Jia Xiang I

Just now, a young person asked, "Who can save us?" My answer might make them uncomfortable: That's servile thinking. Never wait for someone to save you. We all have to save ourselves step by step. I do this by painting one stroke at a time, and Jia Zhangke does it by film one inch at a time.
--Chen Danqing★Chen Danqing calls him "a different animal." This is the first book by Jia Zhangke, the first Chinese director to win the Cannes International Film Festival's "Golden Carriage Award," to review his filmmaking and thought processes.
I want to use film to show my concern for ordinary people, and that starts with respecting ordinary life. In the slow flow of time, I feel the joy and heaviness of each ordinary life. "Life is like a long, tranquil river." Let us experience it.
Bei Dao wrote in an essay: People always think that the storm they have experienced is the only one, and they compare themselves to the storm, wanting to blow the next generation around as well.
Finally, he asked, "How will the next generation live?" This is a question they themselves must answer.
I don't know how we will live or what kind of movies we will make.
Because “we” is such an empty word—who are we?
——Jia Zhangke★“Postal Green” leather soft hardcover design, suitable for carrying around, so you can carefully read “Chief Ke’s” profound thoughts on film art and social status.
This book is the first by renowned film director Jia Zhangke to reflect on his filmmaking and thought processes. It also provides a review and summary of his directorial career, spanning over a decade from 1996 to 2008, offering a comprehensive account of his reflections and activities over these years. First published in 2009 by Peking University Press, this book has been revised and reissued by the author. It captures Jia Zhangke's tireless exploration and unique reflections on the art of film throughout his career, complemented by representative interviews with key figures in the film, art, and media industries. Organized chronologically, the book focuses on Jia Zhangke's films, showcasing his sensitive and persistent journey and embodying his profound nostalgia through cinema.
The camera faces matter but examines the spirit.
Behind the characters' endless conversations, tedious singing, and mechanical dancing, we find that passion can only exist for a short time and conscience becomes an accidental phenomenon.
This is a film about the anxious reality, some beautiful things are disappearing from our lives quickly. We are facing collapse, in trouble, life becomes lonely again and thus noble.
<Director's Note> ("1998, Xiao Wu")
I want to use film to care for ordinary people, and that starts with respecting ordinary life. In the slow flow of time, I feel the joy and heaviness of each ordinary life. "Life is like a long, tranquil river." Let us experience it.
Bei Dao wrote in an essay: People always think that the storm they have experienced is the only one, and they compare themselves to the storm, wanting to blow the next generation around as well.
Finally, he asked, "How will the next generation live?" This is a question they themselves must answer.
I don't know how we will live or what kind of movies we will make.
Because “we” is such an empty word—who are we?
I don’t poeticize my experiences.
At a cinema in France, I watched Wim Wenders' latest documentary, "Buena Vista Social Club." Filmed primarily in Cuba, this tale of veteran jazz musicians was also shot digitally and then transferred to film. The grainy images on screen shimmered with a documentary aesthetic, while the nimble nature of digital cameras also enriched the film's perspectives. The audience's enthusiastic applause throughout the viewing experience left me feeling a new cinematic aesthetic taking shape with the development of digital technology. The low contrast requirements, extremely small size, ease of operation, and low cost of digital cameras all offer a promising future.
<After the advent of VCD and digital video cameras>
Over the years, I've witnessed the struggles of countless friends who've tried to make a film. Some, clutching a stack of scripts, struggle to get through one company after another, facing "No Salespeople Allowed" signs. Faced with a slew of indignation, their self-esteem crippled, their ideals becoming a killer. Others pin their hopes on personal connections, seeking out countless friends, hoping to find a big boss who'll lend a hand. But the big boss is always somewhere else, and hope always lies ahead. One day, a "boss" suddenly takes your script, only to discover a year or two later that the "boss" was also trying to get something for nothing, and wasn't much of a pro. Others, after trying to "PR" with foreigners and attending a few parties at diplomatic residences, discover that foreign affairs are difficult to navigate, and that foreigners are just as practical. Entertainment newspapers, big and small, are booming, one after another. But strolling around Beitaipingzhuang, I still feel a sense of desolation. Opportunities seem plentiful, but I don't know where to start. So, I spend less time researching film and more time socializing. A few friends who share the same suffering would occasionally get together, drink alone at a food stall at Beihang University, and when they played rock-paper-scissors, they would start with: "When you're in the world, who can avoid being stabbed? One knife, two knifes..."
Tokyo Summer
Later, someone told me that your choice of a thief as the central character lacked universal significance and didn't align with your intention of documenting this era. I believe that whether a character in a work is universal doesn't depend on their specific social status, but rather on your ability to grasp this specific character from a human perspective.
I'm drawn to the character of the thief because it offers a perspective that allows me to explore the fascinating transformations of relationships. For example, Xiaowu's friend Xiaoyong, once a thief, transforms himself into a prominent local "private entrepreneur" through smuggling cigarettes and running a karaoke bar. There's a shift in value relationships here: smuggling cigarettes to trade, running a karaoke bar to entertainment. In this way, people like Xiaoyong can seamlessly adapt and shift their social status in such a world. A thief is always just a thief.
