THOMAS PODVIN’S FREELANCE WORK
Freelance writer - translator - Editor

Though produced and distributed by the highly-successful Huayi Brothers (The Banquet, A World without Thieves, Kekexili), Chen Daming’s One Foot off the Ground (OFOTG) isn’t conceived as a vehicle for Western film festivals. Rather, it presents a realistic and contemporary view of everyday life in China in contrast to the recent slough of fantasy films directed by other big name Chinese directors. “I wanted to show a different side of China,” says Chen, “something that you rarely see in Chinese films that make it outside of the country.”

Chen – a screenwriter/actor and Quentin Tarantino’s assistant-director on Kill Bill – wrote a strong script, later edited by Hollywood producer Chris Lee (Superman Returns). Lee describes the film as a Chinese version of Four Weddings and a Funeral – filled with emotional resonance and endearing quirky characters.

The story revolves round an out-of-work opera company, who are obliged to earn their living with a variety of odd jobs, including selling dogs with fake pedigrees, and training roosters for cock fights. No prima donnas, these characters are raw and leathery, a fact well-reflected in their nasal Kaifeng dialect. In the vein of Ning Hao’s Crazy Stone– a rollicking Sichuanese comedy about a band of thieves – the regional flavor adds spice and special meaning to this film.

“[OFOTG] is very Chinese,” says Chen, “but it also has very universal ingredients. It’s a strong character-driven film.” One that Chen is well-equipped to write.
His blowsy characters are informed by his own youthful experiences performing Peking Opera in Kaifeng – a third-tier city in Henan. At 17, he left home and toured China with an acting company, and later entered the Beijing Film Academy. After graduation he went to America, and worked in Hollywood for ten years.
Chen returned to Kaifeng in 2005, a full 20 years since he left town to make his mark in the world. OFTOG then, is in one sense a look back. A fond and wistful look back to Chen’s days with the Peking Opera and his memories of three good friends in the troupe.

Like many people who have been forced to adapt to changing circumstances in China, the three performers often stumble, but their years of hard training makes it a little easier to get a least one foot back on the ground.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
November 2006 issue

The past few years has seen a flowering of Sino-European co-productions: The White Countess; The World; Red Little Flowers; Love in the Year of the Tiger; Jade Warrior; Luxury Car; Summer Palace and Dam Street, to name a few. Why? In part, because foreign film producers have easier access to the Chinese mainland – and co-productions are seen to benefit both parties.

The results have been generally positive. “We work together; respect each other and appreciate each other’s work and opinions,” says Polish filmmaker Jacek Bromski who helmed the first Sino-Polish joint project (between Changchun Film Studios and Poland Studio Zebra), Love in the Year of the Tiger (LYT). Referring to the unusual degree of mutual respect, Bromski adds that “it’s often not like this when we co-produce with other countries.”

That said, foreign and domestic producers recognize that by definition, co-production means both partners share in the profit, and risk. Last year, proceeds for joint projects, which still account for just 10 per cent of the overall number of films screened, accounted for an astounding 35 per cent of the total box-office revenue.

That windfall can be attributed to various incentives, such as tax breaks (of up to 50 per cent) and better distribution opportunities. Co-productions are not considered ‘foreign’ films and thus are not subject to the ‘20 foreign films per year’ quota. In 2005, the top four box office films were co-productions.

Sino-European co-productions are in a particularly favorable position; they enjoy access to funding from European organizations (France’s Fonds Sud Cinema; Holland’s Hubert Bals Fund, etc.,), and at the same time they can participate in China’s national film competitions (The Hundred Flowers Awards and The Golden Rooster Awards). Indeed, LYT will vie for the Golden Rooster Awards this month in Hangzhou.

Though it’s no small achievement to take home a Golden Rooster, foreign production companies are much more interested in China’s expanding market. Some estimates state that China’s annual box office revenue will reach RMB 8 billion by 2010, up from RMB 2 billion in 2005. “China is a potentially huge market; there are not a lot of theaters but it’s a start,” says French producer Sylvain Butzteijn (Rosem Films), whose latest production, Luxury Car directed by Wang Chao, won the Un Certain Regard/Fondation GAN award in Cannes last May. Butzeijn, like many other European producers is bullish on the industry’s future in China; indeed, he believes the market will be huge in the next decade or two.

In addition to the numbers and the profits they imply, some foreign producers are attracted to China for artistic reasons. Butzeijn, for example, says Sino-European co-productions are a way of introducing Chinese films to the global market, and an opportunity “to take part in the development of a great international cinema.”

Of course, what appeals to an international audience doesn’t necessarily appeal to domestic tastes. A case in point: Jia Zhangke’s The World, a Chinese/French/Japanese co-production, met with a mixed response in Chinese theaters.

To cater to audiences in China and abroad, some filmmakers are combining cultural elements in their works. Producers Francesco Ferracin and Beth Sanders of the UK-based company Silk and Steel Productions have two film projects in development with Chinese partners. Jasmine, shot and set in Shanghai, will reinterpret the European myth of the Flying Dutchman and “blend the qualities of Far-Eastern aesthetics with a traditional European tale”, according to the press kit.

