Tokyo International Film Festival

A little slice of Japan so far...

This week, I was fortunate enough to catch a few screenings at the 24^th Tokyo International Film Festival in Roppongi Hills.  I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to see some Japanese films that I might not get to see once I leave Japan.  And I’m glad I did, for even just a few films gave me some perspective on the diversity and artistry of Japanese cinema.  Hopefully, without spoiling, I’ll be able to illustrate my point by comparing two films I found particularly interesting.

 

About the Pink Sky, by director Keiichi Kobayashi, follows a high school girl who finds a money-laden wallet and encounters unexpected consequences on her journey to return it to its “rightful” owner.  Two Rabbits in Osaka, by (Korean) director Lim Tai-hyung, follows several characters as they await the mysteriously preordained final hour of humanity.

 

The first film opens with a close-up of the heroine in monochrome (the entire film is in black and white).  She looks nervous, panicked and confused.  She looks left, right, left and right.  Is she looking for someone?  Or choosing where to run?  The director answers immediately, showing us the wallet and the girl’s initial reaction to the discovery of its contents, 300,000 Japanese Yen.  The situation is believable, and the director establishes the main character’s central conflict (while not revealing the complexities that will ensue), from the film’s first moments.

 

Two Rabbits in Osaka, on the other hand, begins quite differently.  The film opens with a series of long, steady, wide-angle shots of a quiet, still city.  The only movement in each shot is a single animal that crosses the field of view, progressing from bird, to dog, and finally to human.  At first we wonder, where are all the people?  Then, when we actually see one, we wonder, who is he and where is everyone else?  The next few shots follow our hero as he walks alone through the streets.  Eventually, we begin to see bodies lying in the alleyways and our hero checking their pockets as he steps over the corpses.  What could have happened here?

 

Although in Pink we do not know the story behind the wallet and the money inside, it is clear that it does not belong to our heroine and that she must now figure out how (or perhaps even whether) to return it.  The situation affects her and her alone, and the audience plunges into the depths of her psyche, embarking on a journey of getting to know and to understand the person that she is and why she struggles with the decisions she’s forced to make.  Indeed, the film is shot from her perspective and appropriately includes her in every scene.  Contrastingly, Lim chooses to focus on the global circumstances that will define the development of a range of characters in his film, which become fewer and more focal as the film progresses.  The audience is drawn to the film not because of a single character’s specific dilemma, but rather by a world shrouded in mystery, revealed slowly and piecemeal.  We must take a leap of faith, but once we have, we’ve made far too large of a psychological and emotional investment to stop watching.

 

After the screening of About the Pink Sky, I got a chance to ask Keiichi Kobayashi about his direction of the film.  I noticed in particular several long, steady shots that highlight the heroine’s passionate reactions to surprising new information.  I asked how Kobayashi managed to get such intensity from such a young actor.  He told me that they just kept shooting over and over until they got exactly what they wanted.  Sometimes it took 10 or 15 takes before the actors were able to really relax and settle into the scene.  Also, he said, having a small cast and crew (only about 15 people total), made it easier to later retake shots they weren’t satisfied with.

 

In terms of script, the film is heavy on dialogue and runs chronologically with a minimal score.  As such, it screens more like a play than a film.   Kobayashi replied that it was indeed intentional and that the film remained true to script.  The film is less about the plot and more about the characters and their interactions.  As we see what they say and do, we learn about how they think about themselves and the society they live in, which reveals the film’s social and political undertones.

 

Two Rabbits in Osaka is quite the opposite.  There is relatively less dialogue, and the film is driven by erratic, choppy shots, intertwining story lines, and flashbacks.  Min Junho and Daishi Matsunaga, the film’s principle actor and actress, respectively, shared that there was significant improvisation in this film.  I asked the actors how much of the final cut is improvised and how it differed from the original script.  They told me that, in fact, they did not know much about the plot or how the film would end, but were told by Lim only that they would be in a movie about the human anticipation of death.  They explained that in many of the scenes, they would be surprised with new information and would have to react on the spot.  Many of these types of scenes were clipped together in editing. 

