2016 Book HongKongAndBollywood PDF

GLOBAL
CINEMA
Hong Kong and Bollywood

GLOBALIZATION OF ASIAN CINEMAS
edited by
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee
and Satish Kolluri
Global Cinema
Series Editors
Katarzyna Marciniak
Ohio University
USA
Anikó Imre
University of Southern California
USA
Áine O’Healy
Loyola Marymount University
USA
The Global Cinema series publishes innovative scholarship on the trans-
national themes, industries, economies, and aesthetic elements that
increasingly connect cinemas around the world. It promotes theoreti-
cally transformative and politically challenging projects that rethink film
studies from cross-cultural, comparative perspectives, bringing into focus
forms of cinematic production that resist nationalist or hegemonic frame-
works. Rather than aiming at comprehensive geographical coverage, it
foregrounds transnational interconnections in the production, distribu-
tion, exhibition, study, and teaching of film. Dedicated to global aspects
of cinema, this pioneering series combines original perspectives and new
methodological paths with accessibility and coverage. Both ‘global’ and
‘cinema’ remain open to a range of approaches and interpretations, new
and traditional. Books published in the series sustain a specific concern
with the medium of cinema but do not defensively protect the boundaries
of film studies, recognizing that film exists in a converging media environ-
ment. The series emphasizes a historically expanded rather than an exclu-
sively presentist notion of globalization; it is mindful of repositioning ‘the
global’ away from a US-centric/Eurocentric grid, and remains critical of
celebratory notions of ‘globalizing film studies.’
More information about this series at

http://www.springer.com/series/15005
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee • Satish Kolluri
Editors
Hong Kong and

Bollywood
Globalization of Asian Cinemas
Editors
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee Satish Kolluri
Pace University Pace University
New York, New York, USA New York, New York, USA
Global Cinema
ISBN 978-1-349-94931-1 ISBN 978-1-349-94932-8 (eBook)
DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016954118
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2016

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Acknowledgments
This collection of chapters grows out of our shared interest in the glo-
balization of Hong Kong and Bollywood cinemas. We initiated this proj-
ect based on an interdisciplinary course on Hong Kong and Bollywood
that we have been teaching at Pace University in New York City since
2005. The popularity of this course remains strong among our students,
whose endless enthusiasm prompted us to take a fresh look at these two
urban Asian cinemas comparatively. Always supportive of our efforts, Pace
University, especially the Dyson College of Arts and Sciences, provided an
intimate and collegial setting for research collaboration.
We extend our thanks to the contributors to this volume, whose careful
preparation ensured that each stage of our collaboration was both plea-
surable and rewarding. We also thank the anonymous reviewers for their
instructive comments and suggestions, and the editorial staff of Palgrave
Macmillan for their invaluable guidance. And yet without our families’
constancy, none of this would have been possible.
v
Contents
1 Situating Hong Kong and Bollywood Cinemas

in the Global 1
Satish Kolluri and Joseph Tse-Hei Lee
Part I The Politics of Representation and

Representation of Politics 27
2 The Trajectory of Bollywood Lyrics 29

Ali Mir and Raza Mir
3 Transformation of Hong Kong Gangster Movies Before

and After CEPA 51
Yau Shuk-Ting, Kinnia
4 Despair and Hope: Political Cinema in Hong Kong 69

Joseph Tse-Hei Lee
5 Chinaman, Not Hindustani: Stereotypes and Solidarity

in a Hong Kong Film on India 85
S.V. Srinivas
vii
viii Contents
6
1911: Cinematic Contradictions of Greater China 105
Siu-Keung Cheung
Part II The Crisis of Representation and

Representation of Crisis 119
7 What Is So Asian about Asian Parenting? Deconstructing

“Tiger Moms” and “Tiger Dads” in Neoliberal Times
Through Taare Zameen Par and I Not Stupid 121
Satish Kolluri
8 Negotiating Cold War and Postcolonial Politics: Borders

and Boundaries in 1950s Hong Kong Cinema 137
Jing Jing Chang
9 Slum Extravaganza!: Cultural and Geopolitical

Representation of Dharavi in Celluloid India 163
Sony Jalarajan Raj and Rohini Sreekumar
10 Life Without Principle: Financial Irregularities

in Hong Kong 181
Siu-Keung Cheung
Part III The Aesthetics of Representation and

Representation of Aesthetics 191
11 Discontents of Modernity: Space, Consumption and Loss

in Hong Kong New Wave and Bombay Parallel Cinema 193
Surajit Chakravarty
12 Naqal and the Aesthetics of the Copy 217

Anjali Roy
Contents ix
13 Undercranking and Step-Printing in Wong Kar-Wai’s

Filmography 235
Patrick Sullivan
14 Mirroring Alterity: The Imaginary China and the

Comedic Self in Chandni Chowk to China 247
Michael A. Mikita
15 Hong Kong, Films, and the Building of China’s

Soft Power: The Cross-Promotion of Chinese Films
on Globally Oriented State Television 265
Lauren Gorfinkel and Xuezhong Su
Index 295
Notes on Contributors
Surajit Chakravarty is Assistant Professor of Urban Planning at ALHOSN

University in Abu Dhabi, United Arabs Emirates. He holds a Ph.D. in Policy,
Planning, and Development from the University of Southern California. His
research focuses on community planning, housing, informality, and civic engage-
ment in multicultural societies.
Jing Jing Chang completed her Ph.D. in modern Chinese history and a graduate
minor in cinema studies at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. She is
Assistant Professor of Film Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University in Canada. Her
research interests include global cinemas, postwar Hong Kong, Cold War culture,
and postcolonial studies. She is working on a manuscript that addresses the colo-
nial, gender, and Cold War politics of Hong Kong Cantonese cinema.
Siu-Keung Cheung is Associate Professor of Sociology at Hong Kong Shue Yan
University. He is the coeditor of Social Transformations in Chinese Societies, the
official journal of the Hong Kong Sociological Association, and of a popular
e-book series on “Hong Kong Culture and Society.” He is the author of Gender
and Community under British Colonialism: Emotion, Struggle and Politics in a
Chinese Village (New York, 2007); coauthor with Raymond Chi-Fai Chui, The
Postindustrial Hong Kong: A Life-Story Approach (Hong Kong, 2015); and coedi-
tor with Joseph Tse-Hei Lee and Lida V. Nedilsky, Marginalization in China:
Recasting Minority Politics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009) and China’s
Rise to Power: Conceptions of State Governance (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
2012).
Lauren Gorfinkel is Lecturer in International Communication at Macquarie
University, Sydney. Her research interests are in Chinese television, music, and
national and ethnic identity. Her latest publications appeared in Keith Howard, ed.
xi
xii Notes on Contributors
Music as Intangible Cultural Heritage: Policy, Ideology, and Practice in the

Preservation of East Asian Traditions (Burlington, VT, 2012); Joseph Tse-Hei
Lee, Lida V. Nedilsky, and Siu- Keung Cheung, eds. China’s Rise to Power:
Conceptions of State Governance (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); and the
Asia-Pacific music journal Perfect Beat (2011). Lauren’s Ph.D. dissertation, at the
University of Technology, Sydney, focused on the cultural politics of music-
entertainment on China Central Television.
Satish Kolluri is Associate Professor of Communication Studies at Pace University
in New York City. His research centers on global citizenship, education, and civic
engagement. He coedited a special issue of Cultural Dynamics on secularism and
postcolonial theory, and authored numerous studies on secularism, nationalism,
and participatory development communication. He also helped curate the
New York Indian Film Festival.
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee is Professor of History and Executive Director of the Confucius
Institute at Pace University in New York City. He is the author of The Bible and the
Gun: Christianity in South China, 1860–1900 (New York, 2003, 2014; Chinese
edition, Beijing, 2010) and the coeditor of Marginalization in China: Recasting
Minority Politics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009) and China’s Rise to Power:
Conceptions of State Governance (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). His latest
research focuses on the intersection of faith and politics in modern China.
Michael A. Mikita is a doctoral candidate in Chinese literature at Xiamen
University in China and is working on a dissertation that examines the mediation
of Sinic subjectivity in the 2008 Olympic Opening Ceremony. His research on film
criticism and theory has appeared in several journals and anthologies. He has
taught courses in Chinese language and literature at California State University in
Bakersfield and is currently an adjunct professor of Chinese at Rio Hondo College
in Whittier, California.
Ali Mir is Professor of Management at William Paterson University in New
Jersey. He work on a wide range of topics, including the changing nature of work
in late capitalism, the international division of labor, knowledge transfer, migra-
tion, offshoring, secularism, radical poetry, and Indian cinema has been published.
He is the coauthor of Anthems of Resistance: A Celebration of Progressive Urdu
Poetry (New Delhi, 2006) and occasionally writes lyrics and scripts for Indian
cinema.
Raza Mir is Professor of Management at William Paterson University in New
Jersey. When not dabbling in film studies and Urdu studies, his academic
research mainly concerns the transfer of knowledge across national boundaries
in multinational corporations and issues relating to power and resistance in
organizations.
Notes on Contributors xiii
Sony Jalarajan Raj is an assistant professor at the Department of Communication,

MacEwan University, Edmonton, Canada. He is a professional journalist-turned-
academic, who has worked in different demanding positions as reporter, special
correspondent, and producer in several news media channels like the BBC,
NDTV, Doordarshan, AIR, and Asianet News. He served as the graduate coordi-
nator and Assistant Professor of Communication Arts at the Institute for
Communication, Entertainment, and Media at St. Thomas University, Florida.
He was a full-time faculty member in Journalism, Mass Communication, and
Media Studies at Monash University, Curtin University, Mahatma Gandhi
University, and University of Kerala. He is a three-time winner of the Monash
University PVC Award for excellence in teaching and learning. He has been on
the editorial board of five major international journals and edits the Journal of
Media Watch. He was the recipient of Reuters Fellowship and is a Thomson
Foundation (UK) Fellow in Television Studies with the Commonwealth
Broadcasting Association Scholarship.
Anjali Roy is a professor at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences at
the Indian Institute of Technology, Kharagpur. Several of her essays in literary,
film, and cultural studies have been published. Her publications include an essay
collection, edited with Nandi Bhatia, Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home,
Displacement and Resettlement (New Delhi, 2008), and a monograph, Bhangra
Moves: From Ludhiana to London and Beyond (Burlington, VT, 2010). She recently
coedited with Chua Beng Huat, The Travels of Indian Cinema: From Bombay to
LA (New Delhi, 2012), and edited Magic of Bollywood: At Home and Abroad
(New Delhi, 2012).
Rohini Sreekumar holds a Ph.D. from the School of Arts and Social Sciences at
Monash University. She had her MA in mass communication and journalism, with
a gold medal, from Mahatma Gandhi University in India. She is the recipient of
National Merit Scholarship and Junior Research Fellowship from the University
Grants Commission of India. Her research interests include journalism practice,
mediated public sphere, and diasporic studies.
S.V. Srinivas is a senior fellow at the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society
and a visiting professor at the Centre for Contemporary Studies, Indian Institute
of Science, Bangalore. His research interests include cultural and creative indus-
tries and comparative studies in popular culture. His papers on Indian and Hong
Kong cinemas have been published and he is the author of Megastar: Chiranjeevi
and Telugu Cinema after N. T. Ramo Rao (New Delhi, 2009) and Politics as
Performance: A Social History of the Telugu Cinema (New Delhi, 2013).
Xuezhong Su is a Ph.D. candidate and research assistant at the China Research
Centre, University of Technology, Sydney. His research focuses on philanthropy,
citizenship, education, and the media in contemporary China. He holds a Master
xiv Notes on Contributors
of Education from Sydney University and was Lecturer in English at Kunming

University in China for 13 years before moving to Australia.
Patrick Sullivan is a doctoral student at the Department of Art and Art History
at the University of Rochester. His thesis investigates the construction of cinematic
space and time in Lee Chang-dong’s Peppermint Candy and Pen-ek Ratanaruang’s
Last Life in the Universe in connection to the 1997 Asian economic crisis. He cur-
rently teaches at Northern Virginia Community College.
Yau Shuk-Ting, Kinnia received her Ph.D. from the University of Tokyo in
2003. She is Associate Professor of Japanese Studies at the Chinese University of
Hong Kong. Some of her latest publications include An Oral History of Hong
Kong and Japanese Filmmakers: From Foes to Friends (Hong Kong, 2012) and
Natural Disaster and Reconstruction in Asian Economies: A Global Synthesis of
Shared Experiences (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). She received the Young
Researcher Award at the Chinese University of Hong Kong in 2008 and was a
Harvard–Yenching Institute visiting scholar in 2010 and 2011.
List of Figures
Fig. 5.1 The advertisement of Gopi Naidu’s Korean Taekwondo

Academy (Photograph courtesy of author) 89
Fig. 5.2 Gopi Naidu (Photograph courtesy of author) 89
Fig. 5.3 The Sri Kanaka Durga Mana Dragon Noodles in Vijayawada
City (Photograph courtesy of author) 90
Fig. 5.4 The English title of Kyouko Nobi’s Masala Hits Star Magazine
(Photograph courtesy of author) 95
Fig. 5.5 Talli in front of the Ambassador car, which ruled Indian
roads until the early 1980s 96
Fig. 5.6 Francis Ng misrecognises himself as a Japanese gangster 99
Fig. 5.7 Francis Ng attacks Himalaya Singh 99
Fig. 5.8 Uncle Panic kissing Peacock in illusion 100
Fig. 5.9 Uncle Panic kissing an Indian thief in reality 100
Fig. 5.10 The surprised King of Yoga mistakes the Hong Kong
youth for Himalaya Singh 101
Fig. 8.1 The couple separated themselves by the wall, which was
put up by the husband using a bed sheet 152
Fig. 8.2 The daughter has slipped beneath the “wall” and the
servant wants to resign 153
Fig. 8.3 The daughter asks her mother why she is mad at her father 154
Fig. 8.4 The daughter is eavesdropping on the conversation between
her father and a neighbor 154
Fig. 8.5 The daughter is happy about her parents’ reconciliation 155
Fig. 8.6 The couple kisses their daughter at the end 156
xv
CHAPTER 1
Situating Hong Kong and Bollywood

Cinemas in the Global
Satish Kolluri and Joseph Tse-Hei Lee
Hong Kong and Bombay (today’s Mumbai) have much in common. They
were once British colonies. India became independent in 1947 and Hong
Kong was under British rule from 1841 to 1997. Given their strategic
location, both cities were the economic hubs of the British Empire in the
Far East, and continue to be global migratory routes across the South
China Sea, Indian Ocean, and Pacific Ocean. Chinese and Indian migrants
have established themselves in both places and contributed to cosmopoli-
tanism as a way of life, embracing new ideas and practices from outside.
The frequent crossover with the world has expanded the horizon of local
filmmakers, making them aware of the new trends of global media while
being sensitive to the need of localism (Deprez 2009).
This book is the first of its kind to bring Hong Kong and Bollywood
cinemas in conversation with one another. It contextualizes the latest
development of both film industries from historical and cross-cultural per-
spectives, partly because of their shared colonial heritages and postcolonial
transformation into new sociopolitical entities, and partly because of their
cinematographic commonalities and divergences. Seeing Hong Kong
and Bollywood as broad analytical categories of urban cinema, this study
draws on different film genres to highlight the phenomena of cinematic
S. Kolluri (*) • J.T.-H. Lee

Pace University, New York, NY, USA
© The Author(s) 2016 1

J.T.-H Lee, S. Kolluri (eds.), Hong Kong and Bollywood,
DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_1
2 S. KOLLURI AND J.T.-H. LEE
appropriation, elaboration, and plagiarism in the cultural flows between

Hollywood, Hong Kong, and Bollywood. The investigation not only
entails a mere description of two local-turned-global Asian film industries
but also represents an attempt to theorize a fruitful area of study.
The existing corpus of literature surrounding Asian film studies has
addressed the discourses of globalization, Orientalism, postcolonialism,
and nationalism as well as the dichotomies between national and regional
cinemas. What is missing is a comparative reader that brings together
Hong Kong and Bombay, two Asian cities with their film industries that
transcend the conventional categories of Chinese and Indian national
cinemas. The success of Hong Kong and Bollywood in capturing the
attention of global audiences has called for more attention to the dynam-
ics of Asian cinematic landscapes and the rise of China and India in a
multipolar world (Lee 2009, 2011; Yau 2011; Lee et al. 2012). Yet, the
classification of Asian films into genres is complicated by the fact that
the “Asian” film market is not monolithic, and it is very diverse across
the continent, with film industries and audiences at different stages of
development.
This anthology brings together international scholars to explore the
transmission, reception, and reproduction of new cinematic styles, mean-
ings, and practices in Hong Kong and Bollywood during the early twenty-
first century. Energized by the shifting ideologies of these cinemas and by
the trends toward transnationalism and translatability, our contributors
address the concerns of many Chinese and Indian film specialists, who
wonder how Hong Kong and Bollywood move beyond the previous cin-
ematic focus on nationalism, urbanity, and biculturalism to reinvent them-
selves as transnational cinemas with new innovations.
This introduction explores the appeals of Hong Kong and Bollywood in
relation to major transformations in both film industries. First, it discusses
the origins of this project in connection with the long-standing cinematic
genres and the specific historical contexts in Hong Kong and Mumbai.
Second, it singles out a variety of thematic commonalities as a key to
understanding the continuity and change of Hong Kong and Bollywood.
In particular, it explores the force of globalization that has driven local
producers to make films for nontraditional audiences, to address contem-
porary controversies in their works, and to gain legitimacy from and nego-
tiate with various state authorities. Third, it poses the question of what
is gained and lost in the flow of aesthetics, styles, genres, meanings, and
practices among Hong Kong, Bollywood, and global cinemas.
SITUATING HONG KONG AND BOLLYWOOD CINEMAS IN THE GLOBAL 3
The Conceptualization of This Project

Inspired by an interdisciplinary course on the globalization of Hong
Kong and Bollywood cinemas that we have taught at Pace University in
New York City since 2005, this anthology seeks to break away from the
Hollywood–Hong Kong and Hollywood–Bollywood nexuses, and situate
these two Asian cinematic giants in an inter-Asia context as an intellectual
reorientation that inscribes the cultural and historical narratives of both
in new and provocative ways. To break the old East–West divide without
“going nativist,” this project adheres to the mission statement of the edi-
torial collective of Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, forces of globalization a
decade ago “have opened up a unique moment for dialogues within Asia
and internationally,” although those forces have a different character and
trajectory today due to the reignition of Cold War hostilities, the rise of
religious fundamentalism, and the emergence of China and India as global
powers. Such dialogues are conducted “not in the familiar language of
third world poverty and hunger—but rather as smarter and better edu-
cated, and hence posing a threat to U.S. global leadership” (John 2010).
Given that film studies is an interdisciplinary enterprise, it is paradoxical
that “theorists and historians constantly redefine its disciplinary boundaries
before or while it ‘disappears’ into neighboring terrains such as media, com-
munication or literary studies” (Fan 2015: 1). We celebrate this paradox
by making our course “disappear” between the disciplinary interstices of
Media and Communication Studies, History, and Asian Studies as we want
to create a “comparative space” for dialogue between films and film theories
in order to produce new ways of “looking” at Asian cinemas. This volume
initiates an interregional conversation between East Asian and South Asian
cinemas, an emerging field that navigates such a “comparative” space, even
though there is no scholarly consensus about how to theoretically approach
it. Keeping in mind the principle that films and film theories as “texts” them-
selves are essentially comparative spaces enabled by “translation, intellectual
critique and vernacular mediation,” and borrowing from Victor Fan’s con-
struction of Chinese film theory against the Euro-American counterparts,
our intervention fosters a new epistemological space for such scholarship
“after so many years of discipline-building debate” (Morris 2007: 429).
Meaghan Morris explains that the long-standing disciplinary borders and
conceptual barriers make it difficult for “genuinely transnational scholar-
ship to emerge” in an otherwise symptomatically “borderless world” that
still constructs national boundaries not only as “objects of study” but also
in our very “enunciative practice.” For her, to “discuss cinema historically

in a transnational register is distinctly different from talking ‘about’ transna-
tional cinema” (Ibid.). Along the same reasoning, Kuan-Hsing Chen makes
a passionate appeal in Asia as Method for formulating new recourses to
approach Asia as an object of study (2010). One of those “recourses” is our
interdisciplinary course that served as an exemplar of an inter-Asian depart-
mental collaboration between media specialists and historians, and between
colleagues and cultural compatriots at an individual level. Interested in the
“other’s” cinema from perspectives that do not necessarily posit Hollywood
and Western film theory as norms to interpret Asian cinemas, we still rec-
ognize them as meaningful interlocutors in the conversations. However,
we shift the focus of attention from a simple and politically correct cri-
tique of Orientalism (Srinivas 2005) to interpretive frameworks that offer
us what Edward Said (1993) called “a contrapuntal” space in an American
classroom for an inter-Asian dialogue between Hong Kong and Bombay
cinemas. Such frameworks touch on the cinematic themes of violence and
vigilantism in the urban underworld, Asian parenting in neoliberal times,
the cultural politics of love and romance, the pursuit of democratic engage-
ment, the critiques of colonial and postcolonial realities, and the representa-
tions of dharma, karma, and guanxi. These intelligible frameworks throw
light on different cinematic traditions through which to recast similarities
and differences, continuities and changes, and inter-Asian flows in a global
economy. While the challenge for us was to acknowledge the “generic”
elephant in the classroom in the form of global Hollywood that dominates
the young students’ understanding of cinema, we engage it by taking the
necessary linguistic and cultural turns in Western film theory and urge them
to read and analyze “contrapuntally” Hong Kong and Indian films with an
“awareness both of metropolitan history that is narrated and of those other
histories against which (and together with which) the dominating discourse
acts” (Said 1993: 51).
Situating “Nation” and “World” in Asian Cinemas

The nature of “world,” “Asian,” and “national” cinemas in the “various
permutations of ‘nation’—‘transnationalism,’ multi-nationalism,’ ‘national
identity,’ ‘internationalism,’ and ‘nationalism,’—that figure centrally in
the new critical vocabulary,” even as it “competes with the predominantly
poststructuralist, psychoanalytic, feminist, and semiotic understandings of
cinematic texts,” has brought new perspectives to film studies (Hjort and
Mackenzie 2000: 1–2). If “world cinema” represents the sum total of cine-
mas in the world and is posited against the Hollywood (West vs. Rest), and
if “national cinema” finds itself in a position “against which all national
cinemas must somehow define themselves,” it poses a theoretical problem
that requires us to think through these categories in disciplinary, method-
ological, and perspectival terms (Dennison and Lim 2006: 7). In a similar
vein, for Meaghan Morris, “the specificity of Hong Kong cinema is not in
doubt,” but what is highly debatable is how to frame that specificity within
a discipline that tries to organize film worlds beyond Hollywood with the
category “national cinema,” because it poses problems for active filmmak-
ing places that are not “nations” in any meaningful way, as in the case of
Hong Kong—“a cinema without a nation” (Morris et al. 2005: 10).
In cultural terms the histories of national cinema are represented as
histories of crises and conflicts (Higson 2002), from the constant threat
of fragmentation of the postcolonial nation as visualized through films to
the derived nature of “genre” as a film category because it emanates from
elsewhere (Chakravarty 1993). Rajinder Dudrah and Jigna Desai note in
their insightful introduction to The Bollywood Reader,
While to many Western viewers, Bollywood suggests some static genre that
characterizes all Indian film, genre classification is a tricky business … because
it was dismissed as apolitical and formulaic by some and embraced as quint-
essentially ‘Indian,’ which for most part became reduced to a ‘masala,’—the
concoction of Indian spices also mistaken known as ‘curry powder’—a culinary
metaphor that represented that some embrace and others reject (Dudrah and
Desai 2008: 10).
To analyze Indian films in terms of Western/Aristotelian theory makes as

much sense as evaluating Hollywood in terms of the Natyashastra, observes
Gaston Roberge (1992). Keval J. Kumar (2011) cautions that Bollywood
studies have led to the privileging of “Bollywood as the face of ‘Indian’ cin-
ema,” neglecting the fact that it is just one of the many genres of Indian and
South Asian cinemas. Ravi S. Vasudevan further explains that Bollywood is
more “an extended commodity function of the ‘high profile, export oriented
Bombay film,’ which is about branding of India rather than a presentation
of an aesthetic form, and that its use as a term of reference should be histori-
cized to the early 1990” (Vasudevan 2011: 6).
In the 1960s and 1970s, “world” or “national” cinemas became aes-
thetic “texts” for film theory classes in American and European universi-
ties in the form of “foreign art films.” Such cinemas that do not fit the
Western definition of genre perform the role of a transnational thematic
signifier for “Other” cinemas and scholars of cinema, who innovate,
appropriate, fracture, mimic, resist, and negotiate on terms not necessarily
of their choosing as they speak of, for, and as the nation under the frame-
work of “national cinema.” To appropriate Homi K. Bhabha (1990) here,
the pedagogical form of genre of the West provides the so-called impera-
tive to judge the performative aspect of “national cinema” of the Rest. As
S.V. Srinivas puts it most succinctly, “Hollywood is the norm and every
other cinema requires a separate theory” (2005: 111).
Based on their comprehensive examination of modernist and post-
modernist conceptions of cinema and nation, Mette Hjort and Scott
Mackenzie assert that the concepts of national cinema and identity belong
to the future of films studies and its beginnings (Hjort and Mackenzie
2000). In light of the dramatic surge in the study of national cinemas that
have resisted the epistemic hegemony of scholarship on Hollywood and
European cinemas, and thus opened up new ways of thinking about cin-
ema itself, we are in agreement with the need to go beyond the theoretical
vocabulary of Benedict Anderson’s “imagined community” in order to
situate cinema within a more complex framework that incorporates com-
peting narratives of the nation.
Undoubtedly, “any attempt to construct the history of nation or
national cinema as coherent, unified, homogenous is to lend support to
erasure of difference” (Hjort and Mackenzie 2000: 4). This effort, how-
ever, risks privileging the “ideas of coherence and unity and stable cultural
meanings associated with the uniqueness of a given nation,” justifying
the production of national myth and ideology (Dissanayake 1994: xiii).
Ironically, contemporary “national cinema” no longer holds water for
the “innocence project” of the postcolonial state in the name of nation-
building, and yet, it is the nation-state, especially in India, that declared
film to be a national strategic industry in 1997 and created the annual
national film awards for films in all regional languages, including Hindi.
Despite being a formidable force in the national popular culture, Hindi
cinema still poses challenges to the Indian state because “the industry’s
‘grey’ economy status” prevents it from gaining the status of a national
cinema. This rules out “the benefit of production subsidy or of market
protection, which are standard requirements of authorized national cin-
emas” (Rajadhyaksha 2009: 17).
Cautioning against “progressive claims frequently made for extra-

national perspectives,” Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie invoke the name
of late Paul Willemen, who identified the problems of the hegemony of
the Euro-American paradigms on non-Western films and “the assumed
universality of film language, which has the effect in some contexts of
undermining local knowledge,” culturally and economically when it came
to understanding the unequal character of globalization, the salient role
of the nation-state, and the tendentious relation between “national” and
cinema (Hjort and Petrie 2007: 12). In distinguishing between national-
ism and national identity formation, they note that films can be seen not
to “reflect” but to “stage” the historical conditions that constitute the
“national,” and this “staging of historical conditions”—the very mode
of address of national cinema—is “a much more fundamental consider-
ation than the nationality of the filmmaker or the origin of the production
finance” (Hjort and Petrie 2007: 12).
Broadly speaking, scholars locate “national cinema” in two realms: one
of aesthetics and audience reception, and the other of the cycle of film
production, distribution, and exhibition. Stephen Crofts (1993) breaks
it down into the categories of audiences, discourses, textuality, national–
cultural specificity, the cultural specificity of genres, nation-state cinema
movements, the role of the state, and the global range of nation-state
cinemas. He locates national cinema at the textual and industrial levels in
which the former speaks to the aesthetic content of cinema and the latter
adopts a more political economy approach by examining “the relation-
ship between cinema and industry in terms of production, distribution,
and exhibition” (Crofts 1993: xiii). Nationalist discourses and cinematic
texts are imbricated with each other, as evinced in the rising literature
on “national cinemas” that redefine the concept of cinematic nationhood
and, in doing so, dramatically alter the terrain of film and cultural studies.
As an academic category, “national cinema” still remains “a significant dis-
cursive function for Asian cinema studies,” as Anne T. Ciecko points out
in several studies of cinematic nationalisms in contemporary Asia (2006).
In explaining the unique role of Hong Kong as a mediating bridge
between the British and Chinese empires, Charles Leary attaches specific
meaning to the operation of transnationalism in the context of posing spe-
cific questions about Hong Kong film culture and its role in transforming
world film culture:
How can one reconcile the early “world cinema” texts in the discipline
of film studies, the rubric of globalization, surrounding Hong Kong and
Hong Kong cinema, the resurgence of “world cinema” encyclopedias,
and the discourses of transnationalism? Is there something particularly
“worldly” about Hong Kong cinema? … What does globalization mean,
and what does it do for us? Is not the globe by definition globalized?
(Leary 2008: 58)
By making “a distinction between a theory of world cinema and a world

theory of cinema,” Leary writes that the connotation emerging out of the
association that several studies make between Hong Kong cinema and
transnationalism is “more of a sense of singularity—or universality—in
‘world cinema’ rather than cultural-cross exchange” (Leary 2008: 58).
In light of the shared film history that Hong Kong has with Mainland
China and Taiwan, Leary reiterates that categories such as national cin-
ema and postcolonialism are still relevant for understanding the dynamics
of filmmaking in those nations, just as it is important to take into seri-
ous consideration “literature on postcolonial theory and cultural stud-
ies, on multiculturalism, theories of globalization,” much of which has
been employed to contextualize Hong Kong cinema as “national cinema”
(Ibid.: 58–59).
Recent Dynamics in Hong Kong and Bollywood

For decades, the Hong Kong film industry was dominated by martial arts
action movies featuring Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Sammo Hung, Jet Li, and
Donnie Yen (Stokes and Hoover 1999). The storylines used to be linear
and repetitive, lacking coherence and depth, but the movies’ unique action
choreography and fighting sequences were carefully prepared. The film
industry owed its success to intriguing plot lines, stunning visual effects,
lavish fighting scenes, and tearful melodramas. Such cinematic styles gave
audiences entertainment, an escape from daily hardships, and an illusion
for a better life. The earlier films by Jackie Chan were loaded with happy
violence during the 1970s and 1980s, John Woo’s A Better Tomorrow
trilogy (1986–1989) marked a new era of heroic bloodshed on screen
and greatly influenced Hollywood and South Korean directors, and Hark
Tsui’s Once Upon a Time in China trilogy (1992–1994), featuring Jet Li as
the martial arts legend Wong Fei-Hung, reconciled Chinese nationalistic
sentiment with Cantonese identity. Meanwhile, art house filmmakers such
as Wong Kar-Wai, Clara Law, and Stanley Kwan interrogated the issues
of urban realism, identity formation, and border-crossing. In contempo-
rary Hong Kong cinema, violence, crimes, and overlapping identities are
widely used in conjunction with more sophisticated and innovative story-
lines, the best examples being Infernal Affairs trilogy (2001–2003) and
PTU: Police Tactical Unit (2003). These diverse styles have enabled the
Hong Kong film industry to earn worldwide recognition in recent years
as its police and triad thrillers, cinematic techniques and styles, and direc-
tors have become an integral part of the Hollywood cinema (Chan 2009).
The Hong Kong action movies, romantic comedies, historical epics, and
arts films not only throw light on the media representations of past and
present as events, experiences, and myths, but also reveal the interactions
between global and local cinemas, transnational capital, and Cantonese
identity and sentiment.
Undoubtedly, Hong Kong cinema has successfully positioned “its
brands and brand-names globally so as to find trans-local and trans-
regional niches within the transnational film marketplace, and this prompts
Hong Kong film to be in constant dialogue with European art cinema and
Hollywood commercial genres” (Marchetti and Tan 2007: 5). Meaghan
Morris’ proposition that “Hong Kong has played a formative rather than
a marginal role in shaping action cinema as it circulates globally today”
(Morris et al. 2005: 183) is tempered by David Bordwell (2000), whose
research reveals that Hong Kong cinema still remains a local cinema in
opposition to Hollywood global cinema, which is characterized by large
export volumes and a strong presence on movie screens worldwide. Hong
Kong continues to remain relevant as a global cinematic force in the face of
a hegemonic Hollywood that dictates genres and in the face of resurgence
of Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese, Iranian, Indian, and Thai cinemas, even
though there has been an incremental decline, since the mid-1990s, from
the zenith of its commercial success in the 1980s because “it is closely
linked to the overwhelming change in the way feature films are consumed
and the re-structuring of local, regional, and global film markets” (Leung
2008: 71). By producing collaborative blockbusters with studios in the
USA and China, Hong Kong cinema is now making films for regional
niches and international audiences.
The most notable transformation was Hong Kong film industry’s
intensified cooperation with China after the implementation of the Closer
Economic Partnership Arrangement (CEPA) in 2004, permitting the spe-
cial entry of Hong Kong films to the lucrative Mainland market, often in
the form of coproduction, without being restricted by the import quota

for imported films (DeBoer 2014: 158). Coproduction rules were loos-
ened, removing barriers that had previously disfavored the Hong Kong
filmmakers. More than a business shift, the new sentiments were in sup-
port of the infrastructural development for coproduction practices in
China. This business model helped to “spread risk, provide greater market
access, furnish access to extensive infrastructure and studio facilities, offer
more options for location shooting, and generally boost production val-
ues” (Bettinson 2015: 135).
The Chinese state is determined to make the country “a central locus
of film and media production,” and the establishment of numerous copro-
duction agreements has paved the way for reshaping the scale of regional
film production (DeBoer 2014: 158). Luring Hong Kong filmmakers
with financial incentives, China seeks to dominate its domestic box office
with Chinese films against Hollywood imports (Bettinson 2015: 135).
The China Film Bureau hoped that under CEPA, Hong Kong filmmak-
ers moved toward the goal of advocating national reintegration, but the
actual productions vary considerably in the way they were received. Recent
large-scale representations of Chinese history like Jacob Cheung’s Battle
of Wits (2006) and Teddy Chan’s Bodyguards and Assassins (2009) reveal
a rising China that is still wrestling with itself in an attempt to achieve
stable power transition and national reunification. In stopping at the point
prior to achieving the dream of state consolidation, these Hong Kong
filmmakers portray China as being tapped in “a moment of intense nego-
tiation, fissure, and instability” rather than being capable of building a
prosperous society and achieving national rejuvenation (DeBoser 2014:
164). Instead of submitting themselves to the broad category of “Chinese
national cinema,” many Hong Kong filmmakers take advantage of new
business opportunities and resources to produce films for a Greater China
film market.
Coinciding with the growing Mainland–Hong Kong coproductions is
the rise of a New Wave in the local screenscape. Previous scholars used
the term “New Wave” to describe the television and documentary works
produced by young directors from 1976 to 1984, and Cheuk Pak-Tong
(2008) expands this definition to the cinemas that came during the
period of preparing for Hong Kong’s transition to China (1984–1997).
However, Mirana M. Szeto and Yun-Chung Chen define the term “Hong
Kong SAR New Wave” as a new generation of filmmakers whose socio-
economic status differs considerably from the 1970s and 1980s when the
Hong Kong New Wave emerged. Today’s filmmakers have adapted to

the prolonged recession after 1997, the neoliberal economic practices,
and the pressure for Mainlandization. They experienced the transition of
Hong Kong from a colony into a special administrative region under the
Communist rule. They are keenly aware of working in a new historical
context different from British Hong Kong. They deliberately take on local
issues with greater awareness of intra- and intercultural flows within the
Greater China region, and their cosmopolitanism rejects the “chauvin-
ist and xenophobic petit-grandiose Hong Kongism typical of pre-1997
Hong Kong colonial inferiority complex” (Szeto and Chen 2012: 122).
Searching for the local sensitivities in both Hong Kong–China and global
contexts, these filmmakers reframe the impacts of national and global poli-
cies on everyday life in Hong Kong and articulate a sense of grassroots
identity against the pressure for assimilation into the Han Chinese hege-
mony (Chu 2015).
In parallel, Bollywood has greatly transformed itself from a cinema of
pure entertainment into one that embraces innovative genres to make
the audiences think about historical and contemporary controversies.
“With more than a dozen major film companies including Sony and
FOX Searchlight that now produce the bulk of the films released in India
instead of thousands of individual producers which was the case until
neo-liberalization reforms took hold, Bollywood is a new film industry.
It speaks a new language—when it is making films, when it is marketing
and distributing them and when it is retailing them” (Kohli-Khandekar
2006: 106). The globalization of India’s economy and the rise of its cos-
mopolitan middle class have prompted filmmakers to address the dichot-
omies between tradition and modernity, religion and secularism, rural
and urban cultures, collectivity and individuality, prearranged marriage
and romantic love, and patriotism and treason (Matusitzm and Payano
2011, 2012). Given the worldwide spread of the Indian diaspora and its
rapid growth in the West since the 1980s, Bollywood consciously made “a
global turn” by addressing the Indian diaspora’s experience in blockbust-
ers like Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (1995), Pardes (1997), and Kabhi
Khushi Kabhi Gham (2001) and articulating what Hamid Naficy (2001:
5) called the language of “transitional and transnational” conditions of
diasporic existence, bereft of the nation and yet rooted in it emotionally
and symbolically.
Characterized by smaller budgets and less commercially driven motives,
and emboldened by audience’s demand for realism, a few filmmakers have
begun to address the fissures and contradictions in a fast-changing Indian

society troubled by an insatiable appetite for materialism and a strong
assertion of identity politics. This resonates with Paul Willemen’s charac-
terization of non-Western films’ effort to “stage” historical conditions as
a key to exploring fissures and antagonisms that structure Indian society
(Hjort and Petrie 2007). As a result, directors of more complex films
such as Black Friday (2004), Khosla ka Ghosla (2006), Dev.D (2009),
Udaan (2010), Shor in the City (2011), Dhobi Ghat (2011), Gangs of
Wasseypur (2012), Jolly LLB (2013), The Lunch Box (2013), Ship of
Theseus (2013), Shahid (2013), Queen (2014), Court (2015), Tanu Weds
Manu Returns (2015), and Masaan (2015) have carved out their niche
audiences among the urban film festival attendees, who have grown weary
of the old Bollywood formula of cinematic escapism. While this “New
Wave” partially operates within the well-established economic structures
of Bollywood and multiplex cinemas of metropolitan India, it has democ-
ratized the making and viewing of films, thanks to the digital revolution.
More importantly, it has revived what used to be known as parallel or art
house cinema in India during the 1970s and 1980s. It is indeed ironi-
cal now to witness big global studios like FOX and SONY producing
such complex urban films in response to their critical acclaim and grow-
ing commercial success. The sheer numbers of Indian audiences at home
and abroad make these films some of the most powerful discourses in
contemporary media culture. Bollywood’s simultaneous embrace of cos-
mopolitanism and provinciality as well as its complicity with global capi-
tal demonstrate the dialectical relationships between nation and diaspora,
tradition and modernity, sacred and secular in contemporary South Asia
(Kolesnikov-Jessop, August 19, 2005).
Undoubtedly, Bollywood has refashioned itself as a new cultural and
market force in the pantheon of global cinema, but it still has a long way
to go before it can assume the “global” status of Hong Kong or Japanese
films. Even though Hollywood cannot compete with its Indian coun-
terpart in the domestic market due to the latter’s pan-Indian structure
of feeling based in the national language of Hindi and film music, one
cannot deny that even Bollywood fails to exercise cultural hegemony over
the regional Telugu, Marathi, Tamil, and Malayalam cinemas, which are
self-sufficient, creative, resourceful, and more innovative than Bollywood
and which act as counter-hegemonic forces to the language of Bollywood,
Hindi, that happens to be the (m)other tongue for most Indians. It is
important to examine what is really global about Bollywood, and how is
its global or transnational outreach different from that of Hong Kong.

Put it differently, should we regard Bollywood as a global brand name
that originated in the multicultural cities of the USA and UK but which
singularly designates a particular form of film “that is both a product and
experience and is constituted as Indian popular film through transna-
tional aesthetic impulses and multiple sites of reception?” (Kaur and Sinha
2005: 14). Ravi S. Vasudevan (2011) rejects such a characterization of
Bollywood because it overlooks the transnational impulses and multiple
aesthetic currents that determine the output of a specific industry. He sug-
gests a way to contextualize such impulses and currents in a more nuanced
and historically informed way, without forsaking the national as an oppres-
sive and restrictive conceptual frame that contains little explanatory power
or influence in producing specific films and genres (Vasudevan 2001).
Nevertheless, outside South Asia, Bollywood is still limited to the South
Asian diaspora in the West and to countries in Africa and the Middle East.
When being asked to comment on the global impact of Indian cinema,
Bollywood superstars Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan were under
no illusions that Bollywood and Indian cinema, in general, had much to do
in order to be recognized as a truly global force on the world screenscape.
Not surprisingly, this was not the case when it came to A.R. Rahman, who
truly arrived on the global stage through his musical score for Slumdog
Millionaire, which won him the Oscar for original score in 2009, and for
Warriors on Heaven and Earth, a Chinese period film nominated for the
Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 2003.
There is, however, a cautionary tale attached to this moment in his-
tory because the conventional pairings of India’s neoliberal economic
policies starting in 1991 and the growth of Bollywood are misleading and
tell us little about the cultural phenomenon known as Bollywoodization.
Adopting a methodology of content analysis that is more an exception than
a rule in the field of Indian film scholarship, David J. Schaefer and Kavita
Karan carefully investigate the highest-grossing Hindi films between 1947
and 2007, a postcolonial period that signified “the potentially chang-
ing social-political-economic context of Hindi cinema” along with the
“geographical, cultural, nationalistic, infrastructural and artistic” modes of
globalization. They caution that “the oft-repeated conclusions of scholars
regarding the widespread influence of global forces on Hindi film pro-
duction—particularly in the current era of Bollywoodization—are more
complex than suggested in prior research” (Schaefer and Karan 2012: 8,
68). Bollywood’s relationship to the “global” should be understood as
originating from the multicultural spaces in South Asia, the Middle East
and Gulf states, the USA, Britain, parts of Africa, and now increasingly in
Eastern Europe. It is the fastest-growing industry in India and the only
one that has not seen a decline in profits since the 2008 global finan-
cial crisis. And yet, compared with Hong Kong, Bollywood still lacks the
“transnational” element in the making of crossovers, remakes and hybrids
that have characterized East Asian cinemas, and its relatively limited global
appeal with wider international audiences has as much to do with the
generic inflexibility and lack of curiosity on their part as it does with an
obsessive focus on an all-inclusive, risk-free, and formulaic “masala” genre
of Bollywood which sacrifices creativity at the altar of commercial success.
Given the fluidity of these two film industries, we approach the cinematic
landscapes of Hong Kong and Bollywood in their moment of transaction,
an inter-Asia endeavor, that “takes for granted a geopolitical de-centering”
of the discipline of film studies and recognize that many areas once deemed
marginal and peripheral have, in fact, contributed to the historical transfor-
mation of cinema (Duroviécovâ and Newman 2009: 10, 22). Following the
work of Michael Pickering, one should acknowledge that “the ‘geo-political
discontinuities’ in cultural studies are real-world gaps between us that are
gaps not only in knowledge and intellectual formation but in feeling and
desire to know, and they entail real difficulties for historical work within
cultural studies fields” (Morris 2007: 429), and hopefully, our anthology
addresses those gaps in the desire to know and learn about the “other.”
Framing Hong Kong and Bollywood

This book sets out to capture the latest trends of development in Hong
Kong and Bollywood, focusing on parallel cinematic, cross-cultural, politi-
cal, and socioeconomic issues. It analyzes the cultural representations of
commonality and difference in contemporary Asia through a critical study
of Hong Kong and Bollywood cinemas. Theoretically, it challenges the
hegemony of Hollywood and concomitant Eurocentric framing of film
studies, and initiates new theories that engage other temporalities and
spatialities. Undeniably, both Hong Kong and Bollywood transcend the
boundaries of time and space, by allowing national and international audi-
ences to experience part of a chain of shared memories and identities, con-
nected to a past, a present, and a future. Their transnational, translational,
and transhistorical appeals have made cultural fusion and border-crossing
the norm, rather than the exception.
As an exercise in critical pedagogy, this book allows readers from diverse

cultural and intellectual backgrounds to analyze some of the recent the-
matically based films from Hong Kong and Bombay, and to interrogate
the structures of feeling such as nationalism versus localism, individual
alienation versus community assimilation, historical experiences versus
collective memories. It combines the themes of cinematic production and
reception; the analytical categories of transnational, transcultural, transla-
tional, and transhistorical films; and the methodologies of textual analysis
and audience research. Kathleen Newman best summarizes the conceptual
merits of this cross-disciplinary focus (2009: 8–9):
Truly interdisciplinary theoretical and historical analyses, ones erasing the bor-
ders between humanities and social sciences, that is, between the theorists of
meaning and theorists of society, must make explicit their assumptions regard-
ing representation and other social practices, the mediations between texts
and social context, the multiple determinants of social changes, and the role
of language and other sign systems in the constitution of societies, including
the social divisions they instantiate internally and across societal boundaries.
Today, scholars have rejected the conventional practice that a univer-

salizing West formulates a theory for a “Rest” that is rich in cultural par-
ticularities (Morris 2001: 1). They trace the articulations among national,
world, regional, and local cinemas in film studies against the backdrop
of a “globality that seems to emanate from reality itself even as it speaks
persuasively for that reality” and “presents itself both as reality and rep-
resentation.” This globality manifests itself cinematically in the tensions
between perspective and content, between unipolar and multipolar, and
between process and realized vision and product (Radhakrishnan 2003:
88). Such an analytical category prompts scholars to examine the agential
role of nations, especially Asian nation-states, in positioning themselves
as inferior to the dominant discourses of cosmopolitanism, hybridity,
multiculturalism, and transnationalism. But the epistemological nature of
the “national cinema” model simplifies each cinematic school as a homo-
geneous entity and overlooks the intra- and inter-Asian dimensions of
social, cultural, and economic flows in this globalized world. One obvious
impact of globalization on Hong Kong and Bollywood is a shift toward
the practice of joint production across national boundaries (Lee 2011: 5).
Closely linked to the mechanics of coproduction are the international film
festivals from Cannes and Venice to New York and Pusan which reshape
filmmaking in Hong Kong and Bollywood as art and business (Wong
2011). The force of internationalization has called for the need to rede-
fine the model of national cinema along transnational, transcultural, and
transhistorical tropes.
Furthermore, the cinematic interconnections between Hong Kong and
Bollywood constitute an actively advancing part of the emerging inter-
Asian cultural space. Through this rubric of inter-Asia, it is possible to
move beyond the old framework of “national cinema” to capture the rich
varieties of cinematic aesthetics, genres, and practices from these two cin-
emas in Asia. Although Hong Kong film industry has achieved a national
status within the Chinese-speaking world, it still obscures the conven-
tional category of national cinema. Hong Kong presents “a theoretical
conundrum” because it is “a cinema without a nation, a local cinema with
transnational appeal” (Fu and Desser 2002: 5). Hong Kong cinema has
not only modeled itself along the popular, urban, transnational, and even
postmodern and ethnic lines, but also repositioned itself as a crisis cinema
by considering the various political and socioeconomic mutations that the
postcolonial city is caught up with (Cheung and Chu 2004). Adding to
this, the multiplicity of cinematic expressions from martial arts to queer
cinema in Hong Kong parallels with that in Bollywood, but the latter
never experienced the crises that Hong Kong has gone, and its history
in national and cinematic terms took a different trajectory. The semi-
independent relationship of Hong Kong to the Chinese and Taiwanese
national cinemas further complicates the issue. Hong Kong was always,
and is still, a first-world city, being a preeminent financial hub second only
to Tokyo, even though the city was closely linked to the formation of these
two rival Chinese polities during the Cold War.
By comparison, the historical specificity of Bollywood differs consider-
ably from that of Hong Kong. Mumbai forms part of the Indian nation,
being the capital of the State of Maharashtra (adjoining Gujarat) and the
financial center of the country. As the popular name for commercial Hindi
films produced in Mumbai and a major component of the Indian national
cinema, Bollywood serves as a transnational contact zone in South Asia
and constructs cinematically “a linguistics of contact” that emphasizes
“the workings of across rather than within the lines of social differentia-
tion, of class, race, gender, and age.” It achieves the status of so-called
national cinema in dominant representative terms because Hindi is the
official language alongside English, although it is spoken by a little less
than 500 million in a nation of 1.2 billion people. Bollywood’s appropria-
tion of Hollywood through its own storytelling has made it a new Indian
soft power to the extent that the categories of Indian popular culture and
Bollywood have become coterminous with each other in the eyes of the
West.
Energized by the vibrancy of Hong Kong and Bollywood, film scholars
have embraced the two urban cinemas with intellectual vigor and rigor,
and turned them into some of the most theorized categories in global
cultural studies. Even the labeling of Bombay cinema as Bollywood in a
gesture of derivativeness to Hollywood is challenged not only by profes-
sional filmmakers but also by critics and theorists, who ask the unresolvable
“question of whether this term is a pejorative or subversive description”
(Gopal and Moorti 2008: 12) that simultaneously “mocks the thing it
names and celebrates its difference” (Prasad 1998: 41). Naming aside,
there is a new tendency to situate Hong Kong and Bollywood in the
context of transnational flows of production, distribution, and reception
within and without the Chinese and Indian nations. Vijay Mishra (2001)
and Ravi S. Vasudevan (2011) embrace Indian aesthetics, postcolonial
theory, anthropology, sociology, and Hindu mythology to explain the
constitution of Indian cinematic subjects and the cultural politics of film
production and spectatorship, even as they negotiate the hegemonic role
of Western hermeneutics and semiotics in accounting for new theories
of Indian cinema. The same can be said of Hong Kong. Infernal Affairs
trilogy (2001–2003), remade by Martin Scorsese as The Departed (2006),
symbolized a new undercover film genre in postcolonial Hong Kong. The
previous undercover films by John Woo such as City on Fire (1987) and
Hard Boiled (1992) critiqued the institutional hypocrisy in a British-ruled
capitalistic society and sympathized with undercover agents torn between
their professional duty as police officers and their fraternal loyalty to the
triad. But Infernal Affairs looks at the complex encounters between two
undercover characters, the undercover cop in the triad and the trial mole
in the police (Leary, April 2003, January 2004; Lin, June 22, 2010). Their
psychological struggles on screen mirrored the crisis of identity that the
people of Hong Kong experienced in a transition from British colonial
subjects to citizens of the People’s Republic of China. Hong Kong is an
autonomous city-state that pretends to be a part of China. Even though
the city officially reunited with China after July 1, 1997, its people are
reluctant to embrace the Communist regime and subscribe to the new
Chinese national identity. In this respect, Hong Kong and Bollywood are
complex cultural entities that have transcended conventional categories
like urban, popular, transnational, and postmodern cinemas. They entail
a wide range of filmmakers who assert their agency against the externally
imposed hegemonic influences and who reclaim and recreate cinematically
their political, moral, and cultural consciousness. The complicated process
of art–politics encounter in Hong Kong and Bollywood has exhibited dif-
ferent patterns and results, and it is often filled with hope, idealism, angst,
and disillusionment.
Organization of This Book

