- Yellow Earth - Chen Kaige (1984)
- Red Sorghum - Zhang Yimou (1987)
- Ju Dou - Zhang Yimou & Yang Fengliang (1990)
- Raise the Red Lantern - Zhang Yimou (1991)
- To Live - Zhang Yimou (1994)
- Shanghai Triad - Zhang Yimou (1995)
- Not One Less - Zhang Yimou (1999)
- The Road Home - Zhang Yimou (1999)
- Happy Times - Zhang Yimou (2000)
- Hero - Zhang Yimou (2002)
- House of Flying Daggers - Zhang Yimou (2004)
- Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles - Zhang Yimou (2005)
- Curse of the Golden Flower - Zhang Yimou (2006)
- Coming Home - Zhang Yimou (2014)
Zhang Yimou
Films of Zhang Yimou:
“Hero” - Zhang Yimou (2002)
The wind blows.
The river is cold.
The hero sets forth.
He may never return.
The hero sets forth.
He may never return.
So, famously wrote the legendary Chinese hero Jīng Kē some 2200 years ago, prior to setting out on his mission to assassinate the ruthless King Ying Zheng of Qin (later the first emperor, Qin Shi Huang). Throughout Chinese cultural history Jing Ke has
been an inspirational symbol of individual heroism, just as King Zheng has been the iconic representative of Chinese totalitarian collectivism. Ever since then, their confrontation has offered an ideal artistic metaphor for China’s writers and artists to examine the nature of Chinese social organization. Zhang Yimou, the preeminent filmmaker of China, was one of the more recent artists to seize this opportunity when he made Hero (Yīng Xióng, 2002). Though his film was an immediate commercial and critical success as an action/adventure wuxia thriller, what is of interest here is Zhang’s rather problematic perspective on the issues raised by Jing Ke’s story.
Zhang Yimou began his film career by entering the cinematography section of the Beijing Film Institute when it was reopened in 1978 after the depredations of the “Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution” (1966-1976). He was graduated in 1982, along with fellow classmate Chen Kaige, who was in the director section, and Zhang then worked as the cinematographer on two of Chen’s first films, Yellow Earth (Huang Tu Di, 1984) and The Big Parade (Da Yue Bing, 1986), before launching his own directorial career that led to a string of artistic successes in the 1990s. All of Zhang’s film productions during this period evinced an exquisite existentialist vision of the struggle to find fulfilment in a changing world, and the effect was invariably accentuated by Zhang’s technical virtuosity of visual expression. A common theme to these films was the notion of an individual protagonist, usually a woman, struggling to make her way in turbulent social circumstances. Within this broad scheme there were basically two stylistic categories:
But there seems to have been something more to this change of direction than simply seizing the opportunity to make big-budget epics. Zhang Yimou’s Hero displays a striking, even disturbing, shift in his thematic perspective. And I would speculate that this shift on the part of Zhang may have been influenced less by general interests in expanding his repertoire and more by the felt need to respond to the work of his former partner (and perhaps now rival), Chen Kaige. It must be noted that Chen had quickly started working with Gong Li, Zhang’s former romantic partner and leading lady, as soon as they had split up in 1995. She had been Chen’s female lead in Temptress Moon (Fēng Yuè, 1995) and in The Emperor and the Assassin (Jīng Kē Cì Qín Wáng, 1999). We should also note that The Emperor and the Assassin was based on the very same theme of Jīng Kē’s historic assassination attempt that appears (in somewhat altered form) i
n Hero. Before discussing these general issues, though, it is appropriate to take a closer look at Zhang’s Hero. First, I will review Zhang Yimou’s basic story as presented, and then look at the film along the four dimensions of (1) cinematography and mise-en-scène, (2) narrative structure, (3) wuxia action, and (4) thematic content. In my opinion, Hero, despite its enormous financial success ($180 million in gross revenues) and the critical accolades that it has received, suffers from fundamental failures along three of these dimensions.
Before considering the Hero narrative, it is worth referencing the original quasi-mythic story of Jing Ke (which is fairly closely adhered to in Chen Kaige’s The Emperor and the Assassin). In that original story Jing Ke managed to persuade an out-of-favor Qin army general whose head was up for ransom to commit suicide so that Jing could get permission to closely approach the Qin king with his severed head. Jing Ke then did indeed get his fateful audience with the brutal king, but when he thrust his dagger at the king, he missed, and after a violent struggle, he was killed.
In Hero, the story is elaborated with a number of additional characters on the assassin’s side:
1. Cinematography and Mise-en-scène
The cinematography in Hero, credited to Christopher Doyle, although certainly Zhang Yimou had a serious hand in this area, is spectacular throughout. The Australian D
oyle achieved fame as Wong Kar Wai’s customary cinematographer, and Wong’s open-ended narrative style has given Doyle the latitude to explore and display his enormous talents in cinematic expressiveness. In some ways, in fact, Doyle could be considered to be a co-creator of Wong’s fascinating and moody filmic creations. Doyle was also the cinematographer of some other noteworthy films, including Chen Kaige’s Temptress Moon and Lau’s and Man’s Infernal Affairs (2002). Putting Doyle together with Zhang Yimou on a film is a dream combination.
There are many spectacularly composed presentations: the atmospheric shots of lone warriors riding across desolate landscapes, the shots of the famous Guilin area, the magnificently composed shots of imperial armies waving colored flags and marching in ominous processions. The stories of Nameless, King Zheng, and Broken Sword are presented with individual color motifs that convey a dreamlike feeling to the tales. Nameless’s first stories are told with yellow and red motifs, while King Zheng’s version of the events have a blue motif. Broken Sword’s final story has a green motif, and Nameless’s final encounter with King Zheng is essentially in white and black.
In short, the cinematography and mise-en-scène in the film are the most successful aspects and are probably primarily responsible for the popularity of the film. But given the deficiencies of the story, these pleasures are ephemeral. The dynamic nature of the cinematography means that it does offer more than just picture postcards, but narrative and thematic substance are the real core values of any truly successful film. The dynamic visual expression on display in Hero is diverting, but that is not enough.
2. Narrative Structure
As a narrative, there a number of things fundamentally wrong with Hero. The various stories presented do not fit together into a coherent whole. This problem is aggravated by the various interruptions that take place so that the numerous sword fights can be conducted. In particular, the sword fight between Nameless and Broken Sword that takes place over the lake after Flying Snow’s death is part of the king’s imaginings of what happened, and this is narratively implausible. Even granting poetic license characteristic of this genre, there is no justification for the king to fantasize about this confronation.
In addition, the roles of key players are inconsistent across the various stories, and they do not present believable characters.
3. Wuxia Action
As I have remarked elsewhere in connection with John Woo’s Red Cliff, the Hong Kong martial arts chop fooey (also known as “wire fu”) style is inspired by computer gam
ing environments and greatly diminishes the sense of reality and immediacy to a film. With various characters able to fly about by merely pointing their fingers, we are talking about another reality, in which the meaningful interactions with which we are familiar are probably meaningless. These wuxia action interruptions, the "FWSFs" described above, are ultimately ludicrous to behold, although one must acknowledge that a considerable degree of effort must have gone into realizing these effects for the screen. My criticism in this respect applies, by the way, equally much to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. In that film there were actually some potentially interesting character relationships, but they were undermined by the excessive degree of wire-fu histrionics. These “magical” effects apparently please the adolescent audiences who spend so much time in vicarious experiences of electronic media that they have only a blurred ability to engage in real authentic interactions.
