Showing posts with label Chinese Cinema. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chinese Cinema. Show all posts

Monday, 21 September 2026

The Current Cinema - Barrie Pattison recommends two new box office hits from China - DEAR YOU (Hongchun Lan) & ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE MIDDLE EAST (Wen Muye)


Something is happening in Chinese Film, after decades of slim pickings. Their two most conspicuous talents have come back on line. Stephen Chow Sing-Chi has made his first film after seven years, Feng Xiaogang is doing serious work again and now, in quick succession, their two major new successes, Dear You and Once Upon a Time in the Middle East 
歡迎來龍餐館 (Welcome to the Loong Restaurant) are in our local multiplexes. Of course that’s a suspect qualification. These come to our attention because they are, among the several hundred movies a year made by Chinese film industry, ones we can actually see and they are not aimed at movie enthusiasts. I was the only gweilo in the audience on the crowded opening night of Middle East at the George Centre. There may be better (and there certainly are worse) films and most won’t have the (good) two language export version sub-titles these get.

What is curious is that their accessibility is not the result of endorsement by festivals and film critics. Rotten Tomatoes has yet to acknowledge Middle East. IMDB has a couple of uninformative critics’ notices and some user comments, which once again appeared in a bunch and read as if they gushed out of a press office. At least the flacks have now got their act together on English language spelling and punctuation.


The big surprise was Hongchun Lan’s Gei a ma de qing shu/ Dear You, made on a modest budget in the Teochew regional dialect, w
hile Beijing is trying to project the idea of a homogeneous Mandarin-speaking China. In Singapore, the theatre had to get special permission to screen it in the wake of a 1979 “Speak Mandarin” campaign. It was lying second in the year’s Chinese box office takings at last check.

In this one, young Zheng Runqi is deep in debt and hears about his grandfather who left provincial Chaoshan when menaced by conscription into Kuomintang forces during the Chinese Civil War, sending back qiaopiI/support contributions to his local wife, with letters the now elderly woman keeps in a trunk in her room. As a young emigrant, his grandfather is reputed to have started a second family and become rich out of the line of language schools named after him. Zheng conspires with an uncle to advance him the fare to Singapore, after stealing one of the grandmother’s cherished letters to find the sender’s return address, planning to demand his inheritance.

 Arriving, Zheng and the film both face confusion. Dear You resembles the entries that filled out those eighties Asian Film Festivals. Japanese and Hong Kong titles and were approachable to audiences used to western films. Less “contaminated” viewers were used to different pacing and plot developments while their entries were demanding to outsiders. 


Equipped with synopses and reviews I’m still shaky on some details here. Instead of the predictable pursuit of riches, we lose track of Zheng in a succession of flashbacks to his grandfather (Sitong Li) after his courtship of the younger edition of his grandmother (Xiaohui Wang). His pursuit of her as a traveling propaganda banner girl is particularly nice. In the South Asian new country, things don’t go to plan, including antagonising the daughter of his innkeeper landlord, she also being desired by the aggro professional letter writer, the actually author of the cherished envelopes (if Cyrano is stretching it, compare Kinuyo Tanaka’s 1953's Koibumi/Love Letter) and, still alive, he proves to be a major conduit into the details of the grandfather’s past. At this point, Zheng recedes and we find ourselves following the earlier generation, to the touching meeting with Usha Seamkhum, from the notable 2024 Bangkok Lahn Mah/How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies. She is the one celebrity in a largely non pro. cast, which registers affectingly. 

The play-out title captions contain examples from the now vanished qiaopi industry sending money to original Chinese homes and and significantly financing the war against the Japanese invasion. These actual messages ramp up the already damp eyed content. 

The film has been running for six weeks here, where Feng Xiogang’s I Know Who You Are limped through one. The film has outperformed far bigger budget productions in more widely spoken dialects, being the number two box office performer of the year for a while. More striking, the audience I saw it with didn’t shuffle off into the street at the end but stayed in their seats talking about it and even asked me about my reaction in the elevator afterwards. That all lobs between impressive and phenomenal and would be big news if it were not for a subsequent development. 

Director Wen Muye’s new Once Upon a Time in the Middle East is even more impressive, using a substantiaI budget, with part shooting in IMAX and locations in the Sahara. I don’t get to see enough of these to talk about Chinese best ever but I’d have to go back to the peak years of King Hu to nominate a rival. It has already knocked out heavy competition to take the year’s number two box office champion spot - behind the third film of the Pegasus motor racing movie franchise, which also stars this film’s leading man, established comic Shen Teng. 


This gives the producers a problem. They are using an advertising campaign with a beaming Shen in a chef suit. People have been taking their children and becoming indignant when faced with intense drama. I’d seen Sheng in a few earlier films (Zhang Yimou’s Manjianghong/Full River Red) without paying any particular notice. However i
n this one, Shen carries a two hours twenty narrative in which he is central, appearing in near to every scene.

 We open with Shen, aged and scarfaced, escorted into an Airport Security Office, after a check reveals an old terrorist charge from which he assures them US authorities had cleared him. This is a script device which allows the film to break up the narrative by flashbacks - particularly effective in skipping over information which would have dissipated their ending. 

Shen first appears as a Chinese master cook, so deep in debt that he abandons his mother (Wei Qing, the only female character to get any attention) and indignant daughter, once again to earn enough to put his life back on track, by working in a Middle East country which is obviously Iraq, here called Bahata. He is collected from the airport by head waiter fellow countryman Jiang Qiming, who has been abroad long enough to pick up the language and the conniving needed to get by. Jiang is alarmed by Shen’s audacity, making demands of authoritative Loong Restaurant owner Sherif Sobhy, with Shen announcing he’s not going to prepare the sweetened imitation Chinese cuisine American customers expect - and that he wants to be a full partner in the business. This face-off between the three is the point that we realise we are seeing something out of the ordinary here, with Jiang amazed at Shen’s daring and brought down because the newcomer’s negotiated the spot Jiang wanted.


However there is another set piece on the way - the first of the cooking segments. Shen is soon preparing the spectacular outdoors iron pot mutton wedding - close ups of a stunt kitchen-worker’s hand’s rung in for the dazzling knife skills. These scenes punctuate the film like musical numbers and rule it off from what we’ve see in material from other sources. Food is constantly foregrounded in Chinese cinema but this must qualify as its most spectacular presentation. The actual kitchen footage is stunning, leaving the Cooking Shows and TV Commercial Product Shots we are used to in its dust - even if one of Shen’s specialties is candied scorpions.