Bromski has taken a similar approach. LYT is set in the 20th-century and concerns a Polish prisoner of war saved by a Chinese hunter. “When the story is based on the natural confrontation of two different cultures,” he says, “both audiences can learn about our differences and similarities.”

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
October 2006 issue

Despite his kung fu prowess, Jackie Chan is no match for China’s DVD pirates. For one thing, he’s vastly outnumbered. But that hasn’t stopped Chan from fighting for his rights. Indeed, at every personal appearance in China or elsewhere in the world, he declares his position with no punches pulled: “They’re robbing the creative industry.”

Of course, robbery is a crime, and consequently Chan has become something of a caped crusader, which is not to say he’s battling alone. Recently, he joined forces with a group of more than 60 film producers to lobby the government to take stern action against those who pilfer creative works.

The pilfering takes place on a grand scale. Last year, the Chinese film industry produced in excess of 260 films, which collectively earned about RMB 2 billion (USD 250 million) at the box office, states a report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Yet in 2005 alone, piracy cost the China film industry USD 2.7 billion (RMB 21.6 billion), according to LEK Consulting. Motion Picture Association (MPA) senior vice president, Asia Pacific, Michael Ellis says that China’s losses account for 55 per cent of the worldwide loss of revenue due to audio-video piracy. Put another way, the numbers suggest that in 2005 bootleggers made ten times the total revenue of the PRC film industry.

In short, the level of piracy in China, which is at an extremely high level indeed, is crippling. It hurts Hollywood, of course, but Ellis says that the “first victim is the national [Chinese] cinema”.

The root of the problem is weak intellectual property rights. As late as 1982, China had no IPR laws to speak of. Since then, laws have been enacted, and anti-piracy campaigns have had some impact. In 2005-2006, police made 2,600 arrests and seized a total of 167 million pirated products. MPA, however, says the government needs to make greater efforts to crack down on pirates, including stiffer deterrent sentencing.

But the most effective method to weaken the pirate’s grasp on the industry lies not in the courtroom, but rather in the classroom. In other words, educating the public on the importance of IPR protection. As such, the government launched IPR Protection Week in April, and a host of new IPR protection plans and arrangements.

But even if these efforts succeed, with the number of Chinese Internet users reaching 111 million, it’s going to take more than a few big character posters to stop the bleeding. Illegal downloading cost the Chinese film industry RMB 8 billion (USD 1 billion) in 2005. No wonder Chan’s anti-piracy slogan is “Fakes Cost More”.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
October 2006 issue

One might think that fair-haired, well-muscled Nordic warriors and dark and slender Chinese swordsmen have little in common. Yet in Jade Warrior (Jadesoturi) Finnish film director Antti-Jussi Annila has constructed a cultural bridge between his homeland and China.

A Sino-European co-production – involving Finland, China, Holland and Estonia – the RMB 27.5 million film is based on The Kalevala, an epic 19th-century poem still influential in Finland to this day. “The heroes in The Kalevala are not typical heroes; no matter what they do they can never get the women they love,” says Annila.

Jade Warriors follows the travails of one hapless warrior (Tommi Eronen) as he fights to be reunited with his beloved Zhang Jingchu (Peacock). To achieve that aim, he travels across time and place, from ancient China to cold contemporary Finland. Along the way, the past feeds the story in the present day, and slowly reveals the warrior’s origin in China’s Iron Age, as well as his exceptional fighting skills. It’s an odd mix to be sure, but the 29-year-old filmmaker says the hybrid plot is not too far-fetched. Both The Kalevala, and China’s wuxia pian tradition of chivalrous marital arts’ spectacles, share a common theme: “melodramatic love stories of warriors, swords and sorcery”, explains the director.

Annila is both a student and fan of Hong Kong Tsui Hark and John Woo, both of whom are masters of the wuxia pian genre. Indeed, Annila says that his aim in making the film was to “find the source of the huge energy of those Hong Kong action films”.

That said, Jade Warriors promises to be more than your average kung fu flick; rather, it offers an exploration of the cultural connection between the two countries which extends back to the late 19th century. Those ties are perhaps best exemplified in a running motif in the film based on a Finnish artifact, sampo. In Finland, it is said to bring good fortune to the Nordic people, while its Chinese counterpart, sanfu, or sampo in Mongolian, means ‘the secret source of all happiness’.

The Finnish sampo concept then, which is central to The Kalevala, closely resembles the shamanistic cosmologies of Mongolia, and those of Tibet. The Kalevala has been translated into 54 languages, and inspired J.R.R. Tolkien to learn Finnish so that he could read it in the original language. In light of the above, that Jade Warrior is the first ever Finnish kung fu film is really not so surprising; after all, the quest for happiness is universal.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
October 2006 issue

This column is a part of a monthly contribution to the national daily China Youth Daily. It was published on August 8, 2006 in the paper and in the China Youth Daily Website. Originally written in English, it was translated into simplified Chinese by Joy Shao Jie.

