A tiger still crouching

No other filmmaker defines the range of China’s film industry better than Zhang Yimou. And no other Chinese filmmaker has something as close to a sure bet in China this summer with his recently opened “House of Flying Daggers.” One of China’s best-known directors, whose works include the critically acclaimed “Raise the Red Lantern,” Zhang has over the last quarter-century produced underground, artistic and government-approved commercial films.

As a member of China’s legendary Fifth Generation of filmmakers, many of whom entered the Beijing Film Academy in 1978 shortly after the Cultural Revolution, he helped lead the industry away from decades spent playing the role of government mouthpiece.

Now with his latest movie on the eve of the 100th anniversary of Chinese film, he’s trying to pull off a feat that some see as the industry’s best hope for survival: create a film that is commercially successful both at home and abroad. “His new movie is one of the very few that could hope to compete against Western blockbusters,” said Wang Xiaoshuai, director of “Beijing Bicycle.” “China has a huge population but an extremely small audience for local movies.”

Like a lot of things in China, filmmaking looks a lot more impressive from afar than it does up close. Where foreign film buffs see an up-and-coming nation producing the likes of “Farewell My Concubine,” “Red Sorghum” and “Ju Dou,” many locals see an industry unbalanced and struggling to right itself.

A central problem, say filmmakers, actors and producers, is the government’s confusion over whether it wants to promote, restrict or ignore the industry, leading in turn to a host of structural problems and a fundamental identity crisis. There were 280 films made in China last year, of which as few as 20% actually made it into theaters. The rest go directly to TV and DVD or are aired only at overseas film festivals.

High on the list of industry problems are government restrictions on what filmmakers can depict in their films. Directors have even given censors the nickname “Edward,” referring to the lead character in the 1990 film “Edward Scissorhands,” for their ability to leave long strings of film on cutting room floors.

Occasionally, however, Beijing’s heavy-handed ways can be a blessing for filmmakers. The government banned all new foreign releases during this summer’s peak movie-going season. While this was ostensibly designed to protect the morals of Chinese youth, insiders say it’s actually aimed at protecting the home team against Hollywood.

Zhang has been the biggest beneficiary this year given his name appeal, hype surrounding “House” and high-profile cast. The movie -- a martial-arts love story set in the 9th century Tang Dynasty involving a conflict between government forces and a rebel group named House of the Flying Daggers -- features Hong Kong heartthrob Andy Lau, Taiwanese Japanese star Takeshi Kaneshiro and famed mainland actress Zhang Ziyi, who starred in Ang Lee’s “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.” Playing around Asia, it is due to be released here in December.

Meanwhile, Zhang Yimou’s previous film, “Hero,” a lush martial arts epic featuring Tony Leung, Maggie Cheung and Zhang Ziyi that has drawn warm reviews, opens in the U.S. this week, two years after its Chinese debut.

Whether Zhang Yimou can bridge the traditional divide between niche Chinese films that appear in foreign film festivals and more mass-appeal domestic films remains to be seen. But the effort is being closely watched, in part for hints on how the government plans to treat the film industry at this key juncture. “He is China’s Great White Hope in a sense,” said Stan Rosen, a Chinese film expert at USC. The reviews for “House” in China have been mixed. China’s biggest-budget film ever, at around $32 million, it’s been criticized for a confusing plot and a weak ending that copies elements from “Crouching Tiger” in a blatant grab for commercial success. But its cinematography, dance and fight scenes have also earned high praise.

Zhang Weiping, a close friend of Zhang Yimou and, as president of Beijing New Picture Film Corp., a major investor, said much of the criticism on the Chinese side reflects a cultural bias in favor of literal plots. “The actress is not a normal person, but a legendary kung fu master,” he said. “There’s been some misunderstanding.”

Zhang is known for his strong, passionate female characters, and this film is no exception because much of the action revolves around Zhang Ziyi’s character. The film created some off-screen buzz as well when Zhang Ziyi was asked which of her two male costars had a better “bedroom performance” during the love scenes. Both were good kissers, she replied to reporters, but Takeshi was “gentle and considerate” while Lau was “tough and brusque.”

Signs of progress

For the industry in general, there are modest signs of progress and the general trend has been to open up, albeit at a glacial pace. Foreign companies have been given the nod to help build multiplex theaters. The censorship structure was recently revamped to replace national censorship with combined national and provincial censors that potentially allow slightly more leeway and diversity. And the nation is mulling a rating system that would arguably allow for a greater range of productions.

Recent steps suggest the government is slowly moving to make the industry more market-oriented, perhaps with an added objective of building up a few big production companies it can more easily control. That said, there’s little letup in Beijing’s eagle-eyed control over content -- including films that touch even peripherally on corruption, land grabs, rural frustration, the rich-poor gap, Taiwan, Tibet or personal stories that explore life’s darker side.

A joke making the rounds has a director negotiating with government censors to make a horror film, a comedy, an action film. Good idea, the censor says. But cut the scary bits, the cynicism and the violent part, respectively, since Chinese audiences are different and might get the wrong impression. “The message is: You can make any movie as long as it isn’t a good movie,” said Zhang Xianmin, deputy professor with the Beijing Film Academy.