“No film is not a document of itself and of its actual situation in respect
of cinema institution,” as wisely put by Stephen Heath, informs the fol-
lowing chapters that “assert the radical contemporaneity of the time we
live in” and determine the effect of the present on the memories of the
past (Prasad 1998: 17). To think about it in a different way, in David
Bordwell’s poetics of cinematic investigation, the “historical poetics” con-
textualizes a particular film’s contexts and the impacts of its reception, and
the “analytical poetics” deals with filmic narratives, representations, and
aesthetics (Bordwell, 2007). This collection does justice to both forms of
poetics in their breadth and depth, but for the purpose of staging a more
structured inter-Asian dialogue within these pages, we have organized the
chapters under the architectonic structure of representation that can be
simply understood in two ways: as a cinematic object that follows codes
and conventions in producing an illusion that makes the viewer believe
that he or she is inhabiting an unmediated reality, and as a “realistic” por-
trayal of politics, ethics, morality, and ideology, revealing the constructed
and mediated character of social reality.
Part 1 of the book negotiates the “politics of representation” and the
“representation of politics” as evinced in the critical and overdetermined
relationship between the visual and discursive regimes of representation
in historical and political contexts. It features five chapters that rethink
cinema and politics. Ali Mir and Raza Mir (Chap. 2) trace the trajec-
tory of song lyrics in Bollywood films from the early days of anticolonial
struggle, through the period of the hegemony of the Progressive Writers’
Association, to the contemporary era of economic liberalization where
lyrics are either fantastical or serve as a form of depoliticization. Yau Shuk-
Ting, Kinnia (Chap. 3) analyzes the changes in many gangster films pro-
duced in postcolonial Hong Kong and reveals an ambivalent mentality in
the local film industry where producers strive to reconcile the sensitivities
of their home audiences with the censorship requirements and ideological
concerns of the Mainland market. Joseph Tse-Hei Lee (Chap. 4) sees a

line of hope in the works of Hong Kong independent filmmakers Herman
Yau and Vincent Chui, which suggests that a reconfiguration of commu-
nal relationship and local identity may turn around the despair brought
about by the biopolitical apparatus of the Chinese authoritarian regime
and the end of the Umbrella Movement in late 2014. These two direc-
tors reveal the dynamics of moral politics as a viable opposition against
all forms of state violence in the postcolonial era and ask the audiences
to put aside their differences and fight for their civil rights. S.V. Srinivas
(Chap. 5) presents a counterintuitive analysis of Himalaya Singh (2005),
a film by Hong Kong director Wai Ka-Fai that is built upon the Orientalist
stereotypes of India and is criticized by Indian scholars as humiliating and
distasteful. By highlighting inter-Asian solidarities, Srinivas shows that the
fusion of Hong Kong martial arts with Bollywood music and dance unites
the twin paragons of global cinema and permits a new reading of the films
as a performative critique of the Orientalizing gaze. Siu-Keung Cheung
(Chap. 6) raises the issue of cinematic nationalism through a closer look
at the historical drama 1911 (2011) and observes that many Hong Kong
and Mainland filmmakers attempt to globalize a new cinematic discourse
of Greater China, but fail to reconcile a hegemonic national symbol with
diverse local identities. These contradictions reflect the long-standing con-
flicts among different Chinese polities in Mainland, Taiwan, Hong Kong,
and Macau.
Part 2 addresses the object of “crisis,” be it of an educational, economic,
political, or social nature, and the inherent challenges and tensions in rep-
resenting it through the subjective prism of films. Such cultural challenges
can be seen in the latest debate about “tiger mums” and “tiger dads” in
Asian parenting. Satish Kolluri (Chap. 7) deconstructs the “authoritarian”
meme of Asian parenting by exploring through films the philosophy of
parental pedagogy, of which the “authoritative” and modernizing state is
an integral part. Jing Jing Chang (Chap. 8) investigates the development
of Hong Kong Cantonese film industry during the 1950s in relation to
the domestic rivalries between Nationalist and Communist regimes and
the ideological conflicts of the Cold War. Her insightful analysis of The
Wall suggests that a better understanding of Hong Kong Cantonese cin-
ema in the 1950s should throw light on the sociopolitical sensibility of
Hong Kong film industry today. Sony Jalarajan Raj and Rohini Sreekumar
(Chap. 9) look at the commodification of fantasy and cinematic escapism
in Bollywood and the depiction of Dharavi as a veritable Disneyland full of
crimes, drugs, prostitution, and mafia and as a land of utter poverty and
moral bankruptcy. This is a strong case study of how Orientalism is in fact
alive in contemporary Hollywood and in bourgeois Indian cinema under
neoliberalism. In the context of the widening income gap between rich
and poor, Siu-Keung Cheung’s (Chap. 10) examination of the subtext of
Johnnie To’s Life Without Principle (2012) reveals the problem of severe
irregularities in Hong Kong’s financial jungle and generates a critique of
the deregulation of the banking industry in post-1997 Hong Kong as
being obsessed with profit at any cost.
Focusing on the new aesthetics and generic innovations that have come
to characterize Asian cinemas, Part 3 investigates how Hong Kong and
Indian filmmakers negotiate the cultural hegemony of Hollywood in their
ambitious attempts to reconcile a new transnational identity with local
loyalties. Surajit Chakravarty (Chap. 11) uses the term “New Wave” as a
conceptual category to refer to the film works produced by rising young
directors in Hong Kong and Bollywood during the 1970s and 1980s,
and focuses on the rising trend of cinematic realism in both film indus-
tries against the backdrop of anxieties brought on by modernization and
urbanization. Equally unique are the deployment of songs and the practice
of naqal (play in imitation) in Bollywood. Anjali Roy (Chap. 12) prob-
lematizes the widespread misperception of Bollywood as a poor imitation
of Hollywood through the prism of naqal (play in imitation), the defining
principle of Indian traditional performing arts, and challenges us to move
beyond the Eurocentric film theories to contextualize Indian cinema in
relation to its native visual traditions and ontological principles. The cin-
ematic vocabulary of Wong Kar-Wai adds a new dimension to our under-
standing of temporality and spatiality on screen. Patrick Sullivan (Chap.
13) highlights the use of under-cranking and step-printing by Wong Kar-
Wai in his prominent works and combines cognitivism, phenomenology,
and technical theories to explain the implications and effects of Wong’s
aesthetic signature. Michael A. Mikita (Chap. 14 ) situates himself at the
locus of an inter-Asian filmic discourse and centralizes it within the cin-
ematic grammar of Bollywood’s gaze in the direction of China through
a critical reflection on Chandni Chowk to China (2009). Lauren Gorfinel
and Steven Xuezhong Su (Chap. 15) look at the appropriation of Hong
Kong cinema in an inter-Asian context. Focusing on the English-language
television program Culture Express, broadcast on China Central Television
and China Network Television, Gorfinel and Su assert that Mainland
state-controlled media has been framing and co-opting Hong Kong to

make Chinese national films a rising star in global cinemas.
These chapters sharpen our focus on the dialectical relationship between
film culture and everyday life in Hong Kong and Bombay. They address
the discourses of religion, political economy, colonialism, and nationalism
that have shaped these film industries. They detail innovative cinematic
styles, meanings, and norms in the works of Hong Kong and Bollywood
filmmakers who address cultural specificities through their political,
moral, social, and religious worldviews. In particular, they highlight the
constant reinvention of the Hong Kong and Bollywood film industries
in terms of moving away from superstar-driven films with weak scripts
to story-driven ones with powerful scripts and complex characterization.
While some contributors offer highly original readings of specific films
with careful hermeneutic and cognitive methods, other scholars draw on
methodologies from history, sociology, anthropology, and cultural stud-
ies. Insights gained from their interdisciplinary analysis not only uncover
specific Asian urban cinema’s struggle with the local market forces and
national authorities, but also reveal limitations on what the political and
economic center can accomplish through the old policies of assimilation
and co-optation. Many critical Hong Kong and Bollywood filmmakers
who subvert the dominant discourses of power have created new spaces
for alternative expressions.
In short, these chapters bring Hong Kong and Bollywood under one
umbrella and anticipate exciting times ahead for both film industries by
way of Wong Kar-Wai’s religious-historical drama about Chinese Buddhist
monk Xuanzang in the Tang Dynasty (618–907) and of Stanley Tong’s
action comedy Kungfu Yoga (“Beyond Bollywood,” January 5, 2015).
Such collaborations further trans-Asian cultural dialogues that every cin-
ema fan and scholar would desire. To echo Kuan-Hsing Chen’s passion
of launching the field of Inter-Asia Cultural Studies as a fertile area of
research, our collaborative endeavors reveal the interconnectedness of
Hong Kong and Bollywood, and contribute to the ongoing discussion
about the rise of Asia as a new cultural entity in which relations between
media and cultural industries are being reimagined in creative and con-
structive ways.
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PART I
The Politics of Representation and

Representation of Politics
CHAPTER 2
The Trajectory of Bollywood Lyrics
Ali Mir and Raza Mir
INTRODUCTION
The term Bollywood, now enshrined in the Oxford English Dictionary,
refers loosely to the mainstream “Hindi”1 cinema of the Indian film indus-
try located primarily in the cosmopolitan city formerly called Bombay
(today’s Mumbai). It is now axiomatic to associate Bollywood cinema
with its songs—its movies are often inaccurately labeled in the West as
“musicals.” Each movie, with a typical running length of two-and-a-half
to three hours, has somewhere between four and eight songs, many of
them elaborately choreographed, some deployed to propel the narrative,
others to interrupt it. The popularity of the soundtrack can determine the
fate of the film at the box office. Movie songs are the de facto pop music
of the country, and there is only a limited market for songs that are not
composed for films. A large part of television programming is dedicated
to songs and their accompanying movie clips. The most popular reality
shows involve participants being judged and eliminated on the basis of
their rendition of movie songs. It is fair to say that film music forms a very
large part of the landscape of popular culture in India.
A. Mir () • R. Mir

William Paterson University, Wayne, NJ, USA

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_2
30 A. MIR AND R. MIR
The use of intermittent songs in theatrical narrative has a long and

varied tradition in India. Many of the country’s popular art forms use this
technique, which can be seen in the Kutiyattam and Kathakali in Kerala,
the Jatra in Bengal, the Nautanki and Ramlila traditions in North India,
the Marathi Tamasha, the Terukuttu from Tamil Nadu, the Burrakatha
in Andhra Pradesh, the Yakshagana from Karnataka, the Bhavai from
Gujarat, the Ojapali from Assam, the Lila from Orissa, and in the vari-
ous enactments of Ramayana and Mahabharata on stage and on screen
(Thoraval 2000: 55).
The precursor to Indian cinema, widely known as the Urdu Parsee the-
ater (so called because the performing theaters were owned by members
of the Parsee community), also had its share of popular songs. According
to the well-known writer-lyricist Javed Akhtar,
The early Urdu Parsee theater first produced adaptations of Shakespearean

and Victorian plays, and these plays were presented in a certain style: they
had drama, comedy, and included many songs. The play could be about
Marcus and Helena and set in Rome, but when Helena would pine for love,
she would sing, “Pia more aaj nahin aye” (My beloved has not come to
me today). … Then followed the writing of original plays—often written
by Urdu writers like Agha Hashr Kashmiri or Munshi Bedil. … The Indian
talkie inherited its basic structure from Urdu Parsee Theatre and so the
talkies started with Urdu. Even the New Theatres, in Calcutta, used Urdu
writers. You see, Urdu was the lingua franca of urban northern India before
Partition, and was understood by most people. And it was—and still is—an
extremely sophisticated language capable of portraying all kinds of emotion
and drama (Kabir 1996: 50).
It was only natural for early Indian cinema, an extension of its Parsee
theater roots, to take so easily to a form of theatrical narrative that
included songs. The history of Hindi film songs dates back to the silent
era, much before the advent of the talkies. The standard practice during
the silent film screenings was to provide musical accompaniment to the
film from the orchestra pit. Each movie theater had its own band of musi-
cians that played along with the film. The first instance of playback singing
seemed to have occurred in 1921 for the movie Bhakt Vidur, in which
Vidur’s wife, spinning a charkha, mouthed the words of a song that was
lip-synched by a live singer in the theater. The audience sang along, often
demanding encores. By the time the first talkie, Alam Ara, was released in
1931, songs had taken center stage in Indian cinema.2
THE TRAJECTORY OF BOLLYWOOD LYRICS 31
LYRICS AND THE FREEDOM STRUGGLE

With the intensification of the anticolonial movement in British India, film
lyrics began to become intertwined with the freedom struggle. Initially,
during the break in film screenings necessitated by the changing of the
reels, the audience was led by the orchestra into singing nationalist songs.
The earliest deployment of lyrics to propagate resistance took place in
South India. Daring filmmakers in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh defied
the British censors by using the poems of the banned revolutionary poet
Subramanya Bharati in films, sometimes without credit, for example, in
Navayuvan (Modern Youth, 1937), Menaka (1935), Adrishtam (Fate,
1939), and Naam Iruvar (We Two, 1947). Hindi cinema, initially cau-
tious, soon followed suit. In 1936, Janmabhoomi (Land of Birth) was one
of the first films to have an explicitly nationalist song, which was writ-
ten by J.S. Cashyap, jai jai janani janmabhoomi (Hail to the land of our
birth). One lyricist who consistently wrote patriotic songs for films was
Ramchandra Narainji Dwivedi, better known as Pradeep. Writing first for
Bombay Talkies, Pradeep soon joined the newly created Filmistan Studio,
whose first film Chal Chal Re Naujawan (Walk on, Youth, 1944) scripted
by Saadat Hasan Manto included a song extolling the unity of the Hindus
and Muslims—the two major religious groups—in their anticolonial
struggle:
manzil sabhi ki ek hai, raaheñ alag alag

voh ek hai, par apni nigaaheñ alag alag
mandir meiñ hai bhagwaan, voh Masjid meiñ khuda hai
kisne kaha Hindu se Musalmaan juda hai
bolo Har Har Mahaadev, Bolo Allah-o Akbar
Though our paths are different, our destination is the same

There is but one God, just different ways of looking at Him
In the temple He is called Bhagwaan, in the mosque, Khuda
Who says that Hindus and Muslims aren’t but one
Say Har Har Mahadev, say Allah-o Akbar
In the 1940 film Aaj Ka Hindustani (Today’s Indian), directed by

Jayant Desai and featuring Miss Rose, Prithviraj, Ishwarlal, Sitara, and
comedian Charlie,3 Prithviraj, playing a nationalist, is shown walking
through his village singing:
charkha chalaao behno

kaato ye kachhe dhaage
dhaage ye kah rahe haiñ
Bhaarat ke bhaag jaage
charkhe ke geet gaao
duniya ko ye sunaao
charkha chalaane waala
Gandhi hai aage aage
Spin the charkha O sisters

And as you cut these threads
Listen as they say that
India’s destiny has awakened
Tell this to the world
That the charkha spinner Gandhi
Leads us all
Some of the songs that were written during the Quit India
Movement, a civil disobedience campaign launched in August 1942 in
response to Gandhi’s call for independence, consciously pushed the
censor-imposed bounds of acceptability. The opening song in Kismat
(Fate, 1943), written by Pradeep and composed by Anil Biswas, had the
following chorus:
aaj Himaalay ki choti se, phir hum ne lalkaara hai

door hato, door hato ai duniya vaalo Hindustaan hamaara hai
From the peak of the Himalayas, we defiantly announce

Get out O foreigners, for India is ours
Gautam Kaul documents an anecdote about how the censors were

hoodwinked into thinking that the reference to foreigners in the song
had nothing to do with the British colonialists (Kaul 1998). When Kismat
was first released in Kanpur at the Imperial Talkies, the British authorities
received information that this song was being played repeatedly on pub-
lic demand. Officer Dharmendra Gaur (the brother of Vrajendra Gaur,
author, lyricist, and screenplay writer of many films) was sent to investi-
gate. A detention order under Section 26 of the Defense of India Rules
was readied to arrest Pradeep. Dharmendra Gaur reportedly saw the film
four times and filed a report stating that another line in the same song,
tum na kisi ke aage jhukna, German ho ya Japaani (Do not bow before
anyone, be they German or Japanese), demonstrated that the song was
not anti-British but referred to the Japanese Imperial Army. The colonial
authorities bought the story, and Kismat ended up running for 186 weeks
at Roxy Cinema in Calcutta.
Shortly afterward, other lyricists such as Pandit Narendra Sharma
(Hamari Baat/Our Story, 1943), Qamar Jalalabadi (Chand/Moon,
1944), D.N. Madhok (Pehle Aap/You First, 1944), Zia Sarhadi (Badi
Maa/Big Mother, 1945), and Gopal Singh Nepali (Amar Asha/Eternal
Hope, 1947) started writing freedom songs with increasing frequency.
Gramophone records served the purpose of popularizing film music
beyond the cinema halls. Since the recordings were not of a great quality,
the lyrics were printed on cheap booklets and distributed with the records.
The British administration banned several of these songs, but the booklets
circulated freely, carrying the word around.
With the advent of independence in 1947, Indian filmmakers were
free of the constraints posed by the colonial censors. There was a flow-
ering of patriotism in movies, which celebrated national liberation. This
sentiment was exemplified in songs such as the one from Ahimsa/Non-
violence (1947), azaad hum haiñ aaj se, jailoñ ke taale tod do (We are
free from today, let us break the locks of our jails), and from Majboor/
Helpless (1948), chala gaya gora angrez, ab kaahe ka dar (The whites have
departed, what do we have to fear now?).
INDEPENDENCE AND THE PROGRESSIVE MOMENT

Another important development had a considerable effect on the trajec-
tory of popular culture, particularly in the arena of film lyrics. A young
group of writers, influenced by the struggles against fascism in other parts
of the world had formed a body called the All India Progressive Writers’
Association (PWA). Launched formally in 1936, the PWA announced
itself through a manifesto that was unabashedly modernist and antireli-
gious in its tenor, and utilized a left-liberal vocabulary that was popular at
the time. It sought to play an integrative role in the Indian literary land-
scape through the acceptance of a common language and script. It made
a case for building international solidarities. Importantly, it emphasized
realism, with its insistence that literature be used as a tool to display the
“actualities of life.” Finally, despite the stridency of its tone, it left the
door open for coalitions with other literary groups “whose aims do not
conflict with the basic aims of the Association.” The manifesto was an
astute political document and a highly ambitious one that positioned the
PWA as the harbinger of revolutionary changes in the literary landscape of
India (Coppola 1975; Jafri 1959, 1984; Zaheer 1959; Amiri 1991; Russell
1999). As the manifesto declared,
Radical changes are taking place in Indian society. Fixed ideas and old beliefs,
social and political institutions are being challenged. Out of the present tur-
moil and conflict a new society is emerging. The spirit of reaction however,
though moribund and doomed to ultimate decay, is still operative and is
making desperate efforts to prolong itself. It is the duty of Indian writers
to give expression to the changes taking place in Indian life and to assist in
the spirit of progress in the country. … It is the object of our association
to rescue literature and other arts from the priestly, academic and decadent
classes in whose hands they have degenerated so long; to bring the arts into
the closest touch with the people; and to make them the vital organs which
will register the actualities of life, as well as lead us to the future.
The PWA soon became what Aijaz Ahmad (1993: 28) called the “stron-
gest and proximate shaping force” in Urdu literature from its very incep-
tion and an ideologically hegemonic force “to the extent that it defined
the parameters of the broad social agenda and cultural consensus among
the generality of Urdu writers, including those who were not member of
the Association; those who did not subscribe to the broad consensus were
relegated to the fringes of the writing-community.” This radical move-
ment breathed a new life into cultural production and rapidly gained pop-
ularity. Not surprisingly, the PWA saw the medium of cinema as a space for
intervention. The mood of the nation allowed members of the Association
to make inroads into the film industry, and many leftist writers penned
scripts and stories for large film studios, exposing the large movie-going
audience to socially conscious ideas.
A related institution that had shaped the evolution of Indian cinema
was the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA), the cultural wing
of the Communist Party of India. Launched in 1943 “to defend culture
against Fascism and imperialism,” the IPTA worked toward the develop-
ment of an avant-garde culture in India, largely in theater—its primary
field of engagement—but also in the arena of cinema. A large number of
the country’s cultural intelligentsia—actors, directors, screenplay writers,
journalists, lyricists, musicians and technicians—came together to produce
work that was in line with their politics of social justice. Writer-director
Khwaja Ahmed Abbas, cinematographer-director Bimal Roy, director
Chetan Anand, music composer Salil Choudhary, poet-lyricists Sahir
Ludhianvi and Majrooh Sultanpuri, and actors Balraj Sahni and Utpal
Dutt were all linked to the IPTA.
K.A. Abbas, a cofounder of the IPTA, made Dharti Ke Lal (Children
of the Earth, 1946) based on a story written by Krishen Chander, a film
that examined the Bengal famine in a documentary-like fashion. Mohan
Bhavnani’s Mazdoor/Laborer (1934), inspired by IPTA’s play The Factory
on the basis of a story by Premchand, realistically portrayed the plight of
industrial workers. Other works that challenged long-standing sociocul-
tural norms in a probing fashion included Chandulal Shah’s Acchut, a film
focusing on the theme of untouchability; Mehboob Khan’s Manmohan
(1936), which critiqued the patriarchal order; Jagirdar/Feudal Landlord
(1937), which questioned the nature of landownership; and Hum Tum
aur Woh/I, You, and The Other (1938), a film about a woman seeking
sexual and emotional comfort through an extramarital relationship.
Many leading Hindi poets of the time had shied away from writing
film lyrics because they subscribed to an orthodox idea that prestigious
poets should not degrade their art by writing for popular cinema or the-
ater in the common or bazaari language of Hindustani. As Yogendra
K. Malik (1988: 115) points out, “literary traditions in Hindi tended to
be dominated by Hindi revivalism, nationalism and romanticism.” The
leading Hindi writers and poets frowned upon socialism as “an alien phi-
losophy unsuitable for the Indian context as well as upon popular culture
as a medium for their work” (Malik 1988: 115; Kesavan 1994).4 The
Urdu poets, however, were more than eager to explore this new medium
of expression. Kaifi Azmi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, and most significantly,
Sahir Ludhianvi started writing for cinema and dominated the landscape
of its lyrical production for many decades. Other progressive poets like
Shailendra, Ali Sardar Jafri, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Neeraj, and Gulzar joined
the fray in due course.
While the PWA progressives had influenced the nature of lyrics in Hindi
cinema, they were only building upon a historical tradition that predated
them. In the 20-odd years leading up to the Indian independence, the
landscape of Bombay was dotted with working-class struggles. Militant
trade unions went on strikes frequently, bringing work to a halt in city
industries. The Indian Communist Party was active and strong, and its
Sandhurst Road headquarters and its commune in Andheri teemed with

writers, poets, actors, and playwrights, who were cultivated as the “culture
squad” by the charismatic General Secretary P.C. Joshi. A progressive,
Saadat Hasan Manto, penned the script of Apni Nagariya (Our Town,
1940). Debashree Mukherjee (2012) describes the film as “a parable
about the inequalities fostered by capitalism and the need for the wealthy
to recognize the dignity of the laboring classes. The plot revolves around
a trope that became quite familiar in the 1930s and 40s: the evil capitalist
factory-owner versus his disgruntled striking workers. The capitalist, in
Apni Nagariya, has a college-educated daughter, Sushila, who is beautiful
and an icon of modernity. The class conflict is played out via the improb-
able love story between an honest factory-worker and the enemy’s daugh-
ter. Interestingly, the onus of societal change rests with the heroine, as
she must negotiate with the workers and signal a new democratic model
of management.” The first song of the movie is a paean to the mazdoor
(laborer) who toils in the factories of the rich, without getting her or his
just due.
mazdoor mazdoor
jag nayya khevan-haara
mazdoor mazdoor
dhan mehnat kar ke kamaaye
sone ke mahal banaaye
aasha hai ye hamaara
mazdoor mazdoor
dhanvaan kamaaye daulat
din raat kare tu mehnat
hai sar pe bojh karaara
mazdoor mazdoor
duniya to sukh se soye
tu dhoop meiñ eenth dhhoye
anyaay ye jag hai saara
mazdoor mazdoor
Laborer, laborer!
The one who rows the world’s boat
Laborer, laborer!
May you earn wealth through your work
Build palaces of gold
This is our hope
Laborer, laborer!
The rich appropriate the wealth
While you slave day and night
And bear a great burden on your head
Laborer, laborer!
The world sleeps happily
While you carry bricks under the sun
This world is unjust
Laborer, laborer!
The progressive writers found it easy to build on such sentiment, and

the 1950s was the period when progressive lyrics came of age. This decade
was dominated by the auteurs of Hindi cinema, the movie-makers with
a vision. K.A. Abbas, Bimal Roy, Raj Kapoor, Kamal Amrohi, and Guru
Dutt sought to use cinema as a pedagogical tool and a space for construct-
ing social critique. Their expression found a cause in the failure of the
free nation to fulfill its promise of an egalitarian society with justice for all
citizens. Sahir exemplified the progressive moment in film lyrics by writing
songs for movies like Naya Daur (The New Age, 1957) and Phir Subha
Hogi (Morning Will Come, 1958) in a manner that kept with his reputa-
tion as a revolutionary poet.
saathi haath badhaana, saathi haath badhaana

ek akela thak jaayega mil kar bojh uthaana
saathi haath badhaana
maati se hum laal nikaaleñ, moti laaeñ jal se

jo kuch is duniya meiñ bana hai, bana hamaare bal se
kab tak mehnat ke pairoñ meiñ daulat ki zanjeereñ
haath badhaakar chheen lo apne sapnoñ ki tasveereñ
saathi haath badhaana
Comrades, lend your hand!

One alone will tire soon, let us bear this burden together,
Comrades lend your hand!
We are the ones who extract rubies from the earth, pearls from the sea,
All that is of value in this world has been created by us.
How long will labor be chained by those who own wealth?
Reach out and snatch that which you have always dreamed of.
Comrades, lend your hand!
As the euphoria of independence dissipated and as people understood

that the end of British occupation did not mean the end of their misery,
disenchantment with the Nehru government grew. Some like the IPTA poet
Prem Dhawan, who had written songs celebrating the exit of the British, con-
tinued to urge the youth of the Nehruvian era to engage in nation-building:
chhoro kal ki baateñ, kal ki baat puraani

naye daur meiñ likhenge hum mil kar nayi kahaani
hum Hindustaani, hum Hindustaani
Forget yesterday, yesterday is gone

We shall write a new story for the new times
We Indians, we Indians
For a host of others, however, Nehru became the symbol of the

betrayal of the promise of independence. As Ashish Rajadhyaksha and Paul
Willemen (1994: 93) explained, “the emotional and social complexities
affecting the artist when the reformism associated with Nehruvian nation-
alism disintegrated under the pressure of industrialization and urbaniza-
tion, creating the space for Indian modernism but also generating social
dislocation.” In Pyaasa (1957), a Guru Dutt film about a struggling poet
coming to terms with post-independent India, Sahir’s lyrics provided the
story with its radical edge. This popular song offered a disdainful and
decidedly dystopian take on the times:
ye mahloñ ye takhtoñ ye taajoñ ki duniya

ye insaañ ke dushman samaajoñ ki duniya
ye daulat ke bhooke rivaajoñ ki duniya
ye duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hai?
This world of palaces, thrones and crowns

This world of societies that hate humanity
This world that hungers for nothing but wealth
Even if one obtains this world, so what?
In the same film, as the poet-protagonist of the film wandered through

the red-light district and observed the desperation that forced women to
prostitution, he sang a song that mirrored one of Sahir’s earlier poems,
Chakle (Brothels): sanaakhaane tasdeeq-e mashriq kahaañ haiñ? (Where
are those who are praise the purity of the East?). In the song, the original
line was replaced with a new one: jinheñ naaz hai Hind par voh kahaañ
haiñ? (Where are those who are proud of India?). This was a satirical take
on a speech given by Nehru to assert his pride in post-independent India.
Sahir worked that in the refrain to lampoon a man, who until only recently
had been held out by the same poet as a revolutionary. The song went:
ye kooche, ye neelaam-ghar dilkashi ke

ye lut-te hue kaarvaañ zindagi ke
kahaañ haiñ, kahaañ haiñ, muhaafiz khudi ke?
jinheñ naaz hai Hind par voh kahaañ haiñ?
These streets, these auction houses of pleasure

These looted caravans of life
Where are they, the guardians of selfhood?
Those who are proud of India, where are they?
This taunt was followed by a harsh indictment of the national

leadership:
zara mulk ke rahbaroñ ko bulaao

ye kooche, ye galiyaañ, ye manzar dikhaao
jinheñ naaz hai Hind par unko laao
jinheñ naaz hai Hind par voh kahaañ haiñ?
Go, fetch the leaders of the nation

Show them these streets, these lanes, these sights
Summon them, those who are proud of India
Those who are proud of India, where are they?
THE STATE FIGHTS BACK

This critical mode of filmmaking soon ran into problems. The Indian cen-
sor board kicked into gear, reflecting the government’s hypersensitivity
toward any reference to people’s struggles, particularly in the cause of
socialism. Director Ramesh Saigal was asked to delete a line from his movie
Kafila/Caravan: “The caravan of the people of Asia is on the move.”
Sahir’s line, paise ka raj mita dena (End the rule of the wealthy), was
axed from another film. Pradeep’s song in the film Amar Rahe Ye Pyaar/
May This Love Be Forever (1961) was deleted in its entirety, presumably
because of the following lyrics:
hai! siyaasat kitni gandi

buri hai kitni firqa bandi
aaj ye sab ke sab nar-naari
ho gaye raste ke ye bhikaari
Alas! How dirty are the politics of the time

How despicable this sectarianism
Today, all these men and women
Have been turned into beggars
Equally radical were the lyrics of Phir Subha Hogi, and two of its songs
were briefly banned in India. One was:
aasmaañ pe hai khuda aur zameeñ pe hum

aaj kal voh is taraf dekhta hai kam
kis ko bheje voh yahaañ khaak chaan-ne
is tamaam bheed ka haal jaan-ne
aadmi haiñ anginat, devata haiñ kam
God is in the heavens while we are here on earth

These days, He does not pay us much attention
Who can he send here to sift through these sands
To figure out the condition of these teeming masses
For there are too many people, not enough deities
The other song was a parody of the famous Iqbal poem, Saare jahaan
se achcha Hindostaañ hamaara (Our India is better than the rest of the
world), which went:
cheen-o Arab hamaara, Hindostaañ hamaara

rahne ko ghar nahiñ hai, saara jahaañ hamaara
jitni bhi buildingeñ thiñ, sethoñ ne baant li haiñ
footpaath Bambayi ke, haiñ aashiyaañ hamaara
China and Arabia are ours, so is India

Yet we have no home to live in; the whole world is ours
The wealthy have distributed all the buildings among themselves
While we are left to take refuge on the footpaths of Bombay
After national independence, the Indian government maintained

monopolistic control over its radio broadcasting. When B.V. Keskar
became the Minister of Information and Broadcasting in 1952, he regu-
lated the broadcast of film music on All India Radio (AIR). Keskar believed
that the deterioration of Indian music was a consequence partly of the
British neglect, but mainly of the Muslim rule and influence. Muslims, he
felt, had converted a sacred and ancient art into a decadent and erotic one,
turning it into the “preserve of dancing girls, prostitutes, and their circle
of pimps” (Lelyveld 1994). Artists from gharanas that were predominantly
Muslim found themselves excluded from the AIR performances, while
Hindi film music, which was seen as too steeped in Urdu, too erotic,
and too infused with rhythms and orchestration from Western popular
music (which Keskar identified with a lower stage of human evolution),
was screened and played sparingly (it had a quota of 10 %). Most listeners
simply tuned over to Radio Ceylon or Pakistani stations, both of which
were broadcasting Hindi film songs. In 1957, film music was back on AIR
on a new channel called Vividh Bharti. It is probably fair to say that most
Hindustani-speaking Indian households had their radios perennially tuned
to this station. Since the only medium through which the public got to
hear film music was the radio, station programming determined the songs
that the public listened to. Popular demand, expressed through write-
ins to programs like Man Chaahe Geet (Favorite Songs), began to play a
significant role in the kind of music that was heard on the airwaves, and
therefore in the kind of music that was produced.
THE ADVENT OF NEOLIBERALIZATION

The social sensibility of the 1950s and early 1960s lost its appeal, shrink-
ing the space available for progressive cinema, and consequently, for pro-
gressive lyrics. There were two major reasons behind this. The first was the
breakup of the studio system in the 1960s, a phenomenon that changed

the rules of the filmmaking game rather significantly. Serious, socially con-
scious cinema gave way surely but steadily to popular entertainment and
the space provided by the studios to the maverick filmmakers, writers, and
poets withered away. The growing urban population, which formed the
largest chunk of the viewing public, gravitated toward escapist films, seek-
ing perhaps to forget their frustrations. Opulent sets, well-choreographed
songs, and a formulaic script were the order of the new day. As the critic
Aruna Vasudev puts it, the films that were produced were mostly “absurd
romances packed with songs and dances, made like fairytales with a moral”
(Thoraval 2000: 50).
The second was the advent of the portable cassette-players, the early
ones arriving in India during the late 1970s in the hands of the guest
workers returning from the Persian Gulf (Manuel 1993). The fetishization
of the portable cassette-player symbolized the changing aspirations of the
middle class and its freshly discovered consumer power, which was being
unleashed by the newly instituted policies of economic liberalization.
With foreign collaboration now a possibility, new tie-ups like Bush–Akai,
Orson–Sony, BPL–Sanyo and Onida–JVC started manufacturing cheap
cassettes. Sales of recorded music consequently went up from $1.2 million
in 1980 to $12 million in 1986 and over $21 million in 1990.
Bourgeois democracy, thus unleashed, paved the way for an age of
banal lyrics. Foot-tapping, easily consumable and subsequently disposable
tunes became the order of the day, and banal lyrics were welcomed. The
allegedly antiestablishment films of the 1970s and 1980s did not provide
much scope for progressive writing either. Despite its posturing, there
was nothing really antiestablishment about this cinema; all it did was to
promote the image of an alienated, disillusioned youth who sought vigi-
lante justice by taking the law in his own hands. The most celebrated film
of this genre Sholay/Flames (a curry-western made in 1975, possibly the
biggest blockbuster produced in India and a film whose influence can still
be seen on Indian cinema) was essentially a story about two mercenaries
fighting dacoits on behalf of the feudal landlord of the village. Songs in
these films were used merely to offer a break from the high-octane action
sequences and to provide some light moments. Rhyme became the hand-
maiden of the tune, and relatively meaningless lyrics fit comfortably in
this setup.
Ironically, the one space which could have provided refuge to the pro-
gressive poets, the so-called parallel cinema movement, did not open up
its doors to their lyrics. In this genre, songs were seen as an unnecessary
impediment to the narrative. In their attempt to produce a cinema of
calculated, purposeful naturalism that anxiously sought to distance itself
from the common Hindustani of commercial films, the alternate filmmak-
ers adopted a self-consciously Sanskritized Hindi, as is evident even from
the titles of the films by Shyam Benegal, Govind Nihalini, and others:
Ankur/Seedling, Nishant/Night’s End, Manthan/Churning, Bhumika/
Actor, Aakrosh/Anguish, Ardhasatya/Half-truth.
A further wrinkle was added to the development of film lyrics with the
emergence of A.R. Rahman (of Slumdog Millionaire and Oscar fame in the
West), whose genius captured the nation’s imagination with a fresh brand
of music that was a breathtaking amalgamation of classical Hindustani
and Carnatic ragas, syncopated jazz rhythms, meticulous orchestration
inspired by his Western classical training, and complex changes of tone
and tune. His musical scores for South Indian films were such huge hits
that these movies were dubbed in Hindi and re-released for a wider audi-
ence. The unfamiliar actors and the crude dubbing were more than offset
by the wild popularity of the soundtrack. Lyricists were brought in to
write fresh Hindi words for the tunes and operated under the odd con-
straint of trying to write songs that would provide an acceptable level of
lip synchronization.5 The subordination of the lyrics to the tune became
so overwhelming that the words became nonsensical, though the audience
seemed quite happy with songs that praised strawberry-like eyes (straw-
berry aankhen) and a laugh that sounded like a ringing phone (telephone
dhun meiñ hansne vaali).
This about-turn was quite dramatic since, at least until the 1980s, most
lyricists were poets in their own right and first wrote out the words to the
song based on the requirements of the script and then handed them over
to the composers who set them to a tune. In an interview, a disgruntled
Kaifi Azmi, the famous lyricist, complained bitterly about the new trend of
lyricists being asked to fit words around already composed musical scores,
saying that it was like being told that a grave has already been dug and that
all that was needed was an appropriately sized corpse to fit in it.
NEOLIBERALIZATION: THE SECOND PHASE

In 1991, the government of India introduced its New Economic Policy,
heralding a new era of economic neoliberalization. Spurred by global
trends and domestic pressures, the state opened up its markets to foreign
products and investment, deregulated businesses, disinvested in the public

sector, reduced restrictions on trade and foreign capital, offered tax cuts
and other incentives to business houses, and started integrating itself into
the global capitalist system. This led to a consumer boom and an explo-
sion of TV channels, including several foreign-owned ones like MTV. The
economic changes brought about by neoliberalization produced not only
an economic elite but also a certain kind of majoritarian identity politics.
The dislocation felt by the economic transformation manifested itself in
a fear of encroaching Western values and a loss of tradition. This period
was also marked by ethnic and religious violence that claimed thousands
of lives.
The new times produced a new protagonist in Indian cinema, one
who represented the self-image of its elite and the aspirations of other
classes. This protagonist was wealthy, urban, urbane, and cosmopolitan,
marked by disposable income and conspicuous consumption. In this new
era, wealth was no longer suspect or something to be ashamed of. On
the contrary, it represented success and an entry into a class that was
being celebrated globally. The iconic film representing this transforma-
tion was Dil Chahta Hai (The Heart Desires), a blockbuster released in
2001 that, perhaps for the first time in Bollywood history, was entirely
devoid of working-class characters. The heroes of this film are buddies
who speak in English, drink and dance at nightclubs, tinker with the
latest gadgets, hang out in holiday locations, live in tastefully decorated
luxury apartments, and drive a different expensive car in each scene. The
audience is not expected to be concerned with the source of their wealth
or even with whether they work for a living. The soundtrack was a big
hit, and was characterized by the exuberant anthem of the film, which
went: Let the world get upset, we are the new generation, why should
our style be old?
Part of the reason for a shift in emphasis in movie plots from the
predicaments of the poor to the angst of the rich had to do with the
changing structures of the film industry itself. Before this period, mov-
ies depended on the Indian box office for the sum of their revenue. The
same movies that played in the urban centers were screened in the small
towns as well. Ticket prices were controlled by the state and kept at a
relatively low level. Movie theaters were huge, and filmmakers had to
cater to the widest audience possible if they wanted to ensure that their
film did well. With the advent of neoliberalization and the removal of
government control over theaters, the revenue model changed. Single-

screen urban theaters rapidly gave way to multiplexes housed in malls.
The vendors who roamed the aisles hawking peanuts were replaced by
concession stands selling buttered popcorn, soda, and candy. A multi-
plex ticket in a big city now costs around 25 times as much as a ticket to
the same film in a small town. The sensibility of cinema, its preoccupa-
tion, its worldview, and its songs were increasingly tailored to suit the
tastes of the cosmopolitan subject.
The stories of Hindi cinema of the earlier period were built around
the understanding that the audience, comprised mostly of ordinary and
working-class people, needed a “common man” at the center of the
drama in order to be able to identify with him, preferably one who
stood up to the structures of power and wealth, and not only got away
with it, but also rubbed the nose of the ruling classes in the dirt. In one
such quintessential movie of the early 1970s, Chor Machaye Shor, the
hero falls in love with the daughter of a rich man, who wants her to
marry the son of the local politician. The intrepid lover waltzes into his
beloved’s home during a party and proceeds to sing a song announcing
his intention of taking the girl. This song was so popular that its catch
phrase, dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge (the ones who have the heart will
cart away the bride), was used deliberately—as homage—for the title of
a huge hit in the mid-1990s. DDLJ, as the movie came to be known,
was a love story between Raj and Simran, two young Indians who meet
each other in Europe. Worried that his daughter might sully the fam-
ily name by marrying the wrong sort, Simran’s father Baldev takes his
family back to India, where he arranges his daughter’s marriage with a
suitable boy. Raj follows them in order to win Simran back. Simran is
ecstatic and wants to elope, but Raj will have none of it and sanctimo-
niously lectures her about the folly of disobeying one’s parents, who
know what is best for their children. This despite the fact that Simran’s
mother is encouraging the elopement, for she fears that her daughter
will suffer the same fate as her own, spending her life trapped in a tra-
ditional and potentially love-less marriage. When Baldev discovers the
plan, he is furious and sends Raj packing. The climax takes place at a
railway station, where Raj, now bloodied from a fight with the man
Simran is being married off to, is boarding the train along with his
own supportive dad, while Simran pleads with her father to let her join
her lover. As the train leaves, Baldev locks eyes with Raj while Simran
squirms in Baldev’s grip. The climactic gaze is not between two lov-
ers but between the patriarch and the patriarch-in-waiting. Simran can
belong to Raj only if Baldev relents, for Raj will not have her without
Baldev’s blessing. This moment reflects a unique turn in Bollywood,
where until now, love was always transgressive, and lovers always had to
fight against the structures of family and society in order to live happily
ever after. DDLJ presented us with this unique spectacle of deference
to a degenerate tradition, which was foreshadowed earlier in the film,
when—after a night of drunken revelry—Simran wakes up in bed with
Raj and is terrified that she might have had sex with him. To which Raj
replies, “I know what you think of me. You think I’m a wastrel. I’m
not scum, Simran. I’m an Indian. And I know what honor means for an
Indian woman.” In this climactic scene, Raj is being true to his charac-
ter, enacting this new Indian-ness once again. He is desperately in love
with a woman, who reciprocates the emotion and wants to be with him.
Her mother supports her daughter. But Raj would rather abandon her
than disobey the wishes of her patriarch-father. The opening song of
the movie is a call from the motherland to the disaporic Indian (ghar
aaja pardesi, tera des bulaaye re; return home o foreigner, your country
beckons you), and the movie itself is a signal that that “traditional val-
ues” were back in fashion.
Nowhere was tradition on more spectacular display than in the big, fat
Bollywood wedding. Dozens of blockbusters of the 1990s were nothing
but invitations to a glamorous wedding. Ruthlessly shorn of any sem-
blance of a plot, these films lurched from one elaborate ceremony to
another, in which the cast decked out in designer ethnic chic and, sur-
rounded by overtly religious symbols, engaged in an act of grand con-
sumption. Songs extolled tradition and no social conflict was evident
in this harmonious universe ruled by a benign upper-caste, upper-class
patriarch. The Bollywood screen wedding served an important ideologi-
cal purpose by emphasizing the importance of tradition, joint families,
patriarchies, obedient children, and the value of marrying someone within
your caste and class. It sought to placate the anxieties felt by the Indian
elite about the encroachment of Western values in the age of neoliberal-
ization. But there was an important break from the adherence to tradi-
tion seen in older films. Here, tradition was embraced voluntarily, even
if it was marked by patriarchy, class hierarchies, and caste pecking orders
(Kapur 2009). The choice of keeping faith with the tradition was also
the choice to accept inherited privilege and to side with the structures
of power. Further, tradition in the new era was not hamstrung by its
location, but became what Patricia Uberoi (2006) called a portable insti-
tution. India was no longer limited by its borders; it existed wherever
Indians resided.
CONCLUSION
Peter Manuel (1993: 9), describing the Frankfurt School’s analysis of pop-
ular culture, writes that “modern capitalism operated through the acqui-
escence of a depoliticized, alienated and generally stupefied public. The
mass media (and in Adorno’s thought, popular music) played essential
roles in legitimizing the status quo by stultifying critical consciousness,
commodifying and disarming oppositional art, and promoting consumer-
ism and the myth of a classless society.” In this context, the media func-
tion as “manipulative instruments” that seek to promote the voices of
those who are comfortable with the status quo while delegitimizing the
voices of those who challenge and subvert the relationships of power and
domination in inequitable social systems. It is no surprise then that the
content that is produced in Hindi cinema today, including its lyrics, tends
toward escapist fantasies and commodity fetishism played out in chimeri-
cal dreamscapes.
This chapter has identified certain broad trends and ruptures in the
trajectory of Indian Hindi film lyrics, and has attempted to understand
them through the context of their times. This is not to say, of course, that
films of each period were all cut from the same cloth. Nor are the lyrics
we examined necessarily representative of their period. A different project
may choose to look at other lyrics and offer a different analysis. Our aim is
not so much to create a coherent history as to assert that Hindi film songs,
along with all their tropes, have a lot to tell us about India, through their
articulations and their silences. By deftly bringing together consumerism,
transnational globe-trotting, heterosexual rituals of courtship and mar-
riage, and the celebration and sedimentation of patriarchy, class, caste,
religion, and community, for example, Bollywood today succeeds in pro-
jecting the idea that an apolitical, heteronormative, upper-caste, Hindu,
patriarchal formation exists at the heart of the successful global Indian.
This may be a useful insight. This analysis of the lyrics of Bollywood songs
as sociocultural texts, along with their contestations, negotiations, media-
tions, and rearticulations, might help us map the complex ideological ter-
rain of their times.
NOTES
1. We use the quotation marks around “Hindi” because the language
of these films could more accurately be called Urdu or Hindustani.
2. The movie has not survived, but historical accounts suggest that it
had several songs. One account puts the number of songs at 55.
3. Many Hindi film comedians often chose to take on Christian names
such as Johnny Walker, Polson, Charlie, and Johnny Lever.
4. Mukul Kesavan (1994) also talks about the influence of Hindi liter-
ary stalwarts such as Bharatendu Harishchandra, Pramath Nath
Mitra, and Thibo Babu on Hindi writers in the domain of popular
culture.
5. The instructions given to these lyricists included this one: “Write this
verse without using the ‘m’ sound” because saying anything with
‘m’ in it required the lips to come together, and this would interfere
with the lip synchronization of the song.
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Zaheer, Sajjad. 1959. Raushnai. New Delhi: Azad Kitaab Ghar.
CHAPTER 3
Transformation of Hong Kong Gangster

Movies Before and After CEPA
Yau Shuk-Ting, Kinnia
This chapter contextualizes the latest development of the popular Hong

Kong gangster movies, especially in relation to the growing economic
ties with Mainland China after 1997. The Mainland and Hong Kong
Closer Economic Partnership Arrangement, widely known as the Closer
Economic Partnership Arrangement (CEPA), signed on June 29, 2003,
creates a comprehensive free trade framework for Hong Kong business
enterprises and residents to enjoy preferential access to the huge Chinese
market. Since 2003, the Hong Kong film industry has taken advantage
of the opportunity to reinvent itself. According to the editors of Faces,
Silhouette and Montage: 1997–2007 Review, “On 29 June [2003], the
Chinese government and the HKSAR [Hong Kong Special Administrative
Region] signed the CEPA. The agreement incorporated Hong Kong
movies into a domain agreed by the national system. It marked a new era in
the Hong Kong film industry. Bilateral cooperation accelerated the devel-
opment of the Mainland film market and elevated the status of Chinese
films on a global stage.” The editors further explain, “Annexes signed on
29 September, allowed Hong Kong film companies to distribute audio
visual products in the form of joint ventures where up to 70% of ownership
is allowed for Hong Kong companies. Hong Kong-made films and Hong
Y.S.-T. Kinnia ()

Chinese University of Hong Kong, Hong Kong, People’s Republic of China

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_3
52 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
Kong–Mainland coproductions will no longer be restricted by the import

quota. Hong Kong can now renovate cinemas in the form of minority-
owned joint ventures” (Chiang et al. 2007: 175, 181). Around the same
time, the Hong Kong film industry sent delegates to visit the Publicity
Department of the Chinese Communist Party (formerly the Propaganda
Department), the Ministry of Culture, the State Administration of Radio
Film and Television (SARFT), and the State Copyright Bureau in Beijing.
In a forum on CEPA, the Hong Kong delegates called for the cancelation
of global import quota, an increase in the number of Hong Kong actors to
work in China, and the permission for coproduction companies to shoot
film outside of the Mainland (Ibid.: 183).
The signing of CEPA increased the number of Hong Kong–Mainland
film coproductions from ten a year to 30 in 2004, 31 in 2005, 29 in 2006,
and 40 in 2007 (Anonymous, May 21, 2008). In July 2012, the two
industries signed nine supplements to CEPA.1 The seventh supplement
to CEPA, signed in May 2010, allowed the Hong Kong service provid-
ers to distribute audiovisual products as independent investors and the
Mainland-produced and coproduced films to undertake post-production
in Hong Kong upon approval by the SARFT (Anonymous, May 9, 2009).
Since then, the Hong Kong directors have started to deal with the SARFT-
imposed censorship in order to access the Mainland market. From 2009
to March 2010, 16 Mainland-produced films broke the ten million yuan
(US$1.57 million) box-office mark compared with 12 Hong Kong–pro-
duced films with the same record. In addition, highly successful Chinese
New Year films (hesui pian) like Bodyguards and Assassins (2010, Dir.
Teddy Chan), 14 Blades (2010, Dir. Daniel Lee), and Little Big Soldier
(2010, Dir. Ding Sheng) were all coproductions (Pan, April 7, 2010).
Between 2001 and 2008, the number of coproductions reached a record
high of 286, and the majority of the coproduced films grossed over 100
million yuan (US$15.74 million) in box office (Teng 2009). In 2011,
11 out of 35 films that grossed over 100 million yuan in box office in
China were coproductions (CCTV 2012), including Wu Xia (2011, Dir.
Peter Chan), The Lost Bladesman (2011, Dir. Felix Chong and Alan Mak),
Shaolin (2011, Dir. Benny Chan), and A Chinese Ghost Story (2011, Dir.
Wilson Yip) (Li 2012). Evidently, Hong Kong–Mainland coproductions
have become a mainstream in the Chinese film industry.
As Hung Cho-sing, chairman of the Hong Kong, Kowloon and New
Territories Motion Picture Industry Association, once commented,
“Hong Kong-Mainland coproduction is a growing trend, nearly 90% of
TRANSFORMATION OF HONG KONG GANGSTER MOVIES BEFORE AND AFTER... 53
Hong Kong films are coproductions. To cater to the Mainland audience

and to meet the standards set for coproductions, it is necessary to hire
Mainland actors and directors. The stories must conform to the national
conditions of China. Consequently, such coproduced films become less
popular in Hong Kong” (Chan et al. 2007). Even a non-coproduced film
Infernal Affairs (2002, Dir. Andrew Lau and Alan Mak) and a Hong
Kong–Singaporean coproduction Protégé (2007, Dir. Derek Yee) needed
to be tailored to China’s broadcasting requirement and the ending of
both films had to be rewritten in order to secure the official permission to
screen in the Mainland.2
Without doubt, the Hong Kong people consider CEPA an effective way
to stimulate the local economy and a valuable opportunity to access the
huge Mainland market. When Premier Wen Jiabao signed the agreement
in Hong Kong on June 29, 2003, he reassured the public of the continuity
of Hong Kong people administering Hong Kong under the “one country,
two systems” model. He was determined to boost the public confidence
that had been shaken by the Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS)
pandemic and by the dispute over the legislation of Article 23 on national
security. Nineteen years after the transfer of Hong Kong’s sovereignty to
China on July 1, 1997, there are increasing numbers of Mainland firms
listed in the Hong Kong stock exchange. Both the Qualified Domestic
Institutional Investor scheme and the Cross-Border Investment Scheme
have brought positive benefits to the Hong Kong stock market, which
in turn started a stock boom across the city. Apart from subscribing the
new shares, many Hong Kong people benefited from the Individual Visit
Scheme. To a certain degree, the material comforts brought by CEPA
overcame the long-standing cultural and political differences that set
Hong Kong and China apart from each other (Ruskola 2002, 2003). The
complexity of such a love-and-hate relationship is clearly shown in many
of the Hong Kong–produced movies.
The Hong Kong film industry always takes pride in its gangster mov-
ies. Jackie Chan, John Woo, Chow Yun-Fat, Andy Lau, Johnnie To, and
Andrew Lau were widely known to the world through some of the most
popular gangster movies. Not only have these gangster movie talents been
recruited by Hollywood, popular films such as Infernal Affairs have been
remade in the USA as The Departed (2006, Dir. Martin Scorsese),3 enjoy-
ing box-office success and winning numerous awards. We must, however,
bear in mind that the miraculous success of these gangster movies cor-
responded to the problem of domestic turbulence in Hong Kong. For
54 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
example, the famous quotation of Mark Lee (Chow Yun-Fat) in A Better