English version:

Spices are very common components of the Chinese cuisine. Most westerners are not used to the hot spicy dishes though. Let’s see how foreign friends react to the red spices when they arrive in China while Chinese are so accustomed to them.

From Xinjiang to Yunnan, passing by Hunan or Sichuan, Chinese food is very spicy. Actually abroad, the name “Sichuan” is synonymous with spicy food. It’ very famous and you can order a special “Sichuan spicy dish” from a Chinese restaurant when you are in England or in France. Yet the Sichuan spices there taste like candy floss compared to the real thing! Us foreigners, we are not very used to this kind of hot food.

Maybe the closest we have to spices in our dishes are black paper, garlic and a bit of curry. In France we have “moutarde” or mustard, a kind of paste made out of seeds comparable to the Japan’s wasabi and which is extra strong. It’s often eaten in small quantity with meat. Yet, it’s different from the dozens of pepper varieties from Xinjiang to Yunnan. Besides, in the UK and the US some exotic foods are very popular, like Indian curry of the Tex Mex cuisine. Yet all these are peanuts. They cannot really compare to a Sichuan style spicy tofu (Ma po dou fu), spicy pig tripes (fu qi fei pian) or the spicy fish soup (ma la shu zhu yu), all delicious, but deadly for the non-trained foreign tongues.

If like me, before coming to China foreigners have never tried it before, it’s then a mouth torture. For us spice neophytes, hot spices fries our brain, upset our stomach and wet our socks. That was my first experience to spicy food upon arriving in China two years ago. No rice, water or beer can extinguish this fire. The only remedy I found so far was to drink coconut milk. It offers an instant relief. So when you invite foreign friends to a spicy food restaurant, always prepare some spare coconut milk for them.

Foreigners aren’t used to spice, but some can stand it. Until they reach a threshold, and when it tastes very spicy for them, it might be just mildly spicy for some Chinese. Eating spice is in fact a question of practice. From childhood some Chinese, Indian or Thai people get used to a large amount of spices in their food. The more they eat the less they feel it, the same cannot be said for Westerners.

I then realized that despite the fact that many Chinese people smoke, the first national addiction isn’t tobacco but probably spicy food. I have a female friend. Let’s call her Laba. She’s from Kunming, Yunnan. She’s twenty something and her hobby is spices. She always asks her Yunnan folks to send bags of spice (seasoned ground red pepper) to her Shanghai’s home. The last parcel contained more than one hundred of these little bags of fire. It would merely last for two months she told me! She is indeed a spice queen.

Sometimes, when I cook French dishes for friends, they don’t bother to taste the real thing, like Laba, they just add tons of hot spices. They might find it’s too light or to plain. A shame, French dishes are also very delicious. Yet my friend’s French plate must taste like a Sichuan dish.

For Laba, no matter where she goes, she’ll take her little bags of spices with her. She claims she cannot do without it; even if it gives her pimples she needs it. She told me it was like a drug. True, in fact the more spice she eats, the more her mouth and her taste buds are accustomed to spice. So to get the spicy feeling, she always needs more. It’s the “vicious spice circle”. The spicy feeling on the tongue must be very exciting; it must make her feel like she lives dangerously.

But it’s not good for boyfriends, for it’s hard to bear a spicy kiss. Besides, spice food doesn’t give good breath. At all. My friend Laba doesn’t have a boyfriend. She has two dogs. So that solves the problem. She can eat spice as much as she wants.
Yet I wonder, one day, if she goes to a foreign country where there are no spices, what would she do? She’ll be craving after a couple of days. Would she smuggle tons of spice to this country? Would she try some substitutes to titillate her taste buds, like these acid little lemon-flavored candies? Or would she get a sweet tooth and start eating very sweet things? I hope her skin problem will get better though and she could start dating one day.

China Youth Daily

(c) China Youth Daily/Thomas Podvin
August 2006

“As a common intellectual, I feel responsible to show the reality of my country and its contradictions – especially the tribulations of people,” declares Beijing film director Wang Chao. Tribulations aside, Wang’s third film, Luxury Car (LC), is not just another bleak social-realist take on modern China. This last entry in Wang’s thought-provoking trilogy (The Orphan of Anyang; Night and Day) won the ‘Prix Un Certain Regard – Fondation Gan’ at Cannes this May. And deservedly so: Luxury Car is Wang’s most personal work, inspired by his own tribulations. As such, it concerns failure, fatalism and the absurdity of the human condition, all of which have been at the heart of his triptych. This film, however, goes deeper; it is dedicated to his family, and to a wider extent, all Chinese parents.

“I’m the unworthy son of wonderful parents,” says the 42-year-old, Nanjing-born filmmaker as if he needed to justify his motive for making the film. Like many a modern Chinese youth, Wang left home for the big city to study, and eventually further his career. Typically, he now looks back upon his roots with sentimentality. In the early 1990s, he entered Beijing Film Academy, later working as an assistant to Chen Kaige, and he’s since made the capital his base for his own successful films. In the meantime, though, he neglected his parents, visiting them just twice in a decade. Sadly, in 2005, he became aware that his mother had terminal cancer; indeed, that she had been under treatment for some time. Wang’s relatives had concealed her illness from him so as not to distract him from his work. To Wang’s regret. In a society where “families suffer the negative effects of distance, setbacks and the inability to help each other”, he feels that fundamental values have been lost.

