Qiu Ju, une femme chinoise

I've visited rural China, and this is the most realistic film I have ever seen. I was awestruck at how well this film captures exactly the China that a modern visitor to the country would see. Not just the landscapes---the people are portrayed just as they are. I carry a copy of this film with me to show my friends and family--I know of no better way to illustrate the China that I actually saw. In addition, as a film-goer, I loved this film for its austere simplicity of production. I found myself wondering how many of the people who appeared on the screen were actually actors---as opposed to just having a candid camera imposing itself into their daily lives. I loved the scene in the office where an official was issuing a marriage license to a young couple---this was a spine-tinglingly poignant scene that, to me, underscored the genuine humanity that would seem so impossible in such a country---a humanity that is real. The Chinese are lovely, gentle people, and it was a delight to see a film that accurately reflects this character.

This is a small thing, but ripe, all about learning to naturally go out among life.

This is is first in the story. A wife demands to know why her husband was kicked "where it hurts" by a local official. Why did he do it? She ventures out in the village, then down in the city in search of answers. The tip of the thread that humorously guides us through different faces so that altogether we get a snapshot of Chinese life.

A constable arbites and gives his verdict, which seems perfectly reasonable, the accused will cover medical expenses and both parties are made aware that they were both wrong. But the wife is not pleased, she wants a more significant justice, and will go through the state apparatus looking for it.

This has led some viewers to think that we're meant to be seeing an individual being caught in the gears of an absurd and uncaring bureaucracy; that seems to be a handy interpretation we have in the West ever since Kafka. But that's not the point being made here.

Party officials, whenever encountered, are always benevolent and trying to be fair, quietly exasperated by the antics of the people in their charge. A higherup is kind enough to drive her back to the hotel on his car, another one stoically returns someone's stray animal. You can see why this among Zhang's early work was not banned over there.

But every new verdict from higher offices remains the same however, which is to say, the world is just so, maybe not ideal. Why make a fuss about why we do things, why stand so rigidly? There's no deeper reason sometimes and we're better off mending ourselves by moving forward, going along unconstrained by "right" and "wrong". This is often hard to translate to someone in the West because we have made ourselves stupid by arguing from principle instead of seeing what the specific thing in front of us calls for now.

And the notion of contrived uncontrivance extends in everything else. Zhang is aiming for a snapshot of life whereby we just mingle with things, what they used to call "neorealism" back in the day. The view it ventures to offer will be precious, a heartland generally closed to us.

More pertinently for me, it evokes a view of life, a warmth and sense of community I like. Lovingly obstinate in trying to fathom its tempests, pettiness without malice, quiet perseverance in simple things. Zhang lets all of this envelop in a natural way, as impulse that climbs up through the soles of the feet.

Gong Li is perfectly in tune with this, sublime in erasing any trace of an actor's face behind the shawl, making herself like a stump of uncontrived urges. We're meant to see that though a kind person, she's also a little dull in her fixation to an apology. And look how naturally she comes forth from her body, then watch her as the nervous empress in Golden Flower. What a range in which she moves freely.

This is a story about saving face and winning face, and what can happen if you carry things too far. Gong Li stars as Qiu Ju, a peasant woman with child whose husband is kicked in the groin by the local chief. She wants an apology. The chief of course will not apologize since he would then lose face. Both are stubborn and obstinate. Proud and determined, Qiu Ju steers her way through the bureaucracy from the village to the district to the city; but the thing she desires, an apology from the chief, eludes her. He cannot apologize because he has only sired daughters. He has license (he believes in his heart) because he was insulted by her husband who said he raised "only hens."

The Chinese locales, from village roads to big city avenues are presented with stunning clarity so that the color and the sense of life is vivid and compelling. Director Zhang Yimou. forces us to see. From the opening shot of the mass of people in the city walking toward us (out of which emerges Qiu Ju) to the feast celebrating the child's first month of life near the end, we feel the humanity of the great mass of the Chinese people.

