San Francisco will see an abundance of riches this weekend in invigorating Asian and Asian American films. The inaugural International Southeast Asian Film Festival (I-SEA) opens this Friday, Nov. 20 and runs through Nov. 22 at Artists Television Access in the Mission District and at New People Cinema in Japantown. And on Sun. Nov. 22 the San Francisco Cinematheque is hosting China Now: Independent Visions, a three-part series at the Victoria Theater, the Center for Asian American Media, and Yerba Buena Center for the Arts.
Notable in the China Now program is Ai Weiwei’s feature length documentary Ping’An Yueqing, which investigates governmental malfeasance in the controversial 2010 death of Zhejiang province land-rights activist Qian Yunhui, who was run over by a truck after years of speaking out against the local government’s confiscation of villagers’ property without compensation. Part thriller, part procedural, the documentary utilizes interviews of concerned parties, reenactments, surveillance videos, and media reports to look at the human cost of globalization and development and the political suppression of dissent in China.
Also worthwhile is the series’ closing program, which includes three animated films and a feature documentary/narrative hybrid. Zhong Su’s 3-D animated shor Perfect Congugal Bliss packs a plethora of visual signifiers into its five-minute running time. Astronauts, insects, soup dumplings, moon cakes, demolished buildings, instant noodle packages, and statues of the Buddha float across the scrolling filmic landscape, suggesting the temporal transience of China’s changing cultural landscape. Zhang Yipin’s How includes some beautiful ink-on-glass animation that illustrates a young girl’s thoughts on life in a high-rise building. Ding Shiwei’s Double Act combines a percussive score to with evocative black-and-white visual elements including wilted flowers, bodies in transparent coffins, anonymous figures in suits and ties, and headless statues to make an unsettling statement about life under a restrictive regime. Following these shorts is Yumen, Huang Xiang, Xu Ruotao, and JP Sniadecki’s experimental fiction/documentary set in the western Gansu province city of Yumen, which throughout its history has experienced a series of booms and busts including a surge after the discovery of oil nearby in the 1930s. The filmmakers, who shot on 16mm, travel through Yumen’s empty buildings and desolate landscapes and stage performances, poetry reading, dance and other curious events in the mostly-abandoned city, creating a strange elegy to the wasteland of China’s recent history of industrialization and modernization.
Included in the International Southeast Asian (I-SEA) film festival is Masahiro Sugano’s Cambodian Son, a loosely structured, jazzy documentary that follows Kosal Khiev, a Cambodian American poet and spoken word artist now living in Cambodia. Khiev belongs to the Khmer-in-exile community in Phnom Penh—like his fellow exiles he was deported from the US after serving a prison sentence for a felony conviction. The film looks at the circumstances leading to Khiev’s deportation as well as those of several other Khmer exiles, recounting the hard-knock life of many Cambodian refugees in the US. Cambodian Son makes use of several of Khiev’s spoken word performances as it recounts his struggle to recover from imprisonment and to adapt to life in exile. The film is an unsentimental look at one person’s attempt to reimagine his existence after trauma and loss.
The I-SEA festival opens on Fri. Nov. 20 with Ways of Seeing, a live interactive presentation curated by Ina Adele Ray and co-presented by Stephen Gong that includes family home movies, moving and still images from the French colonial era, Hollywood films, and declassified CIA propaganda. Also on the I-SEA program is Arthur Dong’s feature documentary, The Killing Fields of Dr. Haing S. Ngor, which explores the life and death of the Cambodian doctor made famous after winning an Oscar for his starring role in The Killing Fields, the Roland Jaffe film that explored the 1970s Khmer Rouge atrocities and genocide in Cambodia.
November 22, 2015
2961 16th Street (at Mission)
San Francisco CA 94103
Nov. 20-22, 2015
Artists Television Access and New People Cinema
San Francisco CA
This year’s Hong Kong Cinema series sponsored by the San Francisco Film Society hosts a strong group of work that includes several of the past year’s box office hits from the former Crown Colony. The series opens on Nov. 14 with a 3-D version of Johnnie To’s recent musical extravaganza Office, starring Chow Yun-Fat, Sylvia Chang, Eason Chan, and Tang Wei, which sets the foibles of Hong Kong office workers to music (full review here). Also on the docket is the caper comedy Two Thumbs Up (full review here), the action/martial arts extravaganza SPL 2: A Time For Consequences, and Monster Hunt, the animated film that’s currently the highest grossing movie of all time in China.
The festival also includes Little Big Master, which was a huge hit in Hong Kong earlier this year and which reflects a more local flavor than Monster Hunt or SPL 2. Little Big Master (based on the real-life story of Lillian Lui) takes a soft-focus look at the state of educational equity in Hong Kong. After a particularly aggravating encounter with stressed-out kid and his driven parents, Lui Wai-hung resigns as the head of a fancy Hong Kong private school. Upon hearing about the plight of a tiny school on the outskirts of Hong Kong, Lui ends up taking a teaching job there despite the position’s minuscule salary and the school’s uncertain future. With a total enrollment of six, the school is destined to be closed if it can’t get more students, but Lui perseveres in her attempts to keep the school going.