Middle East has something more startling. The film’s real set piece occurs early, when the comparative calm is destroyed with a sudden 9/11 retaliation bombing raid. Entire city blocks explode around the leads, running for their lives, stamping on the head of a dead man in their panic. This is one of the most shocking pieces of film ever and it is an act of supreme confidence that the makers place it so early - like burning Atlanta before the interval.

Complications ensue with the children from the orphanage run by Jiang’s lady friend, now without shelter. Shen is equal to the challenge and soon has them sleeping on the floor and waiting tables in Loong Restaurant uniforms. Hang the child labor laws! Pilfering teenager Omar Sherif is caught out and abused for taking supplies when they are desperately short but that turns into one of the film’s most compelling sub plots. One of the strengths is the way of introducing characters as bit players, only to reveal they represent major plot elements. We are however getting ahead of ourselves.

Their needs mean contact with the black market which will make the operation boom when the Ba’athist Government falls and Sobhy becomes an official under the American occupation. Shen clears his debts but is lured by the cash flow from manipulating supplies, keeping The Loong Restaurant open on power permits Sobhy connives while their competitors have gone dark and serves liquor in a country where it’s forbidden. 

However they are operating just outside the Green Zone, living with violence and danger. The proximity of military prison Camp Alifah reveals insurgent leader Ahmed Salim, “The Headmaster” strung up naked, with Shen able to ease some of his suffering by faking the chilli water jailers funnel into him. At this point the post is over run and roles reversed with Shen struggling to prevent his own young deputy taking savage revenge. 

What is already a strong drama is further powered up by the introduction of child soldiers in training. Wen Muye's care in finding the most vulnerable and appealing looking young performers is deliberate. A checkpoint bombing is as startling as its counterpart in Raffi Pitts’ Soy Negro - which I notice no one has still been sufficiently enterprising to show here. We get the “Open Your mouth!” and “I promised God five children” scenes.

 

Of course, coming from a Chinese Marxist society the question is not just how good it is but what is it telling us. The Party Newspaper has reportedly endorsed this one. The film shows Americans in a country where they have no place to be, dying in encounters which provoke drunken survivors to murderous rage. But they are also pitiful, victims of power politics they will never understand. The Jihadis come out of things even worse, justifying their barbarism with allegiance to a God the film makers don’t believe exists. Though no one mentions El Qaida or Abu Ghraib, these are clearly models. The Chinese characters crave a peace which harms no one. Can’t argue with that, though how far it all corresponds with reality is something to question in some other space.


Once Upon a Time in the Middle East is a mix of expat. drama, military spectacle, imposing Egyptian performers, Soy Negro and Gone With the Wind - only with candied scorpions. It is a movie everyone should see but not everyone will enjoy. Either way, anyone with a serious interest in film, or for that matter a casual one, should rush down to the local multiplex and watch it.

Saturday, 22 August 2026

The Current Cinema - Barrie Pattison urges you to make haste to KUNG FU SOCCER (Stephen Chow, China, 2026)

 


REVENGE OF THE CHINESE MOVIE

Currently in Sydney’s Event Centre and probably other venues that run Chinese movies here, we are getting Stephen Chow Chin-chi’s  Gong fu nv zu/Kung Fu Soccer, his first film in seven years.

Stephen Chow had been one of the greats of Hong Kong film and his 2001 Siu Lam juk kau/ Shaolin Soccer was his major work. What he had done since had been over shadowed by that, so the new film offered hopes of a return to form and fears of a lazy cash-in. What we get is neither.

The earlier movie pivoted on the idea that Shaolin disciples had seen respect for their traditions fade away in the contemporary world, so Stephen retrieves a group of forgotten Shaolin masters from the obscurity of their slum community to form a champion soccer team, using their super powers to dominate the game. It was a great, ridiculous concept beautifully realised. The question is, can it stand another go-round?

The new Kung Fu Soccer has two initial surprises. Here, rather than starring, now sixty-year-old director-producer-writer Chow only momentarily figures, a couple of gag appearances. Second, the picture quality is exceptional. In China they are playing it at IMAX and it’s the number two hit of the year.

 This time the idea has been retreaded for a female soccer team (oh, oh!) in the Asian Women's Champions League but trendy ideology proves minimal. In the opening stages, the plot centers on Zhang Xiaofei, the captain of China’s low status Emei team and Dilraba Dilmurat  as Yu Long, their star striker. Their friendship is failing. Everyone tells the players that, now in their thirties, they are too old for championship matches. They however maintain that it takes decades to acquire their skills. The rookies are not being given a chance and quit and Zhang Xiaofei falls out with her dream-boat love interest, who switches his support to the rival team. All this pretty tame. However the preposterous effects work is already good for a giggle - the kick which sends the ball into the path of an airliner flying over the field. That and the black and white flashbacks provide reminders of Shaolin Soccer - which outclasses this one.

Developments like the supervision of mahjong-playing Grand Master Carina Lau (Infernal Affairs - at last a familiar face) are equally uninvolving. However, a few interesting subplots emerge - the conflict of the earnest captain determined to win and the new recruit who plays for the fun of the game. More importantly, the effects work becomes increasingly flamboyant. The film even develops some suspense as the ball repeatedly trembles on the painted goal line in front of the net. All this meshes with the imposing Olympic Stadium nicely.

Stephen Chow has had a quarter century to refine the Shaolin Soccer concept and in that time Chinese laboratory work has had a chance to do catch-up. We get the magical illusion of a shower of soccer balls defeated by sending in the blind goal keeper, the athletes in the impossible human array pyramids from the wu xia films or the opposing team, who also have superpowers, transforming into a savage cheetah, the big cat racing through the players without attracting the referee’s red card, all both nicely nostalgic and cheerworthy elements for the film’s matches. They represent a triple threat - fun plot developments, an impressive display of film technique and frequently striking imagery that can hold its own with Hollywood’s current strip-cartoon hero movies. The effects make the film well worth the seat price, even if they take a while to obscure the clunky plot.

It’s not all good news however. Kung Fu Soccer has a disturbingly brutal streak. The injuries to the comics and mind games and physical violence the lead couple visit on one another are unsettling to an outside audience and there’s an element of racism in the depiction of the unappealing types who make up the opposing teams. This is unfamiliar in Stephen Chow’s work and, without knowing its intention, it is disturbing. The film is not the great fun outing his earlier work offered. That can only be disappointing.

There was a light opening night attendance. Chow’s admirers are advised to move fast. There is no guarantee it will get past Wednesday.

