portray modern urban women of the 1930s. Like many male cultural men at the time (this list includes Lu Xun, Lao She and many other writers), Yuan was very sympathetic toward the poor and victimized women (as he shows in his 1937 Malu tianshi or Street Angels). The portrayal of Xiaoyun shows that he is uneasy with the woman who is not always a victim. It further

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reveals his ambiguous (and probably also ambivalent) feeling toward women’s liberation and independence.

THE NEGOTIATION OF BEING A VIRGIN MOTHER AND METROPOLITAN VAMP Sexual inequalities in the 1930s are best illustrated through the study of a social problem—prostitution. Prostitution was a booming business accompanying the economic and population growth of Shanghai. Many women, young and old, were forced or lured to sell themselves in brothels and on the streets.20 Some of them had originally been sold into prostitution by family members. Others, coming mostly from the countryside or hinterlands, had been brought to their current profession by kidnappers.21 Part of the reason that Shanghai’s prostitution got the attention of scholars is the numbers of women involved. Yet, at the same time, as Gail Hershatter argues, it is impossible to say for sure how many women worked as prostitutes in Shanghai.22 Some suggest that by 1934, one woman in 130 was a prostitute, a much higher ratio than in any other large urban center in the world.23 Other studies suggest figures much higher than this; for example, one woman in three was a prostitute in the French Concession.24 Scholars do not seem to agree on what contributed to this situation. Frederic Wakeman Jr. suggests the population imbalance between men and women in Shanghai at that time may have caused this problem—there were thirteen to sixteen men for every ten women.25 Elizabeth Wilson, however, sees prostitution in a broader social background as the result of the onset of modernity when she examines cases in the West. She states, “Prostitutes and prostitution recur continually in the discussion of urban life, until it almost seems as though to be a woman—an individual, not part of family or kin group— in the city, is to become a prostitute—a public woman.”26 What is intriguing is that even the scholarly remarks here bear the gender differences. The question then becomes: Is prostitution physiology related or social-economy related? The Chinese left-wing filmmakers of the 1930s definitely saw prostitution as social-economy related. They often portrayed prostitutes as victims of Chinese modernity. In this book, two films are selected that directly bear this view: The Sainted Woman and The New Woman. These films were intended to bring a realistic perspective to bear on women’s concerns. However, when it came to a workable solution, the filmmakers offered women nothing more than melodramatic sentiment. The Sainted Woman (Shennü), masterfully played by Ruan Lingyu, depicts a young and nameless woman’s struggle to cope with her dual roles as mother and prostitute in the 1930s’ Shanghai. It was written and directed by Wu Yonggang (1907–), a left-winger in 1934. The Sainted Woman is Wu’s first film. The silent film was produced by Lianhua Film Company. The fact that this prostitute is nameless suggests that she is just one of the many who sold their bodies to men in Shanghai. There is no background information regarding her and why she is in Shanghai alone as a single woman. She has a young son, but the father of the child is missing from the picture. Where is the father, why does he not support the child and the mother of his child? These unanswered questions suggest problems among her, men, Shanghai and the 1930s. Perhaps she was abandoned by her lover after she eloped with him to Shanghai? Perhaps she is one of those new women

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who followed the path of women’s liberation all the way to Shanghai but ended up as a prostitute in this big urban center when she found no other ways of making a living? We do not know. When the movie begins, all of these questions fade into the darkness of Shanghai’s nightlife. Her case becomes an abstract one, a concept that Wu Yonggang elaborates to expose the darkness of the society. All we know is that she is in Shanghai alone with her baby son and she works as a low-class streetwalker with very limited income to support herself and her child.27 There is an older woman helper who comes over to look after the boy when the mother has to work at night. But other women in the film are not so sympathetic, and their brutal gossiping makes it even harder for her and her son. Why? Because the dominant patriarchal ideology has been accepted by these women and the society at large. There are, overall, three male characters who relate to this woman: her son, his school principal and a local hoodlum whom she met by accident. One night, in her attempt to avoid a patrolling policeman, she takes shelter inside a house. Although she has escaped from the police, the owner of the house, the bully (played by Zhang Zhizhi) forces her to stay the night. She has to trade sex with him for “having saved her.” Unfortunately, this is only the beginning of their relationship. She is eventually compelled to live with him after he forces his way into her apartment one day, accompanied by his gangster friends. This kind of forced male entrance suggests the rape of this helpless woman at both the physical and social levels. The money she makes by selling herself is often taken by the bully for gambling. She tries to look for a factory job but there are no openings; she tries to find work as a housemaid, but has no family or friends who might recommend her or serve as her references. She is reduced to pawning all her clothing and jewelry. She tries many times to move away, but the bully always finds her, and threatens that if she tries this again, he will sell her child. The gender relationship between this woman and the bully she lives with, is that of direct and straightforward exploitation. She is a victim of the male bully who “represents the link, even the equation, between male sexuality and sheer power, the rule of the fist”28 in this male-dominated society. What, then, makes her a saint as the film title suggests? Obviously, it is her devotion to her son’s education and well-being. It is in this role she so wonderfully plays that brings another man, the school principal, into her life in an unprecedented way. He is pressured by the parents of other students who are shamed by this prostitute’s profession, and decides to pay her a visit at home. In her small apartment, the contrast between her shabby furniture and her fancy qipao dresses helps him to reach his conclusion soon. So he breaks the bad news to her right away: “For the reputation of the school, we have no choice but to ask your child to withdraw.” This remark identifies him immediately with the same patriarchal social force that is crushing her. Later though, he decides to help her son in spite of all the opposition he has to face. When the school board refuses to accept his plea not to dismiss the child, he resigns his post. He also shows up at her jail cell to visit her when she is sentenced to twelve years of imprisonment for killing the bully who stole her money. He promises her that he will take care of her son. What makes this respectable school principal change his mind? William Rothman, in an attempt to compare The Sainted Woman with American romantic melodrama, finds an erotic bond between the two characters in the way the school principal wants to touch her during their two encounters. But the movie never directly demonstrates or suggests any romance between the two. Rothman believes that

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the man, like the cadre in Xie Jin’s The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun, s: Tianma, 1961), has the self-discipline to sublimate his desire.29 Are the Chinese filmmakers and critics, all male, too chauvinist to acknowledge the school principal’s sexual desire for this charming young woman? Or have the cultural differences caused Rothman, a Western man who was struck by what he saw, to read something that is not there?30 In the movie we see this woman begging the school principal, not using her charm as an attractive young woman, but as a sincere mother, not to dismiss her son. As a sympathetic spectator, he sees her declare and demonstrate that her sole existence is for her son and his benefit. To carry out this mission, she has to face her days with pain and humiliation. The school principal realizes it and is deeply touched by her sacrifice. The film further shows that her body and her mind are being presented as two separate entities joined by one bond—the love for her son and his welfare. There is a clear distinction between her public life and her private life. Her body is for sale in public, but her soul remains pure and sincere. Her public life takes place at night in the dark on ruthless streets with strangers, while her private life happens during daylight in her cozy apartment with her loving son. She is a “public woman” only because she needs to support her son. The film is quite skillful in changing from low to high and from deploring to cherishing her dual roles as a “public” and a private woman. It is especially hard to forget scenes in which, when the evening lights are on, she puts on her makeup and her seductive night gown to go to the street where she waits for her customers in front of a pawnshop. In the morning she returns home, climbing wearily upstairs to take care of her son. Here the stairs leading to her room become a transitional space connecting her public space and her private space, and the vertical movement of her walking upstairs to her son transforms her role from prostitute to caring mother, from being “low” to being sublime, from being profane to being profound. The action of transformation and production of space offers the woman, a low-class prostitute and a mother, a “sainted” position in Chinese social space. This left-wing film gives a dialectical meaning to the dualism of women’s seemingly contradictory roles as virgin mother and vamp. For mothers who are also prostitutes, sex sometimes is a commodity that they barter to support the needs of their children. In some cases, using sex to trade for benefit of other people has been considered a very noble cause. The following passage is from Rainbow (Hong) written by Mao Dun in 1929. Ms. Mei, the female protagonist in the story, comes to the following conclusion after she thoroughly studies the character Nora created by Henrik Johan Ibsen (1828–1906): When all her options were cut off, Nora took advantage of her beauty to get what she wanted. She affected an air of gentle sweetness and femininity to borrow money secretly from Dr. Rank, but when her flirtatious games threatened to turn serious, she retreated. To the very core of her being she was conscious of being a woman. Although her actions were taken to help others, she still could not use her sexuality as an item of exchange. Mrs. Linden was completely different. Twice she bartered her sexuality to help others, with no regrets. She was a woman for whom being female was no longer of primary importance.31

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These bold remarks underline the sacrifices many women make. There is no question that the sainted woman is virtuous because she is a caring and loving mother. But who is to judge her? And whose point of view is Director Wu speaking from? Is it the school principal’s or the son’s? Rey Chow, in discussing “Loving Women: Masochism, Fantasy, and the Idealization of the Mother” through examining the story of Lin Shu and Wang Ziren’s weeping over their translation of La Dame Aux Camélias, suggests that “the mutual shifting of positionalities between ‘maternal’ and ‘infantile’ is what accounts for the fantasy involved in the idealization of the ‘mother,’ and for the pleasure-in-pain that is fundamental to masochism.”32 Throughout Chinese history, the depiction of the concept of good has been interpreted as hao, with a woman to the left (nü) and a son (zi) to the right (Figure 8). Why is this combination good? Because to a Chinese man, to have a woman and a child (of course, it has to be a son) is good. One can also interpret that for the son, to have a loving mother is good; and to the mother, to have a son is good. But since the components of this character are a woman and her son, the point of view of the speaker is more likely to be the father, the man. In The Sainted Woman, it was the director or his alter ego, the school principle.33 By idealizing her as a loving mother, Wu Yonggang was able to show his pathos for this suffering prostitute. His official Chinese film biography indicates that when Wu Yonggong entered Shanghai Baihe Film Company as an art apprentice at the age of nineteen, he had already read many progressive books and journals including New Youth.34 The Sainted Woman was shot under the direct influence of the Party’s Film Team led by Xia Yan and other members, and assisted directly by Tian Han (1898– 1968).35 This film is among those films approved by the Chinese government to be exported outside China.36 However, the message of The Sainted Woman is mild. It bears few of the radical perspectives that we see in some of the left-wing films made in the middle of the 1930s. What is seen in The Sainted Woman is Wu Yonggang’s melodramatic portrayal of good versus evil, weak versus strong, and the attempt to expose the total darkness of the patriarchal society in a close to realistic setting. This is why when The Sainted Woman first came out, some left-wing critics pointed out that women-centered expose films are too weak, although they have touched these progressive intellectual filmmakers’ sense of justice.37

WOMEN BECOME INDEPENDENT FROM MEN The misfortune resulting from situations like those of the material girl and the sainted woman who failed to adapt themselves to modern society has led the left-wing filmmakers to search for ways leading to women’s independence. The solution, as suggested by Mingxing’s The Cosmetic Market (Zhifen shichang), is to put women to work, and let them gain financial independence in a legitimate way. However, there is a big price women have to pay. The Cosmetic Market was written by Xia Yan, the leader of the left-wing movement, and directed by Zhang Shichuan (1889–1953) in 1933. The film received praises from critics for “having exposed the darkness of society” in which women tried to obtain their independence.38 This was one of the few left-wing films Zhang Shichuan ever made. Zhang, one of the founders of Mingxing Film Company, was

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one of the most prominent and prolific filmmakers in the 1920s and 1930s. But Zhang was never considered a left-wing activist.39 Consequently, his official biography is quite ambivalent about him; nevertheless, it still states that Zhang’s life “reflects the development of Chinese film.”40 The story of The Cosmetic Market takes place in Shanghai in the 1930s. To support her mother and sister-in-law, Cuifen (played by Hu Die) is forced to quit school and begin to work after the death of her brother. Through the help of her neighbor Miss Yang, an independent modern working woman, Cuifen begins to work at the packing department of Peide Department Store. On her first day at work, Cuifen does not know how to handle her job. Qian Guohua (Gong Jianong), a handsome young colleague, kindly offers his help. When work is over, everyone leaves the store. The women clerks all seem to have beautiful outfits, and Cuifen appears very shabby by comparison. She does not understand why these women would come to work since they do not seem to need money. At this moment, Guohua comes out of the store and offers to walk her home. Yao Xuefang, clerk number 85 at the cosmetics department of Peide Department Store, a social butterfly, attracts many male customers around her. She used to have an intimate relationship with Mr. Lin (Wang Xianzhai), the store supervisor. But now Zhang Youji, the son of the manager, has her affection. Several young attractive women clerks also work here. Many rich men idle about, trying to have some social intercourse with these career women. Supervisor Lin soon notices Cuifen and her beauty. Without consulting Cuifen, he transfers her from the packing department to the cosmetics department. This is his way of promoting his favorite female clerks. Cuifen is pleased at the opportunity to work in the new department, not realizing that she has got herself into trouble. First, she unintentionally attracts away Xuefang’s usual male customers, which makes Xuefang jealous. Secondly, she does not realize that Supervisor Lin expects something in return for having done her a favor. When work is over, he waits eagerly for Cuifen at the front door. Cuifen would rather Guohua walk her home. Lin lies to her and says that the young man has left. It snows heavily outside and Cuifen has no other excuse. At this time, Guohua walks out of the store. Seeing Cuifen stepping inside Lin’s car, he is very disappointed. The misunderstanding between Guohua and Cuifen soon clears up, and they make plans to see a play on New Year’s Eve. But at the last minute before Cuifen steps outside her house, she receives an invitation from Youji for the 1932 New Year’s Party. Cuifen’s mother and sister-in-law, motivated by greed, decide that she should go to her boss’s party. This mistake costs her dearly. Guohua, totally disappointed by Cuifen’s inability to keep her promises, runs into colleague Ruilan (Ai Xia) outside the theater. The two watch the play together. Meanwhile, at the party, Cuifen is disgusted by Youji’s appalling advances, and leaves. She goes directly to Guohua’s place for comfort only to find him in the intimate company of the delighted Ruilan. Cuifen is totally defeated. At this time, Cuifen’s successful model Miss Yang informs her that there is no need to be pessimistic or passive. Encouraged by her neighbor, Cuifen wants to be transferred back to the packing department. When rejected, she quits and walks out of the store. She works diligently, and eventually saves enough money to open her own shop. As the captions at the beginning of the film state, the film is an abstract incident from a woman’s life. It is about issues of equality between men and women, and about “how to

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find solutions through struggle.” Who finds solutions through struggle? The subject of this sentence is missing. In the film, it is Cuifen; but in real life, it was the filmmakers. To the disappointment of both critics and viewers, the film neither made Cuifen equal with men nor found a realistic solution for her problems. Cuifen deals with two kinds of men in The Cosmetic Market. One is the playboy which includes Supervisor Lin, Zhang Youji, the son of the manager, and the male customers at the cosmetics department. These men control the world in which Cuifen tries to obtain her independence. Cuifen struggles totally on her own to gain equality with them in their world, but they only regard her and her female colleagues as playthings. It is obvious that they will never treat her as an equal. The second type is Qian Guohua, who is socially and economically equal with Cuifen, but is too weak to win Cuifen’s affections. Overall, there are three kinds of women from whom Cuifen can select her role models. The first type is Xuefang, the modern metropolitan femme fatale, who uses her sex appeal to get what she wants from men; the film portrays her negatively. The second one is the traditional homemakers who are supported by their husbands, like Cuifen’s sister-in-law; however, she is totally helpless after her husband’s death. And the last type, Miss Yang, who seems to have it all. But the film never explains how she is able to have a lavish love life while keeping her career. Her role in the film is too vague and too idealized to be convincing.41 Nevertheless, Cuifen obviously looks up to her for inspiration and guidance. Compared with Metropolitan Scenes and The Sainted Woman, The Cosmetic Market has made progress toward highlighting women’s issues in that it tried to offer a solution to women’s problems. Nevertheless, this solution is undermined by two major elements in the film. The first is the environment in which these women obtain their independence. The second element is the price women have to pay in order to be independent. In The Cosmetics Market, liberated women are interpreted as being financially independent, using Cuifen’s own words, “Kao ziji chifan” (to make a living on my own). Ironically, these women, including Cuifen, try to liberate themselves in an environment in which they are not likely to be liberated. As Su Feng, a film critic in the 1930s, pointed out, on the surface, the fact that these women work is a symbol of women’s career development. Nevertheless, in reality, these women clerks are like the decorated toys next to them in the department store, functioning as a live signboard. Additionally, claims Su Feng, the female shop clerks are also sacrificed by the capitalists under the good name of “women’s career.” This should be viewed as a submerged reef for the future of women’s careers.42 Su’s point is insightful considering that most of these “career” women in the film do not seem to need to work, as Cuifen noticed on her first day at work. As a sign of her growth, Cuifen eventually walks out of the cosmetic department, and years later, opens her own shop. The film has already established that Cuifen does not wish to move up the social ladder through the help of men, and she has to support several members of her family. In the real world, the money saved from working as a clerk may not be enough to buy a store. As a matter of fact, the way she is able to save enough money to operate her own shop has been a matter of discussion since the film was made in 1933. The original plan was to end the movie this way: Cuifen, disgusted by her treatment at the cosmetic department, requests that she be transferred back to the packing department. When this is denied, she leaves Peide Department Store and walks into the crowds on the street. “Now, she realizes that in order for her to change the fate of suffering women, she

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should be part of the mass and welcome the hard struggle and the future life.”43 This claim is supported by Xia Yan’s statement published on May 15, 1933, where he tried to separate his intention from that of Mingxing Film Company. In this statement Xia Yan declared that the altered ending is totally unrealistic because being a lowly clerk, Cuifen can never have enough money to buy a shop. Xia emphasized that his original theme is to show that the resolution of the modern women’s liberation movement is part of the resolution of the problems of the whole society.44 It appears that Zhang Shichuan, the director and one of the owners of Mingxing Film Company, was pressured by the censors, and had to change the ending in order to obtain permission to show the film.45 This incident reveals that all the elements should be considered when analyzing films. The making of The Cosmetics Market is a perfect example of why it is necessary to do so. This situation determined how far the left-wing filmmakers could carry their progressive messages.46 The second element that undermines the solution is that the filmmakers suggest that women need to detach themselves totally from men in order to gain their independence and freedom. This is misleading and unrealistic. In the story, Cuifen’s realization that “other than being insulted and bullied by men, women have no future” is based on two bad experiences. One is that she has been sexually harassed by her bosses. But there is no guarantee that this situation will not repeat when she works elsewhere. The other bad experience is seeing her lover Guohua and Ruilan being intimate in his apartment. Cuifen is partially responsible for this situation because she has twice failed to keep her appointments with Guohua. But when Guohua comes to clear up the misunderstanding and begs for forgiveness, Cuifen refuses to take him back. In the end, when Cuifen obtains her independence and success, she is seen alone with her mother, without a lover or a husband. The Cosmetics Market implies that in order for Cuifen to be independent, she has to give up romantic relationships. It is not convincing that Cuifen, being young and beautiful, is able to do so, nor is it a necessity. Her idol Miss Yang seems to have both a career and a love life. However, it is Yang’s love life, not her career success, that attracts Cuifen’s attention. Earlier in the film, when on the first day Cuifen returns from her job at the department store, she sees Miss Yang’s shadow projected on a window where Yang is passionately kissing a man. This scene arouses Cuifen’s fantasy and admiration. At the end of the story, Guohua, her former lover, walks into Cuifen’s shop with his wife Ruilan and their baby, a happy family Cuifen could have had but has given up for her independence. This tradeoff may not be as significant as the film wants the audience to believe. How can Cuifen suppress her natural urge based on one incident? The contradictions in this story demonstrate the difficulties Chinese men seemed to have with the representation of Chinese women. Ironically, it is Guohua, who speaks as the male commentator of the film, that evaluates Cuifen’s accomplishment. “Isn’t this something?” Guohua says to his wife as the couple walk out of Cuifen’s store. “She’s made it this far through struggle.” So the film reveals the filmmakers’ impractical solutions to women’s problems. The gender misunderstanding is sometimes a universal issue. In She Married Her Boss (d: Gregory La Cava; s: Columbia Pictures, 1935), the female protagonist Julie Scott (played by Claudette Colbert) chooses staying at home over a successful career after she married her boss. “Marriage,” says Julie, “that’s a woman’s real career.” This choice annoys her

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husband, who complains: “I’ve always known you as a competent, sensible woman whose career meant something to her.” As their problem becomes more accelerated, it is the husband’s five-year-old daughter who seems to understand what is wrong. “The trouble with you is that you don’t know anything about women,” she tells her father. And, to her stepmother, the girl says: “You just don’t know anything about men.” There is no question that The Cosmetics Market meant to be more progressive than She Married Her Boss in advocating women’s independ-ence. Cuifen is portrayed as pure and innocent, a precious product of Shanghai on its way to a modern era, an ideal as long as she is still young and has no other needs in life other than to be financially independent. She can only be independent as long as she is totally detached from her womanhood. Considering the admiration Cuifen has for Miss Yang’s private life, how long can Cuifen enjoy her life, given that she is still young and extremely attractive, before she feels the absence of love and need for a family? Is a woman’s sacrifice of her emotional life a must for her independence? The problem with The Cosmetics Market is that these male filmmakers cast their role models for Chinese women without fully understanding what a woman really needs.

IN A MAN’S WORLD, WOMEN HELP WOMEN Shi Nan’s biography of movie star Shu Xiuwen (1915–1969), published in 1991, records an event: When Shu Xiuwen first came to Shanghai at the age of fifteen in 1931 to pursue a career as an actress, she was with a lover who was twice her age. Soon she found out that her lover already had two wives and had no plan to marry her or to help her find a job. The young woman, desperate and penniless, ran to singer Li Lianli for help. Li had just introduced Shu to Tianyi Film Company to work as a Mandarin tutor. Now she invited Shu to stay with her until Shu could find her own place to live. When Shu thanked Li for her generosity, the singer replied: “Please don’t stand on ceremony. We are all women. In this world, if women don’t help women, who can help us?”47 Women helping women is a common theme in the Chinese films of the 1930s (and 1940s). In The Cosmetics Market, Cuifen’s eventual enlightenment and success are achieved with the inspiration of her beloved neighbor Miss Yang. Several films produced by Mingxing Film Company during the same period often attribute women’s problems to their relationships with men. Consequently, they call for women to help women. This sometimes is the solution of the urban bourgeois for women’s problems. Nothing expresses this theme better than Twin Sisters. Twin Sisters (Zimei hua) was written and directed by Zheng Zhengqiu (1888–1935) in 1933. Zheng was one of the founders of Mingxing Film Company. Unlike his colleague Zhang Shichuan, who has often been portrayed as a shrewd business comprador, and unlike those radical left-wing filmmakers gathered at Lianhua Film Company, Zheng Zhengqiu wanted films to better society and to educate the populace. In this sense, Zheng was a reformist. Later, after the Japanese bombed Shanghai, Zheng Zhengqiu, brought up the “Three Anti” slogans that included “anti-impe-rialism, anti-capitalism and antifeudalism.”48 He wrote, directed and produced many famous films during the 1920s and 1930s, including The Hard-Made Couple (Nanfu nanqi),49 The Orphan Saves His Grandfather (Gu’er jiuzu ji), The Burning of Red Lotus Temple (Huoshao Honglian si),

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and so on. Zheng was particularly sympathetic towards suffering women and he made nearly thirty films about them.50 Twin Sisters was Zheng’s last representative work before his death two years later. Shen Xiling assisted in the directing. The film was a great hit, “filling its opening theatre for 60 days before appearing in 28 provinces and 53 towns around China, as well as in Hong Kong and South-East Asia. Its receipts of 200,000 yuan broke all records.”51 The film was one of the most popular family melodramas ever produced by Mingxing Film Company. The popularity of the film is partially attributed to the smooth, emotional52 narrative style of Zheng Zhengqiu and two powerful performances by the leading actresses, Hu Die and Xuan Jinglin. The success of the film helped to better Mingxing’s troubled financial situation. In Twin Sisters, Dabao and Erbao (both beautifully played by Hu Die) were separated at an early age by their father Zhao Da, who had been jailed for selling weapons illegally. Zhao Da took Erbao with him to a city in search of a better life. Zhao Da was not an ordinary, honest countryman. He never contacted his wife after he left. Years later, Dabao, who remained in the countryside with her mother (played by Xuan Jinglin), married a young countryman, Taoge, whom she had known since her childhood. They had one child. Dabao’s mother and Taoge’s father also lived with them. The peaceful rural family life was soon interrupted by disasters. Dabao’s father-in-law was shot to death by local gangsters. In the fights between these gangsters and government soldiers, the family had to flee for their safety. Travelling with other refugees, they came to a city in Shandong. Following her father Zhao Da’s orders, Dabao’s twin sister Erbao became the seventh wife of a powerful and wealthy warlord surnamed Qian, meaning “money.” When Erbao interviews a group of wet nurses, including Dabao, for her new-born son, the twin sisters meet after many years of separation, but do not know that they are related. Although the two sisters share the same roots, they are at opposite ends of society now. Dabao is hired to nurse Erbao’s son. Now, Erbao is rich and abusive; Dabao, poor but very kind. The institution of motherhood makes the one exploited directly by the other. The film suggests that this kind of family misfortune only has one person to blame, their father. One condition of Dabao’s employment is that she may not have any contact with her family for three years. Back at home, her loved ones are struggling to make ends meet. Taoge seriously injures himself while working at the construction site. Now the burden of supporting the whole family falls on Dabao’s shoulders. She needs money badly so that her husband can get medical attention. When she goes to Erbao to ask for a one-month advance on her salary to save her family, Erbao turns her down and slaps her face. Desperate, Dabao sees a golden locket on the neck of Erbao’s son. Hesitant for a while, the temptation of saving her family overcomes all other considerations and fears. She takes the locket, but her action is seen by Miss Qian, Erbao’s sister-in-law. In a struggle between the two women, a big ceramic jar accidentally falls and hits Miss Qian on the head, killing her instantly. Dabao is thus arrested. The head jailer happens to be Zhao Da, Erbao and Dabao’s father. Until this moment, neither Zhao Da nor Erbao knows that the prisoner is linked to them by blood. When Dabao’s mother comes to visit her jailed daughter, she recognizes Zhao Da, the husband whom she has not seen for many years. Zhao Da, now rich and powerful, is very embarrassed by the presence of his old, shabby and abandoned country wife. By now, he has not only been promoted socially through Erbao’s marriage, but has also married

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another woman. He fears that his family scandal will damage his reputation, so he tries desperately to buy this old woman off. When this fails, he gathers his two daughters and their mother for a family reunion dinner. After everyone arrives, he informs Erbao that the old woman is her mother, and the prisoner is her sister. After an emotional period of recollection of what went right and wrong during the past years, the mother and daughter, and the twin sisters reconcile. Erbao decides to ask her husband to help her free her sister. Her decision frightens Zhao Da, who fears that this may jeopardize his and Erbao’s social positions. But the three women walk out on him and get into a car together. Twin Sisters is a typical Mingxing Film Company family melodrama although the implications go beyond the commonly referred poor-versus-rich theme.53 Some critics in the 1930s believed that the investment of human emotions was the key to the popularity of this film.54 What is emphasized more than everything else are the gender conflicts in a patriarchal society. Zheng Zhengqiu showed that women were marginal figures in the family in the early twentieth century.55 In Twin Sisters, all three women are victims of male dominance, and the antagonists are two men, Zhao Da and General Qian. The clash of Manichean opposites, between men and women, is carefully developed through melodramatic plotting. Zhao Da, the father, abandoned his wife and daughter Dabao, a mean and unforgivable act. He used his daughter Erbao’s marriage to advance his career. He shows no feelings when he realizes that the very prisoner he jails is his own flesh and blood. General Qian, in addition to engaging in wars and killing people, exploits women, including Erbao. The victims are women, especially the twin sisters and their mother. The reunion of mother and daughter is that of a melodramatic one. The recollection of the past involves identification of the evil (Zhao Da, the man) and the weak (the mother and Erbao, the women), which bring mother and daughter close. By now, both women, Erbao and the mother, see themselves as victims of the same male bully, and it is in this shared experience that the women become close. At first Erbao, who stands next to her father to the right side of the screen, refuses to accept the poor old country woman, who is standing at the left side of screen, as her mother. “Erbao, you now only know your father, not your mother anymore,” the mother sighs. “But I think you must often remember the scar on your arm.” Subconsciously looking at her arm, facing her mother, Erbao listens very attentively. “One day, your father was smoking pig skin to go with is alcohol. At that time, you were very little,” the mother recalls. “You accidentally knocked over half a bowl of his wine. Your father was so angry that he started to hit you with a fire-tong that was red hot. I went over to stop him. I used my arm to block him….” Erbao’s facial expression has changed from disdainful and hateful to surprise. Slowly, she moves away from her father, and gets closer to her mother. Now the two women occupy the front of the frame, leaving Zhao Da in the back. The mother continues: “However, your father still wanted to beat you, and he injured both of us. I think even now, both of our arms still bear the same mark!” At this point, tears run down her eyes. The mother wipes her tears with her sleeve, and sighs with emotion, saying: “Now you are the wife of a general. You no longer acknowledge your poor mother….” The film cuts to Dabao, who has been listening to her mother’s story. She now looks at her mother and Erbao, totally surprised. Both the mother and Erbao have rolled up their sleeves. There is a scar on mother’s left arm and one on Erbao’s right arm. When the two women put their arms together, a close-up shot reveals that the scars are joined. Erbao’s eyes