This aesthetic preference of mine may be partly rooted in my reading of Borges's novels. Of course, I read them in Chinese translation, so I have no way of judging the original text. Through the translation, I encounter concrete, unadorned images. Borges uses this concise language to construct a complex and elusive imaginary world for us through simple description—exactly what I deeply aspire to achieve when making films. For example, the sequence in "Xiao Wu" after Mei Mei kisses Xiao Wu, with the soundtrack from John Woo's "The Killer," aims to create an effect of alienation: allowing our perception to freely move back and forth between the two planes of reality and unreality.
A grassroots director from China (dialogue)
But once the film began, I was plunged into Edward Yang's meticulously orchestrated mundane life. This is a film about family, about middle age, and about the human condition. The story expands from the middle-class character played by Wu Nien-jen, revealing the truth behind a "happy" Chinese family. I can't recount the film's story in detail, because the pervasive "happy" truth is tense and heartbreaking. The child's closing line, "I'm only seven, but I feel old," left me even more melancholy. Edward Yang's masterpiece so plainly captures the pressures of life that it even left me gasping for air. I can't connect "Yi Yi" with his previous films because Yang has truly surpassed himself. His precious life experience was finally uninterrupted by overpowering ideas, and in the slow and painful peeling away, the true feelings of fifty years old were exposed. And on that rainy afternoon in Paris, I myself had witnessed the most brilliant film of 2000.
Who is Ushering in a New Era for Chinese-Language Films?
My approach is to stay completely out of the so-called "circle," and even less interested in the grudges within it. In Beijing, I operate relatively independently, a somewhat closed-off system within which I can focus intensely on my work. From the outset, I've had a relatively complete plan for my own creation, hoping to gradually establish my own spiritual world within the film industry. This is a very appealing working method, allowing me to disregard external factors, including the success or failure of film festivals or the box office. Neither of these is my ultimate goal. What always preoccupies me are artistic issues, and artistic issues are your own business, unrelated to the circle or others.
<Image Selection in the Experiential World (Written Discussion)>
I particularly like a quote by Antonioni: "When you enter a space, you should immerse yourself for ten minutes, listen to what the space has to say, and then engage in dialogue with it." This has been a consistent tenet of my filmmaking ethos. Only by standing in a real, live-action space can I understand how to shoot a scene. My storyboards are largely formed this way, and it's been incredibly helpful. Within a space, you can find something, feel it, and then trust it.
I filmed in many spaces: train stations, bus stations, waiting rooms, dance halls, karaoke bars, billiard halls, roller skating rinks, teahouses... During editing, due to length constraints, many things had to be removed. I found a rhythm and order in these spaces, as many of them are related to travel, and I chose the ones that best fit this theme.
Filmmaking is an industry, and filmmaking is a highly planned endeavor. A director's independent approach aims to minimize the constraints and restrictions imposed by industry. These constraints aren't just the pressures of producers and the controls of film censorship; filmmaking itself is a disciplined process. DV offers a sense of freedom from industry. When filming the bus station, the local guide first took us to the coal mine to film a workers' club. After we emerged, we found ourselves in the same spot in the film, where people were waiting for the bus. The sun was already setting, and it felt like a sudden, scorching sun. I filmed this spot, relentlessly, capturing a lot of footage. By the time I was filming the old man, I was already quite satisfied; he was so dignified, and I patiently filmed him. As my camera followed him onto the bus, a woman suddenly intruded. My sound engineer said I was trembling at that moment. As I stared at her, the background was a stark, flat workers' dormitory. At that moment, I felt a strong sense of religious faith, and I kept filming along. Then another man suddenly entered; I don't know their relationship, but in the end, both men left. Throughout the entire process, I felt every minute was a gift from God.
<Autobiography of "Public Places">
I still have the afternoon habit of meeting people at Huangtingzi: toasting with friends, slamming the table and arguing with enemies, giving interviews, trying to persuade producers, begging for help, seeking advice from experts. I don't drink much, but I talk a lot. My hometown, Fenyang, produces Fenjiu, often bearing inscriptions by famous people. Suddenly, a line from someone's poem came to mind: "Only with wine can one flow through consciousness, and the joy of writing long essays never ceases." This intensified my mental activity. As I toasted, my heart suddenly sank, knowing that I hadn't gotten my business done, and sadness washed over me. The conversation suddenly waned, and I hunched over the table, watching the flickering candlelight. The clamor around me faded, evoking the atmosphere of "Flowers of Shanghai." Then I thought of my aging and my own dawdling life. Life felt frivolous, my body heavy. I suddenly, strangely, left the table like an old man, and in the darkness on my way home, I vaguely saw memories of my childhood. Knowing I was a little tipsy, I told the driver: "Only with wine can one flow through consciousness." The master has seen this many times and will not respond, knowing that the man will wake up again at dawn: he will smile apologetically and shake hands with people, completely unaware that he has been so embarrassed and behaved in an ugly manner.
In the afternoon, I was waiting for someone again. The customer hadn't arrived yet, and my earlier excitement had subsided. In tune with the afternoon's relaxed atmosphere, I stood up and looked out the window. Outside, people were busy cycling under the bright sun, chasing after some unknown fate. My heart felt like the fleeting nature of life, and I felt a pang of melancholy. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman came in, ordered a drink, and asked Xiao Chen to play some Jeff Chang. Before the song even started, she burst into tears. It turned out this bar was a place where you could cry.
If I go to Huangtingzi now, the bar has been demolished and turned into a pile of dirt. It's a metaphor: everything can turn to dust and disappear. So I have to hold on to the movies, not for immortality, but just to shed a tear.
<Stream of consciousness only possible with alcohol>

2017-06-01

台海出版社

Ideal Country

296

9787516812969