 

In contrast to Kobayashi’s multiple-take approach, Lim’s approach is lean and mean, but it too manages to induce powerful emotion.  For example, Matsunaga revealed that one of the film’s most emotive scenes, where her character is thrown a surprise birthday party (her birthday is on humanity’s last day), was a total surprise.  The technique allows the film a more organic, “home movie” feeling, drawing the audience into the story and bringing to life the characters’ complex emotions.

 

I was impressed with both the diversity and quality of these two films in addition to other I saw at the festival, each of which presented a unique viewing experience.  Kobayashi hopes his film gets some attention and can make it into Western countries.  I hope for him, too, as I think the film is relatable and would have an equally strong message for Western audiences.  However, Kobayashi claims that this was not his goal in making the film.  He said that his Dad once told him that, in Japan, there are 20,000 fans for anything.  So if he can entertain 20,000 people with this film, he’ll be happy.  Imagine how happy the rest of us would be if we all had such practical goals.  Good for you, Kobayashi.

My New Haircut

The first floor retail space in my apartment building has not one, but two beauty salons.  Salon's in Beijing are not only abundant but also particularly quite annoying.  First, they insist on blasting horrendous pop music out onto the street, which I can hear even in my 14th floor apartment.  What's more, they seem to only have one album that they keep on loop.  It's literally the modern Chinese water torture.  And as if all that weren't enough, several times daily, the entire staff of both shops engage in a coordinated dance while shouting phrases like: "I love my job!" and "I love my country!" ～ 我爱我的工作 我爱我的国家 ～ Meanwhile, they're not only not working but also clogging up the sidewalk so that nobody can get by.  Frustrating, to say the least.  However, I must say, they are a super deal: wash & rinse, head & neck massage, cut & dry, style & spray all for only $6!  Yes, you read correctly.  No, I did not forget a 0. 太棒了！

The Bamboo Gate

      My hand hung languidly from a limp wrist out the back window of the taxicab, the hairs on my forearm flittered in the passing wind.  Beijing at this time of year is cold in the morning and at night, but warm during the day. And on such a clear day, were it not for the breeze let in by the open cab windows, I would have roasted like Peking duck.

      As the cab continued along the 4^th ring road, I was anxious and excited.  I imagined that it must be the feeling of a bird that has just learned to fly.  Scared, perhaps, but eager to see a new world, to finally leap free from the nest.

      My bird’s nest was Beijing.  Up until then, it had been all that I’d ever known of the vastness that is China.  This little city.  As the cab neared the airport, and the prospect of seeing a new world grew near, my wrist began to stiffen, my hand to convulse like the wings of a baby bird, the hairs to dance like down in the wind.

 

     The plane took off on schedule.  Wheels up, figurative now literal.  Flight.  I was calm.  The drone of the turbines lulled me to sleep…

      I had to show my passport to the immigration officer in Hong Kong.  This should have been my first clue that, indeed, I was not in Kansas anymore.  His badge had both Chinese and English (or more precisely, Latin) characters.  The character read: 黄, meaning “yellow,” in Mandarin pronounced “huang.”  However, the English transliteration of the Cantonese read, “Wong,” the version Westerners are actually more accustomed to seeing (hopefully for obvious reasons).  It was unclear how I should address the man.  Huang Xiansheng? Wong Sinsang? Mister Yellow?!  I defaulted to Mandarin:  “Xiexie Huang Xiansheng!”  He smiled, and I moved along.