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widened, staring at the joined scar. All kinds of thoughts run through her mind. After a while, she lets down her arm, pitifully looks at the woman, and addresses her: “Mother!” Then she cries: “My poor mother!” She leans on her mother’s shoulder and begins to cry. The entire scene took four shots and lasted for only three minutes and seven seconds. But the two women are connected immediately, not just as mother and daughter, but more as the victims of the same man who has scarred them: Zhao Da. Dabao also shares her mother’s blame of her father Zhao Da for her sufferings. Why shouldn’t she? When she was young, she worked in the fields to help the family, and developed a skin ulcer on her face. Her father thought this would bring him bad luck, so he took only the unblemished Erbao with him and left Dabao at home struggling with her mother. Dabao was left behind because she could not be used by her father. Now the same man wants to use his power to punish her for Miss Qian’s death. He does so not because of any sense of justice but because he wants to please General Qian, Miss Qian’s brother, from whom he gets his political and social favors. No wonder when her father yells at her “You are too much!” she calls him to account fearlessly: “Who broke the law, you or me?!” This scene of the daughter challenging patriarchal authority is not an unfamiliar one. In D.W.Griffith’s Battle of the Sexes (1928), the father commits adultery with another woman living in the same building. His daughter finds out and is determined to stop him. When the father runs into his daughter at the apartment of his mistress, he starts to scold his daughter. The following is the dramatic intertitle of that scene: Daughter: “You can’t treat me this way! I’ve as much right to be here as YOU have!” Father: “That’s different—I’m a MAN!” Daughter: “Yes—well, I am a WOMAN!” In the melodramatic family worlds of D.W.Griffith and Zheng Zhengqiu, both directors are very sympathetic toward the suffering women and they openly caricature the male authority in the family. The difference is that Zheng Zhengqiu’s melodrama here also involves class difference within the family, which complicates the plot. To director Zheng, gender conflicts sometimes relate to class conflicts. Zheng’s view supports what Teresa De Lauretis claims: “Although the meanings vary with each culture, a sex-gender system is always intimately interconnected with political and economic factors in each society.”56 Because of this, Dabao and her father never reconcile, nor do her parents. However, the women of different backgrounds can and do come together. The reconciliation of the twin sisters is also very melodramatic. Eventually, the two sisters are linked not just by blood, but by viewing themselves as victims of the male dominated world. Earlier when Erbao is angry with her husband who has been cheating on her with a prostitute, she screams at him: “Don’t you dare have the nerve to bother me. Not every woman will let you bully her all her life.” The “you” here Erbao uses is nimen, a plural you, referring to many men. In the film, there is one man, the general, who is seen bullying her, and there is only one man in the room when she says this. What does she mean? What does director Zheng Zhengqiu mean here? Does nimen also include her father Zhao Da? Or perhaps it includes men in general? Twin Sisters was a big box office hit, not just because it touched the theme of division between rich and poor and its class roots, but also because it showed the divisions between Chinese men and women, a

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position every woman could relate to, regardless of social class. It is the resentment of being bullied by men and fear of being abandoned by men. This division is inequality between men and women in every sense that, as many films produced by Mingxing during this time show, is the root of women’s misery. The ultimate curse cast on these women is expressed in Twin Sisters by Dabao in a sincere talk with her twin sister Erbao: “Sister, when you get older, and your murderous husband buys more women and abandons you, you will suffer. But your father, who made his fortune through you, won’t come to your rescue. It is us, the poor people who are down on our luck. It is us, the women who are down on our luck.” The scene of the reconciliation of the twin sisters lasts over ten minutes. Erbao is totally convinced by Dabao’s words and she immediately stands on the side of the suffering women. “Sister, now I understand,” she says to Dabao sincerely. “Earlier, father broke my engagement and forced me to marry the general. All of this is for him, not for me. I definitely want to save you; I definitely want to get you out of here now!” By now, all three women see themselves as victims of Zhao Da in their family, and in this position, they are united as one regardless of their current social differences. Interestingly, the story does not end here. When Zhao Da, fearing of losing his job, attempts to stop Erbao from going to see her husband in order to free her sister, Erbao taunts him: “What?! Did you forget how you got your job?! I am still the general’s wife. What I want to do is beyond your authority!” To that, the father is totally speechless. In Twin Sisters, class is above kinship when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex. But women are consolidated regardless of their class differences. Because Erbao is married to the general, her social position allows her to overpower her father. However, Erbao, as a woman and a daughter, is not exercising her power without caution. Before she leaves the room with her mother and sister, she turns to Zhao Dao and asks for his forgiveness. So, the twin sisters and their mother walk out together, leaving the surprised and defeated father alone in the room. While the division between men and women in the family becomes deeper, women are united as one to help each other. In the cheerful music suggesting a happy ending of this family melodrama, they drive off and thus end the film. Ironically, Dabao’s fate is still in the hands of a man, the general.57

MEN REDEFINING “THE NEW WOMAN” Gender politics in the male-dominated world of left-wing filmmaking is exemplified in cinematic portrayals of “the new woman.” Throughout the 1930s (and 1940s) the concept of the new woman portrayed in Chinese films shifted dramatically. A study of the change will shed considerable light not only on male-female relationships, but also on the general social and political context of that era. Issues related to the characterization of the new woman need to be traced back to the May Fourth Movement. During this movement, women’s liberation became one of the central issues. Such periodicals as The New Women and The Women’s Bell appeared to “rouse women as a means of reforming society” and to “educate women and enable them to take part in the progress of society.”58 After the May Fourth Movement, doors started to open for women to become independent. Coeducation made it possible for girls to go to college. By 1922, twentyeight universities and colleges admitted female students. As Chow Tse-tsung has

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written, “Professional opportunities for women increased. Free marriage was practiced more often. Morality concerning the sexes started to change, and the concept of birth control was introduced.”59 In February 1921, the Women’s Association of Hunan was established and “proposed the realization of five rights for women, i.e., equal right of property inheritance, right to vote and to be elected to office, equal rights of education, equal rights to work, and the right of self-determination in marriage. This was later known as the ‘five proposal movement.’”60 Young women who were educated in the modern style lived in urban centers, had the freedom of love and marriage, and, thus, challenged the traditions that had sustained Chinese society for thousands of years. Such women came to be regarded by many as liberal, bourgeois, modernizing and pro-Western. In the 1920s, these women represented the new ideal for the more socially progressive forces in society. However, according to left-wing filmmakers, this kind of new woman of the May Fourth tradition was likely to become disoriented and helpless once she became detached from school, lost the financial support of her family, and stepped into the world of real life. In the 1930s, it appears, May Fourth-type new women fought a war for independence, but lost; consequently, they lost their title as “the new woman.” Left-wing filmmakers introduced an alternative model: the highly class conscouis left-wing factory worker of the 1930s. The New Woman was written by Sun Shiyi and directed by Cai Chusheng, both leftwingers. Lianhua Film Company produced the film in 1935. During his earlier career, Cai Chusheng, a native of Guangdong, was influenced by Zheng Zhengqiu who also came from Guangdong Province.61 Later, Cai joined the left-wing cinema.62 By the time he was directing The New Woman, he had already made several influential left-wing films including Songs of Fishermen (Yuguang qu) and The Lost Lamb (Mitu de gaoyang). Liberated by the writings of Ibsen and the May Fourth spirit, Wei Ming (beautifully played by Ruan Lingyu) of The New Woman was highly educated in the new style in Beijing soon after the May Fourth period. She learned from the painful experience of her sister, the victim of a traditional marriage. Wei Ming became a product of the new liberal wave. She fell in love with a May Fourth-type young man. When she became pregnant, her father urged her to commit suicide. Instead, she eloped with her lover and they got married. But she soon learned that such a marriage did not guarantee happiness. Fewer than three years later, her husband abandoned her and their daughter. After this experience, Wei Ming left her daughter in the care of her sister and came to Shanghai.63 When Wei Ming starts over again she is twenty-seven years old and alone, working as a music teacher at the Shanghai Yueyu Girl’s Middle School. All the “isms” and options advocated during the May Fourth Movement have failed her. What she faces is the cold reality of modern living in a capitalist metropolis. In the years before the narrative begins, Wei Ming has already been exposed to the May Fourth trends initiated by male intellectuals. Ching-kiu Stephen Chan, who studies ideological representations of the new woman by May Fourth writers, points out: It is little but hindsight for us to suggest today that the misguided practice of the May Fourth iconoclasts was partly rooted in their (the writers) failure to posit a concrete historical as well as textual place for the new women of China. But for the intellectual iconoclasts writing at that particular juncture in history, where contradictions were lived as part of

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everyday reality, the paradox of representation was a fundamental and critical one. Their choice was most difficult to make—between representing the symbolic liberation of women and disrupting the dominant mode of discourse that had initiated the very act of subversion in the first place.64 Detached from her family and husband, Wei Ming struggles to make a living, aimless and resentful in the 1930s (a time described by a film critic in 1935 as being kongqian weiyou de hunluan or “of unprecedented chaos”)65 and adrift in both the upper and lower levels of the society of Shanghai (a place depicted by another film critic in 1935 as nanxing zhongxin de shehui or “a male-centered society”).66 At this time and place, Wei Ming’s worst enemy is men. In her spare time, she likes to do creative writing. But because she refuses to reveal her true identity as a woman, or sometimes because the publishers (all men) are not interested in an unknown author, her manuscripts are rejected. One publisher agrees to publish her latest book, entitled The Grave of Love (Lian’ai de fenmu), only after he realizes how attractive this female author is. The Grave of Love expresses this May Fourth liberal woman’s total disillusionment regarding love and marriage. (This novel contrasts sharply with Feng Yuanjun’s novel, Juanshi [1923], which openly celebrates the romantic love of young women). In everyday life, Wei Ming lives in great contradiction and confusion. She does not believe in love but she seeks out Yu Haitao (played by Zheng Junli), an editor at the Shanghai Publishing House who also came from the May Fourth tradition. Yu Haitao prefers to focus all his energy on his work, and suggests that Wei Ming do the same. On one occasion, he asks Wei Ming to learn from Aying, the left-wing factory worker. Throughout the movie, he appears to speak in the left-wing authoritarian male voice. Ironically, throughout the film he is portrayed as an emotionally and sexually castrated man who fails to respond to Wei Ming’s romantic overtures. Yu Haitao’s rejection pushes Wei close to Wang, a returning Ph.D. from America (played by Wang Naidong) who pursues her relentlessly. Wang lies to Wei Ming about being married. On a lovely summer evening, when Haitao, as usual, refuses to go out with Wei Ming, Dr. Wang shows up and fills the emptiness that Haitao leaves in her. They arrive at a newly opened seaside night club. A few drinks later, she begins to dance madly. After they leave the ballroom, Dr. Wang confidently takes her, by now halfdrunk, to a grand hotel. When she realizes where she is, she becomes furious at him, jumps into a rickshaw and goes directly home. This costs her dearly because Dr. Wang serves on the board of the school where she works. He pressures Principal Wu, offering her two thousand yuan, not to extend Wei Ming’s contract. To make the situation worse, at precisely the time Wei Ming learns that she is jobless, her sister comes to Shanghai for help, bringing Wei Ming’s daughter. Her financial and emotional burdens are enormous. The little girl caught a cold on her way to Shanghai, and, for lack of proper and timely care, she has now developed lung problems. The medical bills are over one hundred twenty-seven yuan. There is no way Wei Ming can afford this. The physical location of Wei Ming’s apartment, like her position in society, is between one neighbor Aying (played by Yin Xu), a progressive female worker, and Xu Taitai, an old lady who lives off her daughter’s prostitution.67 Aying teaches female workers at a night school run by the factory. While Wei Ming is lost in her own thoughts

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at a dance, listening to the popular erotic song “Peach Blossom River,” there is a reverse shot of Aying teaching women workers a revolutionary song titled “Huangpu River.” The old lady Xu regards Wei Ming’s youth and beauty as commodities, and suggests that she use them to get a rich husband. Nevertheless, individualism and the other modern notions that Wei Ming has accepted from the May Fourth Movement make her unwilling to follow in the footsteps of a mere woman factory worker. Wei Ming is much more interested in her own happiness and the pleasures to be found in the city. On the other hand, the purely pragmatic and materialist life that Xu Taitai advocates is too vulgar for her highly educated and sensitive mind. Wei Ming struggles between these two kinds of women and two kinds of lives, hoping to find a new social space for herself. Unfortunately, she never finds one. She cannot even find another job. And the cold her daughter caught has now become pneumonia. Xu Taitai takes advantage of the situation and eventually talks Wei Ming into selling her body for money. To her shock, her very first customer is Dr. Wang. Wang is surprised, too, because just a few days before, Wei Ming had rejected his marriage proposal and his expensive diamond ring. This situation, coupled with Wang’s verbal insults, leads Wei Ming to desperation. She runs out on him and tries to kill herself in her apartment, only to be stopped by her sister. Half curious and half vengeful, Dr. Wang shows up at her home and continues to abuse her verbally. When Aying comes to her rescue, Wang and Aying get into a very intense physical confrontation. The proletarian Aying is strong and fearless, and she breaks the bourgeois Dr. Wang’s walking stick (Figure 10) and throws him out. This is a very symbolic scene. Aying not only saves another woman, but also physically and spiritually overpowers a “modern,” upper-class man. Not many left-wing films have projected the conflict between men and women, and between upper class and lower class this directly and intensely. Although she is saved from Dr. Wang’s attack, and her first book, The Graveyard of Love, is in print, Wei Ming’s misery does not end here. Eventually, her daughter, Xiaohong, dies from lack of medical attention. Moreover, taking his revenge on Wei Ming, Wang lies to Qi Weide, the editor of the Shanghai Publishing Company, about having had a relationship with Wei Ming. Like those of Dr. Wang, Qi’s earlier sexual advances to Wei Ming were fruitless. So, the journalist wants to get even with this woman, who is now quite helpless. Totally desperate, Wei Ming takes sleeping pills after her daughter’s death. As the doctor tries to revive her, Qi comes in and records the event. Ironically, while Wei Ming is still alive in the hospital fighting for her life, her photo and Qi’s article reporting her suicide appear in the newspaper. All the bourgeois men in the story fail Wei Ming. These figures are all May Fourthtype modern men. Wei Ming’s struggles against them only lead to self-stigmatization and self-destruction. This further indicates that the socalled bourgeois women’s liberation movement failed to generate a society in which women can realize their hopes for equality with men and for independence. As a new woman, Wei Ming has failed in every sense. The May Fourth dream turned into a nightmare. Wei Ming tries to detach herself from her motherhood. She leaves her daughter, Xiaohong, with her sister so she can freely pursue her dreams in Shanghai. In The New Woman, Wei Ming’s motherly devotion comes into focus very slowly. When her sister is forced to bring Xiaohong to

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Shanghai, Wei Ming first puts them in a hotel, so no one will learn of the existence of the little girl. Her sister and Xiaohong move in with her only when she has no other choice. One is tempted to side with Chan to “read the dilemma of modern Chinese realism as a crisis in the formation of ‘self’ for the women within a ‘new’ sociocultural space still very much organized by a language that spoke of despair through the patriarchal voice.”68 In the movie, Wei Ming’s failure as a new woman makes it necessary for the male leftwing filmmakers to redefine the term. It is in this respect that Aying claims our attention. The comparison between the two women is developed gradually. Unlike some May Fourth literature of the early 1920s where the new women’s physical attractiveness often works to their advantage, Wei Ming’s beauty in the 1930s always invites unwanted sexual advances. Aying appears plain by contrast. She does not take over the spotlight, yet she is omnipresent. Wei Ming is highly educated and often associates herself with people from “the upper class.” Aying is proletarian and seeks out people who work with their hands. As an individual, Wei Ming’s helplessness and self-destructiveness contrast sharply with Aying, who is more constructive and lives in the company of many other women. This contrast further signifies a shift in the definition of the new woman. Wei Ming enters the story as a fancy new woman from Beijing who has been immersed in the new ways of thinking, while Aying is introduced as an ordinary worker and night school teacher. Keeping in mind the reality of Shanghai in 1935, when this film was made, one realizes that the concept of the new woman has shifted from Wei Ming to Aying. This displacement of positions occurs early in the movie, when Wei Ming returns in the morning after dancing with Dr. Wang. She meets Aying, who is on her way to work, at a street corner. The two women exchange a few words of greeting and then depart. Wei Ming watches Aying walk away, carrying some books under her arm. The morning is very quiet, and there are only a few workers cleaning the streets. From Wei Ming’s perspective, we see Aying’s shadow (carried out with a rare extreme close up) projected on a wall (Figure 11), so huge that Wei Ming is totally overshadowed by it. From helping Wei Ming to saving her, and ultimately replacing her in the story, Aying a new standard for the new woman. The movie gradually shifts its focus from Wei Ming to Aying, from the May Fourth, educated bourgeois woman to the 1930s proletarian woman with a collective identity. Aying, the factory worker, is the one who possesses real strength and power. As Wei Ming lies in the hospital bed shouting “I want to live!” and “I want my revenge,” life continues at the nightclub she once visited, where we see Dr. Wang with a new dance partner. As Wei Ming is dying, she hears politically progressive songs echoing from Aying’s classroom. The final replacement of the May Fourth new woman of the 1920s by the proletarian new woman of the 1930s is realized the morning after Wei Ming’s death. Dr. Wang throws the previous night’s newspaper out of his car. A little girl in the crowd sees the picture of Wei Ming in the paper and, curious, bends down to pick it up, only to be stopped by an older woman worker next to her. The paper is then stepped on by many feet. Finally, the wind blows the newspaper away. Wei Ming becomes a forgotten page of history, gone with the wind.69 At this moment, we see Aying among a group of workers headed to the factory. The morning sun shines on them. What, then, is the message of The New Woman? Although the movie does not offer an explicit discussion of the subject, “The Song of New Women,” the striking tune sung by Aying and the other women factory workers, underscores the evolving definition of the

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new woman. In the film, Aying writes the song and Wei Ming composes the music. But in real life, all of these jobs were done by the left-wing Chinese male filmmakers.70 The song has six parts. The first three describe the hard life of new women (mainly urban factory workers). They get up while other people are still sleeping. They go to their factories before the sun rises. They work twelve hours a day. They repeat this routine regardless of the weather. Their lives are just as hard as men’s. Of special interest is the fourth part, which warns women not to enjoy any emotional or material pleasure, and encourages them to work:

No matter we have time or not, we should try hard! Don’t be afraid of heavy burdens, we should throw out our chests! Don’t dream about romantic love, we should respect ourselves! Don’t live a parasitic life, we should work! New Women, born in suffering; New Women, born in wakening! Part five suggests that women should not be slaves of wealth, power and deception all their lives. By working they will never be poor. Part six, the core of the song, advocates that new women be the pioneers of a new society:

New women, are the female mass of production; New women, are the workers of society; New women, are the pioneers to build a new society; New women, should be like men in the changing storm of time! Storm! We should use it to waken our nation from its dream! Storm! We should use it to build a gallery for women! Don’t be slaves, be masters under heaven! No division between men and women! The world in great harmony!

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New women, bravely march forward; New women, bravely march forward! What is wrong with the portrayal of Aying? As a political figure, her positive role in history is very vague and short lived. Entering the 1940s, she will be totally overshadowed by the better educated and more sophisticated urban “female fighters.”71 As a woman, it is obvious that the character of Aying lacks femininity in both her appearance and behavior. Does this mean that Chinese women have to give up their femininity in order to serve Chinese society? Does this mean that the ideal “new woman” is a man?72 The portrayal of Aying reveals the radical, yet impractical, proposal for Chinese women put forward by left-wing filmmakers.73 In sum, the theme of gender relations is one of the central issues in the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s. The portrayals of urban women as empty-headed gold diggers, helpless prostitutes, emotionally drained career women, spoiled concubines or sexless urban “women workers” reveal the ideological confusion and ambiguity of these left-wing filmmakers about women’s roles in society. A further explanation can be found in Kay Ann Johnson’s critical study of the twentieth-century Chinese family crisis. According to Johnson, “the political and cultural obstacles confronting women’s rights and family reform advocates within the revolutionary movement increased” when in the late 1920s, the CCP’s revolutionary strategy shifted from the urban areas to rural areas, where the primary constituency was made up of poor male peasants caught in the throes of social disruption.74 The best explanation is in The Bible of Women (Nü’er jing) of 1934.75 This film was directed by nine male directors of Mingxing Film Company: Zhang Shichuan, Cheng Bugao, Shen Xiling, Yao Sufeng, Zheng Zhengqiu, Xu Yinfu, Li Pingqian, Chen Kengran and Wu Cun. The left-wing activists Xia Yan, Zheng Zhengqiu, Hong Shen, Aying, Zheng Boqi, Shen Xiling, also all male, contributed to the screen writing. The central message is summarized by Hu Ying, the female protagonist (played by Hu Die) who explains why Chinese women could not be equal with men. “Equality, equality, men and women as equals. This is only empty talk even now. It is impossible for us women to be liberated in the hands of men. We can only liberate ourselves.” Ironically, soon after Hu Ying finishes, Zheng Zhongxian, a revolutionary, speaking as a male authority figure, validates her complaint. Suggesting that there are other priorities on men’s minds, he says to her and the other women: “It is not wrong for you to ask for independence and self-liberation. However, if the masses are not liberated, no freedom or equality can be thorough.” This kind of attitude explains why women’s issues became secondary in the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s. Chapter 4 of this book, entitled “Self and Society,” shall discuss how, in the left-wing Chinese films, women’s personal happiness is sacrificed for the nation’s salvation.

Chapter Four Self and Society “A new journey has just begun in my life. I should not leave. I should stay…. No, no. A person should live according to her own ability and strength. I can’t depend on him. Perhaps he will look down on me. I should leave him. I should leave him.” –Xiao Yang in Crossroads

After losing her job, Xiao Yang, a young and educated woman, has to choose between depending on the man she has just fallen in love with or struggling to make it on her own in Shen Xiling’s 1937 Crossroads (Shizi jietou). Here, she chooses the latter only to learn shortly that neither option is available in 1937. From the May Fourth Movement of the late 1910s to the time the Sino-Japanese war broke out in the late 1930s, the representation of the relationship between self and society in Chinese film and literature went through several stages.1 Self was first liberated from the feudal tradition (the traditional family or the system of arranged marriage) in the 1910s and early 1920s. Following this was the short-lived “self realization,” says Leo Ou-fan Lee.2 Entering the late 1920s and early 1930s, in left-wing Chinese films, self could not stand by itself in society. (This was especially true for the “new woman” of the May Fourth tradition who had great difficulty coping with the social reality of the 1930s.3) Writers such as Mao Dun, Lao She and others all wrote about the defeated self-realization in their novels. “The sense of common purpose that had prevailed during the early 1920s had long since vanished,” says Theodore Huters in a study of the transformation of the May Fourth Era.4 The third stage shows that in both Chinese film and fiction, with the increasing threat of the Japanese aggression and the eventual invasion in 1937, these individuals united to fight for the freedom of the nation.5 In cinema, such directors as Ying Yunwei (1909–1978), Shen Xiling (1904–1940), Sun Yu (1900–1990) and others in the 1930s, by politicizing space, demonstrated the relationship of self and society. Ying Yunwei and Shen Xiling’s approach started from the negation of self. In their films, individuals are often already detached from their families and origins. By reducing their private space or creating misunderstanding between the characters, these directors criticize the emphasis on self in a time of national crisis. Sun Yu, on the other hand, argues that China as a nation can not be built until self is strengthened. In the end these directors allowed their characters to ultimately succeed only by interacting in public space as part of the larger group. Hence, they celebrated collectivity and unity, suggesting that only by so doing, could these individuals occupy a position in social space for the freedom and betterment of their nation.

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In the Chinese language, several words can communicate the Western concept of “self.” Among these, si, nei and zi are used most often. In addition to self, si and nei also mean private. Self is defined in the dictionary as “the entire person of an individual,” “the realization of embodiment of an abstraction,” “the union of elements (as body, emotions, thoughts, sensations) that constitute the individuality and identity of a person.”6 In this sense, self is very close to the meaning of individuality,7 which refers to “total character peculiar to and distinguishing an individual from others,” and “personality.”8 The word “society” means “a community, nation, or broad grouping of people having common traditions, institutions, and collective activities and interests.”9 The Chinese equivalent to the English word “society” ranges from gong (public or community), shehui (society) to minzu (nation) and guojia (country). The relationship between self and society, often centering on the conflict between si and gong, has been defined and redefined repeatedly throughout Chinese history.10 In Chinese literature, says Leo Ou-fan Lee, “it is this troubled and often adverse relationship between self and society that forms the central motif in May Fourth literature.”11 Generally speaking, si frequently connotes negative meanings in Chinese culture, while gong is often regarded positively. The expression dagong wusi is used to praise someone or an institution for being “selfless,” “unselfish” or “perfectly impartial.” Although in modern Chinese history, individualism12 was often treated as an “imported” concept from the West, some scholars located the concept in much earlier Chinese cultural texts. For example, de Bary sees the Taoist or Buddhist recluse or hermit as an example of individualism, and believes this kind of individualism possesses a positive aspect in “affirming the individual’s freedom from society and his own transcendent value.” At the same time, however, when de Bary examines this kind of individualism from the standpoint of society, he sees it quite negatively because it has no effect on the status of other individuals in society.13 Chinese Confucian tradition emphasizes one’s responsibility to society, humanity and family obligations. Self-transcendence should be attained by “overcoming selfishness in one’s daily life, identifying with others, and coming to an awareness of man’s ethical and cultural activity as participating in the creative process of Heaven-and-earth.”14 So, when comparing the “self” in the Confucian cultural context with the “self” known in the West, de Bary felt that they are not the same concept, because the Chinese individual was meant to “sacrifice more to the group than he got in return.”15 The liberation of self has been said to be one of the main issues in the May Fourth Movement (1917–1921). However, a closer examination shows that there was no uniform agreement at that time regarding the relationships between self and society. Leading cultural activists realized that it was essential for individuals to break free from the chains of Chinese tradition. In the war against Confucianism, many people, from different points of view, pushed individuality to its utmost. New Youth, the leading magazine at the time, demanded that education should “encourage individuality rather than assert the traditional authority of educators.”16 Some radicals cut off their family ties completely and even went so far as to refuse to use their family names. Some felt that individual freedom should not be sacrificed for the sovereign and the state.17 This kind of May Fourth individualism, as Leo Ou-fan Lee points out critically, is “a prevailing ethos focusing on the centrality of the self and its assertive independence from the bonds of traditional social relations.”18 To Guo Moruo and other patriotic intellectuals of that time, however,

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the liberation of individuality was one of the ways to obtain the liberation of nation and society, not just of the individual.19 In a study on the “writing self” in Lu Xun’s “Diary of a Madman” (Kuangren riji) and Yu Dafu’s “Sinking” (Chenlun), Yi-tsi Mei Feuerwerker noticed that “both of these early May Fourth stories dramatize the ambiguous status of the self while simultaneously invoking and subverting, in ironic or contradictory ways, the old literary tradition.”20 Although the concept of “nation” in China can be traced back to the beginning of the century, the realization of national crises by intellectuals came about when China failed repeatedly to defend itself, and when Western modernity spread its power inside China.21 The May Thirtieth Incident of 1925 created an anti-imperialist sentiment that roiled China. By 1926, when the Northern Expedition set out from Guangdong, three revolutions broke out, the political revolution to establish a strong national government, the anti-imperialist revolution to end foreign privileges in China, and the social revolution—class against class.22 Chiang Kai-shek’s Nanjing Nationalist Government, established in the spring of 1927, and functioning as a main political force between 1927–1937, was criticized for lacking “an essential element needed for creation of a modern nation-state—the political mobilization of the entire citizenry—and its power was therefore circumscribed.”23 The fervent urge to claim Chinese nationness became more evident in 1931 when the Japanese invaded Dongbei and then bombed Shanghai in 1932. This situation, coupled with a rise in world silver prices and bad floods on the Yangtze, caused the Chinese economy to weaken.24 As a result, a full-force economic depression struck Shanghai in 1934. Between 1933 and the first half of 1935, the money market tightened, business failures became epidemic and the unemployment rate increased.25 Under these social and economic conditions, there arose a critical shortage of food and shelter in Shanghai. Young people who just started out found it very difficult to find jobs in order to support themselves and their families. The all-powerful emphasis on individualism that mushroomed during the May Fourth period collapsed in these films. The individual self was seen as selfish and powerless while collectivity was the “abstract, absolute, and autonomous embodiment of power and action, a source of meaning and direction above and beyond the will and action of the multitude of transitory individual existence.”26 The polarization between self and society reached its climax, and there was no middle ground between these two ends. Such was the political and social context of left-wing filmmaking in the 1930s.

