Modern China. A Very Short Introduction (19 page)

own downfall. Lao She later turned to science fi ction to express this anxiety. In his 1933 novella
Cat Country
(
Maocheng
), his
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protagonist is a space traveller who arrives on Mars and fi nds that the inhabitants are all cats who spend their time fi ghting each other, and eventually fall victim to an invasion of tiny people (clearly meant to be the Japanese).

Lao She’s extraterrestrial metaphor would have been understood by all the writers of the May Fourth era, who believed that China’s great crisis lay in its inability to realize that the nation was in mortal danger. For that reason, the now-classic authors of the May Fourth era read rather gloomily. Perhaps unsurprisingly, although they became well known, their books were not the real bestsellers of the era. That distinction goes to a rather different sort of novel, generically known as ‘Mandarin Duck and Butterfl y’

literature, referring to the traditional romantic fi ction that had emerged and been widely circulated in late imperial times. These were escapist fantasies, with often stock characters (such as the 124

martial-arts knight errant) and a limited vocabulary which made them more accessible to a wider readership. Yet these novels, too, changed under the impact of modernity. The most successful author in the genre was Zhang Henshui (1895–1967). His novel
Shanghai Express
(1935) draws on traditional fi ction in its breezy, popular style and form. Yet its characters are taken from the real, changing China of the 1920s: a ‘new woman’ dressed up in fancy Western clothes, a business tycoon, and a teacher, among others. Most importantly, it is set on a train, a powerful symbol of modernity, speed, and progress. His biggest hit, however, was the novel
Fate in Tears and Laughter
(1930), a long and picaresque tale which narrated the decision of the hero to choose between two girlfriends, a traditional drum-singer and a Westernized bureaucrat’s daughter, who insists on being called ‘Miss Helena’, English-style. The novel is full of hair-raising escapes, martial
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arts, and wild romance, yet its central theme, the choice between
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tradition and modernity, is clear.

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Artists as well as writers tried out the new modern techniques of composition, often combining traditional Chinese art forms (such as the landscape) with modern themes. Perhaps the most famous of the artists to work in this hybrid style was Xu Beihong (1895–

1953), but other artists used techniques such as the modernist woodcut to develop a spare new style; the artist Feng Zikai (1898–1975) became particularly noted for his skill in this genre.

Yet art had also been a commercial enterprise for centuries: from the Ming to the late Qing, the techniques of reproduction that had allowed mass printing of books had also enabled visual images to be produced and sold for a market beyond the elites, and this market persisted and grew into the 20th century.

Writers and artists under Mao and reform

The defi ning terms of artwork under Mao were set during the war years, when in 1943, he delivered the ‘Yan’an Talks on 125

Art and Literature’. Mao made it clear that, in the communist China that he envisaged, ‘Literature and art are subordinate to politics … It is therefore a particularly important task to help

[artists and writers] overcome their shortcomings and win them over to the front that serves the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers.’ With the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949, a brief era of Soviet modernism took hold in China.

Visual artists during the Mao years followed prescribed styles such as Soviet-infl uenced Socialist Realism, and art drawn from folk traditions. The post-1949 years produced few novels of real distinction; some key fi gures of the May Fourth era such as Lao She and Shen Congwen found it easier to write little or nothing at all. A brief period of openness came with the Hundred Flowers movement in 1957, when authors were given offi cial permission to write as they saw fi t. However, Mao became alarmed at the strong criticisms that were voiced and rapidly clamped down by starting the Anti-Rightist Campaign, which fl ushed out hidden ‘traitors’

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who had supposedly used the opportunity of openness to attack the party. Many purged in the Campaign, such as Ding Ling, were
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exiled for over a decade to the far northeast of China.

A new period of creativity opened up in the 1980s and has continued since then (with a diffi cult period following Tian’anmen in 1989). The contemporary literary scene in China operates in a grey zone: many subjects are still taboo, but, as in the May Fourth era, there is a certain amount of space for critical writing. Many of the best-known authors write with a jaundiced eye about modern China. Mo Yan (the pen-name of Guan Moye) (1955– ) has carved out a reputation as one of China’s major contemporary novelists; his books include
The Garlic Ballads
,
The Republic of Wine
, and
Big Breasts and Wide Hips
, the latter of which attracted criticism because of its explicit sexuality and its lack of moral distinction between Communists and Nationalists during the Civil War (the book was for a time withdrawn in China after selling some 30,000 copies). Wang Shuo (1958– ) is another author who successfully negotiated the grey zones of cultural production 126

in China with novels such as
Please Don’t Call Me Human
and
Playing for Thrills
. Wang was a 1990s bestseller, with over 20

novels published in China, and a national reputation as a major writer. Yet his style was characterized as ‘hooligan literature’ (
pizi
wenxue
) for its nihilistic style and themes. The experiences of both writers show the ambiguities in contemporary censorship. It is quite common, as with Mo Yan’s novel, for a book to be released offi cially, only to be banned later; or, as with much of Wang Shuo’s work, for books to be condemned without ever offi cially being banned. At the same time, both Mo Yan and Wang Shuo continued to draw state salaries and were interviewed in the offi cial press. The fact that these authors can publish daring work is in part a consequence of China’s decision to open up again to the outside world. Wang Shuo and Mo Yan are now well-known international literary fi gures, and this has meant that even when
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their work is suppressed in China, they themselves remain free.

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Not all authors are anything like so fortunate, but the boundaries
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of censorship in China are fl exible, nonetheless.

Along with writers, fi ne artists and musicians have negotiated a new bargain with the state since 1978. Their freedom to paint or play what they wish is much greater than under Mao. On the other hand, orchestras and artists were guaranteed a state income, like all other employees. Now, they must operate under the same commercial constraints as any other entrepreneurs. Nonetheless, the most successful of those artists can become very rich indeed: in 2006, works by the artist Zhang Xiaogang earned US $ 23.6

million at auction, making him the second highest-earning artist in the world.