Tomorrow (1986, Dir. John Woo), “Don’t ever point the gun at my head”;
the statement of Chan Ho-Nam (Ekin Cheng) in Young and Dangerous
(1996, Dir. Andrew Lau), “I am the king in Wan Chai”; and the frus-
tration of Chan Wing-Yan (Tony Chiu-Wai Leung) in Infernal Affairs,
“How many more three years [as a mole]?” reveal the unprecedented
level of ordinary people’s rebellious sentiment and grievances toward the
handover of Hong Kong to China. The criminals are often portrayed as
heroes in most gangster movies. A marginalized sector of the Hong Kong
society, the triads represent the ideal mutual aid organization serving the
lower class who are brutally victimized in a capitalistic economy. The triads
are shown to maintain a strong sense of brotherhood that the mainstream
society lacks. The cop-and-robber dichotomy mirrors the ongoing conflict
between the underworld and the state apparatus, and praises the righ-
teous behavior and morale practice of the former. Against this backdrop,
the chapter draws on several Hong Kong gangster movies produced after
the signing of CEPA in 2003 to explore the level of socio-psychological
uncertainties faced by the Hong Kong people while conforming to the
national conditions of Mainland China.
Contacts between Hong Kong and the Mainland became more intensi-
fied after the handover of the city’s sovereignty to China. Although Hong
Kong benefited from the relaxing of trade and travel restrictions to China,
the city was overshadowed by unpredictable risks such as the Asian finan-
cial crisis in 1997, the SARS epidemic in 2003, and several governance cri-
ses that required Hong Kong to seek China’s reinterpretation of the city’s
mini-constitution, or the Basic Law. Many Hong Kong filmmakers who
were keenly aware of such controversies swiftly incorporated these politi-
cal and socioeconomic issues into their works, some outstanding examples
being Who Am I? (1998, Dir. Benny Chan and Jackie Chan), Infernal
Affairs and Running on Karma (2003, Dir. Johnnie To), Election (2005,
Dir. Johnnie To), Exiled (2006, Dir. Johnnie To), Confession of Pain
(2006, Dir. Andrew Lau and Alan Mak), Triangle (2007, Dir. Tsui Hark,
Ringo Lam, and Johnnie To), and Mad Detective (2007, Dir. Johnnie
To and Wai Ka-Fai).4 As the 1997 handover approached, these filmmak-
ers adjusted themselves to an unpredictable future of a postcolonial soci-
ety. As the Mainland market gradually expanded and attracted growing
investment from global investors, which can be shown in the increasing
number of coproductions between China and US movie-makers, or global
screening of Chinese movies, this greatly impacted the production, distri-
bution, and box-office performance of Hong Kong films (Saussy 2007;

Zhu 2003). The cinematic representation of China, as a result, becomes
all the more complicated.
On July 1, 1997, the British colony of Hong Kong became the Hong
Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China.
Since then, the Chinese central government in Beijing has made numerous
attempts to stabilize the Mainland–Hong Kong relations, and the signing
of CEPA in June 2003 has had the most far-reaching impact. Crime thriller
Confession of Pain is set against the turbulent background of Hong Kong
in 2003. The postcolonial government’s recurring blunder triggered mas-
sive antigovernment protests. More than 500,000 civilians took to the
streets to demonstrate against the legalization of Article 23 on national
security, to express their grievances toward the outbreak of the SARS epi-
demic, and to call for the resignation of Hong Kong Chief Executive Tung
Chee-Hwa. Faced with the public outcry, the Mainland officials worried
about a lack of patriotism among the people of Hong Kong. The bound-
ary between Hong Kong and Chinese identity was further politicized in
the public discourse. The state-run Xinhua News Agency released a state-
ment in February 2004 reiterating that Hong Kong should be admin-
istered by patriotic Hong Kong Chinese (Chan 2007a, b: 129). From
October 2004 onward, major Hong Kong TV broadcasters began play-
ing the national education program “Our Home Our Country” in prime
time.5 As Hong Kong sociologist Lau Siu-Kai points out, “Hong Kong
Chinese generally use ‘Hong Konger’ and ‘Chinese’ to identify themselves
… ‘Hong Konger’ and ‘Chinese’ are the two most significant identities to
Chinese people in Hong Kong” (Lau 1997: 43). In 2007, the School of
Journalism and Communication at the Chinese University of Hong Kong
conducted a survey on Hong Kong people’s national identity. The results
reveal a decreasing number of the people calling themselves either Hong
Konger or Chinese. In fact, the 2007 survey recorded the smallest number
of respondents who perceived Hong Konger and Chinese as two separate
categories. The majority of the respondents had no difficulty identifying
with the Chinese motherland and referred to themselves as both Hong
Konger and Chinese.6 Such attitudinal transformation can be discerned in
many Hong Kong gangster movies. These changes in the cinematic image
of the actors reflect the wider cultural shift in Hong Kong society and the
need of the filmmakers to cater to the vast Mainland market.
For decades, Jackie Chan has deliberately highlighted his distinctive
identity as a Hong Konger. His original name is Chan Kong-Sang, where
56 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
Kong-Sang literally means born in Hong Kong. His earlier gangster mov-
ies such as the Project A series from 1983 to 1987 carried a strong colonial
flavor, and the protagonist, Sergeant Dragon Ma Yue-Lung, was keenly
aware of his Hong Kong Chinese identity under the British rule. In the
Police Story series from 1985 to 1996, Jackie Chan played the character
Chan Ka-Kui, a dedicated public servant and a member of the Royal Hong
Kong Police Force. These film series transformed Jackie Chan into an
international cultural icon. In Who Am I?, the first movie that he made
after 1997, the secret agent named Jackie was repeatedly reminded that
he was not affiliated with any organization and nation-state. After being
betrayed and losing his memories, Jackie shouted from the mountain top,
“Who am I?” This moving scene evoked a sense of loss among the Hong
Kong people as they tried to come to terms with the aftermaths of the
city’s handover to China. Although Jackie Chan has always emphasized his
Hong Kong identity, he stresses his Chineseness in The Myth (2005, Dir.
Stanley Tong). The protagonist Jack was an archeologist who happened to
be the incarnation of General Meng Yi from the Qin Dynasty (221–206
B.C.). Jack often dreams about his past life, where he tried to save the
Korean Princess Ok-Soo (Kim Hee-Sun). Upon seizing a sword from the
tomb, he travels back to the Qin Dynasty to materialize his unfulfilled
dream. Both Jack, the protagonist and Jackie Chan, the film producer
agree with the duty of a national subject to remain patriotic, and they wish
to trace their Chineseness in cinematic works and in real life. Throughout
the years, Jackie Chan has developed strong ties with China. He actively
promoted children’s charities and served as the 2008 Beijing Olympic
ambassador and the vice president of the China Environmental Culture
Promotion Association. On several occasions, he expressed the plan to
send the ashes of his parents from Australia to China in order to fulfill their
wish to return to the motherland.
Another example is Andy Lau, whose identity as a Hong Konger has
undergone a similar transformation, albeit not as explicit as his song
“Chinese People (Zhongguo ren).”7 After 1997, the multiple roles of Andy
Lau in many gangster movies focused on Greater China rather than on
Hong Kong. In Island of Greed (1997, Dir. Johnny Mak), Lau played a
Taiwanese investigator Fong Kuo-Fai who dealt with political corruption
orchestrated by a top gang leader Chao Chiu-Sen (Tony Ka-Fai Leung).
This movie was set against the democratization of Taiwan in the 1990s.
During his presidency from 1988 to 2000, Lee Teng-Hui advanced the
agenda of pro-independence and implemented numerous programs to
de-Sinicize Taiwan and create a separate Taiwanese national identity. These

nation-building policies were severely criticized by the Communist leaders
in Beijing for betraying the long tradition of the Nationalist Party’s “One
China” stance and ruling out any talk for reunification with the Mainland.
By exposing Taiwan’s notorious election scandals, Island of Greed cri-
tiques the phenomenon of black-gold politics (heijin; i.e., the acquisi-
tion of money by politicians through a secret and corruptive method).
These negative cinematic depictions of Taiwan are designed to appease the
Communist leaders’ rejection of democratic governance. In Running on
Karma, Lau played a former martial arts monk from China, coming to save
the Hong Kong police and take care of the underprivileged. The subtext is
that China would give considerable economic assistance and spiritual sup-
port to Hong Kong. Breaking News and One Night in Mongkok also por-
trayed Mainlanders as affectionate and faithful individuals. Although these
Mainlanders were not freed from the old stereotypes as bandits, killers,
and prostitutes, they were shown to have a stronger sense of justice. What
makes Running on Karma unique is its emphasis on the Buddhist con-
cept of karma. When Big (Andy Lau) met Li Fung-Yee (Cecilia Cheung)
for the first time, he said, “Li Fung-Yee must die because the Japanese
solider committed murder.” Despite having done many good deeds, Lee
could never escape her own karma. Such tragic fatalism contrasts sharply
with the triad’s mole played by Andy Lau in the Infernal Affairs trilogy.
Like Jackie Chan, Andy Lau actively supported charity works in China,
including the Artistes 512 Fund Raising Campaign for victims of the 2008
Sichuan earthquake. Meanwhile, Lau invested in the Mainland film indus-
try and his low-budgeted Crazy Stone (2006, Dir. Ning Hao) achieved
an impressive box-office success.8 In A World without Thieves (2004, Dir.
Feng Xiaogang), Lau played Wang Bo, a professional thief who died pro-
tecting a village boy. This sympathetic character differs considerably from
the smart and cunning Hong Kong guy he played in previous movies.
The stories of Jackie Chan and Andy Lau are not unique. They repre-
sent many filmmakers and actors who have come to grips with the new
reality of a postcolonial society that is increasingly dependent on China
for support. As other book chapters illustrate, however, different cultural
values and socioeconomic practices cannot be easily overcome. The fol-
lowing gangster movies reveal considerable worries over the sociocultural
gap between China and Hong Kong.
For decades, Hong Kong filmmakers have always had a preference
for the undercover cop thrillers. Man on the Brink (1981, Dir. Cheung
58 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
Gowk-Ming) and City on Fire (1987, Dir. Ringo Lam) are well-known
examples. As Wing-Sang Law argues, “The undercover cops in these mov-
ies are not exceptionally intelligent and courageous, nor can they success-
fully accomplish their missions. Rather, they are depicted as tragic heroes
hovering between the law enforcement body and the underworld” (Law
2007: 9, 2009). The undercover agents are comparable to the Hong Kong
Chinese under the British rule. Neither British nor exactly Chinese, the
Hong Kong people found themselves in a dilemma, torn between their
emotional attachment to the old colonial rule and the ambiguous loyalty
to the new political master. The Infernal Affairs trilogy is a remarkable
gangster movie series about the loyalty conflicts of undercover agents,
juxtaposing the overlapping accounts of an undercover cop who spied
the triad and of a triad member who infiltrated the Hong Kong police
force. This high-concept movie reached a new height in the Hong Kong
film industry. In a film seminar in celebration of the 10th anniversary
of Hong Kong’s handover to China, Athena Tsui referred to Infernal
Affairs as a “post-undercover film” partly because it explores the con-
troversial identity question of Hong Kong and partly because it reveals
the unprecedented scale of public anxiety about the postcolonial future
(Yip 2007: 84). In the film, Chan Wing-Yan (Tony Chiu-Wai Leung) suf-
fered mentally due to the unbearable stress from his undercover mission
in the triad. Nonetheless, he agreed to be an undercover in order to redis-
cover his past identity. Unlike other undercover cop movies, the Infernal
Affairs trilogy never shows that gangsters have morals, standards, and
respect. When Lau Kin-Ming (Andy Lau) killed his triad boss Hon Sam
(Eric Tsang), it became clear that one could easily give up his morality in
order to survive. Lau Kin-Ming’s gunshot symbolized the desperation to
protect one’s interest in turbulent times. The film revolved around the
Buddhist concept of Avichi hell (Sanskrit and Pali: Avı̄ci, literally means
without waves), the lowest level of the hell where uninterrupted sufferings
awaited the dead with grave misdeeds. The blazing torment and punish-
ment in hell not only pointed to the continuous sufferings faced by the
moles in the film but also hinted at a sense of collective insecurity among
the Hong Kong people. After 1997, a series of policy mistakes by the
postcolonial leadership created a hell-like situation and eroded public con-
fidence in the “one country, two systems” model. Although the postcolo-
nial government called for unity and endurance, as depicted in the popular
Cantonese song “Under the Lion Rock,” the public continued to demand
democratic governance through massive protests.9
Infernal Affairs II carries a clearer allegory to post-handover Hong

Kong. The sequel, set against the pre-handover period, sees the same char-
acters with different personality. In particular, Hon Sam was depicted as a
loyal and righteous triad leader, whereas Superintendent Wong Chi-Sing
(Anthony Wong) was cunning and manipulative, instigating other people
to commit murders. Many scenes of violent clashes between triad leaders
interweaved with the actual news coverage on the handover ceremony.
This revealed the sharp contrast between a thriving city-state and the bru-
tal killings in the underworld. These pre-handover events determined the
ongoing development and tragic outcomes of police–triad interactions
after 1997 in Infernal Affairs I and III. In Infernal Affairs II, the famous
remark of the powerful triad boss Ngai Wing-Hau (Francis Ng), “One
must be prepared to pay for one’s own deeds,” echoed with the con-
cept of karma, in which people would always be held responsible for their
actions. In an official banquet celebrating the Hong Kong handover, Ngai
tried to socialize with the Mainland officials by using his broken Mandarin
and to gain support for his appointment as a representative in the state-
controlled consultative body. Upon his arrest by the police, however, he
was immediately stripped of his candidacy and became totally isolated
among the ruling elites. Infernal Affairs III, the last episode, glorifies
the remarkable contributions of a Mainland undercover cop Shen Cheng
(Chen Daoming) in apprehending Lau Kin-Ming in postcolonial Hong
Kong. On the one hand, the ending conforms to the traditional Buddhist
belief that time would come when one needs to pay for the bad deeds and
to be rewarded for the good ones. On the other hand, it symbolizes the
dependence of Hong Kong on China for resolving its internal problems.
The Infernal Affairs trilogy set off a crime thriller boom in the Hong
Kong film industry. Some of the works produced afterward include Color
of the Truth (2003, Dir. Wong Jing and Marco Mak), Jiang Hu (2004,
Dir. Wong Ching-Po), and Wo Hu: Operation Undercover (2006, Dir.
Marco Mak and Wang Guangli). Nevertheless, there is an important shift
in the portrayal of gang members. The triad members in today’s movies
are shown to be struggling in a neoliberal environment; they differ from
the image of loyal gang leaders in the 1980s and from that of materialistic
teenage gangsters in the 1990s.
As part of the cinematic strategy to conform to the national condi-
tions of China and to avoid losing its distinctiveness in the era of global-
ization, the Hong Kong filmmakers started to inject localness into their
works. The newly invented local spirit of Hong Kong caught much public
60 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
attention because these filmmakers reexamined their own sociopolitical

values in face of the city’s decolonization. Johnnie To is one of the direc-
tors capable of making gangster movies with a strong Hong Kong flavor.
In collaboration with Wai Ka-Fai, he set up two respective film produc-
tion companies, Milkyway and One Hundred Years of Film, in 1996 and
2000. Both To and Wai coproduced and codirected Too Many Ways to Be
No.1 (1997, Dir. Wai Ka-Fai), The Longest Nite (1998, Dir. Yau Tat-Chi),
Expect the Unexpected (1998, Dir. Yau Tat-Chi), Running out of Time,
the PTU series, Running on Karma, and Election. Johnnie To was the
highest-grossing Hong Kong film director between 1997 and 2007, and
Wai Ka-Fai ranked the fourth. At that time, To accumulated a box-office
gross of HK$353,022,714 (US$ 45,519,102) and Wai had a box-office
gross of HK$301,419,500 (US$38,865,331). By addressing a range of
social issues facing the city before and after its handover to China, To and
Wai’s films offer an alternative to the official discourse on Hong Kong’s
development, capturing the audiences’ imaginations and striking a respon-
sive chord in their hearts.
Election is a gangster movie that obliquely hints at the closed-door
electoral procedure of the Hong Kong chief executive. In explaining the
origin of Election, To expressed, “I want to talk about the transformation
and confusion experienced by Hong Kong during the handover. This is an
extremely exceptional occasion. Such an immense change is beyond the abil-
ity of many Hong Kong people to handle. There are also cultural and eco-
nomic changes, even the quality of the people are changing. … All I want to
say is that time is changing; even the triad organization has to change. The
first film [Election] is about remaining unchanged in a fast-changing world,
and changes actually take place in the second film [Election 2]” (Pun 2006:
307–311). Election portrays the remarkable transformation of the triad
organization over time. In the past, the triad society members shared the
same goal of overthrowing the Manchu-run Qing Empire and restoring the
Chinese-run Ming Dynasty. The structure of the triad society reflects the
sociocultural ideal of a Confucian China, in which junior members should
respect their seniors, and infighting among members was prohibited (Booth
2006: 17). By depicting various rituals practiced inside the triad society, the
film shows how a traditional organization connects individuals and groups
together through blood and kinship ties (Craib 1997: 66). Election, how-
ever, has a subtitle, “Brother and gold, which one do you love?” Under
the influence of capitalism, traditional values previously upheld by the triad
members lost their appeal. In the film, Big D (Tony Ka-Fai Leung) literally
bought his support while campaigning for the top position in the triad. This
echoed with the remark of the economics professor of Jimmy (Louis Koo),
another triad leader, “Economic theory can be applied into every sector of
society.” The triad, as portrayed in many gangster films of the 1980s and
1990s, placed a high importance on moral values. In a society dictated by
economic development, group loyalty and righteousness could have pro-
vided comfort for the public. But Election shows that the triad no longer
functions as a mutual aid organization.10 Lok (Simon Yam) appeared to
love his gang brother because he agreed to work with Big D against other
opponents, but Lok eventually killed Big D out of hunger for more power
and gold. As Johnnie To comments, “In today’s triad society, money and
power are the most important things. You just need to see the ending of
Election. The so-called human nature is so primitive” (Pun 2006: 315). The
senior triad members such as Uncle Teng (Wong Tin-Lam) and the others
continued to exert much influence in the operation of the organization.
They spoke of democracy in the electoral process, but retained the power
to make any final decision and to pick the candidate for the top position.
Ironically, the election of the Hong Kong chief executive is carried out in
the same manner. Despite it being called an election, only 800 election
committee members, mostly pro-China business leaders and underground
Chinese Communist Party members, are eligible to vote.11 Instead of elec-
tion by universal suffrage, the control of power by the elite class remains the
norm in the postcolonial era. As with the triad, Hong Kong is controlled by
a handful of manipulative people who have enough power to influence the
postcolonial government and put their own interest ahead of everyone else.
The subtitle of Election 2 (2006, Dir. Johnnie To) touches on one’s
affiliation with the nation-state, “Patriots exist even in the triad society.”
The death of Uncle Teng in Election 2 marked the end of an era, which
paralleled the end of British colonialism and the beginning of the “one
country, two systems” model. In the sequel, money possessed greater
magic power. When Lok became the triad chairman in Election, he still
practiced traditional ceremonies to validate his position. When Lok’s son
became a triad member in Election 2, the long-standing rituals were com-
pletely replaced by cash handouts. In Election 2, Jimmy represented a typi-
cal middle-class Hong Konger without any interest in politics. His goal in
life was to be a successful businessman and see his children become top-
class lawyers and doctors. As the protagonist in the sequel, Jimmy tried to
escape from the triad by doing legitimate business in China. He attempted
to communicate with the Mainlanders with his limited knowledge of the
62 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
Mandarin and kept practicing the language when ordering meals at a res-
taurant. These efforts demonstrate that the quick-witted Hong Kong peo-
ple had recognized the Mandarin as a new strategic language against the
English. Ironically, it was a Mainland police officer (You Yong), not Lok,
who obstructed Jimmy’s attempt to build a legitimate business empire.
Before Hong Kong’s handover, common sayings like “the Mainland police
would become more and more aggressive as 1997 draws closer” are com-
monly found in the local films. The Mainland policemen were portrayed
as competent and cosmopolitan on screen (Law et al. 1997: 157–168). In
this new environment, Jimmy and Mr. So (Cheung Siu-Fai) realized that
China would be the biggest market for business expansion. Nevertheless,
the Mainland police officer instructed Jimmy and So to cooperate with the
Chinese authorities in order to make “Hong Kong a more stable and pros-
perous society.” The statement suggests that the Hong Kong public need
to make certain sacrifices in order to benefit financially from CEPA. As
Zygmunt Bauman (2002: 193) asserts, gaining control of political power
not only demands the subordination of the public to an imagined nation
but also requires the rulers to legitimate their leadership by offering tangi-
ble benefits to all. The movie highlights the new China–Hong Kong rela-
tionship based on political subordination in exchange for material gains.
Election and Election 2 tell a uniquely Hong Kong story. They use idi-
omatic Cantonese to present the city’s lifestyle and to distinguish the Hong
Kong people (us) from the Mainlanders (them).12 As a result, the film
becomes a political allegory to be understood exclusively by the Hong Kong
people. According to Eric Kit-Wai Ma (2003: 208), “In response to the
political, economic, and societal shifts of power, the local media once again
draws the line between us (Hong Kong) and them (Mainland) in the news
as well as in TV dramas. On the surface, the two components can coexist in
harmony with each other but the hidden meanings suggest the otherwise.”
As the boundary between Hong Kong and Mainland has blurred out in
recent years, the local media subscribes to the Chinese official discourses of
great China and great harmony. This superficial level of political harmony,
however, never appeals to the Hong Kong people and this precisely explains
why Election and Election 2 generated much discussion locally.13
Under the post-CEPA environment of Hong Kong film industry, gang-
ster movies in recent years have demonstrated a trend of diversification,
which could be observed from Once a Gangster (2010, Felix Chong) and
Drug War (2013, Johnnie To). According to Mirana M. Szeto (2012:
119), Once a Gangster is an antigangster film that symbolizes the rise of
a “HKSAR New Wave”14 in the post-1997 era. Because of the pressure of

“Mainlandization,” the local Hong Kong film industry has become heavily
dependent on the profitability of a huge Chinese market for its growth, and
the movie producers have to adjust the filmic content in order to cater to the
Chinese censorship regime. Against this background, Once a Gangster came
as a rare, small-budget movie that targeted primarily the local audience. The
movie portrayed the gangsters as being similar to other Hong Kong indus-
tries, in which the everyday operations had migrated to China. The tenure
of the current gang leader came to an end, but no one volunteered to be
the successor, since being the custodian of the gang entailed the respon-
sibility to bear the debts incurred by the collapse of the Lehman Brothers
Bank in September 2008. Hong Kong’s underworld was as vulnerable to
the global economic crisis as other businesses. On the contrary, Drug War
provides a fascinating example of how the Hong Kong–style crime thriller
managed to bypass the Chinese censorship regime and gained considerable
profits in the Mainland market with a total box-office of 160 million RMB
(US$25.8 million). The breakthrough of Drug War had to do with its suc-
cess of addressing a sensitive social topic in China, with detailed descriptions
of large-scale drug trafficking and violent criminal activities. These graphic
portrayals of the clandestine criminal networks were quite rare in any of
the previous Hong Kong–Mainland film coproductions (Le 2014: 22). In
the post-CEPA era, filmmakers could still cater to the various audiences of
the Greater China market by not glorifying the criminal gangster organiza-
tions and depicting the Chinese law enforcement agency as incompetent
and evil. While accommodating the Chinese censorship regime, Johnnie To
still kept the signature elements of his well-known Election and Election 2
like betrayal, mistrust, and rivalry among gangsters in Drug War.
In the final analysis, many of the post-1997 Hong Kong gangster mov-
ies accurately reflect and represent what the city has experienced over
the last 19 years. At a first glance, the cinematic representation of China
appears to be very positive, resourceful, and appealing, and the fate of
Hong Kong is shown to rely on the Mainland for survival. In these movies,
the old separate identities of Hong Kongers and Mainlanders are merged
to form an inclusive national identity for a rising China. While catering
to the Mainland audience for profits, many Hong Kong filmmakers still
express their personal thoughts about the aftermaths of the city’s hando-
ver to China. They have succeeded in incorporating many local ideologies,
cultural symbols, and political and social concerns into their works. The
need to reconsider these well-integrated national Chinese and local Hong
64 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
Kong sentiments is what makes the post-1997 Hong Kong gangster mov-
ies worth studying. If the pre-handover Hong Kong films represent the
Hong Kong people’s worry about an unfamiliar China, the post-handover
films reveal the innovative efforts of the filmmakers to move beyond the
old stereotypes. Evidently, the post-1997 Hong Kong film industry has
found a foothold in the new China-centered framework and reinvented
itself by serving both the Hong Kong and Chinese audiences.
NOTES
1. The Hong Kong Film Development Council helped the Hong Kong
film industry to gain access to the neighboring market of Guangdong
province under CEPA. The Hong Kong film industry is reported to
have been able to enjoy the “syncroni[z]ed release of Hong Kong
films in the Cantonese version in Guangdong province as imported
films with a maximum 25% share of the box-office takings” (Hong
Kong Film Development Council, July 16, 2012).
2. Other Hong Kong films with the Mainland and Hong Kong ver-
sions include Running on Karma (2003, Dir. Johnnie To and Wai
Ka-Fai), Naked Ambition (2003, Dir. Chan Hing-Ka and Dante
Lam), The Eye 2 (2003, Dir. Danny Pang and Oxide Pang), Twins
Effect (2003, Dir. Dante Lam and Donnie Yan), AV (2005, Dir.
Edmond Ho-Cheung Pang), and Election and Election 2 (2005, Dir.
Johnnie To). For details, see Chan et al. (2007: 112).
3. In 2003, Brad Pit, as a producer, acquired the right to remake The
Departed from Media Asia, the Hong Kong producer of Infernal
Affairs. Media Asia was one of the coproduction companies, and the
main production of The Departed was done by Warner Brothers,
with direction by Martin Scorsese.
4. Many Hong Kong gangster movies have political subtexts, for exam-
ple, Mr. Nice Guy (1997, Dir. Sammo Hung), Running out of Time
(1999, Dir. Johnnie To), PTU (2003, Dir. Johnnie To), One Night
in Mongkok (2004, Dir. Derek Yee), Breaking News (2004, Dir.
Johnnie To), Divergence (2005, Dir. Benny Chan), and Sparrow
(2008, Dir. Johnnie To).
5. “Our Home Our Country” is a program produced by the Committee
on the Promotion of Civic Education (CPCE). The program con-
sists of six parts with the following themes: Our Home Our Country,
Faces of China, Chinese Heritage, Our Country Our Glory, and
Accomplishments of Our Country. They were broadcasted on TVB,

ATV, and Cable TV on the National Day Celebration (October 1)
between 2004 and 2009. In addition, the CPCE has also copro-
duced with the government-funded Radio Television Hong Kong
(RTHK) a TV series Cultural Heritage since 2009. The 2009 install-
ment features China’s nonmaterial cultural heritage, including paper
cutting and Yixing clay tea wares. The 2011 installment features
some of the country’s most spectacular railway journeys, and the
2012 installment showcases China’s magnificent rivers and
mountains.
6. The Hong Kong people’s perception of ethnic identity has changed
since the 2007 survey conducted by the Chinese University of Hong
Kong. A poll conducted by the University of Hong Kong on ethnic
identity suggests that the percentage of correspondents identifying
themselves as Chinese reached a record high in June 2008, just
before the Beijing Olympics. The poll also indicates that during the
same period, the percentage of correspondents seeing themselves as
Hong Konger dropped to an all-time low since August 1997.
According to the latest poll in June 2012, the percentage of corre-
spondents calling themselves Chinese hit the lowest point since 1997
and that of correspondents referring to themselves as Hong Konger
reached the highest point. The poll results had to do with the Hong
Kong people’s resentment toward the implementation of a pro-
Communist national educational curriculum in September 2012.
Some commentators criticized the curriculum as a conspiracy to
brainwash the Hong Kong youth. For details about the University of
Hong Kong’s Public Opinion Program, see http://hkupop.hku.hk/
english/popexpress/ethnic/index.html.
7. Released in 1997, Andy Lau sung the song in a gala celebrating the
9th anniversary of the transfer of Hong Kong’s sovereignty to China.
8. Some scenes in Crazy Stone critique the misunderstanding between
Mainland Chinese and Hong Kong people. Protagonist Bao (Guo
Tao) represented the Chinese virtues of loyalty and sacrificing one’s
personal gain for the common good. Mike (Teddy Lin), the burglar
from Hong Kong, was a typical capitalist who relied on technology
and acted independently. This can be seen as the Mainlanders’ strike
back against the Hong Kongers and their rejection of the so-called
Hong Kong spirit that often portrayed Mainlanders as backward and
old-fashioned.
66 Y.S.-T. KINNIA
9. Antony Kam-Chung Leung, former Financial Secretary of the

HKSAR, brought up the “Under the Lion Rock” spirit when he
delivered the financial budget speech in 2004. At that time, the
Hong Kong public was still struggling with the aftermaths of the
SARS epidemic.
10. In the 1960s, Japan witnessed a widening gap between individuals
under the rise of utilitarianism. Gangster movies played by Takakura
Ken were produced in response to such a new cultural environment.
The Japanese directors set out to strengthen the traditional image of
brotherhood in order to make up for the declining role of men in
society. This school of Japanese cinema has deeply affected Hong
Kong directors like John Woo, Ringo Lam, and Johnnie To.
11. In Spring 2012, the number of the election committee members
increased to 1200.
12. Tensions frequently break out between Hong Kongers and Mainlanders. In
January 2012, Peking University professor Kong Qingdong called Hong
Kongers bastards and dogs when he saw an online video clip that captured a
dispute between Hong Kongers and a group of Mainlanders eating inside
the subway train. In addition, large numbers of Mainland pregnant women
have crossed the Chinese border to give birth in Hong Kong, and they were
blamed for overcrowding the Hong Kong hospitals and exploiting the city’s
public health-care system. On February 1, 2012, the Hong Kong newspaper
Apple Daily published a full-page advertisement that described the
Mainlanders as locusts, warning that the Hong Kong people bitterly opposed
the influx of Mainland pregnant women. The advertisement was paid by
numerous Hong Kong Internet users (Chow, February 1, 2012).
13. According to Faces, Silhouette and Montage: 1997–2007 Review,
both Election and Election 2 recorded a box-office success of
HK$15,895,622 (US$2,049,597) and HK$13,577,941
(US$1,750,753), respectively. Classified as category III (i.e., films to
be viewed by people aged 18 and above only), these films performed
reasonably well.
14. According to Szeto, the SAR New Wave referred to directors who
are: (1) new directors coming of age and garnering serious local
critical attention after Hong Kong has become a SAR, or (2) direc-
tors who joined the industry earlier and may have substantial experi-
ence but have only gained serious local critical attention and/or
acclaim after 1997, but most importantly (3) directors who are con-
sciously and critically aware of themselves as working from a local
issues perspective with much greater Sinophone intra-local and
inter-local awareness, and whose worldview departs from the chau-

vinist and xenophobic petit-grandiose Hong Kongism typical of pre-
1997 Hong Kong colonial inferiority complex (2012: 122).
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CHAPTER 4
Despair and Hope: Political Cinema

in Hong Kong
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee
INTRODUCTION
The immediate aftermath of the transfer of Hong Kong’s sovereignty to
China on July 1, 1997, has been marked by countless governance crises and
escalating popular discontents, most of which arose from the suspension of
democratic rights under the Chinese “one country, two systems” model.
Many film directors, actors, and actresses of the Hong Kong mainstream
cinema have accepted the Chinese authoritarian rule as a precondition for
entering the fast-growing Mainland film market. A handful of critical film-
makers, however, choose to produce political cinema under the shadow
of a wealthy and descendant local film industry, expressing the desire for
democracy and justice, and critiquing inequality and injustice. This chap-
ter draws on the works of Herman Yau and Vincent Chui to discuss the
various cinematic modes of moral politics in Hong Kong today. The two
directors typify the trend of what Mirana M. Szeto and Yun-Chung Chen
call the “Hong Kong SAR New Wave,” in which postcolonial filmmakers
are faced with global neoliberalism and the pressure of Mainlandization,
J.T.-H. Lee ()


DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_4
70 J.T.-H. LEE
and they purposefully take on many local subjects with a critical awareness
of intra- and intercultural flows within Greater China. Beyond rejecting
the “chauvinist and xenophobic petit-grandiose Hong Kongism typical
of pre-1997 Hong Kong colonial inferiority complex,” Yau and Chui are
unique in articulating a cinematic critique of biopolitical power under the
Chinese rule and championing a vision of grassroots activism that offers
hope for transformative change (Szeto and Chen 2012: 122; Szeto 2014).
In Chaos (2008), Herman Yau characterized fear, terror, and violence
as the ingredients of the “one country, two systems” formula. Incarcerated
peoples faced the threat of physical violence as a daily reality. Injustice, sex-
ism, and discrimination were embedded in the system and perpetuated
through constant violence. Systematic violence ranged from hostile rheto-
ric, to violations of personal freedoms, to daily assaults, sexual abuses, and
brutal murders. The excessive use of violence reflected the authoritarian
leaders’ obsession with fear and control. Yau presented a gloomy picture
of human powerlessness because the people could never reform such a
violent system and the whole society would eventually move toward an
apocalyptic destruction. By comparison, in Three Narrow Gates (2008),
Vincent Chui revealed moral politics as a viable opposition against any
form of state violence. The public could transcend their religious, gender,
class, and ethnic differences to challenge the status quo and correct the
unjust system. These two filmmakers remind the Hong Kong audiences
of their colonial inheritances and contemporary inequalities in an effort to
suggest the various linkages between past and present, private and public
domains, state and society.
UTTER DESPAIR IN CHAOS

Chaos (2008, Herman Yau), known in Cantonese as Saam Bat Gun
(Sanbuguan in Mandarin), is a futuristic thriller set in the ghettoized
district of a prosperous city where vices and violence were rampant, and
where the most dangerous criminals were in charge. The Cantonese term,
Saam Bat Guan, refers to the century-old Kowloon Walled City, a densely
populated settlement where prostitution, gambling, and drugs were off
limit to the British colonial police. Originally a Chinese military outpost,
the Kowloon Walled City became an autonomous enclave in the colony
after late imperial China leased the New Territories to Britain in 1898. Its
Chinese population increased dramatically following the outbreak of the
Second World War (1937–1945) and the Communist Revolution (1949).
DESPAIR AND HOPE: POLITICAL CINEMA IN HONG KONG 71
From the 1950s to 1970s, local triads controlled the Walled City and
ran illegal activities. In the film, Herman Yau used the old image of the
Kowloon Walled City to reinvent an urban ghetto that was totally sepa-
rated from the outside world by a fortified wall. The police authorities
never dared enter this no-man’s land, and criminal lord Crow was the de
facto leader of the ghetto. Without any official rule, chaos and disorder
became the norm, and the residents lived in despair and frustration.
Everything changed in the ghetto with the arrival of a city police offi-
cer and a petty criminal. On their way to prison, police officer Mickey
and convict Tai-Ho had an accident and crashed into the iron gate of
the ghetto. They fell into the hands of Crow’s followers. Crow hated the
law enforcement agency so much that he tried to identify and execute
the police officer. A woman called Ling suddenly showed up to identify
Mickey as her former criminal partner. As a result, Mickey left with Ling
and Tai-Ho was held as a captured policeman. Ling was in fact the ex-wife
of Tai-Ho but she left him to be killed because he abandoned her and her
daughter Yan decades ago. Ling hoped that by saving police officer Mickey,
he could help her and Yan to flee the ghetto. While Ling and Mickey con-
templated their escape, Tai-Ho broke away from captivity through the
help of Yan. Once Tai-Ho found out Yan to be his daughter, he sought
to redeem himself by working with Mickey to take Ling and Yan out of
the walled city. Meanwhile, a deadly plague broke out inside the ghetto.
Instead of sending in the medical staff, the authorities declared a state
of emergency and sent troops to kill everyone inside the contaminated
zone. The government troops defeated Crow’s followers and massacred
all the ghetto residents. Mickey, Tai-Ho, and Ling eventually helped Yan
to escape through a tunnel, but were mistaken as contaminated residents
and killed by the troops.
Chaos was made against the transformation of Hong Kong from a
British colony into a Special Administrative Region under the Chinese
Communist rule. The cinematic landscape of the secluded ghetto was
more than a metaphor in the film. The camera glided over the glittering
lights and shadows as dark as the abyss. The setting was so ominous that
the sun never shone, leaving the grey alleys and sky behind. The gloomy
ghetto displayed a sense of noir and symbolized the old Kowloon Walled
City. The physicality of this secluded area was saturated with all types
of structural violence. When the refugees fled violence from Mainland
China to Hong Kong in times of wars, they trapped themselves in a new
zone of exclusion and were ruled by criminal gangs. Hong Kong writer
72 J.T.-H. LEE
Ping-Kwan Leung (1993: 120–123) once referred to the Kowloon Walled

City as a zone of darkness where anarchy and normalcy existed side by
side. Prostitutes and addicts squatted on the streets, children played games
outdoors, and missionaries and social workers gave powdered milk and
canned food to the poor. While gangsters profited themselves through
illegal activities, most people struggled to live normally.
The representation of Hong Kong in Chaos as a ghettoized com-
munity reminds us of the analytical insights of German political thinker
Carl Schmitt (1922/1985) on state sovereignty and Italian philosopher
Giorgio Agamben (1998) on Auschwitz. Here one can draw on their ideas
to examine the cinematic critiques of fascist potentialities in China-ruled
Hong Kong. Schmitt considered sovereignty to be the absolute power
of the rulers to impose a state of exception that suspended civil rights
(Ong 2006: 18–19). Equally important are the notion of extraterritori-
alization (i.e., the volatile geographies produced through geopolitics and
international law) and the apparatus of violence as a mode of governance
(Gregory and Pred 2007: 205–236). The iconic status of the Kowloon
Walled City stood out as a space of both constructed and constrained vis-
ibility. Most of what happened inside had to be shielded from the public
gaze. Missing in the public view were the dehumanizing institutions and
practices that reduced people to a form of bare life. The cinematic ghetto
in Chaos was, by nature, a giant concentration camp where the fences,
cages, bars, and walls testified widespread and systematic practices of tor-
ture. In this underworld, violence and control embodied each other in
a deadly manner. Such images symbolize China’s ostracization of Hong
Kong from its larger national and juridical formation, depriving the local
residents of their civil rights. Giorgio Agamben theorized this mode of
governance as the pornography of horror beyond any ethical comprehen-
sion, and the key to his concept was the idea of a homo sacer as both an
ostracized (bare) life and a condition upon which the ruling authority
asserted its power and made law.
Contemporary Hong Kong has witnessed the continuation of colonial-
ism, with the Chinese Communist state replacing the British autocratic
rule. Herman Yau is suspicious of any political establishment. Whether
in a colony or a dictatorship, the state often categorizes one group of
people as noncitizens and deprives them of all protection. In Tibet and the
Muslim-majority Xinjiang region, Han Chinese rulers impose the policy
of dispossession and mistreat local Tibetans and Uyghurs as fugitives in
their ancestral homelands. The ethnic minorities submit themselves to
the control of Han colonialists, who in turn, blame the recalcitrant sub-
jects for their own misery (Caprioni 2012). Such structural violence arises
partly from the apathy and submission of the people to the hegemonic
rule, and partly from the institutionalization of strong control mecha-
nisms. If state-imposed dispossession constitutes a mode of governance,
terror is its ruling tool. There is a long history of appropriating terror
as an instrument of control in the modern era. In Stalinist Russia, Nazi
Germany, Maoist China, and North Korea, state terrorism entailed more
than physical intimidation. The state institutionalized a culture of fear to
the extent that ordinary people would not dare to rebel because they had
no one to trust. Regulatory restrictions along with a high level of oppres-
sion completely undermined social bonds and precluded any possibility of
collective action (Gregory and Pred 2007: 22). Herman Yau dramatized
the wretched experiences of the filmic characters to display the intimacy
of terror, fear, and violence in an imaginary Hong Kong. The traces of
destroyed apartments and the marks left by the soldiers on walls repre-
sented the implementation of a social cleansing policy. The landscapes of
terror were shown through underexposed lighting in images of narrow
dark alleys and huge empty spaces. Beyond the physical death, the terror
strategy aimed at casting a long-lasting impact on the memories of the
survivors (Gregory and Pred 2007: 120). Therefore, the culture of ter-
ror transformed death from a physiological experience into a social fact
(Taussig 1985).
The cinematic dichotomy between fear and terror, crime and con-
trol, reflected a sense of desperation and despair under the “one coun-
try, two systems” formula (Chu 2013). The powerful elite who ruled by
fear also ruled in fear. The affluent outside world fortified itself against
the unwanted ghetto inhabitants. The militarization of border control
through fences and walls was part of the spatial and legal strategies of
exclusion. Politically, Hong Kong did not become independent as many
former British colonies. The British rulers handed over the sovereignty of
the city to China in 1997 without consulting the will of the local popula-
tion. The residents were deprived of their rights as British citizens and
the opportunity to mobilize and form their independent city-state. To
ease the public worries about the future of the city under communism,
Article 5 of the Basic Law, Hong Kong’s mini-constitution, guaranteed
that Chinese socialist system would not be implemented locally, and that
the existing capitalist system and way of life would remain unchanged for
50 years. The first deadline for Hong Kong’s transition passed smoothly
74 J.T.-H. LEE
on July 1, 1997, but the second deadline is approaching when Hong

Kong is mandated to be integrated into the political, economic, and social
structures of China in 2047.
What life was like in the cinematic ghetto? Chaos deliberately portrayed
the ghetto population as a hopeless people, the reign of terror by Crow as
brutal as the Chinese Communist dictatorship, and the outbreak of plague
as the beginning of a gradual death of the whole community. Crow was
the dictator to be feared and respected. He controlled the ghetto popula-
tion with explosive earrings that he could detonate anytime, and retained
all the power over Ling and other women. He ordered Ling to prepare
wines and feasts whenever he pleased, and in exchange, he provided
Ling with protection. This arrangement presented an illusion of security
because Ling was exclusively Crow’s and could not be with another man,
just as Hong Kong is completely under the Chinese rule. In this depress-
ing environment, there was a brothel for the ghetto residents to seek plea-
sures. The brothel was decorated with various colors and shades, creating
a dreamy and seductive mood. A prostitute told Yan either to live accord-
ing to one’s fate or to resist against the hopeless situation. While the fancy
and eye-catching lights appeared to be captivating inside the dark and
gloomy ghetto, the sense of helplessness could never be faded with the
manmade lights surrounding them.
Mutual suspicion and distrust always prohibited solidarity among the
subaltern people. Terror, fear, and violence were the most effective weap-
ons of mass distraction that fortified a porous community, legitimated
the oppressive rule, and deflected the public’s attention from escalating
internal crises. This dangerous world is what Carl Schmitt and Giorgio
Agamben call “the state of exception.” Through violent suppression and
mass deception, the sovereignty, as represented by Crow, asserted the
right to condemn some people to a form of bare life (i.e., their very
biological existence depending on the sufferance of the sovereignty).
While the regime of surveillance permeated every space of the ghetto
and marginalized the people, it created a condition upon which Crow
drew his political power. The sovereignty repeatedly excluded anyone
deemed to be potentially subversive. Living in fear, the subalterns inter-
nalized the reign of terror as normal and desirable. Law and violence
folded into one another in this dark zone of exclusion. This gloomy feel-
ing of the state of exception underlined the whole film. Once the state
of emergence prevailed, terror and violence could easily force the people
to submission.
Besides the lack of control over their own destiny, the ghetto resi-
dents faced many unpredictable risks such as the plague and the military
invasion. The shocking ending of the film brought back the memories
of two historical moments that have haunted the people of Hong Kong
for years. When the plague spread across the ghetto, the religious zeal-
ots might see it as signs of the end times. Because the ghetto ran a
blood trafficking business, the untested blood led to a widespread epi-
demic of BL23 that killed countless people outside. As a metaphoric
disease, BL23 stands for Article 23 of the Basic Law that forbids any act
of treason, secession, sedition, and subversion in Hong Kong against
the Chinese state, or theft of state secrets, and that prohibits foreign
political bodies or nongovernmental organizations from undertaking
political activities critical of China. In addition to this political under-
tone, the filmic health crisis reminded everyone of many innocent
deaths during the outbreaks in 2003 of avian influenza (H5N1) and
sudden acute respiratory syndrome, and the epidemic in 2013 of bird
flu (H7N9). Rather than sending in the medical teams to rescue the
sick, the invisible state ordered troops to eliminate the entire ghetto
population. Such a cinematic commentary juxtaposed the extermina-
tion of those patients with the fear of the virus BL23 spreading from
the ghetto to the outside world. The massacre in the film was a single
moment of trauma, and this paralleled a perpetual state of terror that
the local population witnessed during the Communists’ crackdown on
the pro-democracy activists in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square on June 4,
1989, and the Hong Kong police’s attacks on Umbrella Movement
protestors in late 2014.
Less apocalyptically, Herman Yau reminded the audiences that the
only way to overcome the fear of terror was through “loud bells, bright
lights, and theatrical gestures that boldly reveal the state of exception for
what it is—the everyday dissolution of citizenship, of right, of political
life.” Poems, songs, and stories came to expand the subalterns’ horizons.
“The eruption of language, the evocation of emotion, the expression
of suffering, of political and ethical aspiration, of loss” may provide the
oppressed with a glimpse of hope about justice and truth beyond what
they used to know (Gregory and Pred 2007: 51). In the film, the desire
to escape from the ghetto and the will to live united Mickey, Tai-Ho,
Ling, and Yan in their fight against Crow. Ling was determined to free
her daughter Yan from slavery, even though Yan was blinded by igno-
rance and did not appreciate her mother’s sacrifice. Ling was the filmic
76 J.T.-H. LEE
Mother who renounced everything for the child. She remained steadfast
and was the ultimate beacon that guided erratic ships to safety. Born
inside the dark and gloomy ghetto, the young and innocent Yan neither
saw the sunlight nor knew anything about the outside world, and she
perceived Crow’s reign of terror as the order of the norm. Ling, how-
ever, planted the seeds of conscience in Yan’s mind. There was a swing
in a rundown courtyard and Yan liked to play on the swing during her
childhood. Ling planted some yams for her daughter in the courtyard,
reminding her that it was possible to grow food among poisonous weeds.
As with the Buddhist lotus flower in deep mud away from the sun, Ling
tried to keep her daughter pure in a sinful environment. When Yan con-
versed with her biological father Tai-Ho, she could imagine a brighter
world outside the ghetto.
Sadly, the resistance against the draconian rule of Crow was futile,
partly because Mickey, Tai-Ho, and Ling failed to organize other inhabit-
ants to rebel from within, and partly because the advancing security forces
never trusted Mickey as one of them, killing him and his party. There was
no warning or dialogue between the troops and the people. The tragic
ending of the film dramatized a feeling of powerlessness and vulnerability,
and challenged the audiences to see both colonial legacies and contempo-
rary inequalities as two sides of the same coin. One political subtext of this
film is that the postcolonial narrative of laissez-faire prosperity available
to the Hong Kong public could not protect their individual dignity and
integrity. When the people recognized their painful sufferings and knew
right and wrong, they would stand up to the status quo and change the
system of governance.
GLIMPSE OF HOPE IN THREE NARROW GATES