Hong Kong diva Miriam Yeung is outstanding as teacher Lui, gradually shedding both her cynicism and her smartly tailored wardrobe in favor of a renewed belief in the world and a pair comfortable shoes and khakis as she becomes closer to her students and the plights of their families. The kids in the movie are nicely non-cloying and have a great rapport with Yeung. Louis Koo plays Lui’s helpful and supportive husband and an array of famous Hong Kong performers including Richard Ng, Philip Keung Ho-Man, and Anna Ng appear as family members of the kids from the school. Notably, this is one of the few Hong Kong movies that I can recall that depicts the South Asian population of the city and one of the only ones (the other being Tactical Unit: Partners) to show that population as more than window dressing (I’m looking at you, ChungKing Express). The film isn’t afraid of the emotionalism of the story but it manages its teariness without devolving into melodrama. It also subtly critiques the class and ethnic divisions in Hong Kong without preachiness or polemics.
Also included in the festival is To The Fore, Dante Lam’s latest masculinist exercise. The film follows a group of competitive bicycle racers, intertwining bromance, love triangles, innocence lost, and personal and professional strife. Eddie Peng plays Ming, a cocky and ambitious racer whose rivalry with teammates Ji-won (Choi Si-won), and Tian (Shawn Dou) forms the basis of the drama. While the bike racing scenes are outstanding and make great use of pretty scenery in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and South Korea, the rest of the film is somewhat underdeveloped, lacking the intensity of Lam’s best work (including his crime films The Stool Pigeon and The Beast Stalker, and his MMA film Unbeatable) despite lots of sweating and emoting. Still, the three male leads (there’s one female featured player who acts mostly as an accessory to the plot) are quite handsome and the movie is a pleasant and painless way to pass the time. Curiously, To The Fore is Hong Kong’s submission for Best Foreign Film in this year’s Oscar sweepstakes, which it doesn’t quite warrant. Maybe someone is hoping for a repeat of the surprise success of Breaking Away all those years ago–
Nov. 14-18, 2015
3290 Sacramento Street
San Francisco CA
So the first time I saw Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s new and much-lauded film The Assassin, which opened this past week across North America, I had just finished a grueling day of teaching, meetings, grant-writing, and other tiring teacherly stuff. I was looking forward to seeing the movie after the huge buzz it gotten after its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival, where Hou won the Best Director award for the film. But when I saw the movie I found myself distinctly underwhelmed, and I found myself shifting in my seat and fighting to stay awake throughout the screening.
Since the movie had gotten such overwhelmingly good notices at Cannes I thought that I should give it a second chance so I watched it again, this time when I was alert and well-rested. Alas, I must be more of a philistine than I thought because once again I found myself nodding off in the middle of the movie and checking the time to gauge how much more I would have to endure.
So what gives? Have I been watching too many Korean gangster movies and Hong Kong action films? Have my tastes become completely crass and commercial? Have I become I so immune to the sensibilities of the finest in world cinema that I can no longer appreciate a great film when it comes along? I’ve sat through and enjoyed more than one multi-hour Lav Diaz extravaganza, I relished Once Upon A Time In Anatolia, and I loved the Mizoguchi retrospective I saw last year, so I know about slow cinema. And I’ve seen and liked past Hou films such as City of Sadness, Flowers of Shanghai, and Millenium Mambo. As an art school survivor I also cut my teeth on experimental film, from Stan Brakhage to Deborah Stratman and beyond, so I know from alternative cinema. So why didn’t The Assassin rock my world?
In some ways The Assassin is one big ol’ experimental narrative, albeit a very high-budget and elaborate one. Like many experimental filmmakers, in The Assassin Hou eschews conventional cinematic language—many of the takes in the film begin or end with thirty or forty seconds of stasis, as characters stand around gazing pensively or fiddling with hair accessories. At times Hou’s camera lingers on a gorgeous stand of trees reflected in a shimmering lake, while at other times it focuses on a goat’s asshole, each image as lovingly framed and lit as the other. Characters monologue at one another, revealing key plot points and explaining intricate court intrigue with theatrical gestures and vocalizations. The costumes are beautiful and ornate, with elaborate facial hair and up-do’s to match. These quirks demonstrate Hou’s intent in deconstructing filmic conventions and shaking up the way we see, or as he notes in a recent interview, his interest in “let(ting) the film go further, always further.” At the same time Hou works within the framework of a familiar genre, the wuxia (loosely translated as martial arts or swordplay) film, to which the viewer brings a certain set of expectations. This is especially true of Western viewers who only know martial arts from a limited type of genre film and who don’t have the knowledge of classical or popular wuxia stories in literature or folklore. So folks who go see The Assassin hoping to see a kick-ass kung fu flick (or even something more thoughtful like Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon) are most likely bound to be disappointed.