THE POLES OF SELF AND SOCIETY FACED BY COLLEGE GRADUATES The Plunder of Peach and Plum (Taoli jie),27 also known as The Fate of College Students, was the first film produced by Diantong Film Studio, a studio with substantial left-wing influence in the 1930s.28 It was director Ying Yunwei’s first film. He was blessed with the support of Yuan Muzhi, one of the most talented left-wing filmmakers of the 1930s, whose skills ranged from acting and writing to brilliant directing. The Plunder of Peach and Plum was Yuan’s first screenplay. He also played the leading character, Tao Jianping, in the film. His real life wife, Chen Bo’er, also a left-wing film activist,

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played his screen wife Li Lilian. Both Ying Yunwei and Yuan Muzhi received help from Xia Yan,29 a Chinese Communist Party member, and leader of the left-wing Chinese cinema. The cooperative relationship of Ying and Yuan continued in several other leftwing films including Fight to the End (Shengsi tongxin) in which Ying directed Yuan in the roles of two different characters in a single film (Mingxing Company, 1936). The Plunder of Peach and Plum was praised in 1934 for its “realistic” portrayal of college graduates, and the filmmakers were applauded for their courage in their straight forward approach to the reality of contemporary China.30 The Plunder of Peach and Plum portrays the lives of two young college graduates in Shanghai. It follows the complete process of their private life from love and marriage to childbirth and death. In this process, Ying Yunwei and Yuan Muzhi revealed the polarity between self and society at a time of economic and national crisis. Newly graduated, Tao Jianping and his bride, Li Lilian, are optimistic and idealistic about their future. They are together as a pair, and their goal is to better the society they inhabit. But this goal is carried out through working honestly in a job in the existing social environment of Shanghai during the 1930s. As a result, their enthusiasm is soon cooled when they cannot continue to work because of corruption and sexual harassment. Eventually Lilian becomes seriously ill, and dies from lack of medication. Jianping cannot raise their infant by himself, and ends up giving the child away. He is arrested and sentenced to death for having stolen money to save his sick wife. To depict this tragedy, Ying Yunwei presents The Plunder of Peach and Plum within constantly diminishing configurations of private space. The protagonists begin their lives in a small house. Later, they are forced to move to a smaller apartment after Jianping has to quit his job, and soon, they have to move again to an even smaller room for lack of money. The last scene takes place in a jail cell, conveying a sense of ultimate confinement, physically and emotionally. The subjective space, symbolizing the character’s dreams and hopes, also changes from the limitless innocence of youth to the dead-end desperation of bitter experience. The Plunder of Peach and Plum, told in a flashback, begins at the protagonists’ graduation. The auditorium of Jianye Architectural School, where the graduation ceremony is being held, symbolizes the beginning and the apex of Jianping and Lilian’s dream. Space here is transitional between public and private because the protagonists are about to enter both society and marriage. Space here is also symbolic. On one level, it is pure and innocent, reflected by the whiteness of the students’ clothing. A long shot reveals many large, bright windows, and a central aisle leads all the way to the front of the room. On another level, space is militant and revolutionary as the students sing Tian Han and Nie Er’s “Graduation Song” which suggests that one should fight for national freedom over the betterment of oneself.31 Through Jianping’s subjective eyes, the auditorium appears imposing, magnificent and full of the promise of great expectations as the camera moves forward. To fully understand the left-wing filmmakers’ progressive notion, one can compare the school scene of The Plunder of Peach and Plum with that of von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel that was made four years earlier in 1930.32 While Professor Ruth’s callous students in The Blue Angel seem to have nothing more meaningful to do than to play pranks on their poor teacher and to go to a nightclub to watch an alluring singer called Lola Lola (played by Marlene Dietrich), the Chinese

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students declare their readiness to work for the betterment of their society and to fight enemies to the death in battle. In The Plunder of Peach and Plum, the configuration of the protagonists’ transitional space begins shrinking as the focus of these graduates shifts from “saving the nation” to a practical discussion of what kind of job to look for and how to go about it in their president’s office. It seems that from this moment on there is a separation between the left-wing filmmakers’ ideal of “saving the nation” and how these characters actually live their lives. The irony is that, although these young people are determined to serve their society, society does not seem to appreciate their efforts. Soon after graduation, Jianping and Lilian are portrayed as two individuals, and the focus of the film is on how these two individuals try to better society through work. In Jianping and Lilian’s bridal room, the first private space they ever possess, the newlyweds write, “This is our start.” As individuals, both Jianping and Lilian struggle hard. Jianping first works at a shipping firm,33 but is fired because he refuses to risk the lives of the passengers for profits. Later, he finds a job working at a construction company, but is discharged again for emphasizing safety. Lilian received the same level of education as Jianping. When her husband fails to find a job, she insists on going out to work, and she does bring home some income. He, feeling embarrassed to have his wife support him, stays at home cooking. This dislocation of their positions does not suggest the trend of women’s liberation in China; rather, it is an indication of the disorder of a society traditionally dominated by men. When Lilian rushes home to tell Jianping that she has found a job that pays thirtyfive yuan per month, the husband comments promptly: “Why should a man be supported by his wife?” Here the injured male ego shows another level of defeated self, which too soon is compounded by Lilian’s short career experience. One night, after work, she is ordered by her boss to go to Taishan Hotel on the pretext of working on a contract with him. Later that night Jianping goes there to look for her. He pushes the elevator button, but the elevator never descends to the first floor, so he takes the stairs. But on the fourth floor he is forcibly ejected from the hotel. To depict this process, the camera follows him, revealing his frustration as he has to climb every stair on foot. Here, space is again used as a trope suggesting that in this most capitalistic city of China, the position of this individual is at the bottom. Meanwhile, Lilian, who is at the top floor of the hotel, struggles to run away from her employer’s overt advances. Here, using space as allegory, the film implies that the only way for Lilian to climb the social ladder and to stay there as a female individual is to prostitute herself. That night the couple walks home together in silence. As their lonely shadows are projected on a wall, The Plunder of Peach and Plum reveals the ultimate defeat of the self struggling for survival in the darkness of society. Jianping and Lilian’s transitional space between private and public, the stairway, is also presented as a transformation of their social space. When Jianping loses his first job, they have to move to a smaller and less decorative place in order to save money. The film has a medium shot of the feet of Jianping and Lilian going downstairs with the luggage in their hands indicating the decline of their social and economic situations. This scene is repeated each time when they have to reduce their private space. As their private space diminishes, so does the idea of self. In frustration and anger, Jianping tears up their diplomas, a significant marker for the educational accomplishments of an individual in China. Now he finally realizes that the many years

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he spent to educate and strengthen himself are totally useless. After this defeat, he becomes further disenchanted and finds himself a job as a coolie working on the docks. In a class-conscious society such as Shanghai, Jianping’s slipping from a white-collar office clerk to a blue-collar laborer clearly demonstrates “a tragic decline.”34 It is a satire of the idea of “self” that had been promoted by the new thinking of the May Fourth Movement. Not surprisingly, Lilian is hired because her prospective boss finds her physically attractive. The incident at the hotel forces her to quit her job. Her short-lived role as an independent career woman is soon replaced by all-too-familiar domestic responsibilities as a pregnant wife. The foreman refuses to give Jianping time off to look after Lilian who, as a result, delivers her baby boy without medical supervision. A few days after the delivery, she falls down the stairs and injures herself seriously while doing housework. Although throughout The Plunder of Peach and Plum Lilian is projected as a sympathetic figure, in a time when the life of a young person was ideally dedicated to national priorities (according to the “Graduation Song” that appears at the beginning and the end of this film), her dramatic fall down the stairs and her subsequent tragic death symbolically negate her choice both as a wife and as a mother. In so doing, the film also exposes the darkness of the society that allows no room for her to live as a real woman. To save Lilian, Jianping pleads with the foreman to advance him some money, but is rejected. Desperate, he opens the cash drawer in the foreman’s absence and steals what he needs. But it is too late. Lilian dies from lack of proper medical attention. The last private space Jianping and Lilian share, the room, though narrow, small and situated in an old building, is enclosed. But Lilian’s tragic death seems to have destroyed this enclosed space. Now the rain relentlessly leaks in through the holes in the roof, dripping into a wash-basin as Jianping holds his baby, pacing up and down in the room. His awareness of the vulnerability of his remaining private space has a dramatic effect on him, for suddenly he leaves the room with the baby, and puts the baby in a foundling hospital’s box and walks away. The child’s helpless cries soon change his mind. He goes back to the hospital, but all he finds is the small, empty box. His despair, triggered by the emptiness of the box, deepens as he walks in the rain in the night, dejected and utterly hopeless. The foreman and policemen are waiting for him in his room. In his attempt to resist arrest he shoots one of the policemen and is thus jailed, tried and sentenced to death. The grand and pure physical space depicted in the auditorium at the beginning of the film is now diminished to a minimum, a jail cell, as is Jianping’s sense of self. According to the left-wing filmmakers, among the problems Jianping and Lilian (and later their compatriots in Crossroads) face, is their inability to negotiate between their pure ideals and the dark social reality. Young graduates who believe in the value of honest relationships and honest work learn that neither of these works in the 1930s.35 The theme song, which appears both at the beginning and the end of the film, is now a trademark of the left-wing Chinese filmmakers of the 1930s. It points out how one should sacrifice oneself for society and the nation:

Classmates, let’s get together to carry out the mission of the nation. Listen, the sorrows of the people!

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Look, territory falling into enemy’s hands! Do we choose to fight or surrender? We should be the master to fight to the death on the battlefield, and not be slaves working for rapid advancement in our careers. Today we are promising as the new graduates, Tomorrow we are the pillars of society. Today we are singing together, Tomorrow we will surge up as mighty waves to save the nation! Mighty waves, mighty waves grow constantly. Classmates, classmates, offer your strength, to carry out the mission of the nation! If this song sets the standard for the college graduates at that time, then neither Jianping nor Lilian lives up to the standard. Throughout the film, the depiction of Jianping and Lilian’s private life is directly associated with the darkness of Shanghai: unemployment, illness, death, poverty and crime. This darkness is part of the overall atmosphere of China that would soon be besieged by Japanese imperialist troops. Both Jianping and Lilian are suffocated in their reduced private space. Therefore, The Plunder of Peach and Plum is a metaphor suggesting the unavoidable tragic fate to pursue personal happiness in a time of national disaster, because the self should be totally sacrificed for the betterment of the nation, according to the ideology of the left-wing filmmakers. Ironically, Jianping and Lilian, both are pure and upright, never show any inclinations of wanting to advance their careers. All they did was try to live their private lives through honest work. The Plunder of Peach and Plum bears the signature of two first-time left-wing filmmakers, director Ying Yunwei and screenwriter Yuan Muzhi. The extreme slow pace of the story, the sentimental and artificial narrative structure and excessive melodramatic performances all undermine what was intended to be a “realistic”36 vision, although the film had been praised in the 1930s for having “totally exposed social reality”37 and “social darkness.”38

FROM PRIVATE TO PUBLIC TO SOCIAL: RE-MAPPING YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN AT THE CROSSROADS Crossroads was produced by the Mingxing Film Company in 1937. Shen Xiling, one of the leaders of the Leftwing Writers League, wrote and directed the film. By the time of Crossroads, Shen had already directed many influential left-wing films including The Outcries of Women (Nüxing de nahan), Twenty-four Hours in Shanghai (Shanghai ershisi xiaoshi), The Sorrow of the Hometown (Xiang chou) and The Boatman’s Daughter (Chuanjia nü). Shen Xiling studied painting on an official scholarship in Tokyo after he graduated from a trade school in Zhejiang Province. Although later he turned to drama and cinema, his filmic characters often have an interest in painting, such as A Tang in Crossroads, and the playboy from Shanghai in The Boatman’s Daughter. Ideologically,

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Shen’s films in the 1930s all bear strong left-wing stamps. Crossroads also takes place in Shanghai in the 1930s. According to Shen, this film was inspired by the experiences of a group of jobless young friends.39 Crossroads shows that in the 1930s, Chinese youth “stood at a crossroads, and it was up to each of them to select the correct path to take.”40 Four college graduates, unemployed and frustrated, eventually take different paths: Big Brother Liu returns to his hometown in the Northeast to fight against Japanese aggression; Xiao Xu goes home to see his ailing mother after selling his diploma; Lao Zhao works for a newspaper at night; and A Tang decorates windows for a department store. Here the choices between self and society set the tone right from the beginning. Xiao Xu, a pessimist, loses his self-identity when he sells his diploma and undermines his efforts at being a modern “individual” by returning home to assist his own family. Big Brother Liu, on the other hand, chooses to fight for the freedom of his hometown, setting an example for others in the film. Now it is up to those who are standing at the crossroads, namely Lao Zhao, A Tang and a newcomer, Xiao Yang, to decide what to do with their lives. Xiao Yang has just arrived in Shanghai. She lives in the apartment next to Lao Zhao. There is a thin wall between the two of them. One misunderstanding leads to another, which culminates in their throwing garbage into each other’s apartment. In the end they make peace, and also, predictably, fall in love with each other. When they both lose their jobs, they and their friends join together to follow in the footsteps of Big Brother Liu. After Xiao Yang enters the picture, the central plot of Crossroads develops into a halfbaked love story.41 This is because the true intention of the film, as its title suggests, is to show how young people should submerge their sense of self to work for the betterment of the nation. To do so, the film is presented within constantly changing configurations of space, but was filmed in a manner quite different from that of The Plunder of Peach and Plum. In Crossroads, the physical space develops from smaller to larger, conveying the ultimate liberation from self. Xiao Xu’s attempt to drown himself is the beginning of the story. For many college graduates in the 1930s, graduation equaled unemployment.42 Xiao Xu’s attempt fails, as he is stopped in time by his classmate and friend Lao Zhao (played by Zhao Dan) who had been following him. Back in their private space, the apartment, the first scene opens with a wall, which later serves as a crucial barrier between Lao Zhao and his neighbor Xiao Yang. The camera frames four graduation pictures, then presents close shots of each individual picture as they are neatly lined together. Here in this fourwalled, tiny little oneroom apartment, the display of these pictures takes over most of the wall. Clearly, all four young men are very proud of the fact that they have cultivated themselves through education at the highest possible level in China then. Ironically, however, these pictures are also marked as unemployed A, B, C and D. Modern education made them knowledgeable individuals, but the real world pronounced them unemployed numbers. Unlike Tao Jianping in The Plunder of Peach and Plum, who would destroy such reminders after he failed to find work, Lao Zhao and his friends choose to live with this dilemma every day. Furthermore, if there is any sense of self left for these young men, it is locked up in this closed private space. Xiao Xu chooses to return home to see his sick mother, fulfilling his responsibility as a filial son. Lao Zhao remains in the old place. At this point the film offers a unique high shot of an entire room. Then Lao Zhao appears in the lower right corner of the frame,

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standing for a while before walking into the center of his private world. Through his subjectivity one senses confinement and confusion in this closed private space; in this small cramped area dishes are spread all over the table, books are in disorder on the desk, and pictures are in disarray on the wall. Lao Zhao’s awareness of his physical confinement certainly changes the direction of his life and the course of the film. This awareness is immediately strengthened by his fear of slipping even “lower” in his social space, caused by the appearance of a beggar downstairs outside his window at this moment who claims that he has been educated and begs the landlady (played wonderfully by Wu Yin) to give him something to eat. The appearance of this “educated” beggar indicates that modern education alone does not guarantee a prosperous future for young people. Now Lao Zhao sees no choice but to fight again for his employment. Although his private space creates a sense of confinement, it is also Lao Zhao’s only shelter and he is in danger of losing it. He is three months behind in his rent and he racks his brains to put off his landlady, whose sole raison d’etre in this film is to nag him for the rent. Lao Zhao lives upstairs, and the landlady occupies the downstairs. So the transitional space between the private and the public, from the front door to the stairs up to his apartment, has become a nightmare. Lao Zhao is employed as a proofreader by Dajiang newspaper at the same time that Xiao Yang (played by Bai Yang), who has just graduated from college, moves next door. She works as an instructor in a textile factory.43 Lao Zhao’s new job lightens him up as he appears to be very cheerful while doing his laundry. It is in his effort to expand his private space by hanging his wet laundry on a bamboo stick and pushing it over to her side of the apartment (her private space), using more space than is rightfully his that he begins to have contact with his beautiful new neighbor. The water dripping from his laundry wets the pillow on which she is sleeping. His working at night and her working during the day prevent them from arguing face to face, as they are never at home at the same time. They end up playing pranks on each other and throwing trash into each other’s apartment. The thin wall between their private spaces becomes a barrier to communication and understanding. There is a brief moment when they actually see each other face to face in a trolley car station when she comes home from work in the afternoon and he goes to work at his night job. This deliberate arrangement continues the suspense in the story.44 Meanwhile, the public space begins to play a positive role in their lives: in their public space they can be attracted to each other (and do not know that they are neighbors), but in their enclosed private space they are enemies (and do not know they are in love with each other). What we see in Crossroads is that in fighting against the evil of society and threats to the nation, private space is where the self is suffocated, and public space is where individuals are united. Lao Zhao and Xiao Yang’s initial flirtation (in the trolley car station) is upgraded to actual communication and courting in a grander and more open public space (outside her factory), where Lao Zhao and his friend A Tang (played by Lu Ban) heroically save her from an assault by a local ruffian. His heroism effectively earns him an interview with her and an excuse to get to know her better while discussing the working conditions of the women workers, which had been Lao Zhao’s assignment at the paper. Public space continues to play an important part as they meet in a park for their interview. To this point the story has established the triumph of public space as experienced by both male and female protagonists. Meanwhile, Lao Zhao’s job has also given him (and

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the audience) an opportunity to see the darkness of the society: people out of work, college students committing suicide, female workers living under miserable conditions, and so on. It is under such social conditions that Xiao Yang soon loses her job. When this happens, she decides to reveal her identity (as his neighbor) to him by showing up in his apartment. (She discovered their neighbor-relationship when she recognized the shirt he wore.) Embarrassed about his own antics, upset about the closure of her factory, and deeply in love with her, he tears down the wall, the very wall that separates their private spaces, telling her: “We would have communicated if not for this wall. We are both the same kind of human being.” The tearing down of the wall serves as a negation of the ownership of private space. All the misunderstandings between Xiao Yang and him are traceable to the segregation of their private spaces. On a social level, he has also torn down a “social wall” between the private space of man and woman, ending the division between them, a notion brought up quite often by left-wing filmmakers.45 This is one of the most important steps the characters have taken toward building their social space. As Lao Zhao and Xiao Yang, the two lovers, kiss, the camera follows their gaze to two loving pigeons outside the window. The appearance of pigeons is a metaphor suggesting their desire to be together. In an ordinary love story, this would lead to a “happily ever after” conclusion. Moving away from looking at the pigeons, Lao Zhao suggests that Xiao Yang not return to her home and stay with him instead because he would support her. But, after a painful struggle with herself, Xiao Yang decides to move to the countryside to join her friend Big Sister Yao. Crossroads was made in 1937 in Shanghai, just before the Sino-Japanese war (1937–45) broke out. Considering this specific historical background, it is very likely that romantic love, as observed by Yingjin Zhang in three silent films made in the same period, is “reoriented into the discourse of revolution and national salvation.”46 The conflict between love and revolution is a recurring theme in both left-wing Chinese film and literature, and it often involves the choice of one over the other. In A Village in August (Bayue de xiangcun)47 written by Xiao Jun, a famous writer from the Northeast, Anna and Xiao Ming fall in love in the middle of the resistance against the Japanese invasion. When their relationship becomes known, Chen Zhu, their commander, says to them: I know that you have fallen in love with each other. It is no problem. However…at this time, our task is more important! We can be dead any time; we can be destroyed any time… We must shed blood in exchange for “victory.” Japanese soldiers and their running dogs of the Japanese dictatorship wonder about us all the time, and want to wipe us out. Our brothers who serve in the enemy’s armies wish us to succeed all the time. But I can guarantee you, as long as we believe in ourselves, give our best effort in this war of resistance against aggression…and fight continuously, victory will be ours. Comrade Xiao, don’t vacillate in your belief and weaken your will because of love… This would bring shame on revolutionary fighters… It is not that I don’t acknowledge your love, Anna! At least for now…love is harmful to the revolution.48

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This kind of view was not at all uncommon during that time. For some, love has been regarded as secondary to other motivating forces in Chinese history. Revolution came ahead of everything. For others, “revolutionary martyrdom cleansed individuals of their worldly imperfections, including breaches of personal integrity and the lack of worldly success.”49 Revolution promised a better change in personal situations. Big Liu, a former peasant in A Village in August, reasons: “After being a soldier for half of my life, I didn’t even have a wife! Now I have joined the revolution. Perhaps after the revolution, we all will have wives. After the revolution, I won’t have to buy a wife.”50 Therefore, in Crossroads, Xiao Yang’s personal sacrifice in departing from her lover becomes a must. By the same token, her moving away is also a negation of her and Lao Zhao’s new, although larger, private space. The portrayal of Xiao Yang reflects the leftwing filmmakers’ ideal young woman of the 1930s’ Shanghai: She is educated and works as a trainer of fe-male workers. Her loveliness and attraction do not come from being a wife or a mother; they come from her independence. In Crossroads Xiao Yang has twice resisted falling in love and being domesticated (The first time occurred before she came to Shanghai). Her decision turns out to be a good one. Unemployment soon strikes Lao Zhao. The moment it happens he packs and readies to leave his apartment. In that stage Xiao Yang and Lao Zhao in Crossroads, like Jianping and Lilian in The Plunder of Peach and Plum, share a commonality: losing a job means losing private space. Since their jobs can never be secure or guaranteed, their private space, then, is likewise not secure or guaranteed. Unfortunately, for Jianping and Lilian, working for the betterment of society starts from working on getting a job. When they cannot keep their jobs, they also lose their ability to better society. Now Lao Zhao realizes how difficult and insignificant it is to try to keep a private space when it can no longer be secured by a job. Here unemployment, and thus the inability to serve society, suggests that something is wrong with the existing society. Lao Zhao decides to “go to the world” the moment he learns that he is being laid off. Judging by his later actions, what he referred to is the need to go free the nation. This is the step that neither Jianping nor Lilian had taken, although the “Graduation Song” they sang suggests that they were aware of their responsibilities. By now, left-wing Chinese filmmakers were clearly spelling out a correct route for young people to follow: Self—>Society (=NATION) Lao Zhao’s abandonment of his private space immediately leads him to a public space/crossroads next to the Huangpu River where he is joined by A Tang, Xiao Yang and Big Sister Yao. Now the four are united by their experiences. If “crossroads” meant only metaphorically to these young people earlier, they do literally now as well. Lao Zhao learns that Xiao Xu has finally killed himself, ending the life of a man who only lived for himself. Their other option is to “learn from Big Brother Liu” who is fighting for national freedom in the Northeast. This is the road they take. So we see these four young people symbolically walk across the chains next to the river, and emerge into the grand, open-ended space of Shanghai in front of them. The concrete public space is now transformed into abstract social space. By withdrawing the characters from the suffocation of private space and projecting them into the openness of public space and

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then social space, Crossroads questions the tendency of young college graduates to work for their own benefit and celebrates their ultimate decision to work for their nation. By throwing these young people into the cause of the nation, Shen Xiling pointed to a social space for young college graduates in Shanghai.51 It celebrates the ultimate strength and victory of unity and collectivity, which was prevalent during the 1930s among the leftwingers.52 Although the filmmakers of The Plunder of Peach and Plum and Crossroads may not have intended to relate the films to each other, one can easily formulate an inner connection between the two films: the tragic conclusion of the first film finally attains its happy ending in the second movie—in a sense, Crossroads functions as a sequel to The Plunder of Peach and Plum. By presenting the demise of Tao Jianping and Li Lilian as a couple and as individuals, and the final triumph of Lao Zhao, Xiao Yang and their friends as comrades and as a group, left-wing filmmakers are trying to indicate that college graduates have no choice other than to join the fight for the salvation of their nation.

LOVE AND SALVATION OF THE NATION No one, it seems, felt stronger about the concept of the “nation” and what it stood for than did Director Sun Yu, an American educated filmmaker. Sun Yu spent three years in America on a scholarship, from 1923 to 1926, studying drama and film art. His Western experience made him more of a melodramatic film director than many of his compatriots who sought realism as their immediate ideological goal.53 Sun Yu wrote the screenplay Wild Rose (Ye meigui) right after the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931, and finished directing the film when the Japanese bombed Shanghai in 1932.54 Wild Rose tells a melodramatic love story involving a young, wealthy Shanghai artist, Jiang Bo and a poor, beautiful country girl called Wild Rose. Tired of the urban bourgeoisie’s decadent life, Jiang Bo (played by Jin Yan) drives into the peaceful and beautiful countryside to search for artistic inspiration. When he first meets Wild Rose (played by Wang Renmei) at the roadside, she has just pushed an old bully, who had tried to sexually harass her, into the mud. Jiang Bo finds it amusing, but the country girl warns him: “Watch out next time, you city rogue!” Wild Rose serves as the commander of a “volunteer army” formed by a dozen or so children. Although playful, the army is presented with every intention of being serious and symbolic. They are well equipped with toy guns and communication facilities. The exercise routine includes Wild Rose asking her soldiers a very patriotic question: “Countryman, do you love your country?” As Jiang Bo watches them training from nearby, Wild Rose orders him “arrested” as an enemy spy. His “freedom” depends on the satisfactory answer to the following crucial question: “Do you love China?” Wild Rose asks. “I will forever love China,” Jiang Bo replies. She is content. This answer is also the prerequisite for the beginning of their relationship. The close-up shots of their facial expressions suggest that they have, at this moment, fallen in love with each other. As long as he loves China, she can allow herself fall in love with him even though he comes from the city. So, in Wild Rose, love is directly linked with the salvation of the nation and personal relationships become political at a time of national crisis. Her next mission is to make him part of the army she

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belongs to, and to make him fight, symbolically speaking, for the same cause that she deeply believes in. After he passes her test, she immediately names him “our commander.” A few weeks later, in order to protect Wild Rose, her father kills the bully who tries to make Wild Rose his concubine to pay off her father’s debt. During the struggle the house is destroyed in a fire, and her father runs away. Wild Rose thus becomes homeless. Her separation from her father seems incidental and is an excuse for her to go to Shanghai with Jiang Bo to begin a modern life. It can also be interpreted as her detachment from family and tradition which is the foundation of her independence. In order for Jiang Bo to prepare Wild Rose to meet his demanding and wealthy father and to be accepted by his high-class social circles in Shanghai, Wild Rose has to go through a physical change, from a barefoot country girl to a high-heeled urban modern lady. The result is disastrous, as this country girl makes one social mistake after another. Jiang’s father is furious and kicks Jiang out of his house. So Jiang Bo and Wild Rose move to the nether side of town. The loving couple makes their living by painting street advertisements. They are joined by Jiang’s good friend, Xiao Li, a street artist (played by Zheng Junli) and a newspaper seller, Lao Qiang (played by Han Langen). The four walk hand in hand, supporting themselves with honest work. In left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, hunger and poverty are often associated with pursuing the fulfillment of love and personal happiness, as Shanghai and the rest of the country are undergoing economic crisis and depression. Like the love relationships in Plunder of Peach and Plum and Crossroads, the arrangement between Jiang Bo and Wild Rose does not last very long once they face financial difficulties aggravated by the severe winter weather. Jiang Bo is home with a very bad cold and, to make the situation worse, the landlady (like all unsympathetic landladies in left-wing films of the 1930s), pressures them to pay the rent that is already overdue. When Wild Rose goes out to buy steamed bread for supper that day, a drunkard accidentally drops his wallet in front of her. Needing money for food and shelter, she takes the wallet home. Jiang asks Wild Rose to give the wallet back to the owner. When the police show up, Jiang and Xiao Li take the blame for Wild Rose and are thus jailed. The innocence and kindness of these young people form a sharp contrast with the impurity and cruelty that the country rogue and Jiang Bo’s city father represent, which is the central conflict behind this melodrama. To save the two men, Wild Rose pays Jiang Bo’s father a visit and begs the man to bail his son out. As payment for the father’s effort, she promises him that she will never see Jiang Bo again. Painfully, she keeps her promise and disappears from his life entirely. When Jiang Bo goes to her hometown to look for her, she purposely avoids him. Surrounded by a group of idle and wealthy urban bourgeoisie, Jiang feels as empty as he did before he met Wild Rose. Nothing can fill the void he feels until one day the call to join the volunteer army outside his window beckons him out onto the street. Not surprisingly, he finds Wild Rose in this patriotic crowd. The revolutionary slogan is a familiar one, like the one heard in Sun Yu’s Small Toys (Xiao wanyi, 1933). “Wake up, Republic of China. The enemy has come. Do you want to be slaves of foreign powers? No, no. We should arise to save ourselves,” says the leader of the crowd. Wild Rose and Jiang Bo are now merged in this volunteer army. As they march in the streets following

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the call of their commander to “March forward, China,” it appears that only through this patriotic cause, can their relationship have a future. The aesthetic mode of Sun Yu’s films in the 1930s often departs from the realistic thrust of works by Cheng Bugao, Ying Yunwei and Shen Xiling, although his ideological purpose was to capture China’s reality. His melodramatic aesthetics, especially his romanticization of his characters, earned him the title of “poet director.” But it is seldom noticed that Sun Yu, with his formal American education, believed that one should cultivate the self before contributing to society and the nation. This can be seen in many of his films in the 1930s.55 In this respect, he shared the same belief as Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi, the two most prominent May Fourth Movement cultural leaders.56 There is no doubt that throughout the film, Wild Rose is dedicated to serving her nation. But before she and Jiang Bo came to Shanghai, it seems that both of them lacked a strong sense of self. Space in the countryside was not clearly defined. Wild Rose wanted to serve the nation, but no one would take her “volunteer army,” composed of small children, seriously. Her father’s departure, and, hence, her relocation to Shanghai show that Sun Yu intentionally tried to show development of her sense of self by, first, having her break away from her family and tradition. Jiang Bo did not have a strong sense of self or society. He had been living with his family. His earlier close association with his wealthy father indicates that his artistic cultivation and his sense of self were determined by the support of his family. By choosing to live with Wild Rose, without the support of his family, Jiang Bo then began to cultivate himself in the form of love and self-reliance. Now the two finally have their own private space, and from here they begin to develop their sense of self by making a living on their own through selling their art work and painting bulletin boards on streets. As they struggle their way through, they find themselves in the same situations as Jianping and Lilian in The Plunder of Peach and Plum and Lao Zhao and Xiao Yang in Crossroads. But Sun Yu did not stop here. As lovers, Jiang Bo and Wild Rose were joined by an oath to love their country. However, as they try to make a living through honest labor in Shanghai, poverty, social injustice and prejudice, and the so-called “darkness of society” almost suffocate them in their private space. Jiang Bo’s jail time and Wild Rose’s eviction from their apartment suggest that they will be totally destroyed if all they do is to cultivating themselves and love in their private space of Shanghai. As individuals, their ability to live and to resist evil social elements is very limited. They might perish like the couple in The Plunder of Peach and Plum. After this ordeal, although they both return to their original locations and their love is sacrificed, her self has been strengthened. The moment when the enemy attacks, Wild Rose is seen in the volunteer gathering in Shanghai, this time for real, to serve her nation as she always wanted to. Jiang Bo joins her. Now they are reunited by the cause of saving their nation. Fighting for the salvation of the nation brings them together in public space. They are associated with many others who actually are fighting for China’s freedom. The strengthened individuals merge into a powerful collectivity. The next film under review here reveals that it is “collective will, group discipline, and patriotic fervor” that guide these determined young people.57