Which goes a long way in explaining why family miscommunication is a central theme in his latest film. Luxury Car, a Sino/French co-production tells the story of a retired country teacher who comes to Wuhan to look for his son. With the help of his daughter, a prostitute, he tries to fulfill his wife’s last wish (she is terminally ill), which is to see her son one last time. What follows is a moving exploration of the generation gap, and the erosion of traditional family values. In the modern world, it seems anything and everything is subject to market forces, even the members of one’s own family. As such, the film is an apologia, an attempt by Wang to make amends for all the years he dedicated to his own advancement at the expense of his family. In other words, this work articulates the director’s need for atonement, in a world where, as he puts it, “progress also means there’s a cruel price to pay”.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
July 2006 issue

Though famous throughout the world for its macho Kung Fu flicks, Chinese cinema has yet to discover its feminine side. More often than not, female characters are mere prizes for the high-kicking champion to use as he sees fit. Sadly, three-dimensional female roles are few and far between. Recently, however, the subject of on-screen gender equality has received a kick in the pants.

Last month, the University of Hong Kong organized a symposium – The Film Scene: Cinema, the Arts, and Social Change – wherein local and overseas participants (visual artists, film and cultural studies academics) discussed gender in cinema, an issue that cuts across many interrelated fields.

According to Mirana M. Szeto, an assistant professor at the university and a co-organizer of the symposium, recent legislation has provided women with equal access to education, and, consequently, better career opportunities. That sentiment was seconded by Jason Ho Ka-Hang, a teaching assistant in the Department of Comparative Literature who claimed that female roles are gaining in importance.

As evidence, the members of the conference cited several films produced in the late nineties, in which the image of woman as simpering subordinate was replaced by a sexier, sassier image, a sort of Spice Girl. Examples include superstars like Sammi Cheng, Miriam Yeung, the Twins and Zhang Ziyi, who are said to symbolize the cosmopolitan, independent-minded, modern woman.

While it’s true that female roles have expanded in recent years, it is equally true that there’s still a long way to go before they are on a par with their male counterparts. Even Ho admitted that “roles like office ladies or silly teenage girls have little to do with issues of gender equality.”

Especially where it counts. Take SAR box-office queen Sammi Cheng, for example. Despite her box-office hits – Needing You and Love on a Diet – figures show she is far less bankable than Andy Lau. “I think this relates to the male-centric underpinning of the film industry,” said assistant professor Yau Ka-Fai. Szeto agreed: “The model for comparison is men.”

Nevertheless, some directors have recently adopted new models. Law Wing-cheung’s 2 Become 1, starring Miriam Yeung, tackles breast cancer, though the director’s approach is questionable. 2 Become 1 is a comedy, but to be fair, it doesn’t shy away from the issue. Indeed, the plot is one long health education lecture complete with instructions on self exams. Clearly, it is no easy task to make a film about breast cancer in a cinema culture traditionally dominated by males. While Yeung ostensibly plays the film’s central character, she receives strong support from Taiwanese star Richie Jen, who speaks to male and female audiences alike. Jen, a playboy cursed with erectile dysfunction (in the film), is the film’s role model, the caring lover. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome and rich to boot.

Which is to say that directors who dare broach women’s issues still have many obstacles to surmount. Perpetual Motion is a case in point. A low-budget film by feminist filmmaker Ning Ying, it portrays a group of middle-aged women, and does so without cosmetic pretense. Critics, mostly male, lambasted the film for its lack of glamour. As Szeto said: “The re-introduction of capitalism [to Chinese society] has encouraged the swift reappearance of sexism.”

Ironically, Ning and the distributors chose to promote her film by focusing not on its social merits, but as a vehicle for actress Hong Huang, and as a vehicle of revenge on her ex-husband Chen Kaige. The strategy backfired, provoking the wrath of Hong, and worse, it undermined the movie’s significance.

Meant to be a milestone, Perpetual Motion turned out to be more of a speed bump. While the Hong Kong symposium, in spite of much optimism, proved there’s a long road ahead.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
May 2006 issue

One day, not so very long ago, Hong Kong scriptwriter/director Edmond Pang Ho-cheung and actor Chapman To Man-chat were discussing bachelorhood. And they came to this conclusion: the life of a single man appears to be gay (in the old sense of the word) and carefree. But what if this playboy of the eastern world had fathered a child in the course of his philandering? And what if he were unaware of this fact?

“That’s the million-dollar question for any man who has reached 30,” says Pang. And the premise of his new film, Isabella, starring To as the unknowing father.