I applaud Hou’s audacity in exploding the audience’s expectations but at the same time I was curiously unmoved by the film and found it fairly impenetrable. Sure, it’s pretty to look at but it’s not a huge magnitude more beautiful than, say, your average commercial movie from South Korea, which have pretty much set the standard for cinematic gorgeousness these days. Somehow all of the experimentation in form, combined with miniscule character development and a very slow and deliberate pacing, muffles any visceral effect beyond the film’s immediate visual beauty. That beauty, while laudable, wasn’t enough to sustain my attention for the film’s running time and even after two viewings I remained for the most part unengaged. Still, the film shows much more intelligence and creative curiosity than pretty much all of Hollywood’s output from the past year put together, so if you go into The Assassin with your expectations suspended you may come out of it enlightened in more ways than one.
opens Oct. 23
AMC Metreon in San Francisco
Landmark Clay in San Francisco
Landmark Shattuck in Berkeley
Landmark Guild in Palo Alto
Camera 3 in San Jose
Two one-act plays based on a couple short stories by Filipino American author and Bay Area native Lysley Tenorio are currently up at the American Conservatory Theater’s swanky new black box theater in the old Strand movie house in the mid-Market district. As we hopped off of BART and walked a half block up to the theater I felt like I was in a real city, one with functional public transit and a lively street life, instead of the rapidly sanitizing tech-bro haven that San Francisco is becoming. But I digress–
Both of the one-acts that comprise Monstress are set in the Bay Area, though both are historical pieces. Veteran scribe Philip Kan Gotanda penned the first play, Remember The I-Hotel, and Sean San Jose, former performing arts director of Intersection for the Arts, wrote the second, Presenting . . . the Monstress! Gotanda’s piece begins with a short segment set during the infamous 1977 eviction night at the International Hotel, which all Asian Americanists know was the last bastion of the former ten-block Manilatown just next to downtown San Francisco and abutting Chinatown. Two elderly Filipino tenants, Fortunado (Jomar Tagatac) and Vicente (Ogie Zulueta) prepare to vacate the single-room apartments that have been their homes for more than forty years. As the two shave and dress, they remember their youth in San Francisco back in the 1930s when Fortunado first arrived from the Stockton asparagus fields as a young man and met Vicente at a taxi-dancing joint. The play follows the trajectory of their friendship as they become friends, work together as bellhops at a fancy Nob Hill hotel, and pursue romance and the American dream. Along the way they meet up with a Midwestern girl named Althea (Kelsey Venter) and, as they run up against the harsh and brutal realities of racism, learn the limits of their freedoms in a pre-civil rights U.S.
As always Gotanda has a keen ear for dialog and for the small gestures that create a fully fleshed out character. Vicente and Fortunado’s roles are delineated through their playful banter with each other, the way that Vicente swaggers and shadow-boxes across the stage, and the mournful longing embodied in Fortunado’s glances at his best friend. Though the narrative sticks fairly closely to Tenorio’s original short story, in bringing it to the stage Gotanda enhances some of its small details. For instance, story has a throwaway line about Wisconsonite Althea and Vicente sharing butter and olive sandwiches with one one of their nights out. Gotanda expands this to a short but humorously telling exchange that illustrates the cultural differences between the Filipino characters and the American-born girl.
The sound design of the play is very evocative, anchored by several Tagalog pop songs crooned by a torch singer (Melody Butiu) that punctuate and enhance the dramatic action. Key among those songs is the classic love ballad Da Hil Sayo, which is also included in Curtis Choy’s documentary, The Fall of the I-Hotel. The play also opens and closes with a sound clip from Choy’s film as the voice of one of the activists protesting the I-Hotel eviction warns demonstrators that the police are on the way to the hotel. Gotanda and director Carey Perloff thus link the play’s action to the legendary acts of resistance from the I-Hotel demonstrations, bringing to life the struggles and injustices faced by the first generation manongs who made their home in the I-Hotel. The set of Remember The I-Hotel includes a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows behind which significant action occurs, and the audience is thus reminded of the historical events that took place in 1977 just beyond the walls and down the street from the Strand.
Remember the I-Hotel is a sublime and moving piece of work that, with the expansion of a few dance numbers or songs, could easily become a full-length play. The lead performers are excellent, with Vicente and Fortunado convincingly aging from young and sprightly twenty-year olds to elderly men in their seventies. Lydia Tanji’s 1930s costume design is right on the money, from the sharp tailoring of Vicente’s suits to the flower-print dresses worn by the female characters.
The same cast also appears in the second one-act of the evening, with playwright Sean San Jose taking a lead role. Presenting . . . the Monstress! follows the tale of a low-budget Filipino movie director named Crackers Rosario and his leading lady, Reva Gogo, who specialize in no-budget monster movies. Somehow the pair end up in San Mateo CA collaborating with an Ed Woodian director from the U.S. named Gaz Gazman who has a similar interest in creating cinematic schlock.