4. Thematic Content
My biggest concern and disappointment with Hero, however, is concerned with the thematic content. The message that Zhang Yimou delivers in this film is that totalitarian statism is necessary to ensure peace and “unity”. This kind of propaganda may square well with ego-driven Chinese chauvinists concerned about national pride, but it is more a reflection of insecurity than of confidence. The stridency of such a position does not fit with Zhang Yimou’s earlier films, which evoked compassionate sympathies for the everyday feelings, yearnings, and loves of ordinary people.
Ruthless totalitarian dictatorships invariably attempt to justify themselves by claiming that they are the only bulwark against an even worse condition: chaos and anarchy. It is true that given such exclusive either-or alternatives, one may accept the preferability of one unsavory option to the other – thus Saddam Hussein’s depredations in Iraq may well have been preferable to the brutal violence that has since ensued. But such evaluations render neither Hussein’s government nor that of Qin Shi Huang (Ying Zheng) as ultimately desirable, and the either-
or proposition should not be accepted as the only possibility.
The controversial reign of Qin Shi Huang is always viewed in the context of the Chinese Warring States Period (476 BCE - 221 BCE), during which the original Zhou dynasty had broken up into separate states, which by the end of that period had coalesced into seven mutually contesting regional states. During that period many contemporary commentators bemoaned the disunity of China and were severely pessimistic about the future. They felt that China had fallen onto evil times. Even before this time, and ever since, Chinese writers have longed for national unity that could bring harmony “under heaven”. Thus apologists for Qin Shi Huang, such as Zhang Yimou in Hero, will argue that compromising with the demands of such a leader was (and apparently always is) necessary for the “national interests”.
But this is only one side of the story. In fact, the Warring States Period was one of the most fertile and productive eras in Chinese history [1]. There were major, in fact world-leading, scientific and technical innovations made. Intellectual ferment was at its highest and led to the emergence of the “100 Hundred Schools of Thought”, that included Daoism, Confucianism, and Legalism. The economy flourished, and as a consequence, the population greatly expanded during this period. Although there were inter-state wars, these were, until the latter stages of the era, mostly undertaken by professional armies and were not so devastating to the general population as later wars were. When Qin Shi Huang closed the period and established his police state, he put an end to all this creative development.
Examining at a 2200-year distance the balance sheet of the reign of Qin Shi Huang reveals some stark results. On the presumed positive side, his reign led to
This brings us back to how we may interpret Zhang Yimou’s perspective on these issues. It is disappointing that almost all of my own Chinese friends and associates regard Hero as Zhang’s best film, and specifically because of its political message of sacrifice to the national cause above all other considerations of human compassion and fulfilment. They don’t like to see films that may show China in a "weak" light and thereby reduce its prestige. For them the semantic understanding of the prhase “Tiān Xià” seems to carry m
ore of the national chauvinistic intent of “Our Land” (with an emphasis on "our", as opposed to "your") than the traditional Chinese understanding of simply “everything under heaven”. This concern for national pride on Zhang’s part may also be reflected in what happened in 1999 when he withdrew his submitted films to the Cannes Film Festival, The Road Home and Not One Less, because he reportedly felt that his films were invariably being judged on political grounds that suggested criticism of China [4,5].
Or maybe not – maybe the strident undertone of Zhang Yimou's Hero was only temporary, a hiccup. When he later produced the opera, “The First Emperor”, in 2006, which was also about Qin Shi Huang, the theme of the opera was highly critical with respect to its subject. And his Curse of the Golden Flower (Man Cheng Jin Dai Huang Jin Jia, 2006) was another artistic turn altogether at the grandiose historical epic – on that occasion Zhang Yimou gave us something that was darker and much deeper than his two preceding epics.
★★
Notes:
been an inspirational symbol of individual heroism, just as King Zheng has been the iconic representative of Chinese totalitarian collectivism. Ever since then, their confrontation has offered an ideal artistic metaphor for China’s writers and artists to examine the nature of Chinese social organization. Zhang Yimou, the preeminent filmmaker of China, was one of the more recent artists to seize this opportunity when he made Hero (Yīng Xióng, 2002). Though his film was an immediate commercial and critical success as an action/adventure wuxia thriller, what is of interest here is Zhang’s rather problematic perspective on the issues raised by Jing Ke’s story.Zhang Yimou began his film career by entering the cinematography section of the Beijing Film Institute when it was reopened in 1978 after the depredations of the “Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution” (1966-1976). He was graduated in 1982, along with fellow classmate Chen Kaige, who was in the director section, and Zhang then worked as the cinematographer on two of Chen’s first films, Yellow Earth (Huang Tu Di, 1984) and The Big Parade (Da Yue Bing, 1986), before launching his own directorial career that led to a string of artistic successes in the 1990s. All of Zhang’s film productions during this period evinced an exquisite existentialist vision of the struggle to find fulfilment in a changing world, and the effect was invariably accentuated by Zhang’s technical virtuosity of visual expression. A common theme to these films was the notion of an individual protagonist, usually a woman, struggling to make her way in turbulent social circumstances. Within this broad scheme there were basically two stylistic categories:
- Carefully staged and orchestrated historical dramas situated in richly colored, atmospheric environments. These explicitly expressionistic films feature professional casts, and they include Jú Dòu (1990), Raise the Red Lantern, (Dà Hóng Dēnglóng Gāo Gāo Guà, 1991), To Live (Huózhe, 1994), and Shanghai Triad (Yáo A Yáo, Yáo Dào Wàipó Qiáo, 1995).
- More open, naturalistic dramas mostly set in the present day, often featuring a largely nonprofessional cast. These include The Story of Qiu Ju (Qiū Jú Da Guān Sī, 1992), The Road Home (Wŏ De Fù Qīn Mŭ Qīn, 1999), Not One Less (Yí Ge Dōu Bù Néng Shāo, 1999), and Happy Times (Xìngfú Shíguāng, 2000).
But there seems to have been something more to this change of direction than simply seizing the opportunity to make big-budget epics. Zhang Yimou’s Hero displays a striking, even disturbing, shift in his thematic perspective. And I would speculate that this shift on the part of Zhang may have been influenced less by general interests in expanding his repertoire and more by the felt need to respond to the work of his former partner (and perhaps now rival), Chen Kaige. It must be noted that Chen had quickly started working with Gong Li, Zhang’s former romantic partner and leading lady, as soon as they had split up in 1995. She had been Chen’s female lead in Temptress Moon (Fēng Yuè, 1995) and in The Emperor and the Assassin (Jīng Kē Cì Qín Wáng, 1999). We should also note that The Emperor and the Assassin was based on the very same theme of Jīng Kē’s historic assassination attempt that appears (in somewhat altered form) i
n Hero. Before discussing these general issues, though, it is appropriate to take a closer look at Zhang’s Hero. First, I will review Zhang Yimou’s basic story as presented, and then look at the film along the four dimensions of (1) cinematography and mise-en-scène, (2) narrative structure, (3) wuxia action, and (4) thematic content. In my opinion, Hero, despite its enormous financial success ($180 million in gross revenues) and the critical accolades that it has received, suffers from fundamental failures along three of these dimensions.Before considering the Hero narrative, it is worth referencing the original quasi-mythic story of Jing Ke (which is fairly closely adhered to in Chen Kaige’s The Emperor and the Assassin). In that original story Jing Ke managed to persuade an out-of-favor Qin army general whose head was up for ransom to commit suicide so that Jing could get permission to closely approach the Qin king with his severed head. Jing Ke then did indeed get his fateful audience with the brutal king, but when he thrust his dagger at the king, he missed, and after a violent struggle, he was killed.