Pang and To share a similar sense of dead-pan humor, and a real love of cinema. In their native Hong Kong they’re infamous for their zany comedy films. Indeed, To has played the clown in countless movies, while Pang has directed, on average, one film a year since 1999. But last year, they combined forces, establishing Not Brothers Ltd. (NBL), a company formed to produce Isabella, as well as other projects. The idea behind NBL is to present audiences with something new – new for this pair at least – movies that offer more than guffaws. In short, Pang and To want to show their sensitive, dramatic side. Says Pang, “We’re very versatile, actually.”

As such, Isabella focuses on the serious side of the bachelor’s life. In the role of Shing, To plays it straight, as straight as possible given his character’s many one-night stands. However, one night, between engagements, so to speak, he meets Yan (the elfin Isabella Leung Lok-Si of the film’s title), who claims she’s his daughter.

Isabella, the film, is set on the eve of Macao’s return to the Chinese mainland (1999). It makes good use of the peninsula’s picturesque locations, and boasts a script that delivers equal parts drama, humor and nostalgia with nary a seam showing. The soundtrack, too, is a winner, literally; Isabella won the Best Music Award at the 2006 Berlin Film Festival.

Indeed, critics, both local and international, have been generous in their praise. As a result, the careers of both Pang and To have received a boost, with offers reportedly coming in from all quarters. Pang’s busy plotting his next ‘non-comedy’ projects, while To’s contemplating a future with no laughs. “[Since Berlin] no one has offered me any comedy roles,” jokes To. “I might be out of work permanently!”

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
May 2006 issue

Suicide is no laughing matter, even when it occurs on April Fool’s Day. Indeed, when Hong Kong singer/actor Leslie Cheung Kwok-Wing leapt from the roof of Hong Kong’s posh landmark, the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, his fans were shocked. And devastated. That grim act was committed three years ago (April 1, 2003), and has not been forgotten. But sad to say, it has become the one fact of Leslie Cheung’s life that everyone knows.

- Photo by Thomas Podvin -

Which is a tragedy in itself. Cheung should be remembered for the innovations, and the dedication, he brought to his craft. He left behind a substantial body of work: sixty films including Happy Together, Temptress Moon and Farewell My Concubine, ninety albums and numerous live shows, some of which were recorded for posterity. His work on screen and on stage was both daring and deftly performed. Most critics agree that his role as a cross-dressing male opera singer in Farewell My Concubine was his greatest triumph. And that his performance was largely responsible for the film winning the Palme D’Or, and a spot in the top 100 Chinese Films of the Century at the Hong Kong Film Awards this March. In that role, Cheung mastered the art of playing a dan, or female, in just three months of study. Most actors need a lifetime to reach the level of skill the actor demonstrated, but Cheung achieved an expertise almost on par with legendary Peking Opera master Mei Lanfang.

Cheung’s contribution to the entertainment industry was also recognized by Red Mission, a Hong Kong-based fan association that organized “Closer to Leslie Cheung” this February. The exhibition, a commemoration of his life and work, was held in Shanghai, and sponsored by Tomson Film Company and ACT – a magazine financed by the Shanghai Film Group. Five thousand visitors attended the two day exhibition, which featured a display of film memorabilia, film screenings, behind the screen footage, a series of lectures with opera professionals, as well as taped interviews with the late actor and singer.

From the various offerings there emerged a common theme – Cheung’s dedication to his craft. “He placed greater demands on himself than the director did on him,” recalled Cheung’s co-star in Farewell My Concubine, Lei Han, who played his apprentice in the movie.

Lei is not alone in his sentiment. Cheung’s legacy – his joie de vivre, industriousness and creativity – has inspired a generation, and his spirit lives in the hearts of his disciples. On April 1, in Hong Kong – three years to the day of Cheung’s death – an international-fan association, the Leslie Legacy Association – will host a ceremony and candlelight vigil that will gather at the Jardine House podium, in front of the Mandarin Oriental. More than a thousand local and overseas fans are expected to attend the service and pay their respects to this Hong Kong icon.

Italian Nadia Guidetti, the Webmaster of Lesliepillow.com, and an LLA member, notes that Cheung “refreshed the content and the form of the entertainment scene … [yet] he had to pay for his uniqueness.” Which is to say that Cheung was ahead of his time.

In 2001, his Passion Tour concerts, featuring costumes designed by French fashion icon Jean-Paul Gaultier, were roundly criticized. Disappointed by the reaction, Gaultier stated he would never work for any Hong Kong star again. Cheung, too, was deeply wounded by the failure and fell into a prolonged depression.

One might say that Cheung’s quest for perfection was his Achilles’ heel. “He represents perfection in everything: [from] taste … [to his] attitudes towards work and people,” says LLA member Susanna Leung. In the end, his standards were not shared by the community at large. Cheung felt cornered and pushed to the edge. And made his fatal leap. But in doing so, he won a place in the pantheon.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
April 2006 issue

This article was translated into Chinese in a Leslie Cheung fan forum

This column is a part of a monthly contribution to the national daily China Youth Daily. It was published on March 28, 2006 and in the China Youth Daily Website. Originally written in English, it was translated into simplified Chinese by Joy Shao Jie.

