Cinema paradiso:what happens when nostalgia meets reality

Chinese films have undergone theatrical changes that some say reflect the leapfrog progress in the country. Qin Zhongwei and Han Bingbin investigate the dramatic developments.
Director Zhang Yimou was having a hard time looking for his next lead. In the search for a suitable actress for his latest film Under The Hawthorn Tree, China's foremost director sat through countless casting calls and did the rounds of innumerable colleges and academies hoping to spot the face he wanted.


He was after "pretty but innocent", "clean and pure", qualities that seemed glaringly absent in the fresh pools of talent he was tapping into.
After months of frustration, he finally identified Zhou Dongyu, a high school student from Shijiazhuang in China's northern Hebei province.
Being hand-picked by Zhang Yimou is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that can become a springboard to fame and fortune, as his past prodigies Gong Li and Zhang Ziyi have proven. The day Zhang Yimou pointed a finger at her, the 18-year-old Zhou became part of the Chinese Cinderella dream.
But underlying the difficulties of his search, Zhang's long quest also brought into sharp focus the transformation in Chinese cinema - changes that mirror broader phases the country itself is going through.
He is not the only one having a tough time matching perfect talent to perfect script.
Berlin Film Festival Golden Bear award-winner Wang Quan'an also wants the face of innocence and purity for his new epic Bai Lu Yuan. Lu Chuan, a leader of the pack among sixth-generation directors, is still looking.
This is where the reality of life in China today conflicts with the nostalgia and the past from whence these directors draw inspiration.
It was a lot easier when the age of innocence prevailed two or three decades ago, when the market economy was just implemented and there were still pockets of the untouched.
It was a harder life in the '70s and earlier, but the choices were simpler.
Joan Chen, Siqin Gaowa and Liu Xiaoqing defined beauty of that age. They were buxom, doe-eyed and had long flowing locks. When Chen and Liu co-starred in the 1979 romantic classic Xiao Hua (Little Flower), they epitomized womanly perfection for a generation of fans.
Film director and critic Jiang Xiaoyu says it is a natural reflection of the times. In an economically infertile age when material hardship was widespread, audiences escaping into the cinema wanted the comfort of full-figured female images.
The acceptable acting style, too, was more exaggerated than realistic. Even now, Liu Xiaoqing is the acknowledged drama queen of daytime television.
Joan Chen chose a considerably lower profile after she left for Hollywood, producing her own films and documentaries with an occasional cameo playing the classic Chinese beauty in foreign films.
As the '80s settled and economic reforms became entrenched, acting styles and the faces in Chinese cinema began to reflect what was happening at home.
Zhang Yu updated the image of women in Chinese cinema with her role as a student just back from abroad. But, she still projected the plump and tender on-screen heroine, exposed to the world but still pure of heart.
About the same time, Gong Li appeared in several award-winning Zhang Yimou period productions where her bosom-heaving, fiery, feisty roles startled the mindsets of cinemagoers at home in the movie halls and abroad at film festivals. Her go-getting portrayals mirrored the first attempts at experimental entrepreneurship on the ground.
The metamorphosis of the feminine image in Chinese cinema was well and truly on its way.
But like all actresses in her generation, Gong Li and her contemporaries were classically grounded in textbook acting. In spite of changing appearances, their ability to draw from real-life emotions and experiences still mirrored the times they were living in, which was a lot more austere in mental and material temptations compared to now, Jiang observed.
Ironically, it is this "purity and simplicity" that Zhang Yimou and his cohort are looking for now. But once the changes begin, there can be no holding back, and their search will only get harder and harder, and ultimately, it may even be futile.
"When we look back at these actresses, we can't help but think how rustic they were," says China Daily columnist and film critic Raymond Zhou, a long-time observer of the changes in Chinese cinema. "The actresses these days are noticeably more sophisticated and trendy."
They are more world-wise as well, in order to cope with the increasingly sophisticated environment in which they have to hone their skills and eke a living.
The aesthetic appreciation of movie-ticket buyers has shifted in tandem and they now want their on-screen heroines to look a lot more like international screen icons from say, Hollywood.
Zhou also points out that audiences these days are more diversified, with differing tastes and definitions of beauty.
"Like Zhang Ziyi, Zhou Xun, Zhao Wei and Xu Jinglei," Zhou says, describing the four leading actresses of the day. "They each have distinctive looks and styles." And therefore, different fan bases.
Zhang Ziyi exploited her potential with a dramatic debut in Zhang Yimou's rustic romance The Road Home. Later, she would shed her pigtails and steal the limelight with her supporting role in Ang Lee's Oscar-winning Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.
Zhou Xun, coming after Zhang Ziyi, has often been described as the best actress of her generation, being able to carry an entire movie on her own like the much-lauded Painted Skin.
The big-eyed Zhao Wei, launched to fame by her cheeky portrayal of a vagabond maid turned royalty in the monster hit Taiwanese television series Princess Pearl, is appreciated for her excellent comic timing and her colorful personality. She successfully established footholds on both sides of the Straits in Hong Kong and Taipei.
Xu Jinglei, known for her versatility on screen and her ambitions as a director, is equally respected for her business acumen. She has adapted to various screen roles with the ease of a chameleon, taking it even further by getting behind the camera with a successful crossover to directing.