In Hero, the story is elaborated with a number of additional characters on the assassin’s side:
- Nameless (played by Jet Li) is the Jing Ke character from the Zhao kingdom, but he is only known as “Nameless”, and the name "Jing Ke" is never referenced.
- Broken Sword (played by Tony Leung Chiu-Wai) is an accomplished swordsman and student of calligraphy who has previously attacked the Qin king and is a wanted man. He is the lover of Flying Snow.
- Flying Snow (played by Maggie Cheung) is the daughter of a killed Zhao general, and she has sworn to avenge her father’s death and kill the king of Qin. She is also an accomplished swordsperson and is the lover of Broken Sword.
- Sky (played by Donnie Yen) is famous in both the use of swords and spears and has previously tried to kill the King of Qin.
- Moon (played by Zhang Ziyi) is Broken Sword’s loyal (and beautiful) attendant and apprentice.
- Nameless Comes to Qin (16 minutes). Nameless comes to the Qin palace with great fanfare, since he bears proof that he just killed King Zheng’s three most feared enemies: Sky, Broken Sword, and Flying Snow. Normally everyone must remain at least 100 paces distant from the king, but when the proof of Sky’s death is presented, Nameless is allowed to approach within 20 paces. He then begins telling his tale, which we could call Story #1. Nameless relates that Sky had spent an amorous night with Flyling Snow, which had caused a jealous rift between Broken Sword and Flying Snow. He says that he set about the task of killing Sky as a prelude to approaching the two sulking lovers. After a confrontation with Sky at a gaming parlor, they engage in an elaborate sword fight (call this “Flying Wuxia Sword Fight #1" – FWSF1), which results in Sky’s death. Upon hearing this, King Zheng allows Nameless to approach within 10 paces.
- Story of Broken Sword and Flying Snow (25 minutes). Nameless now relates in Story #2 how he killed the other two. Since Broken Sword is a st
udent of calligraphy (and believes that the art of swordsmanship is intrinsically linked to calligraphy), Nameless approaches Broken Sword at the calligraphy academy and requests instruction concerning a new secret way of writing the character for ‘sword’, for which there are already 19 conventional ways of writing it in various parts of China. Upon hearing this tale of such a multiplicity of ways of writing a single character, the king interrupts Nameless’s story and proclaims that he will someday establish a single written language for China in order to end this confusion. Thematically this is important, because it is one of the so-called contributions of the first emperor: he did indeed establish such a unified written language and thereby helped unify the land. Then Nameless continues his story. First an elaborate battle in defense of the calligraphy school from an attack by Qin army soldiers (FWSF2) is depicted, after which Nameless informs Broken Sword and Flying Snow of Sky’s death and of Sky’s wish for his lover and soulmate, Flying Snow, to avenge his death by engaging in a duel with Nameless. Jealous from hearing the news of Sky’s passion for his beloved Flying Snow, Broken Sword then rips the clothes off his maiden, Moon, and makes passionate love to her in front of Flying Snow. Although this love scene is brief, it is artistically suggestive and filled with 
passionate moans of lovemaking. Flying Snow then kills Broken Sword out of jealousy and is then physically, but unsuccessfully, attacked by Moon, in a swirling display of female swordplay (FWSF3). In the duel the next day, the still-grieving Flying Snow is no match for Nameless and she is quickly killed. So the outcomes of Nameless’s stories #1 and #2 are that Sky, Broken Sword, and Flying Snow are all dead. - King Zheng’s Version of the Events (16 minutes). King Zheng doesn’t buy for a minute Nameless’s two stories of what happened. He surmises that Nameless must have practiced and perfected some sort of invincible swordsmanship move so that he could kill the king from a distance of 10 paces, and that he needed to kill either Broken Sword or Flying Snow in order to provide him with permission to approach that closely to the king. Then the king’s version of what he thinks really happened is visualized (Story #3). Flying Snow first wounds Broken Sword so that she, alone, will be the one to sacrifice herself (so that with such evidence Nameless will be able to approach the king). Then Nameless and Flying Snow engage in some swordplay that is witnessed by Qin army troops (FWSF4), which ends in Snow’s death. Then Nameless and Broken Sword engage in another flight (FWSF5) that involves flying picturesquely over a lake. The king’s story comes to an end, and he concedes that with all other armed personnel kept more than 100 paces away from him, Nameless is now too close to be thwarted by the king's guards and is in perfect position to carry out his assassination. So the outcome of this story #3 is that Sky and Flying Snow are dead.
- Nameless Gives Another Account (19 minutes). Nameless concedes that the king’s version of events is partially correct and that he has perfected a move that can kill the king at a distance of 10 paces. But now that he is position to kill the king, he hesitates, and the king asks why. Nameless now says he will explain what really happened, and so he launches into Story #4. First Nameless points out that earlier he had, after long practice, acquired the skill of being able to stab someone with his sword with such accuracy that it would miss all the vital organs and not kill his victim. Thus when he had bested Sky, he had injured him, but had not killed him. Subsequently, when Nameless approached Broken Sword and Flying Snow with his plan to kill the king, Broken Sword did agree that Nameless’s plan could work, but, paradoxically, he insisted that the king of Qin must not be killed. After some more random, showy violence involving Flying Snow, Broken Sword, Nameless, and Moon, Broken Sword is moved to explain why the king must not be killed. He relates (in what we could call Story #5, within Story #4) how, three years earlier, he and Flying Snow had attacked the king’s palace (FWSF6) and had been in the position of finishing off the king. But just then Broken Sword had an insight, based on his training in calligraphy, and realized that the king must not be killed. When Nameless asks for an explanation, Broken Sword writes the characters in the sand, “Tiān X
ià”, which is usually understood to mean “all under heaven”, but which is translated in the subtitles as “Our Land”. The outcome of Story #4 is that Sky, Broken Sword, and Flying Snow are all still alive (thanks to Nameless’s uncannily accurate swordsmanship). - The Denouement (17 minutes). Nameless now asserts that he finally agrees with Broken Sword that the king must not be killed, and he says to the king, “only your majesty has the power to bring peace by uniting our land.” At the same time the king, who has turned his back on Nameless in a stoic posture of awaiting his execution, contemplates Broken Sword’s calligraphy and surmises that it symbolically signifies that the “sword” should be united with the “heart” and turned to good. The warrior should embrace all around him and ultimately lose his desire to kill. Meanwhile the scene shifts to the distance, where Flying Snow is signaled by a messenger that the assassination attempt has been unsuccessful. Accusing Broken Sword of having seduced Nameless onto the wrong path, Flying Snow challenges him to a duel, in the event of which (FWSF7) Broken Sword drops his sword and allows Flying Snow to kill him. Grief stricken, Flying Snow then kills herself in order to be with Broken Sword in the “after life”. Then, back at the palace, the guards exhort the king to kill Nameless: “if our land is to be united, then this person must be made an example of” (i.e. executed). The king, in his weakness, accepts this verdict and orders the execution, which ends Nameless’s life. The outcome here, finally, is that Broken Sword, Flying Snow, and Nameless are all dead.
