Feb. 16 to Feb. 22
Pai Ko’s (白克) film career appeared poised to reach new heights in 1962 with the completion of the highly-anticipated, star-studded Romance of Longshan Temple (龍山寺之戀). Despite being mainly in Hoklo (commonly known as Taiwanese), the film promoted harmony between those born in China and Taiwan, aligning with the official cultural policy at the time.
However, he soon disappeared. Colleagues found out he was arrested and accused of colluding with communists.
Photo courtesy of Taiwan Film and Audiovisual Institute
It was not his first run-in with the ruling Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT). As a university student in China, he joined the anti-Japanese Anti-Imperialism League and was detained for helping run publications that, according to a former classmate, were critical of the government’s focus on combating communists rather than resisting Japanese aggression.
Pai remained in custody and was subject to repeated torture until he signed a “confession.” His wife was also detained for a month, leaving their children at home alone. The last time they visited him, he was suffering from a skin disease, his body covered in festering sores. The guards, however, ignored their pleas to get him medical help, recalls his daughter Pai An-chi (白安琪).
On Feb. 22, 1964, Pai was executed. He was 50 years old.
Photo courtesy of Taiwan Film and Audiovisual Institute
FROM TEACHER TO DIRECTOR
Much of what’s known about Pai’s life comes from the 2003 book Memorial Collection for Director Pai Ko and Selected Posthumous Work (白克導演紀念文集?遺作選輯), edited by his friend and long-time film critic Huang Jen (黃仁).
Pai was born in 1914 in Xiamen, China. His grandfather was a close associate of Qing-era Taiwan governor Tang Ching-sung (唐景崧) and took part in the short-lived Republic of Formosa’s resistance against the Japanese takeover in 1895. This family history reportedly piqued Pai’s interest in Taiwan.
Photo courtesy of Taiwan Film and Audiovisual Institute
Pai studied education at Xiamen University, where he was first arrested. With the help of family connections, he avoided imprisonment. He later taught at the university, but soon resigned to pursue his passion for filmmaking. One of his first gigs was assisting filmmakers Yuan Muzhi (袁牧之) and Situ Huimin (司徒慧敏), who would become top officials in communist China’s film administration.
During the Sino-Japanese War, his relative, KMT general Pai Chung-hsi (白崇禧) recruited him to produce propaganda videos to support the war effort.
On Oct. 15, 1945, Pai arrived in Taipei — just 10 days before Japan formally handed Taiwan over to the KMT. He filmed governor-general Chen Yi (陳儀) accepting Japanese surrender and the jubilant celebrations that followed. The footage was broadcast in Nanjing and Shanghai.
Afterward, Pai assumed control of existing Japanese film organizations and established the Taiwan Provincial Office Publicity Committee Film Studio (台灣省電影攝製場). The studio made use of existing equipment and retained seven Japanese technicians before acquiring new gear.
They produced newsreels, documentaries, educational and propaganda videos, and helped advise and promote the local film industry.
NEWSPAPER INCIDENT
Pai was also a prolific film critic and theorist; Huang writes that he was Taiwan’s first film critic in the modern sense. Pai argued in a 1953 essay that while movies should strive for technical realism, artistically they must transcend the limits of reality. He was a proponent of the montage technique, and was also a respected university professor.
In January 1946, Pai cofounded the People’s News-Leader (人民導報) with Sung Fei-ju (宋斐如) and others. The paper grew increasingly critical of Chen Yi’s policies leading up to the 228 Incident, the 1947 anti-government uprising that was brutally suppressed. Authorities shut down the paper shortly afterward and dragged Sung from his home, never to be seen again.
Pai reportedly avoided the same fate due to intervention by Pai Chung-hsi, who arrived in Taiwan to handle the aftermath of the incident. He accompanied Pai Chung-hsi on his island-wide inspection tour, serving as publicist and translator.
However, his association with the paper was later cited in his death sentence verdict, which stated that although the paper targeted Chen, it had “indirectly attacked the KMT and the government, thus serving as propaganda for the communist bandits.”
Pai Ko remained on the government watchlist and was questioned for his former ties with the communist filmmakers in China. Meanwhile, Pai Chung-hsi fell out of favor and could no longer protect him.