Produced by Hong Kong independent filmmaker Vincent Chui, Three
Narrow Gates is a sociopolitical drama that explores the corruption of
society in the postcolonial era. It has been 19 years since Britain handed
over the sovereignty of Hong Kong to China in 1997. Yet there was
little progress toward democracy. The public avoided antagonizing the
Communist rulers in Beijing and remained indifferent to politics. Most
scholars argue that a combination of hegemonic deterrence and antidemo-
cratic elites, a weak culture of civic engagement, and political pressures
from Beijing have slowed down the pace of democratization (Horlemann
2003: 21–23). Sharing the same sense of frustration, Vincent Chui thick-
ened the filmic plot with a larger narrative of political corruption in Hong
Kong, and placed his characters in a tangled web of conflicting interests
and loyalties.
The film started with an unsolved murder case that connected several
strangers, including a former policeman 6277 with gambling addiction, a
cynical police officer, a Protestant church pastor Rev. Ma who defended
the marginalized through a popular radio program, a sex worker from
China who struggled to earn money to support her sick mother at home,
and an idealistic photojournalist Eva who cared about truth. Coming
from middle- and working-class backgrounds, the protagonists found
themselves trapped in a scandal involving business corruption, media
self-censorship, and legal malpractice. They uncovered numerous secret
deals between the corporate interests of Hong Kong and the Chinese and
Hong Kong authorities. Rather than making compromise with the status
quo, they engaged in a painful struggle for justice, truth, and freedom.
Throughout the movie, Rev. Ma referred to Mathew 7:14, “Because strait
is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there
be that find it.” He used repeatedly this biblical metaphor of a narrow gate
to talk about the ease of following the wrong path toward self-destruction.
The moral struggle of these protagonists suggested that the path of cor-
ruption was easier to follow than the journey to truth. This biblical world-
view hewed toward the complexity of human psychology rather than a
Manichaeistic struggle between good and evil. Nevertheless, a handful of
conscientious citizens—a former police officer, a prostitute, a clergy, and
a photojournalist—overcame their disagreements and dared to challenge
the status quo. The contrast between their activism and the apathy of
people around them highlighted the perseverance in the quest for justice.
This thriller critiques the development of postcolonial Hong Kong on
several fronts. First, Vincent Chui rejected the popular obsession with
pride and prosperity in Hong Kong. He framed the urban landscape in a
low-lighting exposure and characterized the city as a dangerous and cor-
rupt urban jungle. The murder of a corporate lawyer in a private yacht
set off the investigation that led to numerous scandals. The Hong Kong–
owned factory in China released large amounts of toxic chemicals that
poisoned many villages. The camera captured realistically the squalid liv-
ing conditions of desperate renters in Hong Kong. The working-class
youth, as represented by the ex-cop 6277 and Chinese sex worker, lived
in extremely overcrowded and rundown apartments. All characters faced a
sense of uncontrollable destiny in this rapidly changing city.
78 J.T.-H. LEE
Second, the film departed from the conventional media representations

of Hong Kong’s western-educated middle-class professionals as com-
petent and compassionate. To Vincent Chui, the remarkable success of
these professionals led to moral degeneration because greed and distrust
replaced industriousness and decency, and destroyed social bonds between
the people. “The façade of prosperity and stability” was built on a “sys-
temic silencing of dissent” at all professional levels (Lee 2013: 17). The
church deacons, mostly businessmen, discouraged Rev. Ma from speaking
out against injustice and urged him to focus on spiritual matters alone.
The news editors censored the controversial pictures taken by Eve about
corporate corruption in order to appease their financial patron. The police
chief obstructed any investigation into the murder of a corporate lawyer
because of pressure from the top. The problem of moral decay among the
middle-class professionals correlated with the gradual erosion of universal
values such as human rights, democracy, rule of law, and moral integrity
under Chinese rule. As Hong Kong depended on the Mainland market for
its economic growth, many professionals were reluctant to resist pressures
of ideological, political, and cultural assimilation from China (Liew 2012:
778). They turned a blind eye to the rampant practice of corruption and
nepotism in all levels of Chinese bureaucracy. Before the global finan-
cial meltdown in 2008, the fast-growing Mainland economy was thought
to be a blessing for Hong Kong. Through cross-border trade, corporate
Hong Kong saw China as a land of opportunities. The global financial
crisis, however, led to slower growth, massive unemployment, and wide-
spread turmoil in China (Lee et al. 2012). The filmic characters reflected
the vulnerability of corporate Hong Kong to the dangers of fraud and the
strains of economic slowdown.
The same vulnerability can be discerned in the slow progress toward
democracy. In Hong Kong, democratization refers to the implementation
of universal suffrage for the election of the Chief Executive and legislators
as guaranteed in the Basic Law. Adhering to a long-standing policy of
denying full democracy to Hong Kong, China preempted significant elec-
toral reforms in 2007, 2008, 2010, and 2014, and its handpicked political
agents never gained much legitimacy in the eyes of the public. The tim-
ing and mechanism of universal suffrage have been hotly debated among
the pro-democratic and pro-Beijing politicians in Hong Kong. The pro-
democratic camp, known in the media as Hong Kong democrats or pan-
democrats, is a loosely organized coalition of political parties, civic groups,
and community organizations. What brings these groups together are the
call for universal suffrage (i.e., one person, one vote) and the distrust of
Chinese authoritarianism. These ideological issues distinguish them from
the pro-Beijing camp as represented by the Democratic Alliance for the
Betterment and Progress of Hong Kong. On economic and social issues,
most pro-democratic and pro-Beijing politicians have much in common
as they defend Hong Kong’s free market economy and its social welfare
net for the poor. A series of governance crises under Chee-Hwa Tung,
the first Chief Executive, and the administrative incompetence of Donald
Tsang and Chun-Ying Leung, Tung’s successors, completely undermined
the credibility of the postcolonial government.
Against this incomplete political transformation, Vincent Chui is criti-
cal of the commodification of human rights in which a managerial system
of market-state reduces the people’s access to public goods and services.
The postcolonial rulers only consider democratic rights to be exchange-
able commodities which they handed out to the people bit by bit. They
reject the constitutionally based relationship between justice and law, and
conduct negotiations with the civil society in market terms. When they
apply the logic of economic transaction to regulate the public domain,
their autocratic policies perpetuate all forms of discrimination against the
poor (Cheng 2007; Gregory and Pred 2007: 49). They even ridicule the
entire concept of universal suffrage and treat the people as a faceless mass
to be domesticated. During the Umbrella Movement in 2014, HSBC
(Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Corporation) Holdings board mem-
ber Laura Cha, a nonofficial member of the Executive Council of Hong
Kong and chairperson of the Preparatory Task Force on the Financial
Services Development Council and former vice chairwoman of the China
Securities Regulatory Commission, expressed such antidemocratic sen-
timents among the ruling elites. She justified the disenfranchisement of
Hong Kong people by comparing them to freed African-American slaves,
suggesting they should endure a century of authoritarian rule before get-
ting their electoral rights. These remarks provoked widespread public
anger and caused irreconcilable conflict with the civil society. Since the
postcolonial state administers justice in managerial terms, its legitimacy
hinges on the satisfactory material outcomes of socioeconomic policies.
Faced with the aftermaths of the 2008 global financial turmoil, the gov-
ernment with its undemocratic mechanisms has failed to cope with social
and economic grievances.
In contrast to the pessimistic portrayal of Hong Kong by Herman
Yau, Vincent Chui expresses a glimpse of hope in the self-mobilization
80 J.T.-H. LEE
of society. This hope is the rebuilding of mutual bonds among citizens

through faith-based activism. As French thinker Alain Touraine points out,
“a life devoted exclusively to consumption, to self-interest or to the rejec-
tion of other people often constitutes an obstacle” toward the embrace of
universal values of justice, freedom, and equality (2014: 128). The best
way to fight an unjust system is to isolate the status quo from the civil
society so that citizens can search for an alternative mode of governance.
In British Hong Kong, Roman Catholicism and Protestant Christianity
exercised much institutional influence and enjoyed privileges dispropor-
tionate to their overall membership. Being the religion of the status quo,
the teachings of the Church supported and stabilized the colonial rule.
But the impacts of religion on social behaviors are largely determined by
diverse human interpretations of religion. Some Christians defend the tra-
dition of church–state separation by referring to Luke 20:25: “Render
therefore unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s, and unto God the
things which be Gods.” Other people may interpret Christianity as a total
blueprint for life by referring to Matthew 6:24: “No one can serve two
masters. … You cannot serve both God and money.” As with faith com-
munities elsewhere, the Church in Hong Kong never submits completely
to the secular authorities, and most religious practitioners uphold the
transcendental ideas of sacred and profane, right and wrong, good and
evil. The cinematic character Rev. Ma appeared to be “the most inspir-
ing embodiment of the Christian virtues of self-sacrifice and of fraternal
agape” (Rorty 1999: 207). Both Rev. Ma and his wife were baptized in
the fire of civic activism during the late 1980s. As a young couple in May
1989, they supported the Tiananmen Square pro-democracy activists
against the Communists’ declaration of martial law. In his sermons, Rev.
Ma asked the congregants to enter the kingdom of God through a nar-
row gate and to support activism. He crossed the religious boundaries to
reach out to nonbelievers such as police officer 6277 and photojournal-
ist Eva. He provided these confused youngsters with a moral compass,
mediated their disagreements, and offered practical solutions. The work
of Rev. Ma mirrors the rising civic engagement among Hong Kong’s faith
communities.
According to Lida V. Nedilsky (2009, 2014), a growing number of reli-
gious actors have contested the terms of political participation after 1997.
For example, the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Hong Kong worked
with human rights lawyers in 1999 to defend the disfranchised Chinese
migrants against the local government’s discriminatory policy of public
housing allocation (Tam 2009: 150, 162, 2013). The Catholic Diocese
of Hong Kong encountered tremendous pressures to identify with the
Beijing-supported postcolonial administration. During the controversy
over the implementation of Article 23 of the Basic Law in 2003, a law
designed to prohibit local citizens and organizations from opposing the
Communist regime, the Catholic faithful, under the charismatic leader-
ship of Cardinal Joseph Zen, challenged the Hong Kong government over
the issues of freedom, democracy, and human rights. A decade later, in
late 2014, Cardinal Zen urged the citizens to support the Occupy Central
with Love and Peace Campaign, a civil disobedience movement that took
over the territory’s financial district for months and demanded universal
suffrage in elections for the Chief Executive and legislators (Cheng 2011;
Lee, June 13, 2014; June 19, 2014; September 1, 2014). The large-scale
democratic struggle has given rise to an unprecedented level of politi-
cal awakening among the young people in Hong Kong (Lee and Chow,
October 27, 2014; January 28, 2015).
Another positive message that Vincent Chui stresses is the shared strug-
gle of the working class in Greater China. After 6277 fell in love with the
Mainland sex worker, he was invited by her to dine with other Chinese
sex workers. When 6277 visited the sick mother of the sex worker, he
encountered a Mainland public security officer. The two men cooperated
to uncover the scandal of pollution caused by the Hong Kong–owned
chemical plant. Given the exploitative nature of globalizing capital, the
struggle of Rev. Ma and Eva in Hong Kong alone would not be enough.
It is important for the suffering masses in Hong Kong and China to
overcome their ethnic, linguistic, and cultural differences and to develop
cross-border networks of popular activism. When the subalterns engage in
what Jeremy Brecher and Tim Costello (1998) called “globalization from
below,” this transnational collectivism from bottom up will bypass the
surveillance of nation-states and ensure the victory of subaltern struggles.
CONCLUSION
Despite the different portrayals of Hong Kong in Chaos and Three Narrow
Gates, Herman Yau and Vincent Chui present the postcolonial city as a
unique cinematic entity that speaks for and by itself, and that reassesses
its historical relationship with the British colonizer and resists pressures
for further integration into the Chinese motherland. Their filmic narra-
tives demystify Hong Kong as a harmonious society and a self-sustaining
82 J.T.-H. LEE
economy. What they show is an autonomous city-state with its own sense
of historical, political, and social consciousness. Such popular conscious-
ness is deeply reflexive, inspiring the people to stand up to the hegemony
under the most oppressive circumstances. Even though Hong Kong has
no control over its sovereignty and the ruling elites forced the city to be
a part of China, its diverse populations still adhere to their quasi-national
identities and articulate the desire for a just and democratic future (Chu
2003).
In addition, the cinematic reconstructions manifest popular uncertainty
over the fate of Hong Kong. The filmmakers critique the infeasibility of
the “one country, two systems” formula and reveal a city fraught with
severe tensions and conflicts, which the elites have tried to contain and
cover up through appeals to economic growth. Yet Hong Kong still faces
the problem of governance, for coinciding with its steady growth through
integration with China is the political awakening of its citizens, and with
it, the rise of organized activism on an unprecedented level. By rejecting
authoritarian rule and excessive capitalism as solutions to these crises, both
filmmakers urge the public to defend the civil society through grassroots
mobilization.
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CHAPTER 5
Chinaman, Not Hindustani: Stereotypes

and Solidarity in a Hong Kong Film
on India
S.V. Srinivas
INTRODUCTION
This chapter addresses the challenges posed by the persistence of Orientalist
imaging and stereotyping in contemporary cultural production. It pro-
poses that new approaches and reading strategies are required to under-
stand the complex role played by popular cultural forms as they become
global commodities and sink roots in contexts that are unlike their points
I am grateful to Kyouko Nobi for her works on Indian cinema. My research

in Tokyo in 2010 was supported by the Slavic Research Centre of Hokkaido
University in Sapporo. This chapter draws on arguments that I presented in a
lecture at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, National Chiao
Tung University in Taiwan, on October 27, 2010. An earlier version of this was
presented at the international conference on “India, Russia, China: Comparative
Aspects of Religion and Culture,” organised by the Slavic Research Centre of
Hokkaido University and the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society in
Bangalore in September 2011.
S.V. Srinivas ()

Centre for Contemporary Studies, Indian Institute of Science, Bengaluru, KA,
India

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_5
86 S.V. SRINIVAS
of origin. Therefore, there is a need to shift the focus of attention from a

simple and politically correct critique of Orientalism to a recognition of
its ubiquity and to the political possibilities opened up by cultural forms
that are saturated with stereotypes. With specific reference to contempo-
rary Asia, there is a noticeable discrepancy between the hegemonic intent
and economic interests of nation-states and the locally specific meanings
produced by travelling cultural commodities. Whereas we could speak of
the Hollywood as the cultural front-end of the US hegemonic ambitions,
it is difficult to sustain a similar claim with respect to any Asian cultural
industry. Therefore, the earlier approaches critiquing the globalisation of
cultural commodities may not suffice here and now. What follows is a criti-
cal analysis of issues and questions that have to do with the global circula-
tion of popular culture.
Asia, unlike Africa, is not an easy concept to work with. The very invo-
cation of Asia, for very good reasons, triggers off anxieties among academ-
ics of the region. The concept of Asia has historically been mobilised by
Western colonialism and Japanese imperialism. The very notion of Asian
solidarity is problematic because it reminds us of the histories of oppres-
sion. However, as Kuan-Hsing Chen persuasively argues, “the globalisa-
tion of capital has generated economic and cultural regionalisation, which
has in turn brought the rise of Asia as a pervasive structure of sentiment. As
a result, both a historical condition and an emotional basis exist for new
imaginings of Asia to emerge” (Chen 2010: 214). The key phrase here is
a “structure of sentiment,” which Chen borrows from Ding Naifei (2000)
to flag the critical role played by emotion in a context where material
conditions for reconciliation and solidarity-building are not in place. In
twentieth-century intellectual history, “the word ‘Asia’ was in fact loaded
with anxieties.” But “under the present historical conditions, with the eco-
nomic, historical and cultural meanings of Asia fluctuating and contradic-
tory, members of cultural intellectual circles in Asia are better equipped to
move beyond the limit of the nation-state boundary, to develop discourses
congruent with the new conditions to create a new discursive mood, and
to imagine new possibilities” (Chen 2010: 214).
ASIAN POPULAR CULTURE IN A GLOBAL SETTING

At this historic juncture when possibilities for imagining Asia anew are
opening up alongside the increased circulation of mass cultural forms
across national boundaries, I would like to ask what mass culture might
CHINAMAN, NOT HINDUSTANI: STEREOTYPES AND SOLIDARITY IN A HONG... 87
have to say about inter-Asia solidarities. There are multiple reasons for
doing so. First is the familiar history of sites of consumption of “degener-
ated” (politically regressive and aesthetically inferior) cultural commodi-
ties becoming sites of political contest. With specific reference to Asian
commodities, what immediately comes to mind is Hong Kong cinema.
Films produced in Hong Kong, which always had a large market beyond
their territory, witnessed a massive expansion from the 1970s to the early
1990s. Studies have shown that Hong Kong action films have been drawn
into highly localised class, race and other contestations in different parts of
the world (Desser 2000; Morris 2001, 2004; Srinivas 2003).
More recently, Japanese, South Korean and Indian content has begun
to be consumed in new Asian markets and other parts of the world. While
Japanese and Indian popular culture—like that of Hong Kong—has
always had a market beyond national boundaries, what we need to focus
on now is not merely the geographical expansion of markets but the modes
of engagement with the (Asian) popular culture in different global settings.
Researchers tracking the “Korean Wave” (Hallyu) across Asia have gener-
alised that the popularity of Korean television content has improved the
image of South Korea and its people in Japan and elsewhere. But in India,
popular culture is rarely confined to image management alone and often
intersects rather intimately with social and political mobilisations. This is
so even in the northeastern region, which borders China, Bangladesh and
Myanmar (Burma), and which has historically been a site for insurgencies
and struggles for independence. Here, South Korean television and pop
culture has attracted a massive audience. This popularity is traceable to the
widespread viewership enjoyed by the Hong Kong action cinema in the
region. At the height of Hong Kong cinema’s popularity in India in the
early 1990s, martial arts and other action films were frequently shown in
the local video parlours.
This rapid spread of the Korean Wave in India is striking on many
counts. First, Korean pop culture reached Northeast India around
2000, a few years before the Indian government–owned television net-
work Doordarshan officially introduced the Korean Wave. In 2006,
Doordarshan telecast nationally in Hindi the Korean television serials
Emperor of the Sea and A Jewel in the Palace (Kshetrimayum and Chanu
2008). Second, an overwhelming amount of the circulated Korean con-
tent is pirated (Kshetrimayum and Chanu 2008; Kuotsu 2013). A third
interesting fact suggests that in contrast to the huge demand for Korean
content on the grey market, a major Indian distributor of imported films
88 S.V. SRINIVAS
failed to launch Korean blockbuster movies on the country’s theatrical

circuit (Srinivas 2008). Curiously, the Korean Wave in India is unofficial
and its legality dubious. Its popularity exists mostly in the domain of the
grey economy.
Most importantly, Korean pop culture has taken root and thrived in the
context of protracted political struggles against the state in some parts of
Northeast India. Researchers have argued that the spread of Korean con-
tent in the Northeast is a direct fallout of the “blackout” of Indian cinema
and television in this region from 2000 (Kshetrimayum and Chanu 2008;
Kuotsu 2013; Devi, December 21–22, 2010). According to Neikolie
Kuotsu,
In the year 2000, an insurgent organization called the Revolutionary

People’s Front issued a diktat in Manipur prohibiting the screening of Hindi
language films in theatres and the telecast of all Hindi language satellite
channels barring the national broadcaster Doordarshan. The ban was pro-
mulgated on the grounds that Hindi films were promoting “indecency” and
undermining local Manipuri culture and language. Hindi soon became out-
lawed in the state and was discouraged in educational institutions. During
a visit to Manipur’s capital Imphal, I noticed that video shops widely dis-
played Korean, Hollywood and local Manipuri digital films but Hindi/
Bombay films were markedly absent (Kuotsu 2013: 580).
South Korean popular culture thus came to occupy a space vacated

by Hindi cinema and television. Furthermore, new opportunities were
thrown open to home-grown video and digital filmmakers who began
copying Korean films and serials (Kshetrimayum and Chanu 2008). This
is not to suggest that the localisation of Asian popular culture is devoid
of stereotyping—both positive and negative. Let me draw on two sets of
images in the southern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh to illustrate how
integral the stereotype is to the very process of localisation. The first set
of images is from Tirupathi and belongs to a time (i.e., 2001) when the
Korean Wave as we know it today had not yet reached this part of the
country. However, due to the popularity of Hong Kong action films, the
Korean Taekwondo found many enthusiastic supporters. The images were
of the publicity campaign of a Korean Taekwondo academy run by Gopi
Naidu. That school’s advertisement shared the same wall space with the
latest Telugu language film posters. Then, Gopi Naidu himself carried the
Korean Taekwondo weapons and posed for a photograph with a dragon
tattoo on his body (Figs. 5.1 and 5.2). South Korea was closely associated
with martial arts and dragons.
Fig. 5.1 The advertisement of Gopi Naidu’s Korean Taekwondo Academy

(Photograph courtesy of author)
Fig. 5.2 Gopi Naidu (Photograph courtesy of author)

90 S.V. SRINIVAS
The second set of images reveal a ubiquitous sight in most parts of

urban Andhra Pradesh: the roadside noodle shop. The noodles sold in
these shops taste nothing like the variants available in “authentic” Chinese
restaurants in India and elsewhere. The shop owners, however, insist on
the invocation of Chineseness in their products and paint the stands by
putting the Hindu god Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles, between the
dragons in the most stereotypical fashion (Fig. 5.3). This stereotyping
does not prevent Asian popular cultural commodities from becoming
the found objects of local political struggles. Whether it is Korean pop cul-
ture in the insurgency-prone state of Manipur or the Dragon Noodles of
Vijayawada, the larger issue at hand is precisely the availability of popular
culture for political and economic deployment that has little to do with
the original contexts of these cultural commodities.
What are the affinities between the film-producing countries (i.e.,
South Korea, Hong Kong, Japan) and those Indian recipients? In 1994,
I carried out a study of video parlours in Arunachal Pradesh with several
researchers. The regular patrons of video parlours belonged to the indig-
Fig. 5.3 The Sri Kanaka Durga Mana Dragon Noodles in Vijayawada City
enous communities, and they frequently stated that Hong Kong actors
were, or rather looked, “tribal.” Similar to themselves, the Hong Kong
actors shared Mongoloid features—the racial features that marked their
difference from the Indian population. The same sense of cultural proxim-
ity is true for the Korean Wave in Manipur:
Manipur can trace its history back 2,000 years. … The Koreans are believed
to be descendants of several Mongol tribes that migrated onto the Korean
Peninsula from Central Asia. Meiteis [who constitute the majority in the
state] in are ethno-linguistically Tibeto-Burman family of Mongoloid stock.
… The family name comes first in traditional Manipuri names like the
Koreans. Manipuris akin to the Koreans do not refer to others by their given
names except among very close friends (Kshetrimayum and Chanu 2008).
This remark highlights the apparent racial and civilisational commonali-

ties between the filmic icons and audiences. Convincing as it seems, this
observation fails to explain the global appeal of Indian and Hong Kong
cinemas among racially dissimilar audiences such as Africans and African-
Americans, respectively. Countering the claim that East Asia is unified by
a set of shared Asian values, particularly Confucianism, Beng Huat Chua
contends,
In contrast to the very uneven and abstract presence of Confucianism, since

the 1980s popular cultural products have criss-crossed the national borders
of the East Asian countries and constituted part of the culture of consump-
tion that defines a very large part of everyday life of the population through-
out the region. This empirically highly visible cultural traffic allows for the
discursive construction of an “East Asian Popular Culture” as an object of
analysis (Chua 2004).
The methodological challenge is to devise critical tools to make sense of

the political subtext of the popular culture as it circulates in diverse Asian
contexts without resorting to simplistic explanations.
POPULAR CULTURE AND THE DEMATERIALISATION

OF POLITICS
The highly localised struggles and contestations in Northeast India serve

as an important backdrop for the popularity of Hong Kong and Korean
cinemas. This development can be understood as the dematerialisation
92 S.V. SRINIVAS
of politics, a process that shifts the political away from the familiar sites of
action such as universities and workplace, and from the conventional insti-
tutions of mass mobilisation like trade unions and political parties, towards
the places of consumption and the representational domain. Mobilisation
and consumption are becoming inseparably linked, and as a result, popular
culture serves as a key to understanding the political.
One good example is found in the northeastern Indian state of
Meghalaya, which has a long history of ethnic tensions between the indig-
enous populations and the non-indigenous Bengali speakers. In 2007,
Amit Paul, a Bengali resident of the state, became the winner of the televi-
sion reality show Indian Idol 3. The event led to much celebration across
the ethnic divide and prompted the state government to nominate Amit
Paul as a brand ambassador of the state. Mass consumption of the televi-
sion reality show had temporarily transcended the ethnic division within
the state (Punathambekar 2007).
The other example concerns the Pink Chaddi [Panty] Campaign
in Bangalore, but for the most part, it was carried out online through
Facebook and Blogspot. The campaigners provocatively called themselves
the “Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women” in protest
against the Hindu right-wing group, Sri Rama Sena, that condemned
young women visiting pubs with their male companions in Mangalore
City, Karnataka. According to Nisha Susan (February 13, 2009), the cam-
paign founder,
The Pink Chaddi Campaign kicked off on February 5, 2009 to oppose the
Sri Ram Sena. The campaign is growing exponentially (31,888 members at
this point in the life of our Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward
Women) and that is not surprising. Most women in this country have
enough curbs on their lives without a whole new franchise cashing in with
their bully-boy tactics. Of course, a lot of men have joined the group as well.
The campaign participants came from different parts of India, and the
world couriered pink panties to the attackers. They also decided to meet in
the real world to celebrate Valentine’s Day, a target of criticism by India’s
right-wing groups, by visiting pubs in Bangalore.
An interesting question posed by the Pink Chaddi Campaign con-
cerns whether the campaign is feminist. Rather than seeking a defini-
tive yes-or-no answer, I intend to underscore the manner in which
consumption and lifestyle became the focus of the attack and the
protest against it. Pub culture, in this instance, became synonymous
with immorality as well as a signifier of the new assertive, independent

woman. Dematerialisation of politics is deeply connected with the gen-
eral condition of the political in the twenty-first century, when mass
consumption of cultural commodities mediates our encounters with the
world at large.
CASE STUDY OF HIMALAYA SINGH (DIR. WAI KA-FAI,

2005)
The analysis of popular culture today confronts some serious challenges.
Cultural commodities that circulate across Asia are not always sourced
from the West, neither are they necessarily available through the official
channels of distribution and are not, for the most part, progressive or
oppositional. This section discusses Himalaya Singh, a Hong Kong film
set in India that opens up new ways of imagining of Asia and inter-Asian
solidarities outside the hegemonic framework of nation-states. Replete
with the Orientalist discourse of India, Himalaya Singh reproduces the
long-standing racial and gender stereotypes. At the time of its release,
there were protests by the Indian community in Hong Kong, and thus,
the film was never officially released in India. Although it is now being
appreciated on online forums, reviews on fan websites, written soon after
the film’s release, indicate that the film was far from being a critical success
at the time. A commentator went to the extent of saying that the film was
“universally reviled” and added:
Himalaya Singh isn’t about Hong Kong, and it is definitely not about India.
Instead, it is a completely random hodgepodge of jokes with no rhyme or
reason, and after a good ninety minutes of such pointless silliness, a person
could become insane if not agitated and downright murderous (Anonymous,
no date given).
Himalaya Singh is significant in that it foregrounds the issue of how

popular texts, in spite of their politically regressive/objectionable
representations, might be attempting to address the questions and prob-
lems posed by the globalisation of cultural commodities. Furthermore,
the film challenges researchers as to how to make sense of the undeniably
stereotypical Asian representations (i.e., the constructed images of Asia
by Asians themselves). The stereotypical images call for a critical reading
strategy that avoids reaching simplistic and predictable conclusions about
stereotypes, Orientalism and racism in an inter-Asian context.
94 S.V. SRINIVAS
Methodologically, I draw on the insights offered by the work of one

of my Japanese collaborators, Kyouko Nobi of Contemporary Natyam
Company, a professional dancer trained in the Indian classical dance form
Bharatanatyam. She is an avid viewer of Indian cinema and teacher of the
Bollywood dance in Tokyo. Among her contributions to the promotion
of Indian cinema are her popular books on the subject in the Japanese lan-
guage. What is striking about these books is the blending of a genuine love
for the Indian cinema and the stereotypical images of India and Indians.
This becomes clear from the visual imagery used in her writings (Fig.
5.4). Nobi not only introduces the major Hindi and Tamil film stars to
the Japanese audiences, but also explains the intricacies of the complicated
plots of Indian films with illustrations of genealogies and family trees of
particular characters and their love triangles.
Stereotypical imaging is at work at two levels here. First, the Indian
popular films are notorious for the tendency to stereotype everything on
screen, including caste, gender, religions and non-Indians. Second, the
interpretation of these Indian films by Kyouko Nobi is framed by the local
Japanese stereotypes of the Indian and non-Japanese Other. In this trans-
lating process, spaces are opening up for an engagement with the Other
on terms that are not determined wholly by any statist or hegemonic con-
cerns. Racism may be read into them but that misses out on what is new
about these images. That structuring of sentiment, the attempt to compre-
hend and reach out to the Other, is what I would like to hold onto in my
examination of Himalaya Singh.
This film’s complicated plot revolves around the misadventures of two
sets of characters who arrive at an Indian city that is crawling with roy-
als, yogis, magicians, thieves and supernatural creatures. The film begins
with a voiceover narrator stating that in India, people believe the world
is within the god Brahma’s dream and if he were to wake up, everything
would be destroyed. The exotic framing of the action is accompanied by
the bizarre characters and their frequent encounters with the supernatural.
The protagonist Himalaya Singh (Ronald Cheng) grows up with his
parents in the mountains. He lives in complete isolation from the world
but in perfect harmony with nature. He is introduced playing I Spy with
the clouds. The youth’s father sends him from the Himalayas into the
world below to marry Indian Beauty (Gauri Karnik), the daughter of
King of Yoga. In order to marry her, Singh has to win a yoga competi-
tion. Before he sets off, Singh’s father tells him that it is important to
experience the bad, too, and gives him a pouch that he is to open only
Fig. 5.4 The English title of Kyouko Nobi’s Masala Hits Star Magazine
96 S.V. SRINIVAS
Fig. 5.5 Talli in front of the Ambassador car, which ruled Indian roads until the
early 1980s
if he has become totally degenerate. Singh comes down from the moun-
tains and accidentally wins the yoga competition that qualifies him to
marry Talli (Cherrie In), a female gangster (Fig. 5.5). This he manages by
falling into a pot that has been placed in the open to test the yoga skills
of the suitors.
Singh innocently refuses to marry Talli because he intends to marry
Indian Beauty instead. A furious Talli, who is also jealous of Indian
Beauty, decides to tempt him into degeneracy to punish both Singh
and Beauty. She easily convinces him to become bad by saying it is a
prerequisite for marrying Beauty. Talli tries to train him in evil by mak-
ing him watch DVDs of gangster and pornographic films. Meanwhile,
a group of bumbling tourists from Hong Kong—two young men and
their uncle, Uncle Panic (Lau Ching-Wan), and a fourth unrelated
youth (Francis Ng) with a suitcase full of money—arrive in the same
city. The three youths lose their memory after drinking magic oil while
the uncle is hypnotised and robbed by local thieves. While in a hyp-
notic trance, Uncle Panic hallucinates that he is married to a beautiful
woman (Cecilia Cheung). It turns out that she is actually a magical
white peacock. Himalaya Singh tries earnestly to be bad and fails mis-
erably. Talli falls in love with him. The Hong Kong youths, who now
believe they are related to each other, have a series of adventures in
their search for the rest of the tourists. Uncle Panic seeks the thieves so
that he can be hypnotised again and again to re-enter the hallucinatory

world where his “wife” lives. Each time he is hypnotised, he enters a
scenario from a different movie. Peacock leads him to the palace of
Indian Beauty, where the England-educated princess refuses to consent
to an arranged marriage and runs away. She is guided by a two-headed
snake which speaks Cantonese with one head and Hindi with another.
The snake ensures that she meets Uncle Panic. It also goes on to turn
Himalaya Singh into a gambler and drug addict but is killed and eaten
by the three Hong Kong youths. Upon eating the snake, the youths
have a severe allergic reaction that has them twisting on the floor. King
of Yoga, who is passing by, sees the contorted figures and believes one
of them to be Himalaya Singh. Meanwhile, Singh is transformed into
a truly degenerate man. Talli gives him the magic oil and also drinks
it herself. Both forget their relationship and strike a deal to share the
dowry if Singh wins Indian Beauty’s hand. All the major characters
come together at the venue of the yoga competition. Himalaya Singh
wins but is unable to regain consciousness because it is now his task to
watch over the sleeping Brahma (imaged as an infant) and ensure that
life goes on. He takes over this responsibility from Peacock. The three
Hong Kong youths, the Uncle and Indian Beauty manage to catch the
tourist bus, presumably for Hong Kong. Talli carries away the statue-
like Singh. The film ends with Singh inadvertently disturbing Brahma’s
sleep. Creation starts all over again. All the characters go back in time
to the Stone Age.
The film is consistent in its references to cinema in enunciating the
founding myth that the world is an illusion. All the major characters in the
story encounter a world which is already part of a recognisable representa-
tion of another film story. Individuals are modelled, or fashion themselves,
after other film characters. Uncle Panic, for example, imitates Mr. Bean
(Rowan Atkinson). Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981, Dir. Steven Spielberg),
the Kill Bill series (2003 and 2004, Dir. Quentin Tarentino) and Memento
(2000, Dir. Christopher Nolan) are among the other films that Himalaya
Singh refers to.
Illusion as a story-level concern becomes the means by which the film
elaborates on misrecognition. The term misrecognition has two very dif-
ferent meanings, both of which are relevant for a discussion of the film.
The first is simply the case of mistaken identity—to incorrectly attribute
features/characteristics/traits to someone. In discussions of political
theory, misrecognition has come to be closely identified with racial and
98 S.V. SRINIVAS
gender stereotyping. Charles Taylor, while disagreeing with the view that
misrecognition causes real harm to minorities, offers the following sum-
mation of the concept’s significance in the debates on multiculturalism:
The thesis is that our identity is partly shaped by recognition or its absence,
often by the misrecognition of others, and so a person or group of people
can suffer real damage, real distortion, if the people or society around them
mirror back to them a confining or demeaning or contemptible picture of
themselves. Non-recognition or misrecognition can inflict harm, can be a
form of oppression, imprisoning someone in a false, distorted, and reduced
mode of being (Taylor 1994: 25).
The second sense in which the term is used is to be found in film theory
that draws on psychoanalysis. Here, the concept refers to the process by
which we mistake an image to be a more perfect version of ourselves (mis-
recognise the image as an ideal). This notion of misrecognition too is of
relevance to the film.
Characters in this film are constantly misrecognising themselves and
others. Throughout the film, misrecognition is deployed to generate
comic effect. There is a brilliant sequence in the film when the three Hong
Kong youths enter into the melodramatic life story of an Indian character.
While waiting for a bus, the three tourists meet an Indian cook, who hears
them speaking in Cantonese and introduces himself. He was a cook in
Hong Kong and was sent to prison for murder. Now, he is returning to
his wife along with his two sons. The Hong Kongers begin to believe that
they are the father-and-son trio, returning home and go all the way to the
Indian’s house for a reunion.
There are a number of other instances of misrecognition in the film.
Late in the film, the three youths wake up believing themselves to be
Japanese gangsters. One of the youths, Francis Ng, wakes up with a tattoo
on his back and develops a twitch of the eye like the well-known gangster
played by Takeshi Kitano in the post-modern Japanese genre film Takeshis’
(2005, Dir. Takeshi Kitano) (Fig. 5.6). Acting like the gangster he believes
himself to be, Francis beats up Himalaya Singh and threatens to chop off
the latter’s finger (Fig. 5.7). Shortly after taking on the gangster persona,
Francis is mistaken by King of Yoga to be Himalaya Singh himself.
Himalaya Singh proves to be a textbook example of misrecognition
as understood in standard film theory discussion. He watches DVDs and
attempts to model himself on characters that he sees on the television
screen. This is the source of much hilarity in the film. Singh demonstrates
Fig. 5.6 Francis Ng misrecognises himself as a Japanese gangster
Fig. 5.7 Francis Ng attacks Himalaya Singh
what he learnt from the DVDs in the course of a street fight along with
Talli’s gang. Having watched a pornographic film instead of a gangster
film due to a mix-up in the DVD collection, he tries to rape a (male)
member of the rival gang instead of hitting him. He improves somewhat
later in the film, but by way of being menacing, he can only manage to ask
people on the streets if they want to buy flowers or learn yoga from him.
Uncle Panic, in his many hallucinations, mistakes Peacock and also one of
100 S.V. SRINIVAS
the thieves to be his “wife.” He, dressed like Harrison Ford in Raiders of
the Lost Ark, is kissing Peacock in the get-up of the Bride played by Uma
Thurman in Kill Bill in his own dream (Fig. 5.8). There is a fascinating
twist to serial misrecognitions in the latter part of the film when Uncle
Panic begins to believe that reality is an illusion—that Indian Beauty is a
bearded man and his nephews (who fail to recognise him because of the
magic oil) are a part of a hallucination (Fig. 5.9).
Fig. 5.8 Uncle Panic kissing Peacock in illusion
Fig. 5.9 Uncle Panic kissing an Indian thief in reality

The manner in which the film handles racial and linguistic differences
is interesting. Many Hong Kong actors play the roles of Indian characters
like Himalaya Singh, Talli and her gangsters. Further, while some of the
Indians we see on the screen (Singh and his parents, Talli and her gang)
speak Cantonese among themselves, other Indians (like King of Yoga and
Indian Beauty) and the minor characters speak in Hindi.
Rather late in the film, King of Yoga is seen verbalising the spectator’s
surprise at the mismatch between the names/locations of characters and
their racial origins. King of Yoga sees the Hong Kong youths twisting on
the floor after eating the snake and mistakes one of them to be Himalaya
Singh. He expresses his surprise at discovering that Singh is a “Chinaman,
not Hindustani.” (Fig. 5.10) This brief sequence is the only reference to
racial difference in the film. Interestingly, in response to the King’s com-
ment, the Hong Kong youth pulls back the skin near his eyes to look
Chinese. The real Himalaya Singh and the one who is mistaken for him
are in fact both Chinese!
The linguistic and cultural mash-up in Himalaya Singh is all the more
striking in the Mandarin-language version. In this version, all Hindi-
language dialogues too are uniformly dubbed into Mandarin, and as a
result, even King of Yoga and Indian Beauty speak the same language
as the Hong Kong youths. As a result of the crude dubbing, the hilarity
resulting from Uncle Panic’s incomprehension of Indian Beauty is lost,
Fig. 5.10 The surprised King of Yoga mistakes the Hong Kong youth for
Himalaya Singh
102 S.V. SRINIVAS
but within the film’s overall framework, it is perfectly plausible for charac-
ters to make no sense to each other in spite of speaking the same language,
not least because the film is set in a place where animals speak and people
rarely comprehend each other or understand what is going on around
them.
While Himalaya Singh is concerned quite centrally with cultural dif-
ferences, the casting of actors and also the randomness of the characters’
linguistic competences suggest that these differences do not, in fact, mat-
ter. Furthermore, the overarching frame provided by the myth of the
sleeping Brahma ensures that all the characters we see—regardless of their
differences—are united by their common fate: when the infant Buddha is
disturbed, everyone is back in the Stone Age.
Why then does Himalaya Singh need to be set in India? Evidently, the
geographical setting of the action anchors the Brahma myth. Further, the
Indian setting facilitates the film’s exploration of the relationship between
representation and reality. Virtually everything we see in the film is already
framed by an earlier representation. Both popular cinema (Hollywood/
Hong Kong/Japanese/Indian) and Orientalism, invoked separately and
sometimes together, become instances of such pre-existing structures over-
determining comprehension and meaning-making. The film’s repeated
foregrounding of the mediation of the action by these pre-existing frames
facilitates a fascinating representational breakthrough: stereotypes cease
to matter because of their sheer banality. As a result of this manoeuvre by
the film, we can ask the question: what comes after the stereotype and in
spite of it?
To conclude, Himalaya Singh does not explicitly deal with the issue of
transcultural or regional solidarity. Instead, it presents to us the interesting
problem posed by the domain of representation. The effort to build inter-
Asia solidarities has as its first obstacle and also its most readily available
resource a popular culture that is saturated with stereotypes of the Asian
Other.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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http://www.lovehkfilm.com/reviews_2/himalaya_singh.htm
Chen, Kuan-Hsing. 2010. Asia as method: Towards deimperialization. Durham:
Chua, Beng Huat. 2004. Conceptualizing an East Asian popular culture. Inter-
Asia Cultural Studies 5(2): 200–221.
Desser, David. 2000. The Kung Fu Craze: Hong Kong Cinema’s first American
reception. In The cinema of Hong Kong: History, arts, identity, ed. Poshek Fu
and David Desser, 19–43. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Devi, Naorem Thoinu. 2010, December 21–22. The Impact of Korean Wave
(Hallyu) in Manipur. Paper presented at the international conference on Asian
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Chennai, Bangalore: Centre for the Study of Culture and Society.
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diffusion: A case study of ‘Korean wave’ (Hallyu) in North East India. In India
and Korea: Bridging the gaps, ed. Sushila Narsimhan and Do Young Kim,
181–195. New Delhi: Manak Publications.
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Michael Waltzer, and Susan Wolf, 25–76. Princeton: Princeton University
Press.
CHAPTER 6
1911: Cinematic Contradictions of Greater

China
Siu-Keung Cheung
INTRODUCTION
Dazhonghua (Greater China) is a post–Cold War rhetorical construct that
has provided a cross-border imagination among Chinese at home and
abroad for self-articulation since the 1980s. This cross-border imagination
represents an alternative pursuit in realpolitik for different Chinese polities
as opposed to the decade-long rivalry between China and Taiwan over
which regime is the legitimate government of the Chinese world. With
the rise of China to power, Beijing has drawn on this cross-border imagi-
nation to integrate different Chinese polities into a unifying civilizational
state. In this empire-building project, the official claims of Chineseness
appropriate the ancient concept of tianxia (all under heaven) and dayitong
(great unity under one sovereign rule) to highlight the extraordinarily sta-
ble identity of China. This civilizational visioning projects what Benedict
Anderson (1983) calls an “imagined community” among all Chinese
under the rule of the People’s Republic of China in Mainland, Hong
Kong, and Macau, those under the Republic of China on Taiwan, and the
Chinese diasporas worldwide (Guo and Guo 2010). In the late 1990s, the
Communist state succeeded in reclaiming the sovereignty of Hong Kong
S.-K. Cheung ()

Hong Kong Shue Yan University, Hong Kong

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_6
106 S.-K. CHEUNG
and Macau under the “one country, two systems” model. Since 2003, the
Communist rulers have exercised their newfound power to create a China-
centered economic union on its peripheries through the Closer Economic
Partnership Arrangement with Hong Kong and Macau, and through the
Economic Cooperation Framework Agreement with Taiwan. On the cul-
tural front, they have embraced nationalism to create a quasi-universal and
constant civilizational identity under the guise of Greater China (Sung
2005; Lee and Nedilsky 2012). This is best shown in the media repre-
sentations of China’s Republican Revolution (1911), also known as the
Xinhai Revolution (Xinhai geming).
Although the Communist state imposes a unifying ideology upon
its borders, especially territories historically under its control but sepa-
rated by Portuguese and British imperialism and by the Civil War with
the Nationalists (1947–1950), the discourse of Greater China reveals
the long-standing colonial legacies on the margins and the decade-long
division across the Taiwan Strait. The divergent historical processes—
the Portuguese rule of Macau (1557–1999), the British colonization of
Hong Kong (1841–1997), and the continued existence of the Republic of
China in Taiwan (1949–present)—have created various political systems
in these territories and shaped the sociopolitical orientation of different
Chinese communities. Worse still, the decades of the Cold War bipolarized
the Chinese societies, pitting the post-1949 Communist state in Beijing
against the other polities in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, and Singapore.
The concurrent interplay among imperial expansion, colonial domination,
and Cold War ideology estranged the Chinese societies from one and
other, with many fundamental gaps and ruptures (Chen 2010).
Keenly aware of these diverse historical experiences and political loyal-
ties, the Communist elites are determined to manipulate shared historical
narratives, cultural symbols, and personal memories to construct a pan-
Chinese identity. The purpose is to erase the suspicions of those Chinese in
Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, and abroad toward the Communist regime.
As Tim Oakes (2000: 669) points out, promoting Chineseness serves to
bring diverse Chinese localities and societies under the control of Beijing,
the champion of Greater China and the new center of transnational Chinese
capital. Nevertheless, Greater China remains a shallow ideology, whereby
the Communists fail to cover up a great deal of diversities, tensions, and
conflicts among various Chinese societies. Whenever the Communists
reconstruct political myths and mobilize human memories to authenticate
a homogeneous civilizational discourse, the state-imposed discourse often
1911: CINEMATIC CONTRADICTIONS OF GREATER CHINA 107
provokes much popular discontent and gives rise to uncontrollable altera-

tions and counteractions from below (Cheung and Law 2013a, b). It is
precisely in the officially controlled cinematic space where different actors
seek to celebrate individual agency and to legitimate regional Chinese
identities (Fromm 2012; Law 2012).
This paradox can be seen in the cinematic representations of Greater
China in 1911 (2011), a historical drama coproduced by Jackie Chan
and Zhang Li in celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Republican
Revolution led by Sun Yat-sen that overthrew the last imperial dynasty.
This chapter argues that the movie mirrors a paradigm shift of cinematic
focus from China proper to Greater China. By dramatizing the strug-
gles of revolutionary commander Huang Xing (played by Jackie Chan
from Hong Kong) and leader Sun Yat-sen (played by Winston Chao from
Taiwan), the movie mythicizes a shared experience of political victory in
order to appeal to different Chinese audiences worldwide and to downplay
the legacy of Cold War antagonism among Communist China, democratic
Taiwan, British Hong Kong, and Portuguese Macau. The ultimate pur-
pose is to enhance the legitimacy of China’s Communist state and make it
more appealing to the global Chinese audiences.
FILMIC REPRESENTATION OF GREATER CHINA

1911 (2011) was coproduced by Mainland and Hong Kong filmmak-
ers under a budget of US$30 million. From the beginning, this proj-
ect gained strong support from the Communist authorities because the
historical focus fits well with the propaganda campaigns by the Chinese
People’s Political Consultative Conference and the State Administration
of Radio, Film, and Television to celebrate the centennial anniversary of
the 1911 Revolution (Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference
News Website: 2011). Jackie Chan, an international movie star and a pop-
ular Hong Kong icon, codirected the film with Zhang Li, who had previ-
ously produced a popular historical television series Towards the Republic,
first broadcast on the Chinese Central Television in the spring of 2003.
Production began in North China’s Liaoning province on September 29,
2010, and the project was completed in half a year.
Following the new casting and marketing strategy of the Hong Kong–
Mainland film coproduction, this big-budgeted drama featured prominent
actors and actresses from the Mainland, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and overseas
Chinese communities to showcase a sense of inclusiveness in Greater China as
108 S.-K. CHEUNG
The Founding of a Republic (2009, dir. Huang Jianxin and Han Sanping) and
Beginning of the Great Revival (2011, dir. Huang Jianxin and Han Sanping)
had done to glorify the Communist Revolution (1949) and the founding
of the Chinese Communist Party (1921), respectively (Liew 2012). Besides
featuring Hong Kong star Jackie Chan as revolutionary commander Huang
Xing and Taiwanese actor Winton Chao as Sun Yat-sen, the Mainland Chinese
Li Bingbing, winning a number of best actress awards, played Xu Zonghan,
who was Huang Xing’s lover and a key character in the movie. Chinese-
American Joan Chen, famous for her performance in Bernardo Bertolucci’s
The Last Emperor (1987), played Empress Dowager Longyu, who actually
signed the abdication on behalf of the six-year-old Emperor Puyi in 1912,
thereby ending China’s dynastic rule. Other stars included Jackie Chan’s son
Jaycee Chan playing the disillusioned imperial official Zhang Zhenwu, Hu
Ge as Lin Juemin, Sun Chun as Yuan Shikai, and Jiang Wu as Li Yuanhong.
The whole project set out to transcend the sociopolitical and cultural bound-
aries of Greater China and to appeal to the younger global Chinese audiences
with a shared identity of native Chinese homeland. Once completed, the film
was released by the Mainland, Taiwanese, and Hong Kong distributors.
Despite the attempt at globalizing a cinematic discourse of Greater
China, the dramatization of the heroic struggles led by Sun Yat-sen to
overthrow the last imperial dynasty is problematic for audiences in differ-
ent Chinese polities. Chinese Communist historians have drawn on the
Marxist idea of historical materialism to characterize the 1911 Revolution
as a bourgeois democratic revolution led by Sun Yat-sen, who later founded
the Nationalist Party, the arch rival of the Communists. Any debate about
the historical significance of the 1911 Revolution would challenge the
legitimacy of the Communist regime. Beginning in the mid-1920s, the
Communists rebelled against the Nationalists, the rulers of the Republic
of China, and took control of the country by forcing the Nationalists to
retreat to Taiwan. A century after 1911, however, not all aspirations envi-
sioned by Sun Yat-sen have been fulfilled. Mainland Chinese citizens have
yet to enjoy basic democratic rights under Communist rule. Obsessed with
stability and control, the Communists are reluctant to liberalize the politi-
cal system. The institutional evils of the last dynasty such as official corrup-
tion, poverty, prostitution, and labor abuse have resurfaced in China today
on an unprecedented scale (Cheung 2012: 31). To the Nationalists in
Taiwan, the film reminds them of the heydays of their rule in the Mainland
and of their current marginalized status in global politics. To the Chinese
audiences in Hong Kong, Macau, Southeast Asia, Western Europe, and
North America, the movie highlights the historic role of overseas Chinese
in funding the revolutionary activities of Sun Yat-sen and the strategic
value of China’s coastal frontier as a hotbed of radicalism. While the his-
tory of the 1911 Revolution may inspire people in Hong Kong and Macau
to support decolonization, the harsh realities of Chinese authoritarian rule
and the bitter memories of the East–West struggle during the Cold War
discourage the local populations from embracing the discourse of Greater
China. What many people in the former colonies remembered were the
antagonistic struggles between Nationalist and Communist supporters
from the 1950s to the 1970s, a turbulent period when countless refugees
desperately fled the Mainland to live in separation from their relatives in
other Chinese regions (Long 2009). Against this backdrop of ideological
disagreements, the filmmakers need to neutralize the political subtext of
the 1911 Revolution, repackaging the event as a single moment that awak-
ened and unified the Chinese. This explains why Jackie Chan and Zhang
Li depoliticized the revolutionary event and focused on human affec-
tions in time of great upheavals (Chinese People’s Political Consultative
Conference News Website: 2011).
Starting with the execution of female revolutionary Qiu Jin in 1907,
the film brought out a maternal devotion in this heroine. As Qiu Jin wore
a shackle and marched calmly to the execution ground, the camera caught
her gaze on some girls, a smiling young lady, and a mother breastfeeding
her baby. Through the voice-over monologue before her decapitation,
the movie interpreted the anti-dynastic uprising as an attempt to create
a secure and benevolent world for all, and a warm and peaceful home
for children. Such a sensational beginning reflected the popular Chinese
desire for peace and stability, and correlated with the similar remark by
Sun Yat-sen at the end of the film. This cinematic vision of nationalis-
tic struggles frames the historical understanding of the 1911 Revolution
under Beijing’s rhetoric of collective unity and sociopolitical harmony.
Then, the movie followed the sequence of historical events, from the
Wuchang Uprising on October 10, 1911, to the step-down of Sun Yat-sen
as the provisional president in Beijing on March 10, 1912. With the aid
of Hong Kong–style action choreography and advanced computer graph-
ics, the film reconstructed the stunning scenes of war and emotion, and
praised the heroism of many unknown soldiers and civilians who sacri-
ficed themselves for the revolutionary cause. Coinciding with the larger
narrative of political uprising was the romantic relationship between Huang
Xin (Jackie Chan) and Xu Zonghan (Li Bingbing). Some of the events
110 S.-K. CHEUNG
were shown in brief captions to provide the audiences with basic details to

make sense of the cinematic narrative. The film, however, never addressed
the radical ideas of Sun Yat-sen, the mobilizing tactics of his revolution-
ary organizations, and the complicated political environment that had led
to the outbreak of the 1911 Revolution. It used only simple dialogues
among the protagonists to justify popular revolt. The film also censored
any symbols associated with the Nationalist Party that ruled China before
1949. For example, it never referred to Sun Yat-sen as the father of mod-
ern China (guofu), as the people in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau had
commemorated him. It only showed the iron-blood 18-star flag of the
rebels in Wuchang in October 1911 and the five-colored flag of the early
Republic of China. It did not display the flag of the Republic of China,
known in Chinese as Qingtian bairi mandihong (“blue sky, white sun,
and a wholly red earth”). The filmmakers basically deleted any references
to the Nationalist Party which proclaimed to adhere to the revolution-
ary thought and state-building project of Sun Yat-sen and which bitterly
opposed the Communists from the mid-1920s to 1940s.
Similar to feature films dealing with historical subject matter, 1911
encountered the challenge of balancing entertainment value with the
issue of “historical accuracy.” As Ronald K. Frank (2012: 39) argues, the
current big-budgeted Chinese productions such as Hu Mei’s Confucius
(2010) and Feng Xiaogang’s Aftershock (2010) were designed to attract
the global audiences, but were often trapped in a representational con-
tradiction. Any commercial filmmaker finds it impossible to please the
audiences looking for intriguing plots, striking visual effects, and excit-
ing melodrama without offending the intelligence of professional histori-
ans, who would complain about taking excessive liberty with the material.
Apart from simplifying complex historical events in 1911, Jackie Chan and
Zhang Li dramatized some lavish battle senses, steamy sex scenes, and
the sensational struggles for survival. Such visual effects appealed to the
emotions of the audiences and allowed them to sympathize with the pro-
tagonists, but these representations obscured the accuracy of the 1911
Revolution and provided little room for serious reflection on the film itself.
Seen from this perspective, the directors of 1911 instilled alternative
articulations with new ideas and features in order to internationalize a
quasi-universal discourse of Greater China beyond political and ideologi-
cal constraints. However, their attempt was unsuccessful. The box-office
revenue from the film was disappointing (The Economist, October 8, 2011).
The revenue in China was US$16 million (Sina, December 22, 2011). A
newspaper headline read: “The box office revenue of 1911 covered half
of the production cost. Big-budgeted production met with Waterloo”
(Dongnan Kuaipao, October 17, 2011). The revenues from Hong Kong
and Singapore were disappointing, with as little as US$201,000 and
US$621,000, respectively (Box Office Mojo 2011). The film failed to
promote the historical and ideological legitimacy of the current Chinese
Communist state. Most overseas Chinese critics called 1911 a dour movie
that misrepresented one of the most significant events in modern China
(Mtime, October 27, 2011). The general audiences were also dismissive
of the film. Some Mainland netizens described 1911 as “a trash,” “hav-
ing no standard,” “outdated,” “terribly bad,” and “being a movie for
the insane.” One of them even lamented: “Using a group of people who
know nothing about history to stage a historical drama, this symbolizes
not only a terrible sadness of the Chinese cinema, but also a bitter sadness
of the Chinese history” (ent.ifeng.com, 2011). Similar comments can be
found from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau (Shuaige 2012). The film,
at the same time, provoked intense debates about the use of filmic arts
for nation-building in different Chinese polities. What follows is a critical
discourse analysis of the various film-marketing strategies in Mainland,
Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau.
CONTROVERSIAL RESPONSES TO 1911

The censorship regime in China is vexed with the power to order the pro-
ducers to delete and revise whatever is deemed as inappropriate before the
release of the films. The censorship process is as complex as that in South
Asia and puts in place a tight procedure of control, including the pre-
examination of the scripts and the post-examination of the end-product
and its cinematic effects (Kaur and Mazzarella 2009; Chan 2013). Once
the official censors identify any unacceptable features in the script or any
differences between the script and the end-product, they issue the official
directives for revisions. If the producers refuse to cooperate, the censors will
impose an outright ban on the individual production and on the produc-
ers themselves (Zhu and Rosen 2010). As with other Mainland-produced
movies and television programs, 1911 had to be approved by the State
Administration of Radio, Film, and Television under China’s State Council.
The bureau usually prohibited any contents about violence, pornography,
ethnic tensions, societal discontents, and sensitive issues. Many gangster
films coproduced by Chinese and Hong Kong companies were ordered to
112 S.-K. CHEUNG
delete the extremely violent scenes and to keep the ending a clear triumph
of the good over the evil (Zhen and Zhu 2008; Chan 2013; Cheung and
Law 2013a). In 2012, the bureau banned numerous popular reality televi-
sion shows and melodramas with twisted plots involving traveling back to
a distant Chinese past or future.
The filmmakers of 1911 needed to appease the Chinese censors and keep
the film a pure historical drama by deleting the steamy sex scenes featuring
Jackie Chan and Li Bingbing (Now News, March 28, 2012). The prohibi-
tion of sexual intimacy on the screen suggested that it was impossible to
celebrate the sentiments of love and sex in a Communist state which ideal-
ized the Confucian patriarchal order and regulated human behaviors at all
levels. The official censorship represented more than a practice of denial and
repression; it justified the state’s intrusion into the personal and intimate
space of the people and conveyed to the film industry the message that the
Big Brother decided ultimately what could be shown publicly (Kaur and
Mazzarella 2009: 9). In this politicized environment, the producers added
brief captions to reinstate the Communist official view of history:
The 1911 Revolution overthrew the tyranny of the Qing dynasty and
ended China’s imperial rule. It opened the door for China to move for-
ward. But the bourgeois revolutionaries failed to liberate China from semi-
colonialism and semi-feudalism and to rescue people from misery. Yet, the
1911 Revolution created a turbulent and irresistible current of change in
modern China. The Chinese Community Party inherited this revolutionary
spirit from Sun Yat-sen and continued to lead the Chinese toward victory.
Eventually, the Chinese nation under the Communists revitalized itself and
had a bright future (Author’s translation).
The Communist censors not only sanitized everything for political cor-
rectness at the expense of cinematic entertainment, but also pressurized
the filmmakers to distort history, calling the Communist Party the true
heir of the 1911 Revolution and making no reference to the Nationalist
Party founded by Sun Yat-sen himself. This falsification of history
betrayed the historical truth and provoked much outrage among scholars
and media observers in Taiwan. The film intended to propagate the dis-
course of Greater China, to capitalize on the revival of popular interest on
China’s rise to power, and to reach out to major centers of transnational
Chinese capital, but the film misrepresented historical events for ideologi-
cal propaganda.
The tensions of the Cold War in East Asia continue to this day, and this
is manifest in the official regulations of filmic contents in China and Taiwan
(Liew 2012). In Taiwan, the public perceived 1911 as undermining the
historical legitimacy of their state (PTS News Net, March 12, 2011). Since
the crew and cast from Mainland outnumbered those from Hong Kong,
the Taiwanese authorities regarded the film as a Mainland production.
The film was set to be released on October 14, 2011, but the Taiwanese
officials claimed to have used up the annual quota for Mainland movies
and postponed its release till 2012. The official decision was a pretext to
conceal other political concerns (TTV News, October 6, 2011). The film-
makers argued that 1911 was a Mainland–Hong Kong coproduction, and
therefore, it should not be subject to the annual quota for Mainland mov-
ies, but the appeal failed to change the Taiwanese official decision (The
Chinese Television System, October 6, 2011).
While Beijing maintains a tight grip over the domestic film production,
it cannot control the distribution and reception of Hong Kong–Mainland
coproduced films abroad. In entering other markets, the Chinese cinema
confronted the “one movie, two versions” syndrome. Taiwan eventually
allowed 1911 to be shown on April 20, 2012, but the Taiwanese censors
asked the filmmakers to remove the captions that glorified the Communist
Party (The China Times, March 28, 2012). Meanwhile, the Taiwanese
public shifted the focus of attention from the historical inaccuracies of the
movie to wider tensions across the Strait (Huang and Lee 2013). The pro-
Communist message and the discourse of Greater China failed to reach
the Taiwanese. The whole film was a propagandistic missile that carried
little ideological ammunition upon reaching Taiwan.
When the film was showed in other Chinese and international markets,
the filmmakers adapted their advertising strategies regionally. In Mainland
China, they captured the attention of moviegoers with such a caption as
“flame in war, romance of blood.” In other parts of the world, they used
phrases like “tremendous show,” “the fall of the Last Emperor,” and “only
at the theater.” The most problematic caption was the one for the Taiwanese
market: “Our history started from this point.” The notion of “our history,”
however one would define it, aimed at minimizing the cross-Strait divisions
and at creating a sense of solidarity among all Chinese and Taiwanese audi-
ences. The Mainland official censors would certainly prohibit the use of
such a politico-historical epigraph because it might raise questions about
the fulfillment of Sun Yat-sen’s vision of a democratic republic and the pro-
tection of citizenship rights under Communist rule. Nevertheless, the film-
114 S.-K. CHEUNG
makers appropriated the idea of “our history” for the marketing campaign
in Taiwan partly because it put the Republic of China back at the center
of the public discussion, and partly because it reinforced the continuous
efforts of the Nationalist Party to reclaim its historical glory. The selection
of wordings not only took for granted political disagreements among vari-
ous Chinese polities but also provided the audiences with an initial impres-
sion of the movie and a unique viewing position.
In Hong Kong and Macau, the captions looked historically accurate:
“No emperor in China anymore,” “ten armed uprisings, millions of pas-
sionate fighters, ending two thousand years of dynastic rule,” and “time
in fire, legend of blood and tear.” These captions were designed to com-
memorate the 1911 Revolution as a distant event, rather than highlighting
the separation of Hong Kong and Macau from Communist China during
the Cold War. Moreover, the advertisers used the global appeal of Jackie
Chan by marketing 1911 as his 100th film. These advertisements exploited
Jackie Chan’s superstardom for commercial purposes and hardly contrib-
uted to the goal of promoting a discourse of Greater China.
CONCLUSION
Globalization is a double-edged sword as it opens up the Chinese mar-
ket to Hong Kong and international filmmakers, and undermines the
long-standing Communist censorship structure. While Hong Kong and
Mainland filmmakers are trying to challenge the censorship regime and
make room for artistic expression, the balance of power between filmmak-
ers, artists, and official censors is constantly changing as the Hong Kong
film industry embeds itself into the vast Chinese screenscape (Szeto 2014:
146; Szeto and Chen 2012: 119). The same pattern of development can
be discerned in the earlier discussion of Bollywood by Ali Mir and Raza
Mir.
Whenever the Mainland and Hong Kong filmmakers globalized cin-
ematic discourse of Greater China, they confronted the ideological and
political tensions between this empire-building project and the persis-
tence of diverse loyalties and identities. The filmmakers of 1911 strategi-
cally included a broad spectrum of Chinese and overseas Chinese artists,
appealed to heroic patriotism and human affection, and sensationalized
the plot with many sex and violence scenes. They naively assumed that
such gimmicks could ease the long-standing ideological and sociopolitical
divisions, and market this historical drama in different Chinese societies.
It was, however, extremely difficult to transcend the political and cultural

boundaries among the global Chinese audiences. Political disagreements
between Mainland China and Taiwan could hardly be reconciled, even
though the filmmakers depoliticized the cinematic subtext of 1911 by
simplifying historical events, ignoring ideological antagonism across the
Taiwan Strait, and accommodating the Mainland and Taiwanese official
censors. As long as various Chinese polities compete with each other, no
filmmakers can merge all regional diversities, local characteristics, and
individual experiences into a quasi-universal framework of Greater China.
After all, Greater China is a post–Cold War construct that fails to cover
up pluralistic Chinese societies with irreconcilable differences and enor-
mous tensions. There is, in fact, a limited space for filmmakers to embrace
Chinese pluralities. The best option for Chinese filmmakers perhaps is to
reject the homogeneous narrative of Greater China and to celebrate these
differences cinematically.
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PART II
The Crisis of Representation and

Representation of Crisis
CHAPTER 7
What Is So Asian about Asian Parenting?

