Gunfights, razor-sharp humor and an arresting cat-and-mouse struggle between a bandit posing as a county governor and a local plutocrat — all wrapped in Western trappings and starring a peerless cast including Chow Yun-fat (周潤發), Ge You (葛優) and Jiang Wen (姜文). Let the Bullets Fly (讓子彈飛) by actor and director Jiang has all the ingredients for a blockbuster, and a blockbuster it is: The film raked in US$111 million in less than two months after it was released in China on Dec. 16 last year, becoming the country’s highest-grossing Chinese-language movie of all time.
Terrific performances and well-crafted story aside, the film’s immense success lies in the fact that it is readily embraced as a mirror of present-day China by Chinese viewers who find the political satire a welcome relief from life under an autocratic regime.
It all begins in 1919 China, a tumultuous time when the fledgling republic was divided among military cliques. Ma Bangde (played by Ge), a practiced conman, is en route to becoming the new governor of Goose Town when daredevil bandit Zhang Muzhi (played by Jiang) appears on a nearby hill and derails the train on which Ma is traveling with flying bullets.
Photo courtesy of Serenity Entertainment International
Appalled, the chameleonic Ma tells Zhang that he is just the governor’s counselor Tang, prompting the train robber to decide to pose as the governor and make a quick fortune out of the township’s rich and the powerful. But when the Robin Hood figure enters Goose Town with his entourage of bandits, who pretend to be officers, the gang discovers the lawless village is ruled by local kingpin and plutocrat Huang Silang (played by Chow).
Zhang’s material quest is quickly replaced by a vow of vengeance on Huang, who is responsible for the death of Zhang’s adoptive son Lao Liu (Zhang Mo, 張默). Machiavellian mind games ensue; shootouts and carnage erupt.
Based on the chapter Dao Guan Ji (盜官記) from Sichuan author Ma Shitu’s (馬識途) novel Ye Tan Shi Ji (夜譚十記), the film is reminiscent of works by Akira Kurosawa and Sergio Leone, and swings deftly between hilarity and brutal violence.
Photo courtesy of Serenity Entertainment International
The most gripping virtue of the period blockbuster is not gunfights, however, but brilliantly scripted battle strategies, witty dialogue and clever sophism. Snappy talk among the loquacious characters is a delight to the ears that resembles freestyle rap battles. Unfortunately, the complexity of the wordplay will be mostly lost in translation to audience members reliant on subtitles.
The film would lose much of its charm without the bravura acting by the three leading men, all at the top of their game. As a calculating heroic figure, Jiang shares electrifying onscreen chemistry with Ge, lovable as a smart-talking weasel and opportunist, while Chow elicits admiration for his seemingly effortless conveyance of a treacherous crook with a charming veneer. An equally dreamy host of supporters surround the trio, including Carina Lau (劉嘉玲) as Ma Bangde’s capricious wife, Chen Kun (陳坤) playing Huang’s sidekick, and Hu Jun (胡軍), making a cameo appearance as a pock-faced imposter.
But the star appeal pales under the avalanche of heated discussions on China’s blogosphere, with critics, scholars and general audiences looking for subtexts inside the political allegory while gleefully marveling at the fact that the movie could slip through the watchful eyes of the State Administration of Radio Film and Television, the nation’s censorship body. (The authority did reportedly ask movie theaters across the country to reduce screenings soon after its commercial release.)
Photo courtesy of Serenity Entertainment International
With the media tightly controlled and society closely watched, it is no surprise that a blatant stab at corruption and rough justice is celebrated by people who can read the story in any number of ways. Some say that Goose Town is China and that Huang represents totalitarian dictatorship and capitalism, while Zhang embodies the left-wing ideals and legacy of Mao Zedong (毛澤東). Others seek out the Tiananmen Square Massacre (or June Fourth Incident, 六 四事件), with Lao Liu (老六) the victim and Huang Silang (黃四郎) the perpetrator, and believe the Goose Town’s open square, which no inhabitants dare set foot on, stands for Tiananmen Square. The horse (馬)-drawn train (列車) is amusingly interpreted as Marxist-Leninist (馬列主義). The train heads directly to Shanghai, a model example of Chinese economic reform, at the end of the film.
With its immensely commercial appeal, Let the Bullets Fly, Jiang’s fourth feature, is a world apart from the director’s previous art-house creations, such as The Sun Also Rises (太陽照常升起, 2007). Perhaps he adopts the populist approach for good reason, because to the Chinese masses, the film’s message is loud and clear: The revolution is yet to come, so let the bullets fly, at least until the state’s censorship apparatus catches on.
If one asks Taiwanese why house prices are so high or why the nation is so built up or why certain policies cannot be carried out, one common answer is that “Taiwan is too small.” This is actually true, though not in the way people think. The National Property Administration (NPA), responsible for tracking and managing the government’s real estate assets, maintains statistics on how much land the government owns. As of the end of last year, land for official use constituted 293,655 hectares, for public use 1,732,513 hectares, for non-public use 216,972 hectares and for state enterprises 34 hectares, yielding
The small platform at Duoliang Train Station in Taitung County’s Taimali Township (太麻里) served villagers from 1992 to 2006, but was eventually shut down due to lack of use. Just 10 years later, the abandoned train station had become widely known as the most beautiful station in Taiwan, and visitors were so frequent that the village had to start restricting traffic. Nowadays, Duoliang Village (多良) is known as a bit of a tourist trap, with a mandatory, albeit modest, admission fee of NT$10 giving access to a crowded lane of vendors with a mediocre view of the ocean and the trains
Traditionally, indigenous people in Taiwan’s mountains practice swidden cultivation, or “slash and burn” agriculture, a practice common in human history. According to a 2016 research article in the International Journal of Environmental Sustainability, among the Atayal people, this began with a search for suitable forested slopeland. The trees are burnt for fertilizer and the land cleared of stones. The stones and wood are then piled up to make fences, while both dead and standing trees are retained on the plot. The fences are used to grow climbing crops like squash and beans. The plot itself supports farming for three years.
For many people, Bilingual Nation 2030 begins and ends in the classroom. Since the policy was launched in 2018, the debate has centered on students, teachers and the pressure placed on schools. Yet the policy was never solely about English education. The government’s official plan also calls for bilingualization in Taiwan’s government services, laws and regulations, and living environment. The goal is to make Taiwan more inclusive and accessible to international enterprises and talent and better prepared for global economic and trade conditions. After eight years, that grand vision is due for a pulse check. RULES THAT CAN BE READ For Harper Chen (陳虹宇), an adviser
RSS