1. Cinematography and Mise-en-scène
The cinematography in Hero, credited to Christopher Doyle, although certainly Zhang Yimou had a serious hand in this area, is spectacular throughout. The Australian D
oyle achieved fame as Wong Kar Wai’s customary cinematographer, and Wong’s open-ended narrative style has given Doyle the latitude to explore and display his enormous talents in cinematic expressiveness. In some ways, in fact, Doyle could be considered to be a co-creator of Wong’s fascinating and moody filmic creations. Doyle was also the cinematographer of some other noteworthy films, including Chen Kaige’s Temptress Moon and Lau’s and Man’s Infernal Affairs (2002). Putting Doyle together with Zhang Yimou on a film is a dream combination.There are many spectacularly composed presentations: the atmospheric shots of lone warriors riding across desolate landscapes, the shots of the famous Guilin area, the magnificently composed shots of imperial armies waving colored flags and marching in ominous processions. The stories of Nameless, King Zheng, and Broken Sword are presented with individual color motifs that convey a dreamlike feeling to the tales. Nameless’s first stories are told with yellow and red motifs, while King Zheng’s version of the events have a blue motif. Broken Sword’s final story has a green motif, and Nameless’s final encounter with King Zheng is essentially in white and black.
In short, the cinematography and mise-en-scène in the film are the most successful aspects and are probably primarily responsible for the popularity of the film. But given the deficiencies of the story, these pleasures are ephemeral. The dynamic nature of the cinematography means that it does offer more than just picture postcards, but narrative and thematic substance are the real core values of any truly successful film. The dynamic visual expression on display in Hero is diverting, but that is not enough.
2. Narrative Structure
As a narrative, there a number of things fundamentally wrong with Hero. The various stories presented do not fit together into a coherent whole. This problem is aggravated by the various interruptions that take place so that the numerous sword fights can be conducted. In particular, the sword fight between Nameless and Broken Sword that takes place over the lake after Flying Snow’s death is part of the king’s imaginings of what happened, and this is narratively implausible. Even granting poetic license characteristic of this genre, there is no justification for the king to fantasize about this confronation.
In addition, the roles of key players are inconsistent across the various stories, and they do not present believable characters.
- In the end, Broken Sword agrees to fight Flying Snow in a duel, but then
lays down his sword at the last minute to prove his pacifism and thereby ensure his own death. Why be so suicidal? - The king, who claims to be such a strong leader, weakly assents to his guards’ demands to have Nameless executed. Is this the kind of strength of character that can unite a nation?
- The only roles that show even the slightest degree of character depth are those of Nameless and Broken Sword. The others, particularly the women, seem to be artificial insertions only for the purpose of presenting women wielding swords (which seems to be especially popular with wuxia audiences these days). The Moon character is particularly gratuitous, and the Sky character, who is initially presented as a major operative, soon disappears and is not seen again.
- The acting performances seem indifferent. Only Tony Leung and Zhang Ziyi show much commitment and passion. Maggie Cheung, whom I have appreciated in other roles, is not put to good effect here. And Jet Li, in the key role of Nameless, is not at all compelling, nor does he generate sympathy to whatever is his cause.
3. Wuxia Action
As I have remarked elsewhere in connection with John Woo’s Red Cliff, the Hong Kong martial arts chop fooey (also known as “wire fu”) style is inspired by computer gam
ing environments and greatly diminishes the sense of reality and immediacy to a film. With various characters able to fly about by merely pointing their fingers, we are talking about another reality, in which the meaningful interactions with which we are familiar are probably meaningless. These wuxia action interruptions, the "FWSFs" described above, are ultimately ludicrous to behold, although one must acknowledge that a considerable degree of effort must have gone into realizing these effects for the screen. My criticism in this respect applies, by the way, equally much to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. In that film there were actually some potentially interesting character relationships, but they were undermined by the excessive degree of wire-fu histrionics. These “magical” effects apparently please the adolescent audiences who spend so much time in vicarious experiences of electronic media that they have only a blurred ability to engage in real authentic interactions.4. Thematic Content
My biggest concern and disappointment with Hero, however, is concerned with the thematic content. The message that Zhang Yimou delivers in this film is that totalitarian statism is necessary to ensure peace and “unity”. This kind of propaganda may square well with ego-driven Chinese chauvinists concerned about national pride, but it is more a reflection of insecurity than of confidence. The stridency of such a position does not fit with Zhang Yimou’s earlier films, which evoked compassionate sympathies for the everyday feelings, yearnings, and loves of ordinary people.
Ruthless totalitarian dictatorships invariably attempt to justify themselves by claiming that they are the only bulwark against an even worse condition: chaos and anarchy. It is true that given such exclusive either-or alternatives, one may accept the preferability of one unsavory option to the other – thus Saddam Hussein’s depredations in Iraq may well have been preferable to the brutal violence that has since ensued. But such evaluations render neither Hussein’s government nor that of Qin Shi Huang (Ying Zheng) as ultimately desirable, and the either-
or proposition should not be accepted as the only possibility.The controversial reign of Qin Shi Huang is always viewed in the context of the Chinese Warring States Period (476 BCE - 221 BCE), during which the original Zhou dynasty had broken up into separate states, which by the end of that period had coalesced into seven mutually contesting regional states. During that period many contemporary commentators bemoaned the disunity of China and were severely pessimistic about the future. They felt that China had fallen onto evil times. Even before this time, and ever since, Chinese writers have longed for national unity that could bring harmony “under heaven”. Thus apologists for Qin Shi Huang, such as Zhang Yimou in Hero, will argue that compromising with the demands of such a leader was (and apparently always is) necessary for the “national interests”.
But this is only one side of the story. In fact, the Warring States Period was one of the most fertile and productive eras in Chinese history [1]. There were major, in fact world-leading, scientific and technical innovations made. Intellectual ferment was at its highest and led to the emergence of the “100 Hundred Schools of Thought”, that included Daoism, Confucianism, and Legalism. The economy flourished, and as a consequence, the population greatly expanded during this period. Although there were inter-state wars, these were, until the latter stages of the era, mostly undertaken by professional armies and were not so devastating to the general population as later wars were. When Qin Shi Huang closed the period and established his police state, he put an end to all this creative development.
Examining at a 2200-year distance the balance sheet of the reign of Qin Shi Huang reveals some stark results. On the presumed positive side, his reign led to
- the standardization of written text
- the standardization of money
- a national road system
- improved waterways
- the Great Wall (at a reported cost of one million laborers)
- Massive Human Slaughters. There were enormous sacrifices of human life in order to carry out the public works projects, including m
ilitary campaigns. In 260 BCE when the Qin army defeated the Zhao state, it slaughtered the whole surrendered Zhao army of 400,000 men, in one of the greatest acts of brutality in history.
- Book Burning [2]:
"Standardization of thought was an important goal in Legalist doctrine and in Qin policies. Philosophical thinking was considered detrimental to the efficient working and fighting that the state required of its subjects, and thinking could lead to treasonable questioning of state policies. The Qin state therefore prohibited philosophical disputation of the sort that had flourished in the Warring States era . . . In 213 BCE all writing other than official Qin historical chronologies and utilitarian treatises on divination, the practice of agriculture and medicine, and the like were collected for burning. . . . Because intellectuals found it hard to change their ways, the emperor in 212 B.C. reportedly executed 460 scholars and had them buried in a common grave as a warning against further defiance of his orders."