Set in the 1970s, Monstress features even more impressive costuming by Lydia Tanji including a powder blue leisure suit, neon green floral shirt and matching lime slacks, and suede platform shoes. The tone of this play is much lighter and more comical than Gotanda’s, with a pair of wisecracking queer Filipino commentators narrating the action. Melody Butiu anchors the play as the wide-eyed Reva who is simultaneously dazzled by and wary of the glamour of low-budget moviemaking in the U.S. Yet despite its wacky flashiness the play ends like I-Hotel with a wistful sense of longing and loneliness and as such the two one-acts complement each other nicely. Both are excellent interpretations of Tenorio’s evocative source material and both are great examples of the talent in the Bay Area Asian American literary and theater arts scenes.
Andy Lau’s latest mainland China vehicle, Saving Mr. Wu, released in the U.S. this weekend with not a lot of fanfare. As far as I can tell it’s the first stateside release from United Entertainment Partners, one of China’s big distribution entities. As noted in the Hollywood Reporter in June 2015, “UEP touts itself as the number-one movie distribution network in China, with the company claiming it covers 90 percent of major cinemas in the country.” That same article noted that longtime Sony executive Steve Bruno joined UEP in June to lead its North America division, which will bring Chinese films to the U.S. and Hollywood films to China. Saving Mr. Wu is its maiden voyage into the North American movie market.
Saving Mr. Wu is a fast-paced, hard-boiled piece of crime filmmaking, with director Ding Sheng, who also serves as witer and editor, moving things along at a rapid clip. The pacing is similar in many ways to classic Hong Kong crime films, with very quick edits and terse dialog interspersed with bursts of action. The film’s cinematography is also evocative, depicting a mostly nighttime 21st century Beijing full of wide boulevards, high-rises buildings, and sleek automobiles.
The film is based on the real-life 2004 kidnapping of well-known Chinese television actor Wu Ruofu (who plays a supporting character in the film), with Andy Lau in the title role. Andy basically plays a fictionalized version of himself, and as such he’s very good at it. Unlike his recent role in Lost and Love, where he played a farmer, here he doesn’t have to hide his preternatural good looks, the fine tailoring of his clothes, or his $500 haircut, which is totally fine. Andy’s real life superstardom also makes the reverence some of the kidnappers exhibit towards him seem genuine, and when he croons a song to comfort his fellow kidnappee, a mournful sad sack who exists mostly to be the kidnappers’ punching bag, the rendition is heartfelt and understated. Wang Qinyuan is also effective as the kidnapping mastermind Zhang, a sneaky sociopath who dreams of a big heist that will lift him out of his petty criminalism. Liu Ye plays against his usual saintly and righteous type (one of his roles was playing a young Mao Zedong in the 2011 propaganda extravaganza Founding of a Party) and manages a bit of swagger as the lead cop on the case. Also excellent is Lam Suet as Mr. Wu’s trusted friend from Wu’s days in the military. Lam makes the most of his considerable bulk and his legacy of menace from many Hong Kong gangster roles to evoke a hard-ass, no-bullshit attitude.
Interestingly enough, unlike many movies that have to run the gauntlet of the PRC’s SAPPRFT censorship boards, the film gestures towards social critique. When Mr. Wu asks Zhang why he leads a life of crime, Zhang replies that the system in China is stacked toward the rich and powerful and that because of cronyism, ordinary joes like himself never have a fighting chance. Later in the film Mr. Wu acknowledges that he owes a lot of his success to luck and good fortune, rather than simply hard work and talent. The film also suggests that such a brazen kidnapping, which takes place in the middle of a crowded nighttime street in Beijing, wouldn’t have been possible in Hong Kong, where there’s a more evident respect for the rule of law.
The film is a bit dense in the details, flashing back and forth across several different time frames, and at time director Ding seems unsure of the strength of his storytelling, most clearly seen in his reliance on unnecessary title cards to identify the many characters big and small who zip rapidly across the screen. But the movie as a whole is well-made, sleek, and tense, with a gritty, realistic feel. Like last year’s excellent Black Coal, Thin Ice, Saving Mr. Wu is another notable addition to the roster of recent film noirs coming out of the PRC.
Saving Mr. Wu
directed by Ding Sheng
Century Daly City
and other locations throughout North America
In an interesting coincidence, two famous Chinese-language film directors have films opening in the U.S. this weekend, but their respective movies might puzzle the casual viewer expecting a certain type of cinematic output from each director. But on closer inspection both movies are in some ways throwbacks to early periods of each director’s filmmaking careers.