Monday, 23 March 2026

Sixty Years of Art Cinema 1960-2020 : Bruce Hodsdon continues his series - 6(49) - China Part 3: The Great Impasse (1966-76) : Socialist Formalism and After

“How can Communist art and literature actually reach and inspire the potentially revolutionary masses?” Andrei Zhdanov and Maxim Gorky in the early 30s in Russia had inscribed what was already labelled “revolutionary realism” into the socialist realist formula. To simplify the complex transition in Chinese political culture in response to this question, McGrath refers to Communist literary theorist Zhou Yang, later Vice Minister of Culture, who followed Zhdanov and Gorky in calling nineteenth century literary realism, old style “critical realism,” be replaced by a “new realism that in fact finds a deeper, newer “reality” […] “that cannot be hostile to romanticism [but] it must be of a new type.” Zhou Yang warned against pursuing a bourgeois naturalism that merely observes the present reality. Instead artists should be “remoulding themselves” and “moving towards reality’s future.” Mao in his “Talks at the Yan’an Forum” in 1942 referred to the to be mandated “new realism” as “proletarian realism” which was changed to “socialist realism” in the re-publication of the talks in 1953 (167), subsequently interpreted by Jiang Qing. 


In May 1966 as chairman of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) Mao Zedong, rejecting the pre-1949 legacy and discounting the value of literature and art produced during the seventeen year period, launched the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (GPCR) to thwart “new bourgeois elements including capitalist roaders within the Party itself,” that he believed threatened the socialist society of the PRC. McGrath suggests that “theories about why Mao launched the Cultural Revolution tend to ignore the fact that his openly stated reason was very well substantiated by subsequent history after it failed […] Rarely confronted in contemporary China is the extent to which Mao might have been horrified by the enormously concentrated wealth and consumption, alongside gaping class disparities of the twentieth-first-century Chinese party state that still reveres him as its founding father, given that he launched the Cultural Revolution precisely to counter what he perceived as new class disparities emerging under Communist rule” (200). 

In rejecting the pre-1949 legacy and discounting the value of literature and art produced during the seventeen years after the date, the new cultural authorities self-consciously set out to create an alternative mass culture and, as a major part of this, a new film aesthetic. They couched their presentation of this new film style in class conflict and “two-line struggle” terms, but the emphasis was on a national Chinese aesthetic, in contrast to what they perceived as the “bourgeois” cosmopolitan inspiration of the now discredited older filmmakers. Jiang Qing and her allies turned to the modernized “model operas” as the epitome of new mass culture and the new film style. - Clark 133. 

"The cinema created during the Cultural Revolution itself, which drew upon and yet in key ways contrasted with the Seventeen Years period, [q.v.], that preceded it, reveals how a fundamental impasse of revolutionary thought and practice found indirect expression in film form. That is, […] the study of the Cultural Revolution’s cinema (which McGrath undertakes in Chapter 5 Socialist Formalism and the End[s] of Revolutionary Cinema) provides a means for grappling with the implications of the event as a whole and its ultimate failure to forestall the restoration of class and capitalism in China (201). 

 
Jiang Qing

After the years of turmoil in the late 60s with Mao’s health declining a new power struggle emerged between the moderate reform faction led by Zhou Enlai and Deng Xiaoping and the more ideologically extreme “Gang of Four” faction consisting of Jiang and three allies that briefly seized full control after Mao’s death in 1976. They were ultimately defeated from within the party, clearing the way for Deng Xiaoping’s reform faction to gain control of the government by late 1978. “In other words, the end of the GPCR eventually brought to power the very leadership that it had initially intended to oust, and those who had been suspected of being “capitalist roaders” would indeed steer China into what would become, by the twenty-first century, a leading position in the capitalist global economy” (ibid 200). 

Red Detachment of Women (1961)

McGrath considers that “the main touchstones of this period [were] not the artistically intriguing but politically rejected films screened publicly as examples of “poisonous weeds,” films such as Two Stage Actresses (Xie Jin) and Early Spring in February” (Xie Tieli), q.v., but rather the mainstream hits such as The White Haired Girl/Bai mao nu (1950) and The Song of Youth/Quingchun chi ge (1959). Red Detachment of Women/Hongse nianzijun (1961) is of particular interest in this connection as one of two titles each filmed over the course of the Mao era in three versions, in this case as a fiction film directed by Xie Jin in 1960 then remade during the Cultural Revolution as a revolutionary ballet film and once more as a revolutionary opera film in 1972 “allowing us to track changes in cinematic aesthetics retelling the same stories as an example of Chinese cinema’s countless reiterations of founding, legitimating myths of the PRC” using myth in the same sense as it is used in the western for example.  

Red Detachment of Women (1970 ballet film)

Prescriptive realism was chosen by McGrath as the concept he finds most fitting to study conventions like character stereotypes and narrative scenarios in Mao-era socialist cinema (162). “These concepts allow us to reconcile the history of Chinese revolutionary cinema in a way that avoids ‘othering’ socialist realist cinema as mere propaganda reinforcing the demonization of Maoism discourse on China […], “not simply as didactic but as facilitating meaning among a particular cultural community in the way all classical cinema has done” (164). 

The sense of realism cultivated by Chinese revolutionary historical films is in continual tension with the films’ conventions, whether they be generic conventions of the war film, the conventions of Chinese socialist realism, or the conventions of ballet or Beijing opera in the case of the yangbanxi films. Conventions serve to orient the viewer and tell the story but also potentially called attention to themselves in a way that undercuts the realism of the historical representation. The tradition of Chinese revolutionary film not only gradually became less realist and more romanticist but in fact increasingly displayed and eventually culminated in a very distinctively Chinese version of what David Bordwell has called “socialist formalism” (206). 

 Bordwell used the term to refer to Soviet socialist filmmakers who drew on their more avant garde predecessors in the 1920s to create moments of formalism even during the Stalinist period as well as by later Soviet filmmakers who conducted similar explorations “in parallel with the renewed interest in formalist montage during the French New Wave” (ibid). “In the case of China, McGrath uses socialist formalism first to refer first to the stylistically formalist moments in Chinese revolutionary films of the Seventeen Years, and second amid the yangbanxi films which are among the most stylistically formalist instances of mass cinema in the history of the medium, films comparable, say, to Hollywood musicals of the first decade or so of the sound era, such as The Wizard of Oz” (207). 

 McGrath traces “a progression of cinematic aesthetics beyond a shift from social/descriptive to social/prescriptive realism to an even more formalised state that “coincided with a “performative shift” in day-to-day ideological practice, particularly by the 1970s when the intense passions of the early Cultural Revolution (1966-68) had subsided and “unpredictable tumult had been replaced by repetitive performances of ideological conformity” (201). Drawing on Jorg Schweinitz’s theory of film stereotypes, McGrath identifies a gradual process, termed by the former as derealisation in which, following a process of increased conventionalisation and autonomisation of character types within a genre eventually is experienced not so much as direct representations of reality but as “roles played out in an imaginary world” (207), an example in Chinese literature, drama and cinema of the revolutionary period being the villainous landlord bolstered further by villain stardom. 