Moving pictures

The 20th century also heralded a signifi cant change in the way in which the Chinese told stories: fi lm, and later, television.

Film came swiftly to China, and by 1927, there were already over 100 cinemas in the country (the majority in Shanghai, 127

the crucible of Chinese modernity). Hollywood movies were immensely popular in the 1930s, but the Chinese also developed a powerful indigenous industry, again mainly centred on Shanghai. The wartime years refl ected the splits within China itself, with patriotic fi lms being produced in the Nationalist areas, while fi lm-makers in Shanghai and Manchuria worked under Japanese occupation. However, like their French counterparts during the same period, it is possible to see hidden resistance to occupation within the latter fi lms. After the victory over Japan, fi lm-makers also refl ected the ambiguity of victory. In the 1947 fi lm,
A Spring River Flows East
, the narrative unfolds to show that a family separated by war found that there was no happy reunion, as personal betrayals by family members echo wider ambiguities and betrayals in society about whether it had been better to fl ee westward in 1937 or stay behind under occupation.

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Film-making under Mao mostly refl ected the propaganda requirements of the regime, and in the Cultural Revolution
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period, very few fi lms were made at all. The reform era of the 1980s also marked the beginning of a new, powerful cinema, pioneered by a group who became known as the ‘Fifth Generation’

of fi lm-makers, and whose fi lm-making should be compared with the simultaneous
glasnost
(openness) fi lm-making of directors such as Elem Klimov which emerged in Gorbachev’s Soviet Union. Perhaps the single most prominent exponent of it was Zhang Yimou (1951– ). Although many of Zhang’s fi lms were set in the pre-Communist era, and condemned ‘feudal’ habits such as concubinage, they seemed to refl ect an ambiguity about Chinese society in the present day as well, which was a long way from the fervent acclaim for ‘New China’ that the regime’s propagandists had portrayed: the fi nal scene of
Ju Dou
(1991) shows a chaotic scene at a dyeworks with (symbolically) red paint spilling everywhere, adding to the mess. Scenes such as this led to some of Zhang’s later fi lms being banned from distribution within China itself, although they continued to win awards overseas.

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Other fi lms, such as
The Story of Qiu Ju
(1992), painted everyday life in rural China in a nuanced and ambiguous fashion (the local offi cial who bullies Qiu Ju’s husband by kicking him in the testicles, leading her to try to sue him, also helps her give birth).

The contradictions of Chinese modernity, and life under a regime which was unsure of its own identity and purpose, were refracted back through Zhang’s pictures. Other directors of the era, including Chen Kaige (1952– ), whose fi lms
Yellow Earth
(1984) and
Farewell My Concubine
(1993) also cast a more quizzical eye on the reform era, had a diffi cult relationship with the censors. In recent years, however, many of these directors’ fi lms (such as Zhang Yimou’s
Hero
(2004)) have included stunning performances of traditional martial arts, using mass media further to publicize aspects of China’s traditional culture. The boundaries of censorship were tested yet further by underground
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fi lms; dealing with taboo subjects from homosexuality to tensions during the Cultural Revolution, these fi lms rarely achieve release
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in China, but can be seen in DVD form at private showings, increasing the scope of the ‘grey zone’ of culture that is offi cially banned but still in circulation.

Television only became widespread in China in the 1980s (although a limited service began as early as 1958). However, within a few years, China was rapidly developing the largest television audience in the world, and CCTV (China Central Television) took advantage of the thaw of the reform era to experiment. Many programmes, particularly on news and current affairs, were (and are) weighty and heavy, with positive news intended to boost the party’s reputation. More popular were the wide range of costume dramas that fi lled the screens, including series based on popular classics such as
Outlaws of the Marsh
and
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
, as well as historical dramas based on both ancient and more recent events, such as the Opium Wars. Modern urban programmes also thrived, such as the sitcom
Stories from an Editorial Offi ce
(1991) and the romantic drama
Holding Hands
(1999).

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The power of television, however, was shown most clearly in the debate that surrounded the remarkable television series
River
Elegy
(
Heshang
).

Heshang

In June 1988, one of the most extraordinary programmes in
the history of television was broadcast on CCTV-1, the main
Chinese station. It was repeated once (in August 1988). In
the aftermath of Tian’anmen Square in 1989, it was banned,
and has remained so ever since. The people associated with
making it were imprisoned, or fl ed into exile in Hong Kong
or the West.

The programme was called
Heshang
(usually translated
as
River Elegy
or
Deathsong of the River
). It was
part-documentary, part-polemic. It consisted of six episodes,
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which reviewed recent Chinese history to try and answer
the question of why China was still so backward after a
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century or more in the modern world. It set out to provoke.

Among its main targets were some of the most valued
symbols of Chinese civilization: the Great Wall, the dragon,
and the Yellow River (the ‘river’ of the title). Rather than
regarding these as symbols of a proud and ancient culture,
the fi lm-makers (including writers Su Xiaokang and Wang
Luxiang) condemned them as examples of what had held
China back: the Wall served to shut China off from the rest of
the world; the dragon was a violent and aggressive creature;
and the Yellow River was slow-moving, clogged up with silt,
and enclosed within Chinese territory. The fi lm-makers
made a symbolic contrast with the colour blue, the colour
of the Pacifi c Ocean, from where the new ‘spring water’

that will renew China will be found. The Pacifi c Ocean was
a not particularly subtle reference to the US, scenes from
which were shown throughout the programme. Stirring
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music accompanied footage of historical events, scientifi c
breakthroughs, and even space exploration.