Deconstructing “Tiger Moms” and “Tiger
Dads” in Neoliberal Times Through Taare
Zameen Par and I Not Stupid
Satish Kolluri
INTRODUCTION
Why is it when it comes to drawing a link between parenting and education
that we make a stereotypical turn to Asians and Asians with hyphenated
identities as if they constituted a natural synthesis of the two? What is so
“Asian” about parenting children that seemingly sets it apart from the neo-
Victorian and the new-age methods as an “authoritarian” form to be either
emulated or rejected as a model? If parenting entails “learning on the job”
in reality, what are we to make of the models of parenting that appar-
ently work in theory, as evinced in the form of the controversial “Tiger
Mom?” How do parents and children cope with that oft-quoted “pres-
sure cooker” situation brought about by the triangulation between social
Darwinism in the classroom, overparenting, and the economics of neolib-
eralization? What are the contradictions, if any, on the one hand, between
S. Kolluri ()

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_7
122 S. KOLLURI
Asian parents at home and in the diaspora instilling a strong sense of being
Chinese or Indian in their children through their respective national films,
and on the other, the utter paucity of cinematic representations of how
that so-called pressure cooker affects parent–children dynamics in Hong
Kong, Shanghai, Hyderabad, Mumbai, or New York?
I raise the above questions in all seriousness in my personal and profes-
sional capacities. As a parent myself of a 17-year-old girl who is in high
school, I inhabit the “reality” of parenting, caught up in the moments of
it in an unreflective mode of being the parent when “learning on the job”
of being a parent is to be in the moment and think on one’s feet. As an
educator for more than 14 years at an undergraduate institution, I attempt
to critically think through the discourses of parenting and education in
terms of what it means to become a self-reflective parent in the company
of an ethnically diverse group of students that is typical of a New York
City classroom. Walking the practical line between these two roles that I
perform of being and becoming also entails walking theoretically across it
in terms of the parent in me thinking as a teacher and vice versa, a move
that enables me to learn to teach and teach to learn.
For the sake of this study, I choose two award-winning feature films,
Taare Zameen Par (Stars on Earth) and I Not Stupid (Xiaohai bu ben),
through which I want to bring much needed attention to the fraught link
between the discourses of (over)parenting and education that play out in
private homes, public spheres, and ivory towers necessitated by the caustic
and comical social commentaries that these films deliver in the larger con-
text of the crucial differences between Asian and Western styles of parent-
ing. They give us an opportunity to reflect on the individual and collective
experiences of growing up as a student-child that speak volumes on the
parental–educational complex so to speak.
One could ask a valid question in regard to my choice of these films and
not others? As mentioned, there is a serious dearth of films in Asian cinema
that explicitly address the articulations between parenting and education,
given the way they are “naturally” linked together have triggered serious con-
versations in the urban living rooms of Hong Kong, Mumbai, Seoul, Beijing,
and Singapore about the direction their “imagined nations” were taking to
foster the values of citizenship through education in the present times when
competition in the classroom has increasingly and worryingly become con-
nected to competition in the marketplace. This intense spirit of competition
that is engendered by both parents and teachers in literal and metaphorical
ways from a very young age is most visible in the award-winning Chinese
WHAT IS SO ASIAN ABOUT ASIAN PARENTING? DECONSTRUCTING “TIGER... 123
documentary by Weijun Chen, Please Vote for Me (2007) that followed three
third graders in their campaign to get democratically elected as a class monitor
in China’s Wuhan, a first-time experience for the school. The documentary
also strikingly captures the obsessive involvement of parents in their respec-
tive children’s campaigns, from correcting body postures to writing their
speeches, because it becomes an issue of family prestige and individual egos.
One can draw from any number of cinematic examples that dwell on
the familial themes and dysfunctional dynamics of parent–child relation-
ships, but there are very few in Asian cinema that actually situate them
in the specific context of the challenges in providing an intellectually
and emotionally satisfying education to children, with the critical focus
being on what it means to experience those challenges as (Asian) parents.
For instance, within Hong Kong cinema, the closest that a film came to
depicting a highly engaging drama between parent and son was Patrick
Tam’s After This, Our Exile (2006), that portrayed the father’s cynical and
emotionally manipulative approach to normalize his relationship with his
son in the absence of the mother, who left the family to run away from the
abuse of her husband. Poignant and gritty as it is, the film’s focus is not on
exploring parental communication in the context of the child’s education.
Rather, it charts the evolution of the father’s character, who rediscov-
ers his identity through his son’s very existence. A recent example from
Bollywood that found place too, in our pedagogical efforts to address the
theme of parenting and family dysfunctionality in urban households, was
Vikramaditya Motwane’s Udaan (2010), a brilliantly directed and enacted
film on the depiction of “uninvolved” parenting on the part of the father
in the absence of the mother to their two sons, and his own acting out of
repressed childhood memories on his two sons in a cruelly ironical and
corporally “involved” way of meting out punishment to them. “He leaves
no scope for a dialogue or even an argument for that matter. He also sets
the rules for appropriate behavior, and often gives coercive, corporal pun-
ishment” (Kaur, February 18, 2014).
Although I Not Stupid comes from the city-sate of Singapore, which
is better known for its education prowess than cinema, and is shot in
Singaporean Hokkien and Mandarin with more than a fair sprinkling of
“Singlish” or Singaporean English (just as Taare Zameen Par features
“Hinglish”), it has a strong pan-Asian and, dare I say, universal appeal due
to the delicate subject matter of parenting that remains mostly suppressed
to save face even in the privacy of one’s homes. Yet one cannot deny that
it merits serious discussion. Part of the appeal also lies in the way director
124 S. KOLLURI
Jack Neo manages to preserve the innocence and sense of humor that
characterize childhood. More importantly, it tracks the trials and tribula-
tions of upper-, middle-, and working-class families of Chinese origin in
the “pressure cooker” situation brought about by the combination of a
highly competitive schooling system and abusive child-rearing practices,
a familiar story that resonates cross-culturally in the (high) context of
“inter-Asianness.” In conjunction with Taare Zameen Par, I Not Stupid
more effectively addresses the ultra-disciplinarian and ultra-competitive
environments that are being created for children in the name of learning,
which also provides audiences with a sense of differences and similarities
that exist within Asia. The studies of primary schooling in cross-cultural
contexts in Hong Kong, Mainland China, and India by Rao et al. (2003)
reveal strong differences in beliefs about the malleability of development,
explaining why Chinese parents believe that individual difference can be
overcome through persistent efforts while Indian parents are more accept-
ing of individual differences in learning ability. However, belief in karma
can lead to an “acceptance of fate” that often becomes “an excuse for inac-
tion or lack of discipline” (Rao et al. 2003: 167).
Against the backdrop of the above-mentioned films, my chapter first
deconstructs the “authoritarian” and “authoritative” themes of Asian and
Western parenting, respectively, in the context of neoliberalization which
“utilitarian and especially economic considerations often dictate educational
priorities and policies,” thus leading to the “pressure cooker” situation,
which takes the joy away from student experience and learning (Ho 2008:
83). I also argue that parental and pedagogical philosophies both need to
adapt in order to enable children and student-citizens to revel in the discov-
ery of transdisciplinary knowledge, especially in humanities and liberal arts,
which are essential to preserve the sociocultural fabric of any society. Toward
that end, it is imperative to resist the dramatic rise in the influence of market
forces currently shaping our education policies in the name of neoliberaliza-
tion that treats schools and universities as assembly lines to enter the corpo-
rate workforce than as institutions of enlightenment and learning.
ARE TIGER MOMS FOR REAL? UNDERSTANDING ASIAN

PARENTING
The educational systems in Asia, under the auspices of the state, place
heavy emphasis on hard sciences at the expense of humanities and liberal
arts that are paid lip service in the larger pursuit of material success that
sciences seemingly grant as opposed to the arts. Characterized by phrases
such as “rat race,” “cut-throat competition,” education at the school level

reflects social Darwinism, an intense level of competitiveness and social
ranking among students and schools, who are pushed to succeed at any
cost. Faced with extreme pressure from parents and teachers, and the
humiliation of being ranked at the bottom of the educational hierarchy,
Asian students of school age have been shown to develop low self-esteem
and inferiority complex, and commit suicides. But what is it about school-
ing and parenting in Asian cultures that set them apart from the rest?
My intention is not to consider Asia as a monolithic cultural entity, and
as research shows that “explanations of cross-national differences in pri-
mary education within Asia exist, and have typically considered the role of
the state and its educational policies, but have lapsed in their understand-
ing the role of other contextual factors such as cultural beliefs about learn-
ing or social order” (Rao et al. 2003). Attention to such cultural beliefs
came to the fore in a contentious way with the publication of Amy Chua’s
controversial book on parenting, titled Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother
(2011a) that considers Chinese, Korean, and Indian parents to be superior
to their Western counterparts, and in the process, offers recipes for aca-
demic success based on strict rules and high expectations that she set for
her children, who were not allowed to have playdates or sleepovers, per-
form in school plays, watch TV, and play computer games, among other
things. Getting top grades and excelling at only instruments that did not
include the violin and piano were part of the high expectations she set for
her two daughters, and she claimed success with her approach, though
one does not know the effects on the mental and emotional well-being of
her children. She writes:
There are tons of studies out there showing marked and quantifiable differ-
ences between Chinese and Westerners when it comes to parenting. In one
study of 50 Western American mothers and 48 Chinese immigrant mothers,
almost 70 % of the Western mothers said either that “stressing academic suc-
cess is not good for children” or that “parents need to foster the idea that
learning is fun.” By contrast, roughly 0 % of the Chinese mothers felt the
same way. Instead, the vast majority of the Chinese mothers said that they
believe their children can be “the best” students, that “academic achieve-
ment reflects successful parenting,” and that if children did not excel at
school then there was “a problem” and parents “were not doing their job.”
Other studies indicate that compared to Western parents, Chinese parents
spend approximately 10 times as long every day drilling academic activities
with their children. By contrast, Western kids are more likely to participate
in sports teams (Chua 2011a: 1).
126 S. KOLLURI
Amy Chua in her “authoritarian” ways of parenting is actually reflecting

what she went through as a child, being shamed by her parents whenever
she did poorly in academics or disrespected them. Taking her lessons from
then, she confesses that she too indulged in shaming her daughters on
occasions but for the good of them, and that she had the fortitude to per-
severe and persist to make learning fun for her children despite their strong
resistance, and her Chinese strategy of “tenacious practice” and “rote
repetition” produced a virtuous circle unlike Western parents, who are
“extremely anxious about their children’s self-esteem (and) worry about
how their children will feel if they fail at something, and they constantly
try to reassure their children about how good they are notwithstanding a
mediocre performance on a test or at a recital” (Chua, January 8, 2011b).
Drawing a clear distinction between Chinese and Western parent models,
she notes that Chinese parents are not unduly concerned about their chil-
dren’s psyche because “they assume strength, not fragility and as a result
they behave very differently.” “Chinese parents believe that their kids owe
them everything” and that belief stems from a combination of Confucian
filial piety and a notion of “sacrifice” on part of the parents to do every-
thing possible for their children, a constant reminder to children, lest they
forget (Ibid.).
Broadly speaking, in Asian-style parenting, the responsibility falls
squarely on the mother in ensuring the academic success of her child and
not the father, who is seen as the main breadwinner. It becomes the moth-
er’s fault if the child does not fulfill expectations. “An extreme version
of the Asian parenting game plays out in Japan and South Korea where
mothers are under tremendous pressure from their own husbands, in-laws,
and parents to remain out of the workforce to focus all their efforts on
enabling their children’s academic achievements. Anything less would be
a betrayal of the child and the entire family” (Cohen, January 19, 2011).
To be sure, being at home and taking care of family is a full-time job that
a huge majority of women across the world perform and contribute to the
economy in immeasurable ways.
Decades of studies show that parenting has been a highly researched
area, and although there is no definitive model as such to be followed in
raising and educating children, one can safely state “that the optimal par-
ent is one who is involved and responsive, who sets high expectations but
respects her child’s autonomy” (Levine, August 4, 2012). Such a model
follows along the lines of “authoritative” parenting, which is antithetical
to Chua’s “authoritarian” style. In this context, it is useful to understand
the four different dimensions of parenting laid out by well-known psy-

chologist Diana Baumrind in the 1960s. Employing observational and
other research methods, including parental, she identified four impor-
tant dimensions of parenting: disciplinary strategies, warmth and nur-
turance, communication styles, and expectations of maturity and control
(Baumrind 1967). Based on these dimensions, Diana Baumrind came
up with three different parenting styles that were further expanded by
Eleanor E. Maccoby and John A. Martin (1983), whose research added a
fourth parenting style. The four styles are summarized as follows:
Authoritarian parenting involves parents setting down strict rules
which their children are expected to follow without questions, and not
doing so would result in punishment. These parents, as Diana Baumrind
(1967) notes, “are obedience- and status-oriented, and expect their orders
to be obeyed without explanation.” The Asian model of parenting, which
is well-represented by Amy Chua’s approach, falls under this model.
Adopting the authoritative parenting style does establish rules and
guidelines that children are expected to follow just as the authoritarian
parents do, but “are much more democratic” in that they are good listen-
ers, “more nurturing and forgiving rather than punishing … assertive,
but not intrusive,” and their “disciplinary methods are supportive, rather
than punitive … and want their children to be assertive as well as socially
responsible, and self-regulated as well as cooperative” (Cherry 2012). The
Western parenting model follows this approach.
Permissive parenting is nontraditional and more tolerant, in which par-
ents are not known for their disciplinarian methods and “have relatively
low expectations of maturity and self-control of their children … allow
considerable self-regulation and avoid confrontation.” Good in commu-
nication and nurturing habits, they assume “the status of a friend more
than a parent” (Ibid.).
Uninvolved parenting is not that uncommon, and in this style, parents
are not known for their communication, attachment, and responsiveness.
They satisfy their children’s basic needs at best but do not demand any-
thing of them. They are completely switched off from their children’s
emotional and intellectual needs.
Keeping in mind the models listed above, Diana Baumrind (1967) cau-
tions us that “links between parenting styles and behavior are based upon
correlational research” and not cause and effect in regard to relationships
between parents and children. In other words, it is difficult to say which
one is the best style of parenting because the child, as a variable, plays an
128 S. KOLLURI
important role because of his or her perceptions of parental treatment, not

to forget social influences, although most parents fall under the first two
categories.
In another landmark longitudinal study on parenting techniques of
Asian-American immigrants, specifically 400 Chinese-American house-
holds in California, Su-Yeong Kim (2013) assessed parenting along eight
different dimensions, four positive and four negative, over the course
of eight years while also measuring the academic success and emotional
health of the children:
The parents were ultimately divided into four categories. Those with low
positive, high negative characteristics (essentially, cold and remote yet strict
and controlling) were dubbed “Harsh”; those with high positive, low nega-
tive characteristics (warm, engaged and flexible) were dubbed “Supportive,”
and those with low positive and low negative (distant and laissez-faire) were
dubbed “Easygoing” (Morning Edition, May 14, 2013).
It was the arrival of Amy Chua’s controversial book on “Tiger Mom” that
enabled Su-Yeong Kim to realize “that the high positive-high negative
profile mapped closely to the ‘Tiger Parent’ persona, and decided to give
the quadrant that name.” Her study dispelled the myth of the pervasive-
ness of “Tiger” parenting in Asian-American households, and it actually
found that a majority of households were in the “supportive” category,
though shaming as tactic to motivate children never quite disappeared.
However, according to Kyung Hee Kim, Asian-American students “seek
to avoid appearing different from other, individuals learn to restrain them-
selves to maintain group harmony, and the fear of making a mistake or
feeling embarrassed keeps many students silent” (Kim 2005: 341).
PARENTING STYLES IN TAARE ZAMEEN PAR AND I NOT

STUPID
In light of the different dimensions and models of parenting, in which
“authoritative” parenting is considered the most desirable given its bal-
anced middle-of-the-road approach to bringing up children with their
self-esteem and self-confidence intact, the much acclaimed Bollywood film
Taare Zameen Par, which was the debut film for actor Aamir Khan as a
director, dealt with parental responses to a dyslexic child. Similarly, Jack
Neo’s I Not Stupid was a cinematic representation of the Confucian pro-
clivity for status ranking wedded to social Darwinism, with resulting unde-
sirable psychological consequences. These two films were unique because
they were the first in their respective countries that realistically portrayed
the complex relationship between children’s education and parenting, a
subject that was never previously addressed with the seriousness and com-
mitment that Khan and Neo managed to achieve through them. Neo’s
making of the film led him to coin the phrase “appreciation education”
that leads me to read it as parents showing appreciation for their children’s
academic efforts, which may or may not yield the desired results.
At the outset, both films deal with parental overinvolvement or the lack
of it in primary schooling and share distinct similarities in the form of the
two young protagonists, Ishaan Awasthi in Taare Zameen Par and Kok
Pin in I Not Stupid, who are slow learners with failing grades and thus
rank at the bottom of the class, but coincidentally they are both artisti-
cally blessed. They display what Howard Gardner calls “a visual spatial
intelligence” that is associated with artistic intelligence, among nine other
forms of measurable intelligence. In both films, the “authoritarian” fathers
are mostly absent in action except to appear briefly to berate, shame, and
punish their sons for not putting in the requisite effort to perform well
in school without having any sense of how depressed their sons are. Add
to this, the teachers are shown to be apathetic too, and that only makes
it more miserable for the young boys to cope with school. The onus on
motivating them to achieve academic success falls on their mothers, who,
despite their best efforts, cannot succeed. In a world where children are
taught to compete with each other from an early age, failure is not an
option. In I Not Stupid, classes are divided along three lines, with EM1
being the best and EM3 being the worst. Latest research reveals that
Singaporean adolescents reported a significantly higher level of academic
stress arising from self-expectations, other expectations, and overall aca-
demic stress, compared with Canadian adolescents (Mok 2003).
In portraying the sorry plight of primary school students in the low-
est academic stream and their parents, the film “captures the essence of
educational themes that resonate across Asian societies, such as stigmati-
zation of children with poor academic performance and parental obses-
sion with their children’s homework,” and it is the same story with Hong
Kong, where the “educational system functions like a huge machine,
sorting students into institutions ranked hierarchically and warping their
development in the process” (Ho 2008: 84–85). Needless to say, stu-
dents ranked at the bottom feel ashamed and depressed, while those at the
130 S. KOLLURI
top exhibit hubris. Quoting a clinical psychologist, David Y.F. Ho writes,

“You couldn’t design a more efficient system for producing generations
of intellectually stifled, emotionally crippled, psychologically illiterate,
politically apathetic and socially cynical citizens—and ensuring the contin-
ued employment of mental health professionals” (Ibid., 86). This telling
observation finds social and cultural resonance in other Asian societies
with similar educational systems. Unfair and needless comparisons with
more intelligent siblings and relatives as a shaming tactic are rife in both
films, with a constant refrain to the underperforming children being “Why
can’t you be like him?” Being “stupid” becomes the state of mind for
these depressed children.
Interestingly, it is an art teacher in both films who recognizes the
innate artistic talent in Ishaan Awasthi and Kok Pin, which is frowned
upon by their parents as they consider it more a hobby than a profession
that could actually lead to a successful career. In Taare Zameen Par, Ram
Shankar Nikumbh, played by director-actor Aamir Khan, works at a school
with developmental disabilities and is also a substitute arts teacher at the
boarding school to which Ishaan Awasthi has been sent as a last resort to
revive his flailing academic performance, much to the consternation of his
mother. Nikumbh, by adopting a more “permissive” parental role, tackles
head on the stigmatization of people with learning disabilities with a more
expansive understanding of the value of education and encourages the
freedom of expression in class that does not sit well with his colleagues at
work, who constantly cast doubts on his pedagogical methods through
jokes and snide observations. When he finally accosts Ishaan’s parents and
breaks the news about their son’s inability to keep pace with the rest due
to dyslexia and not laziness, surely one of the most powerful scenes in the
film, he opens to them in an emotionally charged tone, eyes brimming
with tears: “There’s a merciless and competitive world out there. Everyone
wants genius for a kid. Doctors, Engineers, MBAs. Anything less is not
tolerated.” It is at this point that Ishaan’s parents recognize their grievous
mistake in the methods they consciously and unconsciously employed to
instill a sense of hard work in him but at the cost of shutting down his
basic ability to communicate his feelings. Gradually, the figure of the art
teacher becomes a surrogate parent, a free-spirited one, for Ishaan, who
begins to revel in his newfound freedom of being able to express himself
in artistic terms, a creative endeavor that wins him the top award at the art
fair organized by Nikumbh in school after some melodrama, but all ends
well. Aamir Khan’s gentle reminder to us in the end is that we are watch-
ing a Bollywood film, albeit one with critical sensibilities.
In a similar scenario in I Not Stupid, Kok Pin, who finds himself at the
bottom of the ranking ladder, finds an incredible source of support in his
art teacher, who persuades Kok Pin’s parents to take their son’s artistic tal-
ent seriously. But before that, the son has to face shame and utter humili-
ation after being caught cheating on a test, and his failed suicide attempt
is a desperate act of saving face instead of facing his mother’s wrath. The
teacher submits Kok Pin’s drawings to an international competition,
where he wins the second prize, much to the delight of his parents and
friends. Clearly, Ishaan Awasthi and Kok Pin display an artistic intelligence
that is well beyond their years, a trait that completely escapes the attention
of their “authoritarian” parents but thankfully not that of the art teachers.
The happy resolution in both films occurs with the “authoritarian” parents
recognizing their own follies by way of hoisting unreasonable expectations
on their children that were impossible to meet in reality.
THE CHALLENGES OF PARENTING IN NEOLIBERAL TIMES

What we witness in the films under discussion is the important transition
of the parents from “an authoritarian” to an “authoritative” state in bring-
ing up their children, aided by a realization of their own follies in parent-
ing through a surrogate figure in the form of an art teacher who takes
up a “permissive” position to enable that movement. Both narratives, in
addition to tugging at heartstrings, bring about a critical awareness in
audiences of the emotional consequences involved in pushing one’s child
into participating in the “rat race,” where competition reigns supreme and
success comes at a great cost, if at all it does. They make us realize that
success follows happiness in that what one is doing now to be internally
happy is more important than doing something unhappily now to delay
one’s happiness to material success that is defined externally. To go back to
Jack Neo’s phrase of “appreciation education,” it is a lesson to all parents
to shed apathy and embrace empathy, with not just their children but also
teachers, who are parental figures in school. To yoke the parental to peda-
gogical, the parent in me understands and appreciates the challenges the
teacher faces in the classroom, just as the teacher in me understands and
empathizes with the difficulties my students’ parents face in their homes.
“Sharing is loving” is as clichéd as it gets, but research has shown that col-
laborative learning is more effective than individualized learning because it
132 S. KOLLURI
builds interpersonal and social communication skills and prevents children

from falling into spirals of silence at home and school. The films also teach
us that those silences could be because of learning disabilities, and not
laziness, and that human intelligence can be tested on artistic and musi-
cal lines as well as on quantitative, analytical, and verbal ones. In other
words, Leonardo da Vinci is as important to appreciating art, history, and
culture as is Albert Einstein in helping us understand modern physics and
quantum mechanics.
At a fundamental level, both films raise a very important issue of the
devaluation of art education in today’s global realities, which can be read
broadly as the “liberal arts and humanities.” The devaluation simultane-
ously signifies, on the other side, the ever-increasing institutionalization
of higher education that narrowly focus on hard sciences and technol-
ogy education and vocational training, or STEM (i.e., science, technol-
ogy, engineering, and mathematics) as it is known in America. That most
of the education in Asia is geared toward science and technology reveals
the insatiable demand for jobs in these areas in global economy, but this
unhealthy focus creates an “intellectual crisis,” sidelining liberal arts edu-
cation. When our cultural and political histories remain to be written in
the present and the meaning of civic participation in democratic politics
loses appeal because fewer students turn to liberal arts and humanities as
part of their intellectual growth and instead pursue disciplines that service
knowledge-based economies, can we, as human subjects, afford to turn a
blind eye toward the arts, which enable us to experience and appreciate
aesthetics? The irony of the situation is that one finds a kind of technologi-
cal determinism and de-emphasis on humanism that operates in the state-
subsidized education even as it performs the role of chief patron of art and
culture in China, Hong Kong, or India.
“In the neoliberal model higher education is ideally integrated into the
system of production and accumulation in which knowledge is reduced
to its economic functions and contributes to the realization of individual
economic utilities” (Morrow 2005: xxxi). Simon Marginson notes that
for higher education globally, “neoliberalism is not so much an ideology
or a political program as a particular zone of imagining and sensibility,
where the problems and solutions are predefined in economic terms and
behaviors are molded in the interests of business” (Marginson 2006: 209).
The devaluation or looking down on disciplines that do not lead to profes-
sional and material success is set in motion by what Grant H. Cornwall and
Eve Walsh Stoddard call “the hegemony of neoliberal ideology,” which
introduces “new dimensions to the perennial challenge of having to justify

liberal education as a rational, responsible undertaking in a democratic
society” (Cornwall and Stoddard 2001). The “increasingly consumerist
public” is averse to paying private institutions a high cost for a “value”
if “it is not tightly linked to a high-paying job upon graduation” (Ibid.).
Cornwall and Stoddard go on to argue:
That the rhetorical opposition between “practical” and “liberal” educations

is a false one based on exaggerated images of liberal arts as detached from
the real world and on practical education as strictly technical. U.S. higher
education has always been distinguished from its European and global
counterparts by its liberal component, meant to ensure that all students
are prepared to communicate well, to understand something about history
and cultures, to think critically, and to take their places as participants in a
democratic society. Today, even the purest liberal arts education is grounded
in experiential learning, in technological literacy, and skills needed for living
and working in a globalized social context (Ibid.).
Simply put, liberal arts is as real as it gets because they make us socially and
technologically literate, encourage meaningful debate on what it means
to be human in the digital age, have the joy to appreciate aesthetics and
cultural histories, and be able to reflect critically on the world that we live
in and beyond. Liberal education also instills in us the values of citizen-
ship and civic engagement, wherein we become active participants in the
democratic process and not passive spectators. But “in a context of global-
ized neoliberalism, liberal education has had to adopt market discourse to
describe its work and justify its results” (Ibid.). Cornwall and Stoddard
advise us to pay careful attention to the present times in which liberal
education is funded through and by a market economy, and yet it is of vital
importance for the future of democracy that liberal education include a
critique of the very economy that makes it possible. Similarly, Jim Sleeper
reminds us that “a liberal capitalist republic has to rely on its citizens to
uphold certain public virtues and beliefs—reasonableness, forbearance,
a readiness to discover their larger self-interest in serving public inter-
ests—that neither markets nor the state do much to nourish or defend,
and sometimes actually subvert.” In other words, how do we maintain a
critical distance from the object of our critique as parent-citizens, teacher-
citizens, and student-citizens in that we are aware of the shaping and
implementation of educational policies that act more in service of cor-
134 S. KOLLURI
porations than citizens? And most importantly, how can we develop the
courage, empathy, and foresight as parents to encourage our children to
pursue their intellectual passions without having to think about the mate-
rial and professional success that follows their liberal endeavors?
I will end this chapter on a positive note with the report authored
by Debra Humphreys and Patrick Kelly (2014) for the Association of
American Colleges and Universities and the National Center for Higher
Education Management Systems that addresses the increasing concerns of
students, parents, and policymakers about the value of college degrees in
Liberal Arts:
In addition to providing useful information about long-term career success

of liberal arts graduates, the report also shows “the extent to which degree
holders in humanities and social sciences are flocking to a family of social
services and education professions that may pay less well than some other
fields (e.g., engineering or business management), but that are necessary
to the health of our communities and to the quality of our educational sys-
tems.” The authors (i.e., Humphreys and Kelly) note that “the liberal arts
and sciences play a major role in sustaining the social and economic fabric
of our society … whatever undergraduate major they may choose, students
who pursue their major within the context of a broad liberal education sub-
stantially increase their likelihood of achieving long-term professional suc-
cess” (Anonymous, January 22, 2014).
In conclusion, liberal arts education plays an important role in nurtur-

ing the social and economic lives of our incredibly complex societies, and
provides us with a sense of achievement and happiness in doing one’s
profession, be it in History, Literature, or Fine Arts. But as we know
through our discussion of parenting approaches and teaching strategies,
the journey to happiness and success begins at home and in school at a
very young impressionable age, and the onus on engendering intellectual
curiosity and a healthy sense of physical and mental well-being in children
lies with their empathetic parents and teachers.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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CHAPTER 8
Negotiating Cold War and Postcolonial

Politics: Borders and Boundaries in 1950s
Hong Kong Cinema
Jing Jing Chang
INTRODUCTION
Hong Kong filmmaking has become increasingly globalized in produc-
tion, distribution, and consumption amid both economic liberalization
and technological advances (Cheung et al. 2011). Since the 1990s, the
careers of John Woo, Chow Yun-Fat, Jet Li, Michelle Yeoh, and, more
recently, Donnie Yen have made the cross to Hollywood following their
successes in the Hong Kong film industry. Some of Hong Kong’s most
critically acclaimed and commercially successful films have been adapted
by Hollywood—a notable example being Infernal Affairs (Dir. Andrew
Lau and Alan Mak, 2002), which became Martin Scorsese’s award-
winning The Departed (2006). David Bordwell (2000) names this trend
the “HongKongification” of Hollywood cinema. Before the emergence
of John Woo and Jackie Chan as representatives of the global appeal of
Hong Kong action films, Bruce Lee had already gained a global following
in the early 1970s. He did not begin as a martial arts star, but rather as a
J.J. Chang ()

Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, ON, Canada

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_8
138 J.J. CHANG
child actor in many 1950s Cantonese melodramas. Indeed, the legacy of

Bruce Lee reminds us that the transnational and global identity of Hong
Kong cinema is by no means a recent phenomenon; it has a much longer
history. I contend that a closer look at the postwar Cantonese film tra-
dition exposes that its border-crossing characteristic was quite similar to
the interflow of talent and capital between Hollywood and Hong Kong
that scholars have identified since the 1990s (Funnell 2014). Not only are
concepts and imageries like “borders” and “boundaries” perennial preoc-
cupations of 1950s left-wing Cantonese filmmaking, but they were also
deployed as strategies by filmmakers amid Hong Kong’s Cold War milieu.
Using Zhonglian’s The Wall (Dir. Wang Keng, 1956) as a case study, this
chapter argues that postwar Hong Kong’s left-wing Cantonese filmmak-
ers negotiated left–right politics by using the trope of “borders” and by
promoting in their films the importance of education, gender equality,
community building, and the middle ground.
Since the handover of Hong Kong’s sovereignty to China on July 1,
1997, the former British colony saw a newfound anxiety in regard to the
decline of its own unique culture and once privileged “global identity.”
Many Hong Kong film studies scholars are concerned with the loss of
Hong Kong identity and have grappled with this issue by way of explor-
ing the relationship between Hong Kong cinema and Hong Kong’s local
identity at the intersection of colonialism, nationalism, globalization, and
postcolonialism (Abbas 1997; Teo 1997; Fu 2003). Hong Kong special-
ist Yiu-Wai Chu (2013) laments how Hong Kong’s unique culture has
been “lost in transition” after 1997. The handover may have bridged the
physical border between Hong Kong and the Mainland established since
the 1950s. But the continued misunderstanding between new arrivals
from the Mainland and self-proclaimed “Hong Kongers” suggests that
Hong Kong’s return to the “motherland” did not dissolve the cultural
border between the Mainland and Hong Kong. This very border inevita-
bly continues to have repercussions on Hong Kong filmmaking and the
relationships between Hong Kong filmmakers, Hong Kong films, and
their audiences at home and abroad. Similar to other regional and national
cinemas, I contend that the raison d’être of Hong Kong cinema is to cre-
ate and promote a unique identity vis-à-vis the hegemony of Hollywood
movies (Lu 1997). However, Hong Kong’s search for a local identity in
and through its cinema has long been complicated by its transnational and
border-crossing nature. Many filmmakers, such as New Wave directors
Ann Hui and Allen Fong, who have garnered international awards and
NEGOTIATING COLD WAR AND POSTCOLONIAL POLITICS: BORDERS... 139
been influenced by European and Japanese New Wave cinematic tradi-

tions, have been preoccupied by the project of documenting the urban
milieu and the quotidian lives of the marginalized amid Hong Kong’s
imminent disappearance (Cheuk 2008). Therefore, postwar Hong Kong
filmmaking is as much about representing Hong Kong’s cultural heritage
as about creating a global brand (Berry 2008).
Given the perennial concern of whether Hong Kong could either retain
or create its identity amid an increasingly transnational film circuit, film
scholars, filmmakers, policymakers, and audiences alike, in their filmmak-
ing process and film-watching activities, are also engaging with questions
of Hong Kong cinema’s survival in a globalizing and changing world.
This chapter demonstrates that 1950s Hong Kong cinema amid the Cold
War was a site of crisis and shifting politics that, nonetheless, has fueled
the ongoing aesthetic and cultural inspiration for Hong Kong filmmakers
even today. Indeed, the 1950s left-leaning Cantonese films were some of
the most innovative, creative, and politicized cinema in Hong Kong film
history. It was a transitional period that was not much different from the
1997 handover transition, when Hong Kong became caught between two
political and aesthetic systems. Reappraising the 1950s leftist cinema not
only illuminates the history and historiography of Hong Kong cinema,
but also offers us an opportunity to explore the cultural politics of border
crossing as a theoretical framework for future studies on Hong Kong cin-
ema. A seemingly apolitical Hong Kong–made film was already politicized
and contentious in the anxiety-ridden milieu of postwar Hong Kong. Any
cultural worker and film talent in the postwar era inevitability became a
“reluctant Cold Warrior” (Mark 2004). It was precisely the Cold War that
transformed the status of Hong Kong from an apolitical British colony to
a postcolonial nodal site (Chiu and Lui 2009) where an alternative cin-
ematic experience of being Chinese in the mid-twentieth century was dis-
seminated. Postwar Hong Kong cinema emerged to become a truly global
enterprise of arts, business, and politics, one that fueled pan-Chinese sen-
timents in Hong Kong and beyond.
PARADIGMS OF CHINESE-LANGUAGE CINEMA(S) STUDIES

Sheldon H. Lu (2014) succinctly reassesses the four critical paradigms in
English-language scholarship on Chinese-language film in the past three
decades, namely national cinema (Zhang 2004; Berry and Farquhar 2006:
2), transnational cinema (Lu 1997: 3), Chinese-language cinema (Lu and
140 J.J. CHANG
Yeh 2005), and Sinophone (Shih 2007; Shih et al. 2013). First, Sheldon
H. Lu reminds us that the Chinese national cinema paradigm is to resist
against the meaning of Chineseness as “immutable” (Lu 2014: 14). For
instance, in his book Chinese National Cinema, Yingjin Zhang argues that
the “national” in Chinese national cinema “is historically constructed,
circulated and contested” (Lu 2014: 14). In the age of globalization,
where the boundaries of nation-states are not fixed but constantly being
crossed and redefined, practitioners of the theory of national cinema rec-
ognize that the “national” needs to be reconceived from global perspec-
tives. Second, the approach of transnational cinema emerged at a time
of coproductions across different regions. Sheldon H. Lu contends that
the transnational model does not imply crossing only national but also
“translocal” and “transregional” borders (Ibid., 17). Further, the transna-
tional cinema approach, though it recognizes cinema as a cultural industry
that participates in the capitalist mode of production, does not celebrate
this mode of production. As such, it is an approach that is “progressive”
(Ibid., 18). Third, Chinese-language cinema includes films produced in
Mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the Chinese diaspora that use
Chinese dialects (Ibid., 19). This approach is able to resolve the meth-
odological impasse of Chinese national cinema that privileges Mandarin
Chinese as the national language and the modern Chinese nation-state as
the center and site of critical analysis. Finally, Sinophone is an approach
of resistance. While Shu-mei Shih defines the Sinophone model as “anti-
sinocentrism,” Sheldon H. Lu asserts that Sinophone should not exclude
China but include China along with Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, and the
Chinese diaspora (Ibid., 21–22).
All of the above approaches provide different angles to study Hong
Kong cinema that are at once enriching and limiting. For instance, schol-
ars studying Chinese cinema within the paradigm of national cinema, such
as Jubin Hu (2003: 10), have stressed how Chinese cinema before 1949
was intimately tied to the political project of nation-state building and
national survival in face of foreign incursions. This paradigm seems to rel-
egate Hong Kong and its cinema within the discourse of Chinese nation-
alism. Ackbar Abbas (2007: 113) is apt to ask, “Can there be a national
cinema in the absence of a nation-state (however small) and, more impor-
tantly, without the aspiration for a nation-state?” Despite Hong Kong’s
precarious status as a former British colony (Chan 1994), it remains inti-
mately linked to the culture and politics of Mainland China. The majority
of those who live in Hong Kong speak Cantonese, and the films produced
in Hong Kong have been in the Chinese languages. As such, the Chinese-
language cinema paradigm would seem to be the most fitting framework
to appreciate the contribution of Hong Kong cinema in film history. Yet,
are we reducing the significance of Hong Kong cinema’s local specificity
and global status by forcing it within the “territorial-based” framework of
the Chinese national cinema or the linguistic register of Chinese-language
cinema? What are the implications when we characterize Hong Kong cin-
ema as merely a quasi-national film (Chu 2003) or as a “cinema of the frag-
ment as nation” (Abbas 2007: 126)? Even without a nation to speak of,
Hong Kong cinema, due to its importance in the Shanghai–Guangdong–
Southeast Asia nexus, has a unique identity that is beyond the “national”
(Fu 2003; Fu 2008; Wong 2005). If the concept of the nation is not the
only key to understanding Hong Kong’s identity, what means can Hong
Kong cinema seek to retain its dignity? The critical sites offered by the
“transnational,” “diasporic,” and “Sinophone” have undoubtedly revived
Hong Kong cinema from its marginal status within Chinese national film
history and film historiography (Hunt and Wing-Fai 2008; Lee and Wong
2009; Yau 2011; Gates and Funnell 2012). Though these paradigms offer
fresh perspectives to reassess Hong Kong cinema, each approach also pres-
ents a methodological impasse to a full appreciation of the politics and
contradictions of Hong Kong cinema then and now.
While recognizing the limitations of each theoretical paradigm, I
believe that we should not deny the potential of each approach. This
is because, in the final analysis, what is at stake is the identity politics of
Chinese cinema in general and Hong Kong cinema more specifically. My
reappraisal of English- and Chinese-language scholarship on Hong Kong
cinema reveals that concepts such as “border,” “borderless,” and “bor-
der crossing” remain useful theoretical approaches in the study of both
postwar and contemporary Hong Kong cinema (Law Kar 2000a; Yau
2001). I contend that these concepts can bridge concerns in the local and
regional, national and global, colonial and postcolonial. Since the late
1970s, the historiographical debates in English and Chinese in the field of
Hong Kong cinema have recognized the border-crossing nature of post-
war Hong Kong cinema (Fu and Desser 2000; Law Kar and Bren 2004;
Taylor 2011; Yau 2001). In particular, Hong Kong International Film
Festival and the Hong Kong Film Archive have provided important con-
tributions to the field through their bilingual annual monograph series.
The critical studies in these monographs, which were written by some of
Hong Kong’s most influential film scholars and critics, not only provided
142 J.J. CHANG
new perspectives on the study of Hong Kong cinema but also, at the same
time, established new Hong Kong film canons. As Hong Kong film critics
and scholars since the late 1970s have argued, the identity of Hong Kong
cinema began from the “crisis” experienced in the postwar period (Hu
2000; Law Kar 2000b; Yu 1982). This crisis would eventually bring about
the golden age of Cantonese cinema (i.e., the emergence of Cantonese
film companies such as Xinlian, Zhonglian, Huaqiao, and Kong Ngee),
renew links between the Mainland and Hong Kong (Hu 2000: 23), and
present new opportunities within local and transnational markets. The
“crisis” of Hong Kong cinema, as noted by Law Kar (2000b) and other
Hong Kong film scholars, was also a crisis of political ideology, national
language, cinematic aesthetics, and Chinese identity across borders. I
contend that concepts like “border” within the cinematic universe and
“border crossing” in the scholarship on Chinese-language cinema pro-
vide the key to resolve the potential aesthetic impasse of Hong Kong
filmmakers in their search of a truly global identity of post-handover
Hong Kong cinema.
CRISES AND OPPORTUNITIES: COLD WAR AND 1950S

HONG KONG CINEMA
The opportunity noted by Law Kar (2000b) suggests not only a transfor-
mation of postwar Hong Kong cinema since the 1950s but also a continu-
ation of the 1920s Shanghai film debate of soft and hard cinema, as well
as the unfinished May Fourth project, which were both essentially debates
surrounding the relationships between film, literature, arts, politics, and
society. More importantly, the discussion about the role of film culture in
the modernization projects of “cultural China” (Tu 1994; Clark 1987)
continued in British Hong Kong. This continuation of leftist ideology was
due to the precarious status of postwar Hong Kong as a British colony, on
the one hand, and the successive waves of émigrés to Hong Kong, on the
other. Following the swift defeats of Singapore and Hong Kong to Japan
without much resistance during the Second World War, not only was the
façade of British imperial invincibility forever tarnished, but also the seem-
ing Cold War bipolar politics during the 1950s would reconfigure the
colonial encounters between British Hong Kong and the larger Hong
Kong society. Amid the Cold War, Hong Kong became a battleground for
geopolitical struggles between various states seeking to become or remain
global players (Chu 2005).
Although the border with China was closed soon after the Communist
takeover of the Mainland, there remained pro-Communist sympathiz-
ers in postwar Hong Kong. Communist elements infiltrated the fields of
education, labor union, publishing, and film. And Communist authorities
were keen to keep Hong Kong a British colony because its geostrategic
location offered New China a window onto the West. The USA, after its
consuls were ousted from China, moved to Hong Kong after Chairman
Mao founded the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949. The
Americans established intelligence stations in this British colonial outpost
to spy on the Mainland (Mark 2005). The Nationalists also had supporters
in Hong Kong, which became a battleground for the unfinished Civil War
between pro-Communist and pro-Nationalist forces. At the same time,
the British government established diplomatic relations with Communist
China in 1950.
According to Chi-Kwan Mark, postwar Hong Kong was “decolonized
in substance” in the early 1950s (Mark 2004: 10). In order to maintain
its prestigious status as a global player and to justify its legitimate rule
over Hong Kong par excellence, the colonial government had to play a
balancing act. The survival of the British “decolonized power” in Hong
Kong was predicated on the suppression of any overt anticommunist pro-
paganda put out by the Americans stationed in Hong Kong as well as on
downplaying or masking the rampant Communist–Nationalist struggles in
the colony. It was within this politicized context and at the crossroads of
the Cold War struggle over what it meant to be Chinese in the post-1945
period that the golden age of Hong Kong cinema, in particular Cantonese
cinema, emerged. Chi-Kwan Mark (2004: 6) characterizes British Hong
Kong as a “reluctant Cold Warrior” in that the British colonial administra-
tion was aware of its vulnerability to a possible attack from the Mainland
and deliberately downplayed the Cold War tensions in the colony, even
though it allied with the USA to contain China. In this regard, postwar
Hong Kong cinema, and in particular 1950s left-wing Cantonese cinema,
became a reluctant player in bipolarized politics as it was both implicated
in Cold War tensions and dictated by economic imperatives.
Postwar Hong Kong provided a safe haven for successive waves of
émigrés from Shanghai and South China, who sought refuge in British
Hong Kong in order to escape from potential and real political persecu-
tions. Among these migrants, who escaped from the Mainland for both
economic and political reasons, were not only laborers and entrepreneurs
(Wong 1988) but also cultural workers and film talents with competing
144 J.J. CHANG
ideological positions and political allegiances. The nanlai (“coming to

the south”) intelligentsia, such as leftist writer Mao Dun, filmmaker Cai
Chusheng, dramatist Xia Yan, as well as pro-Nationalist producer Law
Ming-Yau, moved south to Hong Kong primarily from Shanghai and
brought to Hong Kong their filmmaking expertise and their May Fourth
cultural outlook. These nanlai cultural workers at first saw the colony as
a “cultural desert,” because from their perspective, colonial Hong Kong
had never experienced the May Fourth in addition to having been cor-
rupted by British colonialism (Fu 2003). Recognizing the power of mass
media in educating the public and building a patriotic Chinese community,
both pro-Communist and pro-Nationalist cultural workers extended their
politicized cultural influence in newspapers, literary journals, and film-
making. Equipped with rich experience and savvy business strategies, the
nanlai exodus guided postwar Hong Kong cinema to a renaissance and
facilitated the rise of postwar Hong Kong as the new center of Mandarin
and Cantonese cinemas.
Cold War politics and the “decolonized in substance” (Mark 2004: 10)
status of colonial Hong Kong therefore saved the Chinese dialect cinemas,
especially Cantonese cinema, which had been extremely popular among
Cantonese speakers in Guangdong and Guangxi provinces and in Southeast
Asia since the coming of film sound in the mid-1930s. Cantonese cinema
almost met its demise when the Nationalist regime introduced a legislation
to ban all dialect cinemas on the Mainland in late 1936 (Xiao 1999): a ban
that was as much about curbing the rise of regional identity of South China
as about ensuring the survival of Shanghai cinema in the increasingly cut-
throat film industry. Fortunately, its implementation was delayed due to the
Japanese military invasion. When the Second World War ended in August
1945, Cantonese cinema found its postwar renaissance in colonial Hong
Kong. The 1950s saw the average annual production of more than 200
films. In addition to Mandarin and Cantonese films, Chaozhou- and Amoy-
dialect films were also produced locally and distributed to Chinese diasporas
in Southeast Asia, Europe, and North America (Taylor 2011). Thus, post-
war Hong Kong cinema was diverse and vibrant, exhibiting a wide range of
genres such as opera films starring Yam Kim-Fai and Pak Suet-Sin, Li Ngau’s
airwave films, and Wong Fei-Hung’s martial arts film series. Whereas the
Communists banned martial arts films with suspicious themes deemed to
be feudal and risqué, these genres appealed to new and old audiences in a
booming market in Hong Kong. Despite the cutthroat competition and
politicized tensions common in this golden age of postwar Hong Kong film
industry, many film talents enjoyed much creative outlet.
Initially, the Cantonese population in South China offered a lucrative

market for Hong Kong filmmakers. But when the Communists closed the
Mainland market, many Hong Kong film companies sought a new lifeline
in Southeast Asia and Taiwan. Amid the Cold War, film companies had to
choose their political affiliation, not so much for ideological reason but
to ensure distribution markets. Hong Kong’s population grew substan-
tially in the decade after the end of the Second World War. Hong Kong’s
population at around 2.5 million in the 1950s was not large enough to
sustain the livelihood of any production companies. In order to survive,
film companies in postwar Hong Kong had to identify either with the
pro-Nationalist, pro-Taiwan rightists, or with the pro-Communist, pro-
Mainland leftists. Their political affiliation would determine not only who
would fund the film production, but also which audiences to be reached.
In 1952, the Nationalists in Taiwan founded the Hong Kong–Kowloon
Free Cinema Association. Mandarin-speaking filmmakers and actors affili-
ated with this association and who had the support of the Republic of China
in Taiwan were called freedom filmmakers (ziyou yingren) or free celebrities,
and their films could be distributed to the “Free World” such as Taiwan,
the USA, Vietnam, Cambodia, and the Philippines (Yu 1982: 39). Only
films made by the Hong Kong–Kowloon Free Cinema Association mem-
bers could be released in Taiwan. Both the Shaw Brothers and the Motion
Picture and General Investment Co. Ltd. (MP & GI), two of the most suc-
cessful film companies in 1950s Hong Kong, were right-leaning. It is worth
mentioning that MP & GI is sometimes called Cathay in the literature. The
Singapore-based Cathay Organisation is the parent company of MP & GI,
but MP & GI was renamed Cathay in 1965 follwoing the tragic death of its
boss Loke Wan Tho in a plane crash in 1964. Their Mandarin films, includ-
ing modern romances and epic musicals such as Our Sister Heddy (1957)
and The Love Eterne (1963), appealed to Taiwanese audiences.
On the other hand, in 1949, leftist filmmakers established the South
China Film Industry Workers Union. Their mission to clean up the feudal
contents of postwar Hong Kong films, to raise production values of “seven
day quickies” (qiri xian) (Lo 1992:108), and to get rid of the reputation
of Cantonese cinema as vulgar and shoddy (cuzhi lanzao) would lead to the
establishment of such Cantonese film companies as Xinlian (New Union
Film Ltd.) and Zhonglian (Chinese Union Film Ltd.) in 1952. Other
influential left-leaning companies included Changcheng (Great Wall Film
Ltd.) and Fenghuang (Phoenix Film Ltd.). Abbreviated as Chang-Feng-
Xin (Changcheng, Fenghuang, and Xinlian), these three companies were
subsidized by Beijing, with Changcheng and Fenghuang specializing in
146 J.J. CHANG
Mandarin film production and Xinlian focusing on Cantonese filmmaking