****************** 
 In his discussion of “Chinese Realism in the Digital Age” (Ch.7), McGrath addresses the question of “how different modes of Chinese film have been transformed (or not) by the transition to digital cinema, from CGI-heavy blockbusters to independent films made on low budget Digital Video (DV)” (319-29). 

Chen Kaige

At the centenary of Chinese filmmaking in 2005, the top grossing film in Chinese cinemas was Chen Kaige’s martial arts historical melodrama The Promise/Fuji widely taken as his less-than successful attempt to top the artistry and popularity of Zhang Yimou’s Hero/Yingxiong (2002), which set a record for Chinese ticket sales and enjoyed great international success. The two former collaborators from two decades earlier on Yellow Earth, q.v., thus were now in direct competition in making expensive mainstream blockbusters, as McGrath points out, “a clear indicator of how the cultural scene of China had been transformed by the overwhelming trend of marketisation after the 1980s” (281) in what McGrath calls the post-socialist realism(s) of the reform era. 

Equally telling is the contrast between the earlier [art] films’ combination of documentary-style realism with the contemplative, stationary long-shot cinematography and the later films’ reliance on computer generated imagery (CGI) to construct their fantasy worlds, in keeping with the trend that had become the rule for the most popular films in Chinese cinemas … 

It is not just the objects in the image that might now be computer generated but also some of the basic techniques of cinematography such as camera movement (285)…The more constructed the digital image becomes, the more perceptual realism overlaps with what [is] celebrated as “virtual realism” where any image at all becomes possible (287). 

In Chapter One on the first decades of silent cinema McGrath shows that early Chinese filmmakers and critics “felt an imperative to adopt an aesthetic of realism despite anxiety that Chinese society and culture with its traditional preference for expressionism rather than realism in art, was not well suited to a medium that seemed to rest upon modern, Western notions of mimesis and objectivity requiring actors to actually ride a horse, drive a car or paddle a boat. Such activities in contrast, in Chinese opera were traditionally signified through pantomime, simple props, and stylised gestures and postures. 

The shift to the digital construction of such actions by graphic animators after filming, raised the possibility of a rethinking of Chinese film aesthetics in the mainstream, particularly in the domestic market where the link between strong digital special effects and box office success had been strongly established. “The drive to make China a leader in the perceptual realism of digital animation and compositing, aims to bolster the effort to increase China’s cultural “soft power” […] to match Hollywood’s technological capabilities […] As differences in animation aesthetics [show] the Chinese film industry seeks not simply to match Hollywood’s technological capabilities but to contest the artistic and cultural values it promotes - reviving in the process Chinese cultural debates over Westernization versus the preservation of Chinese identity (289). 

McGrath makes what he refers to as “a careful depiction of division between the CGI’s virtual perceptual realism and DV’s ontological realism, the latter drastically lowering of barriers to entry into the filmmaking profession brought about by the relative affordability of the means of cinematic production allowing entry of talented young directors in domestic and international independent and art film scenes, also including a higher proportion of women than at any previous time in Chinese history (308). At the same time McGrath acknowledges that this suggestion of a fissure between CGI’s virtual perceptual realism and DV’s ontological realism is “overly simplistic.” The typical big-budget commercial film, made in Hollywood or Beijing, is likely to feature live-action footage composited - “whether subtly and unnoticeably or grandly and spectacularly” - with digital computer-created effects. “At the same time worlds of imagination conjured by virtual environments are also real parts of ordinary people’s lives so that a film in a verisimilar critical realist mode [as distinct from stylised action or fantasy] might depict virtual environments as a part of an everyday reality in the urban landscape-soundscape it wishes to capture (ibid).” 

Jia Zhangke

McGrath then discusses how “in an exemplary manner” in his first film, Xiao Wu/Pickpocket (1997), with its careful depiction of various sorts of media, Jia Zhangke deploys “a form of hyper-immediacy” [the surreal depiction of one medium within another] would become a hallmark of Jia’s particular brand of post-socialist realism […] the mixing of fiction and documentary,” McGrath continues, “has been a consistent tendency of Chinese independent and art cinema, beginning with Zhang Yuan’s Mama (1990) and continuing with a number of the most inventive filmmakers of the DV generation.” McGrath adds that “cutaways to actual documentary footage within fiction films go back to the classics of 1930s Shanghai cinema” (ibid 316). 

Bi Gan

Bi Gan’s first film, Kaili Blues/Lucian pecan (2015), is described by McGrath as an “extraordinary film-poem” which Bi struggled to complete on an low budget that “creates an entirely distinctive oneiric atmosphere with mysterious shots that sometimes present riddles […] The story [traverses] several years of time within seconds inside of one continuous take. Here, as in the film as a whole,” McGrath suggests, “the sorts of sci-fi mysteries that other films spend hundreds of millions of dollars to explore - including the nature of time, memory, and karma - are inventively raised [by Bi] just through the unorthodox use of tools that combines [as in other Fifth Generation films] the elements of post-socialist neorealism with occasionally surrealist images, a haunting soundtrack by Lim Gong, and a dream-like poetics of motif rhyming largely replacing logical cause-and-effect narration” (320). 

Earlier in the book McGrath relates an anecdote about Jia Zhangke’s life being redirected by a chance encounter with Chen Kaige’s Yellow Earth, which changed how he thought about movies and inspired him to learn how to make them (p.2). Bi Gan described a similar encounter with a film on which he was required to write an assignment - Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker - after resisting, Bi ended the viewing “in complete awe.” McGrath comments that Kaili Blues can provide the viewer with “a similarly revelatory experience of what cinema can be” (321). 

He concludes with the final paragraph of Chinese Film: As fundamental transformation, for better or worse, of the planet and society looms, cinema, as a conduit to the real, can help fulfil what Amitav Ghosh calls “a new task: that of finding other ways in which to imagine the unthinkable beings and events of this era.” We never know for sure, at least not for long. We think alongside the real, along with the real, we try to arrest it both in short and in artistic representation. As an art whose medium arguably is time itself, cinema has the ability to convey the movement of reality in a particularly powerful way. Still, it is precisely that movement that makes every thought, theory or representation - including cinematic representations as well as academic studies thereof - necessarily tentative. The real always moves on, and so do we. But the movies do too (328). 

An apt note to introduce as this series heads towards a close.  