Starting with Hero (2002) and continuing through House of Flying Daggers (2002), Curse of the Golden Flower (2006), and The Flowers Of War (2011), Zhang Yimou for the most part in the 21st century made a series of glossy commercial films that have been successful marketed in the West, and he capped off this run of box-office hits by overseeing the much-lauded opening ceremony for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. So viewers who only started following Zhang’s career in the 21st century might think that his oeuvre is all about wire-fu, movie stars, a hypersaturated color palette, and an affinity for spectacle. But Zhang started out in the 1980s as one of the so-called Fifth Generation of Chinese directors who were noted for their realistic styles and politically astute commentary. Often depicting the ordinary lives of peasants in China’s rural countryside and usually starring Gong Li, Zhang’s first several features were poetic ruminations on the effects on everyday people of various types of systematic repression. These movies, including Ju Dou, Red Sorghum, Raise the Red Lantern, and The Story of Qiu Ju, made Zhang the darling of the arthouse film festival set, so it was a bit of a surprise when he busted out with a string of martial-arts fantasies at the turn of the 21st century. But those later films were pretty big at the box office and thus many folks only know Zhang as a director of big-budget spectacles, so it might seem like a surprise that Zhang’s latest film, Coming Home, includes neither martial arts nor brightly colored costumes and sets. Astute observers, however, will realize that the movie actually harkens back to Zhang’s earlier Fifth Generation output from the 1980s and 90s.
Coming Home is a family drama set during and just after the Cultural Revolution in China and is based on the novel The Criminal Lu Yanshi by popular Chinese author Yan Geling (whose novella 13 Flowers of Nanjing was the basis of Zhang’s recent film The Flowers of War). The movie opens as former professor Lu Yanshi (Chen Daoming) surreptitiously arrives back at his town after escaping from a re-education camp. His devoted wife Feng Wanyu (Gong Li) attempts to meet him but is thwarted by the Chinese secret police and Lu is sent back to prison. Lu and Feng’s teenage daughter Dandan (Zhang Huiwen), an aspiring ballerina, resents her dad’s outlaw status since it’s messing with her career plans to play the lead soldier/dancer in the school play, which Zhang drolly depicts as leftist musical featuring dancers en pointe who are wielding rifles in the service of the revolution. Cut to several years later, after the end of the Cultural Revolution in the mid-70s. Lu again returns home but Feng has become addled from either a blow to the head, PTSD, early-onset Alzheimer’s, or a combination of all three, and thus doesn’t recognize him. The film then follows Lu’s attempts to reconcile with the amnesiac Feng.
Coming Home’s muted mis en scene at first seems a million miles away from the brightly colored, glossy sheen of Zhang’s martial arts movies but the film’s meticulous art direction, featuring scuffed walls, dull brick and wooden buildings, and threadbare wool coats and trousers, reflects Zhang’s careful attention to period detail and authenticity. The usually glamorous Gong Li tones down her customary high-wattage gorgeousness to play the dowdy teacher Feng, but in her performance she seems to have acting awards in mind, as she weeps piteously over Lu’s absence, then affects a glassy-eyed dolor to simulate mental confusion. (In fact, Gong was nominated for the first time for Best Actress for Taiwan’s 2014 Golden Horse award but lost out to Chen Shiang-chyi. In glorious diva fashion Gong subsequently pitched a fit, calling the Golden Horse unprofessional and vowing never to attend again.)
Although Gong is a bit off, Chen Daoming right on the money as the long-suffering Lu. His world-weary eyes and sorrowful demeanor speak volumes about Lu’s personal traumas and his experience becomes a metaphor for the human cost of China’s various social and political upheavals. Through Chen’s sensitive and understated performance the film becomes an allegory about the erasure of memory and the amnesia of the Cultural Revolution. In this way the movie hearkens back to director Zhang’s earlier films that focused on political and cultural critique, which preceded his more recent, more commercial output. Zhang also recently released another film set during the Cultural Revolution, Under The Hawthorne Tree, but his next project is the blockbuster Andy Lau-Matt Damon China/US-coproduction action fantasy The Great Wall. So he’s nothing if not versatile—
Also releasing in North America this weekend is the latest from Johnnie To, Office. Like Zhang’s movie, Office at first may seem like an anomaly in its director’s catalog but in fact the film, which is a musical comedy, has a lot in common with To’s past work. Though To is best known in the West for hardboiled crime movies like The Mission, Election, Exiled, and his last film, Drug War, he’s got a much more varied back-catalog than that. To got his start directing at Hong Kong’s television studio TVB and there he directed everything from romances to comedies to martial arts historicals, including the famous period drama The Yang Family Saga. His prolific filmmaking output includes the fantasy action films The Heroic Trio and The Executioners, the comedy farces The Eighth Happiness and The Fun, The Luck, The Tycoon, and Stephen Chow vehicles Justice, My Foot and The Mad Monk. Although his crime films have won him much love among Asian film fanpeople, To’s most commercially successful movies have been romcoms such as Needing You and Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart 1 & 2.
So it’s not as far-fetched as it might initially seem to be that Office is a musical, with all of its leads (except Chow Yun-Fat) singing at least one song in the film. The movie is a typical workplace drama infused with cogent commentary about the crisis of capitalism, The storyline follows two young acolytes at their first days on the job at Jones & Sun, a seemingly innocuous Hong Kong cosmetics company that’s actually in the throes of backstabbing and backroom deals. President Ho (Chow Yun-Fat) has a wife in a coma and Chinese investors knocking at his company’s door, while CEO Cheung Wai (Sylvia Chang) struggles to keep the company’s profits up and its products relevant. Salesman Wong Dawai (Eason Chan) is climbing the corporate ladder and is not averse to using personal relationships, including ones with CEO Cheung as well as fellow office drone Sophie (Tang Wei), in order to advance. Youngsters Kat (Tien Hsin) and Lee Xiang (Wang Ziyi) round out the ensemble.