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LOVE AND REVOLUTION The collectivity that one finds in Sun Yu’s films is pushed to the extreme in Big Road (Dalu), a poetic epic of anti-imperialist master narrative released in 1934. Sun Yu wrote and directed the film and Diantong Film Studio produced it. The polarity consists of good, represented by Brother Jin and his friends, and evil, represented by the Japanese invaders and their Chinese collaborators. Cinematically, the use of low angle light on the villains whenever they commit evil and the surrealistic symbolic victory achieved (through double exposures) in the end when the heroes rise from their deaths, combine to make Big Road highly melodramatic. At the same time, the seemingly documentary footage of suffering of the Chinese people narrated in Moli’s “Songs of Fengyang” in the restaurant also gives the film a realistic touch. Big Road is cast in cultural terms that are similar to many literary works of the period. The conflict between self and society is expressed in the form of love and revolution, more specifically, national resistance against Japanese imperialism. In modern Chinese literature, the relationship of the two appears so often that it is often regarded as a formula, typically known as lian’ai jia geming (love plus revolution). In many leftwingers’ works, the choice is obvious. In Yang Hansheng’s story “Two Women” (Liangge nüxing) that was first published in 1930, the female protagonist Yuqing falls in love with two men: one is her professor, Jundu, and the other is her classmate, Yunsheng. She first chooses to marry the professor because of his revolutionary theories and beliefs. Three and a half years later, she returns to Yunsheng, after finally realizing that Yunsheng is the true revolutionary.58 The relationship between love and revolution is a recurrent theme in left-wing films of the 1930s, though the revolution is defined more precisely in terms of anti-imperialism. The difference is that, faced with an immediate national crisis, the filmic protagonists never have the leisure to indulge in romantic feelings as complicated as their counterparts in left-wing Chinese literature. In other words, what one sees in Chinese left-wing films is the more direct and almost abrupt sacrifice of love, sexual pleasure and sense of self for the salvation of the nation through a revolution. The alternative is a catastrophic tragedy. In Big Road, what stands in the open is public and collective (Figure 12). Six road builders are determined to break new paths and build new roads. They move inland to build roads after they lose their jobs in the city. At this time, they become acquainted with the owner of Dingfuji Restaurant where they are lodging. The owner has a daughter named Dingxiang (played by Wu Yanyan) and an adopted daughter called Moli (played by Li Lili). Both women are very fond of these young and cheerful road builders, and the little restaurant is always full of laughter. The narrative is highlighted by the cheerful and unconventional relationships between these muscular male road builders and the two beautiful young women. Nevertheless, this scene is soon interrupted by the news of the Japanese invasion. They speed up building an important military road so the Chinese army can pass through to fight against the invaders. The comprador Hu and his followers, bribed by the Japanese, want to stop the workers from completing the project. When Brother Jin (played by Jin Yan) and his comrades refuse to cooperate, the villains throw the workers into Hu’s private jail. Moli and Dingxiang soon come to their rescue by pretending to

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entertain the comprador and then sneaking to the place where Hu confines and tortures his patriotic prisoners. The rescue effort is followed by the timely ar-rival of the other road builders and the Chinese army. Hu is arrested for betraying his country. The workers then work day and night until they finish the road. At the end, a Japanese plane arrives and drops bombs on the workers. The road builders, together with Moli, die in a gory bloodbath. Dingxiang and her father, still alive, imagine these national heroes rising up and continuing their heroic mission in life. Big Road functions like a sequel to Wild Rose. Here, space is very public; individuals are not struggling in private space as they are in the other films discussed in this chapter. Among these road workers, there is no division between rich and poor, public and private; they are all equal. Self and private have totally faded away. Individuals are seen as a part of the collective. The six bachelor road builders, and later Moli, have all gone through their individual ordeals before they are bound together as a group. Indeed, one of them is a university student who was driven out of his home in the Northeast by the Japanese invaders. Led by Brother Jin, the six men are all totally detached from their families and origins (Lao Zhang was married once, but his family was destroyed when a landlord tortured his wife to death and took away his land, and when his son died of illness). Throughout the film, the six men, who are seen as leaders of the road builders, form a unit. They come and go together, work together, eat together, and bathe together. Later they are arrested and jailed together. In the end, they all die together for the cause of the revolution. As a group, the six men demonstrate positive characteristics, all of which are enumerated by Moli. These qualities are mentioned in one breath by Moli as if she is talking about different aspects of a single man, as she and Dingxiang lie together in a cane chair. Dingxiang whispers into Moli’s ear: “Tell me, whom do you love most?” When Moli starts her account, the image of Brother Jin and the others is voiced over by the theme song. We are told in her narrative of six different images projected one after another that each of them possesses unique characteristics that make him lovable. All of these shots, as Chris Berry observes, are “inscribed as collective vision.”59 Although one can easily view bulging muscles on these semi-naked bodies, and observe the boundless energy and strength of the men, none of the attributes Moli mentions is sexual. When it comes to romance, even the conventional one-man-onewoman relationship is often replaced by a group activity. In the restaurant, when Dingxiang pours tea for Xiao Luo, all the other men rush to the cup. And when Dingxiang and Xiao Luo try to spend some time alone under the moonlight, the others soon show up to interrupt. In scene seven at the restaurant, when Dingxiang is sexually harassed by the foreman Hong Jing, all six young men together give the bully a hard lesson. As Wen-hsin Yeh observes about youth at this time, “It is not so much love as an intimate and profound private engagement as love as a social instrument that permitted the healing and reknitting of the social fabric in a society strained by tension and conflict.”60 What is being presented here is “all-encompassing brotherly love rather than the much more discriminating and excluding passion of romantic attachment.”61 When Zhang Da throws pebbles at two women passing by, he is criticized and punished by his male friends for creating a bad image of workers and helping to make them allies of foreign invaders. Brother Jin is physically the most attractive. However, the film never associates him with women in conventional ways that are expected by the audience. Instead, Brother Jin is always in the middle of a revolutionary scene. He leads

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the men pulling rollers, he organizes everyone to fight against their enemies, and, when arrested, he is the first one to be tortured. Director Sun Yu fixates on these men as they pull the rollers. The men are sexy but not sexual, and male sexuality in Big Road has been suppressed and totally transcended into collaborate energies for the revolution: to build the road and to fight against their enemies. This may explain why there are only two female characters in Big Road and why the focus is not on romance. Dingxiang is the more traditional. She is the only character in the film who is still attached to her father. Moli, on the other hand, has made her living as a singsong girl for many years before she joined Dingxiang. Moli demonstrates a strong sense of self, which has led Chris Berry to call her “the oddball figure.”62 But as a woman her place, like that of Dingxiang, is in the restaurant serving the men. Moli, therefore, has to demonstrate that she is an able individual before she can join the ranks of the men she serves. But one needs not rely excessively on this interpretation, because Sun Yu’s female protagonists often have sharp visions that shape the direction of his films. What is of interest here is how Moli becomes a part of the revolutionary male collectivity. She achieves this by giving up her femininity and by sacrificing her sexuality. Moli’s sexual identity throughout the film is presented very ambiguously. Many men in the film view her as being sexy. In the restaurant, Zhang Da stares at her bare ankle only to be greeted by a hot towel in the face. The foreman immediately singles her out the first time he sees her. But Moli, unlike Dingxiang, is not romantically involved with any man. In scene eight, when Dingxiang asks Moli to reveal “quietly” that which man she loves, Moli shouts loudly: “Quietly! Why should I answer it quietly?…. I would rather yell: I love them all!” However, when she enumerates why she loves all six men, none of the reasons has any romantic or sexual overtones.63 When Moli and Dingxiang show up near the river where the six men are bathing naked in the water, it is the men, not Moli, who become shy and embarrassed. To a large extent, Moli’s sexual aggressiveness makes the six men impotent in front of her. Additionally, she is always very masculine in front of Dingxiang in the way she uses language and in her behavior. In the restaurant, as the two women prepare a meal for the working men, Moli puts tassels of maize to form a moustache. Then one day after lunch, when Dingxiang burns herself trying to perm her hair with tongs, Moli picks her up, carrying her around in her arms and kisses her. Big Road is not alone in depicting unconventional female sexuality. In Yang Hansheng’s novel Two Women (Liangge nüxing), there is a very interesting relationship between two women. When Yuqing, the young female protagonist, goes to Jinwen’s place to meet her lover, Yunsheng, she notices that Jinwen, a true woman revolutionary, wears very short hair and looks and acts very much like a man. Later that evening when Jinwen takes Yuqing to see Yunsheng, the two women walk alone under the moonlight: At this time Yuqing is not only surprised but also a little scared of this new company she just met!—Her [Jinwen’s] chest is so straight and open, her head is so powerful and forceful. When she walks, she is fast and poised. When she talks, she is so plain and sweet.—She [Yuqing] uses her hand stealthily to hold her palm. A warm heat wave, like an electric shock, goes to her body and her heart. She [Yuqing] feels a nameless pleasant sensation and she lifts her head to look at her [Jinwen]. The

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moonlight bathes her [Jinwen’s] face in shadow and posture. How strong, handsome and full of male beauty is her high spirited movement! 64 Although Moli has not yet displayed the same revolutionary spirit at this point, her femininity, like that of Jinwen, has crossed the gender boundary for revolutionary purposes. Both Dingxiang and Moli sing songs in the film. While Dingxiang sings privately to her lover about birds returning home, Moli sings to all the men in the restaurant, and her song has a revolutionary message. Ultimately, though, like several other women in Sun Yu’s films,65 Moli must sacrifice her sexuality for the revolution. At the end of the film, when Moli and Dingxiang find out that director Hu has jailed the road builders, the two women show up at Hu’s residence. Moli plays a musical instrument and Dingxiang distracts Hu. Later, saying they want to cook some fish, Moli and Dingxiang take a detour and show up at Hu’s dungeon where the six road builders are jailed up. Of course, in order to do this, they have to lock up Hu’s maid, who has been forced by the two women to take them to the prison. Moli throws a pair of scissors to Brother Jin and then asks Dingxiang to get help. After sending Dingxiang away, Moli goes back to Hu. When the villain suggests that the girl should see his bedroom, Moli, showing no sign of embarrassment or anger, warns him that he should not let his wife hear this. By the time Dingxiang brings back the army, Brother Jin has cut the ropes that tied him and freed his comrades. Hu has been tied up on top of his bed. Moli stands in front of Hu’s bedroom arranging her hair and smiling in triumph. From the outside of the window she, Brother Jin, and the others watch soldiers taking Hu out from his bedroom. Moli smiles and Brother Jin looks at her with an approving grin. Then Moli reaches inside her pocket and takes out a check—the evidence of Hu’s betrayal of China. How did she accomplish all of this? The film never shows the compromises she had to make to gain her victory. Throughout the entire film, the audience never even sees her in Hu’s bed. But one thing is very clear: whatever she has done is justified for the sake of the revolution. From this point on, Moli’s position changes. She is no longer the passive woman who is only associated with the domesticity of cooking in the kitchen and serving men in the restaurant. She is elevated to the same rank as these revolutionary men. Soon we see her wearing a worker’s uniform, pulling the rollers and singing the same song she used to hear from the kitchen (Dingxiang’s role has not changed; she still serves food to these revolutionary men, and now also to Moli.). There is one medium shot framing Moli in the middle of a scene with Brother Jin and Xiao Liuzi on each side. After the Japanese airplane drops its bombs, Moli and others are mortally wounded. Brother Jin crawls to Moli and they lie face to face looking at each other. Their bodies lie horizontally and occupy the entire screen, with Moli on the left and Brother Jin on the right. This cinematic spatial positioning of the two characters is the final representation of Moli’s equal position66 with the leader of the revolutionary men. While Moli lives, she claims that she loves all six men, and when she dies, she is with all of them. On the other hand, Dingxiang, who is more feminine and less assertive than Moli, is detached from the man she loves when he dies. To director Sun Yu, the revolution not only requires the sacrifice of love and sexuality, but also requires collectivity of male activity, and requires both men and women’s effective participation. The theme song, which appears four times in full or in part throughout the film emphasizes unity and hard work. It is precisely when the men

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sing the revolutionary song, “The Big Road,” that the two young women find the men most attractive:

Together we give our blood and toil! For survival, ignore the sunburns and sore bones. Together we pull the ropes, no loafing on the job! United as one person, no fear of an iron roller heavy as a mountain! Everybody put forth strength! Together, go forward! Everybody put forth strength! Together, go forward! Roll flat the rugged mountain path! Pulverize the hardships ahead! We cannot withdraw but only go forward, As if we are on the battle front! Everybody put forth strength! Together, we fight! Everybody put forth strength! Together, go fight! Carrying the historical mission going forward, quickly we build Big Road of freedom!67 In Big Road the revolution means building the road and fighting against foreign invasion. From Wild Rose (1932), Daybreak (1933) and Small Toys (1933) to Big Road (1934), director Sun Yu eventually shows “the unity and will of the working class.”68 The previous chapter entitled “Country and City,” discusses the migration of Chinese peasants from country to city as a reflection of the development of Chinese modernity. In Big Road, the six road builders move from city to country because they do not want to build roads for foreign invaders and rich people, and they hate metropolitan centers. Zheng Jun’s words best explain their purpose: “We want to do construction work for the rural masses; we don’t want to merely survive in the concessions under the occupation of the imperialists.”69 So moving from city to country and building the road in Big Road exemplify the resistance of the Chinese people against the Japanese invaders and fight for national freedom. The writer and film critic Qian Xingtun, writing under the pen name Feng Wu, stressed the importance of anti-imperialism in the following passage: “If the Chinese masses cannot break free from the suppression of the imperialists, they will only face death. There is no other road for survival. Therefore, our current main task should be

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anti-imperialism, and down with imperialism.”70 Therefore, Big Road opens an imagined national space in the ideological realm at the time of the Japanese invasion of China. What does Sun Yu’s “Big Road” promise? Here, self is totally and completely dedicated to the betterment of society, and the freedom of the nation. While Tao Jianping and Li Lilian struggle to make ends meet, while Wild Rose and Jiang Bo are separated by poverty, while Lao Zhao worries about paying his rent and Xiao Yang fears losing her job, these is always plenty of food and laughter in Big Road. While Li Lilian struggles alone to escape from sexual harassment, Dingxiang and Moli are protected by their male comrades. While Tao Jianping and Li Lilian are suffocated in their private space and Lao Zhao and Xiao Yang are driven out of their apartment because of unemployment, there is always plenty of living space in Big Road, even though these young men and women do not take personal possession of this space. In Big Road, private space is totally given way to public space, and self is totally subservient to the collective. While Tao Jianping and Li Lilian are separated by destruction and Wild Rose and Jiang Bo are torn apart by social prejudice, Moli and the six road builders she loves are forever united by blood, and live forever in the memory of the Chinese people. This is the ultimate ideological message of the left-wing Chinese filmmakers of the 1930s.

III. The Style

Chapter Five The Melodramatic and the Realistic The left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s ranged from serious social dramas to comedies, musical comedies and experimental art movies. Scholars have tried to find the master narrative or a single and unified artistic term (often “melodrama”) to characterize them.1 This is still proving to be a difficult task. One reason is that the perceptions of both Chinese and Western scholars have often been shaped by Western filmic aesthetics2 and terminology.3 This is not necessarily negative considering the influence Hollywood had4 (and still has) on Chinese filmmakers. The other reason is that, due to the inaccessibility of many earlier Chinese films, many scholars have to form their conclusions based on what they can sample, which often prevents them from seeing the overall picture. The two terms that have been brought up but are often treated separately are “melodrama” and “realism.” While I do not claim that my study is more comprehensive than theirs, I want to revisit the issue from a different perspective. I argue that the leftwing Chinese films of the 1930s contain both melodramatic and realistic elements. Additionally, because as an artistic mode, melodrama competes and overlaps with realism, a single film can contain both realistic and melodramatic imagination. The key issue here is to regard realism and melodrama as form or content or both. Sinologists have argued convincingly that realism and melodrama are representations within the Chinese social, political, and cultural context; few, however, have examined them in relation to cinematic apparatus. In their studies, film is often treated as an extension of literary or dramatic texts. This chapter attempts to shed some light on the modes of the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s through three case studies. First, I would like to take a look at some of the discussions on realism, melodrama and their relationship.

MELODRAMA OR REALISM, CONTENT OR FORM “Melos” means music in Latin. In the West, the term “melodrama” was first used in 1763 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a Swiss-born French philosopher, when he applied the term to his play Pygmalion, a work that employed lines spoken to musical accompaniment. Although this play was not a melodrama in the modern sense, it made use of music to supplement dialogue, to sustain stretches of wordless action, and to heighten and exaggerate the exits and entrances of the characters.5 So, music has been a very important part of melodrama since the beginning. In 1798 Guilbert de Pixérécourt gave melodramatic content and form to his plays (Victor and The Child of the Forest) for the first time. These works firmly established melodrama as a genre.6 Interestingly, the basic elements of the melodramatic form that

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dominated the latter half of the nineteenth century are essentially the same as those developed by Pixérécourt.7 In The Character of Melodrama, William Paul Steele reviews the writings of seven leading scholars of eighteenth and nineteenth-century melodrama and summarizes the characteristics of melodrama as follows: First, melodrama includes four principal stock characters: the villain, the hero, the virtuous woman or heroine, and the comic character or fool. Second, at the end of a melodrama the good are always rewarded and the evil are always punished. Third, melodrama deals with an action that is temporarily serious. Fourth, the action progresses almost completely through the machinations of the villain. Fifth, melodrama contains sensational elements. And sixth, melodrama contains elements of pathos and sentiment.8 This definition, which is based on theatrical works, embodies the original meaning of melodrama. Over its two hundred years of development, however, the meaning of melodrama has developed in various ways, and its influence is no longer limited to theatre. The basic melodramatic elements have been widely adopted by writers and filmmakers alike. Peter Brooks indicates in his influential The Melodramatic Imagination that the mode of Dickens, Dostoevsky, Conrad, Lawrence, Faulkner, and, especially, Hugo, Balzac, and James can be characterized as melodramatic.9 Referring to the origin of melodrama, Brooks states, “Melodrama starts from and expresses the anxiety brought by a frightening new world in which the traditional patterns of moral order no longer provide the necessary social glue.”10 This view is shared by many. In Home Is Where the Heart Is, Christine Gledhill more thoroughly traces melodrama’s development to the present using a broad historical and political perspective. She points out that in the eighteenth century the European bourgeoisie struggled for ascendancy over a decadent aristocracy, and it is within this struggle that one finds the generalization of “crisis” and “mode” across social classes and cultural forms which made melodrama a central nineteenth-century paradigm and a formative influence on twentieth-century American mass culture.11 The essays collected in her book treat melodrama as a cinematic genre and a popular cultural mode. In addition to spelling out the characteristics of melodrama and tracing its historical development, critics also point out the relationship between melodrama and other areas of study including realism. Gledhill notes: “As a mode melodrama both overlaps and competes with realism and tragedy, maintaining complex historical relations with them.”12 The awareness of the historical conditions under which European and American melodrama emerged led Paul Pickowicz to search for similar circumstances in China. “It is surely no coincidence,” he concludes, “that melodrama, a popular cultural response to the anxieties and moral confusion caused by the revolution in France, became so entrenched in China just before and after the 1911 Revolution.”13 Underlining the late Qing expose or qianze fiction as well as some films of the 1930s is shared historical background: a country that is torn by domestic discord and foreign invasions and calls for change and patriotism. Depicting ordinary Chinese people’s lives in constant turmoil and exposing and satirizing the predominant social evils became a mission for some writers and filmmakers. Hoping to wake up the world (xingshi/kuangshi), many intellectuals felt compelled to create a wave of new artistic works.

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A leading writer of the late Qing qianze tradition was Wu Yanren (1866–1910). In his sentimental Henhai (Sea of woe) published in 1906, three families were caught in the middle of the Boxer Uprising and the subsequent eight-power allied invasion of Beijing in 1900. The story’s focus eventually turns to two young lovers Dihua and Bohe. Running away from the destruction of the war in Beijing, Bohe ends up an opium addict and a thief in Shanghai’s underworld and dies in a hospital. Thereupon Dihua enters a nunnery. The “romantic sentimentalism”14 that is characteristic of Wu Yunren’s fiction becomes more elaborate in Mandarin Duck and Butterfly fiction which dominated the Chinese literary scene for about four decades beginning around 1910. In Butterfly fiction, as Rey Chow notes, there is a collage of narratives that are split between sensationalism and didacticism, between sentimental melodrama and the authors’ avowed moral intent. This crude fragmentedness produces the effect not of balance and control, but rather of a staging of conflicting, if not mutually exclusive, realities (such as Confucianism and Westernization, female chastity and liberation, country and city lives, etc).15 Although Perry Link does not use the term “melodrama” in his discussions, some of the elements he lists as literary style belong to the realm of melodrama, that is, sentimentalism, the one-dimensional all-good or all-bad leading characters and so on.16 Much of Mandarin Duck and Butterfly fiction deals sentimentally with the theme of unfulfilled love between a young man and a young woman. It did not take long for the Chinese film industry to notice the seductiveness of melodrama and utilize it in its film productions. Beginning in 1921, many writers of the Mandarin Duck and Butterfly school entered the realm of film production. Most of the 650 feature films produced between 1921 and 1931 were created by these writers.17 Evidence shows that Chinese film critics around this time used the term “melodrama” in their critiques.18 Filmmakers like Zheng Zhengqiu had no real passion for melodramatic films, but he knew that this was what the Chinese audiences liked. In an article entitled “What I Wish for the Audience,” he said: “Although films that are clear about good and bad identities can arouse emotions easily and therefore are welcome, we should also promote works that have more enduring merits and elevated ideological standards, although the excitement level of these films is weak compared to films that contrast good and evil.”19 In the 1930s, Chinese people faced foreign aggression, corruption, and economic collapse. In left-wing Chinese films of this time, melodramatic elements complemented the social realistic vision to expose the darkness of Chinese society and dealt with many social and political issues that unfolded in early twentieth-century China. They moved the characters and the audience alike with a clear moral identification of good and evil, and, through highly individualized experiences, delineated a number of fundamental social relations including gender, country and city, self and society.20 The left-wing filmmakers showed deep concern about a society that they could do little to improve; sometimes they displayed excessive pathos for the powerless and the voiceless, making their films emotional and sentimental. This mood was further enhanced by the background music. In some silent films, inter-titles that bore the strong emotions of the filmmakers also created melodramatic effect. I argue that the mode of these 1930s Chinese left-wing film melodramas involves “the indulgence of strong emotionalism” of the filmmakers, “extreme states of being, situations, actions” of the protagonists, “overt villainy, persecution of the good,” and

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“inflated and extravagant expression” of actors.21 It is further carried out by melodramatic music, utilizing film space and time. The initial discussion of realism began soon after cinema was born. The Chinese writer Yu Dafu considered realism to be the crowning achievement of film art and stated in 1927 that “the realistic (xianshi) and super realistic (chao xianshi) characteristics of film satisfy the curiosity of the audience more than any other art.”22 Yu Dafu’s views overlooked a number of complicated issues relating to the fundamental photographic nature of film art. However, one can argue that when compared to traditional Chinese art forms such as Beijing Opera, in which the settings and props are often imagined, the characters are categorized into carefully defined role types, and elaborate makeup is used to enhance the topology,23 Chinese films of the 1930s are closer to realism than any of the pre-existing Chinese performing arts. In 1965, Ralph Stephenson and J.R.Debrix explained in The Cinema as Art that “Film is more conducive to creating an illusion of reality than other art forms” because cinema reproduces movement. The photographic image is more objective than that in other visual arts because it is “created by a mechanical process.” Films give “a strong impression of…‘being present.’” Motion pictures contain “concrete images;” moreover, moviegoers often forget the disproportion between filmic size and real life size as they sit in the darkened theaters.24 Note that Yu Dafu, Stephenson and Debrix all discuss film realism as an art form according to its objectivity. It is here that film differs from other art forms. However, one can argue that cinematic apparatus provides plenty of room for filmmakers’ subjectivity and manipulation to alter this realistic sense (going back as early as D.W.Griffith): closeup shots (exaggeration), music, including the piano accompaniment for silent film in the theater (influencing audience’s perception and emotions), voice-over (articulating the inner thoughts of the character), montage (altering the natural sequence of time, space and action), creative use of art titles or credits (inserting the filmmakers’ commentaries). Later, deep focus, long shots from eye level, the long take technique, invisible cutting, and especially journalistic contents—the insertion of newspaper headlines and articles,25 the inclusion of radio broadcasting as well as television news—allow what appears to be the realistic form to be mixed with what appear to be the realistic content. This is why Orson Wells’ Citizen Kane (1941) is often considered a masterpiece in the canon of realistic cinema. The realist theorist André Bazin, examining how the Egyptians preserved mummies, made the following observation about cinema: “It is no longer a question of survival after death, but of a larger concept, the creation of an ideal world in the likeness of the real, with its own temporal destiny.”26 Here “likeness” means similarity, while “ideal” implies the involvement of the filmmaker’s subjectivity and artistic choice. Realism in China is “the crowning achievement of twentieth-century Chinese literature both by Chinese critics and by such scholars in the West as Jaroslev Prüsek and C.T.Hsia,” says Marston Anderson.27 But the limit of realism leaves room for other interpretations including social realism and melodrama. Leo Ou-fan Lee states that Chinese cinema of the 1930s and 1940s “definitely has political connotations, the vision of reality evolved in each work remains anchored in the subjective perception of the individual writer or film-maker-a conscience-stricken individual profoundly dissatisfied with the environment in which he (or she) lived and yet unable to offer tangible solutions

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to its problems.”28 Hence he refers to it as “social realism.” This sense of the social function of film, according to J.Dudley Andrew, is often associated with realist film theory.29 David Der-wei Wang’s Fictional Realism in Twentieth-Century China links realism directly with melodrama as one of the major narrative modes.30 I argue that, given China’s social reality of the 1930s, the left-wing filmmakers, like Peter Brooks’ Dickens, Dostoevsky, Conrad, Lawrence, Faulkner, Hugo, Balzac and James, “needed the model of reality made significant and interpretable furnished by theatricality, and particularly by what we have discussed as melodrama.”31 According to Siegfried Kracauer, since the inception of the cinema, there are, generally speaking, three tendencies in style: one is to depict a realistic picture as the director sees it, such as Lumière’s Le Déjeuner de Bébé and La Partie d’écarté and the other is the formalistic tendency, exhibited by Méliès who “ignored the workings of nature out of the artist’s delight in sheer fantasy.” The third tendency, says Kracauer, “clashes between the [first] two tendencies.”32 These tendencies are later carried out in more theoretic terms—realism, formalism and one that blends some or all of them. David Bordwell argues that during its formative years, classical Hollywood cinema was attracted by an average between the fixed character types of the melodrama and the dense complexity of the realist fiction that appeared in the short stories in the years between 1900 and 1920. As a result, Frank Borzage claimed in 1922 that “Today in the pictures we have the old melodramatic situations fitted out decently with true characterizations.”33 Although formalism and melodrama are two different filmic styles, they both tend toward exaggeration. Formalism focuses more on the form; melodrama on emotions. Even though Ma Ning’s insightful study of Street Angels accepts John Ellis’s claim that the Chinese leftist films all operate within the Hollywood melodramatic tradition, he does point out that “both the journalistic and popular discourses present the political situation of the time as another narrative that frames the melodramatic elements.”34 Ma Ning’s “journalistic discourse” is what I call the realistic discourse, and it overlaps with what he refers to as “melodramatic elements.” Here Kracauer’s three tendencies, Bordwell’s mixed character types and Ma Ning’s journalistic discourse/popular discourses and melodramatic elements35 reveal some universal tendencies in filmmaking. From the beginning, filmmakers have created a world that ranges from reality to fantasy and from realistic to melodramatic. A “master narrative” or a single and unified artistic term cannot fully characterize the complexity of this world. After carefully reviewing many left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s, I would like to propose that the cinematic styles of these films be loosely divided into melodramatic, realistic, and one that blends both elements. Three prominent and prolific directors of the 1930s and their film art are particularly interesting to me: Cheng Bugao, Sun Yu and Cai Chusheng. I will show how each uses his own filmic style to carry out the narrative in a representative film: Cheng Bugao is more inclined to realism in Spring Silkworms, Sun Yu is more melodramatic in Small Toys and Cai Chusheng blends both realism and melodrama in Songs of Fishermen. All three films are silent.