The result, say directors, is that most films that follow the rules draw yawns from increasingly sophisticated Chinese able to tap the Internet, MTV and a host of other entertainment options. According to official box office statistics, Chinese on average spend 12 cents a year going to the movies in a nation with a $1,000 per capita income, and even that may be inflated.

“The Chinese movie industry is not healthy,” said Wang Baomin, a director struggling to shoot a full-length feature film on $120,000. “This is very typical. We got a lot of the funding from personal contacts we essentially had to lie to. If they really knew how risky this is, they’d never invest.”

Limited box-office appeal and the long legacy of heavy state control often dovetail with poor management and haphazard financing. “There’s a real lack of experience or good audience research, industry knowledge isn’t passed on, and producers don’t understand the concept of promotion,” said Suo Yabin, a film critic.

Rampant piracy of films -- mostly motivated by greed but also seen as a vehicle to circumvent censors -- further undercuts the industry’s foundation by reducing the return on many films to near zero. Zhang Yimou’s company said box office receipts on each of the first three days after this summer’s release of “House of Flying Daggers” exceeded $3.6 million. By the fourth day, however, by which time the pirates had copies on the street, the figure dropped to $600,000.

While pirated copies are omnipresent, the industry hasn’t exactly put its best foot forward at the box office. Although there are an increasing number of cinemas like the New Century Cinema, located in an upscale shopping mall in Beijing complete with comfortable high-back chairs, a good sound system and ushers who politely guide you to your seat, more common is the scene a few miles away at the Hujialou Theater in east Beijing.

As soon as you walk in the door your senses are hit by the auditorium’s damp smelly air that evokes a warehouse. Many of the seats have holes in the upholstery, food stains or are broken outright. The speakers rattle when the soundtrack hits the high notes. And the doors don’t shut properly, creating streams of light after the feature starts.

With returns so low, many theaters -- some rat-infested -- even push away the seats during the day and hold dance classes.

The outside world’s impact on the industry adds further complexities. With the front door closed, some directors bypass the censors by making movies aimed exclusively at international film festivals. Some critics accuse this group of promoting formulaic, negative views of China for foreign consumption with a heavy focus on exotic locales. Others disagree, arguing that this is one of the only ways the inherent creativity of Chinese directors can flourish.

One factor working to the advantage of Chinese directors intent on tackling more hard-hitting topics is China’s erratic oversight. Ostensibly a ruthlessly efficient police state, China is often more like an overweight giant that can’t always move the right muscles.

Local officials are all too eager to ignore the central government’s strict guidelines for a few bucks. Policeman and other enforcement arms of the totalitarian state have even starred in underground movies. And provincial authorities often have a stake in racy films amid charges they are bribed by film pirates to look the other way or actively help in distributing contraband. Inertia can also be a factor with lower-level officials uninterested in enforcing central government rules.

Criticism from peers

Even as Zhang Yimou has sought in recent years to make more commercially successful films, some fellow directors criticize him for selling out. “All he’s focused on is pure entertainment,” said Zhang Ming, director of “Rain Clouds Over Wushan,” a 1995 film about a community soon to be flooded by the Three Gorges Dam that Beijing blocked from appearing in foreign film festivals. The directors are not related. “Zhang Yimou’s way is basically to make money by acting in line with the government’s will,” he added. “He’s very smart as a businessman, but sometimes I question his credentials as an artist.”

Zhang Yimou is used to this sort of criticism, particularly from younger directors who envy his success, counters investor and friend Zhang Weiping. “The truth is, many younger-generation filmmakers are going nowhere in their career,” he said. “Their movies don’t have a market. That’s why they’re definitely jealous.”

Zhang Yimou, born in Shanxi province, was part of a family that suffered politically for its pre-revolution association with the Nationalists, the political party ultimately ousted by Mao Tse-tung and exiled to Taiwan. The family was poor, Zhang’s mother said in a July interview in the SichuanNewsNet website, and Zhang’s clothes when he was growing up were torn and patched.

“Hero” and “House of Flying Daggers” were scripted at about the same time, and Zhang looks at them as dealing with the very Chinese theme of self-sacrifice, one public, one private. “ ‘Hero’ is about sacrifice of oneself for a larger purpose, for one’s country,” he explains in a telephone conversation. “ ‘Flying Daggers’ is really a love story, and how for love you might sacrifice all else. You know, we really don’t know that much about the actual heroes of martial arts in history, it’s all made up. So this genre is a wonderful way to let loose your imagination.”

He distinguishes between Western heroes and Chinese ones. Western heroes tend to be more individualistic, fighting for personal causes -- “whereas Chinese heroes are sacrificing themselves for their country or for other people. One isn’t better than the other, they’re just different. We’re the result of thousands of years training. It’s not backwards, it’s just something that’s part of our past.”

Bu Yang in the Beijing bureau and freelancer Scarlet Cheng contributed to this report.