But despite a stellar cast who admirably perform both acting and singing duties (with Cantopop superstar Eason Chan being the best and Tang Wei the worst among the vocalists), the real star of the show is the astounding art direction and set design by acclaimed veteran William Chang Suk Ping, who has won renown as the production and/or costume designer for innumerable classic Hong Kong films including In The Mood For Love, The Grandmaster, and Dragon Inn. Office was shot completely on a soundstage, with some outdoor scenes simulated via green screen, and Chang’s beautiful, stylized set dictates the mood of the film. Comprised mostly of brightly colored bars and rails, the set resembles a massive, skeletal architectural cage that encloses the action and the characters and lends a hermetically sealed, slightly claustrophobic feel to the film. The artificial staginess of the movie, with its simulated spaces and multiple levels of activity, recalls a Broadway musical more than a movie musical, with the set dominated by a huge, slowly revolving clockface. No pretense of realism is made in the film’s use of space, color, and structural elements, which adds to the knowing fakery of the movie’s design.
Despite To being the titular director, the film displays the strong influence of Sylvia Chang, who wrote and produced the film as well as playing the lead as CEO Cheung Wai, and who has an impressive resume as the director of films such as Tempting Heart (1999), 20 30 40 (2004), and Murmurs of the Heart (2014). Chang’s hand is clearly evident in the narrative’s complex personal relationships and its focus on the collateral damage of corporate machinations. To’s romcom background also comes the fore as the movie’s love hexangle recalls the similarly structured romantic entanglement in his 2014 movie Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart 2.
The weakest element of the movie’s musical conceit is its curious lack of interesting choreography. Despite taking place on a boldly designed stage set that cries out for equally bold movement through and across it, the movement during the musical numbers is surprisingly limited. The action during the songs in Office consists of mostly of synchronized head nods and a few characters walking in rhythm together. Office could stand to take a few lessons from Bollywood musicals, whose song and dance numbers fill every inch of the frame with dynamic, kinetic movement.
But all in all, the movie is a fascinating beast that promises to be brilliant up on the big screen. After first seeing in via online screener with tiny white subtitles I’m looking forward to watching it again in a movie theater where it belongs, and so should everyone, in my humble opinion.
dir. Zhang Yimou
opens Fri. Sept. 18
dir. Johnnie To
opens Fri. Sept, 18, 2015
Oliver Wang’s new book Legions of Boom: Filipino American Mobile DJ Crews in the San Francisco Bay Area, dropped recently, looking at the history of an influential yet largely forgotten music and party scene from the 1970s-90s. As someone who was a high school student in the Bay during that time I really enjoyed the book—my older sister regularly attended Chinese American parties in the 70s and 80s that ran on a track parallel to the Filipino American scene and as an underage kid I snuck into the legendary Studio West disco after hours, not unlike some of the folks discussed in the book. So just on nostalgia alone the book appealed to me.
But nostalgia aside, Legions of Boom is notable for several other reasons. Wang does a great job analyzing the mobile DJ scene in relation to Filipino American immigration and demographics, as well as exploring the importance of sociological elements, such as the ubiquity of the Filipino American garage party, on the development of the scene. Wang also explains the critical importance of the introduction of beat-matching in the DJ scene, which led to DJs being able to more effectively control the mood and tempo of the dance floor. Wang also looks at the influence of gender roles in the Filipino American community on the mobile scene. For instance, he points out that many Filipino families from the East Bay suburbs didn’t allow their teenage daughters to go to parties across the Bay Bridge, a simple yet significant proscription that might have contributed to the lack of female participation in most mobile DJ crews. All in all, the book is a detailed and thoughtful look at the roots and outcomes of the mobile scene.
I had a chance to talk with Oliver Wang about the book in advance of its upcoming book release party in Oakland on Sept. 19.
BA: So as you know I really enjoyed this book for several reasons, not the least being that I’m a native of the Bay of a certain age. Can you talk about the genesis of the book from your perspective?
OW: I lived in the Bay Area from 1990 until 2006 and by the mid-90s, I was a DJ, a music journalist and just starting graduate school. This was in the immediate wake of Bay Area Filipino DJs like Q-Bert, Apollo, Mixmaster Mike, Shortkut, etc. being hailed as the best in the world and there was a natural curiosity for me – especially as an Asian American – to understand “why Filipino DJs? Why the Bay?”
As I had the opportunity to interview them for stories and what not, the common “origin” story they all told was that before they got involved in scratch DJing, they were all members of different mobile crews. That’s how I first learned that the mobile scene ever existed and while there was a lot being written about scratch DJs, there was almost nothing being written about the mobile DJs. As a journalist and scholar, the fact that this seemed underreported gave me the idea to dig deeper.