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THREE CASE STUDIES The narrative apparatus of the Chinese left-wing cinema of the 1930s is more sophisticated than many people realize (figure 13). The kind of uneventful long take that puts the audience to sleep and the poor editing in A String of Pearls (directed by Li Zeyuan in 1925) are relatively rare by now. Long, medium, close-up, and extreme closeup shots were employed commonly to dramatize cinematic space. Additionally, static camera shots, panning, tracking, point of view shots, eye line match shots, shot-reverseshot, as well as eye-level shots and high and low angle shots were frequently used in narrative. Some of these styles resulted from individual experiments and tastes; some, as many have argued, were imitations of Hollywood continuity editing that derived from the classical Hollywood cinema and the Soviet Montage school (mainly that of Pudovkin);36 and some, I argue, came as common sense governed by visual codes and pleasure. Mise-en-scène describes relationships within a shot while Montage describes relationships between shots. Traditionally, the former has been associated with the style of realism, and the latter, especially that of Eisenstein, has been linked with formalist style. We see both styles in the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s. Cheng Bugao’s 1933 film Spring Silkworms, which is based on Mao Dun’s novel of the same title, shows the ordeal of the Gao family. They take a high interest loan to raise silkworms in rural China, and despite their good harvest, find themselves bankrupt because of the war in Shanghai. The film reveals the whole process of silkworm growth, from eggs to worms to cocoons, making them the true stars of the film. There are no extreme actions on the part of either the Gao family or others. Additionally, the film does not show overt villainy, because the villains of the film, the imperialists, are implied and never appear as characters. Overall, Spring Silkworms lacks the dramatic conflict and climax that are associated with Chinese melodramas. Additionally, the actors’ performances, especially that of the leading character Xiao Ying, who plays Lao Tongbao, are natural and less melodramatic.37 Cheng Bugao is a mise-en-scène director. We see his characters wearing peasant clothes in a natural rural setting and doing farm work. Cheng uses mainly natural lighting throughout Spring Silkworms. The entire film looks and feels real and objective. Cheng uses many long shots and deep focus, which gives the illusion that what is in the frame is a realistic portrayal of life. Because of the distance, the audience sees these characters as part of the natural scene and is less likely to consider them as Mingxing Company actors who are reciting from a script. Together with long shots, Cheng, who was fluent in English and French,38 is also in favor of long takes. In the film when Lao Tongbao hears the rumor that his younger son Aduo had had a meeting at night with the infamous Hehua who supposedly often carries bad luck, he goes to Liubao, the source of the rumor, to verify what he has just heard. This scene is accomplished by a long shot of Liubao standing in the foreground facing the road (with her back to the camera) air-drying her laundry and Lao Tongbao emerging in the background and gradually walking over to talk to her. We know what they are talking about from the previous scene. As they are talking, a farmer walks past them. After obtaining his information, Lao Tongbao returns where he came from. This entire scene only takes one shot but lasts a full minute. It reveals a small

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part of ordinary farmers’ life in this village. There is no interruption by inter-titles, but the audience fully comprehends what is going on. In another scene near the end, Aduo walks into the room, puts down his baskets, takes off his hat, wipes off sweat with his sleeve, sees something on the floor and picks it up. It is his father’s divination garlic. Aduo grins, breaks its leaves, crumples it into one hand and leaves the room. His action reveals how ridiculous he feels about his father’s superstition. This scene also contains one shot and lasts fifty-six seconds with no inter-titles. Cheng’s camera angles, lighting, and film stock also give his film a natural and real look. Spring Silkworms employs mostly objective eye-level shots. Many shots are exterior, using either daylight or what appears to be moonlight. Cheng used mostly floodlighting for interior shots so the audience does not notice the lighting at all.39 Additionally, the high contrast black-and-white film stock that he used in this film gives his film a “newsreel” look. The American-trained director Sun Yu is often more melodramatic and less realistic in his films.40 This earned him the title of “poet director” in the 1930s. Small Toys, starring the dramatic actresses Ruan Lingyu and Li Lili, details the dramatic destruction of Mrs. Ye’s family and her ambition to save China. As Paul Picowicz accurately comments, Small Toys “contains precisely the type of rhetorical excess, grossly exaggerated representations, and extreme moral bipolarity that one finds in Chinese film melodramas of the twenties and, for that matter, in the classic American film melodramas made by D.W.Griffith that were so well known in China.”41 There is one scene in which Mrs. Ye (played by Ruan Lingyu) and Yuan Pu, her dandy suitor, walk into her house and he declares his love for her. She turns his attention instead into going abroad to study in order to save Chinese domestic industry. This scene lasts over ten minutes and uses mainly medium, close-up shots and inter-titles to reveal their emotions and feelings and detail their dialogue. It looks more staged than what we see in Spring Silkworms. Additionally, Sun Yu used many camera tricks, such as an extreme close-up shot of a man’s one eye to imply his overt villainy before he kidnaps Mrs. Ye’s son (there is a similar extreme close-up shot of his two eyes later after he sells the boy to a lady in Shanghai), and extreme low-angle shots to show the grand ambition and potential of Zhu’er (played by Li Lili) as she stands against the blue sky to lead a group of small children in their exercises (figure 17). Her heroic death, while serving her country as a volunteer in a first-aid unit, and her mother’s madness at the end of the film are also highly dramatized. This, coupled with the exaggerated performances by Ruan Lingyu and Li Lili, adds to the melodramatic effect of the narrative. The mode of Cai Chusheng’s Songs of Fishermen, finally, is both melodramatic and realistic. In contrast to Cheng Bugao, Cai Chusheng chooses shorter and relatively more static shots in Songs of Fishermen. Although the film juxtaposes the two families’ (one rich and one poor) experiences while migrating from Donghai to Shanghai, Cai Chusheng clearly intends to bridge the class gap among the young generation (figure 14). Therefore, although his pictorial configurations are not always very dialectic, we often see Sergei Eisenstein’s collisions and conflicts42 in Songs of Fishermen. As an example of conflict of intention, the film shows in one scene that He Renzhai’s Shanghai wife powders her face [inside] to make herself pretty (to attract men for her own benefit), while the next shot it reveals Xiaomao rubbing mud on her face [outside] to make herself ugly (to scare men away for her own protection). As an example of conflict of volume, the film puts

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Xiaohou, thin, weak and pathetic with the foreman, fat, strong and intimidating, in the same frame revealing the potential difficulty and danger for Xiaohou to find a job in this already over-crowded city (see figure 15). The plot of Songs of Fishermen is very melodramatic, involving the suffering and the destruction of the Xu family. The entire film is accompanied by melodramatic music43 and sentimental songs,44 which is rare among the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s. The music and songs validate the original meaning of melodrama. But his montage gives his film a realistic touch. Cai’s camera rarely moves and each shot lasts briefly. This kind of editing style, which Cai did smoothly and fluidly, produces the same distance between the audience and the cinematic objects within each shot, creating less dramatic feeling— no subjective shots or angles. His fast pace which relies on montage to carry out its narrative rather than on actors, conveys certain psychological realistic feel. Unlike Sun Yu, Cai relies on photographic images to communicate with his audience and minimizes the use of inter-titles. This also reduces the dramatic effect. The following courtroom scene from Songs of Fishermen reveals Cai Chusheng’s “master planning” in his montage: Shot 1, High angle, long shot of the courtroom. The camera is above the back of the judge’s head. From the left side of the screen, protagonists Xiaohou and Xiaomao are being taken into the middle of the courtroom (which is the middle of the frame), facing the judge (and the camera). This composition forms the conflict of plane, with the judge being high and Xiaohou and Xiaomao being low (see figure 16). This shot estab lishes the characters’ relationship within the courtroom space. Shot 2, eye level, medium shot of Xiaohou and Xiaomao. Xiaohou talks to Xiaomao. Shot 3, (inter-title) “What is he saying? I don’t understand. Later….” Shot 4, same as shot 2, eye level, medium shot of Xiaohou and Xiaomao. Shot 5, low angle, close-up shot of the judge reading the verdict. The judge’s head and the paper in front of him form a horizontal symmetry. Shot 6, same as shot 2, eye level, medium shot of Xiaohou and Xiaomao listening. Shot 7, medium shot of the judge reading the verdict. Shot 8, inter-title “The real criminals have been arrested. Xiaomao and Xiaohou are therefore innocent. I hereby order that their belongings be returned to them and the two be set free.” Shot 9, same as shot 7, medium shot of the judge reading the verdict. Shot 10, re-establishing shot 1, high angle, long shot of the courtroom. The camera is above the back of the judge’s head. Xiaohou and Xiaomao exit the courtroom to the left side of the screen. These ten shots only last about thirty-five seconds. The camera is stationary in each shot, but the tension is maintained throughout the sequence. The first and the last shots reflect each other. The climax is right in the middle, shot 5, a close-up shot of the judge reading the sentence.

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Such cinematic arrangement reveals the master planning of a very skilled director. Although Cai Chusheng received almost no formal education and was a self-taught director,45 I consider him to be the very best director from the Republican period. Songs of Fishermen played for eighty-four days in Shanghai, setting the highest box office record in Chinese history.46 To no one’s surprise, the film won the Chinese their first international award (although an honorary one) at the Moscow International Film Festival in 1935. Thirteen years later, Cai Chusheng set another Chinese cinematic box office record with his epic film, A Spring River Flows East (co-directed with Zheng Junli and produced by Kunlun Film Company, 1947).

Chapter Six Conclusion Left-wing/leftist films dominated China for over fifty years. Their history is longer in China than in any other country in the world.1 If the left-wing Chinese film in the Republican era of the 1930s and 1940s is defined by its degree of anti-imperialism and anti-feudalism, exposing the darkness of society, reflecting and describing reality, expressing the interest of the masses, didactism,2 and calling for change and revolution, the measure of the leftist Chinese films in the People’s Republic era (from the 1950s through the 1970s) is determined by how well cinema served Chinese Communist policies and audiences—workers, peasants and soldiers. The origins of the left-wing film in China began in the 1930s. The making of left-wing films continued after the Sino-Japanese war (1937–45). Mao Zedong’s “Yan’an Talks” in 1942 further theorized the left-wing ideology of the 1930s. But Mao’s military and political victories in 1949 gave these talks the structural and material backing. Under the Chinese Communist regime, the survival of literature and art is conditioned by its political stance. By now, the left-wing had become leftist.3 Leftist films, above ground and with the full support of the state, dominated the Chinese screen. The nationalization of the film studios in the early 1950s and the campaign against the film The Biography of Wu Xun (Wu Xun zhuang, d: Sun Yu, Kunlun Film Company, 1950) in 1952 further paved the way for the promotion of the radical leftist films that propagandized Chinese Communist ideology.4 Although a few non-propaganda May Fourth literature films5 were made accompanied by the advocacy of “socialist realist” cinema and the study of Soviet Montage film theory,6 they cannot be compared with the number and influence of socialist propaganda films. The “Anti-rightist Movement” of 1958 and the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) marked the culmination of leftist films in China. The death of Mao Zedong and the fall of the “Gang of Four” in the late 1970s concluded the leftist domination of Chinese cinema. The politics of leftist cinema in China is most evident in the portrayal of gender relations. Few have noticed that the success of Zhang Yimou’s rebellious and seductive women (often played by Gong Li) is attributable to his departure from the leftist tradition. Nothing exemplifies this leftist tradition more powerfully than the process of the making and unmaking of the ideal leftist woman in Chinese cinema. The cinematic birth of the ideal leftist woman began in the left-wing Chinese cinema of the 1930s (1932–37). She begins as an urban proletarian worker with a collective identity (as Aying in The New Woman). In the 1940s, she is a sophisticated underground nationalist fighter with the same collective identity (as Xinqun in Women Side by Side). The heyday of the ideal leftist woman emerges in the 1960s and 1970s (as Han Ying in The Red Guards of Lake Honghu), underlined by “The Model Operas” during the Cultural Revolution. She is

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associated with the Communist Party, either as a nationalist heroine during the wars or as a leader in socialist production. Following the death of Mao Zedong and the fall of Jiang Qing, the portrayal of the female Party secretaries in the 1980s marks the end of the leftist woman in Chinese cinema (as Li Guoxiang in Hibiscus Town and Zhou Yuzhen in The Black Cannon Incident). Here the leftist woman serves as an antagonist, and her narrow-mindedness and her super-maternal ego keep China from moving forward. In these three stages of development, making and the unmaking of the ideal leftist woman serve as an emblem reflecting fifty years of changeable and troubled Communist ideology. From the May Fourth Movement of 1919 to the June 4th Tian’anmen Massacre of 1989, the relationship of self and society is the most changeable subject. The May Fourth Movement liberated the concept of self and individuality from the restrains of the Confucian tradition. From the 1930s through the 1970s, self and individuality were suppressed for the betterment of society and national salvation (the 1930s and 1940s), for socialist construction (the 1950s and 1960s) and for participation in class struggle (the 1970s). The post-Cultural Revolution period in the late 1970s redefined the relationship of self and society. The reform of college entrance examination system in 1977 made it possible for young people to enroll in college based on their abilities. This has played a very important role among the young in shifting their focus from the collective to the individual. Additionally, the cultural fever known as wenhuare, Deng Xiaoping’s visit to the south and the general move toward creating a market economy have all helped emphasize the importance of individuality. Nevertheless, the June 4th democratic movement in 1989, initiated by the students of Beijing University, epitomized the relationship of self and society under the Communist regime. The forceful suppression of the movement and the promise of wealth and prosperity under the Deng Xiaoping-Jiang Zemin regime turned many young people to the pursuit of self-fulfillment and wealth. Sixty years after Small Toys, Mrs. Ye’s ideology still proves to be valid. Thousands of peasants are moving into cities seeking new opportunities. They open restaurants,7 work at construction sites and serve as maids. Countrywomen diligently try to catch up with the fashions of city women. Western and modern styles once again attract Chinese. This situation supports Henri Lefebvre’s prediction: “Lastly, the town would surely come to dominate the country, and this would be the death knell of the whole antagonism.”8 Mao’s Chinese revolution, having realized its victory of country-overcity, took a different turn from the trends of the world. After being defeated in the city, Mao Zedong educated and organized his peasants. Fewer than fifteen years later the Chinese revolutionary forces, recruited mainly from Chinese peasants, stormed the cities and claimed their ultimate victory of country over city in 1949. During his infamous Cultural Revolution, Mao sent many educated city youths to the countryside to be reeducated by the Chinese peasants. This radical act probably far exceeded the imagination of the leftwingers of the 1930s. Mao’s triumph lasted over four decades. This situation may have led Henri Lefebvre to add a special section to his book, in which he specifically discusses the “Chinese road to socialism.”9 Lefebvre includes “the Chinese case” as an exception to his theory. Unfortunately, Lefebvre could not foresee at the time that “the Chinese road” he discussed was destined to become a failure, and was only a transitional phase in Chinese history.10

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Today, as a result of the market-economies and the open-door policies, Chinese cities once again exercise control over the country. Foreign goods, ranging from toothpastes to automobiles, flourish in Chinese markets. Foreign international corporations and jointventures are squeezing small domestic companies out of business. The unemployment rate rises every year. I noticed that in Beijing, the National Department Store (Guohuo Shangdian) located in the Xidan shopping district uses nationalist sentiment to promote domestic products. However, the store is mostly empty. By contrast, the Yansha Shopping Center, which sells mainly imported goods and products from joint ventures, is jammed with eager Chinese customers. Is this another twist in Chinese history? And will China be turned back again by another revolution? True, what we see in contemporary Chinese society is not the same as it was in the 1930s; but China seems to demonstrate to the world that “Agrarian society is no longer an option.”11 Does this mean that China is finally picking up where it left off in the 1930s and soon will join the rest of the industrial world? Only time will tell.

Appendix One INTERVIEW WITH CHENG JIHUA On a rainy Saturday afternoon in 1996, a friend of mine took me to visit Cheng Jihua (1921-) in Beijing. In addition to his official posts, Mr. Cheng has been an actor, film director, teacher and film historian. In my view, his biggest contribution to history is his monumental Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (a history of the development of Chinese cinema)1 that he wrote with the assistance of Li Shaobai and Xing Zuwen. I had heard that Mr. Cheng was jailed during the Cultural Revolution for his involvement in writing this book, but he appeared healthy and was in high spirits. He made us some tea and was pleased to learn that I had come from UCLA. “I taught there in 1983,” Mr. Cheng informed me. We chatted for a while, and then I started to ask him about the left-wing Chinese films of the 1930s and the current Chinese film industry. Here is our conversation: Shen: Which films and how many films are considered left-wing? Cheng: This is an issue that has not been settled. Shen: Are Zhang Shichuan and Zheng Zhengqiu considered left wing filmmakers? Cheng: The concept of left-wing can be categorized into a narrow sense and a broad sense. Zhang Shichuan was less cultured than Zheng Zhengqiu. Zhang was more of a comprador kind of individual. Although Zhang made many films, the artistry in his films is really so-so. Zheng Zhengqiu on the other hand was deeply embedded in the soil of traditional Chinese cul ture. He made many good movies. His early death allowed him to be a wanren [a perfect man]. Shen: In Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The leftwing Chinese film movement) edited by Chen Bo,2 all the left-wing film ac tivists are described as screenwriters, film critics or actors, but there are no producers. How can you discuss a film move ment without addressing the roles producers played? Cheng: In the early days of Chinese filmmaking, there was no such a thing as producers. Often the role was filled by the boss of a film studio. Both Zheng Zhengqiu and Zhang Shichuan cre ated films and invested money in the films. So in that sense they were also producers. Luo Mingyou often depended on the assistance of Zhu Shilin to write screenplays for him. Shen: In the West, there is more emphasis on film directors than on screenwriters. But Chinese film critics today seem to pay more attention to the left-wing screenwriters of the 1930s.

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Cheng: Chinese screenwriters played a leading role in the Leftwing Chinese Film Movement because the situation in China was different. The development of Chinese film was abnormal in the semi-colonial and semi-feudal China. In order for the rev olutionary cultural men to seize the culture, they wrote screenplays. They had knowledge, they had ability and they had purpose, which was to save the nation from extinction and to resist the Japanese imperialists. These screenwriters were much more cultured than the bosses of the studios, but they also bounded with their bosses. The bosses needed screenwriters to write screenplays and to offer them ideas. Even today, directors depend on screenwriters. They spend a lot of money on screenwriters, and need them to write good screenplays. Zhang Yimou has bought several screenplays. To some degree, he also functions as a producer. Shen: Was Xia Yan’s contribution as great as you have indicated in your book? Cheng: First, Xia Yan really played a leading role in the left-wing film movement. He worked with Zheng Boqi. He translated many plays. He studied film art from the American films. He helped the writers. He used the same filmic language as the directors. Secondly, each time when he worked with a director, that di rector got a benefit from it [meaning: became successful]. For example, Cheng Bugao became famous after he directed Wild Torrents.3 But at that time, for the sake of the country, many people didn’t care about fame or fortune. Thirdly, the bosses of the film studio couldn’t do without him. The improvement of the Chinese film industry was made possible by people like Xia Yan and the others. The history of progressive films in China is longer than in any other country. Japan, Germany, France and America all discontinued theirs. China has the longest history, like no other place in the world. Progressive films became the mainstream in China. They fostered several generations of filmmakers, one after another. The films of the 1940s carried on the left-wing films. The good tradition of the films today all came from the left-wing. Chinese films contributed to the revolution. Shen: What about melodrama? Cheng: This is a Western theory. Shen: What do you think of Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige? Cheng: They will have to change or they can’t continue. You can’t tell China’s current reality from their films. Films should reflect the present. Good films, for example, Crossroads (Shizi ji etou) and Street Angles (Malu tianshi) are all this way. The Chinese audience in the early days was the best audience in the world. Films for pure entertainment would not become

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mainstream. The characteristic of Chinese film has a lot to do with its guiding principles and artistic principles. Reading books and watching movies are not similar to pure entertain ment. Wenyizaidao, [literature carries the Tao]. This tradi tion will return. Shen: What do you think about the situation that the Chinese film market is filled with Hollywood films, and that today Chinese audiences prefer to watch Western films? Cheng: The recent Chinese films are terrible. They make about one hundred fifty films per year; not many are good. In the 1930s and 1940s, Chinese films could contend with Western films. Those that did well at the box office were all left-wing Chinese films. Art shouldn’t teach people to be bad; it should teach people something good, and encourage people to move upward. After the Cultural Revolution, the ideology is still very confusing. It takes time to change. But I have great con fidence in the Chinese audience. Water World4 has grand scenes and it is about a catastrophe. In the theater they used six sound tracks, felt like explosions. Too loud. But this movie is poor in content, and it is meaningless. Shanghai Film Studio is spending one hundred million yuan to make the high tech Stirring up Trouble in the Heavenly Palace (Danao tiangong). Shen: I visited the site a few days ago but couldn’t see much. The place was locked up. Cheng: High technology cannot replace culture.

With Mr. Cheng Jihua in Beijing, 1996.

Appendix Two FILMOGRAPHY Chinese films mentioned or discussed in this book are listed in chronological order. Original titles in Chinese characters, pinyin and English translations are provided. Abbreviations: d (director), s (screenplay), c (cinematographer) and S (studio). 1905 Dingjun Mountain (Dingjun shan)

d: Ren Jingfeng c: Liu Zhonglun S: Fengtai Photo Studio (Beijing) 1913 The Wedding Night/The Difficult Couple (Nanfu nanqi)

d: Zhang Shichuan, Zheng Zhengqiu s: Zheng Zhengqiu c: Yishe’er S: Yaxiya (Shanghai) Zhuangzi Tests His Wife (Zhuangzi shi qi)

d: Li Minwei s: Li Minwei c: Luo Yongxiang S: Huamei Yingpian (Hong Kong) 1922 The Love of a Fruit Seller (Laogong aiqing) (a.k.a. Zhiguo yuan)

Appendix Two Filmography

121

d: Zhang Shichuan s: Zheng Zhengqiu c: Zhang Weitao S: Mingxing (Shanghai) 1923 The Orphan Saves His Grandfather (Gu’er jiuzu ji)

d: Zhang Shichuan s: Zheng Zhengqiu c: Zhang Weitao S: Mingxing 1925 A String of Pearls (Yichuan zhenzhu)

d: Li Zeyuan s: Hou Yao c: Cheng Peiling S: Changcheng (Shanghai) 1928 The Burning of Red Lotus Temple (Huoshao Hongliansi)

d: Zhang Shichuan s: Zheng Zhengqiu c: Dong Keyi S: Mingxing 1931 Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood (Taohua qixue ji)

d: Bu Wancang

Appendix Two Filmography

s: Bu Wancang c: Huang Shaofen S: Lianhua (Shanghai) 1932 Wild Rose (Ye meigui)

d: Sun Yu s: Sun Yu c: Zhou Ke S: Lianhua 1933 Wild Torrents (Kuangliu)

d: Cheng Bugao s: Xia Yan c: Dong Keyi S: Mingxing The Outcry of Women (Nüxing de nahan)

d: Shen Xiling s: Shen Xiling c: Wang Shizhen S: Mingxing The Cosmetic Market (Zhifen shichang)

d: Zhang Shichuan s: Xia Yan c: Dong Keyi S: Mingxing Spring Silkworms (Chuncan)

122

Appendix Two Filmography

123

(Based on Mao Dun’s short story by the same title) d: Cheng Bugao s: Xia Yan c: Wang Shizhen S: Mingxing The Tide in the Salt Village (Yanchao)

d: Xu Yinfu s: Zheng Boqi and Aying (based on Lou Shiyi’s original work) c: Dong Keyi S: Mingxing Twin Sisters (Zimei hua)

d: Zheng Zhengqiu and Shen Xiling s: Zheng Zhengqiu c: Dong Keyi S: Mingxing Shanghai Twenty-four Hours (Shanghai ershisi xiaoshi)

d: Shen Xiling s: Xia Yan c: Zhou Shimu S: Mingxing Sons and Daughters of an Era (Shidai de ernü)

d: Li Pingqian s: Xia Yan, Zheng Boqi and Aying c: Yan Bingheng S: Mingxing

Appendix Two Filmography

124

Daybreak (Tianming)

d: Sun Yu s: Sun Yu c: Zhou ke S: Lianhua Small Toys (Xiao wanyi)

d: Sun Yu s: Sun Yu c: Zhou Ke S: Lianhua Three Modern Women (Sange modeng nüxing)

d: Bu Wancang s: Tian Han c: Huang Shaofen S: Lianhua 1934 The Bible of Women (Nü’er jing)

d: Zhang Shichuan, Cheng Bugao, Shen Xiling, Yao Sufeng, Zheng Zhengqiu, Xu Yinfu, Li Pingqian, Cheng Kengran and Wu Cun s: Xia Yan, Zheng Zhengqiu, Hong Shen, Aying, Zheng Boqi, Shen Xiling etc. c: Dong Keyi, Wang Shizhen, Yan Bingheng, Zhou Shimu and Chen Chen S: Mingxing Songs of Fishermen (Yuguang qu)

d: Cai Chusheng s: Cai Chusheng

Appendix Two Filmography

c: Zhou Ke S: Lianhua The Sainted Woman (Shennü) (a.k.a. Goddess)

d: Wu Yonggang s: Wu Yonggang c: Hong Weilie S: Lianhua The Plunder of Peach and Plum (Taoli jie) (a.k.a. The Fate of College Students)

d: Ying Yunwei s: Yuan Muzhi c: Wu Weiyun S: Diantong (Shanghai) 1935 The Sorrow of the Hometown (Xiang chou)

d: Shen Xiling s: Shen Xiling c: Zhou Shimu S: Mingxing Sons and Daughters of the Storm (Fengyun ernü)

(Based on Tian Han’s story) d: Xu Xingzhi s: Xia Yan c: Wu Yinxian S: Diantong

125

Appendix Two Filmography

Metropolitan Scenes (Dushi fengguang)

d: Yuan Muzhi s: Yuan Muzhi c: Wu Yinxian S: Diantong The Boatman’s Daughter (Chuanjia nü)

d: Shen Xiling s: Shen Xiling c: Zhou Shimu S: Mingxing The Big Road (Dalu)

d: Sun Yu s: Sun Yu c: Hong Weilie S: Lianhua The New Woman (Xin nüxing)

d: Sun Shiyi s: Cai Chusheng c: Zhou Daming S: Lianhua 1936 The Lost Lamb (Mitu de gaoyang)

d: Cai Chusheng s: Cai Chusheng c: Zhou Daming

126

Appendix Two Filmography

S: Lianhua The Girl in Disguise (Huashen guniang)

d: Fang Peilin s: Huang Jiamo c: Yao Shiquan S: Yihua (Shanghai) Life and Death, Same Spirit (Shengsi tongxin)

d: Ying Yunwei s: Yang Hansheng c: Wu Yinxian S: Mingxing 1937 Crossroads (Shizi jietou)

d: Shen Xiling s: Shen Xiling c: Wang Yuru S: Mingxing Street Angels (Malu tianshi)

d: Yuan Muzhi s: Yuan Muzhi c: Wu Yinxian S: Mingxing A Ready Source of Money (Yaoqian shu)

d: Tan Youliu s: Xia Yan and Shen Xiling

127

Appendix Two Filmography

128

c: Shen Yongshi S: Lianhua 1949 Women Side by Side (Liren xing)

d: Chen Liting s: Tian Han c: Han Zhongliang S: Kunlun (Shanghai) The Adventures of Sanmao (Sanmao liulang ji)

(Adapted from the comic strip created by Zhang Leping) d: Zhao Ming, Yan Gong s: Yang Hansheng; c: Zhu Jinming, Han Zhongliang S: Kunlun 1950 The Biography of Wu Xun (Wu Xun zhuan)

d: Sun Yu s: Sun Yu c: Han Zhongliang S: Kunlun 1956 The New Year’s Sacrifice (Zhufu)

(Based on Lun Xun’s short story) d: Sang Hu s: Xia Yan c: Qian Jiang

Appendix Two Filmography

129

S: Beijing The Family (Jia)

(Based on Ba Jin’s novel) d: Chen Xihe, Ye Ming s: Chen Xihe c: Xu Qi S: Shanghai 1959 The Lin Family Shop (Linjia puzi)

(Based on Mao Dun’s short story) d: Shui Hua s: Xia Yan c: Qian Jiang S: Beijing 1961 The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun)

d: Xie Jin s: Liang Xin c: Shen Xilin S: Tianma (Shanghai) The Red Guards of Lake Honghu (Honghu chiwei dui)

d: Xie Tian, Chen Qianfang and Xu Feng s: Mei Shaoshan, Chen Jing’an, etc. c: Qian Jiang, Chen Guoliang S: Beijing and Wuhan 1985

Appendix Two Filmography

The Black Cannon Incident

(Based on a novel by Zhang Xianliang) d: Huang Jianxin s: Li Zhun c: Wang Xinsheng, Feng Wei S: Xi’an 1986 Hibiscus Town (Furong zhen)

(Based on a novel by Gu Hua) d: Xie Jin s: Acheng, Xie Jin c: Lu Qunfu S: Shanghai 1991 Center Stage (Ruan Lingyu)

d: Guan Jinpeng (a.k.a. Stanley Kuang) s: Qiudai Anping c: Pan Hengsheng S: Jiahe (Hong Kong)

130

Notes NOTES TO CHAPTER ONE 1. A sequel to this film was made a little later. 2. Cheng Jihua, Li Shaobai and Xing Zuwen, eds., Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (A history of the development of Chinese cinema) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1981), vol. 1, 494–495. 3. Gao Feng, “‘Huashen guniang’ ji qita” (A Girl in Disguise and others), Da wanbao (Evening news), 20 June 1936. Rpt., SSND, 835–836. 4. Liao Weifang, “Huashen guniang” (A Girl in Disguise), Minbao (People’s daily), 7 June 1936. Rpt., SSND, 832. 5. Jiamo, “Yingxing yingpian yu ruanxing yingpian” (Hard film and soft film), Xiandai dianying (Modern film) 1, no. 6 (December 1, 1933). Rpt., SSND, 843. 6. Ibid., 845. 7. Theodore Huters, “Critical Ground: The Transformation of the May Fourth Ear.” In Popular Chinese Literature and Performing Arts In the People’s Republic of China 1949–1979, ed. Bonnie S. McDougall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 56. 8. Ibid., 56. 9. Mao Zedong, Quotations from Chairman Mao Tsetung (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1976), 301. 10. A popular rural dance. 11. Rhythmic comic dialogue or monologue to the accompaniment of bamboo clappers. 12. Bonnie S.McDougall, Mao Zedong’s “Talks at the Yan’an Conference on Literature and Art”: A Translation of the 1943 Text with Commentary (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, The University of Michigan, 1980), 38–39. 13. Wag the Dog, a Hollywood satire released in 1997, reveals the relationship of art and politics in America. A Hollywood producer (Dustin Hoffman) is hired to produce a phony war and other scenes for a Washington politician (Robert Deniro) who is helping the president with his re-election. The producer is killed in the end when he wants to oppose the politicians by publicizing his efforts. 14. These films include, but are not limited to, Chen Kaige’s debut, Yellow Earth (Huang tudi, 1984), Huang Jianxin’s brilliant political satire The Black Cannon Incident (Heipao shijian, 1985) and Zhang Yimou’s To Live (Huozhe, 1994). Since I cannot speak for what will happen in the future, my argument can only be based on the films that have been made so far. 15. It is paradoxical that Laikwan Pang both criticizes the political tendency in the study of the left-wing Chinese cinema of the 1930, yet at the same time calls it a “movement.” See Pang’s Building A New China In Cinema (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002). 16. This is the dictionary definition of “movement” found in Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language (New York: Random House, 1996), 1258. 17. Leo Ou-fan Lee, “The Tradition of Modern Chinese Cinema: Some Preliminary Explorations and Hypotheses,” in Perspectives on Chinese Cinema, ed. Chris Berry (London: British Film Institute, 1991), 7.

