劉玨

The critical and commercial success of two recent indie movies shows the growing clout of non-mainstream cinema

兩部以內(nèi)蒙古為背景的新獨(dú)立電影講述繁榮與蕭條背后的故事

I

n the barren mountains of Inner Mongolia， Zhang Baoming （Song Yang） searches high and low for a son who went missing while herding sheep. Meanwhile， the peace back in his remote village is broken when a big mining company arrives with explosives， excavators， and trucks—along with pollution， disease， and violence.

Wrath of Silence is director Xin Yukuns second crime mystery. The film has so far gained 50 million RMB at the box office. Its fairly humble compared to big-budget films， but still a minor success among a genre that Peking University scholar Li Yang calls “new independent films”—movies that eschews mainstream political opinion without actively rebelling. It is an emerging genre thats relatively free from commercial influence， but still has market appeal.

Like Bi Gans Kaili Blues （2015） and Zhang Daleis The Summer is Gone （2016）， Wrath displays strong personal characteristics of the director. Born in Baotou， Inner Mongolias biggest industrial city， known for its production of steel and rare-earth metals， 34-year-old Xin based the story on the mining rush in his hometown in early 2000s.

In reality， the entire autonomous region experienced rapid economic growth； its GPD growth rate ranked number one in the entire country for eight consecutive years， from 2002 to 2009， all while heavily dependent on the mining of rich natural resources such as coal. However， this came at an enormous cost to the environment and health of local people. A few who had the right connections got rich overnight， often only to fall quickly and hard.

But Wrath is no arthouse social critique—its a riveting plot-driven story with twists and turns， as well as memorable characters. The silent but hot-tempered Zhang， a grassroots protagonist who lost half his tongue in a fight， is drawn into a different world when mining boss Chang Wannian （Jiang Wu） takes a sudden interest in him.

In spite of his taste for tailored British suits， curly hairpieces， and archery， Changs habits of wearing black cloth shoes and eating lamb hot pot every night hint at humbler origins. Changs lawyer Wei Wenjie （Yuan Wenkang） is the bridge between these two characters and their worlds—when Weis daughter also goes missing， he and Zhang form an alliance to look for their children.

Minute clues and details make it an intriguing experience for viewers to try and decode the mystery and read more into the story. Take the three characters vehicles and plate numbers， for instance： Changs Land Rover starts with A， Weis sedan starts with B， while Zhangs motorcycle starts with C—a not-so-subtle classification of their respective socioeconomic status. With this metaphor， the film asks： Will the middle class work with the rich or the poor？ And who shares mutual interests， with whom？

A fan of Christopher Nolan， Xin tells his story like a drawing； the truth is outlined and developed stroke by stroke. Viewers have a clear picture at the end， but theres still space left for the imagination.

With its more realistic treatment of a similar setting， Old Beast， the big-screen debut of fellow Inner Mongolian director Zhou Ziyang， captures the aftermath of an unhealthily brief regional economic boom. Winner of Best Original Script at the 2017 Golden Horse Awards， the film was originally titled Old Bastard and is set in Ordos， the coal- mining boomtown better known as Chinas most infamous “ghost city.”

The protagonist Old Yang （Tumen） is a character audiences love to hate. Having gone bankrupt when the bubble burst， most likely due to giving underground loans to mine bosses and real estate developers， Yang still dreams of a comeback and is full of madcap ideas， such as running theme restaurants （“alien yurts”）.

Meanwhile， he has kept up his extravagant spending habits， wining and dining， gambling， lying， cheating， and even stealing the money that his children raised for his wife to have life-saving surgery. So irresponsible is Old Yang that， at one point， his family ties him up to force the money out of him.

Yet， as the story unfolds， the character of Yang becomes fleshed out： full of shortcomings—arrogant， stubborn， selfish—yet not without humanity， as he tries to make amends and endures humiliation， rejection， and physical harm. Many locals can probably empathize with Yangs experience of downfall， an economic boom-and-bust that no doubt caused psychological issues and upset family dynamics. The movie itself was inspired by a local headline—an old man kidnapped by his own son over a family financial dispute.

The 58-year-old Ewenki actor Tumen， also from Inner Mongolia， won the Golden Horse Best Actor Award for his portrayal of Yang. Previously typecast in “prairie khan” roles as conquerors and generals （he played Genghis Khan twice）， Tumens breakthrough was 2015s A Simple Goodbye， in which he played a stubborn father reconnecting with his daughter as hes dying of cancer， a scenario that Inner Mongolian director Degena Yun adapted from her own life. Tumens own career path seems to echo the contrasting themes of toughness and fragility in Old Beast.