BA: When you talked to Qbert et al were they surprised when you said you’d never heard of the mobile DJ scene or had it faded from a lot of people’s minds by then?
OW: The scene never had a formal “end”…it just faded away over the course of the early 1990s as many crews simply ceased to exist and more nightclubs were hiring DJs vs. crews throwing parties.
BA: I think you talk about that demise pretty extensively in the book, as well as the rise of the scratch scene, which you discuss in an interesting way. I like that you break it down as the mobile crews being more collective while the turntablists tended to be more individualistic, if I can put a very reductionist spin on it. Can you talk a bit more about what you think this says about celebrity culture in the US?
OW: Hmm…I wouldn’t frame it in that way (but that shouldn’t stop anyone from making that argument if they’re so inclined). Scratch crews were more collective partially because the reason a crew formed was largely informed by the need for labor in helping to move and setup equipment. Obviously, the fulfilled other needs, especially social, but at the core, the DJ group/crew existed in the mobile years because they provided a necessary service to DJs.
Once nightclubs and radio stations began poaching individual DJs, the need for labor disappeared since those venues already have equipment. Now, all a DJ needed to tote was a few crates of records – if that – and they didn’t have to split the DJ fee five different ways or whatever else. So I do think the crews were victims of their own success insofar as the more prominent they were as crews meant that their DJs were also more likely to get poached away, thereby reducing the need for the crew itself to still exist. I suppose there’s some aspect of celebrity culture there – most crews didn’t have room for more than 2 or 3 DJs to be in rotation which meant that everyone else was in a support role and therefore not the center of attention. Scratch DJing, I think, was partially appealing because in a scratch crew, everyone can be a DJ and shine on their own. But to be clear, there’s many reasons why the scene faded; we’re just mentioning a couple here.
BA: Which is why folks need to read your book! Anyways, on a slightly different subject, you mentioned that you were also a journalist as well as a scholar. The book is really a good read not only for the info it contains but for the ease of understanding complex subjects and old fashioned “good” writing. How did your extensive journalistic work inform the creation of the book?
OW: I think I tend to approach researching a story vs. academic research the same insofar as if I’m trying to interview people, I apply the same basic skill-sets regardless of what the final purpose is for. So I don’t think I interview anyone “as a journalist” vs. “ as a researcher.” In my mind, I’m just interviewing someone. Where the influence comes in is around the writing. I want to create some kind of narrative. I definitely want my writing to be legible to scholars but also to a broader public and that was certainly something that, as a journalist, was very important to me.
BA: Going a bit further into that, recently there’s been some great writing in online forums about pretty deep and timely topics by folks who might in the past been considered scholars or academics. What do you think the effect of people like Ta Nehisi Coates and so forth having their work out there on HuffPost has been–as far as impacting popular as well as scholarly discourse? Sorry to veer off topic–
OW: I think what’s interesting is that we’re in the midst of a time where the idea of who/what being a “public intellectual” is being constantly negotiated and transformed. Partially, I think that’s because the language and ideas of critical theory, especially around race, gender, sexuality, etc., have crossed out of the academy and are now part of the lexicon for people who may not be academics in profession but are conversant in the language regardless. And meanwhile, you have a generation of young scholars who want a greater presence in the public sphere so they write op-eds or they appear on talk shows while publications like the Chronicle of Higher Education or personal blogs and the like facilitate the blurring of those borders.
On the one hand, it feels comforting – as someone who has always straddled both worlds – to see others who move comfortably between them. But it’s also accompanied by a general increase in volume, by which I mean both the amount of discourse we’re exposed to as well as the figurative loudness of it all. It’s important and necessary to have more voices out there but that also leads to much of it blending into static and the ability to filter through all that noise becomes a daily challenge, especially when you spend enough time on social media. Scholars and journalists alike seem constantly seduced by “hot take” culture. I’m probably guilty of that myself though.
BA: So the question being begged is, do you consider yourself a public intellectual? Or would you want to be considered as such?
OW: I always thought that “public intellectual” was a label that others described you as but not something you either aspire to or self-describe as…unless you want to be seen as pretentious and gassed up on yourself. I had a colleague once describe me as “a writer who teaches” and that felt about right; I’m 100% ok with that particular label.
BA: So when you were writing for music pubs back in the day did you envision yourself a prof or the author of an academic book about DJing? Or has that evolved over the years? I’m asking since I know a lot of younger folks think that their destinies are carved in stone when they are 21 and sometimes don’t realize the changes that occur on a regular basis throughout a career or a life.
OW: No. When I applied to graduate school, I’m almost certain I didn’t put anything in my application about studying popular culture – let alone music. I think I wrote something vague about “identity formation” or the like but back then, I tended to compartmentalize my various interests – writing, DJing, scholarship – rather than seeing them as related parts of a greater whole.