Zhou Dongyu, Zhang Yimou's latest find, is a rare throw-back to the days when actresses like Siqin Gaowa (above) and Joan Chen (top) were popular. Provided to China Daily

Zhang Ziyi took the lead in The Banquet (above), but her career was launched by Director Zhang Yimou, who first cast her as an innocent but determined village girl in The Road Home.

And so, actresses no longer serve as inaccessible image icons fuelling the fantasies of moviegoers.
They are now flesh-and-blood celebrities who build fame on personality as much as acting ability. Their private lives commandeer the headlines of the penny press as much as any Hollywood superstar.
With such a galaxy of stellar talent to pick from, why then are some directors lamenting the loss of innocence? Why is it so hard to find? According to Jiang Xiaoyu, it all boils down to a very practical reason. The talent pool is getting clichd.
"Students from grassroots families across China are finding it harder to gain admission into major performing and arts colleges due to stringent recruitment procedures and escalating costs.
"This means those who can afford admission are mainly from the big cities or affluent families. They are urban children and they do not have the rustic innocence of the countryside that directors are looking for. Nor do they have the memories of suffering under the 'cultural revolution'(1966-76) or the times of hardship and famine," Jiang says.

Zhou Xun is one of the most accomplished talents in Chinese cinema today. Provided to China Daily

Prevailing hard-core commercialism in the industry also distracts actresses. In the past, their undivided attention would be concentrated on bettering their acting skills. But they now have to worry about marketing themselves to sponsors and building up a "brand" to attract lucrative endorsement deals.
They have to pay a lot more attention to their physical appearances than their elders in the industry ever had to.
Li Yinhe, well-known sociologist and feminist, says the concept of beauty in China is already redefined.
In the '50s and '60s, big breasts were not flaunted but hidden. Many women were shy about their assets and would hang their heads and hunch to avoid accusations of immodesty.
These days, sex sells. It is the new yardstick by which women are measured, and the new maxim is: If you have it, flaunt it.
"Actresses are no longer afraid to use their sexuality in front of the camera. They are proud of their sexiness," Li added.
These changing mores also affect the image of the Chinese actress abroad.
In 1999, when Zhang Ziyi appeared at the Berlin Film Festival dressed in a Chinese dudou (a backless embroidered apron traditionally worn as underwear), she created a stir on the red carpet with her paradoxical wide-eyed innocence and Lolita sex appeal. Last year, when actress Fan Bingbing appeared at Cannes in a dragon-robe-inspired evening gown, she was no longer able to attract the same attention.
Progress is inescapable, so is change. More and more, the faces you see in Chinese productions will reflect the urban evolution right outside the cinema doors. This kaleidoscope of changes, too, will encourage and inspire a new generation of directors and actors - all of whom will help China project its new faces and phases to the curious West.
The next genre of Chinese cinema, predicts Jiang Xiaoyu, will shift its focus from pastoral settings to urban landscapes populated by the upwardly mobile and struggling migrant workers. It is an intricate tapestry of stories waiting to be told.
And in these stories, the new faces of Chinese cinema will find the space and potential to fully exploit their talent in characters more like their own. As for Zhang Yimou and directors like him, the challenge is to find new scripts, and new muses.

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