- Public Surveillance. The Qin emperor initiated the notorious institution (which still survives in China) of dividing up the whole country into a set of small mutual-surveillance units to maintain micromanaged control and intimidation. Even today, citizens are not allowed to gather without official sanction. The Olympic Ceremonies and the 60th Anniversary Celebrations of the Communist government (both orchestrated officially by Zhang Yimou) could not be attended by the public, but could only be watched on television [3].
This brings us back to how we may interpret Zhang Yimou’s perspective on these issues. It is disappointing that almost all of my own Chinese friends and associates regard Hero as Zhang’s best film, and specifically because of its political message of sacrifice to the national cause above all other considerations of human compassion and fulfilment. They don’t like to see films that may show China in a "weak" light and thereby reduce its prestige. For them the semantic understanding of the prhase “Tiān Xià” seems to carry m
ore of the national chauvinistic intent of “Our Land” (with an emphasis on "our", as opposed to "your") than the traditional Chinese understanding of simply “everything under heaven”. This concern for national pride on Zhang’s part may also be reflected in what happened in 1999 when he withdrew his submitted films to the Cannes Film Festival, The Road Home and Not One Less, because he reportedly felt that his films were invariably being judged on political grounds that suggested criticism of China [4,5].Or maybe not – maybe the strident undertone of Zhang Yimou's Hero was only temporary, a hiccup. When he later produced the opera, “The First Emperor”, in 2006, which was also about Qin Shi Huang, the theme of the opera was highly critical with respect to its subject. And his Curse of the Golden Flower (Man Cheng Jin Dai Huang Jin Jia, 2006) was another artistic turn altogether at the grandiose historical epic – on that occasion Zhang Yimou gave us something that was darker and much deeper than his two preceding epics.
★★
Notes:
- Jacques Gernet, A History of Chinese Civilization, Cambridge University Press (1996).
- Charles O. Hucker, China’s Imperial Past, Stanford University Press (1975), p. 43.
- http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/sep/30/china-60th-anniversary-communist-party
- http://www.freemedialibrary.com/index.php/Zhang_Yimou_withdraws_from_Cannes
- http://www.beijingscene.com/V05I007/inshort/inshort.htm
“Life of Oharu” - Kenji Mizoguchi (1952)
Life of Oharu (Saikaku Ichidai Onna, 1952), writer-director Kenji Mizoguchi’s grim tale of a woman’s tragic fall in feudal Japanese society, is based 
on 17th century author Ihara Saikaku‘s sensational novel about an “amorous” woman and her varied experiences of that time. Although Mizoguchi faithfully set the film during that same period as the original novel, one still gets the feeling that he must have added his own interpretive touches to the narrative. But many of us regard Mizoguchi’s interpretive touches, not as unwarranted alterations, but as significant original contributions. And in his own country of Japan, Mizoguchi has always been regarded as one of its greatest filmmakers. However, it was only in 1952, just four years before his death, that Mizoguchi gained international recognition, when Life of Oharu won the International Prize at the Venice International Film Festival.
on 17th century author Ihara Saikaku‘s sensational novel about an “amorous” woman and her varied experiences of that time. Although Mizoguchi faithfully set the film during that same period as the original novel, one still gets the feeling that he must have added his own interpretive touches to the narrative. But many of us regard Mizoguchi’s interpretive touches, not as unwarranted alterations, but as significant original contributions. And in his own country of Japan, Mizoguchi has always been regarded as one of its greatest filmmakers. However, it was only in 1952, just four years before his death, that Mizoguchi gained international recognition, when Life of Oharu won the International Prize at the Venice International Film Festival.Mizoguchi is often identified with his films that are about and sympathetic to women, all the more so because he worked in a society that has been culturally restrictive for women. In fact a number of his earlier films that endure today, such as Osaka Elegy (Naniwa Erejî, 1936), Sisters of the Gion (Gion No Shimai, 1936), The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum (Zangiku Monogatari, 1939), Women of the Night (Yoru No Onnatachi, 1948), and The Lady of Musashino (Musashino Fujin, 1951), all have themes that are highly sympathetic to the disadvantaged situation of women in Japanese society. Life of Oharu continues this characteristic sympathy for the feminine circumstances, and yet there is also something different about this film, when compared to his earlier work about women. The style is not that of a crusader out to undo the wrongs of an unjust society. It does indeed expose those wrongs, but it is also more contemplative – almost a brooding piece about the more general and tragic aspects of human existence. Possibly linked to this distinction is the fact that, according to my understanding, Mizoguchi converted to Buddhism around this time, and that co
nversion may account for the subtleties of expression that appear in Life of Oharu. In any case it seems that Mizoguchi’s evolving sentiments at this time blended well with his customarily masterful mise-en-scène, which characteristically featured artful moving camera work that was combined with carefully choreographed character movements so as to maintain fluid but balanced compositions throughout the lengthy shots. This technique could effectively generate narrative scene changes even within a single shot, thereby obviating the need for a visual cut. Most of the time, his shot compositions are in long shot or medium shot, so that the environmental “architecture” of the surrounding space contributes to the emotional context of any given scene. In addition the narrative setting of past, “fabled” times seemed to be more suited to his form of cinematic expression, which happily made Life of Oharu an excellent theme for Mizoguchi’s cinematic poetry.Oharu, herself, was played by Kinuyo Tanaka, who gave a nuanced performance. No longer youthful, at 42, she had to play a role that was necessarily constrained with respect to the allowable range of gestures and expressions, and she had to portray convincingly a suffering personality that spans from a seventeen-year-old girl to a fifty-year-old woman. She had already starred in Mizoguchi’s Women of the Night (1948) and The Lady of Musashino (1951), and she would also subsequently appear in his Ugetsu, (1953) and Sansho the Bailiff (1954). Note that her early romantic love is played by Toshiro Mifune, whose brief, controlled performance was commendably restrained by Mizoguchi.
The story of Life of Oharu does not follow the conventional four- or five-act structuring often present in feature films. Here the narrative has about ten sections of quite varying length, with each one depicting the dispiriting downward spiral of Oharu’s circumstances over a period of about thirty-five years. After starting out in the “present” in section 1 (about three hundred years ago), much of the film, comprising sections 2 through 9, represents the extended reminiscences of Oharu’s past, after which section 10 picks up with the narrative that had begun in section 1.
1. At the Temple. In the opening sequence, Oharu is a fifty-year-old prostitute walking on the street. Attracted to the sound of some religious chanting, she wanders into a temple and stares at one of the many Buddha idols, whose likeness reminds her of someone. Then she lapses into her memories of long ago.Those people looking for a soaring tribute to feminism, or a hard-hitting condemnation of social injustice towards women, will ultimately be disappointed with Life
2. Samurai’s Daughter. Oharu is the teenage daughter of a samurai serving in the Imperial Court. But despite this rather exalted status, social customs severely restrict her activities, and she is apparently is not normally allowed out, other than to go to the temple. On one such occasion, though, she meets Katunosuke (played by Toshiro Mifune), a lowly page who is enamored of Oharu. He comes to a hostel room where Oharu is resting and pleads his case, asking to marry her. At first she coldly dismisses him, but eventually, in an exquisite two-minute tracking shot, she admits that she does love him, but that their differing social statuses prevent them from being together. There is then a cut to a scene some hours later, in which the police barge in upon the two lovers and catch them red-handed. A subsequent court hearing (explicitly dated November 7, 1686) reveals that in punishment for this breach of class barriers within the Imperial Court, both Oharu and her parents are to thereby dismissed from their positions and banished from the city of Kyoto. Meanwhile Katunoske suffers a worse punishment: he is beheaded. His last message to Oharu before he dies is that she should go ahead and find someone else to marry, but that she should only marry for love.