Part of it was that Asian American Studies then (and now, to a lesser extent) didn’t seem to strongly embrace the study of popular culture. My work always felt marginal from the “center” of the discipline, especially when I started to go to the annual conferences and I could literally count the number of papers on Asian American music on a single hand. It’s gotten (somewhat) better but I’m still amazed (and not in a good way) at how relatively little pop culture scholarship exists within Asian American Studies in comparison to African American or Latino Studies. It’s insane to me that in 2015, no one’s written a book about Asian American car culture! My father-in-law is a sansei from L.A. and he and his buddies were modifying and racing cars back in the 1950s and ‘60s and I grew up during the Asian import scene of the 1990s that helped give birth to some of what you see in the Fast and Furious franchise. At some point, I hope someone writes a book about Asian American dance crews. Or garage bands. Or Youtube videomakers. Or…you get the idea. A friend once joked there’s more books about Asian American literature than there are Asian Americans writing literature. I get how that works – certain cultural forms are embraced and given legitimacy in the academy vs. others and as someone else pointed out to me, if you’re Asian American and really interested in popular culture, you’re more likely to pursue that interest by making culture vs. studying it. But still, there’s so much work to be done around how Asian Americans engage with popular culture. Maybe my daughter’s generation will be the one who finally brings balance to The Force.
BA: (insert snark here about model minorities and tiger moms)
That’s funny b/c I was going to ask you if and how your training in Ethnic Studies and AA Studies informed your work.
OW: My grounding in ES and AAS certainly informed how I thought about race, identity, community, etc. but when it came to thinking about applying those theories and ideas to popular culture, it was largely scholars outside of AAS who I turned to, whether George Lipsitz or Robin Kelley or bell hooks, etc. I owe big thanks to Deborah Wong because the fact that she was studying Asian American popular music had a huge impact in knowing that such a thing was possible and “legitimate.” And Michael Omi, who was my advisor in grad school, was always supportive of my interests even if his own background wasn’t in pop culture studies. I also think if I didn’t have an outlet for those ideas – as a cultural journalist/critic – I might have felt more alienated in graduate school as a result but one of the benefits in being invested in both activities was that each served, in a way, as a release valve from the pressures of the other.
BA: Multitasking as holistic healing
OW: Ha, something like that. One of the best pieces of advice I ever got about being an academic came from Elaine Kim who told me, early in my graduate school days, that when she was in grad school, she a young single mom and that it kept her grounded in a healthy reality outside of the academy. I always took that to heart: be committed to your work but don’t make it your sole world and nearly 20 years later, I still try to follow that adivce.
It helps to have other responsibilities in life to distract you from your primary obsessions.
BA: Getting back to the book, your subject matter is from the late 20th century–what’s it’s relevance now to the Fil Am and As Am community? Does the mobile DJ scene still live on?
OW: There are still mobile DJs out there, no question (including a handful of crews that have survived since the 1980s) but the scene doesn’t exist any more; it hasn’t for about 20 years.
The “relevance” question is hard to answer for me because I never set out to study it with the idea that I had to prove its relevance to the current day. To me, the fact that it was this important phenomenon that few people outside of the scene knew about…that was reason enough to write a book about it. I’ll leave it to others to discuss how they see that history fitting into the current day but for me, the main takeaway is that young people can and will create remarkable things if given the right incentives and support.
BA: Since the book dropped a few months ago what has the reception been like, among scholars, people from the mobile DJ scene, the general public, etc?
OW: It’s been good! My favorite part is that at all the readings/events I’ve done, there’s been respondents who’ve come through and I’ve invited them to talk about their experiences directly to the audience. To me, that just makes sense: my primary sources are literally in the room.
The one thing that amuses me though is how so many people think my book is about Filipinos and hip-hop when I even say, in the book, explicitly, “this is not a book about Filipinos and hip-hop.” But as I also write in there, the reason people make that conflation is largely because Filipino Americans became such a vital part of hip-hop culture, they just assume the two things go hand-in-hand. That’s partially a legacy of the mobile scene.
BA: How has that been for you to see the response to your years of research and writing?
OW: I wish I could have gotten it out sooner but that’s a common academic’s lament. What’s been great to see is that I’ve heard of at least 3-4 different parties interested in creating a documentary around parts of this history. My hope has always been that if the book has any impact, it’s to encourage more people to explore all the aspects of this scene I wasn’t able to cover. Legions of Boom was never intended to be a comprehensive history. It’s an introduction at best but there’s so much more to that community and its scene to explore and document.
BA: Who’s organizing the book party and will some of the folks from the book be spinning? And will you take a turn?
OW: Francisco Pardorla, who helped lead the Images crew out of Union City/Fremont and was one of the main people behind the successful AA Productions (arguably the second biggest promoter in the scene behind Imagine), is throwing the “official” Bay Area book release party. He’s bringing out all manners of O.G. DJs from the scene. I don’t know if I’ll take a turn or not – I wasn’t spinning in the ‘80s! It’s just an honor to be in the company of the greats.
BA: And what kind of crowd do you think will show up?
It’s going to be a lot of the OGs from the scene plus their family. Should be a fun reunion night in that regard.
Saturday Sept. 19, 2015
581 5th Street
Oakland CA 94607