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18. Perry Link, Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies, Popular Fiction in Early Twentieth-Century Chinese Cities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 79. 19. Tang Zhenchang, Jindai Shanghai fanhua lu (A record of prosperity in modern Shanghai) (Hong Kong: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1993), 88. 20. Perry Link devoted an entire chapter discussing the rise of the fiction press and its relationship with Mandarin Duck and Butterfly culture. See Link, 79–124. 21. Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in Arendt, Hannah ed., Illuminations, tr. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books Inc., 1968), 233. 22. For example:

1876, Jardine built the first Chinese railroad, which ran as long as thirty li. 1881, telephones were installed in Shanghai. 1896, the central office of China’s first post office was built in Shanghai, making Shanghai the center of postal service in China. 1908, the first trolley bus appeared in the French concession. In the same year, trolley buses appeared in the international concession. 1914, Shanghai trolley company adopted trackless trolleys in Shanghai. 1923, the first Shanghai (wireless) Radio Station began broadcasting. 1927, after the establishment of a Shanghai-Nanjing air route, China began air mail service. (Source: Tang Zhenchang, 27–35.) 23. Tang Zhenchang, 138. 24. Ge Yuanxu, Huang Shiquan etc, Huyouzaji, Songnan mengying lu, Huyou mengying (Notes of traveling in Shanghai, the records of dreams of Songnan and dreams of traveling in Shanghai) (Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1989), 1–149. 25. Tang Tao, Zhongguo xiandai wenxue shi (A history of modern Chinese literature) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1984), 4. 26. Leo Ou-fan Lee discusses this in an article entitled “‘Piping kongjian de kaichuang—cong Shenbao ‘ziyou tan’ tanqi” (The creation of critical space— beginning from “the free talks” of Shenbao). Meng Yue wrote about the subject at UCLA in 1994 in her Master’s thesis entitled A Playful Discourse, Its Site, and Its Subject: “Free Chat” in the Shenbao Daily, 1911–1918. 27. Tang Zhenchang, 190. 28. Bernd Eberstein ed., A Selective Guide to Chinese Literature 1900–1949, vol. 4 (The Drama), (Leiden: E.J.Brill, 1990), 10. 29. Li Chang’s article on stage production design in early Chinese spoken drama gives concrete evidence on how the Western spoken drama influenced Chinese spoken drama. See Li Chang, “Zhongguo jindai huaju wutai meishu piantan” (Some fragmented pieces on the production design of modern Chinese spoken drama), in Zhongguo huaju shiliao ji (A collection of materials of the history of Chinese spoken drama), vol. 1 (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 1987), 254. 30. The dramatist Ouyang Yuqian indicates that the term huaju was first introduced in 1927 at Tian Han’s suggestion. See Ouyang Yuqian, “Huaju, xin geju yu Zhongguo xiju yishu

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chuantong” (Drama, new opera and Chinese theatrical tradition) in Meng Tao ed., Ouyang Yuqian xiju lunwen ji (a collection of Ouyang Yuqian’s essays on drama) (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1984), 26.

In an article written in wenmingxi’s defense, Ouyang Yuqian argues that the new drama had three stages of development: the first stage, between 1907 and 1911, that marked the period of its creation; the second stage, from 1911 to 1917, the stage of development and thriving; and the third stage that lasted from 1917 through 1924, when the new drama gradually declined, following the disbanding of several drama groups such as Chunliu she (or Chunliu Society) and Minming she (or the Minming Society). See Ouyang Yuqian, “Tan wenmingxi” (On civilized drama) in Zhongguo huaju wushinian shiliao ji (Materials from fifty years of the Chinese spoken drama movement), vol. 1. (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 1985), 56– 57. 31. See Wang Yongfang and Jiang Hongtao, “Zai hua faxing waiguo yingpian mulu (1896– 1924)” (The catalogue of the foreign film distribution in China 1896–1924) in Zhongguo dianying yanjiu (Chinese film studies), 1.1:184–259, 260–282 (December 1983). 32. Marie Cambon has written an article on American films in Shanghai entitled “The Dream Palaces of Shanghai: American Films in China’s Largest Metropolis Prior to 1949,” Asian Cinema 7, no. 2 (winter 1995): 34–45. 33. Nakamura Gen, “Sanju nendai Shanghai gindan” (The Shanghai film world of the 1930s) in Umino Hiroshi ed., Shanghai mato (Shanghai modern) (Tokyo: Tojushao, 1985), 217–218. 34. There was a similar incident on March 33, 1930. When a Harold Lloyd comedy showing the Chinese as a race of gangsters was screened in Shanghai’s Daguangming (Grand Theater), Dramatist Hong Shen stood up and publicly denounced the film. Refer to A.C.Scott, Literature and the Arts in Twentieth Century China (Garden City: Anchor Books, 1963), 69. Also refer to Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, Shanghai yingtan huajiu (The old days of the Shanghai film world) (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1987), 88–89. 35. Nakamura Gen, 217–218. 36. Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, 18–23. 37. Xia Yan, “Xin de bashe” (The new journey), in ZGZY, 10. The article originally appeared in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi (Encyclopaedia of the new Chinese literature), vol. 17 (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1984). 38. Dramatist Ouyang Yuqian wrote a book called Dianying banlu chujia ji (In the midst of life comes the vocation of cinema) to discuss his experience of becoming involved in filmmaking without any previous training. This book is a collection of 14 articles of his experience, and was first published in 1962 by Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, reprinted in 1984. 39. These seven films were: Konggulan, Spring Silkworms, Twin Sisters, the Big Road, Songs of Fishermen, Women and The Plunder of Peach and Plum. See Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), no 19 (March 15, 1935). To see the picture of the certificate of merit, refer to ZGZY, 546. 40. William Dolby, A History of Chinese Drama (London: Elek Books Limited, 1976), 217. 41. The collection was published by Shanghai Liangyou gongsi in 1935. See Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial) 23, no. 7 (July 15, 1935).

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42. Jay Leyda mentions this in Dianying: Electric Shadows (Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 1972), 13–14. Rey Chow also discusses this in detail in her Primitive Passions (New York: Columbia University, 1995), 4–18. 43. This translation and “The Translator’s Note” can be found in Lu Xun quanji (The complete works of Lu Xun), vol. 4 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1991), 389–413. 44. Jay Leyda, 97, footnote *. 45. Rey Chow, Primitive Passions, 16. 46. Ibid., 16. 47. In an article called “Congshi zuoyi dianying gongzuo de yixie huiyi” (Memoirs of participating in the left-wing film activities), Xia Yan considers Tian Han as the first and Hong Shen as the second filmmaker from the May Fourth Culture. Refer to Hui Lin, Chen Jian and Shao Wu eds., Xia Yan yanjiu ziliao (The research material of Xia Yan) (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 1983), 73. 48. Tian Han, “Kafei dian qiche dianyingxi” (Coffee house, automobile and movie theater) in Tian Han sanwen ji (A collection of Tian Han’s essays) (Shanghai: Jindai shudian, 1936), 136–137. 49. Ibid., 139. 50. Tian Han, “Day Dream” in Tian Han sanwenji, 86–87. Tian Han further points out the differences between movies and stage plays based on Tanizaki’s opinion, that the life of a stage play is limited, while the life of a movie is unlimited. A stage play normally has a limited audience. When the curtain falls and people return home, nothing is left. On the other hand, a movie can be shown again and again to attract an unlimited audience. Tian Han, 88– 89. 51. Tian Han sanwenji, 337–338. 52. For example, Walter Benjamin says: “By close-ups of the things around us, by focusing on hidden details of familiar objects, by exploring commonplace milieus under the ingenious guidance of the camera, the film, on the one hand, extends our comprehension of the necessities which rule our lives; on the other hand, it manages to assure us of an immense and unexpected field of action.” See Illuminations, 236. 53. Gerald Mast, A Short History of the Movies, fifth edition, revised by Bruce F.Kawin (New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1992), 21. 54. It is traditionally believed that these films came from Lumière’s collection. But Jay Leyda argues that this may not be true. See Dianying: Electric Shadows, 1. 55. Paul Fonoroff, Tushuo Xianggang dianying shi (A pictorial history of Hong Kong cinema) (Xianggang: Sanlian shudian youxian gongsi, 1997), 2. 56. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 13–14. Film historian Yi Sha’s study suggests something a little different. According to Yi Sha, a French filmmaker wanted to make a documentary film about Beijing. But because foreigners were not permitted in the imperial palaces, he turned to the people at Fengtai Photo Studio for help. The people at the studio were inspired by the filmmaking process, and took the Frenchman to see Peking Opera. The Frenchman was, of course, very interested in his experience. So, he invited the famous Peking opera actor Tan Xinpei to star in Dingjun Mountain (Dingjun shan). See Yi Sha, “Daoyan” (Introduction) in Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi xubian (The supplement to the anthology of new Chinese literature) (Hong Kong: Xianggang wenxue yanjiu she, 1966), 2–3. 57. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 18. 58. Asia (Yaxiya) Film Company was established by Benjamin Brasky, an American film businessman in 1909. The Hard Made Couple or The Wedding Night (Nanfu nanqi), was the first feature film this studio produced. Cheng Jihua, 17. 59. Ibid., 20–21. 60. Gail Hershatterl. Dangerous Pleasures—Prostitution and Modernity in Twentieth-century Shanghai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 158. 61. Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, 5–8. Also refer to Cheng Jihua, 43–45.

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62. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 54. 63. Xia Yan, “Congshi zuoyi dianying de yixie huiyi” (Memoirs of participating in the left-wing film activities). In Hui Lin, Chen Jian and Shao Wu eds., Xia Yan yanjiu ziliao (The research material of Xia Yan) (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 1983), 74. 64. Yi Sha, “Daoyan” (Introduction) to Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi xubian (The supplement to the new Anthology of new Chinese literature) (Hong Kong: Xianggang wenxue yanjiu she, 1966), 20. 65. Harriet Sergeant, Shanghai, Collision Point of Cultures 1918–1939 (New York: Crown Publishers, Inc., 1990), 248. 66. Ibid., 248. 67. Frederick Wakeman, Jr., Policing Shanghai 1927–1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 11. 68. In modern times alone, the reformers of the late Qing dynasty, such as Liang Qichao, Xia Zengyou and others discussed the relationship between literature and politics. “Lun xiaoshuo yu qunzhi de guanxi” (The relationship of the novel and the masses) written by Liang Qichao, “Xiaoshuo yuanli” (The principle of the novel) written by Xia Zengyou, “Lun xiaoshuo yu gailiang shehui zhi guanxi” (The relationship of the novel and social reform) by Wang Wusheng, “Lun xiaoshuo zhi shili jiqi yingxiang” (The power and the influence of the novel) by Tao Youzeng and others all emphasized the political and didactic functions of the novel. Under Liang Qichao’s theory that “in order to modernize the people of a country, we must modernize the novel of the country,” the novel became a powerful weapon for new age writers to expose the old society and propagandize the new thoughts. As a result, many people became professional writers. They produced “political novels,” “social novels,” and “science novels.” See Tang Tao, op. cit., 4. 69. Hou Yao, Yingxi juben zuofa (The method of screenplay writing). The book was first published in 1926, see ZGDY, vol. 1, 50. 70. “Dianying yishu dai facanci” (A foreword to film art), in Dianying yishu (Film art) 1 (July 8, 1932). Rpt., ZGZY, 20. 71. Many Chinese considered film a kind of drama in early days. Before “dianying” became an independent term to refer to films, many called it “yingxi” meaning “shadow play.” 72. Sun Shiyi, “Wang xiaceng de yingxi” (The films for the low classes) in Yinxing (Screen stars) 1 (1926). Rpt., ZGDY, vol. 1, 80. 73. Chenwu, “Zhongguo dianying zhi lu” (The road of Chinese cinema), in Mingxing yuekan (Mingxing monthly) 1, nos. 1–2 (May and June, 1933). Rpt., SSND, 600. 74. Pan Peiyuan wrote “Guanyu mingxing zhidu” (Regarding star system). The author states that the star system interferes with the development of Chinese film. The article is in Mingxing banyukan (Mingxing biweekly) 2, no. 3 (1936). Some of the well-known starstudio relationships include Hu Die for Mingxing Film Company and Ruan Lingyu for Lianhua Film Company. 75. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol.1, 139. 76. Meng Gongwei, “Juwairen tan ‘yingping’” (An outsider talks about “film criticism”), in Da gongbao (Public news), 16, 17 and 24 April 1936. Rpt., SSND, 714–715. 77. Xi Naifang, “Dianying zuiyan” (The crime of the film), in Mingxing 1, no. 1 (1933). Rpt., ZGDY, vol. 1, 148. 78. Chenwu, “Zhongguo dianying zhi lu” (The road of Chinese cinema), Mingxing 1, nos.1–2 (1933), Rpt., ZGDY, vol. 1, 137. 79. Fengwu, “Lun Zhongguo dianying wenhua zhi lu” (The road of Chinese film and culture), Mingxing 1, no. 1 (1933). Rpt., ZGDY, vol. 1, 128. 80. Zheng Zhengqiu, “Ruhe zoushang qianjin zhilu” (How to step onto the road to progress), Mingxing yuebao (Mingxing monthly) 1, no.1 (May 1933). Rpt., SSND, 616. 81. Ibid. 82. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 139–140.

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83. Zi Yu, “Xin de dianying zhi xianshi zhu wenti” (Issues of reality in the new cinema), Chenbao (Morning news), 16 August 1932. Rpt., SSND, 590. 84. Sha Zhongyan, “Dianying shidaihua yu dianying juzuojia” (The modernization of the film and the screenwriters), Chenbao (Morning news), 3 August 1932. Rpt., SSND, 583. 85. Riku, “Shei shi pipingjia?” (Who are critics), Chenbao (Morning news), 8 September 1932. Rpt., SSND, 680. 86. Marston Anderson, The Limits of Realism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 16. 87. Riku, “Cong yishi de pipan dao jishu de jiantao” (From the criticism of ideology to the examination of the technical aspect), Xiandai dianying (Modern film), no. 1 (March 1, 1933). Rpt., SSND, 694. 88. Xiao Luo’s article “Dianying shi shenmei?” (What is cinema) was first published in Shibao (Times), 2 August 1932. Rpt., SSND, 581. 89. Ibid., 582. 90. Sergei Eisenstein, “A Dialectic Approach to Film Form,” in Film Form, ed. and tran. Jay Leyda (Orlando: Harcourt Brace &; Company, 1977), 45–63. 91. Andrew H. Plaks claims that “It would perhaps not be going too far to say that the bulk of the popular knowledge of the narrative tradition in China—its major heroes, famous episodes, stock scenes and allusions—has been transmitted more on the stage than through the medium of the printed page, and this is particularly true in the urban centers of Sung, Yuan, and Ming time.” See Andrew H. Plaks, Chinese Narrative (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), 324. 92. Kristin Thomson’s study of the formulation of the classical Hollywood style (1909–1928) suggests: “‘Continuity’ stood for the smoothly flowing narrative, with its technique constantly in the service of the causal chain, yet always effacing itself. Later, ‘continuity’ came specifically to refer to a set of guidelines for cutting shots together, but the original implications of the term lingered on. The ‘continuity system’ still connotes a set of goals and principles which underlie the entire classical filmmaking system.” See Kristin Thompson, “The continuity system” in David Bordwell, Janet Staiger and Kristin Thompson eds., The Classical Hollywood Cinema (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 194–195.

Note that the Russian filmmaker Pudovkin’s montage theory also emphasized the continuity of the film. 93. Sun Xun, “Women yaoqiu ‘guofang dianying’ de shengchan” (We want the production of “the national defense cinema”) in Dawan bao (Evening news), 8 May 1936. Rpt., SSND, 645. 94. Chenwu, “Dianying jianghua” (Talks on cinema), Shibao (Times), 7, 8, 10, 12 and 26 June and 4 July 1932). Rpt., SSND, 595. 95. Gong Lü, “Piping de renwu” (The task of criticism), Chenbao (Morning news), 23 August 1932. Rpt., SSND, 671. 96. Chenwu, “Qingsuan Liu Na’ou de lilun” (Criticism of Liu Na’ou’s theory), Chenbao (Morning news), 21 August 1934. Rpt., SSND, 777. 97. SSND, 803. 98. Zhongguo zuoyi xijujia lianmeng shiliao ji (A collection of historical materials of the leftwing theater league), ed. Wenhuabu Dangshi Zhengji gongzuo Weiyuanhui (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 1991), 1. 99. Ibid., 1. 100. Note that these were the people who promoted urban popular culture such as Mandarin Duck and Butterfly fiction, spoken drama and cinema.

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101. “Zhongguo zuoyi xijujia lianmeng zuijin xingdong gangling” (The latest action guidelines for the left-wing dramatists league of China), Wenxue daobao (The literary guide) 1, nos 6–7 (October 23, 1931). Rpt., ZGZY, 17–18. 102. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 179. 103. Ibid., 177. 104. Zhang Shichuan, “Zi wo daoyan yilai” (Since I began directing), Mingxing banyue kan (Mingxing biweekly) 1, (1935). Rpt., SSND, 91–92. 105. In his article “The Tradition of Modern Chinese Cinema, Some Preliminary Explorations and Hypotheses,” Leo Ou-fan Lee says: “It is my central contention that the modern Chinese film grew into a mature art form by virtue of its closer interaction with modern Chinese literature, specifically spoken drama (huaju).” See Lee, 6.

In an article written in 1984, Xia Yan emphasizes the relationship between movie and literature. He says: “As a general art, literature is an indispensable element in film art. No matter how we elevate the movie’s specific property, we must build it on the foundation of literature.” See Xia Yan, “Xin de bashe” (The new journey) in ZGZY, 9. 106. Zhang Daming observes that during the September Eighteenth Japanese invasion of the Northeast in 1931, most veteran writers were in Shanghai, and they did not write much about this subject. But the Japanese invasion of Shanghai in 1932 created quite a different situation, because everyone became a victim of the war. Many writers wrote about their own experiences in Shanghai. See Zhang Daming, Sanshi niandai wenxue zhaji (Notes on literature of the 1930s) (Tianjin: Tianjin renmin chubanshe, 1986), 30–31. 107. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 180. 108. “Dianying yishu dai facanci” (A foreword to film art), in Dianying yishu (Film art) 1, (July 8, 1932), 20–22. 109. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 183–184. 110. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 183–185. 111. Ibid., 196. 112. ZGZY, 23–24. 113. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 183–281. 114. Du Yunzhi, Zhongguo Dianying Qishinian (Seventy Years of Chinese Cinema) (Taibei: zhonghua minguo dianying tushuguan chubanbu, 1986), 143. 115. “Mingxing Gongsi gexin xuanyan” (The declaration of reform of the Mingxing company), Mingxing banyuekan (Mingxing biweekly) 1, no. 1 (1936). Rpt., ZGZY, 27–29. 116. Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), 78. 117. The actual number is still in debate. Refer to “Appendix One: Interview with Cheng Jihua” of this book. 118. Harriet Sergeant, 257. 119. Ibid., 257. 120. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 175. 121. Some of the regulations were: “Dianying jiancha fa” (The regulation of film censorship) promulgated on November 3, 1930, “Dianying jiancha fa shixing guize” (The rules of practice regarding the regulation of film censorship) issued on January 29, 1931, “Dianying jiancha weiyuanhui zuzhi zhangcheng” (The organizational regulations of the film censorship committee) promulgated on February 3, 1931, “Gedi jiaoyu xingzheng jiguanhui tong jiancha jiguan jicha dianying banfa” (The methods of film censorship for all educational administrations and procuratorial organs) issued in March, 1932, “Dianyingpian zhizuo gongsi ji maoyi gongsi dengji zhanxing guize” (The temporary registration

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regulations regarding movie-making companies and trade companies) issued in May, 1932, “Dianyingpian yuxing dengji banfa” (The regulations of the pre-registration of movies) issued in September, 1932, “Dianying juben shencha dengji banfa” (The ways of censorship and registration for screenplays) issued on December 1, 1933, “Zhongyang dianying jiancha weiyuanhui zuzhi dagang” (The organizational principles for the committee of the central film censorship) issued on March 1, 1934, “Zhongyang dianying juben shencha weiyuanhui zuzhi dagang” (The organizational principles for the committee of the central film screenplay censorship) issued on July 26, 1934, and “Ge jiguan zishe yingpian xuxiansong jianfang de yingyanling” (Every company should first obtain permission for its movies) issued in August 1934. See ZGZY, 1089–1109. 122. Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, 145. 123. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol.1, 219–221. 124. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 221; also in Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, 146. 125. Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, 113–116. 126. The argument regarding the ending of The Cosmetic Market (Zhifen shichang) is a good example. 127. Yang Hansheng, “Zuoyi dianying yundong de ruogan lishi jingyan” (Some historical experience regarding the leftwing film movement), Zhongguo dianying nianjian (China film yearbook), 1983, see ZGZY, 1. 128. Ibid., 5. 129. Chinese film scholars in the West often use “The Chinese Garbo” to refer to Ruan Lingyu. (I also did this in my book.) I have recently read that when Hu Die toured Germany in 1935, a Berlin newspaper regarded her as “Garbo of China.” See Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial) 23, no. 7 (1935). 130. Ma Ning, an Austrian trained Chinese scholar was the first to question the difference between the two in his “The Textual and Critical Difference of Being Radical: Reconstructing the Chinese Leftist Films of the 1930s.” See Ma Ning, 22–31.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWO 1. Mao Dun, Rainbow (Hong) in Mao Dun quanji (The complete works of Mao Dun), vol. 2 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1984), 218. The complete sentence is “Xiexie ni, congqian ni geiwo jinggao: Shanghai tai fuzai, wo hui milu.” The translation should be “Thank you for warning me once that Shanghai is too complicated and I will get lost here.” Madeleine Zelin’s 1992 translation goes “Thank you for once warning me that Shanghai is too complex. You might get lost.” Here “you” should be “I.” See Mao Dun, Rainbow, tr. Madeleine Zelin (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 188. 2. Mao Dun, Rainbow, tr. Madeleine Zelin, 162–163. 3. Jay Leyda, Dianying: Electric Shadows (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1972), 79. 4. Perry Link captures the essence of the dichotomy between the country and city by calling it “tu” and “yang” in a thematic study of four short stories. See Perry Link, “‘Tu’ yu ‘yang,’” (Countrified and modern), Wenxue bao (Literary news), 22 November, 1986. I would like to thank Perry Link for sending me this article. 5. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 39. 6. Chow Tse-tsung, The May 4th Movement (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960), 6. 7. Parks M.Coble, Jr., The Shanghai Capitalists and the Nationalist Government, 1927–1937 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press [distributed], 1986), 1. 8. Ibid., 7. 9. Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (London: Chatto & Windus, 1973), 1. 10. Chow Tse-tsung, 23.

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11. Raymond Williams, 1. 12. Ernest Gellner, 39. 13. Leo Ou-fan Lee, Shanghai Modern (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999). 14. “Shanghai school writers” refer to haipai writers. As Yingjin Zhang’s study of the city in modern Chinese literature and film shows, many labels have been given to these writers: “xiandai pai (modernists) by Wang Yao, xin ganjue pai (new perceptionists) by Lou Shiyi (b. 1905) and Qian Xingcun, the Shuimo she (foam society) writers by Shi Zhecun, and xinli fenxi xiaoshuo pai (psychoanalytic novelists).” See Yingjin Zhang, The City in Modern Chinese Literature & Film, Configurations of Space, Time, and Gender (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 154. 15. Wu Fuhui, “Wei haipai zhengming” (To clear the name of the Shanghai school), in Zhang Ziping, Taili (Ha’erbin: Heilongjiang renmin chubanshe, 1997), 4–5. 16. Shi Zhecun, “Guanyu benkan zhong de shi” (Regarding poems in this issue), Xiandai (Modern) 4, no. 1 (November 1933). In Zhang Ziping, Taili,. 3, footnote #1. 17. Raymond Williams, 159. 18. Cheng Jihua, Li Shaobai and Xing Zuwen, eds. Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (a history of the development of Chinese cinema) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1981), vol. 1, 391. 19. Yuan Muzhi, “Mantan yinyue xiju” (Regarding musical comedy), Diantong huabao (Diantong pictorial), vol. 10 (1936). Rpt., ZGZY, 374–375. 20. Shen’s story had a great impact on the Chinese writers of the later dynasties. The most famous example is the Ming dramatist Tang Xianzu’s adaptation of the material in his “Handan ji.” 21. Writers and filmmakers have expressed different feelings and perceptions. Raymond Williams evaluates the situation in England and says: “There is a sense in which the idea of the enclosures, localized to just that period in which the Industrial Revolution was beginning, can shift our attention from the real history and become the transition from a rural to an industrial society is seen as kind of fall, the true cause and origin of our social suffering and disorder. It is difficult to overestimate the importance of this myth, in modern social thought. It is a main source for the structure of feeling which we began by examining: the perpetual retrospect to an ‘organic’ or ‘natural’ society. But it is also a main source for that last protecting illusion in the crisis of our own time: that it is not capitalism which is injuring us, but the more isolable, more evident system of urban industrialism. The questions involved are indeed very difficult, but for just this reason they require analysis, at each point and in each period in which an element of this structure can be seen in formation.” See Williams, 96. 22. Both Zhang Naiqi and Ai Siqi indicated the influence of the Soviet film Road to Life (directed by Nikolai Ekk, 1931) in The Lost Lamb at its forum. But Ai Siqi added that the latter did not mechanically imitate the former. Refer to “‘Mitu de gaoyang’ zuotanhui” (Forum on The Lost Lamb), Dawan bao (Evening news), 21 August 1936. Rpt., SSND, 360– 361. 23. According to Shenbao, City Lights was shown at Shanghai Grand Theatre (Shanghai Daxiyuan) in January of 1932. 24. The main plot of this movie reappeared in a 1949 movie The Adventures of San Mao (Sanmao liulang ji) based on Zhang Leping’s popular cartoon of the same title. 25. Paul G.Pickowicz, “The Theme of Spiritual Pollution in Chinese Films of the 1930s,” Modern China 17, no. 1 (January, 1991): 42. 26. Rey Chow, Women and Chinese Modernity (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 64. 27. Ibid., 64. 28. Ernest Gellner, 51. 29. Raymond Williams, 84.

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30. Sun Guoqun, Jiu Shanghai jinü mishi (A secret history of prostitutes in old Shanghai) (Henan: Henan renmin chubanshe, 1988), 54–55. 31. By 1931, there were over 90,000 people living in poor and filthy conditions. Most of these people were refugees from Jiangbei. See Frederic Wakeman, Jr., Policing Shanghai 1927– 1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 87. 32. Paul G.Pickowicz, “The Theme of Spiritual Pollution in Chinese Films of the 1930s,” 43. 33. Rey Chow, “Modernity and Narration—in Feminine Detail,” in Women and Chinese Modernity, 84–120. 34. Yao Xiaoqiu, “Daybreak,” Chenbao (Morning news), 4 February 1932, in SSND, p. 149. 35. Chris Berry discussed this subject in an article called “The Sublimative Text: The Sex and Revolution in Big Road,” East-West Film Journal 2, no. 2 (June 1988) vol. 2. Laikwan Pang, also mentions “romancing politics” in her “Sexing The Highway.” See Building A New China In Cinema (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002), 98–102. 36. Film critic Riku states that the story is unrealistic. See Chenbao (Morning news), 4 February 1932. Rpt., SSND, 147. 37. Yao Xiaoqiu, “Daybreak,” Chenbao, 4 February 1932. Rpt., SSND, 149. 38. Ibid., 149. 39. Cheng Jihua, et al., vol. 1, 321–322. 40. Leo Ou-fan Lee, Voices From the Iron House: A Study of Lu Xun (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), 87. 41. Cheng Jihua, et. al., vol. 1, 321. 42. Xi Meng, a film critic states that the story is realistic and tragic. Refer to SSND, 296–297. 43. The Tide in the Salt Village (Yanchao), directed by Xu Yinfu and produced by Mingxing Film Company in 1933, centers around the conflict between country and city. The country, a seashore village, used to be a sunny and beautiful place where the villagers lived a simple and happy life by making salt. The focus of the story, Afeng, the exquisite and the most beautiful girl in the village, is in love with Chen Bingsheng. However, when a wealthy Shanghai playboy, Hu Xinwu, the nephew a the rich landlord in the village, arrives, everything changes. He is very much attracted to the natural country beauty. He helps her to get her father out of jail. She is sweet and unsophisticated, and takes his advances as a sign of simple kindness and friendship. Her relationship with Hu Xinwu ultimately drives Chen Bingsheng away. Through evil plotting, Hu Xinwu and his uncle eventually occupy the Maochai public land. As the local villagers are furious, so the mean spirited city people flee in panic back to Shanghai, thus ending the tide in the salt village. 44. Perry Link’s comment here was from the influence of the imperialism. See Perry Link, Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies. Popular Fiction in Early Twentieth-Century Chinese Cities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 3. 45. Zheng Boqi, “Songs of Fishermen,” Chenbao (Morning news), June 1934. Rpt., SSND, 335. 46. Zheng Boqi, 335. 47. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 67. 48. Zheng Boqi, 336. 49. Cheng Jihua, et al., vol. 1, 334. Some were skeptical about this record, saying that the theater was equipped with the air conditioner and this was why people showed up—to cool off. 50. Parks M.Coble, Jr., believes it is because “The Kuomintang did little to organize the peasants or to implement programs to improve their lot, and advocacy of rural reform programs was suspect in the atmosphere of anti-communism that prevailed in Nanking. The new government thus never gained a solid grip on rural Chinese society; its area of control was confined largely to urban areas.” See Parks M.Coble, Jr., The Shanghai Capitalists and the Nationalist Government, 1927–1937 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986), 6.