(Hu 2000: 25). Even though Changcheng and Fenghuang received fund-
ing from Beijing, their films did not have uncensored access to the Mainland
market. Since the Chinese government announced the “Provisional
Measure for the Import of Foreign Films” in 1950, Hong Kong filmmak-
ers no longer enjoyed free access into New China (Law Kar and Bren 2004:
153). Longma’s The Dividing Wall (1952) and Zhonglian’s Family (1953)
were among the few Mandarin and Cantonese films produced by these left-
leaning companies and released in China.
The contest and struggle over film markets overseas had ramifications
for the identity politics of diasporic Chinese communities. The Southeast
Asia (Nanyang) market not only provided an economic lifeline for film
companies in Hong Kong but also became the new target for many film-
makers and cultural workers to promote their vision of Chinese patriotism.
Overseas Chinese living in Southeast Asia were romanced by right-leaning
and left-leaning politics, and their loyalty was sought. Living under racial
segregation and discrimination, many overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia
yearned for stories about their motherland, albeit fictive and imaginary
ones created on the celluloid. Their patriotic sentiments laid the founda-
tion for the growth of postwar Hong Kong cinema not only as popular
entertainment but also as cultural expressions of a pan-Chinese patriotism
amid ongoing colonial and postcolonial sufferings.
Established on November 15, 1952, the Zhonglian Film Ltd. was
founded by 21 directors, actors, and screenwriters, which included Ng
Cho-fan, Pak Yin, Mui Yee, Cheung Wood-yau, Cheung Ying, Chun
Kim, Wong Man-lei, Tsi Lo-lin, and Lee Sun-fung. This collective film
cooperative, which was one of the major Cantonese film companies at the
time along with Xinlian, Huaqiao, and Kong Ngee (Chung 2004, 2006),
emerged at the crossroad of various crises: industrial, political, social,
and aesthetic (Yu 1982). Postwar Hong Kong’s left-leaning Cantonese
filmmakers, who became the new cultural elites in the colony, were well
aware of postwar Hong Kong’s cutthroat film industry. Their films were
not only politically engaged but also commercial and popular in order to
appeal to audiences and secure limited film markets. As the torchbearers
of left-leaning progressive ideology, they sought to educate the masses
in Hong Kong, including those in the Chinese diaspora through films
about postwar family and a renewed Confucian and left-leaning patriotic
fervor in Cantonese style. In issue no. 33 of The Union Pictorial (a film
magazine published by the Zhonglian film company), Zhonglian presi-
dent and Cantonese movie king Ng Cho-fan (July 1958) encourages his
readers not to feel ashamed of being a Cantonese film lover (p. 22). He

continues to note that Cantonese movie lovers do not have a lower social
status than those who frequented Hollywood and Western or Mandarin
film events. Here, Zhonglian film talent took on the role of cultural elites.
Their Cantonese films not only represented the social life of the under-
privileged in postwar Hong Kong, but also provided a site to negotiate
the role of language and film culture in the politics of spectatorship and of
being Chinese amid Cold War politics.
Despite the poor reputation that continued to plague many Cantonese
films, the popularity of Cantonese cinema was undeniable. This was evident
in its high demand among Chinese diasporic audiences in Southeast Asia. In
fact, in order to satiate the sentiment of nostalgia for the motherland that
fueled overseas Chinese markets, pro-Nationalist Shaw Brothers and Cathay,
the Singapore-based parent company of MP & GI, would, at times, breach
Cold War bifurcated politics by distributing and exhibiting films produced
by left-leaning companies (Lee Pui-Tak 2009: 86). Commercial and eco-
nomic imperatives transcended the Cold War politics of left and right. The
“borders” dictated by Cold War politics and those designated by left–right
film markets were by no means fixed and immutable (Lee and Wong 2009).
THE WALL (1956): BORDER CROSSING AS COLD WAR

STRATEGY
Zhonglian was not officially labeled as pro-Communist but was consid-
ered pro-left leaning. As a result, Zhonglian was on the black list, and its
films and stars were supposedly banned in the Free World (Yu 1982: 39).
Nonetheless, some of its films were distributed thanks to Shaw Brothers
and Cathay. And some of postwar Hong Kong’s Cantonese social ethics
(lunlipian) films traversed geopolitical borders and boundaries to find
new audience members in Mainland China, Southeast Asia, and Chinese-
speaking communities in North America despite the seemingly bifurcated
film markets imposed by Cold War bipolar politics. Below I will conduct
a textual reading of Zhonglian’s The Wall, a representative Cantonese
social ethics film, in order to illustrate the significance of “border cross-
ing” as both a geopolitical and an aesthetic paradigm. Border crossing
as a methodology does not merely illuminate the industrial and political
realities of Hong Kong filmmaking during the Cold War, but is also a
useful concept to reassess and reinterpret the cinematic and moral uni-
verse of many postwar left-leaning Cantonese films. In The Wall, post-
148 J.J. CHANG
war Hong Kong’s quotidian communal life and solidarity come to the
foreground. When read as a microcosm of postwar colonial Hong Kong
family life within the Cold War context in all its manifestations (i.e., class
problems, gender inequity, generational gaps), the 1950s Cantonese cin-
ema also became a site where a new political and social community comes
into being onscreen.
Although Zhonglian was aligned with the left, its films often white-
washed Cold War and colonial politics. This is due to British Hong Kong’s
censorship regulations. As early as 1950, the colonial government would
identify leaders of leftist cells and study groups as “not welcomed” and
deport them (Law Kar and Bren 2004: 154). In 1952, a labor strike among
employees at Li Zuyong’s Yonghua film production company quickly
escalated into a Cold War ideological struggle in the colony. As a result
of this strike, many cultural workers, including Sima Wensen and Shu Shi,
who were allegedly affiliated with the Chinese Communist Party, were
deported by the British from Hong Kong. Under such draconian colonial
measures, many film companies exercised self-censorship and avoided top-
ics that were deemed too political for the local audiences and for the film
censorship board of British Hong Kong. Due to the conscious choice of
self-censorship, Zhonglian and other film companies often turned to liter-
ary classics and the social ethics genre to provide their moral lessons.
The Wall (1956) follows the trajectory of the quarrels between husband
and wife and the final resolution of their differences. The film belongs to
a group of 1950s Cantonese social ethics films which include Xinlian’s The
Prodigal Son (1952), A Flower Reborn (1953), and Neighbors All (1954),
and Zhonglian’s In the Face of Demolition (1953), A Myriad Homes
(1953), and Father and Son (1954). These films revolve around familial
misunderstandings and conflicts that are, in the denouement, resolved by
the goodwill of friendly neighbors and the solidarity of communal life.
Scholars and critics have recognized the importance of these films in the
history of Hong Kong cinema, not just for their treatment of family in
postwar Hong Kong, but also for their aesthetic quality. Longtime Hong
Kong International Film Festival catalog editor Lin Nien-Tung’s (1979)
analysis of Neighbors All—a Xinlian film classic about intergenerational
conflicts between a newlywed couple and the husband’s mother—is espe-
cially helpful for my reading of The Wall and 1950s left-wing Cantonese
cinema. Lin argues that the use of deep focus, Plan Américain, and long
shots in the film become recurrent motifs within the narrative as well as
in other left-leaning films to expose ideological and generational divides
within postwar Hong Kong family. His analysis reminds us that the moral
lessons promoted by 1950s Cantonese social ethics films are not only evi-
dent in the story itself, but also in the film’s cinematographic composition.
His emphasis on the aesthetics of 1950s Cantonese lunlipian films prof-
fers the importance of style in the oft-neglected 1950s Cantonese family
melodramas (Lin 1978). His assertion that the decline of Cantonese films
in the 1960s was due to not only the changing political contexts of Hong
Kong, but also the loss of stylistic rigor so characteristic of the 1950s
Cantonese cinema also raises the reputation of 1950s Cantonese melodra-
mas, considered by audiences then and now as merely apolitical tearjerkers
(Lin 1982: 33). If we follow Lin’s rigorous reading of 1950s Cantonese
social ethics films, we also find the same aesthetic richness in The Wall,
especially in the use of the “wall”—as prop and metaphor—within the
film’s mise-en-scène and character development.
The Wall, which starred renowned Cantonese actors Lo Dun, Wong
Man-lei, Lee Ching, and Tsi Lo-lin, is set in the bustling and industrial-
izing city of colonial Hong Kong during the 1950s: establishing shots of
double-decker buses and taxis traversing through paved streets flanked
by colonial and modern architecture provide the backdrop to the familial
crisis between Kam Fan (Lee Ching) and his wife Wong Ching-ping (Tsi
Lo-Lin). At the outset, Kam Fan and Ching-ping visit a lawyer’s office to
sign divorce papers. Immediately, the narrative is structured as a “he says
she says” battleground, not unlike the psychological battleground of Cold
War politics. When the lawyer asks the two why they want to separate,
each provides a different version of what has transpired. On the one hand,
Kam Fan’s account shows Ching-ping worried over her mother’s illness
and being unreasonable. Without consulting him, Ching-ping seeks the
help of her friend and becomes a sing-song girl at a night club. On the
other hand, Ching-ping’s account reveals that Kam Fan is unsympathetic
toward her feelings and aspirations. He is jealous of Ching-ping’s wish
to gain more financial independence, feels frustrated that she lacks con-
fidence in his ability to provide for the family, and wishes her to stay at
home and be a full-time housewife. Although both are set on getting a
divorce, when the lawyer discovers that they have yet to decide who will
have custody of their only child, the lawyer convinces them to go back
home and try to resolve their differences.
This film is as much about the negotiation and resolution between hus-
band and wife as about the reconciliation between the binaries of domes-
ticity and labor, law and morality, homeland and diaspora, and the role
150 J.J. CHANG
of actor as performers and educators. And the “wall” in the title signifies
these various binaries as borders and boundaries within the film’s narra-
tive: familial, ideological, and geopolitical. Kam Fan demands a divorce
because his ego is wounded by his wife’s desire to find employment out-
side of the home. And Ching-ping leaves her husband when she finds
employment at an orphanage where Mrs. Kong works in order to prove
to her husband that she can survive without him and that she deserves
to be respected. Their disagreement, which is represented as opposing
perspectives and interpretations of the social role of each member in a
family, cannot be resolved by law but eventually by the consensus of what
constitutes the moral ethics of a postwar Hong Kong family. Their conflict
is visually represented and underscored by the “wall” put up by Kam Fan
by hanging a bed sheet to partition the room into two halves. The old and
the new or what is the status quo and what are new possibilities for women
in Hong Kong’s postwar society and workforce are thus visually repre-
sented by the actions in the foreground and in the background, left screen
and right screen within the mise-en-scène. In this film, the focal point
shifts. Just as the Cold War cannot be defined simply in terms of the left
and right, the wall, as created by the bed sheet, can be easily crossed and
breached. Since this film was made in the 1950s, when the pro-Nationalist
and pro-Communist ideologies still figured significantly in postwar Hong
Kong society, the “wall” represents not only ideological divides, but also
geopolitical boundaries between the Mainland and colonial Hong Kong.
The bed sheet also creates an emotional divide between husband and wife.
And if we push this analysis to another level, we can argue that the window
beyond the bedroom (which separates the bedroom and the balcony) is
another border that separates the Mainland and Hong Kong.
As a social ethics film about the importance of a harmonious family in
the postwar period, the film serves similar ideological and political func-
tions as did other progressive social ethics films like Neighbors All (Dir.
Chun Kim, 1954). For instance, the promotional handbill of this social
ethics Cantonese film classic evidences the social and cultural role that the
film had within the Chinese community in San Francisco’s Chinatown
(Hong Kong Film Archive, Neighbors All, HB425.1X). This is an impor-
tant revelation. Not only was the film a part of a family event for over-
seas Chinese, but it also provided an important moral lesson about the
Chinese family that speaks to the cultural and communal significance of
cinema across the various borders of “cultural China.” The promotional
handbill promotes Neighbors All as a family melodrama. This film is tar-
geted not only at “gentlemen who are already married, but also at mothers
with children, and mother-in-laws.” It continues to note: “Neighbors All
serves as a mirror for all married women and is an instructional guide-
book for the happiness of all families” (author’s translation). The Wall, like
Neighbors All, was also shown in San Francisco (Hong Kong Film Archive,
The Wall, HB1118X). It follows that the film also functions in a similar
way as Neighbors All. Indeed, the popularity of Zhonglian’s films beyond
Hong Kong and in regions including Macao, Indonesia, Cambodia, and
the Chinatowns in the USA—as testified by fan letters sent to the stars and
selectively published in the Zhonglian fan magazine The Union Pictorial—
demonstrates the transborder reach of Zhonglian’s talents’ sentimental
and moral education.
The message conveyed by The Wall is clear: the harmony of family life is
key to the happiness of those living in the urbanizing postwar Hong Kong
society and, by extension, those in overseas Chinese communities beyond
the colony. Like Neighbors All, the reconstitution of a harmonious family
in the postwar period must be built on the precepts of gender equality
and class equity. These moral lessons are in keeping with the agenda of
left-wing progressive filmmakers. And Mr. Kong (Lo Dun) and his wife
Mrs. Kong (Wong Man-lei) are the conveyors of this May Fourth–inspired
message. They represent the voice of reason and hold the position of the
middle ground. Being a frequent contributor to many films produced by
Zhonglian, Lo Dun’s ideological position shaped films by his cohorts at
Zhonglian and Huaqiao. Born in Guangzhou in 1911, Lo Dun was a
student of Ouyang Yuqian from the Drama Research and Study Centre
of Guangdong. His experience in drama in the 1920s during the 1927
revolution in Guangzhou shaped his conviction of the moral purpose of
cinema. In both his autobiography (Lo 1992) and interviews, Lo Dun
argued that filmmakers had the responsibility and obligation to conjoin
art and politics, and to serve and educate their audiences (Kwok 2000). As
mentioned above, Zhonglian was aligned with the left. However, due to
the vulnerable position that film talents were in during the Cold War, poli-
tics in The Wall and in many films produced by Zhonglian and Xinlian are
whitewashed in order to negotiate and play the balancing acts within the
Cold War and colonial context. Instead, films by Xinlian and Zhonglian
promoted the importance of education and being morally upright peo-
ple. Lo Dun called such ideological position as baikaishui (plain boiled
water). Films that promoted this perspective are healthy in content,
avoided obscenity, and guide audiences to doing good (Kwok 2000: 132).
152 J.J. CHANG
Fig. 8.1 The couple

separated themselves by
the wall, which was put
up by the husband
using a bed sheet
Through conveying the “healthy” message of communal solidarity and

familial harmony, The Wall also promoted a nuanced yet progressive slant
to the meaning of being Chinese in the Cold War context.
The film’s narrative does not merely follow the perspectives of the hus-
band and the wife, often positioned cinematographically in the right and
left of the screen (Fig. 8.1). To resolve their conflicts, a middle ground is
created by the parallel storylines of two other couples. These parallel stories
are a narrative-structuring device common in many films by Zhonglian,
like A Myriad of Homes. The couple’s struggle is witnessed by their friends
and neighbors and is as such contrasted with the experiences of two other
couples. Throughout the film, Mr. and Mrs. Kong attempt to resolve Kam
Fan and Ching-ping’s conflicts. Mr. Kong is a teacher at the same school
as Kam Fan, while Mrs. Kong works at an orphanage. Although Mr. Kong
and Mrs. Kong belong to an older generation, they are progressive. Mr.
Kong believes that negotiation is key to a happy marriage. He constantly
encourages Kam Fan to remove the makeshift division in his room. Mr.
Kong also believes that it is wrong to expect a woman to bear children and
stay at home. Mr. Kong believes that women should work, contribute to
society, and be financially independent. Another couple portrayed by the
film is a pair of humble janitors at the school where both Mr. Kong and
Kam Fan are employed. Although they are not as well off as Kam Fan and
Ching-ping, the couple is content with each other’s company. Creating
such narrative parallels has multiple functions within the film. First, con-
trasting the different experiences of the postwar Hong Kong family local-
izes the story of the impact of the Cold War on the Hong Kong Chinese
population. Second, while documenting the postwar living conditions of
young families in 1950s Hong Kong, such parallels also act as a didac-
tic storytelling strategy that serves to expose the couple’s conflicts and,
by extension, the hardships experienced by other postwar families in and
beyond Hong Kong.
The conflict between Kam Fan and Ching-ping, created by the divi-
sion segmented by the bed sheet, is temporary and only imaginary. As
mentioned by Mr. Kong, the partition put into place by the bed sheet
only intensifies emotional schism between the couple. The two characters
who constantly defy this makeshift border are the young couple’s domes-
tic servant and the couple’s daughter. A focus on the domestic worker
demonstrates Zhonglian’s ongoing preoccupation with giving agency to
characters on the periphery. Although both characters are marginalized
in postwar Hong Kong society, in this and other postwar Cantonese clas-
sics, they come into focus. The domestic worker (Fig. 8.2) expresses her
annoyance toward this new family dynamic created by the “wall.” She is
forced to work for two employers: Kam Fan and Ching-ping demand her
to serve both of them separately. Her final decision to resign is her way to
protest against unfair labor conditions. On the other hand, the couple’s
daughter, Siu Ping, is the only character who dares and is allowed to cross
the border (the wall) by crawling beneath it. The “border” created by
the bed sheet is transgressed and traversed by their daughter’s innocence
and mobility. Her mobility is already evident at the outset when she runs
Fig. 8.2 The daughter

has slipped beneath the
“wall” and the servant
wants to resign
154 J.J. CHANG
from her parents’ “room” to the neighbors’ room while the elder couple
attempts to convince Kam Fan and Ching-ping to reconcile with each
other (Figs. 8.3 and 8.4). As a messenger, their little daughter not only
joins the two tableau shots but also becomes the means of communication
between her mother and father, documenting their ideological (political
and gender) differences. Indeed, she exists both inside and outside, thus
offering a possible solution to the division between her mother and father.
When Siu Ping becomes ill, Ching-ping decides to return home to take
care of her daughter, and as a result, the couple reconciles.

asks her mother why
she is mad at her father

is eavesdropping on the
conversation between
her father and a
neighbor
Siu Ping, who has up to now been shot often in the background or
framed by other characters, is in the final analysis the source of the ultimate
familial crisis that brings about a resolution to her parents’ quarrels and
by extension the struggles of the reconstitution of the postwar Chinese
family in colonial Hong Kong and Chinese communities overseas. Neither
the lawyer nor the family friends can resolve the couple’s marriage prob-
lem. The disagreement between Kam Fan and Ching-ping is caused by
an ideological divide that cannot be resolved by law or “politics” but by
the desire for educating and nurturing the future generation. The child’s
illness is the crisis that finally brings the couple back together. Now in
focus and shot in close-up (Fig. 8.5), the child is the real heroine of the
film and the true agent of social change in postwar Hong Kong society
(Fig. 8.6). According to Lin Nien-Tung (1979: 9), the use of close-ups
not only pushes the chronology of a film’s narrative forward (from present
to future) and backward (from present to past), but also creates a criti-
cal distance between the audience and the narrative. Not only Siu Ping,
born in postwar Hong Kong, represents the future of Hong Kong, but
also her presence suggests that the boundaries between competing ideo-
logical positions are not fixed but fluid, and that the middle ground is as
much a political position as a sentimental bond between family members.
Siu Ping, played by child actor Wong Oi-ming, would become one of
the most beloved television personalities and household names in 1970s
Hong Kong. Not only does Siu Ping represent the future of Hong Kong
but also, by extension, the aesthetic boldness of 1950s Cantonese social
ethics films and the future of Cantonese popular culture.

is happy about her par-
ents’ reconciliation
156 J.J. CHANG
Fig. 8.6 The couple

kisses their daughter at
the end
CONCLUSION: NEW CRISES AND NEW OPPORTUNITIES

My reading of The Wall within the context of 1950s left-leaning Cantonese
cinema—a cinema of transition, crisis, and renewal—reminds us that
abstract concepts such as the “nation” and “national identity,” and ana-
lytical frameworks like “borders,” “boundaries,” and “border crossing”
often shift depending on the perspective of the filmmakers and audiences.
The Cold War in Asia could not be easily defined as the battle between
the left and the right, or between pro-Nationalist and pro-Communist
camps. It may be true that the Cold War in Asia grew out of the tensions
between the USA and the USSR; the left–right paradigm or the “us ver-
sus them” rhetoric could not fully explain the quotidian reality and film
culture in Asia or Hong Kong. My chapter also implicitly asks how Hong
Kong will be able to fashion new self-expressions beyond the 1997 hando-
ver. According to Hong Kong sociologist Agnes S. Ku, the Chinese state
in postcolonial Hong Kong simply adopted the British colonial rhetoric
of the story of success and did not replace the former colonial ruler’s
discourse of modernity and globalization. She writes: “If the local and
colonial formation is not supplanted, it follows that a simple extension
from the local to the global based on the same logic of success will be
inadequate as a strategy for transmuting Hong Kong into a multidimen-
sional global city” (Ku 2002: 360). I agree with Ku that scholars and
policymakers need to redefine the local in order to arrive at a new global.
Assessing post-handover Hong Kong and its cinema is as much about
salvaging Hong Kong’s global status as about reviving the unique and
multiple expressions and realities of its local identity.
Contemporary Hong Kong filmmakers continue to struggle to make

authentic Hong Kong films in an era of coproductions. If film censorship
was one strategy used by the British to control cinematic contents in order
to downplay the Cold War tensions in postwar Hong Kong film industry,
it continues to have a huge impact on the creativity of post-1997 cineastes.
The Mainland and Hong Kong Closer Economic Partnership Arrangement
(CEPA), which became effective on January 1, 2004, has led to an increase
of Hong Kong-China film coproductions (Szeto and Chen 2012: 119).
However, CEPA did not lead to an equal alliance in the film collaborations
between Mainland China and Hong Kong, nor did it allow for the creativity
of Hong Kong filmmakers because censorship continues to exist (Szeto and
Chen 2011: 255). Under CEPA, Hong Kong films could qualify as Chinese
domestic films and “bypass stringent quota given to foreign films” (Pang
2010: 238), but Mirana M. Szeto and Yun-Chung Chen (2012: 251) cau-
tion that all scripts of post-1997 Hong Kong films wishing to enter the China
market have to be approved by the State Administration of Radio, Film and
Television (SARFT) in Beijing. The fear of having their films banned by the
SARFT has led some filmmakers to self-censor their own works (a similar
practice that Zhonglian film talents had resorted to in order to curb colonial
censorship legislation) and to adjust the filmic contents and styles for Hong
Kong and for the Mainland. Szeto and Chen lament the artificial bifurcation
of film markets along cultural tastes created by the fear of Hong Kong film-
makers toward the draconian control of the SARFT as the Mainlandization
of Hong Kong filmmaking. I see this current state of the Hong Kong film
industry, which could stifle talents and artistic freedom, as the residual impact
of Cold War politics in the postcolonial era. In my opinion, the current cen-
sorship policy in Mainland, which regulates the import of Hong Kong–pro-
duced films, is not so much different from Cold War politics and control.
It is not surprising that Cold War themes continue to figure in the cin-
ematic imaginary of contemporary Hong Kong cinema. In 2012, Hong
Kong released two blockbusters, The Cold War and The Silent War. These
two films revisited the theme of the Cold War in different temporal and
spatial settings. While The Silent War, a political thriller set in early 1950s
Shanghai, revolves around the espionage operations waged between the
Communists and the Nationalists, The Cold War recounts the bureaucratic
battle within the contemporary Hong Kong police. At first glance, The
Cold War is an action-packed film that has little to do with the Cold War
struggle between the Communists and the Nationalists. But the revelation
of who the potential enemy could be bespeaks the fear of the perennial
158 J.J. CHANG
Cold War enemy from within. The culprit who has staged the fake kidnap-
ping of an entire police squad is the son of the senior police commissioner,
played by Tony Kar-Fai Leung. At the film’s denouement, he is caught
and the “Cold War” struggles within the police are resolved. The film’s
final scene, however, leaves us wondering who the villain really is. The new
Chief Police Commissioner, played by Aaron Kwok, suddenly receives a
mysterious phone call demanding the release of “someone” in prison. The
film ends with the final shot of the “culprit” staring straight into the cam-
era. With a sly smile on his face, the “enemy” of Hong Kong, 15 years
after the political handover, may be Hong Kong itself. Indeed, the Cold
War continues, and its very presence in the people’s collective imaginary
exposes Hong Kong’s quiet struggles in the quest of its unique identity
within the ongoing decolonization process. If the Cold War presented a
crisis for postwar Hong Kong cinema, which led to its transformation, the
new challenges faced by Hong Kong filmmakers presented by CEPA also
provided an opportunity for Hong Kong films’ renewal.
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CHAPTER 9
Slum Extravaganza!: Cultural

and Geopolitical Representation of Dharavi
in Celluloid India
Sony Jalarajan Raj and Rohini Sreekumar
INTRODUCTION
Global lenses of entertainment about India often end up in the Dharavi
slum, the shadow city of Mumbai. Sprawling across 1.75 square kilome-
ters in the heart of Mumbai, Dharavi is a contrast to the surging urban
society, reminding the world about the dark side of the metropolis. The
largest and most populous democracy in the world, India is often sym-
bolized by the wide angle panoramic shots of Dharavi and the close-up
frames of huddled huts and shabby, starving faces of Dharavi residents.
These representations provide a staple diet of visual entertainment for
the emerging global middle class. Film is a medium of entertainment
and excitement, and Bollywood trades in the commodification of fantasy.
As a visually iconographic medium, its portrayal of spectacle and escap-
ism depicts an image bank that is far removed from the daily struggle
S.J. Raj ()

MacEwan University, Edmonton, AB, Canada
R. Sreekumar
Monash University, Bandar Sunway, Malaysia

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_9
164 S.J. RAJ AND R. SREEKUMAR
of most moviegoers. A significant feature of Bollywood’s imagery is the

focus on exotic and salubrious locations, which often encompass foreign
destinations such as Mauritius, Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, New Zealand,
Melbourne and Sydney in Australia, and Switzerland. Subsequently, this
escapist tradition means that much Bollywood cinema ignores the plight
of India’s poorest citizens. However, when these films do consider the
misery, agony, and violence of Indian society, the lens is always upon
slums. Dharavi formed the thematic backdrop of many films at differ-
ent times, including Deewaar (1975), Bombay (1988), Salaam Bombay!
(1988), Parinda (1989), Footpath (2003), Black Friday (2004),
the Sarkar series (2005–2008), Traffic Signal (2007), and Slumdog
Millionaire (2008).
The earlier Orientalist discourse of India as depicted in A Passage
to India (1924) by E.M. Foster, The Age of Kali (1998) by William
Dalrymple, and India in Slow Motion (2003) by Mark Tully had created
a long-standing literary image of India which is not so celebratory of its
emerging superpower in the twenty-first century. When these films are
made for international consumption, they reinforce the Orientalist dis-
course of India that is detached from reality. The widespread mispercep-
tion of India as a land of snake charmers, beggars, and corrupt officials has
strengthened similar filmic images of the country in the name of cinematic
realism. The projection of a partially accomplished image of urbanized
Mumbai evokes discomfort from the audiences about India’s path toward
modernization. Films and documentaries are largely indulged in treating
Dharavi as an embarrassing eyesore in the financial hub of India. These
films, however, fail to acknowledge that these slums are a crucial site for
new forms of social identity and mobility in a highly urbanized society.
This chapter deals with the representation of Dharavi in Bollywood
from the perspective of vision in different cultural and geographical set-
tings. It employs a comparative analysis of such depictions in Indian
movies and Western/crossover production, and in those films and docu-
mentaries set for foreign audiences. Beginning with a critical account
of Dharavi, the chapter critiques the cinematic depictions of Dharavi in
Salaam Bombay! and Slumdog Millionaire. It argues that the Orientalist
approach betrays the existing reality of this sprawling community and
ignores the economic output of Dharavi as a home to millions of hard-
working residents. Moreover, the image of Dharavi as a filthy piece of
land amid the sprawling city of Mumbai continues to inspire the imagi-
nation of cinematic spectacle that reinforces or stereotypes this image in
SLUM EXTRAVAGANZA!: CULTURAL AND GEOPOLITICAL REPRESENTATION... 165
varying intensities. The result is the image of an “exceptional” nation

(India) and its “exclusive” poverty that kindles the voyeuristic pleasure
for India through an occidental lens.
DHARAVI: WHAT IT IS AND WHAT NOT!

Dharavi has emerged as a vicious national insignia of India and as a site of
endless poverty porn, making it a zone of social exclusion amid urbaniza-
tion. As globalization and modernization is reaching its zenith, national
images and portraits are being fragmented by media manipulation and
sensationalism. Remaining as a shadow city in the financial capital, Dharavi
attracts the concern of sociologists, anthropologists, and entrepreneurs
alike. Once an island with a fishing community, the creek dried up a long
time ago. Dharavi now spreads over 1.75 square kilometers, with one mil-
lion people residing in cramped huts, dirty sewage, and narrow lanes. It
has been widely portrayed in the media as a filthy piece of land, a city
inside a city, and the largest slum in Asia. In reality, Dharavi is not as large
as Mexico City’s Neza-Chalco-Itza, with an estimated population of four
million people, and Karachi’s Orangi Township, with more than a million
people living in poverty.
The living realities of Dharavi are always smudged by the peripheral
depiction of its socioeconomic landscape. Though situated at the margin
of India’s financial capital, Dharavi is home to a million residents strug-
gling to make ends meet. In a densely populated city where rents are
rocketing and where residents live in cramped buildings, Dharavi provides
affordable accommodation for rural migrant workers coming to Mumbai
in search of better life. Moreover, Dharavi is located between two main
suburban railway lines, making it a convenient location for transit. In
addition to traditional pottery and textile industries, Dharavi has 5000
businesses and 15,000 single-room factories. Inside the narrow lanes, air-
conditioned shops display branded materials ranging from leather goods
to electrical appliances, all products for foreign retailers (Ahmed 2008).
The micro-businesses in Dharavi are deeply integrated into the global
economy, and locally produced leather goods, jewelries, accessories, and
textiles are exported to the USA, Europe, and the Middle East. The land,
which has been depicted as that wielding crime and filthiness, is made so
by the development of Mumbai. When the swampy island of Koli got filled
with squander, fishermen lost their livelihoods, but for other segments
of the Indian population, Dharavi was a land of hope. Kumbhars from
Gujarat established their potters’ colony, and those from Uttar Pradesh
showcased their caliber in the textile industry. Hence, Dharavi has a highly
diversified economy within Mumbai (Ahmed 2008). Some environmental
activists even call Dharavi the green lung of Mumbai because it recycles
the huge amounts of waste into useful products (McDougall 2007). The
shantytowns that the affluent families despise from their gated condomini-
ums constitute the backbone of Mumbai’s economy, supporting countless
small-scale businesses and supplying cheap labor and goods for middle-
and large-scale industries.
Things are changing fast in Dharavi. The Indian government is try-
ing to redevelop the neighborhood. The latest urban redevelopment pro-
posal for Dharavi involves the construction of 2.8 million square meters
of housing, schools, parks, and roads to serve 57,000 families living there,
along with 3.7 million square meters of residential and commercial space
for sale (Ramanathan 2007). These commercialized visions bear the old
murky image of Dharavi that will be explored below.
SLUM GALA: A FEAST FOR AND BY WESTERNERS

As a form of popular art, films are designed to satisfy the aesthetic and
creative needs of its creator. An art that demands much creativity, films
are often criticized for the realistic portrayal of social conditions and for
the controversy they provoke. The major trend of the emerging mod-
ernization and urbanization of India is the sensationalism of art forms
that satiates the demands of entertainment savvy middle-class audiences,
who find much pleasure in viewing the harsh realities that exist outside
and somewhere next to their immediate realm. In this regard, slums form
the major element of cinematic shock tactics because of the innumerous
themes and stories they hold for the popular art to imitate and indulge in.
Around the world, slum poverty lies at the heart of most crime thrillers
and films. Gary S. Becker (1968) identified a direct correlation between
poverty and criminality, indicating that people living in poverty would be
most likely to commit crime. This theory provides filmmakers with an infi-
nite world of imagination where they connect this socially confined space
to all depraved conditions of crime, drug trade, immorality, and antiso-
cial behaviors. By depicting Mumbai as a crowded city with many gated
condominiums to one full of filthy slums, filmmakers confront the con-
tradictions of urbanization and project a cinematic world where the local
knowledge of slums coincides with the global discourse of development.
Of all media materials, films influence the outlook and topography of cities
the most. As cosmopolitan cities like London and New York began to take
shape, their filmic representations became more sophisticated (Mennel
2008). In contrast, Dharavi appeared in many Indian and national films
as early as the 1970s, but there has not been a significant shift in the por-
trayal of Dharavi.
The visual information that we receive often shapes our understand-
ing of a particular culture and nation (Mitra 1999). Because films create
national stereotypes for the audiences at home and abroad, scholars have
paid attention to the role of national cinemas in influencing national and
ethnic identities, and the mass consumption of such identities (Cheung
and Fleming 2009; Chakravarty 1993). People worldwide gained a
glimpse of the Arab culture through The Mummy (1999), and of the
Chinese civilization through Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)
(Ramasubramaniam 2005). In earlier decades, some elements of Indian
culture and history were depicted in Around the World in Ninety Days
(1956), The Gandhi (1982), and The Passage to India (1984). These films
succeeded in gaining much media attention in the West. The cinematic
depiction of India in the West should be analyzed through the broader
perspective of Third World representation. Much has been written about
the stereotypes of Third World countries and of ethnic minorities as dan-
gerous, poor, and submissive. Edward W. Said (1978) put forward the
idea of Orientalism, showing that Western colonialists constantly con-
structed the Orient through history, philosophy, and travelog to distin-
guish Europe from the rest of the world. Along this line of reasoning,
Thomas Blom Hansen (1999) argues that the West summoned images of
the frenzied “Other” in order to demarcate them for control and to instill
a sense of self-confidence among westerners.
The image of Dharavi can be seen as part of this history of conflicting
representation. The foreign media still perceives India as a land of snake
charmers, filthy slums, goons, corrupt officials, and child abusers. These
stereotypes can be traced to the British colonial era when nineteenth-
century missionaries and colonists used paintings, illustrations, cartoons,
and news reports to depict Indians as uncivilized and barbaric (Merchant
1998). With the advent of mass media in the twentieth century, such
visual images and audios were used to weave foreign fantasies with liv-
ing realities in shaping the national imagination of the Indian public
(Ramasubramaniam 2005). Sanjukta Ghosh rightly points out the danger
of the lack of any diverse images of a nation in the mainstream media:
In this Orientalist/popular culture conceptualization, India is spectacular-

ized as a unitary and fixed space—jungle-like, barbarous, remote, and dark.
It is a vision of India as static, frozen in space and time, primordial, without
a history—as opposed to the West, which is dynamic and a repository of his-
tory and change (Ghosh 2003: 274).
Even after several decades, the same Orientalist trend remains intact
(Mitra 1999). The following analysis categorizes Salaam Bombay!,
Slumdog Millionaire, and Slumming it (2010) as part of this Orientalist
effort to portray Dharavi as an imaginary filthy Other. Drug trade, human
trafficking, child labor, street fights, and red streets are frequently shown
to exploit the inquisitiveness of the viewership. These depictions serve to
expose imbibed and concealed unlawful lives in the slums, but they ignore
the majority of slum-dwellers, who are law-biding citizens in the same
social space.
Of the three films under study, Salaam Bombay! should be called a
crossover production. Directed by New York–based Mira Nair and copro-
duced by Gabriel Auer, the film was premiered at the Toronto Film
Festival in 1988. Most of the off-screen crews were foreigners, and so
were the distributors. Salaam Bombay! was the first film completely shot in
Dharavi. The film deals with the trials and tribulations of a child, Krishna,
who left home to earn 500 Rupees (US$8.98) in order to redeem his
mistake within the family. Krishna arrives at the notorious Falkland Road
in Dharavi, where he works in a tea stall. Set in Dharavi, every film shot
zooms into evoking contempt, sympathy, and derision. Focusing on the
everyday life of street children and child labor, the film looms around the
entire grotesque happenings in Dharavi. The journey of Krishna starts
with his encounter with a prostitute, Sola Saal, followed by a parallel plot
of the life of prostitutes. From child labor, prostitution, and robbery to
drug addiction and atrocious boss, the filmic landscape stands as a caul-
dron of ill-fated people. The sustained long shots of Dharavi, along with
the hopelessness of its residents, project a pessimistic image of India in a
broader spectrum. Since a brutal tickling experience and a surprise fac-
tor would appeal to an international audience, the prostitution is made
an active plot in the film. Even after all the trials of life in Mumbai, the
film ends with despair, at a juncture, where Krishna is left with neither a
choice nor a penny. Unlike another film Dharavi (1991), Salaam Bombay!
demonstrates the desperation of a slum community and the sexiest and
monstrous part of the slum environment, setting aside all the flourishing
micro-businesses and the daily struggle of ordinary families. The audiences

would generalize from the cinematic landscape of Dharavi as an overall
condition of India. Even the exclamation mark after Salaam Bombay!
makes everyone skeptical about the development of India.
By comparison, Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire is the most cel-
ebrated film globally, telling the story of a humble Indian boy who over-
comes all the odds to get rich and love. The film received appreciation and
criticism because of its title and content. While the slum redevelopment
plans stirred controversy in Indian society, Slumdog Millionaire ignored
the discussion and was promoted as an Indian film. However, the title of
the film itself is derogatory, affronting the dignity of India’s slum-dwellers.
To lay out the childhood memory of Jamal, the camera moves through the
grim reality of slum life. Whether it is the long panning shot of heaps of
garbage or that of filthy ditches, the camera presents the stereotype of
poverty porn, using the images of desperate and helpless slum-dwellers
and appealing to the mercy of white foreigners. The scene of little Jamal
jumping into a pool of feces to get the autograph of a film star depicts
slum-dwellers in a very awful light. Here poverty is shown to be visually
impressive but shallow, and everyone in the slum, including the teacher,
appears to be callous and cruel. As one commentator writes,
It’s not that there aren’t kids who maimed to make them better beggars.
There are some. I’d say not many. It’s not that people haven’t been killed
because of unrest between Muslims and Hindus. Some have been … here
is a movie that piles on all the worst India offers on its worst days and
shows seemingly endless scenes of torture and child endangerment (Rhein,
February 21, 2009).
Human misery, poverty, and hunger have a universal appeal. Confining

the plight of millions of slum-dwellers in a notorious social space poses
the challenge of framing and focus to a plausible storyline. As the reality
of child hunger and poverty touches every soul, the majority of films set in
slums attribute the lead role to children as in Slumdog Millionaire, Salaam
Bombay!, and Traffic Light. Argumentatively, filmmakers spin out a few
illegal, immoral, and mafia deals with a villain who always harms children
in their struggle for survival.
Aesthetically, Danny Boyle applies the camera gaze as a strategic tool
to make the film more appealing globally. He brings to life Mumbai’s
slum life through the long and overhead shots of “tarpaulin-covered roofs
of flimsy shacks, dingy alleyways, open drains, pools of excrement, and

mounds and mounds of garbage” (Sengupta 2009). The “chase scene” in
which the police run behind the kids through the narrow lanes of Dharavi
is a prominent imagery. The backdrop of the police chase reveals the
topography of Dharavi with close-ups, mid shots, and aerial shots. Shots
that capture a kid collecting waste and washing clothes from the drainage
and that show stray dogs and heaps of sewage from different multiple
viewpoints blur the original scene of the police chase. A major strength
of the camera lens lies in the way it creates the unusual out-of-normal cir-
cumstances. The shabby streets and hungry faces are the same everywhere,
but the camera gimmicks of close-ups, zooming, and panning magnifies
these images as extraordinary.
Despite the visual effects, Edward W. Said critiqued the rhetorical func-
tion of such long-distance panoramic shots as an obstinate technique of
portraying an Orient through surveillance from above. Once the domi-
nant Orientalist got hold of “the whole sprawling panorama before him,”
he could “see every detail through the device of a set of reductive catego-
ries” (Said 1978: 239).
In the same fashion, Boyle portrays Dharavi as symbolizing a broken
social and political system amid a brimming economy. The only public
institution is the corrupt and vicious. Moreover, the labor force captured
in the film through the flashback of young hero Jamal is linked to trivial
manhandling, criminality, and rag pickers, and no one seems to indulge
in productive work. By ignoring the basic infrastructure provided by the
state and municipal authorities like water taps, drains, and electricity, the
very one-sided cinematic focus centers on the notoriety of Dharavi, and
the close-up frame of a hardworking commoner is often a beggar or a
criminal.
The slum-dwellers, mostly children, from Mumbai and the northern
state of Bihar protested against being portrayed as dogs, and even filed a
defamation case against Danny Boyle in the eastern Indian city of Patna
(Singh, January 26, 2009). Even when different sections of the Indian
society urged Boyle to alter the title of the film, the film continued to gain
much acclaim. Radha Chanda (January 17, 2009) asserted that in times of
global financial crisis, the Western audiences acquired much pleasure and
satisfaction from watching this film about the sad plight of slum-dwellers.
The Occidental thirst for the tarnished image of the Orient was reflected
in the eight Academy awards given to the film, even though the global
balance of power had shifted to China and India.
By 2008, developmental planners, cooperative societies, and grassroots

associations established themselves in Dharavi, and many slum-dwellers culti-
vated strong collaborative networks across caste and religious lines (Sengupta
2009). Almost nothing was mentioned about the remarkable accomplish-
ments of micro-businesses in Dharavi, with the turnover of these activities
being from US$50 to US$100 million. The entrepreneurial slum-dwellers
identify themselves with Dharavi, an intimate home, and are keen to create an
effective governance structure that regulates their everyday activities. Sadly,
by overlooking these constructive efforts, the global media treats Dharavi as
a transnational cultural commodity. One consequence of this commoditiza-
tion of poverty is the proliferation of slum tourism in India (Anonymous,
May 22, 2012). Slum tourism, namely a guided tour of a suburban area
“characterized by substandard housing and squalor and lacking in tenure
security,” began to get momentum simultaneously with the urbanization
process (United Nations 2007; Ma 2010). Several tour companies actively
indulge in this tourist activity. After the release of Slumdog Millionaire, the
revenue of these companies doubled, and Reality Tours and Travel, the
largest slum tour operator in Mumbai, reported a 25% jump in business
(Weiner, March 16, 2009). This kind of business is problematic because the
very poor of the slum-dwellers not only receive no financial gains, but also
suffer the humiliation of displaying their hardship for curious foreigners.
To appeal to international viewers’ voyeurism, Kevin McCloud directed
a two-part British documentary, Slumming it, for Channel 4 in England in
2010. The documentary served as an explanatory supplement to Slumdog
Millionaire. McCloud followed a local guide to film the interiors of slum
houses and expressed contempt literally in his face by showing dirty sew-
age, dead rats, children playing amid trash, and families cramped in small
rooms. This visual exploration is very imperialistic, capitalizing on peo-
ple’s hardship and misery. At the same time, Lutz Konermann produced
a rather critical documentary, Dharavi, Slum for Sale, to address the rede-
velopment of Dharavi. Rather than patronizing the poor, Konermann
explores the role of multiple agents in the slum community and shows that
urban planners and slum-dwellers struggled to use the grotesque land-
scape to pursue their own independent agendas.
It is important to note that urban slum has long been a marginal film
genre in the West when urbanization forced the marginalized groups to
segregate themselves. Jacquie Jones (1991) coined the term “ghetto aes-
thetics” in reference to the young, urban, Black cinema and the hip-hop
culture and urban frescoes in the USA during the 1960s and 1970s. Even
though such a subculture remained detached from the lived experience

of ghetto residents, it manifested itself in many low-budget films that
had become the Hollywood conventions of those communities. Catering
to the American audience’s voyeurism, these films fantasized the ghetto
neighborhood and turned it into a cultural commodity. Viewed from this
perspective, Ananda Mitra (1999) explains that because the stereotypes of
Indian characters and images in Hollywood are designed to reinforce the
distinction between East and West, the cinematic force always highlight
differences in physical appearances, dressings, and collective behaviors.
Such stereotypes are deliberately stored as schemas that provide short-
cut references to the social practices of Indians (Hansen and Krygowski
1994; Fiske and Taylor 1991). Even though the characters in Slumdog
Millionaire are fictional, the global audiences subconsciously refer to the
cinematic narratives to frame their understanding of India.
DESI GHETTO: DHARAVI THROUGH AN INDIAN LENS