English version:

Being romantic is a very blur concept, related to love and sexual desire. We usually believed some people are more romantic than others, like French or Italian. What about China? Are Chinese people romantic?

A question of perspective
One day, I saw a wedding ceremony in the garden of a posh Shanghai hotel. The Chinese bride wore a magnificent virginal western gown and was holding the arm of the Chinese groom in tuxedo. In the background, we could hear a French song called "Helene, Je m'appelle Helene" by Helene Rolles. It surely is a hit in China, as we keep hearing it anywhere. Many Chinese probably think it sounds romantic and perfect for the wedding. For any francophone, however, it hardly sounds romantic but probably cheesy, schmaltzy, sad and hopeless. Basically the song talks about a lonely girl longing for love and desperate to be taken for whom she is. The point is being romantic is a question of individual viewpoint as well as of cultural perspective. What is romantic for Chinese won't necessarily be romantic for French or British. Everybody in China sees Paris as the world capital of romanticism for instance. But what's really romantic about Paris? Ask a Parisian and he won't be able to answer.

Gesture of love
Everybody cherishes different ideas of romanticism, love and desirability. In the streets of China, love and romanticism are hardly perceptible. Men and women holding hands in public can be considered as bold in a society known for being prude. Chinese couples would hold hands as an indication of commitment whereas in the West, it's simply a sign of deep affection but not necessarily a pledge for long-lasting love.

In some places very much influenced by the West (in some chic districts of Shanghai for instance), you might as well spot two Chinese lovers intensively kissing and hugging. This sight is casual for foreigners, as love and affection are more openly expressed in western countries where girls are emancipated at an early age, men bolder to seduce them, and the sexual revolution took place decades ago. As a foreigner, I can see that the Chinese society has evolved rapidly; in two decades traditional morals have been diluted into global morals. Some women on street have adopted the western fashion; they wear tighter cloths and sometimes short skirts to appear more seductive. In another hand, men are bolder to show their feelings in public. Younger generations are more prone to follow the social behaviors of the Western world.

In subway stations and city centers I was half surprised to see so many advertisement posters for foreign designer underwear with models in sensual poses exposing a great deal of flesh. The ads aim at local customers already open to an occidental vision of love and sex. A bra isn't only an undergarment, but a seduction tool. But these models are all Westerners; you cannot expect too much too quickly. Chinese cannot see yet their peers showing some extra bits of skin in public. People unconsciously tend to stick to an image of a pure Chinese girl who perhaps should be asexualized, or at least never be the object of sexual desire.

But what you see is probably the tip of the iceberg. A female Hong-Kong filmmaker who's lived in New York once told me that American women are proud to be considered as sexy sometimes free-spirited or libertine. But when it comes to act they¡¯re in fact very much prudish. On the contrary, Chinese women are discreet and hide their sex appeal, but can become wild romantic partners. The TV-series "I Am Really Desperate for Love," a Chinese equivalent of "Sex and the City" directed by Liu Xin Gang offers a fair example of what modern Chinese women are capable of.

Gesture from the heart
More and more Chinese tend to adopt the Western conception of romanticism. Valentine's Day has been fashionable in Shanghai lately. It's a European Christian holiday to exchange tokens of affection. But do you only think of your partner on February 14th (or for qi xi)? Is it really romantic? As a Frenchman I think it's not so original to do as many other people do, like buying flowers and chocolate on Valentine's Day. You can celebrate your love any other day of the year. If one hasn't taken care of his lover the remaining 364 days of the year, chocolate and flowers are more indications of guilt than tokens of love.

Love should fuel the imagination: Partners ought to be creative to find a genuine gesture from the bottom of the heart. Being romantic is also being original. It's to offer something unique to be cherished by the other. Romanticism is an unselfish expression of the heart to prove your feelings to the other. This is also what Love is all about.

China Youth Daily

(c) China Youth Daily/Thomas Podvin
March 28, 2006

Recently, Chinese action movies have been breaking into overseas markets, opening doors with a powerful kick one might say. But far from being looked down upon as “niche films” or direct-to-video products, these Kung Fu flicks (Hero, Kung-Fu Hustle, Fearless) are vying for the top prize at all the prestigious film festivals, and winning lucrative international distribution deals.

True, way back in the early 1970s Bruce Lee had popularized sword scraping action and swift kicks to the groin, but in those days the films were not taken seriously; indeed, it has taken decades for this kind of cinematic language to enter the mainstream. But the chop-socky action picture has come of age with big budgets, Hollywood-style special effects and savvy marketing.
Take, for example, Dragon Tiger Gate (DTG), a co-production of three great Chinese studios – Hong-Kong Mandarin Films, Beijing Polybona Film and Shanghai Film Group. The film is an adaptation of the 1970s Hong Kong comic book of the same name written by Tony Wong Yuk-long. It features three upright brothers – played by Donnie Yen (S.P.L), Nicholas Tse (The Promise) and Shawn Yue (Initial D) – who fight organized crime and bring justice to Asia.
“This comic book talks a lot about righteousness … the main theme we’d like to bring to the audience,” says Hong Kong filmmaker Wilson Yip Wai-sun (S.P.L., 2005). The elements are hardly original – violence meets morality in a simplistic plot – but movie moguls have seldom gone broke by underestimating the audience’s intelligence.
Producer Raymond Wong, bills DTG as ”a big cinematic event in 2006”, and hopes the film will outperform an earlier, and rather similar, work, Seven Swords (which Wong produced in 2005). To be released this summer, DTG, like Seven Swords, has a big budget (RMB 80 million) and is chock-a-block with fighting scenes and special effects.