************************************************************************************************

Jason McGrath Chinese Film 2022 
Paul Clark Chinese Cinema Culture and Politics since 1949 1987 
Chris Berry “China Before 1949”; Esther Yau, “China After the Revolution” Oxford History of World Cinema, Geoffrey Nowell-Smith ed. 1996 
Tony Rayns & Scott Meek, “Before the Revolution” Sight and Sound Autumn 1980 Gina Marchetti, “Two Stage Sisters : the blossoming of a revolutionary aesthetic” Jump Cut 34 
Nathalie Bittinger Review of Chinese Film (ibid) French Centre of Research translated by Elizabeth Gill in China Perspectives no.134 2023 available online.  
E.Ann Kaplan “Relevance of Western Melodrama to Recent Chinese Cinema” East-West Film Journal 5/1 
Chen Shan “Chinese Cinema: From the Beginning to the 5th Generation” introduction for the Festival of 3 Continents, Nantes 2025 available online if you click here 
Bérénice Reynaud “Chinese Cinema” The Oxford Guide to Film Studies ed. J. Hill & P. Gibson

*****************************************

NOTE - Renumbering is still due to take place


Previous entries in this series can be found if you click the following links. 

 

Sixty Years of International Art Cinema: 1960-2020 - Tables and Directors Lists to Accompany Bruce Hodsdon's Series

 

Notes on canons, methods, national cinemas and more

 

Part One - Introduction

Part Two - Defining Art Cinema

Part Three - From Classicism to Modernism

Part Four - Authorship and Narrative

Part Five - International Film Guide Directors of the Year, The Sight and Sound World Poll, Art-Horror

Part Six (1) - The Sixties, the United States and Orson Welles

Part Six (2) - Hitchcock, Romero and Art Horror

Part Six (3) - New York Film-makers - Elia Kazan & Shirley Clarke  

Part Six (4) - New York Film-makers - Stanley Kubrick Creator of Forms

Part Six (5) ‘New Hollywood’ (1) - Arthur Penn, Warren Beatty, Pauline Kael and BONNIE AND CLYDE

Part Six (6) Francis Ford Coppola: Standing at the crossroads of art and industry

Part 6(7) Altman

6(8) Great Britain - Joseph Losey, Lindsay Anderson, Karel Reisz, Richard Lester, Peter Watkins, Barney Platts-Mills

6(9) France - Part One The New Wave and The Cahiers du Cinema Group

6(10) France - Part Two - The Left Bank/Rive Gauche Group and an Independent

6(11) France - Part Three - Young Godard

6(12) France - Part Four - Godard:Visionary and Rebel

6 (13) France Part 5 Godard with Gorin, Miéville : Searching for an activist voice

6(14) France Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Bresson 

6 (15) France Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Jacques Tati

6 (16) - Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Carl Th Dreyer

6 (17) - Italy and Luchino Visconti

6(18 - Italy and Roberto Rossellini - Part One

6(19) - Rossellini, INDIA and the new Historical realism

6(20) - Rossellini in Australia

6 (21) - Italy - Michelangelo Antonioni

6 (22) - Italy - Federico Fellini, Ermanno Olmi

6 (23) - Italy - Pasolini, Rosi

6 (24) - Interregnum - Director/Auteur/Autoren

6 (25) West Germany

6 (26) - Alexander Kluge Part One

6 (27) - Alexander Kluge Part Two

6 (28) - The Young German Cinema: Reitz, Schlondorff, von Trotta

6(29 ) West German Cinema - Fassbinder

6 (30) West German Cinema - Straub & Huillet

6(31) - New Spanish Cinema

6 (32) - Bunuel in the 60s

6 (33) Nordic Cinemas - Bergman and Widerberg

6 (34) - Scandinavia - Sjoman, Zetterling, Troell

6 (35) - East Germany - Konrad Wolf, Frank Beyer

6 (36) - East Central Europe - Poland

6(37) - East Central Europe - Hungary Part One

6 (38) East Central Europe - Miklos Jancso

6 (39) East Central Europe - Czechoslovakia

6 (40) East Central Europe - Yugoslavia

6 (41) - The Soviet Union

6 (42) - Asia - Japan - Part One

6 (43) - Japan - Part Two

6 (44) - Japan - Part Three - Shohei Imamura

6 (45) Asia - India Pt 1 - Satyajit Ray

6 (46) Asia - India Pt 2- Ghatak, Dutt, Sen, Parallel Cinema

6 (47) Asia - China - Part 1: Mapping Chinese Cinema 

6(47) Asia- China - Part 2: The Shanghai Revival (1947-1949)

6 (48) - Brazil Pt 1- Cinema Novo, dos Santos, Rocha

6 (49) Brazil Pt 2 - de Andrade, Diegues, Guerra

6(50) - Latin America - Argentina

6 (51) - Chile - Allende and Popular Unity

6 (52) - Latin America - Bolivia, Jorge Sanjine


Friday, 20 February 2026

Sixty Years of Art Cinema 1960-2020 : Bruce Hodsdon continues his series - 6(47) - China - Part 2: The Shanghai Revival (1947-1949)

Poster for Spring in a Small Town

Fei Mu b.1906, Zheng Junli b.1911, Xie Jin b.1923, Xie Tieli b.1925

******************************************

In the 33 years from the first Chinese produced feature film in 1916 to the Revolution in 1949 there were two so-called 'golden ages' of film production. The first was in 1932-7 during the Japanese invasion first of Manchuria in 1931 and the takeover of the Chinese part of Shanghai after occupying the Chinese section of the city. For whatever reason, the Japanese permitted, even encouraged, local film production. Leftist filmmakers had set-up as the Communist-dominated Film Group in 1932 and produced notable productions in the two major film studios in social realist style although 3 out of 4 films released were foreign, chiefly American. The studios became the training grounds for a generation of  artists who dominated filmmaking into the 1950s and 1960s.

When full-scale war with Japan began in mid-1937 more direct patriotic appeals superseded anti-Japanese allusions (Clark 14).  Some of these filmmakers moved to Hong Kong after the Japanese  occupation. The second ‘golden age’ was in the postwar years to 1949. Paul Clark comments that “Chinese films in the late 1940s reflected Chinese concerns to an extent seldom seen in the artistic innovation of the previous decades” (15). Tony Rayns and Scott Meek designate a Chinese film from the 30s and 40s as “a site for a clash of ideologies.”

Every film, like every novel and every newspaper article, had to have a position on the key issues of the day: whether to resist Japanese aggression, what to do about widespread poverty and corruption. If they were progressive, then Kuomintang censorship would prevent it being expressed explicitly; it then became implicit, and the audience response completed the intended meaning. Left-wing films of the period prior to 1949 were essentially divisive; their emphasis was on society's gaps and contradictions (and their refusal to paper them over) was deliberately calculated to polarise reactions.