Bollywood has emerged as a new cultural force today through its unique
mix of song, dance, romance, sentiments, fantasy, and melodrama. It has
appropriated various influences from different local Indian cultures, tra-
ditions, and experiences, thereby maintaining a unique and distinctive
form of visual arts (Mazumdar 2007). The cinematic discourse of urban-
ity in Bollywood differs from that of Hollywood. Bollywood has long
acknowledged the strong presence of the rural Other and harmonized
the contrasting images of metropolitan cities and village streets. Toward
the late 1980s, Bollywood captured the trend of an urban shock, anxiety,
and pleasure. The portrayal of ghettos and slums in Bombay is a natural
projection of the new urban life of Mumbai, an accurate depiction of a
modernizing society, its ongoing struggle for survival, and its sense of
hope and optimism. The metaphorization of urban slums in Bollywood
“both showed the same impassioned negotiation with everyday survival,
combined with the same intense effort to forget that negotiation, the
same mix of the comic and the tragic, spiced with elements borrowed
indiscriminately from the classical and the folk, the East and the West”
(Nandy 1998: 2). These unintended cities exist outside the official vision
of a planned city. In such a gauche situation, the survival of a city is under
threat without this unintended city, but the officially intended city cannot
accept the unintended counterpart as an integral part of itself (Sen, April
1976). This constant struggle between an official city and an unintended

city constitutes the artistic imagination of the Indian urban population.
Starting from 1975, Bollywood films addressing social issues tended to
use Dharavi as its backdrop. Although these films never exaggerated the
filthiness of slum life and filled the imaginative world with close-up shots
of heaps of garbage and open lavatories, they cared for the collective strug-
gle for existence, the intimacy of human relations, and the complexities of
grassroots politics.
Before the 1990s, Bollywood tended to be contextual, capturing
lucidly the various periods of struggle and conflict. Nationalism is always
the staple of Bollywood and reflects the dominant ideology of the time
(Ranganathan 2010). The 1970s witnessed an acceleration of urbaniza-
tion, with huge numbers of migrants rushing to major cities to seek a
better life. This profound stage of urban commotion, the stress of a hectic
lifestyle, the obsession with consumerism, and the proliferation of vio-
lence and chaos compelled the urban inhabitants to adopt a carefree atti-
tude toward anything beyond their control (Simmel 1950). Here came
the struggle of these unintended cities (i.e., slums), where a segment
of the population tried to be part of the larger city life. The 1970s also
witnessed the rise of social discontents across India, displaying popular
frustration with the politics of postcolonial nationalism. While many films
critiqued the ills of urbanization, they humanized the lived experience of
slum-dwellers. Against this backdrop, the cinematic portrayal of Dharavi
embodied a sense of strong power struggle among the newly arrived rural
migrants finding themselves trapped in cheap and crowded squatters.
Films like Deewaar (1975) and Parinda (1989) use the story of gang-
sters in Dharavi to critique political inequality and injustice in Mumbai
(Lal 1998). These films do not depict the landscape of Dharavi as an odd
against the all-good, but focus on human interactions and power struggle.
Similar depictions can be discerned in Footpath (2003), the Sarkar
series (2005–2008), and Traffic Signal (2007), all dealing with power
inequalities and underworld activities. Traffic Signal distinguishes from
them by sympathizing with the daily plight of ordinary people who
live under the mercy of an imaginary traffic signal. The film first shows
numerous Mumbai residents being trapped in a traffic island, and another
group of people struggling to venture into minor vender businesses. Here
Dharavi symbolizes the human plight for survival. Although the film shows
the unpleasant reality of some people deceiving the public for material
gains, the film never sensationalizes the public sentiment and creates an
unrealistic realism by complaining about a broken system. The emphasis
of Traffic Signal is on spatial contravenes and changing power relations.
What it reveals is the resilience of slum-dwellers. A young man, not as
cruel as those in Slumdog Millionaire, instructs a group of people to carry
out pickup and delivery duties to earn their living. By humanizing these
slum-dwellers, the film enables viewers to see all ethnicities who come to
Dharavi for different reasons (Mazumdar 2007).
In fact, Dharavi (1991) is the first Indian film that puts Dharavi on
the map. It tells the story of a taxi driver, Raj Karan, living with his family
in a humble one-room shack in Dharavi and hoping to become rich and
enjoy life outside the slum. It is heartening to see how Dharavi is cin-
ematically presented as an organic settlement, where people have a sense
of community and care for each other in the neighborhood. The harsh
living condition of the shack is used to show the lead female character, a
perfectionist, transforming the small room into a safe and healthy family
paradise. The film seeks to capture the dream of this humble individual,
and at the end of the story, Raj Karan moves on with the same hope of
making money and is not discouraged by the cruel instances he encounters
(Ganghar 1996).
A closer analysis of these films on Dharavi reveals some common cin-
ematic plots and structures. First, there are always a hero and a villain,
and the latter is the product of Dharavi. Second, the protagonist stands
up to fight the criminal gangs operating inside Dharavi. Third, the street
children from Dharavi become the focus of attention. Fourth, the hero
acts as a just police force to clean up crime-prone streets. Fourth, a young
girl ends up unwillingly in prostitution in Dharavi, and the hero has to
rescue her. Fifth, Dharavi is seldom projected to be a breeding ground
of evil deeds in these Indian productions. The cinematic focus is not on
the landscape of Dharavi, but on the resilience of slum-dwellers as a living
community, a cohesive social body, and a self-governing entity.
CONCLUSION
Dharavi as a social and political space has been deconstructed in many
contemporary films as a world of helplessness and malice. Even though
these films only fantasize the everyday life in slums, they are wrongly cat-
egorized by the world media as realistic representations. This extensive
slumming blurs the line between real and fictional in the present-day
culture of media spectacle and confuses the viewers about fact and fictional
experience (Kellner 2003).
In this era of global information flow, the construction and defilement
of national images and identity are problematic. Visual materials like film
and documentary are more powerful than traditional print. Bollywood
renders stories to reflect the existing ideologies. Despite the immense
popularity of Bollywood around the world, Bollywood filmmakers do
not get much recognition in international film awards. Instead, a foreign
production about Dharavi, Slumdog Millionaire, grabbed eight Academy
awards, and this provokes much discussion about the negative portrayal
of Indianness in foreign cinema. The Indian civilization is an endless tale
of enthusiasm and excitement. But when a foreign director wants to pro-
duce an Indian-themed movie, s/he turns to slums in urban India. The
global information flow from the West to the East reaches its peak in this
new media age, where there are more opportunities of portraying a city.
This can be seen in the continuous outpouring of films and documentaries
about Dharavi after the success of Slumdog Millionaire. There has now
emerged a new subgenre of Indian slum aesthetics where the politics of
slums is least concerning and much attention is paid to viewers’ voyeur-
ism. This genre differs from the ghetto aesthetics of Black cinema in the
USA, where filmmakers skillfully use the hip-hop culture and urban graffiti
to critique racism and injustice.
However, this chapter is not trying to suggest that the line between a
real Dharavi and a cinematically represented Dharavi is rather rigid and
straightforward. But it suggests that the representation of Dharavi in the
crossover productions focus its lens on the negative aspect of this urban
poverty that manifests itself as a negative publicity for the dwellers and
the nation itself. These films overlook the reality that there is a sense of
community in these slums which makes the residents not to choose an
alternative dwelling, as against what is shown in Slumdog Millionaire.
The result of such a poverty porn is the “exclusiveness” or “exceptional-
ism” vested upon India by the westerners for its height of filthy poverty
and wretchedness. The increasing interest in slum tourism in Dharavi
after the release of Slumdog Millionaire reflects this claim. Chris Way,
the cofounder of Reality Tours and Travel, which provides slum tourism
through Dharavi, says that there was a 25% increase in the inflow of tour-
ists to Dharavi with the release of Slumdog Millionaire (Foster 2009).
This also narrates the porn effect of poverty and the voyeuristic pleasure
attached to it.
Setting aside the depiction of Dharavi in films, Slumdog Millionaire

was a not a big hit in Indian theaters when compared to its Bollywood
contemporaries. Reasons could be many—the absence of any big or popu-
lar actor and a familiar rags-to-riches story, with overpowering drama on
impoverishness. Time magazine quoted one of the respondents on the
film, “We see all this every day. … You can’t live in Mumbai without see-
ing children begging at traffic lights and passing by slums on your way to
work. But I don’t want to be reminded of that on a Saturday evening”
(Singh 2009). Films like Traffic Light and Sarkar, which grabbed positive
reviews from critics and were lauded with awards, were in fact not a big hit
at the box office when compared to its pomp and glittery contemporaries.
However, they were not flops either. The film Dharavi was also critically
acclaimed, but considered in the category of parallel films. As the name
suggests, these parallel films are made not considering the audience, but
for artistic contentment. However, Bollywood began to witness the gene-
sis of a new genre, which Tyrewala (2012) called “Mumbai Noir,” a genre
of films depicting the grim social realities of Mumbai with an artistic yet
commercial eye. Films like Sarkar, Traffic Light, and Footpath come under
this category, whereby an overt commercialization or parallelism is hardly
visible, creating a good mixture of it. For the fantasy-loving and romantic
fans of Bollywood, this concoction is acceptable, which is reflected in its
above average box-office collections. Though being an escapist film, the
reception of Slumdog was met with its overt sensationalism of poverty and
slum, with real children from outside the slums. The word “slumdog,”
that compares dwellers to “dogs,” drove the middle-class audiences away
from the film.
Experiencing the city depends on the visual imageries that the media
creates for the audiences. The recent tendency to portray Dharavi as a
veritable Disneyland of crime, poverty, drugs, prostitution, urban degra-
dation, social despair, and moral bankruptcy actually glorifies and com-
moditizes human misery. The misrepresentation of a city within a city
like Dharavi produces a schema of morbid images that affects the prelimi-
nary impression of a foreigner about India and their perception of a rising
superpower. The cinematic stereotypes of Dharavi betray any effort to
understand Dharavi as the hybrid social structure of urban and rural India
(Druijven 2010). Only by acknowledging the complexities of Dharavi can
we appreciate the spirit of those residents trying to adapt, survive, and
maintain their dignity in a fast-changing metropolis like Mumbai.
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Chakravarty, Sumita S. 1993. National identity in Indian popular cinema,
1947–1987. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Chanda, Radha. 2009, January 17. The Slumdog Millionaire route to luxury.
Livemint.
Cheung, Ruby, and D.H. Fleming (eds.). 2009. Cinemas, identities and beyond.
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Druijven, Peter. 2010. Comments on Nijman’s ‘A study of space in Mumbai’s
slums’. From slumdog to Mumbaikar: A space odyssey? Tijdschrift voor
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Fiske, Susan T., and Shelley E. Taylor (eds.). 1991. Social cognition, 2nd ed.
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Foster, Jenny. 2009. Slumdog millionaire put slum tourism on the spotlight.
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asia/issue03/feature-01.asp
Ganghar, Amrit. 1996. Films from the city of dreams. In Bombay: Mosaic of mod-
ern culture, ed. Sujata Patel and Alice Thorner, 210–224. New York: Oxford
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Hansen, Thomas Blom. 1999. The saffron wave: Democracy and Hindu national-
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CHAPTER 10
Life Without Principle: Financial

Irregularities in Hong Kong
Siu-Keung Cheung
INTRODUCTION
Globalization makes way for capitalism to advance transactions world-
wide, and neoliberalism leads to the ruthless pursuit of capital accumula-
tion (Hardt and Negri 2000; Turner 2008). Such a marketization process
often comes with rising exploitation, economic irregularity, and cultural
collapse (Polyani 1957). Unregulated financial markets have caused erratic
fluctuations in the macroeconomy and eroded the livelihoods of the poor.
In Hong Kong, the global economic crisis in 2008 completely undermined
the gradual recovery of the city from the aftermaths of the Asian finan-
cial storm in 1997. Many residents lost their lifelong savings in interna-
tional stock markets following the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers. Even
though local banks misled clients to purchase high-risk financial products,
the Hong Kong Special Administrative Government only required the
banks to pay partial compensation to the victims (HKSAR 2012). Once
the financial and banking sectors shifted from what Michael A. Santoro
and Ronald J. Strauss (2012) called the old Wall Street’s model of serv-
ing clients to an aggressive model of proprietary trading, it threatened the
S.-K. Cheung ()

Hong Kong Shue Yan University, Hong Kong

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_10
182 S.-K. CHEUNG
status of Hong Kong as a global financial center and caused more risks to
the local economy and society.
Produced by Johnnie To in 2011, Life Without Principle, known as
Duo Ming Jin (Deadly Gold) in Cantonese, challenged a series of irregu-
larities in Hong Kong’s financial industry, critiquing the pursuit of pros-
perity at the expense of the vulnerable and the rise of China’s political and
economic control over postcolonial Hong Kong. Johnnie To used the
Bank of Wan Tong to characterize the financial and banking sectors as a
Darwinian jungle, where the management employed performance apprais-
als to keep track of the weekly and monthly sale quotas for each employee,
urging everyone to make profit at any cost. Similar to Japanese salary-
men, the Hong Kong employees internalized this neoliberal discourse of
enterprise culture, which emphasized individual initiatives, boldness, self-
reliance, and willingness to take risks and accept responsibility for one’s
action (Shibata 2012). This managerial discourse justified the imposition
of punitive bank fees on consumers and the discrimination against the
elderly, women, and blue-collar workers. Ordinary customers gained no
return from their savings. The perpetual exploitation of customers was
a bitter reality in Hong Kong’s banking industry. Once the banks insti-
tutionalized this outcome-oriented evaluation system, regular employees
had to fight for their survival. The most outstanding employee was the
one who used plausible but incomprehensible business jargons to per-
suade customers to buy risky financial products. Protagonist Teresa Chan
failed to meet the assigned sales targets and was publicly despised by her
supervisor. She had to mislead an honest elderly woman to make a risky
investment in BRIC (Brazil, Russia, India, and China) stock markets. On
the surface, Teresa followed the required procedure and informed her cli-
ent of the official regulations about such an investment, but she never
explained the possibility of a total loss in an easily accessible language. She
manipulated the business transaction procedure to obtain the client’s con-
sent. The elderly client eventually lost most of her investment in the 2008
global financial crisis. Such financial irregularities led to an orderless order
that favored the superrich at the expense of everyone else.
MONEY, POWER, AND VIOLENCE: INTERVENTIONS INTO

THE FINANCIAL HEGEMONY FROM BELOW
Following the typical crime and gangster film genres, Life Without Principle
not only staged varying popular discontents against the hegemony of
the financial sector in Hong Kong, but also dramatized the institutional
LIFE WITHOUT PRINCIPLE: FINANCIAL IRREGULARITIES IN HONG... 183
and practical violence of such an unruly industry against ordinary people

(Wan 2010; Stokes and Hoover 1999). The film began with the murder
of Chun Yuen, a regular customer of the Bank of Wan Tong. Known for
his financial savvy, Chun Yuen avoided the pitfalls of banking services and
ran a successful loan shark business. In times of financial difficulty, most
people were unable to obtain bank loans. Chun Yuen exploited their hard-
ships to advance his underground usury business and demanded exces-
sive interest rates and fees from borrowers. Such practices enraged other
people and led to his own death in a robbery inside the car park. Director
To highlighted the brutal dogfight between Chun Yuen and the young
robber. Although Chun Yuen wrestled the robber to the ground and safe-
guarded all his money, he suffered a severe head injury and died in his car
alone. This tragic scene metaphorized the egregious interplay between
money, power, and violence in Hong Kong. Both legal and illegal financial
practices were intertwined. Exploited by banks and loan sharks, ordinary
people had no choice but to take revenge and risk their life. The movie
went on to show a lengthy flashback of the experiences of different char-
acters in connection with Chun Yuen’s death, analyzing the systematic
corruption of financial institutions, on the one hand, and the corrosive
effects of materialism, on the other. The portrayals of ordinary citizens,
the inclusion of minor-to-minor dialogues, and the articulations of anti-
hegemonic resistance with varying localities as well as translocalities were
put in place to advance the rise of grassroots activism for transformative
change (Szeto and Chen 2012).
If coincided with bad timing, people often made bad decisions. Senior
inspector Cheung Jin-Fong was assigned to investigate the murder of
Chun Yuen. Though he was satisfied with his career and showed little
interest in speculative investment, he was not immune to recurring fluc-
tuations in the global economy. His wife insisted on getting a jumbo
mortgage loan from the Bank of Wan Tong to purchase a luxurious apart-
ment. When the Icelandic financial crisis caused falling housing prices in
the global and local real estate markets in October 2008, the new apart-
ment became a liability for inspector Cheung. Similarly, the young man
lost his life when he tried to loot Chun Yuen. He initially had no intention
to commit a crime, but his lover, Chun Yuen’s secretary, was so obsessed
with consumerism that she instigated him to do so. People seemed to lose
their agency in such a materialistic world. In this perspective, Johnnie To
reflected on the famous essay written by American thinker Henry David
Thoreau in 1854, “Life Without Principle,” and urged his audiences to
live a self-fulfilling life rather than pursuing profits at any cost (Thoreau
184 S.-K. CHEUNG
1998). To completely rejected the materialistic motto “I consume, there-

fore I am” and tried to awaken the people of Hong Kong from the logic
of consumption that permeated their everyday life.
When the society evaluated everything in monetary terms, traditional
morality and ethics disappeared. Panther, a thug in the movie, was the
only cinematic character that embodied the spirit of loyalty and fraternity
(zhongxin yiqi). He was always ready to serve the triad boss and fellow
gang members, but he only knew to show respect and kindness through
monetary transactions. When he hosted a birthday banquet for his triad
boss, he never appropriated the gifts for himself. He was so entrepreneurial
that he bargained with the restaurant manager to lower the price of the
banquet for his boss, even to the extent of serving vegetarian dishes and
nonalcoholic beverages. While the guests showed up to fulfill the cultural
obligation toward the triad boss, they exploited the banquet to gamble,
network, and contemplate new business opportunities among themselves.
On another occasion, Panther extorted money from small-business owners
shamelessly in order to bail out a fellow gangster. His sense of loyalty and
fraternity took precedence over any concern for right and wrong. Human
relationship (guanxi) was distorted if only measured in instrumental terms.
Almost all the characters could not withstand the temptation of profi-
teering. Panther sought help from Lung, an underground banker profi-
teering from the black market’s future index speculation. Such a lucrative
business enabled Lung to bail out a gang member for Panther. Although
Lung lost his fortune and life in the 2008 global financial crisis, he was
convinced that financial speculation was the only way to make quick prof-
its, just as one would gamble in a casino.
The end of the film staged an interesting twist. After the dust of the
global financial crisis had settled, everything came to a full circle. The
money left by Chun Yuen allowed Teresa to resign from the bank. A finan-
cial rebound enabled Inspector Cheung to earn money from his newly
purchased apartment. Panther became wealthy after he reinvested Lung’s
money in the stock market. Behind the colorful scenes of hit and run was
an irony that the whole society embraced financial speculation to the extent
of tolerating business irregularities, unfair deals, and market malpractices.
CRITIQUING HONG KONG–CHINESE LINKS

Critical of the uneasy relationships between Hong Kong and China after
1997, Johnnie To worried about the imposition of Chinese authori-
tarianism in the postcolonial city. In the name of ensuring stability and
prosperity, Beijing criticized the spread of pro-democracy sentiment and

demonized it as a subversive plot backed by Western “anti-China” forces
to topple the Communist state. Beijing always treated Hong Kong as an
economic city where people focused on making money. Deng Xiaoping
designed the “one country, two systems” model to depoliticize Hong
Kong by prioritizing economic development over democratization and
appealed to patriotism as the core of one’s country in order to neutral-
ize the differences between capitalistic Hong Kong and socialist China.
The postcolonial era, however, witnessed many policy setbacks, and the
Hong Kong government suffered from one legitimacy crisis after another.
People from all walks of life mobilized themselves to defend their rights
and demand universal suffrage (Lee and Chan 2011). In 2003, Beijing
addressed the discontent by intensifying cross-border links through the
Closer Economic Partnership Agreement (Hong Kong Trade and Industry
Department 2007, 2010).
This strategy of economic co-optation enabled the Mainland capital
to permeate all levels of Hong Kong society. Johnnie To highlighted
such an economic dependence in the film. The Mainland capitalist who
represented the wealthiest 1 % looked gentle and cosmopolitan, but was
a domineering figure and sought to make profits at all costs. After los-
ing billions of dollars in the underground stock market, his anger drove
him to kill Lung, a long-time business partner in Hong Kong. The ruth-
less capitalist saw himself above the law and justified his deed by saying:
“Sheer greedy though, rule can’t be changed.” Even though the Chinese
and Hong Kong economies are interdependent on each other, China’s
readiness to assert its newfound power has alienated most people of Hong
Kong. This cinematic remark points to a top-down imposition of eco-
nomic pragmatism and authoritarian governance on a postcolonial society
and challenges the audiences to reflect on the rising vulnerability of Hong
Kong under China’s state-led capitalism.
STATE, CENSORSHIP, AND THE “CATEGORY E” FILM

Life Without Principle is a unique movie that reveals the inner workings
of the financial and banking systems in Hong Kong. Through a cinematic
critique of the alleged corruption and irregularities in these sectors, the
film drives the audiences to reject the current discourse of neoliberalism,
an economic doctrine that limits the scope of democratic government,
normalizes the aggressive pursuit of profits, and gambles the city’s future
on Chinese economic growth (Ong 2006). Similar to the critique of the
186 S.-K. CHEUNG
Orientalist fantasies in Salaam Bombay! and Slumdog Millionaire by Sony

Jalarajan Raj and Rohini Sreekumar in the previous chapter, Life Without
Principle presents a cinematic moral framework to rescue human integrity
from damage done by state-led capitalism.
In order to access the Mainland market, Life Without Principle suf-
fered from the syndrome of “one movie, two versions” as experienced by
other post-1997 Hong Kong film producers (He 2010). The Mainland
officials permitted the release of this film in China, with Johnnie To
adhering to the demands of government censors (Chan 2013). One
adjustment was to project a benevolent image of the Communist state
at the end of the film, “Once the police promulgated an order of arrest,
Panther and Teresa promptly surrendered themselves to the police
authorities and confessed their crimes. The court eventually gave them a
lenient sentence” (Nanfang Dushi Bao, January 18, 2012). The censor-
ship may not affect the overall quality of the film, including its rejection
of China’s state-led capitalism. The adjusted version of the film became a
Category E movie that was firmly in line with the ideological control but
was inlaid with critical satires, sensitive allegories, and even subversive
demonstrations throughout the content (Cormilli and Narboni 1982;
Chen 1994).
However, the existence of film censorship in China urges us to take
seriously the critique of socialism by Vaclav Havel (1985) during the
heyday of the Cold War. Havel called for a nonviolent strategy of living
in the Truth to overcome the culture of fear and to reject the pretenses of
post-totalitarianism. As long as the people adhered to a truthful life, they
could articulate their vision of a good society, and in due course, they
would erode the legitimacy of the one-party state and defeat the regime.
The insights of Havel are instructive for the people of Hong Kong.
Joseph Tse-Hei Lee and Lida V. Nedilsky (2012) assert that China’s
combination of authoritarian rule and a market-oriented economy in
state-led capitalism has proven simultaneously appealing and a source
of domestic discontent. A rising and prosperous China that denies its
citizens what they desire, such as health care, job security, interethnic
and religious tolerance, gender equality, and equal opportunity for all
to advance by personal efforts, pushed discontented sectors to organize
themselves for collective action. If the state cannot tolerate the pressures
and outcomes of its appeal, it is bound to trap itself in a perpetual cycle
of discontent (Cheung et al. 2009). Life Without Principle best captures
this governance crisis in Hong Kong. The more cash driven the city is,
the more unstable it becomes. Such a shaky political foundation betrays

the understanding of public and individual morality as envisioned by
Henry David Thoreau and Johnnie To.
CONCLUSION
Postcolonial Hong Kong is subjected to a form of Chinese authoritarian
control that greatly departed from the original promise for high level of
autonomy under the Sino–British Joint Declaration (1984) and the Basic
Law (Lau 2013). Johnnie To and other Hong Kong filmmakers continue
their film productions as part of the city’s search for a more autonomous
and localized identity in the postcolonial era (Liew 2012). Life Without
Principle offered a strong cinematic critique of the Chinese Communist
penetration of Hong Kong’s economic and sociopolitical space. The
movie dramatized the local manifestations of the 2008 global economic
crisis and revealed the political and social discontents that eventually led
to the outbreak of the Umbrella Revolution in late 2014. While it is hard
for post-1997 Hong Kong to get rid of the Chinese domination, the city
is still keen to assert its limited agency and seize control of its destiny from
within.
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Wan, Marco. 2010. Law and humour in Johnnie To’s Justice, My Foot! Cardozo
Law Review 31: 1313–1329.
PART III
The Aesthetics of Representation and

Representation of Aesthetics
CHAPTER 11
Discontents of Modernity: Space,

Consumption and Loss in Hong Kong New
Wave and Bombay Parallel Cinema
Surajit Chakravarty
INTRODUCTION
Hong Kong and Mumbai are two very different cities in many ways, not
least in terms of their postcolonial experiences, political economies and
urbanisms. Both cities are, however, dominated by images and industries
of image production. Images both reflect and reproduce urban cultures.
Michael Curtin (2010) has argued persuasively for a comparison of Hong
Kong and Mumbai as “media capitals.” The purpose of this comparison
is to initiate a conversation regarding two still-evolving cinematic move-
ments that have shown resilience against the all-conquering Hollywood
films, are representative of their cities’ modernisms and continue to
observe their societies critically. One hopes that such a comparison might
energize the study of films from the two cities, and of the cities themselves.
I thank Mr. Bill Yip, Dr. Rosa Chan, Dr. Katherine Chu and Dr. Alan Cheung for
their help with locating films in Hong Kong. I also thank the staff at the Hong
Kong Film Archives for their efficient work.
S. Chakravarty ()
ALHOSN University, Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_11
194 S. CHAKRAVARTY
The 1970s and 1980s were decades of keen political contest, flex-
ible accumulation, fledgling experiments in information technology and
global economic integration. In much of the developing world, it was also
a time of rapid urbanization, modernization of production processes and
formation of consumer societies. Amid the technological advancement
and establishment of a new economic order, a countercurrent was seen
in the growing critique of the shortcomings and excesses of modernism.
Both Hong Kong and Bombay witnessed a period of rapid population and
economic growth during this time.
By the 1980s the mainstream cinemas of both cities had become large
industries enjoying international audiences. Each had developed its own
style and was dominated by a handful of successful subgenres. The induc-
tion of young filmmakers at this time, trained in the techniques and aes-
thetics of cinema, and with an eye for social issues and political questions,
created opportunities for new styles and narratives.
The histories of the Hong Kong “New Wave” and Bombay “Parallel
Cinema” have been reported by various scholars. The summary below
highlights some of the significant factors borrowing extensively from
existing accounts. The city was renamed to Mumbai in 1995. It is referred
to as Bombay in this study because the period being discussed predates the
renaming. This brief account of the evolution of the two cinematic move-
ments is followed by synopses and comparative analysis of four prominent
films that were critical of excessive modernization.
EVOLUTION OF THE NEW WAVE IN HONG KONG

Cinematic realism emerged in Hong Kong before the advent of the New
Wave (xin langchao), a new filmic trend that addressed Hong Kong iden-
tity and expressed itself in the Cantonese dialect of the British colony’s
majority residents during the 1970s. According to Cheuk Pak-Tong, cin-
ematic critiques of social issues developed as early as the 1950s, but it
was the New Wave of the late 1970s that completed “the work of local-
ization” of the cinematic arts (Cheuk 2008: 14). As early as the 1960s,
urban social issues such as parental neglect, prostitution and crime became
themes for films. One of the standout names of the period, Patrick Lung
Kong, known as Long Gang, took a modernist stand on the social produc-
tion of crime and vice.
Lung Kong has been called out for being too didactic in his films (Law
Kar 1982; Teo 1997; Li 2002), a valid criticism considering his indulgence
DISCONTENTS OF MODERNITY: SPACE, CONSUMPTION AND LOSS IN HONG... 195
in protracted educational monologues (some delivered by characters

played by Lung Kong himself). Nevertheless, he is considered one of the
pioneers of socially conscious cinema in Hong Kong. His landmark films
like Story of a Discharged Prisoner (1967), Teddy Girls (1969), Yesterday,
Today, Tomorrow (1970) and The Call Girls (1973) took a compassionate
and reflexive view toward crime and the pressures that influenced young
people. “Lung was one of Hong Kong’s most resilient film-makers in the
70s who refused to be influenced by the commercial trend of kung fu and
martial arts” (Teo 1997: 138). Lung Kong attempted to express him-
self and educate people on social concerns while providing mainstream
entertainment—a goal espoused by a number of New Wave directors in
later years.
Massive immigration from Mainland China meant that the business
was increasingly dominated by Mandarin-language films in the 1960s
and 1970s. Cantonese-language films dwindled in the late 1960s and
the number was reduced to zero in 1971. Superior management of
major Shanghai-based studios, along with changing tastes, increasing
costs of production in color and a thriving Cantonese-language televi-
sion industry are considered the main reasons for this trend (Li 2002;
Kung and Zhang 1984). The Hong Kong New Wave, with its superior
production quality and focus on Hong Kong society, was at least par-
tially responsible for rebuilding the market for Cantonese-language films
and turning the tide.
The idea of the New Wave in Hong Kong was recognized, acclaimed
and announced even before it had arrived. “The Hong Kong ‘New Wave’
was something of a film movement anticipated and foretold” (Li 2002:
111). In 1979, at the Third Hong Kong International Film Festival, an
annual publication associated with the event announced the imminent
arrival of the Hong Kong New Wave:
Suddenly, there seems to be widespread talk of a “New Wave” in Hong

Kong cinema, or at least widespread expectation that a “New Wave” will
emerge shortly. … The main reason is that a group of young filmmakers,
all in their twenties and thirties, have moved from television into the film
industry—independently of each other, but within a short space of time.
The sheer size of the exodus has been enough to draw attention to the puta-
tive new movement (Leung 1979: 6).
At that time, only Yim Ho, one of the directors featured in this anal-
ysis, had made his debut with The Extras (1978). Others who had left
196 S. CHAKRAVARTY
television to embark on film careers had only signed contracts with pro-
duction companies. Leung Noong-Kong does note that it might have
been “premature to celebrate” (Leung 1979: 6). Yet it is remarkable how
early critics and scholars coalesced around the project of ushering in the
New Wave. One might speculate that the presence of many elite academic
institutions, along with the relatively dense and highly networked nature
of the city might have been responsible for unanimity in opinion among
critics, scholars and filmmakers. The prophecy was fulfilled in 1979 with
the release of several notable films, including “Ann Hui’s The Secret, Tsui
Hark’s Butterfly Murders, Alex Cheung’s Cops and Robbers, and Peter
Yung’s The System” (Law Kar 1999: 49).
The wave had been predicted based on the filmmakers’ reputations
earned through their work in television. “The rise and boom of Hong
Kong’s television culture industry throughout the 1970s coincided with
an urban expansion and boom that lasted for more than two decades”
(Yau 2011: 76). Pak-Tong Cheuk (1999, 2008) traces the story of intense
competition between three major television channels. “[I]n the 1970s,
when Hong Kong was in the initial stage of rapid modernization, the
mediated life-worlds in television dramas were far more glamorous and
extravagant than reality” (Ma 2012: 53). The channels battled over view-
ership, which continued to improve the quality of content and turned
television into the “Shaolin temple”—a place of learning and practice—for
future film directors.
ART, COMMERCE, THE STATE AND “PARALLEL CINEMA”

IN BOMBAY
In stark contrast to Hong Kong’s euphoric welcome to the New Wave,

the conceptualization and commencement of India’s Parallel Cinema was
highly contested, not only with regard to the definition of the movement
but also over matters of politics, aesthetics, language and finance. The
films that broke away from “mainstream” filmmaking (in one of various
ways, such as sources of funding, aesthetics, themes, degree of realism,
etc.) have been referred to using adjectives as diverse as “parallel,” “off-
beat,” “alternative,” “art,” “meaningful,” “serious,” “good,” “realist,”
“new,” “new wave,” “avant-garde,” “independent,” “third” and so on.
The terms refer to a different philosophical, epistemological or temporal
category, and therefore to a different (albeit overlapping) sets of films.
This array of terminologies (lamented by most scholars writing on these

films), involving complex nested and overlapping meanings, creates a
problem of coherence between analyses. It also, however, accurately con-
veys the diversity of cinema in India outside the so-called mainstream. As
Sumita Chakravarty astutely puts it, “What we need is not a proliferation
but rather a problematization of the categories themselves; an analytics of
the new cinema that does not polarize but sees it as part of a much larger
crisis of articulating the fractures of modernity” (1996: 237).
The study presented here uses the term “Parallel Cinema” because
it seems most widely accepted and appears appropriate for the move-
ment, time period and specific phenomena being discussed. Further,
responding to Sumita Chakravarty, this study of Bombay cinema ques-
tions recent assumed meanings of the term “Bollywood,” addressed later
on in the chapter. Pradip Krishen, in a highly informative paper, claims
that “Parallel” Cinema began in the 1960s and has “continued to the
present,” and credits Satyajit Ray as being the “progenitor” of the move-
ment (Krishen 1991: 25). Satyajit Ray, along with Mrinal Sen and Ritwik
Ghatak, all of whom Krishen considers early pioneers, worked in Bengali
language, focusing on the rural landscapes of the province. Krishen cred-
its Uski Roti (1970, Dir.: Mani Kaul) as the first Hindi-language work
of Parallel Cinema. By the mid-1970s “Parallel Cinema had definitely
arrived” (Krishen 1991: 30).
Krishen (1991) highlights the complicated relationship between emer-
gent groups—directors such as Mani Kaul and Kumar Shahani on the one
hand, Hindi-language filmmakers who showed concern for film aesthetics
while remaining in the narrative format, and purists such as Satyajit Ray
on the other, who could not accept any dilution of realism. Some early
observers (such as Das Gupta writing in 1980) felt that Kaul and Shahani
represented a “somewhat pretentious” stream of the new cinema of India.
Kaul and Shahani’s works were thought to be “irrelevant,” but they saw
themselves (in the face of accusations of compromising realism) as forging
a middle path between the “vulgar tastes of the market” and the “over-
rated and passé” realistic cinema. Shyam Benegal, through his films in the
1970s, became the first director in Parallel Cinema to “aim at an all-India
audience …. mixing good taste with popular ingredients” (Krishen 1991).
The generation of Parallel Cinema directors that followed—the ones with
whom this chapter deals—was instructed by Kaul and Shahani at the Film
Institute of India in Pune and used Shyam Benegal’s corps of actors.
198 S. CHAKRAVARTY
Pioneering Parallel Cinema directors received financial support from

the state (Binford 1983; Krishen 1991; Das Gupta 2002). The Film
Institute of India, later renamed Film and Television Institute of India,
was established in 1960 to train filmmakers. Further, the Film Finance
Corporation (FFC) was established to help directors without access to
funding and “to reduce the influence of black money” (Das Gupta 2002:
136) on the film industry. The FFC began by giving loans to established
directors only, but later started “supporting new, ‘off-beat’, low budget
films as a matter of policy in 1969. …. Between 1969 and 1979, the FFC
made loans to fifty-five feature films. Lacking … box-office ingredients,
these films had little or no chance of finding finance within the industry”
(Binford 1983: 38–39).
Some FFC-financed films found commercial success, enabling direc-
tors to attract private financing for subsequent projects. Bhuvan Shome
(1969, Dir. Mrinal Sen), made with FFC support, received both criti-
cal and commercial success. This feature “most people seem to agree
is the film that inaugurated the Parallel Cinema movement in India”
(Krishen 1991: 27). Between 1970 and 1974 many FFC-sponsored
films “made their mark at national and international film festivals” (Das
Gupta 2002: 147).
This analysis is not overly concerned with the exact beginning of the
movement. Identifying a film, a director, a year or even a language that
marks a “beginning” would be a messy endeavor yielding little analytical
profit, not least because of the problem of terminology explained earlier
and the diffuse nature of the early phases of the movement in regions and
languages around the country. This study picks up the story in the 1980s
when Parallel Cinema (within Bollywood) really grew into a movement
and compares it with the Hong Kong New Wave based on a close read-
ing of four films (two from each industry). Synopses of the selected films
are followed by a comparative analysis of the common themes in both
movements.
REPRESENTATIVE DIRECTORS, SIGNIFICANT WORKS

The films selected for this analysis are The Happenings (1980, Dir.
Yim Ho), Ah Ying (1983, Dir. Allen Fong), Party (1984, Dir. Govind
Nihalani) and Arvind Desai Ki Ajeeb Dastan (1978, Dir. Saeed Akhtar
Mirza). These works represent the most significant themes and cinematic
styles of both movements.
The Happenings/Ye Che/Night Train (1980, Dir. Yim Ho)

The film follows a group of teenagers, over a single night, through their
misadventures in the city. The four men and two women, all of whom are
either unemployed or holding low-wage jobs, steal a car after a night in a
club (seemingly on a whim, in a state of inebriation and after having been
chastised as “good-for-nothings” by a representative of The Youth Weekly).
Their leader, Cream, earlier in the night, already found the keys of the
vehicle and took it for a ride. Now he invites his friends to join him. When
they stop at a gas station, they realize none of them can (or wants to) pay
for the refill. They decide to hold up the gas station, but it turns out to be
more challenging than they expected. The station attendants resist vigor-
ously and soon the scene turns into a bloody mess. A police car stops in
at the station. The officers become suspicious and start snooping around.
The teenagers are able to avoid the first round of investigation and make
a run for it. The rest of the night turns into a series of heists, cover-ups
and bad decisions, with the situation spiraling out of control. As the police
closes in, the group begins to fall apart.
Ah Ying (1983, Dir. Allen Fong)

Ah Ying sells fish at a stall that her parents rent in the fish market. Not
satisfied with her life, she dreams of becoming an actress. She takes up a
job at the Film Culture Centre, which pays nothing but allows her to take
acting classes. Here she meets her acting instructor Cheung Chong Pak.
Cheung is a director who has returned from the USA and is now trying to
make a film in Hong Kong. Ah Ying is talented and learns to channel her
emotions into her acting performances. She and Cheung become friends.
As research for his next film, Pak attempts to learn, through Ah Ying,
how the young generation thinks about life and love. He interviews her
family and learns about her life at home. He interviews her ex-boyfriend
and tries to understand how they broke up suddenly without any hard
feelings. Cheung directs a play. Ah Ying plays the lead and, after much
struggle, delivers a strong performance, with her whole family watching.
Her transformation into an actress is helped by the deep bond she forms
with her friend, teacher and mentor. Both learn something during their
time together, and each looks toward the future with renewed hope.
Ah Ying is a character study of a young Hong Kong woman trying
to find anchors in her personal and professional lives. Her surroundings,
200 S. CHAKRAVARTY
living spaces, relationships and aspirations are not just one woman’s expe-
rience, but those of a generation trying to adjust to a changing economy
and society. Through the semi-autobiographical character of Cheung,
Allen Fong also vents his frustrations with cinematic art being controlled
by producers.
Party (1984, Dir. Govind Nihalani)

Hosted by a socialite and patron of the arts (Damyanti), a party in honor
of a writer and recent recipient of a prestigious award (Divakar Barve)
brings together poets, actors, filmmakers, lawyers, journalists, social work-
ers, “Marxists,” some young people and a few gatecrashers, among oth-
ers. Though absent from the party, Amrit, a writer-turned-social worker,
appears frequently in the conversations. As the evening progresses, Amrit,
whom we come to know through the characters’ memories of him, con-
stantly reminds us of the wide chasms between professed ideals and every-
day life. The characters, moved by Amrit’s exemplary selfless actions, and
under the influence of alcohol, begin to unravel. They face off in debates
over the purpose of art, the tussle between aesthetics and social respon-
sibility and the gap between idealism and action. Over the course of the
party, we get a glimpse of the skeletons in each of their cupboards—the
compromises they have made and the fantasies they have constructed
around their lives. The evening ends with news of Amrit from the field.
Arvind Desai Ki Ajeeb Dastaan (The Strange Fate of Arvind

Desai) (1978, Dir. Saeed Akhtar Mirza)
Arvind Desai is in his mid-twenties. With a small team, he manages the
family’s retail business of traditional craft products and decorative goods.
His heart is not in the job—he rarely shows up and is oblivious to being
undercut by his own employees dealing with customers on the side.
Always uneasy, he seems constantly on his way to some other place. He
drives around the city, sometimes with his secretary-girlfriend, but often
alone. He visits friends, stops at times at a brothel or bookstore and, on
one occasion, offers a ride to complete strangers, spontaneously concoct-
ing for them a false name and a story of his idyllic life on a farm.
Arvind is unfulfilled in all his relationships. His mother will not confide
in him, his father cannot understand him, his friend Shilpa is struggling
with her own issues, another friend Rajan—a “leftist”—compounds his
miseries with uncomfortable questions, his employees are trying to cheat

him, the girlfriend, Alice, is caught up with concerns regarding the direc-
tion of their relationship and the prostitute he visits, too, is not always
available. As Arvind tries to come to terms with worldly concerns that
need his attention (running the business, meeting a prospective wife at his
father’s request, visiting Alice’s family, etc.), the emptiness ringing inside
him reaches a crescendo. We sense a vacuum in Arvind’s life—not only in
terms of his loneliness, but also a mental–spiritual longing for something
more meaningful.
DISCONTENTS OF MODERNITY
In both the Hong Kong New Wave and Bombay Parallel Cinema, certain
themes emerge that reveal the directors’ discontents with rapid modern-
ization as it had played out in the two cities in the previous two decades.
Evidence of these themes can be observed in the films discussed above.
Three important themes are discussed in this section.
Disaffected Youth
The problems faced by the youth, in an alienating city, has been one of
the most important themes of Hong Kong films. Even in the 1960s, films
expressed a tension between filial piety and young rebellion. Anxieties
of wasted youth were shared by both the upper classes and the A-fei,
and by both men and women (Cheuk 1996; Chang 1996; Teo 1996;
Wong 1996). New Wave directors built on themes of delinquency and
wasted youth. The struggles of young men and women became the basis
for exploring and critiquing the changing social and economic relations.
Allen Fong, with others like Tsui Hark and Alex Cheung, “initiated the
young rebel films of the New Wave cinema shortly after they left televi-
sion” (Yau 2011).
Investors changed rapidly from port- and shipping-related activities
to manufacturing (first limited to foreign interests and then rapid indus-
trialization) and then to financial services, with great sensitivity toward
emerging technologies and market opportunities. The process of indus-
trialization in Hong Kong changed the economy repeatedly in the 1950s
(with large-scale immigration from Mainland China), in the late 1970s
(due to various local and global crises and rapid industrialization) and
again in the 1980s (when manufacturing moved out from the territory).
202 S. CHAKRAVARTY
In the 1950s, Hong Kong industrialized rapidly, largely by way of imi-

tation and subcontracting, with small firms handling a majority of the
production. As Tony Fu-Lai Yu (1998) explains, the success of entre-
preneurialism (especially small and medium enterprises) in Hong Kong,
in large measure, was responsible for its rapid economic progress. Hong
Kong specialized in small- and medium-sized firms in order to realize low
overhead costs, which allowed business owners to shift industries with
ease. Further, labor policies favored employers and led to the exploitation
of workers (Eng 1997). In the late 1970s, with China opening up its mar-
kets and its large labor pool, manufacturing shifted to the Mainland. Real
estate and financial services became the new major industries in Hong
Kong’s economy. On both occasions, the labor force of Hong Kong had
to be retrained, and a large number of people (particularly the elderly and
the youth of the lower-income groups) found themselves ill prepared for
the changing times.
New Wave directors tried to highlight the challenges of having to work
multiple jobs, coming to terms with the changing nature of interper-
sonal relationships, parental neglect, the lure of crime and so on. Esther
M. Cheung (2010) credits Allen Fong, among others, for “developing a
strong sense of social consciousness” in the 1960s and 1970s “when anti-
establishment movements were emerging around the world” (Cheung
2010: 174–175). New Wave directors were more concerned with the
issues faced by the young people from less wealthy backgrounds—to
whom “modern” society and economic relations were not always kind.
For Stephen Teo (1997, 1999), this theme defined the New Wave:
There is no doubt that a movement defined by a “new wave style” did exist
in the early 80s, characterized by subject matter dealing with the problems
of youth: school, sex, drugs and other travails of growing up in a material-
istic society, misunderstood by parents and adults in authority (Teo 1997:
156).
The Happenings was considered a landmark film in the “youth” cat-

egory, which includes films from all genres. As Stephen Teo puts it, the
film was “not a flattering portrait of youth culture” (1997: 147). But
it captured the restlessness and frustration of economically beleaguered
Hong Kong youth (particularly low-wage workers), which was a very
widely shared experience at the time. Indeed, the film was prescient as
youth sentiments boiled over the next year, leading to the Christmas Day
riots in 1981, the New Year’s Day riots in 1982 and riots by taxi drivers in
1984 (Wong 1997).
The lead characters in The Happenings are young men and women who
are struggling to find stability in their lives. Conversations between the
characters in The Happenings reveal their perspectives on money and work.
Early in the film, one of the boys remarks about women, “They make
money for you if they fall in love with you.” Another boy talked to The
Youth Weekly reporters, “What’s the point of studying? My brother is a
graduate. He is a messenger now. 500 dollars a month. Not even enough
for transportation.” One of the girls in the group, Monica, interjected,
“There’s no need to study if one has talent. I can earn 200 dollars by let-
ting people touch me. But I care about myself. If not I can earn more.”
These ideas show that the youths have an acute sense of time, labor and
the body being commodified entities that can be exchanged for wages.
Studying appears pointless to this group because the time and effort
expended is disproportionately high compared with the wages returned.
In Monica’s case, even though she “cares” about herself, she sees talent as
superior to education. As the end credits roll to the theme song Ye Che by
pop singer Patricia Chan Mei Ling (aka Pat Chan), the lyrics capture the
characters’ misfortune: “This is the day I lost my way. The car thunders
into nowhere. There must be a road somewhere.”
Allen Fong, too, has revealed the tensions between materialism and
individualism on the one hand, and traditional values on the other. Young
people in Fong’s films—not only Ah Ying, but also Father and Son (1981)
and Just Like Weather (1986)—are trying very hard to improve their lives
and pursue their dreams, but find themselves in conflict with their financial
circumstances, old ways of thinking and familial expectations. For 1980s
Hong Kong society (as in many other parts of the world), confronted by
a consumer economy, rapidly diversifying employment options and emer-
gent nontraditional values, practices and technologies, it clearly was an
unsettling time, felt most acutely by the younger generation.
Bombay Parallel Cinema directors also addressed the situation of
youth facing changes in economic relations and social values. Party has
several young characters. Damyanti’s daughter has decided to be a sin-
gle mother, keeping the baby but rejecting the father. While Damyanti
insists the daughter must marry to complete her family and her life, the
daughter criticizes her mother regarding the superficiality of the latter’s
own life and the company she keeps. Damyanti’s son brings home his
young friends. Unconcerned with the debates, they smoke and dance
204 S. CHAKRAVARTY
in his room. This group represents the apathy of upper-class youth

immersed in the consumer economy. Another young man is a hired date
for an older woman, a publisher. He tries to seduce a married woman
while her husband takes a nap on a bench. A Marxist-feminist, perhaps
in her thirties, teases the shy poet Bharat about his writing. “You are
good, but something is missing. When you write about sex it seems you
are inexperienced.” The subplots involving young people create a narra-
tive of change and disconnect. We see instances of disjuncture between
markedly different value systems. Further, we see incapacity on the part
of the elders to understand the changes that are increasingly separating
them from the young generation.
Saeed Akhtar Mirza directed an acclaimed series of four films named
after their respective protagonists. Arvind Desai, Albert Pinto and Salim
Langda—after whom he named three of the films—are young men who
cannot fit into their own lives. (Mohan Joshi, though, after whom he
named another film in the series, was much older.) The three younger
leads represent different sections of society—different faiths and socioeco-
nomic status. Much like the young men and women of The Happenings,
Mirza’s characters experience anxieties regarding their purpose in life and
are frustrated with not being completely in control of their decisions.
Arvind is wealthy but finds himself comfortable in neither the competitive
ethics of business, nor the philosophical debates of academia. He lives the
life of a consumer and commuter. Albert Pinto, of the 1981 film Albert
Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai? (Why Is Albert Pinto Angry?), is frustrated
at being judged by his wealth and status. He wants to become rich by
working hard, but realizes the odds are stacked against the likes of him.
As he realizes his subordinate position in society, his anger is redirected
toward the dominant elite. Salim Langda, the lead of the 1989 feature
Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro (Don’t Cry for Salim, the Lame), is a captive to
his circumstances. A life of crime pursues him, though he tries to leave it
behind.
The contests and difficulties facing the youth (across social classes)
are very similar in the two cities (as would have been the case in other
societies at the time, albeit with varying particularities and interven-
ing factors). Young people in both contexts were caught in a process
of social transformation caused by changes concomitant with flex-
ible production and integrated financial systems and creation of con-
sumer economies, and were particularly vulnerable economically and
psychologically.
Commercialization and Loss
Rapid widespread change also brought on a sense of loss of values among
many, including the filmmakers themselves. Ah Ying and Party share
remarkable similarities in directly confronting the issue of commercializa-
tion of art, especially considering that this issue could not have precipi-
tated as much of public concern as, say, the situation of the youth. This
might be because the filmmakers in the two cities had to compete with
strong “mainstream” industries. One might speculate that mainstream
films were perceived by both New Wave and Parallel Cinema directors as
art compromised for popular spectacle.
Allen Fong obviously felt deeply about this issue, visiting it in both Ah
Ying and Dancing Bull. In Ah Ying, Cheung tells his class about acting as
an art. “You start out interested, then you fall in love with it. But you may
end up with nothing.” Watching a film with Ah Ying, we see Cheung’s
passion for cinema when he is unable to accept a cut inserted into the film
being screened. “A scene’s been cut. A whole scene gone. The bastards!”
He goes into the projection room and protests until he is pulled away by
Ah Ying. While making a film on overseas Chinese, his producers tell him
they do not appreciate his characterization of a Chinese immigrant in the
USA. Although they want him to take his time, he later tells the producers
that he is not willing to compromise.
While Ah Ying (along with other Allen Fong films) critiques commer-
cialization in art and cinema, Nihalani’s Party pursues the theme of com-
mercialization at length, raising questions regarding the ethics of not only
art and its patrons, but also regarding the media and politicians. Three
dialectical tensions emerge during the evening. The first is the tension
between the award-winning writer (Barve) and a young emerging poet
(Bharat). Barve confesses to Damyanti (the patron) that his art is super-
ficial and formulaic, and that he has carefully constructed the myth of
his talent by cultivating friendships and keeping a low profile in divisive
debates. His accolades mean nothing to the marginalized people he sees
on the street, and his writing has no connection whatsoever with the lives
of millions like them. Even as he allows Damyanti a glimpse behind his
façade, he maintains it for the others—dismissing Bharat as a newcomer,
rejecting him for a delegation about to visit the USA and criticizing
Amrit (the writer-turned-activist) as someone who has “written himself
out.” Bharat is miffed that he is not being considered for the delegation.
Ironically, though, despite his revolutionary writing, Bharat’s ambitions
206 S. CHAKRAVARTY
are taking him down the same path that left the senior writer so dissatis-
fied and disillusioned. Both writers are haunted by the specter of Amrit,
who is working in rural areas of the country, against development projects
that will displace the indigenous people. For both, Amrit represents lost
idealism, social commitment and the willingness to act on the basis of his
thoughts and beliefs.
The second tension is in the relationship between the patron and the
artists. Damyanti (the patron and socialite) misses Amrit too. She com-
plains that only he could understand her. She relates to Barve her sense of
emptiness and lack of achievement, to which he retorts that these ideas are
all illusions. He accuses her of being complicit in his game, in propping
up his illusion of talent. In another conversation, Damyanti’s daughter
accuses her of being a “parasite” living on the talent of others, triggering
her own crisis. The conversations and confessions of the patron consti-
tute a critique of the erosion of depth and meaning in the art world (or
“industry”)—that is, in the very community that defines, interprets and
disseminates ideas of modernity and modernization for the rest of society.
The third tension plays out between the artists and the conscientious
journalist (Avinash). Avinash joins the party late and brings news of Amrit
from the village where the latter has been working to protect indigenous
people from the government’s land-grabbing schemes. Avinash introduces
himself as someone grounded in the real world. He says he pursues facts
and does not live to discover the meaning of truth or life. He praises Amrit
(the social worker), saying that rather than live a lie, he went out and did
what he wrote about. “The work of an artist who is not politically com-
mitted, is not relevant,” he challenges. Bharat retorts that he would rather
keep his art outside the world of politics, lest it should become mere pro-
paganda, and that doing so does not mean that he is not politically con-
scious, or that he does not have a political stance. Avinash counters that
surely Bharat must then believe in living with two sets of ethics—an ethics
of art separate from the one of politics. This, he argues, is duplicitous and
immoral. But for the poet this is the higher morality—the true pursuit of
art without adulteration by political ideology. Avinash then asked, “How
can we keep them separate? When the two sets of ethics must confront
each other—which will you choose?” As it turns out, the question remains
unanswered.
Allen Fong and Govind Nihalani both found contradictions in the pro-
cesses of cultural production in their respective societies. In both Ah Ying
and Dancing Bull, we see Fong’s characters trying to keep up with the
needs of market forces. In Ah Ying, a director refuses to compromise with

myopic and profit-oriented producers, while in Dancing Bull, a choreog-
rapher leaves his dance company because his dance is too experimental
and he cannot concede to making repeat productions of past successes.
Nihalani, too, depicts artists struggling with fame (or the pursuit thereof),
compromising their values. Both perspectives throw light on the phenom-
enon of disjuncture between exalted values and pedestrian politics of art.
Fong’s characters do not compromise—they remain true to their selves
and walk out of situations that require compromise. Nihalani’s charac-
ters do compromise (or contemplate compromise), but remain forever
haunted by their lost ideals.
It would not be correct to read Nihalani’s perspective as being pessi-
mistic. He presents reality as messy—and treats idealism and compromise
dialectically. That is, Nihalani’s is not a critique of artists making com-
promises, but rather of a system that offers no realistic alternatives. The
two takes on cultural production highlight the differences between the
societies where these films were made. Whereas for Allen Fong, the subju-
gation of art to commerce is an act of subjugating the individual artist, for
Nihalani, commerce erodes the critical and emancipatory potential of art.
For Nihalani, art must acknowledge and embrace a social purpose, or risk
becoming irrelevant to society.
Consumption and Dystopia: City as an Affective Tool