Indeed, the film might very well be just the sort of project Bruce Lee would trade his black belt for were he alive. It certainly carries on his tradition, including his weapon of choice, nunchakus, which is a handy instrument with which to beat righteousness into one’s opponent. Yes, this film is ultra-violent, but Yip claims the violence is not gratuitous. “As long as the motive behind [it] is to uphold righteousness, the action scenes in the film won’t be considered as violence,” he claims.
Perhaps. But when the nunchakus are flying who really cares?

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
March 2006 issue

A pastiche of personal memories mixed with snapshots of China’s modern history, Zhang Yang’s Sunflower is in one sense a semi-autobiograhical account of his conflict with his father. At the same time, the story’s thirty-year time span, including the “cultural revolution”, serves as a document of social changes.

Zhang was born at roughly the same time (1967) as the film’s main character, Xiangyang, and shared his sense of rebellion. In the film, Xiangyang’s father, a former painter, hopes to recapture his lost glory through the talents of his son. Yet Xiangyang is reluctant to pick up a brush; so reluctant that he explodes a firecracker in his hands to disable himself. “[In some ways] that part [of the film] was full of my own memories,” says Zhang. “It is just like my childhood; I was not well-behaved and was often beaten by my father.”

Zhang’s father, Zhang Huaxun, was a filmmaker who in the 1970s made some of the first Kung Fu movies on the Chinese mainland. But unlike his screen alter ego, Zhang’s act of rebellion was to pursue his father’s profession. His parents wished him to become a doctor, but he chose his father’s métier. In 1992, Zhang completed his studies at the Beijing Central Drama Academy and later joined the Beijing Film Studio as a film director. Says Zhang, “When I got older I became more sensible, but I’ve always remained quite rebellious, relatively independent-minded.”

This spirit has served him well in his career. Zhang’s directorial debut was an independent production called Spicy Love Soup (1997) that became a domestic box office hit and a success with critics overseas. Sunflower has also received its fair share of accolades after appearances at several international film festivals.
So in the end, much like Xiangyang, Zhang eventually won the respect of his father and the two were reconciled. Says Zhang Yang: “My relationship with my father was difficult, and for me this film was a way of resolving that.”

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
February 2006 issue

Until recently, the risks and profits associated with producing big-screen animated films based on comic books have been left to the Americans (Sin City and Heavy Metal) and the Japanese (Ghost in the Shell, Akira).

Enter the Dragon. Last July, two Chinese companies formed a joint venture to produce The Clash of the Storm Riders, a big budget animated feature inspired by Hong Kong-based Ma Wing Sing’s comic book Storm Riders. Hong Kong-based Asia Animation will produce the film (which will hit theaters in the first quarter of 2007) and the Shanghai Media Group (SMG) will handle authorization procedures, marketing and distribution in China. With a budget of RMB 40 million and more than 200 animators from Shenzhen and Hong Kong, this will be China’s first real challenge to the dominance of the US and Japan productions. To paraphrase Asia Animation’s producer Tommy Tse, this film will provide a chance to do good business.

Indeed, the name Ma Wing Sing, or Ma Wing Shing, all but assures big returns at the box office. Ma is considered one of China’s most influential comic book artists and has almost single-handedly transformed the Chinese comic book industry. His groundbreaking works – Chinese Hero and Wind and Cloud – feature longhaired, muscular heroes, the sort that young males and females alike can admire. And Storm Riders has already been adapted into a successful TV-series and a live-action movie. “This bestseller represents an important part of the local culture,” comments the film’s award-winning director, Dante Lam Chiu-yin.

That said, the very popularity of the work has put a lot of pressure on the film’s creative team. Lam (Heat Team, 2004) says one of the biggest challenges is to preserve the comic book’s Chinese flavor. “We have to … stimulate and develop our local style and not follow the Hollywood and Japanese models.”

And then there’s the technical problem. This project is Lam’s first venture into animation – all his previous work has been on live-action films. With no actors to direct, Lam says the emphasis must be on character development. “I am going back to basics,” he says. “I will focus my attention on scriptwriting.” Lam hopes to translate his ideas using a variety of techniques from hand drawing to the latest animation technology. He’s even promised one “secret” animation technique, which the studio is guarding closely.

Though it may seem like a disadvantage, the idea of having a live-action film director was part of the plan. The producers hope to combine a live-action sensibility with a variety of animation techniques – in a sense creating a “new kind of animated film”. Clearly, in an animated film, the visuals are important. As such, Lam has hired a stunt director to bring a sense of realism to the martial arts action scenes.