      The train was at the end of the terminal.  I bought a one-way ticket to the end of the line, Hong Kong Station, for HK$100 (about $15).  The system was infinitely more convenient and civilized than any I’d seen; it made New York’s JFK and LaGuardia look like rat mazes in comparison.  On the train, I spoke to the woman sitting next to me.  We spoke strictly standard Putonghua (or Mandarin). She told me that she was from Guangdong (Canton), and so natively she spoke Cantonese.  Now, though, almost everyone in Guangdong also speaks Putonghua, so we had no trouble conversing.  We talked about Hong Kong, and I asked how she thought it had changed since the 1997 “Return” (or “Handover,” depending on who you’re talking to).  It was good for Hong Kong, she thought, since the island itself has so few resources but so many people, and depends on it’s relationship with the Mainland.  The Hong Kong Chinese, however, she admits, did not like it, as it does not reflect their historical and cultural independence from the rest of China.

      She got off the train at Kowloon, in traditional Chinese characters 九龍, meaning “Nine Dragons,”  a district of Hong Kong which actually sits just across the water from the island proper and was ceded by the Qing Emperor to the British under the Convention of Peking in 1860.  The nine dragons are the eight peaks in this region, and the emperor, for a total of nine.  As the train pulled out of Kowloon station and back out above ground, I actually looked out onto the city for the first time.  My mouth dropped open at the sight.

      It is well known that Hong Kong is the world’s most vertical city.  Beijing, on the other hand, is one of the world’s iconic “horizontal” cities.  In Hong Kong, with so little space and a high demand for square footage, buildings have nowhere to go but up.  Beijing, on the other hand, has so much space, and was for so long at the mercy of urban planners with a predilection for Communist architecture, that buildings (as well as public squares, à la Tiananmen, and 10-lane wide boulevards) occupy vast tracts of real estate, taking up space seemingly for it’s own sake.  The Hong Kong Chinese, however, ruthlessly economize every square inch, resulting in bamboo stalk buildings shooting up from the silk string alleyways that wind between them.

      Of course, Hong Kong has not always been so tall.  From the rooftop terrace at restaurant and bar Sevva (pronounced like British “savour”), I got a crash course in Hong Kong architectural history from my gracious host, M., who has now lived and worked in Hong Kong for several years.  Most interesting was the (Old) Bank of China building, built to house the bank’s headquarters in 1952.  The building was designed in contemporary style by architectural firm Palmer and Turner, who helped to realize the developers’ goal of surpassing the neighboring Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation building as the city’s tallest building, a title it held for decades.  Ironically, it is now one of Central’s shortest buildings, dwarfed by I.M. Pei’s magnificent (New) Bank of China Tower as well and Norman Foster’s lego-like glass and steel HSBC Main Building, which required the demolition of the original, the very building that the (Old) Bank of China building was built to surpass.

     Not only the architecture, but also the food and drink were a big part of the experience.  Let's be honest, I mostly mean the drink: coffee, wine, and, of course, anything clear – three things which are relatively hard to come by in Beijing.  Even when you do find them, unless you pop into a Starbucks for coffee, you mostly can’t trust the quality anyway.  To say the least, in Hong Kong I indulged.  And if you’ve read my most recent post, you already know of the subsequent life adjustments I’ve made since back in Beijing (see “Not For All the Tea in China”).  I was also recommended an “Imported Wine Wholesaler” in Wudaokou.  I checked it out, but I’m still skeptical…

      In any event, the experience left a lasting impression.  I can’t go as far as to say that Hong Kong is not China.  We commonly use “China” to refer to the People’s Republic of China, but any student of Chinese would know that this 说法 neglects the vast historical, physical, and cultural scope of that word. One thing is for sure, Hong Kong is entirely distinct from the Mainland, a fact of which both Mainlanders and Hong Kong Chinese are acutely aware.  In fact, between the two, it is said, there stands a “bamboo gate,” or 籬笆, although Beijingers often refer to it as 栅栏, since there is no bamboo here.  It’s hard to tell what people really feel about it.  To some degree, it appears that many people think that it is, at least for the time being, better that way. Only time will tell, I suppose…

From the nest...

To see the world I flew

Across the bamboo gate

And back anew,

Along the way

A stint upon the lintel sat,

Head turned this way

Then that,

Confused now

More ever than before

Which way to go –

Which way to go.