Poster for The Spring River Flows East

The first of the three key films in the short-lived revival of Shanghai cinema, 
Spring River Flows East/Yijiang chunshui xiang dong lei (1947) a film in two parts running 190 minutes, as Clark puts it, “the  Chinese equivalent of Gone with the Wind” -  a melodramatic story of a single family during and after the wartime resistance to Japan, a collaboration between Zheng Junli and Cai Chusheng as writer-directors.  An unprecedented success, Spring River ran for three months in Shanghai to a total audience of almost three-quarters of a million. It was remarked at the time by a critic in a Guangzhou periodical quoted by McGrath, that audiences throughout China having recently experienced the horrors of the Japanese occupation, were receptive to a growing ambition to employ what the critic referred to as a “new [social]  realism” with the ambition not only to expose society’s ills but to propel history forward into the revolutionary future through the depiction of the “shared suffering of our national history.” This contrasts with a subsequent valuation by a Chinese film historian who found the “cultural politics ofSpring River Flows East  “decidedly conservative” and its style to be “classic melodrama,” having  “not much to do with cinematic realism.” McGrath then quotes Kristin Thompson’s argument that such discrepancies “indicate strongly the historical nature of perceptions of realism,” her primary example being the incomprehension upon its initial release, of Jean Renoir’s The Rules of the Game in 1939, that it was only after such films as Bicycle Thieves (1948) had taught audiences new viewing skills, that Rules also won widespread acclaim as a realist film (115).

Fei Mu

Although unrecognised as such at the time, the second key film of the Shanghai late 40s revival was 
Spring in a Small Town/Xiao cheng chi chun (1948) directed by veteran Fei Mu (1906-1951) “with an assurance and stylistic innovation that sets it apart from its contemporaries” (Clark 18). Spring in a Small Town was released only months after Spring River Flows East but to much more modest success at the box office, the simple story of a love triangle was criticised “for being bourgeois, decadent and out of touch with the times.”  McGrath notes that “it was almost entirely forgotten after the establishment a year later of the PRC - at least until the post-Mao era when it was not only rediscovered and praised belatedly as a masterpiece but was famously selected as the greatest Chinese film of all time in a 2005 poll of critics conducted by the Hong Kong Film Awards on the centenary of Chinese filmmaking. “ Its rediscovery provided Chinese filmmakers and critics of the 1980s and beyond with a newly excavated lineage of Chinese art cinema that helped legitimise the rising auteurs of Chinese post-socialist realism in the post-Mao era of “reform and opening” (116).  

Spring in a Small Town

At the time of its appearance, McGrath suggests it would have been categorised in the category of 
wenyi  or “literary art” genre.  Set in spring of 1946 the emotional intensity of a love triangle played out in a family compound partially ruined by war, a potentially melodramatic mode is displaced by “the originality and brilliance [of Fei Mu’s] “proto-modernist experiment” in ambiguity” - naturalistic performance and detached long take camera style - condemned during the Mao era for its lack of political progressiveness.  McGrath analyses Spring in a Small Town as an exemplary instance of what he calls apophatic realism (see part 2) - “which uses negation or absence to point to the real beyond representation.” He argues that apophatic gaps can be found in [Shanghai] films of the 30s “that subverted classical cinema norms through their sometimes jarring mixing of genres and their lack of narrative closure [while] Spring in a Small Town […] in its elliptical narrative as well as its long-take style, in retrospect,[…] fits well into postwar global art cinema” (119). Fei Mu’s classic was respectfully remade in 2001, after a ten year lay-off, by Tian Zhuangzhuang  (Horse Thief, and the masterful ‘scar film’ The Blue Kite)

If Spring River Flows East, McGrath writes, constituted a look back at the traumas of the recent historical past and Spring in a Small Town seemed to be stuck in a cyclical present in which temporality had collapsed and human desire thwarted, Crows and Sparrows on the contrary was one of those rare films that seemed so much to coincide with a tectonic transformation in human life that watching the film feels almost like watching history hurtle before our eyes. Like Spring River Flows East, the film drew massive audiences, with an estimated 287,000 viewing it in Shanghai alone (144).

Poster for Crows and Sparrows

The production of 
Crows and Sparrows/Nu ya yu me ch’ueh (1949) was begun in 1948 at the leftist Kunlun Studios but was halted by the Kuomintang authorities when they discovered that the submitted script was not being followed and was heavily anti-KMT. In the interval it was rewritten by the director Zheng Junli with the stellar cast of popular veteran actors (6 are also credited as the writers) to be even more hostile to the KMT. The film was actually completed and released after the CP had seized power. Set mostly inside a single Shanghai tenement house occupied by representatives of various social classes in urban China - the intellectuals, petty bourgeoisie or small merchants, and finally the truly propertyless workers, the landlord being a villainous Nationalist section chief who had pushed aside the rightful owner, making the film a national allegory and as well a work of social realism.

‘The Seventeen years’ (1949-66)

The period from the establishment of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949 to Mao’s death and the fall of the Gang of Four in 1976, is generally referred to as the Mao era subdivided, as noted above,  during which the transition from capitalism to state socialism was consolidated and various experiments in the name of Communism were carried out. The Great Proletarian Revolution (1966-76) began with renewed revolutionary activity and intense grassroots struggle, later settled into a more doctrinaire, top-down political and cultural situation (see part 3 to follow).                                                                                                                     

 Clark comments that films continued to evolve on a number of levels into the 50s to the mid 60s both inside and outside the studios, “feature films reaching a level of maturity that matched the growth of the industry (94).” Clark devotes a chapter to outlining the development of six genres: minority peoples (given increased screen presence after 1949), the revolution, contemporary Chinese life, adaptations of operas, dance dramas and musicals, May the Fourth adaptations, and historical films; he indicates that his selection was not exhaustive. Genres shared stylistic features such as common character types and avoidance of naturalism or critical realism and, as noted above, the writer was given equal importance with the director in the credits, extended weight given to dialogue in theatrically presented scenes.

