Here's Part 1 of my final draft. Hopefully I can get Part 2 done by the end of this week. I'm going to try to step up and get my stuff finished as soon as possible, so I can work on editing, marketing, layout, and contributor wrangling :)

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ARTHOUSE WUXIA

This piece recognizes a new sub-genre in Chinese cinema, the “arthouse wuxia” film. After providing a short overview of the development of wuxia and how arthouse filmmaking techniques transformed the genre, we look at the core films of the arthouse wuxia sub-genre and explore a few ways to recreate their structure and vivid stylings in roleplaying.

Dreams of flying swordsmen leaping across rooftops and lakes, warrior women with swift blades and defiant spirits, evil sorcerers and valiant officials, nomadic horsemen charging down from the steppe, noble hearts, overwhelming passions, supreme martial skills, duty, honor, and love that can’t be denied: where do these things come from? The Chinese tradition of wuxia (“woo shyah”), stories of martial heroes who uphold justice and dispose of evil, has been a part of popular art and entertainment for thousands of years. However, with the international attention recently drawn to Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon (2000) and Zhang Yimou's Hero (2002) & House of Flying Daggers (2004), wuxia has, for the first time, gained a large following outside of East Asia.

In the course of wuxia's own “journey to the West,” the genre itself has changed a great deal, to the point that these new international wuxia films, infused as they are with techniques and interests adopted from Western cinema, form a new sub-genre distinct from the traditions from which they came. These films are part of a continuing conversation and negotiation that is taking place between Hong Kong and Hollywood, between the chief East Asian and American filmmaking traditions. This fertile territory, here in the middle ground between cultures, provides new opportunities for roleplayers and game designers: a new brand of action drama that doesn't sacrifice drama for the sake of action. However, recreating the feel of recent wuxia films can be a formidible task, since they depend on intense visual imagery and emotional complexity. We hope this article provides background and suggestions that will be helpful in your own attempts to process wuxia and give life to your own epic adventures.

I. The Father: A Brief History of Wuxia

During the chaos of the Warring States period, the political philosopher Hanfei Zi (d.233 BCE) labeled bandit vigilantes one of the Five Vermin plaguing his kingdom, complaining that “swordsmen gather bands of followers about them and perform deeds of honor, making a name for themselves and violating the decrees of the five bureaus.” A hundred years later, Sima Qian, classical China’s greatest historian, devoted an entire chapter of his historical record to youxia (wandering heroes), writing: “Today’s traveling vigilantes, their actions are not always just and righteous, but their words are true, their actions resolute, and their promises sincere.”

Regardless of the true motives of these swordsmen, people quickly began to view xia vigilantes as heroes instead of fame-seeking ruffians. These peasant fighters were obviously not the high-flying magical martial artists that would later develop in popular fiction and cinema. Typically, they had no formal training, relying on experience gained through banditry and the clashes and scuffles that characterized daily life. Youxia were simply people who took up a sword and used it as best they could – whether out of compassion for others or their own self-interest – only to have their deeds subsequently glamorized or vilified. Thus are oral traditions born. The idea of a hero or group of heroes riding across the countryside and laying down the law, destroying evil and promoting virtue, was especially appealing during the political instability that often characterized this early period.

The first known example of xia fiction is Yandanzi (“Prince Dan of Yan”), which was written by an anonymous author during the late Eastern Han period (25-220). Serving as the direct inspiration for Chen Kaige’s movie The Emperor and the Assassin (Jing Ke Ci Qin Wang, 1999), the story tells of Prince Dan’s failed attempt to kill the Qin Emperor and the subsequent death of his noble assassin, Jing Ke. Again, this was no martial arts epic but a tragic tale of a swordsman struggling in vain against a tyrannical government. It wasn’t until the artistic outpouring of the Tang Dynasty (618-907) that a pinch of wu (martial arts) got added to the established tradition of xia fiction, creating something resembling modern wuxia. Even then, it took centuries for the genre, influenced by the great epics of Chinese literature, such as Outlaws of the Marsh (1610) and Journey to the West (c. 1550), to grow more epic, more popular, and, eventually, more supernatural.