Not For All the Tea in China

Well, after a few days in the bustling "East meets West" metropolis of Hong Kong (stay tuned for a detailed report), I realized how much better life would be if I got back into the habit of drinking coffee.  For two months, I've been almost exclusively on tea, usually chrysanthemum (which technically is not tea and has no caffeine).  Since decent coffee is so hard to find here and quite expensive, I figured I'd take the opportunity to kick the habit.  I believe I can call the endeavor a success, despite the current circumstances.  For two months, I drank almost none at all, save a cup here or there before a long day of sight-seeing.  My teachers were particularly encouraging.  When they'd see me yawning in class, they would often giggle and say, "加油!" which literally means "add fuel," but is actually used more to cheer for your team at a sporting event.  I indeed could have continued to live without it, but after that first really good cup in Hong Kong, I realized that I just didn't want to. So, when I got back to Beijing, I went straight to Starbucks, bought a French press and some coffee grounds, and started brewing.  Ask me now if I'd give it up again, and I would tell you, literally, not for all the tea in China.

Chinglish?

Apologies in advance for any comprehension difficulties.

My 同学们 and I have been analyzing recently our selective use of the Chinese language and have identified some peculiarities.  Very often in the course of an English conversation, particular words and phrases will be substituted with the Chinese "equivalent," in quotes, of course, because it is exactly the lack of equivalency that leads us ultimately to use it as a substitute.  How could that be?

Well, in some cases, it is as simple as our not being accustomed to using the English equivalent in a particular situation, and doing so would seem forced and awkward.  For example, we often buy steamed stuffed buns on the way to school, and even though 在路上 we usually speak English, we would never say, "Hey, let's stop for some steamed buns," but would rather say, "Let's grab some 包子 (bao-zuh)."  To us, "steamed buns" are just not a real thing, and 包子 is the only appropriate term.

In other cases, there is a readily available English equivalent, but it somehow doesn't quite capture the meaning we wish to express. Or, better yet, we've somehow been able to assimilate a Chinese word into English grammatical structure, bastardizing the meaning in both languages.  The best example I can think of is 请假 (ching-jia), which literally means "ask (for) leave," usually from school or work.  However, we most often use 请假 in place of "skip class," which is actually 逃课 (tao-kuh), literally "dodge class."  So, if I were to ask an unidentified roommate of mine, "Are you going to class?" he might very well (and often does) respond, "Not today, I'm 请ing 假."  This response seems most natural to us since all of the alternatives present two related problems.  First, either "I'm asking for leave" or "我请假" would express that he was indeed asking for leave, whereas in reality is he not "asking" but "telling."  And therein lies the second problem, that "I'm skipping class" and "我要逃课" would neglect that he will indeed notify the teachers of his impending absence, the custom here.  Perhaps you've though of a final possibility, "我要skip class."  If so, good thinking!  But I bring it up only for for good measure; I assure you it means nothing. 

Most peculiar though is when Chinese is used simply out of awkwardness.  For whatever reason, switching to Chinese at the most critical moment in a conversation can swiftly take the bite out of whatever you're trying to say.  Feeling frustrated with the progress in a budding relationship, a friend of mine once said to a girl, "You're a little bit 保守, aren't you?" 保守 means "conservative," but in Chinese is not quite as 敏感, or sensitive.  Replacing the sentence's critical word allowed the conversation to continue.  Otherwise, he might not have said anything at all.  In even more extreme cases, entire sentences (mostly questions fearing rejection or refusal) will wind up translated directly into Chinese, creating a sentence that is incoherent in standard Chinese but makes perfect sense in Chinglish.  Someone once said to me, "你想是我的男朋友吗?"  "Do you want to be my boyfriend?"  Somehow, it was just so much easier to say, and to hear, in Chinglish.  I know for a fact that a Chinese person would not say it this way, since, if you recall, I have been told: "我想我们之间成为男女朋友的关系," in other words, "I would like between us to become a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship."  And in case you were wondering, my response in the case number one was, "I'll think about it," and, well, we all know what happened in case number two.