RISE OF TAIWANESE CINEMA
In 1955, the first Taiwanese-language film, Romance of the Western Chamber (六才子西廂記), hit the theaters. Wang recalled that he was the only reporter invited, and he brought Pai along.
Fluent in Xiamenese — which is similar to Taiwanese — Pai entered the industry as it gained momentum. His first effort was the government-sponsored Descendants of the Yellow Emperor (黃帝子孫) in 1956.
Pai went on to direct 11 Taiwanese-language films, most notably the 1957 hit The Mad Woman’s 18 Years. It was the breakout feature for actress Hsiao Yen Chiu (小艷秋), who recalled, “Working on one of director Pai’s films was equivalent to working on 10 for other directors. I learned so much from him. In my heart, he was my true mentor.”
Based on a true story, the film recounts the ordeal of a woman confined in a bamboo cage behind a temple for 18 years after reportedly losing her sanity at 23, when her husband brought another woman into their home.
Pai told reporters that what struck him was that people had seen her before the story broke, yet no one reached out until newspaper coverage turned it into a sensation. He also aimed to critique certain social practices and harmful superstitions.
“How cold this society is, and yet how full of human warmth,” he said. “Film, after all, is a reflection of life. And is this pitiful madwoman not the most real of cinematic stories?”
Film critic Wang Liu-chao (王榴照) wrote: “It is common to see Taiwanese-language films as a step below Mandarin films. This film is precisely the kind that can overturn that stereotype.”
In 1962, Keng Sheng Daily News reporter Chen Hsiang (陳香) admitted to meeting with former communist colleagues in Hualien, including Pai. The exact circumstances leading to Pai’s arrest remain in dispute. His verdict described the Anti-Imperialism League as an organ of the Communist Youth Corps, and accused Pai of promoting communism ever since his student days.
His name was subsequently erased from film history, not even appearing in commemorative issues of the Taiwan Provincial Film Studio that he started. He was rehabilitated in 2002.
Taiwan in Time, a column about Taiwan’s history that is published every Sunday, spotlights important or interesting events around the nation that either have anniversaries this week or are tied to current events.
Taiwan has next to no political engagement in Myanmar, either with the ruling military junta nor the dozens of armed groups who’ve in the last five years taken over around two-thirds of the nation’s territory in a sprawling, patchwork civil war. But early last month, the leader of one relatively minor Burmese revolutionary faction, General Nerdah Bomya, who is also an alleged war criminal, made a low key visit to Taipei, where he met with a member of President William Lai’s (賴清德) staff, a retired Taiwanese military official and several academics. “I feel like Taiwan is a good example of
March 2 to March 8 Gunfire rang out along the shore of the frontline island of Lieyu (烈嶼) on a foggy afternoon on March 7, 1987. By the time it was over, about 20 unarmed Vietnamese refugees — men, women, elderly and children — were dead. They were hastily buried, followed by decades of silence. Months later, opposition politicians and journalists tried to uncover what had happened, but conflicting accounts only deepened the confusion. One version suggested that government troops had mistakenly killed their own operatives attempting to return home from Vietnam. The military maintained that the
“M yeolgong jajangmyeon (anti-communism zhajiangmian, 滅共炸醬麵), let’s all shout together — myeolgong!” a chef at a Chinese restaurant in Dongtan, located about 35km south of Seoul, South Korea, calls out before serving a bowl of Korean-style zhajiangmian —black bean noodles. Diners repeat the phrase before tucking in. This political-themed restaurant, named Myeolgong Banjeom (滅共飯館, “anti-communism restaurant”), is operated by a single person and does not take reservations; therefore long queues form regularly outside, and most customers appear sympathetic to its political theme. Photos of conservative public figures hang on the walls, alongside political slogans and poems written in Chinese characters; South
Taipei Mayor Chiang Wan-an (蔣萬安) announced last week a city policy to get businesses to reduce working hours to seven hours per day for employees with children 12 and under at home. The city promised to subsidize 80 percent of the employees’ wage loss. Taipei can do this, since the Celestial Dragon Kingdom (天龍國), as it is sardonically known to the denizens of Taiwan’s less fortunate regions, has an outsize grip on the government budget. Like most subsidies, this will likely have little effect on Taiwan’s catastrophic birth rates, though it may be a relief to the shrinking number of