Upon learning of Katunosuke’s execution, a superb 70-second shot shows Oharu running out of the house to kill herself, only to be barely prevented from doing so by her mother. This is the first of many situation in which Oharu’s life is crushed because she has followed her heart.
3. With the Daimyo in Edo. A messenger from the court at Edo comes to the Kyoto area looking for a mistress for the high-ranking daimyo, Lord Matsudaira, whose wife is apparently unable to bear children. In an ornate 2:25 tracking shot, he examines all of the most beautiful girls from Kyoto that have been assembled for his inspection, but none of them is good enough for the lord’s demanding requirements. Later and by chance, the messenger sees Oharu performing a dance and, of course, she is selected as the perfect young women for the daimyo. However Oharu, in another intricate 2:20 shot, resists becoming a concubine, citing Katunoske’s last request, but she is forced to submit anyway.
After settling in at Edo, Oharu delivers what was demanded – she gives birth to a male heir for Lord Matsudaira. But the courtiers and members of the Matsudaira clan become concerned that the lord’s amorous passions for Oharu are sapping his energy, and they decide to send her quickly back home to poverty in Kyoto. Once again, love proves to be Oharu’s undoing.
4. A Coutesan in Shimabara. Oharu’s father, having overly estimated the wealth he could make from Oharu’s concubinage, now sells his daughter as a courtesan to the Shimabara geisha locale in order to repay his debts. But later Oharu, not wanting to be treated like a sex object, rejects the vulgar attentions of a rude patron,and she is fired from the geisha house and sent home again, much to the consternation of her unsupportive parents.
5. With the Merchant Jihei. Oharu now secures a position working as a maid for a rich merchant, Jihei. Her beauty immediately attracts the amorous attentions of a fellow-servant, a jovial rascal named Bunkichi; but Oharu keeps him at a distance. In the meantime Jihei’s wife becomes friendly with Oharu and timidly reveals to her a big secret: a recent illness has left the wife bald, and, fearing that her husband will abandon her if he finds out, she now wears a wig to cover her baldness. Soon, however, the merchant family learns of Oharu’s notorious past as a Shimabara courtesan, which has two differing effects: Jihei becomes attracted to Oharu, while his wife becomes jealous. Finally, Jihei forces Oharu to have sex with him, and, in a responsive act of vengeance, Oharu gets a family cat to steal the wife’s wig, revealing the woman’s secret to her husband. But Oharu’s act of independence only succeeds in her getting kicked out of the household.
6. Marriage. While sections 2-5 have been relatively lengthy, each lasting some 10-20 minutes, sections 6-9 are much shorter, as Oharu’s degenerating circumstances gather pace. Oharu is at this point working for a lesser family and in poorer circumstances, but now she is approached by a gentle, timid fan-maker who asks her hand in marriage. She accepts, and for once, she is happy and busily helping her new husband in his fan shop. But the happiness is short-lived, and soon her husband is killed by a thief, leaving Oharu penniless. This time it is cruel fate that has defeated her.
7. A Buddhist Nun. Now despairing of ever achieving happiness in this material world, Oharu decides to become a Buddhist nun and work in the temple. But Bunkichi, still seeking Oharu’s affection, loans her a kimono from Jihei’s shop. When Jihei learns of this, he goes to the temple to demand the return of the kimono, treating Oharu like a whore. But just as in Shimabara, Oharu stands up to such rudeness; she strips off the kimono she is wearing and throws it at Jihei. Jihei, aroused by such boldness, forces himself sexually on Oharu, and when they are discovered by the head nun, Oharu is kicked out of the temple. It is clear that for this head nun, the Buddhist principles of compassion have strict limits.
8. With Bunkichi. Now on the street and further reduced in social status, Oharu runs into Bunkichi, who has also been recently fired by Jihei. Bunkichi promises that he will look after Oharu (with some money that he has just stolen from Jihei), but soon he is discovered by Jihei and his men and dragged off, presumably to be killed. Oharu is left alone and with no resources.
9. Further Decline. Many years have apparently passed. Oharu is now completely destitute and reduced to being a beggar, playing a lute by a gate. She happens to see an elegant procession pass by, carrying the palanquin of Lord Matsudaira’s son, Oharu’s own child. When the palanquin door is briefly opened, Oharu has a momentary opportunity to see her son, who is now apparently in his teens. This heart-rending experience of separation shatters Oharu, and she collapses in tears and faints to the ground. Two passing prostitutes find her and convince her that she should join them rather than starve todeath.
Later, now working as a prostitute, Oharu is summoned by a man to his quarters. She is shocked to learn that the man doesn’t want sex from her, but is actually a religious pilgrim who only wants to display her to his fellow pilgrims as an example of the depths to which temptation can force the weak-minded to sink. To them she is a symbol of sin and a real-life witch. Oharu snarls at them sarcastically, mocking their belief in witchery – she still knows who she really is, inside. This spectacular shot, lasting four minutes, is one of the best dramatic moments in the film and features superb acting by Kinuyo Tanaka.
10. Back to the Present. The opening shot of the film is now repeated, and Oharu is again seen contemplating the holy idols (all males, of course) in the Buddhist temple. Then she collapses to the floor, and her fellow prostitutes carry her back to their quarters. There her mother, who has long been looking for her, finds her and informs her that Lord Matsudaira has died and that her son, the new Lord Matsudaira, wants her to come and live in his palace. But when she goes to Edo, the Matsudaira clan members, alarmed over Oharu’s notorious past life, forbid her to live in the palace and condemn her to anonymous exile as a prisoner on the palace grounds. She is granted one final chance to see the young lord in secret as he walks by in a procession, and the two shots depicting this scene are superbly choreographed – a highlight of the film, as they contrast the artificial role-playing pomp of the lord with the authentic humanity of Oharu. Afterwards, however, the clan soon learns that Oharu has slipped through their guard and escaped. In the final scene Oharu is seen walking outside somewhere in the evening from house to house, humbly singing hymns and seeking alms. She is still unbowed, but resigned and egoless.
of Oharu. Seen from such a point of view, the film would only be seen as an unrelenting and enervating sequence of defeats and disasters for Oharu. Though there is some portrayal of encrusted Japanese prejudices, the film has a more inward-looking glance, and its strengths lie in that direction. None of the men in the film, by the way, not even Jihei, is particularly evil, although, as in all of Mizoguchi’s films, they are invariably selfish and unprincipled. In fact there is something human about them, and we can recognize their moral frailty as common in society (and to a certain extent in ourselves, too). And it is not just men who mistreat Oharu; many of the women in her life, concerned as they are with their own troubles, cause further problems for Oharu. Her mother seems roughly to agree with her father’s dismissive attitude. Lord Matsudaira’s jealous wife is Oharu’s enemy. Jihei’s wife, too, becomes her enemy. And the Buddhist nun has no sympathy for her whatsoever. So we can't just say that the film simply depicts men oppressing women. No, the film has a wider perspective than that.How is one such as Oharu to deal with all these vicissitudes? Japan had recently gone through an incredibly catastrophic and destructive period – millions of their own people killed and the country completely defeated. It was not enough simply to blame some people or forces; the whole world had to be called into question. What kind of cosmic answers are there in the face of such suffering? For many years after the close of the war, Japanese culture was obsessed with how to come to grips with what had happened. Life of Oharu was one such response, and it took inspiration, I believe, from Buddha’s original insight. Attachment entails suffering.
