Unknown Pleasure
Jia Zhangke may be the real hero of Chinese cinema
To most curious viewers, China is the place where all that wire-assisted ass-kicking goes down. It's the place where porcelain-faced lovelies like Zhang Ziyi and Maggie Cheung compete in computerized catfights and gorgeous scowl-offs, always in deference to ancient codes of imperial honor.
Turns out (and we have this on good authority) that China happens to be a troubled Communist country. Its economy booms while millions still live in poverty. Of course, you already knew this. But then why don't their films show it? Happily, they do: Culturally, the governmental thaw (1979's "Open Door" Policy) has produced a new generation of serious, self-critical artists. And 34-year-old Jia Zhangke leads the pack. Here's what you need to know about him:
How to pronounce his name. Jia Zhangke sort of rhymes with "fear blanket," with that first name (actually the surname) retaining a hard "j," almost like Chia Pet. "Zhangke," on the other hand, starts like "Django" and ends with an unstressed "kuh." When no less a critical authority than The Village Voice's J. Hoberman tried to lead a supportive chant of the director's last name in Slate's "Movie Club" two years back, the New York Times' A.O. Scott threw up his hands in frustration. Now you know more than the guy from the New York Times.
His latest film, The World, is a masterpiece. Jia makes movies about young people, generally in their 20s, straddled uncomfortably between the typical urges of people that age (to have sex, to rock, to make a zillion dollars) and the lingering dictates of Mao Zedong (don't have sex, don't rock, be poor and happy with your fellow comrades). With The World, Jia's fourth feature (screening 6:45 p.m., April 20), he's found the perfect setting for these tensions: a surreal theme park outside of Beijing where visitors can act out their dreams of visiting Paris, New York or the pyramids of Egypt. His characters, the park's staff, mount bizarre skits in chintzy costumes, all too aware of the flimsiness of their fantasy world. They yearn to be elsewhere—an irony, because that's what the park presumably provides.
Jia has a wicked sense of humor. Leading a tour through the park's ersatz Manhattan, the guide stops respectfully at a small-scale version of the Twin Towers. "We still have ours!" he says, beaming. The point isn't a cheap laugh but the establishment of a bittersweet sense of globalization—both in terms of the coarsening of culture and its capacity to link us in shared pain. As an optimistic counterbalance, Jia's protagonists are typically dreamers, trading black-market DVDs of Pulp Fiction (2002's Unknown Pleasures) and dancing jerkily to freshly imported techno music (2000's Platform).
The man loves his country. All of Jia's films are set in the dusty, modernizing suburbs, often Fenyang Province where he himself grew up. You will see a side of China not typically shown; his hope is that you will care about these struggling people and their future. All countries should be so lucky to have such a filmmaker.
—Joshua Rothkopf
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