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51. Ibid., 145. 52. Zhongguo gudian wenxueshi (A history of classical Chinese literature), ed. Zhongguo Kexueyuan Wenxue Yanjiushi (The Research Institute of Literature, Chinese Science Academy) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1963), 234. 53. Qian Xingtun, using the pen name Feng Wu, wrote “Lun Zhongguo dianying wenhua yundong” (Regarding Chinese film cultural movement), originally published on Mingxing monthly 1 (May 1, 1933). Rpt., ZGZY, 61. 54. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, tr. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1991), 326. 55. “Spring Silkworms” was written between 1932 and 1933. It is collected with Mao Dun’s “Autumn Harvest” and “Remaining Winter,” and they are titled as Nongcun sanbu qu (The trilogy of the countryside). 56. David Wang, Fictional Realism in 20th Century China (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 50. 57. Xia Yan’s screen adaptation of “Spring Silkworms” was based on Mao Dun’s short story of the same title. However, the movie, running for ninety-nine minutes, and mainly based upon Xia’s shot-by-shot screenplay, bypasses Xia Yan’s more radical approach and is thus closer to Mao Dun’s realistic vision. 58. David Wang, 51. 59. Paul G.Pickowicz, “Melodramatic Representation and the ‘May Fourth’ Tradition of Chinese Cinema” in Ellen Widmer and David Wang eds., From May Fourth to June Fourth, Fiction and Film in Twentieth Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 308. 60. Raymond Williams, p. 155. 61. Leo Ou-fan Lee, Voices From the Iron House: A Study of Lu Xun, 87. 62. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London and New York: Verso, 1993), 6. 63. Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi 1927–1937 (Anthology of modern Chinese literature 1927– 1937), ed. Shanghai Wenyi Chubanshe (Shanghai Literature and Art Press), vol. 17 (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1984), 314.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER THREE 1. Kay Ann Johnson, Women, the Family and Peasant Revolution in China (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1983), 34. 2. Christina K.Gilmartin, “Gender, Political Culture, and Women’s Mobilization in the Chinese Nationalist Revolution, 1924–1927,” in Christina K.Gilmartin, Gail Hershatter, Lisa Rofel and Tyrene White, eds., Engendering China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994), 195. 3. Miao Luo’s “Xin nüxing” (The new woman), Chenbao (Morning news), February 1935. Rpt., SSND, 339. 4. See Ai Hui, “Xin nüxing” (The new woman), Zhonghua ribao (China daily), 7 February 1935. Rpt., SSND, 343. 5. According to Theodore Huters, “Authoritarian narration has been a central feature of modern Chinese literature.” See Huters, “Lives in Profile: On the Authorial Voice in Modern and Contemporary Chinese Literature,” in Ellen Widmer and David Wang, eds., From May Fourth to June Fourth, Fiction and Film in Twentieth Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 271. 6. According to director Zhang Shichuan, when “Yaxiya Yingpian Gongsi” (Asia Film Company) was first established, only male actors played female roles. See “Zi wo daoyan

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yilai” (Since I began to direct), Mingxing banyue kan (Mingxing biweekdly) 1 (1935). Rpt., SSND, 91. 7. Du Yunzhi, Zhongguo dianying qishi nian (Seventy years of Chinese cinema) (Taibei: Zhonghua minguo dianying tushuguan chubanshe, 1986), 15. 8. Tang Zhenchang’s elaborate picture book celebrates many aspects of Shanghai modernity. Through his presentation, modernity and its progress in Chinese cinema are symbolized by the success of Hu Die and Ruan Lingyu. See Tang Zhenchang, Jindai Shanghai fanhua lu (A record of prosperity in modern Shanghai) (Hong Kong: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1993), 224. 9. Hu Die, the empress of the screen, is considered the most popular actress in China during the 1920s and 1930s. Born in Shanghai, she was poor when she was very young. Her father lost money in business, so she had to work as a house maid for a family in Guangzhou. She was treated very badly by the family, and ran away. Eventually she returned to her Shanghai home. Soon she moved with her parents from Shanghai to northern China. When her family’s financial situation improved, they moved back to Shanghai and she entered school. In 1924, she was accepted by the Chinese Film School, which was then chaired by Hong Shen. Her beauty, talent and diligence soon got her many roles in movies, and she eventually became a major star for Mingxing Film Company. She starred in many movies and was all the rage at the time. After she gained fame and fortune as a movie star, Hu Die married a successful businessman in 1935. 10. Also born in Shanghai, Ruan Lingyu lost her father at an early age. Poor, she and her mother struggled to make ends meet. At the age of sixteen, she was admitted to Mingxing Film Company, starting her movie career. After starring in five movies for Mingxing, she made six movies for Da Zhonghua Baihe Film Company and eventually settled down to work for Lianhua Film Company. During her nine-year movie career, she made twenty-nine films, successfully portraying many different kinds of women, ranging from suffering wife, mother or prostitute to progressive woman. Her charm, sincerity and skillful acting made her the most popular movie star during the silent era. In 1991, her story was made into a movie called Ruan Lingyu by Jiahe Film Company starring Zhang Manyu. 11. The prominent “Leftwing Theater League” passed guiding principles regarding various aspects of filmmaking in 1931. But none of them directly focused on women’s issues. 12. Chen Bo, ed., Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The leftwing film movement of China), Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1993. It is abbreviated as ZGZY throughout this book. 13. They are Chen Bo’er, Wang Ying, Ruan Lingyu, Hu Die, Wang Renmei, Li Lili and Bai Yang. See ZGZY, 14–15. 14. Refer to Lu Xun, “Shanghai de shaonü,” (The young women of Shanghai) in Lu Xun Quanji (The complete works of Lu Xun), vol. 4 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1991), 563. 15. Ibid. 16. These articles can be found in ZGZY, 563–567. 17. Carolyn Brown claims that “the evil woman is defined by her sexuality, according to her ability to give, to withhold, and to manipulate the male’s sexual gratification.” See “Woman as Trope: Gender and Power in Lu Xun’s ‘Soap,’” in Modern Chinese Literature 4, nos. 1–2 (Spring–Fall, 1988): 60. 18. Ping Ye, “Ping ‘Dushi Fengguang’” (Regarding Metropolitan Scenes), Dawan bao (Evening news), 12 October 1935. Rpt., SSND, 570. 19. Daughters in the films of the 1930s are often made to be the providers for their families. In A Ready Source of Money (Yaoqian shu), directed by Tan Youliu, based on the stage play “Juno and the Paycock” by Sean O’casey, a family of four, father Wu Baosan, mother Zhu Shi, daughter Li Lin and an adopted son Wu Yiqing live in Shanghai. Meiling (played by Sun Weishi) is portrayed as the unwilling provider for her whole family with her meager salary as an elementary school teacher. Her brother asks her for newspapers, her mother asks her for money to buy ingredients for dinner, and her father asks her for cigarette money. In

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all three situations, frustrated Meiling objects, and taunts them with the same response: “Wo you bushi yaoqian shu!” (I am not a ready source of money). 20. Sun Guoqun indicates that as the economy developed, prostitution became a substantial source of social economic income. See Jiu Shanghai jinü mishi (A secret history of prostitutes in old Shanghai) (Henan: Henan remin chubanshe, 1988), 1–13. 21. Frederic Wakeman, Jr., Policing Shanghai 1927–1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 113. 22. Gail Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures—Prostitution and Modernity in Twentieth-century Shanghai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 38. 23. For example, London, one in 960; Berlin, one in 580; Paris, one in 481; Chicago, one in 430; Tokyo, one in 250. See Phoads Murphey, Shanghai: Key to Modern China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1953), 7. 24. For example, quoting from other sources, Frederic Wakeman Jr. speculates that in the French Concession in 1920, where there were 39, 210 female adults on the population registers, one woman in every three was a prostitute. See Policing Shanghai 1927–1937, 109. 25. Frederic Wakeman Jr., 109. 26. Elizabeth Wilson, The Sphinx in the City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 8. 27. A streetwalker made from one yuan to seven yuan per night, see Frederic Wakeman Jr., 112–113. 28. William Rothman, “The Goddess: Reflections on Melodrama East and West,” in Wimal Dissanayake, ed., Melodrama and Asian Cinema (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 67. 29. William Rothman, 66–67. 30. In a Chinese cinema course I taught at UCLA in spring 1998, I asked 100 students after they had seen the film whether they saw any romantic bond between the woman and the school principal; they all said no. 31. Mao Dun, Hong (Rainbow), tr. Madeleine Zelin (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 38. 32. Rey Chow, Women and Chinese Modernity (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 127. 33. In A Ready Source of Money, Meiling dreamed about marrying the wealthy lawyer, only to end up being pregnant and abandoned. Her pregnancy and anticipated self-sacrificed motherhood, like that of the sainted woman, are viewed as the salvation of a “fallen woman.” 34. Zhongguo Dianyingjia Xiehui, ed., Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan (Biographies of Chinese filmmakers) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1982), vol. 2, 156–157. 35. Ibid., 158. 36. The copy I saw at UCLA Film Archive was donated by Cheng Jihua. 37. Chenwu, “‘Shennü’ ping” (Regarding The Sainted Woman), Chenbao (Morning news), December 1934, “Meiri dianying” (Everyday film) section. Rpt., ZGZY, 551. 38. Su Feng, “Ping ‘Zhifen shichang’” (Regarding The Cosmetics Market), Chenbao (Morning news), 15 May 1933. Rpt., SSND, 70. Also Li Ting, “‘Zhifen shichang’ de sandian quehan” (Three shortcomings of Cosmetics Market), Chenbao, 15 May 1933. Rpt., SSND, 71. 39. The official Mainland Chinese film historians did not include him on the list of the fortyseven prominent left-wing film activists in Chen Bo ed., Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The Leftwing Chinese film movement). 40. Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan, vol. 1, 222–230. 41. Li Ting felt that Miss Yang’s role would be more convincing if she were a feminist. See Li Ting, 71. 42. Su Feng, “Ping ‘Zhifen shichang’” (Regarding The Cosmetics Market), Chenbao, 15 May 1933. Rpt., ZGZY, 427.

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43. Cheng Jihua, Li Shaobai and Xing Zuwen, eds., Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (A history of the development of Chinese cinema) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1981) vol. 1, 229. 44. ZGZY, 356. 45. Cheng Jihua, et al., 229–230. 46. Political censorship was a common practice in the 1930s. Zhiwei Xiao presented an insightful paper at the New York Conference on Asian Studies in State University of New York at New Paltz on October 17, 1998. In this paper, Xiao showed a different censorship that came from the public. His paper was entitled “The Politics of Unofficial Censorship: Popular Protests against the Movies during the Republican Period.” 47. Shi Nan, Yidai mingxing Shu Xiuwen (Movie star Shu Xiuwen) (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin chubanshe, 1991), 80. 48. Zheng Zhengqiu, “Ruhe zoushang qianjin zhilu” (How to step onto the road to progress), Mingxing yuekan (Mingxing monthly) 1, no. 1 (May 1933). Rpt., SSND, 616. 49. This was the first Chinese feature film. 50. Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan, vol. 1, 206. 51. Harriet Sergeant, Shanghai, Collision Point of Cultures 1918–1939 (New York: Crown Publishers, Inc., 1990), 265. 52. Ya Fu, a film critic of the 1930s, stated that Zheng Zhengqiu’s films depended largely on his stage experiences; and his success was attributable to his cultivation of the emotions of his characters. See Ya Fu, “Zimei hua” (Twin Sisters), Chenbao, 24 February 1934. Rpt., SSND, 35. 53. Cheng Jihua, et al, vol. 1, 238. 54. For example, Xuxu, “Guanyu ‘Zimei hua’ weishenme bei kuangre de huanying” (Regarding why Twin Sisters was so overwhelmingly popular), Dawan bao (Evening news), 28 February 1934. Rpt., ZGZY, 472–473. 55. Although the film indicated that the story took place in 1924, it reflected the life of the 1930s. See Cheng Jihua, et al., vol. 1, 237. 56. Teresa De Lauretis, Technologies of Gender (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), 5. 57. Meng Zhen, a film critic in the 1930s, believed that, like Ibsen’s drama, Twin Sisters is a “social” drama. Nevertheless, Meng was deeply bothered by the resolution of this film. “Are there other solutions for ordinary people other than offering their daughters as concubines to war lords?” Meng asked. See Meng Zhen, “Ping ‘Zimei hua’” (Regarding Twin Sisters), Shenbao, 15 March 1934. Rpt., ZGZY, 471. 58. Chow Tse-tsung, The May 4th Movement (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960), 180. 59. Ibid., 258. 60. Ibid., 258–259. 61. This was especially obvious in his direction of The Pink Dream (Fenhongse de meng) where his male protagonist eventually goes back to his first wife after having abandoned her for a more seductive woman. See Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan, 339–340. 62. Ibid., 341. 63. The New Woman was based on the life of actress Ai Xia, a talented young starlet who was featured in several movies, including The Cosmetic Market and Spring Silkworms (Chun can). Ai Xia was born into a large old-style family in 1912. She received a modern education and became socially progressive. After graduation, she fell in love with her cousin. The relationship produced one child. However, after her family strongly opposed the union, her lover abandoned her. Like Nora, she left her wealthy family to go to Shanghai by herself. She soon worked in the Shanghai film world. During her spare time, Ai Xia did much creative writing, including screenplays, which invited both admiration and attack. Not able to deal with her situation, Ai Xia committed suicide on February 12, 1934, at the age of

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twenty-two, by eating raw opium. See Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, Shanghai yingtan huajiu (The old days of the Shanghai film world) (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1987), 166–175. 64. Ching-kiu Stephen Chan, “The Language of Despair: Ideological Representations of the ‘New Woman’ by May Fourth Writers,” in Modern Chinese Literature 4, nos. 1–2 (Spring– Fall, 1988):23. 65. Miao Luo’s “Xin nüxing” (The New Woman), Chenbao, February 1935. Rpt., SSND, 339. 66. See Ai Hui, “Xin nüxing” (The New Woman), Zhonghua ribao (China daily), 7 February 1935. Rpt., SSND, 343. 67. Film critics from the 1930s noted three types of new women in the film: Zhang Xiuzhen (Dr. Wang’s wife), Wei Ming and Aying (See Miao Luo, 339–341). 68. Ching-kiu Stephen Chan, 36. 69. Ironically, life also imitates art. Fewer than two months after The New Woman was released to the public, Ruan Lingyu could no longer bear the tabloid rumors about her troubled relationships with her ex-husband and current lover, and committed suicide on March 8, 1935 International Women’s Day, by overdosing on sleeping pills, leaving behind her last words: “renyan kewei” (Gossip is frightening). She was twenty-five. The injustice of her death shocked China. Lu Xun, Cai Chusheng, Sun Shiyi and many others wrote to condemn the society that put her to death. More than 100,000 mourners showed up to say goodbye to her at Wanguo Funeral Home, a situation unprecedented in Chinese history. When her coffin was carried through the streets, over 300,000 people stood along the roadside to pay their last respects. 70. Sun Shiyi, the screenwriter for The New Woman, wrote the songs and Nie Er composed the music. 71. Such as Xinqun in Women Side by Side (Liren xing, d: Chen Liting; s: Kunlun Film Company, 1949). See Vivian Shen, “From Xin nüxing to Liren xing, Changing Conceptions of the ‘New Woman’ in Republican Era Chinese Films,” Asian Cinema 11, no. 1 (Spring/Summer 2000):114–130. 72. As Yingjin Zhang critically points out, “The new woman defined in leftist films from the 1930s on appears more and more like a man, who remains the ultimate speaking subject in leftist discourse.” See Zhang, The City in Modern Chinese Literature & Film (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 229. 73. Chenwu complained that the role of Aying “is not a real person of flesh and blood; she is a person constructed from an ideal.” See his article “Guanyu Xin nüxing de yingping, piping ji qita” (Regarding the film The New Woman, its criticism and others), Zhonghua ribao (China daily), 2 March 1935. Rpt., SSND, 345–346. 74. Kay Ann Johnson, 35. 75. Over fifty actors at Mingxing appeared in the film. The Bible of Women is composed of many small stories about the lives of several different women who graduated from the same school and now live in Shanghai. Due to KMT censorship, like The Cosmetics Market, the actual ending of The Bible of Women was totally different from the more radical ending designed by the left-wing filmmakers. See Cheng Jihua, et al., vol. 1, 315.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR 1. In Chinese cinema, however, this trend did not become prevalent until the beginning of the 1930s when the left-wing filmmakers from the May Fourth tradition became involved in filmmaking. 2. Leo Ou-fan Lee pointed out these two steps in his study of modern Chinese literature. See Leo Ou-fan Lee, “Romantic Individualism in Modern Chinese Literature: Some General

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Explorations,” Donald J.Munro, ed., Individualism and Holism: Studies in Confucian and Taoist Values (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1985), 241–242. 3. Vivian Shen, “From Xin nüxing to Liren xing, Changing Conceptions of the ‘New Woman’ in Republican Era Chinese Films,” in Harry Kuoshu ed. Celluloid China: Cinematic Encounters with Culture and Society (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2002), 112–128. 4. T.D.Huters, “Critical Ground: The Transformation of the May Fourth Ear,” in Popular Chinese Literature and Performing Arts In the People’s Republic of China 1949–1979, ed. Bonnie S.McDougall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 54. 5. Under the same political and historical conditions in 1937, “the dispersed energies of the literary revolution began to reassemble,” says T.D.Huters. Ibid., 54. 6. Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary (Springfield: G. &; C.Merriam Company, 1963), 783. 7. The terms “self” and “individuality” are used interchangeably here. 8. Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary, 428. 9. Ibid., 828. 10. In 1993, an entire issue of Modern China (vol. 16, no. 3) was dedicated to the discussion. 11. Lee, 252. 12. This chapter will focus on individuality, not individualism which denotes specific doctrine or theory. 13. William Theodore de Bary, “Individualism and Humanitarianism in Late Ming Thought,” in William Theodore de Bary, ed., Self and Society in Ming Thought (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970), 146–47. 14. de Bary, “Introduction,” in Self and Society in Ming Thought, 15. 15. de Bary, “Individualism and Humanitarianism in Late Ming Thought,” 147. 16. Chow Tse-tsung, The May 4th Movement (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960), 59. 17. Ibid., 295. 18. Lee, 239. 19. Tang Tao, Zhongguo xiandai wenxue shi (A history of modern Chinese literature) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1984), 137. 20. Yi-tsi Mei Feuerwerker, “Text, Intertext, and the Representation of the Writing Self in Lu Xun, Yu Dafu, and Wang Meng,” in Ellen Widmer and David Wang, eds., From May Fourth to June Fourth, Fiction and Film in Twentieth Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 192. 21. Meng Yue, “Female Images and National Myth” in Tani E.Barlow, ed., Gender Politics in Modern China (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993), 125. 22. Parks M.Coble, Jr., The Shanghai Capitalists and the Nationalist Government, 1927–1937 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986), 4–5. 23. Ibid., 6. 24. Ibid., 140. 25. Ibid., 148. 26. Wen-hsin Yeh, The Alienated Academy: Culture and Politics in Republican China 1919– 1937 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990), 260. 27. “Taoli” means peaches and plums. It often refers to one’s pupils or disciples. 28. In the 1930s, the KMT called Diantong Film Studio “the supreme headquarters of the reds” (chise da benying), see Zhongguo Dianyingjia Xiehui, ed., Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan (Biographies of Chinese filmmakers) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1982), vol. 1, 279. 29. Ibid., 105 and 279. 30. Ling He, “Ping ‘Taoli jie’” (Regarding Plunder of Peach and Plum), Chenbao (Morning news), 17 December 1934. Rpt., ZGZY, 558–559.

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31. The lyric was written by Tian Han and the music composed by Nie Er. Both were prominent left-wingers in the 1930s. The song became a hit and was popular for many years to come. Mary Ann Doane’s convincing study suggests that voice (I believe it should include songs) serves as an “articulation of body and space.” See Mary Ann Doane, “The Voice in the Cinema: The Articulation of Body and Space,” Philip Rosen, ed., Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 335–348. 32. The film was shot in Germany. See Gerald Mast, A Short History of the Movies (New York: Macmillian Publishing Company, 1992), 247. 33. Director Ying Yunwei once worked at a shipping company before he became involved in theater and cinema; see Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan, vol. 1, 102. Obviously, his experience there influenced his portrayal of Tao Jianping. 34. Chris Berry, “Poisonous Weeds or National Treasures,” Jump Cut 34 (1989):93. 35. As Wen-hsin Yeh observes: “The public-minded among them envisioned an order of happiness and equality for all that was to be realized through communal sharing and honest work.” See Yeh, 257. 36. Cheng Jihua, Li Shaobai and Xing Zuwen, eds., Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi (A history of the development of Chinese cinema), Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1981, vol. 1, 383. 37. Lü Gan, “Guanyu baolu xianshi de yingpian” (Regarding films that expose reality), Zhonghua ribao (China daily), 9 January 1935, Rpt., ZGZY, 560. 38. Zhongguo dianyingjia liezhuan, vol. 1, 105. 39. Ibid., 88. 40. Wen-hsin Yeh, 277. 41. Yao Shennong, a film critic of the 1930s, pointed out that from unemployment to romance to national defense, Crossroads lacks consistency in its focus. Tang Nan, film actor and critic, felt that certain details, such as major characters throwing trash into each other’s apartment, have nothing to do with the main plot. See “‘Shizi jietou’ zuotanhui” (A symposium on Crossroads), Dawan bao (Evening news), 16 and 18 April 1936. Rpt., SSND, 303–305. I think, given the limit of what they could see at the time, both Yao and Tang failed to realize that all the issues appearing in the film eventually fall under one category: how to position the “self” when there is no room for it. 42. This situation continued in the 1940s. See “Biye yu shiye” (Graduation and unemployment), Shenbao, 1 July 1948, “Ziyou tan” (Free chat) section. 43. Shen Xiling decided to have Xiao Yang work at a textile factory because the Chinese textile industry was the largest and most important in China then, says Coble. “Nearly 57 percent of all industrial workers and 36 percent of all industrial capital in China were in textiles during the period 1932 to 1937. Shanghai was the center of this industry.” See Coble, 149–150. 44. Some audiences felt that this deliberate arrangement was too coincidental to be real. But director Shen Xiling explained that it was possible because he had a similar experience of seeing familiar faces that he did not know at all at a trolley station. See “‘Shizi jietou’ zuotanhui” (A symposium on Crossroads), in SSND, 299–330. 45. For example, see the following lyric from a silent film, The New Woman (Xin nüxing), made by left-wing filmmakers in 1935: There is no distinction between man and woman, We are in great harmony with the world. 46. Zhang Yingjin was kind enough to send me his article “(En)gendering Chinese Filmic Discourse of the 1930s: Configurations of Modern Women in Shanghai in Three Silent Films.” 47. Xiao Jun, A Village in August (Bayue de xiangcun), Shanghai: Zuojia shuwu, 1949. This novel was first published in August, 1935. 48. Xiao Jun, 220. 49. Wen-hsin Yeh, 265. 50. Xiao Jun, 220.

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51. Because of censorship, the film could not specify that these people were actually going to fight against Japanese imperialism. 52. We can refer to Mao Dun’s “The Pursuit” (Zhuiqiu) in which the author stresses unity and collectivity in the following passage: “The power of the environment is too big and the fragile individual cannot resist it. We must unite together to fight, keeping ourselves within the bounds of the strength of the masses and pushing ourselves forward.” See Mao Dun, “The Pursuit” (Zhuiqiu) in Erosion (Shi) (Shanghai: Shanghai kaiming shudian, 1949), 63. 53. Sun Yu’s The Life of Wu Xun (Wuxun zhuan), released in 1951, was the first film in post revolutionary China to have a nationwide political campaign directed against it. 54. Cao Maotang and Wu Lun, Shanghai yingtan huajiu (The old days of the Shanghai film world) (Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1987), 94–97. 55. This idea is conveyed more clearly in Sun Yu’s later film, Small Toys, where Mrs. Ye, the protagonist, urges Yun Pu, her young admirer, to study abroad in order to come back to build a strong domestic industry. 56. Chow Tse-Tsung’s study shows that Chen Duxiu favored the individuality advocated in Western civilization over the Eastern system, which “destroyed individual dignity and selfrespect, choked free will and independent thought, deprived a person of equal rights under the law, and encouraged people to rely on others.” Hu Shi promoted individualism by introducing Ibsen to China. See Chow, 295–296. 57. Wen-hsin Yeh, 238. 58. See Yang Hansheng’s “Two Women” in Two Women (Liangge nüxing) (Shijiazhuang: Huashan wenyi chubanshe, 1985), 1–109. The novel was first published in 1930 under the name of Hua Han by Shanghai yadong tushuguan. 59. Chris Berry, “The Sublimative Text: Sex and Revolution in Big Road,” in East-West Film Journal 2, no. 2 (June 1988):72. 60. Yeh, 258. 61. Ibid. 62. Chris Berry, “The Sublimative Text: Sex and Revolution in Big Road,” 67. 63. According to Moli, Brother Jin is brave, and always smiles. He moves forward and never says “It’s difficult to do this.” Lao Zhang is like an iron fist but does not talk too much. Zheng Jun is very intelligent. He knows everything in the world and composes beautiful songs. Zhang Da acts rashly and is quick with action. Xiao Luo is full of ambitions, young and handsome. Xiao Liuzi is clever and almost sly. 64. Yang Hansheng, 33. 65. Sun Yu’s female protagonists often sacrifice their bodies for the revolution. For example, the country girl, Lingling (also played by Li Lili), in Sun Yu’s Daybreak (Tianming) made in 1933, was sold to a brothel. But her ordeal there made her strong and patriotic. She tried to seduce the enemy in order to protect her comrade. In the end she died for the revolution. 66. Ma Ning, an Australia trained Chinese film scholar, wrote an interesting article on Xie Jin’s film melodrama in which he discusses spatiality and subjectivity in Chinese theater and cinema, and concludes: “It is not unusual for the right-hand side of the screen to be associated with yang/positive and the left-hand side with yin/negative. Together, they form a balance according to Chinese cultural ideals.” See Ma Ning, “Spatiality and Subjectivity in Xie Jin’s Film Melodrama of the New Period,” Nick Browne, Paul G.Pickowicz, Vivian Sobchack and Esther Yau, eds., New Chinese Cinemas (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 20. 67. In addition to the film script, this song can also be found in Zhongguo Dianying Gongzuozhe Xiehui, eds., Wusi yilai dianying juben xuanji (Selected screenplays from the period after the may fourth movement) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1962), vol. 1, 116. 68. Cheng Jihua, op. cit., vol. 1, 343. 69. Wusi yilai dianying juben xuanji, vol. 1, 115.

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70. Feng Wu (Qian Xingtun) “Lun Zhongguo dianying wenhua yundong” (On the Chinese film culture movement), Mingxing yuebao (Mingxing month-ly) 1, no. 1 (May 1, 1933). Rpt., ZGZY, 62.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FIVE 1. I sat through several conferences in which scholars referred to early Chinese cinema as “melodramas produced in Shanghai.” Ma Ning’s article also accepts John Ellis’s claim as the pre-condition for his study of Street Angels, although he finds it somewhat restrictive. The claim, using Ma Ning’s words, is: “It has been pointed out that the leftist films all operate within the Hollywood melodramatic tradition.” See Ma Ning, “The Textual and Critical Difference of Being Radical: Reconstructing the Chinese Leftist Films of the 1930s,” Wide Angle 11, no. 2 (1989):25. 2. Esther C.M.Yau, “Yellow Earth, Western Analysis and a Non-Western Text,” in Chris Berry, ed., Perspectives on Chinese Cinema (London: British Film Institute, 1991), 62–79. Yau’s Western analysis was criticized by Rey Chow in her Primitive Passions (New York: Columbia University, 1995), 81–87. Both women were from Hong Kong and educated in the United States. 3. This is especially true in the 1920s through the 1940s. Chinese filmmakers translated many Western film theories into Chinese, which influenced Chinese film criticism. One good example was the popular use of mengtaiqi (translated from “montage”) and kangtinidie (continuity). See Chen Liting “Dianying guifan” (Rules of cinema) which was written in 1941. Rpt., ZGDY, 285–293. 4. This alone is an extensive topic needing much more elaborate research. Marie Cambon’s studies show that “In 1933, statistics showed 37 theatres in Shanghai, 19 of which screened primarily American films and the rest Chinese [are] a mix of both,” and “roughly 85 percent of films shown in Shanghai during the thirties were American.” See “The Dream Palaces of Shanghai: American Films in China’s Largest Metropolis Prior to 1949,” Asian Cinema 7, no. 2 (winter 1995):41. 5. “Melodrama,” Encyclopedia Britannica XV (1966), 130–31. Referred to in The Character of Melodrama by William Paul Steele (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1968), 3. 6. Oscar G.Brockett, The Theater—An Introduction (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1964):237. 7. Ibid., 237. 8. William Paul Steele, 55. 9. Peter Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 200. 10. Peter Brooks, 20. 11. Christine Gledhill ed., Home is Where the Heart Is (London: British Film Institute, 1987), 14. 12. Ibid., 1. 13. Paul Pickowicz, “Melodramatic Representation and the ‘May Fourth’ Tradition of Chinese Cinema,” in Ellen Widmer and David Wang, eds., From May Fourth to June Fourth, Fiction and Film in Twentieth Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 302. 14. These are the words used to describe Wu’s fiction in William H.Nienhauser, Jr., ed., The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 907. 15. Rey Chow, Women and Chinese Modernity (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 55. 16. Ibid., 9.