In the revolutionary cinema of the Seventeen years partly under the influence of Soviet socialist realism, Chinese revolutionary cinema developed an arsenal of codified stereotypes that (as in classic Hollywood genres such as the western) both entertained mass audiences and reinforced conventionalised and affectively charged collective values regarding morality, behavior, politics, and community belonging. The eventual sedimentation of such codes into clichés coincided in the bureaucratisation of political rule in general and the lessening of the ideological fervour of the revolution. This danger was answered politically by the Cultural Revolution, which in cinema eventually resulted in a striking new phenomenon, the films based on the revolutionary “model works” of opera and ballet. - McGrath p.161   

In the first seventeen years of the People's Republic, cinema became, [by contrast with the pre- and post-war Shanghai film periods], unificatory in spirit. The liberated film industry set out to address the largest possible audience, including people in rural areas who had previously had little or no access to cinema. Films showed a determination to confront social problems constructively from the superstitions and fears of the tradition-bound peasant population to the constant risk of losing sight of the ideals on which the Communist party was founded. Films were subject to all the vagaries and shifts in government policy, as in any socialist country. The Hundred Flowers campaign aimed at China's intellectuals in 1956-7, encouraged film-makers to try new subjects and styles. Two years later, the Great Leap Forward campaign had the same film-makers producing naive and optimistic celebrations of breakthroughs in industrial productivity. And when it became clear that the Great Leap was an economic disaster, leaving a high proportion of the population disillusioned and short of food, the film industry came through with its share of morale boosters, designed to rekindle the idealism after the Communist victory. (Rayns and Meek)

The China Film Distribution and Exhibition Company, in little more than a decade operating through provincial, city and country offices, massively increased exhibition units across China : from 646 theatres in 1949 to 20,363 units in 1965 with 13,997 projection teams showing films on 16mm to peasant communities in the countryside, total annual attendance growing in 15 years from 139 million to 4.6 billion. A film school, the Beijing Film Academy, was established in 1956. In July 1949 the First National Congress of film and literature professionals “consecrated Mao Zedong’s ‘Talks at the Yan’an Forum’ as the guiding principles for works in art and literature.” ‘Worker-peasant-soldier types’ in what Mao called “revolutionary realism” became an official mandate.” The filmmakers were far from uniform in background and outlook; key members of the 1930s underground left-wing movement, previously non-aligned employees of private Shanghai studios, and members of theatre troupes from Yan’an and the army, they borrowed formal and narrative strategies from traditional drama and literature, and in Soviet and Hollywood films of the 1930s and 40s (Esther Yau 694).

Xie Tieli

The early 60s were years of difficult social conditions with widespread famine during which the Soviet Union also withdrew financial and technological assistance. Although the effects of the Anti-Rightist backlash during 1957-9 against the outspoken Hundred Flowers critics of the Party line were still being felt in the film industry, some of the best films of the classical revolutionary period (1949-64) were made. Clark considers that the problems of adapting May Fourth authors was most clearly shown in the adaptation of the 1929 novella 
February/Eryue  chosen in part for its martyred Communist author’s would-be revolutionary credentials.  Scripted and directed with assurance by Xie Tieli 1925-2015), who had worked as assistant on the condemned Lin Family Shop (1959), the morality of the open story ending of Early Spring in February/Zaochun eryue (1963)was attacked for its modernist ambiguity despite the attempt by Xie Tieli to make the ending more positive (112). Spring was actually shown widely in a number of cities as an salutary example of “bourgeois morality” (Yau, Nowell-Smith ed. 696).

Xie Jin

Third Generation director 
Xie Jin (1923-2008) is regarded as a main transitional figure between the first and second generation of classical Chinese cinema and the fourth and fifth generations, in the new waves of the seventies and eighties (post Cultural Revolution). He ensured his popularity (and hence political survival) through “demonstrated exemplary skills in adapting traditional [Chinese melodrama] and Hollywood type narrative and characterisation strategies to revolutionary contexts” (Yau 696). Ma Ning identifies the melodramatic tradition as “typically Chinese” but in Xie Jin's case well-woven into the narrative bi-polar structure that blends history with fiction or legend, the personal and the political. This structure also enabled him “to establish an almost endless set of contrasts in terms of setting, character traits, and actions.” Xie Jin's films exhibit a strong social dimension and sensitivity to fluctuating political issues that functioned “as the catalyst for his creative activity.”  Xie achieved a critical edge in some of his films indirectly evoking the arbitrariness and absurdity of ethical-political criteria with which the Party patriarchy used to divide people into political insiders and outsiders. Two Actresses and The Legend of Tianyun Mountain, “became a source of inspiration for the younger generation of Chinese filmmakers.” The rebellious Fifth Generation “went much further in breaking away from the Chinese melodramatic tradition in which Xie Jin operated. (Ma Ning 15).

Paul Clark notes that in Chinese cinema “prominence was always given to the writer over the director in film credits and also in reviews.” Part of the reason, Clark suggests, was probably the pre-production censorship vetting the script rather than the finished film.” He further points out that “this emphasis on the written word had been strong in Chinese filmmaking since the 1930s. “It reflected the customary attitude of educated Chinese in granting more respect to the written word and its offspring, calligraphy and painting, than to stage art, for example” (94-5). The fluidity of Xie Jin's mise-en-scene in his best films stood in contrast to the theatricality of films directed by most of his peers and older directors in long dialogue-driven scenes filmed, tableau style, with a static camera carrying the main weight of character and story development.


Xie
 showed a penchant for survival from the 50s through to the new wave of the Fifth Generation of filmmakers and the emergence of an art cinema in China in the 80s. He directed at least 20 features 1957-2001. His greatest achievement, praised in the West for its mise-en-scene, is Two Actresses/Two Stage Sisters (1964) which Xie directed and co-wrote with Lin Gu and Xu Jin. Attacked for “advocating reconciliation of the social classes it was one of several films singled out during the Cultural Revolution and screened around the country as an example of “a poisonous weed.” Many filmmakers from the pre-revolutionary years were sent to work in the countryside. Mark Cousins refers to Xie at one stage being consigned to cleaning toilets. During the decade, however, he also worked on one of the dozen “approved” revolutionary operas and ballets, the only features that were made during 1966-72. The Legend of Tianyun Mountain (1979), directed by Xie cited and written by Lu Yanzhou, “marks a decisive break with the propagandist tradition of the  Cultural Revolution and of the earlier Anti-Rightist campaign” (Kaplan 13). Yet despite this apparently unhealthy attention for “bourgeois tendencies” in their more recent films both Xie Tieli and Xie Jin were invited to direct the first two of the five model of modernised revolutionary operas. This would seem to be because, as third generation directors, ”they were relatively young and not tainted with involvement in the jealousies of 1930s Shanghai or wartime Yan’an’s Lu Xun Art Academy and were therefore regarded as more pliable” than the thirties Old Guard (Clark 142) exemplified in the eyes of Jiang Quing and her allies, by Zheng.

Zheng Junli

Zheng Junli 
(1911-69) was born into a poor family and did not complete his formal education at junior high school level but self-developed his language skills particularly in Russian, using dictionaries in painstakingly translating Constantin Stanislavski’s book on acting. Zheng also wrote Art History of World Movies in which he compared western films to those of the Soviet Union.