Tianjin-based storyteller Shi Yukun wrote the first true wuxia novel, Three Heroes and Five Gallants (San Xia Wu Yi, 1879), based on the promptbook scripts used by himself and other oral performers. Critical to the novel, as well as much of the wuxia fiction of this era, was the collaboration of two different kinds of xia, swordsmen and upright officials. Tang Yunzhou’s novel Seven Swordsmen and Thirteen Heroes (Qi Jian Shi San Xia, 1894), in which the heroes are able to control the weather and grow soldiers from beans, ushered in a new age of supernatural wuxia literature, coming to a peak after the Republican revolution of 1911. It was at this time, too, that wuxia first seized the imagination of the general public. wuxia serials ran in every major newspaper during the 30’s and 40’s. Famous novelists with real literary credentials tried their hand at penning epic martial arts tales, including Wang Dulu, who wrote the series of novels that inspired Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Literature was not the only medium to embrace martial vigilantes. In fact, it is unlikely that traditional Chinese drama would have achieved such incredible popularity without the infusion of action provided by the wuxia tradition. Wuxia-based plots and characters first began appearing on the opera stage in the 19th century. Taking the first step towards bringing these tales to life, opera became a major source of inspiration for the later development of wuxia cinema and even became a training ground for future silver screen stars such as Jackie Chan, Yuen Biao, Sammo Hung, and Corey Yuen, all of whom trained together at the Beijing Opera Academy. Additionally, the opera stage is where fight choreography truly developed, as centuries-old routines were broken apart and mixed together to become a complex dance. Martial artists began training not for personal development or self-defense, but for performance. By the time movie cameras made their way to China, wuxia heroes had been living their lives on the stage for nearly 100 years. They were ready.

The first wuxia film, Zhang Shichuan’s 27-hour extravaganza, The Burning of Red Lotus Monastery (Huo Shao Hong Lian Si, 1928), was released in Shanghai in eighteen parts between 1928-1931, leading to a series of similar works financed by companies in the mainland and Hong Kong. However, then came the Japanese invasion, war of resistance, subsequent civil war, and the eventual Communist victory of 1949. The future of wuxia on the mainland became uncertain. The genre became viewed as a glorification of the injustices and backwards thinking of China’s feudal past, unquestionably counter-revolutionary and, therefore, unacceptable. Production of wuxia literature and cinema did not stop, of course, but moved operations to Taiwan and Hong Kong.

Hong Kong’s early wuxia films were an explosion of action and dirt-cheap special effects, but these slowly gave way to more realistic films influenced by Japan and popular trends in wuxia literature. The Shaw Brothers’ studio figured heavily in this later movement and their films would go on to influence other martial arts filmmakers, including Quentin Tarantino. Wuxia filmmaking peaked in the late 60’s and early 70’s, only to decline until the coming of Tsui Hark at the beginning of the 80’s. His films New Legend of the Zu Mountain Swordsmen (Xin Shu Shan Jian Xia, 1983) and especially the Tony Ching-directed A Chinese Ghost Story (Qian Nü You Hun, 1987) – which Tsui Hark produced – marked the return of wuxia in a major way.

About the same time, Chairman Deng Xiaoping’s policies of Reform & Opening led to an economic and cultural rebirth on the mainland. The so-called Fifth Generation of Chinese film directors graduated together from Beijing Film Academy after it reopened in 1978, having, for the first time, formally studied Western directing and cinematography. Drawing power from their own experiences during China’s nightmarish Cultural Revolution period (1967-1976), the Fifth Generation would change Chinese filmmaking forever.


II. The Mother: Art Cinema & the Fifth Generation Directors

The Beijing Film Institute remained closed, along with the mainland’s movie studios, during the political turmoil of the Cultural Revolution. By the time it reopened in the late 70’s and graduated its first new class of students, much had changed. The five directors who would form the core of China’s so-called Fifth Generation of filmmakers – Chen Kaige, Zhang Yimou, Tian Zhuangzhuang, Wu Ziniu, and Huang Jianxin – were not trained solely in the socialist-realist cinema style that had been the textbook for their post-1949 predecessors. Instead, they graduated after having internalized much of Western “art cinema,” a branch of filmmaking that first appeared after the Second World War, when Hollywood’s previously unchallenged dominance of film began to be less complete.

Art films developed as a reaction to traditional filmmaking. As film theorist David Bordwell explains, “in the classical cinema, narrative form motivates cinematic representation. …The viewer makes sense of the classical film through criteria of verisimilitude (is x plausible?), of generic appropriateness (is x characteristic of this sort of film?), and of compositional unity (does x advance the story?).” Art cinema, however, questions this method of viewing, taking advantage of the film medium to juxtapose images that are not sensible when viewed according to these three traditional criteria. This, in turn, forces viewers to find other criteria for determining meaning. Bordwell suggests that, in looking at art cinema, “whenever confronted with a problem in causation, temporality, or spatiality, we first seek realistic motivation. (Is a character’s mental state causing the uncertainty? Is life just leaving loose ends?) If we’re thwarted, we next seek authorial motivation. (What is being ‘said’ here? What significance justifies the violation of the norm?)”