Throughout all her travails, Oharu is not outwardly defiant, but she retains a certain inward authenticity. She holds onto and never loses certain convictions that she
knows are innately right: that Japan must someday recognize the rights of people to marry for love; that the natural birth-mother of a child has a certain inalienable affinity with that child; that a woman should not be treated as an animal. It is this unwavering authenticity that makes us see almost a Bodhisattva at the end of the film. She still treats people with the compassion that is due every sentient being. In this material world, she has been denied any reward, but inwardly Oharu has attained something else.★★★½
“RiP: A Remix Manifesto” - Brett Gaylor (2009)
RiP: A Remix Manifesto (2009) is a documentary made by Canadian filmmaker Brett Gaylor about the inherent injustices associated with copyright. The
film is particularly focused on the work of remix recording entertainers, who creatively remix lots of existing, copyrighted songs in order to create their own music. In such cases there is no original music recorded; the output of the remixer is a mixture and comprises multiple overlays of existing pieces of music (i.e. a mashup). Has the mashup artist created something new? Yes, he has, and that is what this film is all about.
film is particularly focused on the work of remix recording entertainers, who creatively remix lots of existing, copyrighted songs in order to create their own music. In such cases there is no original music recorded; the output of the remixer is a mixture and comprises multiple overlays of existing pieces of music (i.e. a mashup). Has the mashup artist created something new? Yes, he has, and that is what this film is all about.Actually, the film production is something of a self-reference to its content, because Gaylor has enlisted hundreds of people to collect existing film footage in order to make a mashup out of his own film. At the end of the film, he announces that RiP is an open-source documentary, and he urges others to take his film and modify it as they choose.
The film is basically made up of two intermixed (and remixed) parts. One part focuses on the life and work of remix/DJ artist “Girl Talk”, who in real life is Greg Gillis and who until recently had a day job as a biomedical engineer. Girl Talk takes without authorization and remixes sometimes a dozen songs in order to produce one of his mashups, which he “performs” in public as a gyrating DJ. By means of a careful examination of how he makes his mashups, it is made clear in the film how remixers can take original pieces of music and electronically produce “compositions” that are strikingly different from the starting material. Note that your enjoyment of this part of the film will, of course, depend to a certain extent on the degree to which you are a fan of Girl Talk.
The other part of the film comprises a critical discussion of the general idea of copyright, and in fact it offers a damning critique of the very nature of intellectual property. Featured here are the following figures who have brought the inequities of copyright
to public attention:- Lawrence Lessig is a Stanford law professor who established the Stanford Center for Internet and Society and is a well-known critic of the excesses of copyright. He is the founder of the non-profit organization, Creative Commons, and is the author of the book, The Future of Ideas, which is available for free download.
- Cory Doctorow is a well-known social networking blogger and critic as well as a science-fiction author. He is a prominent advocate of the liberalization of copyright laws.
- Dan O’Neill is an underground cartoonist who founded the Air Pirates whose depictions of cartoons looking like Mickey Mouse led to a lawsuit filed by the Disney Corporation that went on for nine years and cost millions of dollars in legal fees. In this connection the film exposes the duplicitous nature of Disney, which derived their cartoon characters from existing graphic representations of iconic fantasy figures. Moreover, O’Neill’s mouse was graphically similar to the original 1930s Mickey Mouse and therefore rather different from the graphical form that Mickey had in 1971, so O’Neill’s mouse representation was not even in competition with the Mickey of that time.
- Jammie Thomas is a single mother who was successfully sued by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) for hundreds of thousands of dollars for downloading some songs from the Internet.
- Gilberto Gil, a famous Brazilian musician, was the Minister of Cultural Affairs, and has been a leader in promoting Brazil’s sponsorship of its world-leading open-source culture.
- Culture always builds on the past
- The past always tries to control the future
- Our future is becoming less free
- To build free societies you must limit the control of the past.
The idea behind “intellectual property” arises from a misconception about the nature of information. Over the centuries there have been a number of philos
ophical conceptualizations about just what is information. Plato and the idealists suggested that abstract ideas constitute are the ultimate ontological reality: abstract ideas exist. Aristotle and others saw information as forms or patterns of material reality. But the advocates of “intellectual property” see information as something concrete and essentially material – they see it as something that can be held “property”, like a material thing, and hence they believe in “intellectual property”. But information is not really separable as a material thing. Information is better viewed as part of an interaction with several components:- artifact: the text, picture, bitmap, drawing, ...
- mechanism: it lays out the organization of the artifact
- map (or “message”): an example is the specific character sequences of text
- reader/viewer: information is understood if the reader’s response is what the creator/sender more or less expects.
- narrative context: what part this particular interaction plays in a larger narrative
But since “intellectual property” advocates believe that information is effectively just a material entity, they attempt to justify intellectual property laws with the s
ame two kinds of quite distinct arguments used to justify material property, in general: (1) moral arguments: we deserve to have exclusive possession over the fruits of our labor, and (2) utilitarian arguments: property ownership is useful for resolving custody disputes and for stimulating economic development.Those advocates must somehow justify intellectual property laws, because, as we know, such laws represent a severe restraint of trade – they essentially impose a monopoly. Consider those two lines of intellectual-property-law justification, in turn:
- moral justification. It should be evident that intellectual property is in fact not truly attributable to an individual; it is inevitably a social product from a social context. Nobody invents something out of thin air. We all know that new ideas are built from existing ideas and experiences, so it is unsuitable to attribute the “creation” and ownership of an idea to a single person.
- utilitarian justification. Although there have been many studies made, the utilitarian value of intellectual property laws has never been demonstrated. Actually, only England (from 1710) and the United States (from 1790) even have much of a history with intellectual property laws. Much of the rest of Europe didn’t introduce intellectual property laws until the 20th century. So most of history the world has lived without such laws. The economic successes of the US and England were due to free trade, not restraints of trade. See Boldrine & Levine for more information.
Now consider patents, which ostensibly concern how “devices” work. Just as the computer industry has exposed, via remixing and mashups, the absurdities of copyright, so, too, it has exposed the inadequacy of patent laws and in three ways:
- Software patents represent a confused idea that cannot be enforced in a logical fashion. Patents were originally intended for inventions of new devices or of processes associated with them. The appropriate domain of patents has always been problematic, but with the advent of computers, that inherent pr
oblem became intractable. This can be explained with the aid of the diagram at the right. General-purpose computers can emulate any kind of machine if they are given the right instructions (software). Once a given machine is emulated, further instructions can be given to operate that machine – or instructions can be provided to produce another virtual machine on top of the original one. On most computers there are several such layers of virtual “machines” running software programs. In fact it has long been known that general-purpose computers can emulate any form of structured (logically expressible) thought. This means that if one allows software patents, one is opening the door to the patenting of all thought. All the structured ideas in your mind could ultimately “belong” to someone else. Not only is the idea absurd, it is not enforceable in a judicious manner. Just imagine if all mathematical theorems were patented and limited in their availability! - Software patents inhibit new technical developments. The argument is made by some that patents stimulate inventions. In fact, the opposite is the case. We can be thankful that there were no software patents before about 1980, prior to which there were a great many discoveries made that are now freely available. Since then, however, there have been numerous software patents granted that impede progress in the field, including patents in such basic areas as font types, compression, and encryption. When such patents are granted, they stifle new developments. Currently, for example, the area of Voice of Internet Protocols (VOIP) communication is so cluttered with patents that technical advances will likely be impeded for the next 15 years.
