Chapter Two: Beauty and Ugliness

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“Qiu Ju Goes to Court,” a film that garnered numerous awards both domestically and internationally, was the subject of this exam’s analysis. The exam itself had few restrictions; you could write however you pleased.

The film is profound, making it an excellent choice for an exam to test the students’ understanding and artistic critique. Yet, Wu Xiang had always felt an urge to vent about this film—namely, that it portrayed the Chinese people in an excessively ugly light!

There’s nothing to fault in the plot or the characterizations. Director Zhang, as expected of an internationally acclaimed filmmaker, demonstrated remarkable skill. The film successfully crafted several vivid characters: the honest and stubborn Qiu Ju, her timid husband, and the village chief, who, though initially boorish, ultimately saves Qiu Ju and her child. The multifaceted personalities are depicted with striking realism.

To transform a stunning beauty into a rustic, earth-covered peasant woman—that’s nothing short of magic!

So what did Wu Xiang want to say?

In the last decades of the twentieth century, China remained largely closed off, with Western countries having little understanding of the domestic situation. Where did they gain their impressions? Through these very films!

Starting in the eighties, Chinese films—especially those depicting rural life—frequently claimed international prizes. As long as a film was deep and showcased compelling human nature, winning awards was almost a given.

But depth often required mining the shadows, revealing the less flattering aspects of the nation.

Overall, “Qiu Ju” was quite admirable, containing many positive elements, but not all films were so restrained. Because winning international awards—or even being nominated—became possible for such works, many directors began churning out films of this ilk: rural themes, poverty, hardship, human ugliness, social darkness—depicted as hideous or bleak as possible. A trend formed: the darker, the better; the uglier, the more likely to win.

Ugly Chinese people—this was the message these films conveyed. Western judges and audiences received precisely this impression: our country appeared tattered, impoverished, and backward. If a film featured skyscrapers, they wouldn’t even look at it.

“Fake!”

And more: you’re merely speaking for your government, a mouthpiece for the establishment!

The trend intensified, to the point where failing to make such films meant you couldn’t claim to be a director, an artist.

Wu Xiang, being a film enthusiast, watched many award-winning works—even those banned domestically. Never forget the reach of the pirate empire! Wu Xiang braved considerable risk to view these films with high expectations, only to feel immense discomfort.

Self-critique is necessary, but the degree must be carefully measured—a difficult balance. Many films went too far, blackening the country excessively. The entire trend was like this, only improving slightly after more than a decade, as the nation’s development forced Western critics to acknowledge the reality: socialism could also be grand and sophisticated.

Yet at that time, Wu Xiang loathed this trend, believing that if this was art, then art had become utterly debased!

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Thus, Wu Xiang wrote as he thought—lambasting this pandering to Western critics and audiences. He didn’t focus much on the film itself, but targeted the broader trend, producing over two thousand words.

After the exam, Wu Xiang even felt he’d done well. Even now, reborn, Wu Xiang doesn’t believe he was wrong; even in the era when he died, countless so-called artists persisted in this approach. Though films were harder to produce due to location constraints, photography still flourished. To Wu Xiang’s knowledge, a ‘classroom’ in a Yi minority village in Sichuan’s Daliang Mountain became a national photography hotspot; countless professional photographers secured award-winning works there, often for international competitions. Whether the shots were staged—who cared?

The third part of the exam was an interview. Wu Xiang remembered that the interviewer immediately put him on the spot. Having fainted earlier, his mind was hazy, so his final score was understandably dismal. Wu Xiang recalled the teacher’s words clearly:

“Wu Xiang, you’re the only one among over two thousand literature applicants who dared to criticize Director Zhang’s work. That’s why we allowed you into this final interview. We want to ask: as a cultural worker, when praising certain things, must one confront social reality? Must one explore the shadows of society? Or, how should one do so?”

Wu Xiang entered the exam room, standing before the interviewers. He remembered that he said nothing at the time.

On one hand, he was dizzy; on the other, he knew the teacher was right. Reality must be faced; every society has its shadows, unless the ultimate ideal is achieved.