Looking at the films of the two most prominent members of the Fifth Generation, Chen Kaige and Zhang Yimou, the influence of art cinema is readily apparent:

Chen Kaige
- Yellow Earth [Huang Tu Di], 1984.
- The Big Parade [Da Yue Bing], 1986.
- King of Children [Hai Zi Wang], 1987.
- Life on a String [Bian Zou Bian Chang], 1991.
- Farewell My Concubine [Ba Wang Bie Ji], 1993.
- Temptress Moon [Feng Yue], 1996.
- The Emperor and the Assassin [Jing Ke Ci Qin Wang], 1999.
- Killing Me Softly, 2002.
- Together [He Ni Zai Yi Qi], 2002.
- The Promise [Wu Ji], 2005 (not yet released).

Zhang Yimou
- One and Eight [Yi Ge He Ba Ge], Zheng Junzhao, 1983 (cinematographer).
- Yellow Earth [Huang Tu Di], Chen Kaige, 1984 (cinematographer).
- The Old Well [Lao Jing], Wu Tianming, 1986 (cinematographer).
- The Big Parade [Da Yue Bing], Chen Kaige, 1986 (cinematographer).
- Red Sorghum [Hong Gao Liang], 1987.
- Ju Dou [Ju Dou], 1990.
- Raise the Red Lantern [Da Hong Deng Long Gao Gao Gua], 1991.
- The Story of Qiu Ju [Qiu Ju Da Guan Si], 1992.
- To Live [Huo Zhe], 1994.
- Shanghai Triad [Yao A Yao Yao Dao Wai Po Qiao], 1995.
- Keep Cool [You Hua Hao Hao Shuo], 1997.
- Not One Less [Yi Ge Dou Bu Neng Shao], 1999.
- The Road Home [Wo De Fu Qin Mu Qin], 1999.
- Happy Times [Xing Fu Shi Guang], 2001.
- Hero [Ying Xiong], 2002.
- House of Flying Daggers [Shi Mian Mai Fu], 2004.
- One Thousand Miles Alone [Qian Li Zou Dan Ji], 2005 (not yet released).

As Tang Yuankai explains, “When the fifth-generation filmmakers first caught the public eye, it seemed to many that they went out of their way to show contempt for the market,” creating works that many considered overly self-important and masturbatory, art created more for the directors themselves than for the audiences that would see them. More often than not, Fifth Generation films focused on the political turmoil of the past 100 years – the last days of the Qing Dynasty, the corruption of the Nationalist Era, the Japanese invasion, the Civil War, the founding of the People’s Republic, Mao’s disastrous Great Leap Forward and Cultural Revolution campaigns, and the inequities of the recent economic boom. Drawing their narratives from the lives of ordinary people (“the Old Hundred Surnames”), the spotlight was placed on those with the least amount of control over the course of their lives, the victims of history who wander about in fear and disbelief, unable to find their footing amid perpetually changing circumstances. Additionally, Fabian Ziesing notes that Fifth Generation directors often went out of their way to depict “the damage and destruction caused by the old social traditions on women,” who were often more vulnerable than men, due to the harsh social restrictions placed on them.

Ang Lee named “the feminine operatic melodrama” as one of the two major styles of Chinese cinema, indicating the Fifth Generation’s unspoken decision to create Chinese art films or mainstream films that are heavily influenced by art cinema. Their choices of subject matter strongly suggest this influence: the directionless protagonists, the apparent meaninglessness of life when surrounded by chaos and confusion, the exorcism of the director’s personal demons, and a strong criticism of existing social norms. Furthermore, the way in which these stories were told was often just as important. Chinese art films followed their Western predecessors in loving ambiguous endings, seemingly unconnected images, the banal trappings of everyday life, and on-screen discussions of the characters’ motives.

Starting in the early 90’s, Chinese art cinema was also heavily influenced by an upstart Hong Kong director by the name of Wong Karwai. Fearless and visionary, Wong – along with his frequent filmmaking partner, Australian-born cinematographer Christopher Doyle – rushed headlong into modernism, embracing the ideals of art cinema and crafting a series of classic films:

Wong Karwai
- As Tears Go By [Wang Jiao Ka Men], 1988.
- Days of Being Wild [A Fei Zheng Zhuan], 1991.
- Chungking Express [Chong Qing Sen Ling], 1994.
- The Ashes of Time [Dong Xie Xi Du], 1994.
- Fallen Angels [Duo Luo Tian Shi], 1995.
- Happy Together [Chun Guang Zha Xie], 1997.
- In the Mood for Love [Hua Yang Nian Hua], 2000.
- 2046 [Er Ling Si Liu], 2004.

Unlike the Fifth Generation directors, Wong Karwai came from a background in design and still photography, not movie-making. Striking out on his own, he created films that depicted moods instead of delivering straightforward narrative. His first two films developed the style of cinematic montage that would come to full fruition in The Ashes of Time (the prototype for arthouse wuxia) and its companion film, Chungking Express, which was filmed during Ashes’ long post-production. Wong Karwai’s films were both a beacon of what Chinese art films could be – artistically and in terms of winning popular support – and something the members of the Fifth Generation could define themselves against. Mainland directors were obviously impressed by and sympathetic to Wong’s experimental tendencies (something clearly evident in Zhang Yimou’s Keep Cool), but wary of pushing their art to such extremes. However, it is impossible to deny Wong Karwai’s influence on the cinema of Greater China (the mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan), challenging it to be more modernist and experimental.

