黄土地 / Yellow Earth (1984) by 陈凯歌 / Chen Kaige
It is the film that defined a generation of modern Chinese filmmakers. With the critically acclaimed Chen Kaige (Farewell My Concubine) in the director's seat, and the internatoinally celebrated Zhang Yimou (Hero) in charge of cinematography, Yellow Earth is a landmark piece of great significance to the cinema of mainland China. Newer generations of Chinese filmmakers, notably Jia Zhangke (Still Life), commonly tip their hats towards Chen's debut film when revealing what defined their craft and set them on the path towards devoting their lives and careers to telling stories using the camera.
The earth itself in the film is an important character, bleak and unforgiving in its incomprehensible size. One can think of the sand dunes in Lean's Lawrence of Arabia (or if we are include the arthouse scene, certainly Teshigahara's Woman In The Dunes) as a comparative landscape, where the considerable camera time devoted to the resolute mountain ranges and interminable skies are insufficient to sufficiently establish what the audience and the characters have been thrown into. The plot is relatively simple: a Communist soldier Gu Qing from the South has arrived to the northern Shan Bei province to document the local songs of the rural residents. Telling people to call him Grother Gu, the soldier explains that his purpose is to be the scribe for songs so that he can bring them back to his platoon, and with some modifications to the lyrics, boost the morale of the group. Given the historical context - 1939 means a brutal conflict with both invading Japanese force and the Nationalist army - such a task is understandable, and such open manipulation of local cultures is not in any way questioned or protested against in the name of the revolutionary spirit.
On day one Gu witnesses a wedding, and quickly reveals his surprise of the bride's young age to the family - an elderly farmer with his mute younger son Hanhan and his fourteen year old sister Cui Qiao - that he is assigned to. This isn't the way things are done in the south, Gu explains, and arranged marriages are something that have changed there - but evidently not yet here in the North. His elder host wonders at the logic of allowing a woman choose her own husband, seeing that such circumstances would greatly devalue her because she would be free to select anyone - including unsuitable partners. Important social relations out here, we realize, are firmly dictated by the land: "Love isn't what matters," says the elder farmer one day as he and his son plough the fields with Gu; "Grain is what feeds you."
Gu isn't having the best of luck recording songs either, as both legend and his own ears tell him that there is a female singer out here in the South blessed with a heavenly voice. He asks Cui Qiao about her and where she can be found, knowing that her song will be exactly what his platoon could use. The two start off slow - respect and reverence for Gu from the girl, given his stature as both a visiting guest and a soldier of the Communist party - but soon talk more openly about life in the North, and begin exchanging heartfelt observations of life and suffering. The rural life is tough and mostly unforgiving, which is why brides are betrothed at a very young age and married when they would otherwise still be considered "children" to outsiders. And Gu would find little of what Northerners here sing to be of use, as their lyrics are all about bitterness.
It seems that the Communist party provides comfort and hope, especially after Cui Qiao and Hanhan listen to Gu's stories of women soldiers who are regarded as equals and well-respected for their singing, sewing, and fighting capabilities. Soon Hanhan is opening his mouth again, learning verses to what Gu says his comrades sing during tough times. We don't have to fixate too much on how Yellow Earth unabashedly praises the Communist party and its revolutionary spirit. The effect it has on these two members of the younger generation in the rural North is vital, and soon Cui Qiao's song - which we learn is that of the female singer Gu is told about - can be heard throughout the harsh landscape once more.
Chen's film certainly doesn't end on a happy note, as local tradition prevails and Cui Qiao finds herself caught between desiring a change and held back by the principles of the Communist party. Even with the honest Gu's departing promise and generosity of a different future, events continue in an unsurprising manner for a typical young villager such as herself. No matter the hearts and aspirations of good-natured people, what the unyielding yellow earth offers and demands ultimately dictates the way of life. Out of a partnership that gives birth to many gems of Chinese cinema, director Chen and cinematographer Zhang tell an evocative visual story very dear to the narrative of both their party state and their people. It makes sense that answers aren't readily available when the credits roll, but it is unsurprising that along the way something beautiful and powerful is stirring in the bowels of China's untouched creative potential.