In a sense this is a gentle satire of the bureaucratic state that modern China has become. But Zhang Yimou emphasizes the bounty of China and not its poverty. There is a sense of abundance with the corn drying in the eaves, the sheets of dough being cut into noodles, the fat cows on the roads and the bright red chili drying in the sun. There is snow on the ground and the roads are unpaved, but there is an idyllic feeling of warmth emanating from the people. One gets the idea that fairness and tolerance will prevail.

In another sense, this is a parable about the price of things and how that differs from what is really of value. So often is price mentioned in the movie that I can tell you that a yuan at the time of the movie was worth about a dollar in its buying power. (Four and a half yuan for a "pound" of chili; five yuan as a fair price for a short cab ride; twenty yuan for a legal letter.) Getting justice in the strict sense is what Qiu Ju demands. Her affable husband would settle for a lot less. He is the wiser of the two. Notice how Qiu Ju is acutely sensitive to price. She bargains well and avoids most of the rip offs of the big city. But what is the value of being a member of the community? This is a lesson she needs to learn, and, as the movie ends, she does.

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Gong Li, China's top actress in the 1990s (deservedly so), plays a naive but determined innocent, a young married woman from a remote farming village who wants nothing more than to have the village elder apologize to her husband for kicking him in a fit of anger. The bureaucratic nightmare she endures, making repeated trips to "the city" to seek justice, exposes her to a system she didn't know existed, a completely convoluted and impregnable one that operates solely by standards and practices, totally devoid of compassion or an understanding of the people it governs.

This is a small film, an earlier work by master Chinese filmmaker Zhang Yimou (To Live, Ju Dou), but what really makes it work is Gong as Qiu Ju. Every effect of this effectless society registers on her face, mostly in the form of surprise at the promises unkept and disappointment at the lack of concern by officials who are supposed to be responsible to "the people." She makes us care deeply about Qiu Ju, even though we may not be able to identify directly with her circumstances, but even beyond this, she makes these provincial circumstances universal by being the everywoman, someone who just wants the people in charge to do what's right without it necessarily having any adverse impact on themselves. Gong's ability to inject political situations with sincere human emotion has made her an ideal representative of the message running through all of Zhang's films (she has appeared in several of them), but beyond this, she simply is a great actress who should eventually become as world renowned as Joan Chen once was.

What makes this film even more prescient is how well many Americans may identify with the nightmares presented by a government hierarchy overstuffed with "I just work here" bureaucrats. And the ending is infused with a poignant irony that will hit home with anyone who has, in their own lives, found that time heals all wounds.

Zhang Yimou's "The Story of Qiu Ju" is not a masterpiece as is his film "Raise the Red Lantern." It doesn't have the epic qualities of "To Live" nor is it as visually stunning as "The Road Home." But "Qiu Ju" may well be Yimou's most thought provoking film, leaving you pondering the messages a long time after the film has ended.

Qiu Ju's husband has been kicked ("where it counts") by the village chief. The only bit of justice Qiu Ju wants is an apology. It seems to be a simple enough request, but her search for the apology proves to be elusive as she encounters a legal system more interested in its own red tape than in the needs of ordinary people.

But this is not "Erin Brockovich" where the sides of "good" and "bad" are easily defined. The people in the legal system Qiu Ju encounters are genuinely decent folks. They are also, unfortunately, a bit clueless. And Qiu Ju is not beyond reproach herself. At the conclusion of the film even she is realizing that she has pushed the matter too far.

Just how far should one go to seek justice in this world? Even if you are totally in the right, does there come a time when you must let the matter rest for your own sake as well as everybody else's? There are no easy answers.

This is another great performance by Gong Li in the title role. She may be one of the most beautiful women in the world, but here she is not above playing "dowdy." And as usual, Zhang Yimou is nearly flawless in his direction. He gives a wonderful tip of the hat to the late French director Francois Truffaut in the end, echoing that famous final shot of Truffaut's "The 400 Blows."

But this is a film that will stick with you well past that last shot.