Actually, the question was one of balance—how to find the center. Only by finding it can one avoid bias, praise while exposing social issues, reveal darkness while offering hope. That is the perfect state.

Wu Xiang couldn’t find it then, nor later. But now, he could answer.

“Teachers, may I tell you a story?” Wu Xiang did not answer directly, but posed a question.

“Oh, of course.” Though surprised, the teachers gave him freedom.

Wu Xiang began, speaking calmly: “My cousin has a friend who studied abroad, in a nearby country—South Korea. She rented an apartment outside school, and when the landlord first met her, he did something interesting.”

The interviewers were captivated, curious about what this tall, thin candidate would say, as the story seemed unrelated to his essay.

Wu Xiang continued: “The landlord brought out a toothbrush and toothpaste, and said to her, ‘This is toothpaste and a toothbrush. You should use these to clean your teeth. You’ve never seen them in your country, right?’”

“Ah?” The four interviewers were astonished.

Wu Xiang had found this story online, told by a student studying abroad. It was believable enough; he didn’t dare embellish it with tales like the infamous tea egg story, which would have been beyond their imagination!

“That’s the story I wanted to share, and it explains why I wrote my essay as I did. I know information is still limited, and foreigners remain biased, believing we are uncivilized, barbaric, and ugly. But aren’t we ourselves to blame?”

The four teachers had stopped all their work—focused solely on Wu Xiang.

Wu Xiang was somewhat agitated. “What I criticized in my essay is the pursuit of ugliness for its own sake, digging deep into every sordid detail just to win international prizes, to cater to Western tastes. This is what I despise most! The result is that the outside world understands us even less; not just the West—even Koreans, so close by, hold such views. I deeply feel this is selfish, shameful, and hateful!”

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Wu Xiang, in the end, was almost shouting, and the interviewers were stunned—this young man was astonishingly bold!

He was indeed agitated and needed to calm himself, but his answer wasn’t finished.

“Teachers, I actually admire Director Zhang deeply. At my age, I grew up watching his films. ‘Red Sorghum’ once stirred my blood with its story, its use of color revealed a sublime beauty, and the rural backdrop carried a grand atmosphere. That desperate howl when the nation faced peril—that feeling I will never forget! It… it even made me yearn to become a filmmaker myself.”

Wu Xiang paused, glancing at the interviewers, who were listening attentively. Their focus boosted his confidence, and he continued: “The reason I mention this film is because I believe it was handled extremely well. The people it portrayed, though from another era, still represent us. Their appearance, frankly, is rustic and backward, and even ignorant—their fate sealed by overloading a firework and blowing themselves up. But their spirit, their refusal to submit—that moved me, commanded my respect! So, I long to make such films myself. Of course, it’s not easy, but I want to strive for it. Teachers, I’ve finished.”

Silence reigned; after Wu Xiang finished, all the interviewers stared at him as though he were an alien, observing this scrawny, tall candidate.

Confronted with this, Wu Xiang felt uncertain. “Did I go too far?”

“Well then, Wu Xiang, let’s return to the main question. If you were to make a film about rural life, like ‘Qiu Ju Goes to Court,’ set in an impoverished village, how would you approach it?”

Finally, a question. After a long pause, the interviewers regained their composure, surprised by the young man’s originality—almost forgetting the exam process.

Wu Xiang thought briefly and answered, “If I could, I wouldn’t want to make such a film.”

The interviewers were astonished again—this candidate was slippery.

One interviewer laughed and asked, “I don’t want to force you, but I’d like to know why.”

Wu Xiang smiled, replying, “It’s simple. I have no experience. I was born and raised in a big city, an only child, and I know nothing of rural life. To make such a film rashly would be irresponsible, wouldn’t it?”

The interviewer immediately probed, “So if you become a writer or director, you’ll ignore rural realities forever?”

“No.” Wu Xiang kept smiling. “I think rural problems boil down to one issue. Social development is uneven—that’s the crux. Frankly, it’s poverty, a lack of money. We just need to solve that problem. If given the chance, I wouldn’t make films, but I’d find other ways.”

“Oh? What would you do?” Wu Xiang’s answer intrigued the interviewers—they realized this candidate was truly different, bringing them many surprises.