- Software patents waste resources and contribute to the economic polarization of society. When patents are granted, considerable research effort is devoted to developing workaround solutions that strive to get around a patent blocking technical development. Large companies often take out patents in order to stifle their competitors or for use as bargaining chips in negotiations with other large companies. In such cases, valuable resources are wasted in the effort to avoid the suffocating effect of patent control. In addition, the existence of software patents has led to a wasteful increase in litigation associated with patent enforcement (enforcement, in fact, of an idea that is fundamentally unenforceable).This situation only contributes to an increasing economic polarization in capitalistic society. Microsoft, for example, has 10,000 U.S. patents, more than 17,000 U.S. patents pending, and more than 30,000 issued and pending international patents. Such patent collections are beyond the reach of ordinary companies and contribute to the kind of industrial concentration that has increasingly polarized the “globalized” society. The World Trade Organization is aggressively attempting to globalize strong intellectual property laws everywhere, so that large American organization can maintain control over the global marketplace.
★★★½
“Encounters at the End of the World” - Werner Herzog (2007)
Encounters at the End of the World, a documentary film by Werner Herzog, recounts his experiences during his visit to Antarctica. Bu
t since Herzog is one of the greatest of documentary filmmakers, one expects that this film will not just be a travelogue or an academic description of the earth’s southernmost continent (although there is some of that). In fact knowing Herzog, we expect this film to be something of a meditation on man, civilization, and the world – and we are not disappointed.
t since Herzog is one of the greatest of documentary filmmakers, one expects that this film will not just be a travelogue or an academic description of the earth’s southernmost continent (although there is some of that). In fact knowing Herzog, we expect this film to be something of a meditation on man, civilization, and the world – and we are not disappointed.The two-man film crew, cinematographer Peter Zeitlinger and Herzog on sound, had only the short Antarctic summer to shoot the film, and they pretty much had to shoot and record on the spot whatever they found interesting. From this, and from the film’s title, you might expect that the film would come across as simply an ad hoc stream of occurrences. But Herzog is always uniquely able to express his sometimes grim, existentialist view of humanity, whether his production is a fiction film or a documentary. He is fascinated with people who live at the extreme edges of human existence and who are exploring or experiencing what it is like to step beyond the boundaries of our comfortable civilized world.
To me, Herzog is a frustrated Romantic – he is disturbed not only by the unending display of human depravity but by the inconsequential and ineffective achievements of human progress in the face of brute Nature. He doesn’t relish, as perhaps some people ghoulishly do, the macabre hopelessness of the human condition, so he is always seeking out those people, like himself, who are looking for something more. At the beginning of this film, he remarks that he went to Antarctica, not to shoot “fluffy penguins” but to learn something about man: some animals enslave other species to help procure food (he gives an example from the insect world), while man domesticated the horse more for reasons of adventure. What propels man to do this? This kind of reflective question would not normally make a visit to Antarctica spring immediately to mind, but Herzog is different. He is curious to learn about the people who would go to that continent and what it is that they seek.
Herzog does manage to fashion a story around his encounters, and in its various guises it serves to shed more light on his abiding themes. There are very roughly six sections to the film:
- Arrival and Introduction. Herzog arrives in the summer, when the sun never sets, at McMurdo Research Station, the largest settlement
on Antarctica (although most of the people there are not permanent and have other occupations elsewhere). Expecting to see one of the last pristine places on earth, he is put off by the cluttered squalor and detritus of building construction and human habitation. During this section he gives an overview of some of the general facts of Antarctica and what it is like for newcomers to try and operate there. At one of the canteens, a young worker points out that all of the residents crave Frosty Boy ice-cream cones, which Herzog presumably finds bizarre for a frozen place like Antarctica. But Herzog is probably not familiar with this Australian junk-food delicacy, as I am. I have always had a taste for Frosty Boys since my first sampling.
- Strange People. A number of people are interviewed, mostly scientists, but sometimes maintenance personnel. Irrespective of their education, they are all adventurers of some sort. There is one woman scientist who has had an astonishing number of bizarre and dangerous experiences while hitchhiking all over the globe. One hundred years after Ernest Schakleton almost made it to the South Pole, these people are trying to reach something else. With everything on earth already “discovered” for a century, there is nowhere else to explore physically. And one is inevitably led to reflect on the limits of our planet once one has come to the very end of it: the “end of the earth”. All the scientists are acutely aware of the effects of global warming and how it is massively reducing the Ross ice shelf, so it is perhaps not surprising that most of them are pessimistic about the prospects of man’s surviving on this planet for much longer. At night some of them like to watch old doomsday movies from the 1950s and 60s. They see themselves as being at the end of our world in both space and time.
- Undersea Photography. The film shows some of the underwater photography of musician Henry Kaiser and includes discussions with biologists Samuel Bowser and Jan Pawlowski. This section presents a dark, eerie, and claustrophobic scene of divers filming life beneath the ice shelf, showing the brutal world of strange sea animals that are endlessly seizing and devouring each other.
- The Penguins. Herzog does finally show some penguins, but his interest is focused on those rare penguins which apparently lose their bearings a
nd determinedly charge off away from the sea, in the direction of the frozen mountains. The resident scientists seem only bemused by these stubborn acts of self-destruction, and they do nothing to intervene and turn the wayward penguins back in the right direction. Such a level of fatalism on their part serves as something of a metaphor for the entire film. Mankind is stubbornly charging off to its own self-destruction, and the scientists seem to accept their powerlessness and the inevitable fate that awaits us. Later, in fact, there is a shot of a deep tunnel that has been constructed, at the bottom of which is placed a number of artifacts and mementos. These items are being left there so that future visitors to Earth may learn something about the species that eventually went on to destroy itself.
- Vulcanology. Next the film shows some scientists investigating a real, active volcano, the only one in the world currently accessible-for-study. Herzog, of course, has a fascination with the brute power and destructiveness of volcanoes and how men react to them, dating back at least to his La Soufrière (1977).
- Neutrinos. This last section interviews a physicist preparing for the launch of an enormous helium balloon that will be used to detect neutrinos, the nearly scientifically invisible elementary particle. The balloon needs to be launched over Antarctica, because everywhere else there is too much particle and electronic noise from human activities. The presentation here is more subtle, but it displays the kind of self-absorption of elementary particle physicists who insistently think that the irresponsibly wasteful Large Hadron Collider will provide them with a “theory of everything”. This is the prime academic example of the mad, self-defeating quest for reductionism, in contrast with the holistic, "relational" view that is actually needed today. It’s another instance of educated people charging off according to the misguided readings of their own compasses – like the errant penguin.
ces the reflectiveness of the narration and is particularly effective. Despite the cramped conditions and time constraints, the camera work and editing are professionally handled. And the music, always a key ingredient to a Herzog film, is, as usual, eerily effective. But the collection of these seemingly simple and innocent elements add up to a characteristically expressionistic effect that is unique to Herzog. Overall, Encounters at the End of the World is another work from one of the greatest documentary filmmakers.★★★★
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