Years of Poems and Spirits

Watched A&D last night. It was pretty entertaining (perhaps because I never read the novel). Still, it wasn’t a movie worth blogging until I saw this piece on WaPo, Angels & Demons & Disclaimers.

While discussing why he didn’t watch Mel Gibson’s The Passion of Jesus Christ, the writer, David Waters, mentioned the idea of “the myth of redemptive violence” (by Water Wink, a religion professor), which begins with:

The belief that violence ”saves” is so successful because it doesn’t seem to be mythic in the least. Violence simply appears to be the nature of things. It’s what works. It seems inevitable, the last and, often, the first resort in conflicts. If a god is what you turn to when all else fails, violence certainly functions as a god. What people overlook, then, is the religious character of violence. It demands from its devotees an absolute obedience- unto-death.

A couple of years back, when I saw another movie, “A History of Violence”, I had the same feeling about the adoration of violence in Western culture. What drew my attention back then was the irony that a liberal, peace-loving Hollywood could have produced a rich body of work depicting violence so approvingly–almost poetically.

Of course, Walter Wink’s essay is much deeper than a dilettante’s blog. His inspiration comes from a Babylonian creation myth (instead of a Hollywood movie). Yet here comes another surprise-spark – in terms of depicting violence, redemption and order, don’t religious texts read awfully a lot like national history prepared for grade school students?!

Lastly, I was very impressed by David Waters’ writing. Found another admirer’s blog quite on target. I can sense a passion in religion reporting like mine in discovering the inner workings behind State and Society.

Watched the 24 Cities with the Boston couple.

Never want to watch Jia’s movie sitting in a confined seat again. The movie was so repetitive, raw and edgy that when I can’t move around, I felt a dread of claustrophobia.

The movie tells close to a dozen personal stories, some warm, some sad, some funny and some inspiring. Therefore, I can’t tell what Jia is trying to express just by listening to the stories alone.

Art, particularly the abstract kind, is meant to be a mirror for the beholder. Different people can read into this movie thousands of different ways, each a reflection of one’s own neurosis.

What resonated with me was the claustrophobic life in China, the Hegemony of Others, so to speak. The fear of being just another of the 1 billion was suffocating. Other than the few pure suffering-tales in the beginning, the rest of them all tell a story of trying to find significance in one’s own being.

Xiao Hua, the Joan Chen’s character, chooses loneliness on principal. The manager’s assistant remembered not how he ascended from the bottom (to where he is today), but why he was spared a certain beating in the hands of a bully (because Zhou Enlai died on that day). The last girl (personal shopper) is perhaps the most telling: she suddenly “grew up” when she saw her mom working in a mass factory like the characters in Apple’s 1984 commercial.

Yet in the uber-materialistic contemporary China, what is considered “significant” is by no means a consensus. Maybe that is why the personal stories are so varied yet feel so familiar.

New Yorker ran a good article on Jia’s career and style: his roots in Shanxi, Martin Scoresesse’ praise, his anti-establishment credentials. Also met a movie critic Jay who lamented that Jia has become just another “Chinese director”.   One thing he pointed out was how dressy his storytelling has become versus the raw emotion, the bold expression used in his earlier days.

I guess I have to watch a couple of more his earlier works to make up my mind.

No idea who coined the poem that gives the movie its title. But it is quite beautiful: 二十四城芙蓉花，锦官自昔称繁华. But the movie reminded me more of “巴山夜雨涨秋池” kind of nostalgia.

5/12 – One year anniversary of the Sichuan Earthquake. A day should always be remembered.

But personally, today is a day I can’t forget soon enough. Some unfortunate mishap just amplified the bruised ego, the self-doubt, the self-pity–all the dark thoughts I am trying to shake off. Everything I read, everything I heard seems to be telling me something. The article on Portuguese novelist António Lobo Antunes caps a frustrating day.

Steady … steady.