His entry into acting on the stage in his teens and subsequently into filmmaking rising to stardom playing the love interest opposite the legendary Ruan Lingyu. After the War he shifting focus to the role of writer-director on two classics The Spring River Flows East and Crossroads, q.v., the latter dynamically welcoming the establishment of the new Communist government. When he turned to directing comedy in A Married Couple/Women fufu chi jian (1951) adapted from a best-selling comic novel about the trials and tribulations of a Party cadre who returns to the city with a countryfied wife. “In a sense […] a parable of the Communist Party’s own return to an urban context after years in Yan’an, ”Zheng as co-scriptwriter was accused by Party critics of catering to “the vulgar petit bourgeoise tastes of unreformed Shanghai audiences” and the film was banned from public release (Clark 51).

Zheng had used his administrative position to support the making of The Life of Wu Xun/Wu Xunzhuan (1950) , the history of the production and criticism of the best known of modern Chinese films which, Clark suggests, “offers a case study in the problems of transition from Shanghai to Yan’an (45).” As a cherished project of a number of prominent figures in the Shanghai film world its difficulties contributed to the difficulties the whole industry experienced in the early 50s. While 518 films made during the 17 years were put into ‘cold storage, Wu Xun was shown in the ten years of the CR  as negative teaching material’ (ibid 145). Wu Xun is an historical subject about a poor peasant folk hero, an exemplary story of an early effort to educate the poor. Underlying the two year controversy “was not simply a problem of the relations between the new cultural regime and Shanghai artists” but also ongoing disagreement with Mao and Jian Quing on the initial portrayal of the revered revolutionary surrendering to the Qings, the last imperial dynasty, as a ‘bourgeois’ landlord and educator, even after Zheng and Sun Yu as the co-writers, compromised by substituting another historical figure for the revolutionary Wu Xun.  

Poster for The Life of Wu Xun

In the end the second 
Wu Xun film made “as atonement” was banned, the damage done despite Zheng’s “guilt” for his part in this failure being partly alleviated by the positive reaction in 1959 to his two subsequent biographical pictures both also starring Zhao Dan: Nieh Erh based on the fictionalisation of the life of a composer, and Lin Zexu, three years in production, also like Wu Xun, set in the 19th century with “melodramatic exaggeration of the good or evil on each side of the Opium Wars in avoiding the pitfalls of the Wu Xun project” (65).

 Zheng, along with the great actor Zhao Dan, became the victims of a personal vendetta by Mao’s wife, former actress Jiang Qing in 1966, their homes ransacked for evidence of corruption, Zheng’s family only allowed to visit him on his death-bed in 1969. His progressive co-director on The Spring River Flows East, Cai Chusheng, also died under the pressure of militant harassment at age sixty-two; one estimate of those from the Shanghai film circle puts the figure at over 30 such deaths following imprisonment and torture. Ironically, a few of the survivors of this cultural witch-hunt were able to return to work in the early 1970s when their experience and skills were needed by the perpetuators of these excesses” (ibid 133).  

*****************************

Previous entries in this series can be found if you click the following links

 

Sixty Years of International Art Cinema: 1960-2020 - Tables and Directors Lists to Accompany Bruce Hodsdon's Series

 

Notes on canons, methods, national cinemas and more

 

Part One - Introduction

Part Two - Defining Art Cinema

Part Three - From Classicism to Modernism

Part Four - Authorship and Narrative

Part Five - International Film Guide Directors of the Year, The Sight and Sound World Poll, Art-Horror

Part Six (1) - The Sixties, the United States and Orson Welles

Part Six (2) - Hitchcock, Romero and Art Horror

Part Six (3) - New York Film-makers - Elia Kazan & Shirley Clarke  

Part Six (4) - New York Film-makers - Stanley Kubrick Creator of Forms

Part Six (5) ‘New Hollywood’ (1) - Arthur Penn, Warren Beatty, Pauline Kael and BONNIE AND CLYDE

Part Six (6) Francis Ford Coppola: Standing at the crossroads of art and industry

Part 6(7) Altman

6(8) Great Britain - Joseph Losey, Lindsay Anderson, Karel Reisz, Richard Lester, Peter Watkins, Barney Platts-Mills

6(9) France - Part One The New Wave and The Cahiers du Cinema Group

6(10) France - Part Two - The Left Bank/Rive Gauche Group and an Independent

6(11) France - Part Three - Young Godard

6(12) France - Part Four - Godard:Visionary and Rebel

6 (13) France Part 5 Godard with Gorin, Miéville : Searching for an activist voice

6(14) France Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Bresson 

6 (15) France Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Jacques Tati

6 (16) - Part 6 - Creator of Forms - Carl Th Dreyer

6 (17) - Italy and Luchino Visconti

6(18 - Italy and Roberto Rossellini - Part One

6(19) - Rossellini, INDIA and the new Historical realism

6(20) - Rossellini in Australia

6 (21) - Italy - Michelangelo Antonioni

6 (22) - Italy - Federico Fellini, Ermanno Olmi

6 (23) - Italy - Pasolini, Rosi

6 (24) - Interregnum - Director/Auteur/Autoren

6 (25) West Germany

6 (26) - Alexander Kluge Part One

6 (27) - Alexander Kluge Part Two

6 (28) - The Young German Cinema: Reitz, Schlondorff, von Trotta

6(29 ) West German Cinema - Fassbinder

6 (30) West German Cinema - Straub & Huillet

6(31) - New Spanish Cinema

6 (32) - Bunuel in the 60s

6 (33) Nordic Cinemas - Bergman and Widerberg

6 (34) - Scandinavia - Sjoman, Zetterling, Troell

6 (35) - East Germany - Konrad Wolf, Frank Beyer

6 (36) - East Central Europe - Poland

6(37) - East Central Europe - Hungary Part One

6 (38) East Central Europe - Miklos Jancso

6 (39) East Central Europe - Czechoslovakia

6 (40) East Central Europe - Yugoslavia

6 (41) - The Soviet Union

6 (42) - Asia - Japan - Part One

6 (43) - Japan - Part Two

6 (44) - Japan - Part Three - Shohei Imamura

6 (45) Asia - India Pt 1 - Satyajit Ray

6 (46) Asia - India Pt 2- Ghatak, Dutt, Sen, Parallel Cinema

6 (47) Asia - China - Part 1: Mapping Chinese Cinema 

6(47) Asia- China - Part 2: The Shanghai Revival (1947-1949)

6 (48) - Brazil Pt 1- Cinema Novo, dos Santos, Rocha

6 (49) Brazil Pt 2 - de Andrade, Diegues, Guerra

6(50) - Latin America - Argentina

6 (51) - Chile - Allende and Popular Unity

6 (52) - Latin America - Bolivia, Jorge Sanjines