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17. Cheng Jihua, 55–56. 18. Ling He, “Cheng Bugao lun” (Regarding Cheng Bugao), in SSND, 282. 19. Zheng Zhengqiu, “Wo suo xiwang yu guanzhongzhe” (What I wish for the audience), first appeared in a Mingxing tekan (Mingxing special issue), vol. 3 (July 1925). Rpt., ZGDY, 66– 68. 20. Melodrama film style also appears in non-left-wing Chinese films. 21. Peter Brooks, 11–12. 22. Yu Dafu, “Dianying yu wenyi” (Film and literature and art), in Yinxing (The movie guide), vol. 12 (1927). Rpt., ZGDY, 85. 23. In 1921, Gu Kenfu discussed the differences between film and Peking Opera in terms of realism. See his “Yingxi zazhi fakanci” (The publishing statement of The movie guide) in ZGDY, 5–6. 24. Ira Konigsberg, The Complete Film Dictionary (New York: Meridian, Penguin Books, 1989), 285. 25. As Kristin Thompson convincingly argues, “the newspaper became a universal device in Hollywood, motivating written texts realistically and compositionally as coming from the world of the story.” Refer to Kristin Thompson’s “The formulation of the classical narrative” in David Bordwell, Janet Staiger and Kristin Thompson, The Classical Hollywood Cinema, Film Style & Mode of Production to 1960s (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 189. 26. André Bazin, What Is Cinema? tr. Hugh Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 10. 27. Marston Anderson, The Limits of Realism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 3. 28. Leo Ou-Fan Lee, “The Tradition of Modern Chinese Cinema: Some Preliminary Explorations and Hypotheses,” in Perspectives on Chinese Cinema, ed. Chris Berry (London: British Film Institute, 1991), 8. 29. J.Dudley Andrew, The Major Film Theories (London, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), 104. 30. David Wang, Fictional Realism in 20th-Century China (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 291. 31. Peter Brooks, 200. 32. Siegfried Kracauer, Theory of Film (London, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1960), 30–37. 33. David Bordwell, Janet Staiger and Kristin Thompson, 14. 34. Ma Ning, 26. 35. Leo Lee praises Ma’s article as “by far the most insightful study of leftist filmmaking.” See Leo Ou-fan Lee, Shanghai Modern (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999), 105. 36. Based on the collection of articles in the book, Luo Yijun made a quite convincing argument in his preface to Zhongguo dianying lilun wenxuan 1920–1989 (The selected articles of Chinese film theories) (Beijing: Wenhua yishu chubanshe, 1992), 17. 37. Leo Lee was one of the few scholars who paid attention to acting. He says: “In my view, the narrative weight of Chinese films is carried, to a large extent, by acting and other aspects which film theorists tend to dismiss as irrelevant to the formal quality of film.” See Shanghai Modern, 105. 38. See an article by Ling Jun on his impression of Cheng Bugao in Dianying huabao (The Screen pictorial), vol. 3 (1933). 39. The director did use “bottom lighting” on Hehua’s husband to illuminate his rage in one scene when he learned that their silkworms had died. But such lighting is rare in this film. 40. Sun Yu was often criticized for being too illusory and not realistic in the 1930s. See an article by B regarding Sun’s Big Road in Diansheng (Movie sound) 4, no. 1 (1935). 41. Paul Pickowicz, 305.

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42. Eisenstein’s “cinematographic” conflicts within the frame contain the following details: conflict of graphic directions, conflict of scales, conflict of volumes, conflict of masses, conflict of depths, close shots and long shots, pieces of graphically varied directions, pieces resolved in volume, with pieces resolved in area, pieces of darkness and pieces of lightness, and finally, conflict between an object and its dimension—and conflicts between an event and its duration. From Sergei Eisenstein’s Film Form translated by Jay Leyda (San Diego, New York and London: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1977), 39. 43. It was criticized for being too “Westernized” in 1934. See “Ping ‘Yuguangqu’” (Regarding Songs of Fishermen) in Diansheng (Movie sound) 3, no. 23 (1934). 44. According to an article entitled “‘Yuguangqu’ changpian zhi mimi neimu’” (The secret inside story of Songs of Fishermen’s records), in Diansheng (Movie sound) 3, no. 35 (1934). 45. More on Cai Chusheng’s background can be found in Wen Yun’s article that appeared in Diansheng (Movie sound) 3, no. 46 (1934). 46. “‘Yuguangqu’ changpian zhi mimi neimu’” (The secret inside story of Songs of Fishermen’s records) in Diansheng (Movie sound) 3, no. 35 (1934).

NOTES TO CHAPTER SIX 1. Refer to “Appendix One: Interview with Cheng Jihua” of this book. 2. Leo Ou-fan Lee first brought up the concept of “social realism” in connection with early Chinese cinema. See Lee, “The Tradition of Modern Chinese Cinema: Some Preliminary Explorations and Hypotheses,” in Chris Berry ed., Perspectives on Chinese Cinema (London: British Film Institute, 1991), 7. 3. Throughout this book, I have carefully separated “left-wing” from “leftist” and “left-wingers” from “leftists.” To me, a “left-winger” may or may not be influenced by the Chinese Communist Party but a “leftist” is often a Chinese Communist Party member or is closely associated with the party. However, most people do not make such a distinction. 4. Liu Haishun, Zhang Jianyong and Zhu Tianwei, Zhongguo dianying tuzhi (Illustrated annals of Chinese film) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying ziliaoguan, 1995), 202–215. 5. These films include The New Year’s Sacrifice (Zhufu, d: Sang Hu, Beijing, 1956), The Family (Jia, d: Chen Xihe, Shanghai, 1956) and The Lin Family Shop (Linjia puzi, d: Shui Hua, Beijing, 1959). 6. Liu Haishun and others, 222–234. 7. I was amazed to see eight restaurants on one small street, mostly operated by ex-farmers, outside of Beijing Film Archives. 8. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, tr. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1991), 323. 9. Ibid., 421. 10. Ibid., 421. 11. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 39.

NOTES TO APPENDIX ONE 1. The book has two volumes and was first published by (Beijing) Zhongguo dianying chubanshe in 1961 and reprinted in 1981. 2. Chen Bo, edited., Zhongguo zuoyi dianying yundong (The leftwing film movement of China) (Beijing: Zhongguo dianying chubanshe, 1993).

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3. Wild Torrents (Kuangliu), s: Xia Yan, d: Cheng Bugao (Shanghai: Mingxing Film Company, 1933). 4. Directed by Kevin Reynolds and produced by Universal Studio in 1995.

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Index

A Actresses, 14, 19, 20, 78, 79, 95, 145 The Adventures of Sanmao (Sanmao liuliang ji), 165 Agrarian community, 39 Agrarian economy, 30, 53 Agrarian to industrial, 30, 32 Agrarian society, 30, 56, 151 Agricultural production, 54 Ai Xia, 66, 78, 90, 185–186n63 American films of 1920s in China, 10 Anderson, Benedict, 56 Anderson, Marston, 17, 142 Art and politics, 3–25 art in time of national crisis, 14–25 mass culture in time of mechanical reproduction, 6–14 relationship between art and politics (Mao Zedong), 5 Asia Film Company, 13, 20, 182n6 Attacks on left-wing filmmakers, 4 Audience, 3, 4, 6, 13, 16, 17, 18, 22, 23, 33, 58, 78, 140, 141, 149, 155, 172n50, 189n44 A Ying, 16 B Bada gongsi (eight American film companies), 10 Battle of the Sexes (D.W.Griffith), 98 Battleship Potemkin, 15 Bazin, André, 141 Benjamin, Walter, 7–8, 172n52 Berry, Chris, 128, 129, 180n35, 188n34 The Bible of Women (Nü’er jing), 77, 107, 161 The Big Road (Dalu), 43, 69, 126–133, 163 “The Big Shanghai Project,” 7 The Black Cannon Incident, 150, 167 The Black Slave Cries Out to Heaven (Heinuyu tian lu), 9 The Blue Angel (von Sternberg), 114 The Boatman’s Daughter (Chuanjia nü), 44, 47–48, 62, 117, 163 Body, 40, 41, 48, 87, 103, 130 Borderline crossing, 30, 32, 39, 55 city people going to country, 31, 39, 55 country people going to city, 31, 35, 39, 55 Bordwell, David, 142, 143 Bourdieu, Pierre, 22 Box-office, 24, 51, 99, 147, 155

Index

161

Brooks, Peter, 138, 142 Brown, Carolyn, 82 The Burning of Red Lotus Temple (Huoshao hongliansi), 14, 95, 158 Butterfly fiction, 139, 140 Bu Wancang, 21, 23, 38 C Cai Chusheng, 6, 11, 18, 21, 24, 35, 49, 71, 101, 143, 145, 146, 147 Camera angle, 144 movement, 36, 113 Cao Maotang, 10 Capitalism, 7, 16, 31, 53, 56 Censors, 23, 24, 44, 92 Censorship, 23, 24, 25, 177n121, 184–185n46, 186–187n75, 189n51 movie’s three checks, 24 regulations, 23 two kinds of censorship, 23 Center (Shanghai), 29 Center and periphery, 44 Center Stage (Ruan Lingyu), 167 Changcheng Film Studio, 13 Chaplin, Charlie, 10, 11, 37 Cheng Bugao, 21, 53, 107, 125, 143, 144, 145, 154 Cheng Jihua, 19, 25, 153–156 Chenwu, 4, 15, 16, 18 Chen Yanyan, 21 Chinese film melodrama, 50, 145 Chinese film theories, 16 The Chinese Garbo, 24 Chinese traditions, 30 City Lights (Charlie Chaplin), 37 Chow, Rey, 11, 42, 88, 139 Chow Tse-tsung, 100 Cinema, function of, 18 The Cinema as Art (Ralph Stephenson and J.R.Debrix), 141 Cinematic apparatus, 20, 137, 141 Citizen Kane (Orson Wells), 141 City (Shanghai), 6, 20, 25, 29, 51 Clothing, 3, 43, 80, 86, 113 Collective activities, 110 consciousness, 55, 79 identity, 79, 105, 150 will, 126 Comedy, 11, 33, 171, 178 Comic, 3, 35, 37, 82, 84, 138, 165 Commercial Press, 11, 13 Conflict center and periphery, 30, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48 class, 44

Index

162

gender relations, 25, 44, 98 men and women, 30, 103 Confucianism, 111, 140 Continuity (Hollywood’s editing method), 18, 143, 175n92, 191n3 The Cosmetic Market (Zhifen shichang), 79, 89–94, 160 Country, 7, 25, 29 Country and city, 29–75 conflict of center and periphery, 44–48 engendering country and city, 38–44 from country to city to nation, 51–57 lost country child in city, 35–38 relationship of, 7, 25, 29, 140 songs of fishermen from Donghai to Shanghai, 48–51 world of Shanghai inside peepshow, 32–35 Country and nation, 56 Critical left-wing, 25 Cultural fever (wenhuare), 150 Culture and mechanical production, 6 D Daybreak (Tianming), 40–44, 61, 132, 161 “Day Dream” (Tian Han), 12 Da Zhonghua Baihe, 13 Debate over soft and hard film, 4 de Lauretis, Teresa, 98 de Pixérécourt, Guilbert, 138 Diantong Film Studio, 24, 112, 126, 188n28 Dingjun Mountain (Dingjun shan), 12, 157 Documentary, 10, 126 Dong Keyi, 21 Drama, 9, 10, 117 Dress, 38, 45, 48, 50, 78, 80, 82 E Editing, 18, 81, 143, 146 Eisenstein, Sergei, 143 collision, 145 conflicts, 18 montage, 18 Engender, 38, 39 Engendering country and city, 38 Exposure (nature/function of cinema), 17 F Fairbanks, Douglas, 10, 11 The Family (Jia), 166 Family melodrama, 95, 96, 100 Fei Mu, 21 Feminine detail, 42 Femininity, 88, 106, 129, 130 Femme fatale, 43, 50, 83, 91

Index

163

Fengtai Photo Studio, 12, 173n56 Feudalism, 16, 95, 149 Film business in Shanghai, 10, 14, 155 companies that recruited left-wing filmmakers, 24 industry, 78 Filmmakers, 4, 10, 11, 14, 18, 23, 31, 52, 56, 79, 85, 94, 112, 138 Filmmaking policy, 4, 23 Filmography, 157–167 Film stock, 144, 145 Foreign films, 10, 11 Function of film or cinema, 14, 15, 18, 142 G Gao Qianping, 44 Gao Zhanfei, 47 Gellner, Ernest, 30, 32, 39 Gender politics, 100 Gender relations, 25, 39, 77–107 battle of sexes in material world of Shanghai, 80–84 men redefining new woman, 100–107 negotiation of being virgin mother and metropolitan vamp, 84–89 women become independent from men, 89–94 women helping women, 94–100 Gender transformation, 77 Ge Yuanxu, 8 Ge Zuozhi, 36 Gilmartin, Christina K., 77 Girl in Disguise (Huashen guniang), 3–4, 164 Gledhill, Christine (Home Is Where the Heart Is), 138 Going to the Countryside (Dao minjian qu), 12 Gong Lü, 18 Guiding principles regarding filmmaking (1931), 19 H “Hard film,” 4 The Hard Made Couple/The Wedding Night (Nanfu nanqi), 13, 95 The Heavenly Principle (Tianlun), 14 Henhai (Wu Yanren), 139 Hershatter, Gail, 13, 85 Hibiscus Town (Furong zhen), 150, 167 Hollywood, 10, 11, 17, 18, 59, 137, 142, 143, 155, 175n92, 191n1 Hong Shen, 10, 21, 107 Hou Yao, 14 Huang Jiamo, 4 Huang Tianshi, 4 Huang Zibu, 21 Hu Die, 21, 24, 77, 78, 90, 95, 107 Huters, Theodore, 5, 109, 169n7, 182n5, 187n4 Hu Yeping, 17

Index

164

I Ibsen, Henrik Johan, 88 Imagined community, 34 Imagined nation, 56, 57, 132 Imperialism, 7, 16, 30, 56, 127, 132 Individualism, 9, 103, 110, 111, 112 Individuality, 110, 111, 150 Industrial, 6, 7, 30, 31, 32, 39, 50 Industrialization, 32, 36, 54, 55 Industrial society, 30 International Film Festival (Moscow), 11, 51, 147 Inter-titles, 51, 140, 144, 145, 146 Iwasaki Noboru, 11 J Japanese invasion, 14, 53, 55, 121, 123 Jin Yan, 21, 23, 123 Johnson, Kay Ann, 77, 107 Junichiro Tanizaki, 12 K Kracauer, Siegfried, 142, 143, 193n32 L Lang, Fritz (Metropolis), 51 Lee, Leo Ou-fan, 32, 45, 56, 109, 110, 111, 142, 188n26, 176n105, 187n2, 193n35 Lefebvre, Henri, 53, 151 Leftist, 17, 18, 21, 142, 149, 150 films, 142, 149 tradition, 150 woman, 150 Left-wing Chinese cinema, 5, 6, 25, 112, 150 Left-wing Chinese Filmmakers, 17, 18, 25, 32, 35, 116, 122 radicals, 6, 111 reformers, 6, 8 Leftwing Chinese Film Movement, 6, 79, 153 Left-wing cinema, 17 Left-winger, 4, 15, 16, 21, 31, 85, 101, 123, 151 Left-wing film critics, 4, 50 Leftwing Journalist League, 19 Leftwing Musician’s League, 19 Leftwing Social Science League, 19 Leftwing Theater League, 19 Leftwing Theater League of China, 19 Leyda, Jay, 30, 172n42, 173n54 Lianhua Film Company, 14, 21, 23, 35, 38, 40, 52, 79, 85, 94, 101 Lighting, 144, 145 Li Lili, 40, 43, 54, 74 Li Minwei, 14, 21, 78 The Lin Family Shop (Linjia puzi), 166 Link, Perry, 140, 178n4

Index

165

Li Pingqian, 21, 107 Liu Na’ou, 4, 33 Li Zeyuan, 10, 143 Loner and crowd (in Small Toys), 56 Loner and crowd (in The Sorrow of the Hometown), 45 The Lost Lamb (Mitu de gaoyang), 35, 36, 38, 101, 163 The Love of a Fruit Seller (Laogong aiqing), 79, 158 Love and revolution, 121, 126–127 Love and salvation, 123 Lumière, Louis, 12, 142 Luo Fu, 4 Lu Si, 4, 18 Lu Xun, 11, 14, 24, 45, 56, 80, 81, 111 M Magazines Diansheng (Movie sound), 193n40 Diantong huabao (Diantong pictorial), 178n19 Dianying huabao (The screen pictorial), 59, 66, 70, 74 Dianying manhua (Movie cartoon), 60 Dianying yishu (Movie art), 15, 20 Mingxing banyuekan (Mingxing biweekly), 22 Mingxing yuekan (Mingxing monthly), 174n73, 185n48 Yinxing (The movie guide), 58, 75 Male actors who play female roles in early Chinese cinema, 78 Mandarin Duck and Butterfly, 38, 39, 139, 140 Ma Ning, 142, 143 Mao Dun, 29, 32, 35, 53, 88, 109, 143 Mao Zedong, 5, 15, 149, 150, 151 Marginality, 55 Marginalized, 45, 50 Mass culture, 6, 14, 22, 139 Materialism, 81 Material selection, film’s, 15 May Fourth literature, 82, 104, 110, 149 Movement, 8, 77, 79, 100, 101, 103, 109, 111, 115, 125, 150 New Culture, 11 new woman, 105 tradition, 55, 78, 100, 102, 109 McDougall, Bonnie S., 5 Mei Lanfang, 11 Melodrama, 25, 50, 56, 74, 85, 87, 95, 98, 117, 123, 137, 138, 155 The Melodramatic Imagination, 138 Melodramatic music, 51, 140, 146 Melodramatic and realistic, 137–147 case studies, 143–147 melodrama or realism, content or form, 138–143 Meng Gongwei, 15, 16 Meng, Yue, 170–171n26, 188n21 Metropolitan Scenes (Dushi fengguang), 33–35, 36, 79, 81, 83, 91, 163

Index

166

Mingxing, 6, 13, 14, 16, 21, 22, 35, 44, 53, 75, 77, 79, 89, 92, 117, 144 Mingxing Film Company, 6, 16, 21, 23, 35, 44, 53, 79, 89, 92, 94, 95, 107, 112 Mise-en-scène, 143, 144 Miss Shanghai Pageant, 80 Mode, 125, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 145 “Model Operas,” 5, 150 Modernity, 31, 32, 33, 34, 44, 48, 79, 80, 85, 132 Modernization, 30 Montage, 18, 20, 36, 81, 141, 143, 146, 149 Moviegoers, 3, 4, 16, 18, 22, 23, 54, 58, 93, 131, 140, 141, 149, 155 Movie theaters, 10, 20 Mu Shiying, 33 Music, 18, 33, 44, 45, 46, 51, 100, 138, 140 Mu Weifang, 4 N Nakamura Gen, 10 Narrative, 17, 18, 34, 70, 95, 101, 117, 126, 128, 137, 142, 143 National crisis, 6, 14, 16, 17, 21, 24, 110, 113, 124 National defense films, 16 “The Necklace” (Guy de Maupassant), 79 New drama (xinju), 9, 10 New road for Chinese movie industry (1932), 16, 20 Newspaper, 8, 9, 13, 83, 104, 141 Chenbao, 21, 174n83, 175n84, 85, 95 and 96, 179n34, 180n36, 37 and 45, 181n3, 184n37, 38 and 42, 185n52, 186n65, 188n30 Da gongbao, 174n76 Da wanbao, 169n3 Shenbao, 8, 9, 170–171n26, 179n23, 185n57, 189n42 Shibao, 175n8 The New Woman (Xin nüxing), 85, 100, 101–106, 150, 163 The New Year’s Sacrifice (Zhufu), 165 Nie Er, 21, 113 Northeast and Shanghai, 44 O Origin of left-wing Chinese cinema, 5, 149 The Orphan Saves His Grandfather (Gu’er jiuzu ji), 14, 95, 158 P Party’s Film Team, 6, 15, 21, 22 Patriotism, 30, 139 Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood (Taohua qixue ji), 38, 41, 159 Peepshow, 32, 34 Peking Opera and Chinese cinema, 78 Performance, 11, 95, 117, 144, 145 Periphery, 30, 32, 33, 44, 45, 46, 47, 62 Photography, 7, 8, 11 Pickowciz, Paul, 38, 39, 55, 139

Index

167

Plot, 3, 98, 118, 146 The Plunder of Peach and Plum (Taoli jie), 112–117, 118, 122, 123, 162 Printing, 7, 8 Propaganda function of film, 18 Prostitutes, 15, 40, 85, 88, 107 Prostitution, 40, 47, 84, 85, 103 Abolish Prostitution Movement, 47 Publishing, 8, 9, 83 Pudovkin, 16, 143 Q Qing exposé (qianze) fiction, 139 Qipao, 48, 87 Qu Qiubai, 17, 21 R Rainbow (Mao Dun), 29, 88 A Ready Source of Money (Yaoqian shu), 79, 164 Realism, 15, 17, 104, 123, 137, 138, 139, 141, 142, 143 Realistic, see Melodramatic and realistic The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun), 87, 166 The Red Guards of Lake Honghu (Honghu chiwei dui), 150, 166 Right-wing, 3 Right-winger, 4, 15 Riku, 17 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 138 Ruan Lingyu, 24, 54, 78, 85, 101, 145, 167, 174n74, 177n129, 182n8, 183n13, 186n69. S Satô Haruo, 11, 12 Screen emperor, 24 Screen empress, 24 Screenplay, 9, 12, 13, 15, 20, 22, 24, 112, 123, 154, 157 Self, 25, 29, 69, 104, 109 Self and society, 109–133 from private to public to social, 117–123 love and revolution, 126–133 love and salvation of nation, 123–126 poles of self and society faced by college graduates, 112–117 Sentimental, 44, 46, 117, 139, 140, 146 Sergeant, Harriet, 14 Sexuality, 86, 88, 129, 130, 131 Shadow play, 8, 19 Shanghai countryside and, 30, 31, 35, 40, 42 Hongzhou and, 47 modernity, 32, 33, 35, 80, 82 movie theaters, 20 Northeast and, 14, 32, 33, 44, 45, 46 playboy, 40, 41, 47 Shanghai Express, 10

Index

168

Shanghai New Stage (Shanghai xin wutai), 10, 13 Shanghai Twenty-four Hours (Shanghai er-shisi xiaoshi), 23, 44, 160 Sha Zhongyan, 17 She Married Her Boss (Gregory La Cava), 93 Shen Fu, 21, 36 Shen Xiling, 21, 23, 32, 44, 47, 95, 107, 109, 110, 117, 122, 125 Shi Dongshan, 4, 21 Shi Zhecun, 33 Shu Xiuwen (biography by Shi Nan), 94 Silent (film), 44, 85, 121, 140, 141, 143 Situ Huimin, 21 Small Toys (Xiao wanyi), 32, 52–57, 63, 64, 125, 132, 143, 145, 161 Socialist realist cinema, 149 Social realism, 142 Social value of a film, 18 Society, 6, 7, 15, 18, 23, 30, 86, 89, 100, 106, 109, 149 “Soft film,” 4 Song (in film), 46, 103, 105, 116, 128, 130, 131 “The Big Road,” 131–132 “Graduation Song,” 113, 116 “Huangpu River,” 103 “Peach Blossom River,” 103 “The Song of New Women,” 105–106 “Songs of Fengyang,” 126 Songs of Fishermen (Yuguangqu), 11, 32, 49–51, 55, 57, 71, 72, 73, 101, 146, 147, 162 Sons and Daughters of an Era (Shidai de ernü), 161 The Sorrow of the Hometown (Xiang chou), 32, 44–47, 117, 162 Southern Chinese Drama Association (Nanguo jushe), 10 Soviet cinema, 15, 149 Soviet montage, 18, 143, 149 Space physical, 116, 118 private, 69, 88, 110, 113, 115, 116, 118, 119, 120, 122, 126, 133 public, 9, 69, 88, 110, 120, 122, 133 social, 88, 103, 110, 115, 119, 122 transitional, 88, 114, 115, 119 Spoken drama (huaju), 10, 20 A Spring River Flows East (Yijiang chunshui xiang dong liu), 51, 147 Spring Silkworms (Cheng Bugao), 143–145 Spring Silkworms (Mao Dun), 53, 54 The Spring Willow Society (Chunliu she), 9, 10 Star system, 15, 174n74 Steele, William Paul, 138 Storm Over Asia, 16 Street Angels (Malu tianshi), 33, 84, 142, 164 A String of Pearls (Yichuan zhenzhu), 79, 143, 158 Style Kracauer’s three tendencies in style, 142, 143 melodramatic, 25, 56, 74, 117, 123, 125, 137 realistic, 15, 25, 57, 85, 91, 112, 117, 137, 142, 143, 144 Subjectivity, 46, 119, 141 Subjectivity of left-wing filmmakers, 54

Index

169

Sun Min, 45, 47 Sun Shiyi, 15, 101 Sun Xun, 18 Sun Yu, 6, 10, 21, 32, 40, 43, 51, 54, 61, 109, 123, 126, 129, 133, 143, 145 Sun Yu’s aesthetics, 40, 125 T Talkies, 10 Tang Na, 4, 34, 189n41 Tang Xiaodan, 21 Tan Youliu, 21 Tao Qian, 52 Textual left-wing, 25 Theater and film, relationship of, 19 Three Modern Women (Sange modeng nüxing), 161 Tian Han, 11, 12, 15, 21, 89, 113 Tianyi Film Studio, 13, 14, 21, 23, 94 The Tide in the Salt Village (Yanchao), 160 U Urbanism, 36, 50 Urbanization, 7, 32, 53, 56 V A Village in August (Bayue de xiangcun) (Xiao Jun), 121 Virgin mother, 84, 88 Visuality, 11, 17 Von Sternberg, Joseph, 10 W Wakeman, Frederic, Jr., 14, 85 Wang, David Der-wei, 54, 142 The Wedding Night (Nanfu nanqi), 13, 157 Wei Heling, 4 Wenmingxi (civilized drama), 13 Wenren (cultural men), 9 Westernization, 30, 47, 140 Wild Rose (Ye meigui), 123–126, 128, 159 Wild Torrents (Kuangliu), 154, 159 Williams, Raymond, 31, 39, 53 Wilson, Elizabeth, 85 Woman(en) bad, 82 bourgeois, 105 career, 90, 93, 115 good, 65, 79 leftist, 150 liberal, 102 liberated, 91, 107 modern, 83, 92

Index

new, 100, 104, 105, 106, 109 proletarian, 105 public, 85, 87 sainted, 88, 89 Shanghai young, 29, 40, 81 urban, 42, 85 urban material, 84 Woman(en)’s career, 79, 90, 91, 92, 93, 115 independence, 89 issues, 79, 91, 107 liberation, 78, 84, 86, 92, 100, 104, 114 marriage, 79 problems, 91, 94 rights, 9, 77, 107 suffering, 79 vanity, 79 voice, 78 Women and Shanghai modernity, 44, 80 Women Side by Side (Liren xing), 150, 165 “World Inside the Pillow” (Shen Jiji), 34 Wu Lun, 10 Wu Yin, 21, 34, 119 Wu Yonggang, 21, 85, 86, 89 X Xiao Luo, 17, 128 Xia Yan, 11, 14, 18, 21, 22, 89, 92, 107, 154 Xi Naifang, 16 Xinhua, 24 Xinju (new drama), 9, 10 Xuan Jinglin, 44, 78, 95 Xu Lai, 47 Xu Xingzhi, 21 Y Yan’an Talks, 5, 15, 19, 149 Yang Hansheng, 21, 24, 127, 130 Yan Ruisheng (the incident of), 13 Yan Shanshan, 78 Yeh, Wen-hsin, 129 Ye Lingfeng, 33 Yihua Film Company, 4, 21, 23, 24 Yingxi, 19, 20 Ying Yunwei, 4, 21, 109, 112, 113, 117, 125 “Young Women of Shanghai” (Lu Xun), 80 Yuan Congmei, 3, 55 Yuan Muzhi, 6, 33, 34, 35, 81, 82, 84, 112, 113, 117 Yu Dafu (on realism), 141 Yue Feng, 33

170

Index

171

Z Zhang, Yingjin, 121, 178n14, 186n72, 189n46 Zhang Ailing, 33 Zhang Shichuan, 6, 13, 20, 21, 89, 92, 107, 153 Zhao Dan, 44, 118 Zheng Boqi, 18, 21, 50, 107, 154 Zheng Junli, 36, 102, 124, 147 Zheng Zhengqiu, 6, 13, 16, 20, 21, 94, 96, 98, 101, 107, 140, 153, 154 “Zhen zhong ji” (The world inside the pillow), 34 Zhongguo dianying fazhan shi, 153 Zhongguo zuoyi dianying jia, 6 Zhou Boxun, 34 Zhou Jianyun, 11, 13, 21 Zhuangzi Tests His Wife (Zhuangzi shiqi), 78, 157 Zi Yu, 16