Not everyone was thrilled about this new direction in Chinese filmmaking. The mainland government, not yet sure of its own decision to reopen the floor for more critical discussions of the past, began banning Fifth Generation films from being shown in theaters. Despite the bans, most of these films managed to be released on the private market and became readily available once rampant media piracy began to rear its head on the mainland. In the words of Zhang Yimou, himself a common target of government restrictions, “What the government says is this: Why keep making films about the problems of the past? Why repeat all the stuff about our mistakes, which we now admit? Why not produce more optimistic films about the better times of the present?” Some Western audiences embraced the films as a long overdue criticism of the Communist government. This point of view was only reinforced by the Tiananmen Square massacre of 1989 and the fall of the Soviet Union. Art should be used as a tool against repressive authoritarian governments, they argued. Chinese audiences held a more mixed opinion.

David Bordwell points out that art films are themselves a kind of compromise between more radical cinematic possibilities and the common expectations of audiences, suggesting that, “seen from the other side, the art cinema represents the domestification of modernist filmmaking. The art cinema softened modernism’s attack on narrative causality by creating mediating structures – ‘reality,’ character subjectivity, authorial vision – that allowed a fresh coherence of meaning.” What many theatergoers and government officials wanted was a further softening of Chinese art cinema. China had not yet developed an audience for domestically produced films. Its people were far more interested in the latest Hollywood blockbuster or films produced in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Japan, or South Korea. Additionally, Western interest in Chinese art cinema was still limited to the small audiences who were willing to watch foreign films. Studios pointed to the mainstream appeal of internationally released Jackie Chan movies, beginning with Rumble in the Bronx (Stanley Tong, 1996). Overall, for China’s greatest directors to be producing art films that were incapable of sustaining the attention of the masses, either domestically or abroad – this was not considered the best use of their time and talent, as well as the money of investors and the cultural bureaus that were trying to develop a film industry for the mainland. The Fifth Generation was, in effect, biting the hand.

Slowly, filmmaking began to change. This shift was further necessitated by Ang Lee’s Oscar win for Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon (2000), which embarrassed the Chinese government as well as the film industry. The first Chinese director to win an Academy Award was from Taiwan, a rebel province with aspirations of independence. This would not do. Soon enough, even directors once considered to be bastions of criticism and creative control were no longer singing the same tune. Zhang Yimou commented on the post-Crouching Tiger world by saying, “It is not only the Fifth Generation filmmakers, but all Chinese directors that should adapt to the trends of the era and nurture the audience’s interest in Chinese-made films. Through the efforts of generation after generation of filmmakers, we may regain our lost audience.”

In addition to competing with Ang Lee and Hollywood, other directors had managed to replace the Fifth Generation in the affections of the masses. Leading the charge were Feng Xiaogang and Stephen Chow, serving up intelligent romantic comedies to suit most palates. The Fifth Generation had managed to work themselves into a corner, creating works that were no longer capable of holding the attention of their audience. It was time for something new.

When're we getting the second part of this? I'd be interested in seeing it, as that's the part that ultimately puts this first part to perspective as far as publication in a rpg magazine goes.

Anyway, now that I'm here, I might as well say that the text is good and interesting. I didn't comment on it before, as I was waiting for the second part (not to speak of my own harried schedule). However, the piece: it's fundamentally a socio-historical view on Arthouse Wuxia, which is a tad problematic, as roleplaying is first and foremost interested in the aesthetic analysis. Are you going to characterize the style in analytic terms in the second part, or what? A chapter on the general structures and technique of wuxia is necessitated, because without it a historical perspective and a roleplaying system will never meet. You have to explain to us, through examples preferably, what is the actual essence of wuxia. A bridge between the history and the act of creation that is roleplaying, if you will.

Other than that, the first part carries it's weight as historical perspective. If this weren't specifically a rpg magazine, it'd be fine as it is.

But that's your call, I'm here on the forums reading my own piece, trying to get some perspective on it. Just stopping by, as it were.

I'm going to try really hard to finish up Part 2 of the wuxia piece today. I'm halfway there and should be able to cruise to the finish, at least on a first draft of this section. You're totally right that I need to do a better job of justifying the long intro on the background of wuxia, maybe even cutting most of it when it comes time to do final edits, but I wanted to write the whole thing and then do any major cuts once I have a better sense at what the whole piece will look like. Thanks for your comments, though.