The impact of a regional economys rise and fall are not isolated incidents， but a larger mosaic of social issues and human reactions. Both Wrath of Silence and Old Beast are able to speak to a larger audience in their own ways， while preserving a snapshot of a turbulent time in Inner Mongolia.

A

mong the many clichés to be found about the hard-working Chinese businessperson is their endless capacity for entrepreneurialism—for reinvention， wheeling and dealing， hustle and flow. The latter is the focus of ex-Alibaba exec Wu Haos third documentary The Peoples Republic of Desire， which examines Chinas live-streaming phenomenon—the millions of Chinese who pay （via mobile streaming apps） to watch regular folks sing， smile， game， gab， talk， and teach， transcending their own ordinariness to become web celebrities （wanghong）.

Anyone with a microphone， webcam and broadband connection can potentially stand to make up to 200，000 USD a month. Desire follows two such aspiring YY.com wanghong in their quest for fame and fortune： 21-year-old nurse Shen Man from Chengdu， who uses her unremarkable KTV skills to wheedle her mostly male fans into stumping up for virtual gifts； and 24-year-old comic Big Li， whose base draws from Chinas vast pool of self-proclaimed diaosi （“l(fā)osers”）. The journey takes these “celebrities” through wanghong training programs （“Keep your fans happy，” promises one tutor， “then youll live like goddesses”）， talent agencies， disappointments， and a slew of broken promises and dreams.

Debuting at this years SXSW Festival in March， the film is technically already out of date—it was shot between 2014 and 2016， long before a huge recent crackdown on both apps and their content. It also makes almost no mention of blue-collar favorite Kuaishou， which had its heyday in 2017 and was until recently Chinas biggest live-stream app. Desire will not raise eyebrows among many Chinese， but is sure to surprise some Western viewers， who may be baffled as to why these seemingly mediocre acts command such huge audiences， and what makes low-income viewers chuck entire paychecks at people who could easily be their peers.

The film goes some way to answering these questions， focusing on the comfort and companionship many find in their live-streaming idols， as well as the obsessively competitive nature of fandom. It also illuminates the celebrities personal problems， from vote-rigging， to agents fees， to classic back-stories involving bankrupt fathers and demanding wives.

What its story shares in common with 2018s other must-see Chinese movie， The China Hustle， is the unshakeable thirst for fortune， and fear of missing out， in what maybe the biggest gold rush this side of the Appalachians. Opening with a memorable mea culpa， uttered by what passes for the films moral compass， GeoInvesting co-founder Dan David， Hustle tells us， “There are no good guys in this story…including me.” Soon the film is outlining a vast scam that stretched four years and bilked some 14 billion USD out of US pension pots—thanks to a combination of negligence， greed， wilful ignorance， and lack of oversight （on the American side）， and some simple scamming on the Chinese—which has been barely documented outside this film.

The con involved Chinese commodity companies using a loophole to trade on foreign stock exchanges by performing “reverse mergers” with zombie US companies with symbols still stuck on the Wall Street ticker. Enabled by shady investment banks， these companies posted promising profits and production lines—all completely faked—using a variety of classic ruses （many of which could have been lifted straight from Tim Clissolds business classic Mr. China）. A group of Big Short-like investors set out to expose the scam， while short-selling the companies all the way， ensuring fat profits and losses all round.

Like Desire， the expertly shot documentary is unlikely to find an audience in China， though the reasons may be more political than personal. Both， though， are essential viewing for those seeking to better understand the underpinnings of a vast country that seems to evolve rapidly out of focus almost the moment the filmmaker screws on their lens cap.

- HAN RUBO （韓儒博）

F

our protagonists， whose lives have gone off the rails and whove become social pariahs， decide to go to the small northern city of Manzhouli to see an elephant who simply sits still and ignores the world. The 230-minute-long An Elephant Sitting Still， the recipient of FIPRESCI Award given at the Berlin International Film Festival in 2017， is the first—and sadly only—work of Hu Bo， the 29-year-old director and novelist who took his own life in October 2017. According to his diary， and the accounts of his friends， Hu had difficulty working with his production company， Dongchun Films， which threatened to remove Hus directorial credits and deprive him any rights to the film over budgetary issues and creative differences. Despite the films subsequent success， the premature loss of this burgeoning talent may thus prove the real elephant in the room for audiences. - L.J.