But the real trick is to combine creativity, technology and commercial appeal. “It is not easy to be creative as well as to always please picky audiences,” says Chen Bin, a SMG producer. But as Ghost in the Shell proved, it can be done.

This article also features in the film-production company Asia Animation Ltd. website: http://www.asiaanimation.net/company/index9.asp

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
February 2006 issue

Hong Kong-based director Stanley Kwan has seen the relationship between the Shanghai and Hong Kong film communities pass through three distinct phases: from indifferent to competitive and, of late, collaborative. "Throughout the last fifteen years, I experienced firsthand how Shanghai has changed," he says, adding that his interest in Shanghai, whatever the state of affairs, has never waned.

In one sense, Kwan's movies trace the industry's history and its relations. He was one of the first directors to shoot in the Chinese mainland with Center Stage (1991), a biopic of Shanghainese screen legend Ruan Lingyu. Says Kwan: "It was a real Hong-Kong movie shot in the Chinese mainland... though all the money came from Hong Kong." Nonetheless, the experience broke the ice, so to speak, and was a starting point for future cooperation.
After the 1997 handover, the Hong Kong film industry began to integrate itself into the Chinese mainland film industry, though the process was not always smooth. "Each side brings something," says Kwan. "The Chinese mainland provides the studios and beautiful locations; Hong-Kong supplies pop stars and money."
That said, Kwan has no problem holding up his end of the bargain. In his latest film, Everlasting Regret, based on a novel by Shanghainese author Wang Anyi, he cast two of Hong Kong's most bankable stars, Tony Leung Kar-fai and Sammi Cheng; Jackie Chan took the role of producer. Indeed, Kwan says that Shanghai Film Studios counted on him to attract big stars from Hong Kong and get some financial partners.

But the business continues to change and partners increasingly share in the investment and the risks. For Kwan's next project, a biographical film on the life of opera legend Mei Langfang, Chinese mainland investors, together with their counterparts from Hong Kong and the US, will contribute to the estimated RMB 80 million budget. This time Kwan will cast an even more bankable Tony: Leung Chiu-wai the star of In the Mood for Love.

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
January 2006 issue

Meet The Lanterns, the new kids on the block in Shanghai. Given the difficulty of making a break-through in the local alternative music scene – read rock scene – it's just as well that the members of the band aren't driven by the twin illusions of fame and fortune. "We don't think of the money," explains lead singer Martin Wong. "We didn't sign with a label because no one wants us – Chinese people want Dao Lang!" True, rock acts don't make a buck in China, let alone in Shanghai. Rampant piracy and free music downloads have crippled the local industry and made producers lose confidence in taking a punt on unknowns. "The whole industry is bulls__t," protests Wong. "There are no managers because they know it's not going to make money."
Wong has a point. The band was able to release only 500 copies of their debut album To the Light House in the alternative market. Their follow-up Turning All the Clouds due out this year, is a remix of the first album and includes a new single. Only 5,000 to 10,000 official copies will be distributed in the Chinese mainland and Taiwan. All this despite the fact that The Lantern's music has a highly engaging, commercial sound. Influenced by British bands like The Verve, they deliver a kind of Chinese Brit Pop with melodies they use to great effect to convey a conservative message. "We write Chinese lyrics to bring traditional literature and Chinese feelings to the fore," says Wong. "We try to give confidence to young people in Chinese traditions." The band's Chinese name sounds like "Lan Ting" (Orchid Pavilion), a masterpiece poem anthology with calligraphy by Wang Xizhi from the Dong Jin Dynasty. "Sometimes you can read music from calligraphy; actually you can find rhythm in a lot of things," says Wong. When not performing, the members of the band eke out a living through an assortment of odd jobs and music tuition. With any luck they'll release their sophomore album next summer with an entirely new repertoire of original material.
According to Wong, their lyrics have to deal with love and have an easy-to-remember chorus which everyone can sing along to. The 'drama inside' comes from the band member's life experiences, which in some cases play out like distorted guitar riffs. Take bass player Jack Dye for instance. Dye came to Shanghai to escape the memory of seeing one of his best friends crushed beneath an airplane. Wong says he got his vocal skills from his mother who used to argue vociferously with his father. "As a young kid I was a real dreamer, and I thought I could do the same as the bands on the tapes I used to listen to," says Wong. Their collective past might explain why the band's music is full of soul. The five members of the band – all of them in their mid-twenties – say that it's music alone which brings them faith in everyday life. They don't seem at all perturbed by the fact that making any headway in the local music scene is an uphill battle. For them it's all for the music. But producing good music is no magician's trick and you have to find a good melody. And that's what The Lanterns is all about.
Catch one of The Lanterns' gigs in Harleyís bar in Xujiahui or The Ark in Xintiandi

(c) that's Shanghai Magazine
Chief editor: Steven Crane
January 2006 issue
Photo courtesy Hugo Hu www.huphoto.cdd.cn