Many of the films from the Hong Kong New Wave and Indian Parallel
Cinema of the late 1970s and 1980s were set in the local urban land-
scape. The urban scene was used as an affective tool in various ways—
metaphor (such as that of the automobile, discussed below), metonymy
(e.g., through the use of wide shots or bird’s eye shots of cities in contrast
with close shots of a window or house) or as a subject of straightfor-
ward social commentary. The spaces of low-income residents of the city,
in particular, become objects of inquiry through the lives of the characters.
Protagonists migrate back and forth across spaces of exclusion and those
of excess and consumption in the new economy. They are often caught
out of step, unaware of the codes of the modern city. Either uncomfort-
able or unwanted in the city, the characters look for escape and release.
They either fight for their space or run away from it, but in either case,
their stories reveal the conditions that produce the space and time they
inhabit.
208 S. CHAKRAVARTY
Mirza examined urban housing in greater depth in his early documen-

taries and in the 1984 satire Mohan Joshi Hazir Ho! (Summons for Mohan
Joshi). Mohan Joshi rents a small apartment with his wife and would like his
landlord to make timely repairs. He tries to take the landlord to court, but
ends up getting caught up in a judicial rigmarole in his search for decent
living conditions. In Arvind Desai, Mirza lingers on Mumbai scenes, set-
ting up a metonymic dialogue between the city and the individual caught
in it all. Crowded Bombay streetscapes, seen through Arvind’s car wind-
shield, highlight his isolation. He drives through the city, during the day
and at night, much like he passes through life, always on his way but
unable to belong anywhere. At night we see brightly lit and well-stocked
spaces of consumption. The busy, crowded consumerist city now stands
in opposition to the emotional vacuum inside Arvind, a metaphor for his
aimless pursuits. As Arvind creates circuits of consumption and escape
with his car, he becomes more trapped in the same spaces. In Mirza’s
Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai? (1980), the personal automobile,
paradoxically, was a material and metaphysical symbol of being both free
and trapped.
According to Vivian P.Y. Lee (2011), there are at least two significant
recurrent themes in Hong Kong New Wave films–“immigrants and oth-
erness” and “city in flux.” For Lee, Yim Ho’s The Happening (1980),
among other New Wave films, is “infused by a restless energy and edgi-
ness more akin to the kaleidoscopic hotchpotch society of Hong Kong
than the nostalgic ‘cultural China’ in the martial arts films of the previous
generation. The city as depicted in the New Wave’s action films is less a
solid locale than a world adrift where extreme violence can erupt at any
moment” (Lee 2011, 135). Lee is quite correct that the image of Hong
Kong as an edgy, unstable and unpredictable city was one of the pre-
dominant leitmotifs of New Wave directors. Yim Ho, in The Happenings,
engages the Hong Kong cityscapes, albeit in a more abstract fashion. He
uses generic spaces (nightclub, highway, gas station, police station, office)
in conjunction with the well-known scenes of the Hong Kong skyline to
establish a metonymic relationship between the spaces inhabited by the
youths and the city at large. The open road also takes on a metaphorical
meaning, indicating freedom for the nocturnal adventurers, a very dif-
ferent idea compared with the avenues traversed by Arvind in his infinite
solitude. Perhaps it is worth adding in this context that the car stolen by
the young group in The Happenings is an open-top, while Arvind’s trap is
a closed sedan.
In Ah Ying, too, an automobile assumes significance. In a scene that

has little narrative function, Fong takes a moment to appreciate Hong
Kong’s urban form. Cheung’s car stalls on a busy overpass. After failing
to revive it, he decides to make a phone call. He runs up to a window, in
one of the buildings adjacent to the overpass, explains the situation and
has a telephone passed to him, through the window, and straight onto the
street. The car represents nostalgia for a disappearing Hong Kong and also
symbolizes Cheung’s own baggage. Cheung and Ah Ying watch it being
trashed near the end of the film, after he has split with the producers who
were stifling his creativity.
In Party Nihalani incorporates a theme that one sees in many of his
works—Aakrosh (1980) and Ardha Satya (1983)—a corrupt and com-
promised city as the antithesis of an innocent and often victimized rural.
Although an age-old opposition, in Nihalani’s work, the dichotomy is not
only metaphorical, but also material. Amrit, the idealist social worker, has
abandoned urban society, inhabited by the corrupt pretenders, to help
protect the oppressed people in the forests. In Party, as in both Aakrosh
and Ardha Satya, the city’s growth machine is held directly responsible
for hurting rural lifestyles and livelihoods. The city, in this view, is not
simply a symptom of the excesses of modernity, but also a carrier thereof.
Controlled by a hunger for growth and the commercialization of all vir-
tues, the city is both produced by and the producer of violence. Allen
Fong sets up a similar dialectic in Dancing Bull, when a disillusioned cho-
reographer, with his wife, abandons the city to start life afresh in a village
on Lantau Island, where he finds joy among plants and animals.
The film is an early example of a reflexive look at density and its effects
on personal space and family life. Ah Ying’s spaces are metaphors for the
restrictions on her life. At the fish market, she is constantly cleaning and
weighing fish, standing for long hours in humid conditions. At home, in
a typical Hong Kong apartment, she shares her room with eight people.
The proximity also means that she faces constant surveillance. She has to
go into another room to take a phone call from her boyfriend. To have a
private moment, she closes her eyes and loses herself in music. At home she
spends her time with her music system, blocking out the world with large
headphones. She wishes she could move out. “I couldn’t earn more than
1,000 dollars. Not enough for rent.” Scarcity of land, population density
and high rents are problems endemic to both Hong Kong and Bombay.
In Bombay the problem is further complicated by extreme poverty and
institutional weaknesses. These issues have been dealt with sensitively by
210 S. CHAKRAVARTY
New Wave and Parallel Cinema filmmakers—consistently through mise-

en-scène and frequently as the main focus of the narrative.
In Bombay, as early as the 1950s, urban poverty, hardship and crime
became the basis for films like Awara (1951, Dir. Raj Kapoor), Do Bigha
Zamin (1953, Dir. Bimal Roy), Anari (1959, Dir. Hrishikesh Mukherjee)
and Kala Bazar (1960, Dir. Vijay Anand). Through the 1950s and
1960s, the city remained, for the most part, a site of and metaphor for
moral corruption. In the 1970s, negative associations diluted and the city
became a neutral backdrop against which dramas or action-based stories
played out. But it was not until 1980s that directors engaged the city in
a more nuanced manner, examining its everyday lives and spaces, and
the city itself as a system, rather than a container. This transformation
in the cinematic perception of the city can be seen across the board—in
“masala” films (Tezaab, 1988, Dir. N. Chandra), “art” films (Salaam
Bombay! 1988, Dir. Mira Nair) and “Parallel” Cinema (Katha, 1983,
Dir. Sai Paranjpye).
ANALYTICAL FRAMEWORKS FOR HONG KONG AND BOMBAY

CINEMAS
Countering an Essentialized View of Bollywood
Stephen Teo laments that “the kung fu genre made Hong Kong cinema
internationally known, but its popularity unbalanced the perspectives of
foreign audiences” (Teo 1997: 137). A similar phenomenon might now
be affecting Bombay. The term “Bollywood” has become a de facto short-
hand for a certain kind of films—produced in Bombay, characterized
by fantastic stories, typically embellished with several songs that are lip-
synched by the stars on screen, often while participating in elaborate dance
sequences choreographed with scores of extras (in styles energetic enough
to have inspired their own form of aerobics). Further, these “musicals”
(typically with running times of nearly three hours) are produced in a
mixture of genres, featuring at least romance, action and comedy, usually
together with any combination of subgenres such as religious, nationalist/
patriotic, family, political, crime, social commentary, sports, superhero,
science fiction and so on. These films are highly market sensitive and, as
suggested rightly by some scholars (Ahmed 1992; Nandy 1998; Dwyer
2010), ripe for social–psychological analysis. While this type of films is still
produced in the largest numbers (not only in Hindi language, but also
in most regional cinemas), and even though these are the films that have
caught the attention of audiences around the world, the real Bollywood
remains a diverse industry, which includes a large number of films that are
breaking this mold of prototypical “mainstream” or “commercial” cin-
ema—or at least pushing back against it.
The term “Parallel Cinema” has become all but redundant today
because of the sheer number of films that are breaking away from the
norm, and also because these films are being made with the active partici-
pation of “mainstream” artistes, studios and producers, and popular mass
media. This new dynamism in the production process owes a debt to the
filmmakers of the 1970s and 1980s, who, although constrained by low
budgets, produced intimate readings of the human condition.
Bollywood seems to have traversed the full spectrum of being misun-
derstood first as being entirely irrelevant to an understanding of India to
being accorded a new international legitimacy, which obscures its history,
diversity and materiality. Wimal Dissanayake explained the first moment of
misunderstanding:
Until about two decades ago, Indian popular cinema was dismissed out of
hand by film scholars, film critics and intellectuals in general as unworthy of
serious academic attention. It was often characterized as being meretricious,
escapist, mindless drivel and totally irrelevant to the understanding of Indian
society and culture (Dissanayake 2003: 202).
Dissanayake does an admirable job of summarizing some of the changes

in attitudes toward Bollywood and of outlining possible future directions
for the analysis. He is, nevertheless, cautious to maintain the focus on
“popular” cinema, that is, the same “mindless drivel” that underwent a
Cinderella-like transformation in terms of perceived value for critical anal-
ysis. Rachel Dwyer exemplifies the second moment of misunderstanding
as she refers to Bollywood as “the most reliable guide to modern India”
(Dwyer 2010: 381). She cleanly disposes of all films that do not fit the
stereotypical Bollywood by putting them in one basket and closing the lid:
Of course, there are realist films in India but these are not the concern of
this paper. Realism here implies a western-derived aesthetic which long ago
migrated to parts of Indian culture produced and consumed in the colonial
encounter, an aesthetic which is now an object of scorn in some elements
of western culture (in particulars in visual culture, notably high art) but
which has retained its hold in the novel and in some forms of cinema. This
realism—an empirical reasoning, based on experience—produces a very dif-
ferent kind of cinema from that of Bollywood (Ibid., 383).
212 S. CHAKRAVARTY
Dwyer is at least partially correct in her assessment of popular Hindi cin-

ema. Her dismissal of “realist” Indian cinema as a derivative of canons of
Western aesthetic and the colonial encounter, and therefore inauthentic,
is deeply problematic. This perspective denies the agency of Indian film-
makers to understand and interpret the cinematic medium, and to process
and adapt the confluence of cultures that defines India. Indian cinema has
always been a complex amalgam of influences, styles and motives. The neat
separation of “popular mainstream” cinema from “art films” is a disservice
to a vast body of work that actually falls between the two categories. This
third category of films continues to influence directors until this day.
Parallel Cinema laid the groundwork for the many ongoing experi-
ments within “mainstream” Bollywood. Many recent features are shorter,
minimize disruptive dance numbers and construct multidimensional char-
acters, which are performed with a degree of method. Such films (from
the last four years alone) include That Girl In Yellow Boots (2012), Vicky
Donor (2012), Highway (2013), Ship of Theseus (2013), Qissa (2013), The
Lunchbox (2013), Haider (2014), Piku (2014), Dum Laga Ke Haisha
(2015), Detective Byomkesh Bakshy! (2015) and Titli (2015), among oth-
ers. In addition, many of the more “moreddamo” musical-dramas are
departing from the humdrum romantic-comedy or crime-action formulas.
Prominent examples include Bhaag Milkha Bhaag (2013), PK (2014) and
Shamitabh (2015).
Reading Indian aspirations from Bollywood is a valuable exercise, if
prone to a degree of romanticization. One must proceed with the under-
standing that Bollywood (as it is conventionally understood) is far from
being the only cinematic expression (or even the only Hindi-language cin-
ematic expression) that reflects the values, attitudes and desires of modern
India. Understanding modern India requires us to look past the conve-
nient but fallacious Bollywood versus art cinema dichotomy which seems
to define scholarly work. A truer understanding of India and Indian cin-
ema (even within the Hindi-language films) can emerge only by appreciat-
ing the overlaps and intersections between the two invented categories.
This space of commercially viable realism is where one finds the material
contests and anxieties of India’s film industries and of India itself.
Seeking the Materialist Analysis of the Hong Kong New Wave

Hong Kong New Wave cinema has inspired many monographs, journal
articles and book chapters, and innumerable critical analyses of films and
directors. For example, Cheuk Pak-Tong (2008) analyzes the work of

various directors in his book on the New Wave. Though this work is a
valuable addition to existing studies, the author is not particularly con-
cerned with critically examining the movement as a whole, except a brief
commendation regarding “challenging taboos” and “innovations” in style
and themes. Further, Cheuk Pak-Tong does not engage in any theoreti-
cal framework to facilitate substantive analysis. Indeed, in general, critical
work on the New Wave is overshadowed by celebratory odes.
Within the prolific writing on Hong Kong cinema, including work on
the New Wave, one finds rich interpretive, allegorical contributions from
fields such as literature, cultural studies and area studies, among others.
Relatively little attention has come from perspectives of political science
or critical urban studies. As a result, metaphorical and semiotic aspects
of films, and of Hong Kong, have been privileged over political themes
such as production of space, contested spaces and materiality of the social
relations. Even accounts interested in explicitly studying the role of urban
spaces in cinema tend to treat the city in too abstract a manner to allow
any rigorous material analysis (Huang 2004).
New Wave films were records of changing times and spaces, arriving, as
they did, at the threshold of a period of significant and decisive social and
economic transformation. These films represent exceptions to the stories
of growth and success that constitute historical narratives of the city. In Ah
Ying, Allen Fong himself expressed his reasons for making socially relevant
cinema. Cheung explains his motivation to Ah Ying: “I want to make a
film that reflects our time. If not, no one will know we ever existed.” New
Wave films offer the means with which one may release the history of
Hong Kong from what Esther Cheung (2001) decries as colonial narra-
tives of development and modernization. As documents of a period, they
offer opportunities to look below, behind and in between the series of
spectacles that dominate the popular imagination of Hong Kong.
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Chakravarty, Sumita S. 1996. National identity in Indian popular cinema
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val, 73–81. Hong Kong: Urban Council.
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Cheung, Esther M.K. 2001. The hi/stories of Hong Kong. Cultural Studies
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frames of understanding. In Rethinking third cinema, ed. Anthony R. Guneratne
and Wimal Dissanayake, 202–225. New York: Routledge.
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CHAPTER 12
Naqal and the Aesthetics of the Copy
Anjali Roy
INTRODUCTION
Govinda, a former B-grade Hindi film actor, who began to act in A-grade
films over the years, has a loyal following among South Asians.1 While
comic actors may appeal to “the lumpen proletariat,” Govinda has unlikely
fans not only among young North Indian urban professionals but also
among Bengali grandmothers. Govinda starrer Bade Miyan Chhote Miyan
(1998) or the more recent Partner (2007) positions him as the quintes-
sential mimic who is seen mirroring the facial expressions and bodily kine-
sics of an imaginary or a real character. Govinda’s exaggerated, hyperbolic
gestures and play draw attention to the concept of naql or imitation, the
dominant trope of Indian performing arts that were transmitted over the
centuries through a class of Persian-derived hereditary performers known
as naqals or naqlis.2 These performers were close kin to bhands, swangs,
and doms.3Against the widely held view of the commercial Hindi film as a
“bad” copy of the Hollywood film and frequent allegations of plagiarism
that are invoked to deny it original creativity, this chapter draws on the
Persian category of naql to elucidate the play in Hindi cinema and pro-
poses an aesthetics of the copy that structures Hindi films.
A. Roy ()
Indian Institute of Technology, Kharagpur, India

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_12
218 A. ROY
NAQL, NAQAL, MIMICRY

In tracing the Hindi film to Hindu epic traditions, theorists of
Indian cinema unwittingly fall back on metaphors such as bahurupiya
(Sanskrit: bahu many, rupa form)4 and baazigar (one who performs
the baazi) drawn from performing arts (Chakravarty 1996) to concep-
tualize cinema while turning a blind eye to the overlapping boundaries
of performing arts through which the Persian naqli or naqal leaks into
the Hindu bhand. Farina Mir (2006) traces the transmission of the
Persian qisse to the Indian subcontinent and emphasizes the Persian
absorption of Punjabi local traditions, through which they evolved
into a new genre of the qissa that eventually found its way into the
Moghul court and the Deccan. A similar transformation of the naqal
from the Persian storyteller to the naqal as a mimic took place in India
through the literal translation of the term as impersonator or actor
and the storyteller’s assumption of multiple roles in order to produce
laughter. According to H.A. Rose, the naqal (mimic) is the Arabic
translation of the Hindi bhand (1911). This is supported by Robert
Vane Russell, who traces the etymology of the word to the Sanskrit
term bhand (jester), stating that “the caste are also known as Naqal or
actor” (1916: 156–157). Neelam Man Singh Chaudhary (2004) trans-
lates naqals as imitators by identifying the Persian roots of naql. Hindi
cinema’s inherent syncretism reaffirms the mixed lineage of hereditary
performers. The conflation of the naqal (storyteller and actor) with
the bhand (jester and mimic) makes the two overlapping categories of
performers seminal to the combination of storytelling with parody in
Hindi cinema.
Neelam Man Singh Chaudhary explains that “the Naqal is normally
presented by two men who through a series of jokes, improvisation and
horseplay make sharp and satirical comments on society and politics”
(2004: 216). The inherent “parody, irreverence and subversiveness” of
naqal performance through which a humble performer might disrupt
monarchical power and authority is the strategy that was incorporated into
the functioning of colonial mimicry as conceptualized by Homi Bhabha.5
Naqal (storyteller, mimic, and imitator) is the perfect site for the contes-
tation over the meaning of imitation or mimesis in Indian and Western
aesthetic theories and its translation into specific performative practices. It
is through this category that the aesthetic of the performing arts, particu-
larly cinema, may be unpacked.
NAQAL AND THE AESTHETICS OF THE COPY 219
THE CULTURE OF COPY

Although Teshome H. Gabriel does not include popular Hindi films in
his category of Third Cinema, he identifies three phases in the history of
Third World films and argues that “the Phase I is characterized by a type
of film that simply mirrors, in its concepts and proposition, the status quo,
i.e., the text and the rules of the grammar are identical to conventional
practices” (Gabriel 1989: 36). Gabriel traces a movement from the imita-
tive “First Phase in which foreign images are impressed in an alienating
fashion on the audience to the Second and Third Phases in which recog-
nition of ‘consciousness of oneself’ serves as the essential antecedent for
national and, more significantly, international consciousness” (Ibid., 31).
The fact that commercial Indian films continue to reverberate with or
borrow from Hollywood and world cinema even in the Third Phase calls
for a serious engagement with the binary of plagiarism and original cre-
ativity, a major criterion often deployed by media specialists to assess the
quality of Indian cinema. Any number of examples, including the biggest
“hits” in nearly a century of filmmaking, illustrate the degree to which
the culture of copy dominates Indian cinema, spawning a website called
Bollycat dedicated to tracing “the original versions of every Bollywood
film.” This alarming confirmation of the world’s largest film industry that
boasts of a global spectatorship as being doomed to derivativeness does
not explain the mystique of Bollywood films to a significant proportion
of the global population, which, it would appear, prefers the copy to the
original (Larkin 1997).
IN PRAISE OF THE CULTURE OF COPY

With more Euro-American film critics and academics cultivating a taste
for the Bombay masala film, the disavowed culture of copy has begun
to attract media attention and academic recognition. Although the seri-
ous attention that these scholars have begun to give Hindi film classics is
a significant symbolic gesture that multiplies their cultural capital in the
Euro-American media landscape, compliments to Hindi cinema’s “skillful
borrowing” or “creative transformation” fail to elucidate the ambivalence
structuring the poetics of the copy in Hindi films (Allen 2008b). The per-
ceptions also fail to account for the element of play that undercuts imita-
tion. The naturalization of borrowing, crude or creative, in Hindi cinema
requires a detailed analysis. How does one differentiate between different
220 A. ROY
forms of influence? When does borrowing stop being creative adaptation

and degenerate into shameless copying? How can a nation of more than
a billion people and a film industry with the biggest talent pool be bereft
of aesthetic originality? How does plagiarizing become a means of creative
reconstruction in the Hindi film? These questions demand an unpacking
of Hindi cinema’s narrative and aesthetic difference, predicated on theo-
ries of Indian performance, from American, European, and other world
cinemas, rather than on a globalizing theory of plagiarism, influence, or
adaptation.
As opposed to the established practice of plagiarism of the Hindi film
industry, the discomfiture of the English-language critics, shared by the
Anglicized cultural elite in urban India, is based on the perception of pla-
giarism as a lazy, dishonest practice that violates the originality premise of
creative production. Instead of replicating the investigative pleasures of
identifying instances of plagiarism that film critics and the English-speaking
elite in India have indulged in, a comparative perspective on the privileging
of originality and uniqueness in diverse cultural and aesthetic traditions
would prove to be educating in elucidating the pleasures of the copy.
COPY AS UNORIGINAL, COPY AS REINTERPRETATION

The idea of art, conceived as a poor imitation of a transcendental real-
ity, underpins the privileging of uniqueness and originality in the Western
world. Whether the copy is denigrated as unoriginal or valorized as cre-
ative, the myth of origins and the cult of authenticity underlying the sys-
tematic redemption of the copy in the West derive their authority from an
aesthetic tradition deeply entrenched in a Platonic suspicion of mimesis
and art. The notion of art as a copy of a copy and, therefore, unreal and
secondary, is contingent upon the myth of origins and ideal forms. Terms
such as adaptation, influence, plagiarism, and authenticity have been
defined with reference to an aesthetic propped on notions of individual
property and ownership in which every act of imitation is framed against
the history of a negative view of art as mimesis. Although postmodernism
interrogates modernist distrust of adaptation as unoriginal and premium
on uniqueness, it does not escape the paradigmatic burden of mimesis.
In contrast to the negative representation of mimesis in Western arts
and aesthetics, reproduction is considered a legitimate aesthetic category
in Indic arts. In a storytelling tradition where it is less important to tell
new stories than to tell old stories in an original fashion, the legitimacy
accorded to repetition with a difference questions the negative connota-

tions of imitation in the Platonic theory of mimesis. Against the Platonic
understanding of art as a copy of a copy, the notion of art as re-embodiment
presents a novel way of analyzing the aesthetic of the copy animating the
Hindi film. A radically different conception of art through which the dis-
embodied realm might be expressed as an embodied form not only locates
artistic creativity in the primal act of creation, but also favors the idea of
imitation as re-embodiment or reinterpretation.
Neelam Man Singh Chaudhary’s description of Naqals as “master adapt-
ers, changing their script, movement, songs, and innuendos as they along”
(Chaudhary 2004: 216) and her emphasis on the spontaneity and impro-
visation of naqal performance suggest an aesthetic in which adaptation is
not relegated to secondariness and inferiority. The similarity between the
Persian naqal and his Indian mutants is rooted in their disregard for origi-
nality in favor of storytelling. Like the Persian naqli who narrated well-
known tales from the Shahnameh (Yamamoto 2003), the Indian naqals
enact incidents from familiar epics or folktales. In their indifference to the
originality of plot and delight in detail, digression, and improvisation, they
follow traditional storytelling practices in which originality and suspense
are sacrificed to the pleasure of recognition and comparison. Instead of
valorizing originality, the audience in a traditional performance is expected
to compare various renditions of the same text for detecting fidelity to the
original as well as individual creativity.
WHERE IT IS PLAGIARISM
Stewart Home (1995) has defined “plagiarism as the negative point of a
culture that finds its ideological justification in the unique” (49). Home’s
articulation of uniqueness with commodification and the search for a new,
original language in modernism with the capitalist project throws new
light on plagiarism as a form of reconstitution of images that unmasks the
mechanisms of power. The imbrication of plagiarism with copyright laws
in which it is interpreted as the theft of intellectual property underlines its
historicity and cultural specificity. In a culture that places a premium on
uniqueness and originality, the pejorative meanings of the term emerge
from the concept of property and individual ownership, and attract puni-
tive action. Plagiarism, defined in the Random House Compact Unabridged
Dictionary (1995) as the “use or close imitation of the language and
thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one’s own
222 A. ROY
original work,” is translated in legalese as “the act of appropriating the lit-

erary composition of another author, or excerpts, ideas, or passages there-
from, and passing the material off as one’s own creation.”6 The charges of
plagiarism can be substantiated in legalistic language only through refer-
ence to the protection of intellectual property and copyrights.
The denial mode, into which Bollywood producers strategically retreat
in order to elude increasingly stringent copyright regulations, camou-
flages a long-standing practice in Bollywood. Although plagiarism might
be a habit that the Indian film industry, often working with tight shoot-
ing schedules and shortage of good plots, has allegedly indulged in for
decades, porous copyrights laws in South Asia have prevented plagiarism
charges from being leveled against Bollywood producers. As opposed to
the established practice of plagiarism of the Hindi film industry, the dis-
comfiture of the English-language critics, shared by the Anglicized cultural
elite, is based on the perception of plagiarism as a lazy, dishonest practice
that violates the originality premise of creative production. The denuncia-
tion of plagiarism in Hindi cinema by elite spectators is predicated on the
valorization of uniqueness and originality in Euro-American media circles.
Following the informed opinion of Anglicized Indian film critics and intel-
lectuals based on their familiarity with the original that they use to place
themselves above the average Hindi film audience, this view of plagiarism
has percolated to a wider audience. The elite’s apologia conceals both a
secret “Bollywood” fetish and a hope that the gradual disindenturement
of Hindi cinema through the invention of original storylines and plots
would release it from the stage of not yet cinema.
LIFTING OR CREATIVE TRANSFORMATION

The cultural politics of “copying” is complicated by the practices of some
of the most revered figures in the Hindi film industry who drew on world’s
poetic and sonic heritage to compose for a local audience. While the most
unimaginative borrowings in Hindi films might include “lifting” of car
chases, action sequences, or “love scenes” from the world’s diverse pool
of films, even the best of Bollywood displays an intriguing dependence on
themes, motifs, and plots from Hollywood classics. Unlike the stereotyped
Bollywood movie mogul who supervises the concoction of the strange
potpourri called Bollywood by ordering that ingredients from “phoren”
[foreign] films be added in the right proportion to ensure his film’s
box-office success, highly respected figures in the film industry could not
possibly have chosen the easy option of borrowing from foreign sources
and compounded it by not acknowledging their influences. Yet the plagia-
rism charge connects them to the confirmed plagiarists of Hindi cinema.
Since an overwhelming number of Hindi films reflect strong Western
and non-Western cinematic influences, the difference between a well-made
and a poorly made film is often reduced to that between creative borrow-
ing and plagiarism. In Hindi cinematic jargon, this is often translated as
creative inspiration by “thinking” filmmakers that degenerates into frame-
by-frame copying in less experienced hands. A large proportion of copy-
ing in Hindi cinema belongs to a blatant form of plagiarism. In sharp
contrast to these are conscious adaptations by thinking filmmakers that
betray a modernist “anxiety of influence” in indigenizing alien filmic con-
tents. The third form is a postmodern repetition of canonical texts with a
parodic intention. All copies, good or bad, involve some form of homage
and parody in varying degrees. While the majority of Hindi filmmakers
pilfer in total innocence or ignorance of copyrights laws, the acknowledg-
ment of the influences of world cinematic classics by the educated minor-
ity belongs to the category of “inspired-by” in Richard Allen’s typology
(Allen 2008a, b), whose productions may be interpreted as acts of hom-
age, tribute, and “(re-)interpretation and then (re-creation)” (Hutcheon
2006). The idea of adaptation as an “act of alteration performed upon
specific cultural works of the past and dovetails with a general process of
cultural recreation” can be applied to these Bollywood classics (Fischlin
and Fortier 2000: 4). Similarly, Linda Hutcheon (2006: 32) appropriates
the Darwinist theory to explain a story’s process of mutation to a particu-
lar environment in the same fashion as genes adapt to new environments.
By virtue of mutation, filmmakers can unravel the adjustment of borrowed
stories and themes to the Indian milieu.
CREATIVE ADAPTATION
The Indianization of alien plots, themes, and motifs is definitely an impor-
tant element in the copycat culture. This creative adaptation often emerges
from the variety of didacticism that the educated classes worldwide chose
to appropriate from the classics of world literature in order to educate the
masses. Some of the best adaptations of “phoren” films in popular Hindi
cinema illustrate the successful translation of alien concepts into familiar
categories to ensure a seamless “glide” from the rational, individualistic,
sexualized West to the communalistic, miracle-seeking, spiritualized East.
224 A. ROY
The plagiarism charge was ironically first leveled at Sampooran Singh

Kalra alias Gulzar, defined as the first Indian art cinema director whose
“off-beat” experiments in the 1970s were denied the status of original cre-
ativity due to their being viewed as Indian “takeoffs” on world cinematic
classics. Gulzar’s remakes of The Sound of Music (1965) in Parichay (1972)
or The Comedy of Errors in Angoor (1982) were received by cinemagoers
unexposed to English cinema as “off-beat” despite the English-language
media redirecting them to their original sources. The unambiguous
delight of the elite English-language film critics lay in exposing the seri-
ous filmmaker as a vulgar plagiarist who pillaged the world’s classics to
repackage them for the consumption of unsuspecting masses. The masses,
however, innocent of the canonical texts of world cinema, hailed his works
as cinematic masterpieces. Some of Gulzar’s acclaimed films like Parichay
and Koshish (1972) are indeed “remakes” of The Sound of Music and the
Japanese film Happiness Us Alone (1961).
The most celebrated case of plagiarism, Gulzar’s adaptation of The
Sound of Music, demonstrates this process at its best. In order “to adjust,
to alter, to make suitable” (Hutcheon 2006: 7) Hollywood’s best-known
musical to an Indian setting, Gulzar substituted several key features and
motifs with Indian equivalents to meet the “probability” criteria and
“moral” concerns of Hindi audience. While the zamindari (landowner)
backdrop offered an easy fit with the feudal aristocratic milieu in The
Sound of Music and the children could easily be transposed to a non-
European setting, the romantic theme of the male protagonist’s rela-
tionship with his children’s governess was modified by the film’s shifting
its love interest to the second generation through an emotional bond-
ing between the quiet, soft-spoken tutor and his young ward. While
retaining the central theme of the original—of music and love as being
a more effective means of guiding young children than discipline—
Gulzar effectively “Indianized” the cinematic setting by displacing the
strict stepmother with a disciplinarian grandfather and the loving female
governess with a sensitive male tutor. By balancing love and discipline
and by altering the plot to evade remarriage, a controversial social issue
in India, Gulzar transforms Parichay from an unqualified tribute to a
contested homage. Even though The Sound of Music effect is visible in
almost all frames, Gulzar’s film that cast three of the then reigning male
actors—the “villainous” Pran, the comedian Asrani, and the swashbuck-
ling Jeetendra—in atypical roles while capitalizing on Jaya Bhaduri’s
gamine charm, was welcomed by Indian cinegoers—both those who had
watched the original and those who had not—as “clean, healthy enter-
tainment,” and its songs, including the do re me adaptation sare ke sare,
proved to be extremely popular. While the Hollywood musical lent itself
more easily to Indianization than Hitchcock’s thrillers, Parichay demon-
strated a deft transposition to a different setting through familiar Indian
figures and setting—including the authoritarian patriarch, the rebel-
lious musician son, the loyal family retainer, and the loving grandmother
while weaving in specifically Indian concerns like the caste structure, the
decline of aristocratic patronage for the arts, the angst of unemployed
urban youth, the “village” community, and so on. Gulzar scored over the
original, to a certain degree, by composing some of the most haunting
lyrics and music in the film.
Unlike Gulzar, whose recent consecration by the film industry as the
most original and talented lyricist displays amnesia to the 1970s film criti-
cism, another celebrated Urdu poet lyricist was found to be culpable of
the same charge posthumously. As some of his best lyrics, hummed by
generations of Hindi film viewers, exhibited undisclosed “phoren” influ-
ences, plagiarism appeared to have ceased to be an isolated strategy. A
comparison of his song “main pal do pal” with those of a Billy Joel’s “I am
the entertainer” shows Sahir Ludhianvi, one of the finest Urdu poets and
respected names in the film industry, to be an unabashed plagiarist who
lifted the song almost verbatim in Yash Chopra’s 1970s romance Kabhi
Kabhie (1976):
Main pal do pal ka shair hoon [I am a poet]

Pal do pal meri kahani hai [So is my tale]
Pal do pal meri hasti hai [My fame is transitory]
Pal do pal meri nishani hai
Kal aur ayenge [Tomorrow there will be others]
Mujhse behter kehne wale [who can tell a better tale than me]
Tumse behter sunne wale [those who are a better audience than you]
The Entertainer—Billy Joel

I am the entertainer,
And I know just where I stand:
Another serenade,
And another long-haired band.
Today I am your champion.
I may have won your hearts.
But I know the game,
226 A. ROY
You will forget my name,

And I won’t be here
In another year,
If I don’t stay on the charts.
Strictly speaking, Linda Hutcheon’s distinction between adaptation

that announces their relationship to sources and plagiarism that never
acknowledges appropriations does not qualify the experiments of Gulzar
and Sahir, two of the finest poets in Urdu, as adaptation. However, the
dictionary meaning of “to adapt” as “to adjust, to alter, to make suitable”
elevates Gulzar’s and Sahir’s compositions from plagiarisms to tributes or
even contested homage (2006: 3, 7, 9).
SKILLFUL BORROWINGS
Against the well-intentioned attempts of “middle cinema” filmmakers such
as Gulzar, Bimal Rai, Hrishikesh Mukherjee (1985), and others to make
“nonliterate” masses cine-literate by translating alien plots and themes
into a familiar sociocultural context may be placed the “skillful borrow-
ings” of Hollywood motifs and sequences by a commercial film auteur like
Prakash Mehra or Ramesh Sippy to introduce an element of novelty and
guarantee the commercial success of their films. Whether its influence is
reflected in the choice of the genre as in Ramesh Sippy’s Sholay (1975), or
in the theme as in Zanjeer (1973), or in the induction of specific scenes
to enhance the films’ appeal, Hollywood’s shadow looms large over some
of the best-known Indian classics. If Gulzar’s Parichay may be viewed as
a “postcolonial transformation” of the Hollywood musical, Sippy’s Sholay
constitutes a radical reinvention of the “spaghetti Western” through his
curious blending of seemingly disparate elements.
Sholay has received the attention it truly deserves in film studies, includ-
ing in a full-length book on its making, and its cult status is reinforced
by generations of viewers recalling scenes, repeating dialogues, singing
songs, and dancing to tunes from the film and by its characters, such as the
notorious dacoit Gabbar Singh, invading the Indian popular and mythical
imaginary. Even the dance numbers in the film by two of the best female
dancers in Hindi cinema have become benchmarks for aspiring and estab-
lished actors and dancers. In bringing out its richness for the uninitiated
viewer, studies of Sholay fail to point the irony of the fact that the classic of
Indian cinema is a copy of the Western.
Sholay, now universally accepted as a masterpiece, best illustrates this

process of skillful borrowing of alien genres, plots, and themes. The
Indian spaghetti Western broke with the familiar melodramatic romance
plot of Hindi cinema but transposed the cowboy story to the familiar
“dacoit” setting, dispensing and retaining the staples of Hindi cinema
such as comedy, love interest, family values, and song and dance to create
a novel mix.
Ramesh Sippy assimilated the Western within the established conven-
tions of the vendetta theme in the established dacoit film genre with the
exception that it is the thakur or the landlord police officer who hires
two ex-crooks to settle scores with his dacoit bête noir. To the English-
speaking elite, the two Hindi film stars—the “macho” hero Dharmendra
and the “angry young man” Amitabh Bachchan—would have appeared
like ludicrous imitations of “real” American cowboys. But the curiosity of
the non-English masses was sufficiently tickled by their favorite male actors
donning cowboy jeans and hats, their “dream-girl” Hema Malini playing
a chatterbox tangewaali (horsecart puller), their “guddi” (little girl) Jaya
Bhaduri in a mature widow’s garb. The marginalization of love interest
to male bonding struck a chord in the Indian male audience through the
film’s romanticization of the cult of yaari-dosti (male bonding) to make
Sholay an all-time hit.
In the same way as Gulzar or Sippy indigenized Hollywood to pro-
duce a transformation in the original, Vishal Bhardwaj’s adaptation of
Shakespearean plays in his film Omkara (2006) demonstrates his skill-
ful borrowing from the Bard. The transposition of Shakespeare’s Othello
to the patriarchal milieu of the Hindi heartland, where a possessive hus-
band, driven by the universal emotion of jealousy and egged on by the
wily villain, strangles his wife, is remarkable for its illuminating glimpse
into the intrigue, the rivalries, the contestation that characterize rural
North Indian economy. Bhardwaj’s temporal and spatial displacement of
the Shakespearean play while retaining its spirit was lauded as a creative
adaptation through the Hindi film director’s replication of Shakespeare’s
own strategy for familiarizing alien plots and settings to sixteenth-century
England. Though Bhardwaj’s setting is as remote from the Western as it
can be, his particularization of the universalistic theme of love, posses-
siveness, jealousy, betrayal and rivalry in a highly localized North Indian
setting demonstrated that copying, if done skillfully, could be elevated to
the status of an art.
228 A. ROY
PARODIC IMITATION
Two films inspired by Coppola’s The Godfather may illustrate Hindi cine-
ma’s parodic imitation of Hollywood.7 Dharmatma, a 1975 Hindi movie,
produced and directed by Feroz Khan, is believed to be the first attempt
in India to localize The Godfather. A tongue-in-cheek post on Bollycat
defines Khan’s Dharmatma “the actor’s reimagining of The Godfather,
and, as such, corrects for Francis Ford Coppola’s oversight in not includ-
ing any motorcycle stunts in the original. The similarities to Dharmatma’s
source material are easy to see, as long as you can imaging[sic] a version
of The Godfather in which Michael Corleone spends the middle third of
the movie in Afghanistan chasing around gypsy girls and fighting with
Danny Denzongpa.” Feroz Khan’s effective transposition of the New York
underworld to Mumbai and the Italian village to his native Afghanistan
in Dharmatma (1975), a frame-by-frame transposition of The Godfather
(1972), becomes a disturbing inquiry into the relations between the savage
transparency of the rustic, marauding culture of Pathans and the corrup-
tion of the modern Indian city in retrospect. Khan’s Technicolor transla-
tion of The Godfather with its male machismo, female voluptuousness,
colorful costumes, beautiful mountains, and complex filial relations in the
1970s was better received by the Indian audience than the play of light
and shade in Ram Gopal Varma’s darker, sophisticated translation Sarkar
(2005) in the new millennium because the Pathan culture of Khan’s film
reverberated strongly with Italian patriarchal family structures. But Khan’s
reiteration of motifs, symbols, and tropes of the American gangster film
revealed an excess, a slippage that undercut the authority of the Euro-
American genre to contain the savagery of the jangli (wild) warlords,
whose predatory instincts were produced by the Afghan borderland’s
strategic position in old conquest and trade routes. Khan’s mountains in
Afghanistan and the hot-blooded Pathans are a better fit for Coppola’s
Sicily than Ram Gopal Varma’s sophisticated remake of The Godfather in
Sarkar (2005) and Sarkar Raj (2008) with their intricate play of light and
shade to capture the dark underbelly of Mumbai.
ROOTING FOR THE COPY
It would be depressing to imagine a film industry “doomed to deriva-
tiveness” with no film escaping the Hollywood influence. Is the larg-
est film industry in the world then an assembly line turning out fakes
by the dozen? Even if it were true, the remarkable hold of fakes not
only on the Indian subcontinent but also on many continents makes one
wonder about the “pull” of the copy. While conceding that Bollywood
films, even those that become big hits, are far from original, it is equally
important to know why a large number of viewers in the world com-
prising different ethnic groups prefer the copy to the original. Even as
informed viewers continue to “educate” the “innocent” Hindi film audi-
ence in their original sources, Hindi cinema acquires a larger worldwide
following over the years as Bollywood, making one wonder about the art
of copying that it has patented to effectively dupe the uninitiated. The
prelapsarian pleasures of viewing Hindi cinema appear undiminished by
the postlapsarian knowledge of its original sources for the average Hindi
film viewer. In fact, information of that nature appear to enhance its
appeal for this category of viewers, who now imagine themselves to be
a part of the elite club of the viewers of “English” films without hav-
ing to sacrifice the pleasure of song and dance. While it is tempting to
view Hindi film viewing as a juvenile form of entertainment befitting the
infantilized colonized viewer, there is more to the copycat culture than
elite viewers would have it.
DIFFERENT PERCEPTIONS OF THE COPY IN EAST AND WEST

In view of such effective borrowings from diverse world cinemas, copy-
ing appears to resemble Homi Bhabha’s colonial mimicry that legitimizes
imitation as cultural translation or parodic reiteration. However, against
the modernist originality fetish, Allen’s modernist typology of influences,
and the postmodern reactions of Home and Hutcheon, the imitation of
world cinematic texts in Hindi cinema may be framed within the disregard
of originality and uniqueness in favor of a pleasure of expansion, deviation,
and improvisation through which individual creativity was accommodated
to continuity with tradition in Indic performing and narrative traditions.
In this context, Vijay Mishra’s notion of the epic The Mahabharata as
constituting the grand syntagmatique of Hindi cinema and the views of
other South Asian film scholars on all Hindi films being variations of the
epic tales of The Mahabharata and The Ramayana are particularly relevant
(Mishra 2002).
Unlike the West, Indian performing or visual arts where imitation is
designed to produce an illusion of reality, naql or mimicry calls attention
to its difference from the original and its status as artifice. Instead of a
230 A. ROY
faithful reproduction of the original that makes the imitation lifelike, the
naqal imitates without dissolving the distance between himself and the
characters he impersonates. The pleasure of a naqal performance arises
not from the production of a faithful replica but from a parodic imitation
of the original through exaggerated play that produces laughter. In the
naqal’s capacity to slip in and out of multiple roles without becoming one
with any lies the secret of his success.
Framing the allegations of plagiarism and copying against this per-
forming tradition in which mimetic realism is sacrificed to play, not nec-
essarily parodic, redeems even the worst copies of Hollywood in Hindi
cinema. It is in these undisguised borrowings from other cinemas that
the insouciance, or even innocence, of naqal is most visible. The cul-
ture of cut and paste in which a Hindi film director allegedly instructs
his team to lift a scene from one favorite film, an emotional sequence
from another, and an action drama from yet another to produce the
masala film does so without the postmodern legalization of stealing
as a pastiche where the artist has to cannibalize the world’s heritage
in a dialogical intertextuality. The naqal performance that adopts a
Bollywood-style presentation and song and dance in the performance of
traditional myths and epics is mirrored in Hindi cinematic texts that co-
opt traditional song and dance in their own grammar without acknowl-
edging the source.
It is in Neelam Man Singh Chaudhary’s emphasis on parody, irrev-
erence, and subversiveness in her description of Naqals poking fun at
the high-minded ideals of the rich and powerful through their earthy
humor and capacity to demystify traditional symbols that the signifi-
cation of naqal as mimicry and mockery begins to shade into Homi
Bhabha’s notion of mimicry. In H.A. Rose’s story, too, the King’s tol-
erance of the Hindu, who produces laughter by parodying the rich and
powerful in their presence that earns him the title of the jester (bhand),
hints at the license the naqal traditionally possessed to mock at figures
of authority. But it is William Crookes’ reference to the employment of
“the Bhand in the court of Rajas and native gentlemen of rank, where he
amuses the company at entertainments with buffoonery and burlesque
of European and native manners, much of which is of a very coarse
nature” that leads logically to the parodic imitation of Euro-American
texts in Hindi cinema (Russell 1916). Regardless of Crookes’ denuncia-
tion of the coarse nature of the buffoonery, the traditional legitimating
of such humor through the license given to the naqal to mock those in
authority often served as a convenient strategy for the native elite for
disrupting colonial authority. For the naqal, long accustomed to dis-
rupting traditional authority through provoking laughter, the European
master with his strange ways presented himself as the ideal object of
parody and a number of European stock figures invaded the naqal’s
repertoire. As Neelam Man Singh Chaudhary puts it, “the Naqal tradi-
tion not only represents a people’s rebellion against the establishment,
but also the way to adjust and humanize to it” (2004: 216). The role
of the naqal as a social critic who can critique social evils outlined by
Chaudhary makes him the ideal agent of subversion of the established
norms of all varieties.
The parodic imitation of European genres must therefore be viewed
against these mimetic practices in which repetition with a difference
becomes a form of cultural assertion and complex negotiation. It is in
Hindi cinema’s repetition of colonial signs with a difference that colonial
authority is disrupted and its excess and slippage transports cinematic
imitation from the comfort zone of localization to difference. This reit-
erative capacity through which the ambivalent desire for the colonial
sign is visible even in faithful replications of Hollywood classics in which
reframing of Hollywood formulae simultaneously invokes and disrupts
their authority.
CONCLUSION
In a culture revealing an easy incorporation of the folk into the popu-
lar and vice versa and a tradition of unacknowledged borrowing, Hindi
cinema’s borrowings are not considered as particularly culpable offenses.
Rather than originality, creativity may be measured through the difference
in the way existing elements are mixed in a new whole. Like the traditional
storyteller, who would narrate well-known tales in a distinctive fashion
through adding, removing, or altering details and by mixing old motifs in
new combinations, Hindi cinematic texts copy “originals” by mixing them
in order to produce a new version of the film and make it locally appealing.
If the art of storytelling is the art of repeating old stories, Hindi cinema
has certainly perfected that art. Unlike faithful adaptations, usually of the
“inspired-by” genre, that betray a strong anxiety of influence, the run-
of-the-mill Hindi films pilfer the world’s heritage without compunction
in an unproblematic incorporation of diverse motifs, images, stories, and
characters that is difficult to locate in a single, definitive text.
232 A. ROY
NOTES
1. In India, Hindi films are classified into A-, B-, and C-grade films
based on their content, viewership, and exhibition space. A-grade
films are usually family entertainers and cater to the tastes of the
urban middle class, B- grade films are lowbrow in nature and can
include comedies and horrors, and C-grade films include stunt and
semi-pornographic movies. As Govinda puts it, “My films have
always been considered total time pass entertainment, as B-grade
films. They were never called good films. They were never acclaimed
even though they did well” (Govinda 2003).
2. Naql (tale, report, anecdote; naqal in popular pronunciation)
denotes the act of copying, transmitting, relating, and imitating, or
the result of such copying, impersonation, and tradition. Naqal,
with a long vowel in the second syllable, refers to a person, who is a
storyteller, impersonator, and jester mimic. This word is used for
mimics and actors in Persian. Steingass translates Naqal as “a mimic,
actor, player” (Christina Oesterheld, Personal Communication with
Author, July 2011). Kumiko Yamamoto defines naqal as “an Iranian
storytelling tradition in which epic and religious narratives have
been transmitted in both spoken and written words” that originated
during the Safavid (1501–1736) period (2003: 20).
3. In Sanskrit, Bhand means a jester, and the caste are called Naqal
(actor). According to William Crooke, “The Bhand is sometimes
employed in the courts of Rajas and native gentlemen of rank, where
he amuses the company at entertainments with buffoonery and bur-
lesque of European and native manners, much of which is of a very
coarse nature. The Bhand is separate from and of a lower profes-
sional rank than the Bahurupiya” (Russell 1916: 349).
4. John Emigh and Ulrike Emigh define bahurupiya as “a wandering
mimic and comic” (149). Baazigar is a performer who performs
Baazi (Persian play) or an “entertaining performance based on
physical acts” (Schreffler 2011: 218).
5. The intersection between Homi Bhabha’s notion of mimicry and
Henry Louis Gates, Jr.’s concept of signifying the Yoruba figure of
a monkey demonstrates the similar tactics employed by marginalized
groups to subvert the dominant power (Gates 1988).
6. I thank Amrit Srinivasan for pointing out that the absence of a writ-
ten script in Bollywood film production probably facilitates the
porous legalities through which the Hindi film trade operates.
7. Another version of The Godfather is Feroz Khan’s Dayavan (1988).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Allen, Richard. 2008a. Introduction to Hitchcock and Hindi cinema: A dossier.
Hitchcock Annual: Volume 15 (2006–2007). London: Wallflower.
Allen, Richard. 2008b. To catch a jewel thief: Hitchcock and Indian modernity.
Hitchcock Annual: Volume 15 (2006–2007). London: Wallflower.
Anonymous. 2008, August 1. Bollywood borrowed skilfully from Alfred
Hitchcock: Richard Allen. Nowrunning.com. Retrieved on July 4, 2015 from
http://www.nowrunning.com/news/news.aspx?it=17169
Bhabha, Homi. 2004. The location of culture. New York: Routledge.
Chakravarty, Sumita S. 1996. National identity in Indian popular cinema 1947–87.
New Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Chaudhary, Neelam Man Singh. 2004. In the company of Naqals. Journal of
Punjab Studies 11(2): 215–220.
Emigh, John, and Ulrike Emigh. 2003. Hajari Bhand of Rajasthan: A joker in the
deck. In Popular theatre: A sourcebook, ed. Joel Schechter. London: Routledge.
Fischlin, Daniel, and Mark Fortier (eds.). 2000. Adaptations of Shakespeare: A
critical anthology of plays from the seventeenth century to the present. New York:
Routledge.
Gabriel, Teshome H. 1989. Towards a critical theory of third world films. In
Questions of third cinema, ed. Jim Pines and Paul Willeman. London: British
Film Institute.
Gates Jr., Henry Louis. 1988. The signifying monkey: A theory of Afro-American
literary criticism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Home, Stewart. 1995. Neoism, Plagiarism and Praxis. Edinburgh: AK Press.
House, Random. 1995. Random House compact unabridged dictionary. New York:
Random House.
Hutcheon, Linda. 2006. A theory of adaptation. New York: Routledge.
Larkin, Brian. 1997. Hausa dramas and the rise of video culture in Nigeria. Visual
Anthropology Review 14(2): 46–62.
Mir, Farina. 2006. Genre and devotion in Punjab’s popular narratives: Rethinking
cultural and religious syncretism. Comparative Studies in Society and History
48(3): 727–758.
Mishra, Vijay. 2002. Bollywood cinema: Temples of desire. New York: Routledge.
Mukherjee, Meenakshi. 1985. Realism and reality. New Delhi: Oxford University
Press.
Nandy, Ashis. 2001. Invitation to an antique death: The journey of Pramathesh
Barua as the origin of the terribly effeminate, maudlin, self-destructive heroes
of Indian cinema. In Pleasure and the Nation: The history, politics and consump-
tion of public culture in India, ed. Rachel Dwyer and Christopher Pinney,
139–160. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Oesterheld, Christina. 2011, July. Personal communication with Author
Rose, H.A. 1996[1911]. A glossary of the tribes and castes of the Punjab and the
North-West Frontier Province. Based on the Census Report for the Punjab, 1883,
234 A. ROY
by The Late Sir Denzil Ibbetson and The Census Report for the Punjab, 1892, by
Sir Edward Maclagan and complied by H.A. Rose. Lahore: Government Printing
of Punjab, 1911 edition; New Delhi: Asian Education Services.
Russell, Robert Vane. 1916. The tribes and castes of the Central Provinces of India,
vol. 1. London: Macmillan. Retrieved on May 25, 2013 from http://www.
gutenberg.org/ebooks/20583
Schreffler, Gibb. 2011. The Bazigar (Goaar) people and their performing arts.
Journal of Punjab Studies 1, 2: 217–250.
Yamamoto, Kumiko. 2003. The oral background of Persian epics: Storytelling and
poetry. Leiden: Brill.
FILMS
Barua, P.C. 1935. Devdas.
Bhardwaj, Vishal. 2006. Omkara.
Chopra, Yash. 1976. Kabhie Kabhie.
Dhawan, David. 1998. Bade Miyan Chote Miyan.
Dhawan, David. 2007. Partner.
Gulzar. 1972. Koshish.
Gulzar. 1972. Parichay.
Gulzar. 1982. Angoor.
Jaffery, Rumi. 2008. God Tussi Great Ho.
Kamlakar, Sachin. 2008. Ugly Aur Pagli.
Khan, Feroz. 1975. Dharmatma.
Mehra, Prakash. 1973. Zanzeer.
Sippy, Ramesh. 1975. Sholay.
Varma, Ram Gopal. 2005. Sarkar.
Varma, Ram Gopal. 2008. Sarkar Raj.
CHAPTER 13
Undercranking and Step-Printing in Wong

Kar-Wai’s Filmography
Patrick Sullivan
INTRODUCTION
Amid the myriad of cinematic techniques Wong Kar-Wai deploys in his
films the combination of undercranking and step-printing that stands out
as a favored technique in the director’s catalog, a technique even more con-
spicuous for critics and audiences due to its overall rarity in global cinema.
David Bordwell refers to the pairing of undercranking and step-printing
as “Wong’s slow motion,” and this provides a stylistic thread through-
out Wong’s films (Bordwell 2000: 277). Wong prominently featured this
unusual combination of the two techniques in his directorial debut, As
Tears Go By (Wong gok ka moon, 1988). Wong’s use of the method has
established a visual motif that comments on the relationship between love
and time. In As Tears Go By, Wong employs the pairing of techniques dur-
ing moments of heightened violence and romantic embrace, an effect that
obscures legibility in these affectively charged moments. Gary Bettison
considers the tension between legibility and illegibility to be an aesthetic
of disturbance at the heart of Wong Kar-Wai’s cinematic style (Bettison
P. Sullivan ()
University of Rochester, Rochester, NY, USA

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_13
236 P. SULLIVAN
2015: 22–25). While undercranking and step-printing are cinematic

editing processes inherently connected to issues of time, it is not until later
in his filmography, particularly Chungking Express (Chung Hing sam lam,
1994), that Wong will use this combination to comment on the relation-
ship between time and love specifically. That is, Wong uses the combina-
tion of undercranking and step-printing as an expressly cinematic device
to formally represent the distortion of time by an affectively charged
moment. In this chapter, I will trace Wong’s pairing of undercranking and
step-printing and explore their fascinating connection to love and time in
As Tears Go By, In the Mood for Love (Fa yeung nin wa, 2000), and 2046
(2004).
UNDERCRANKING
Typically, shooting and projection speed are in a one-to-one relationship
in order to represent cinematic events in a duration and movement that
matches their profilmic counterpart. Any alteration to this relationship
between shooting and projection speed changes the temporality, duration,
and movement of an event depicted on screen from its offscreen counter-
part. If the projection speed is lower than the shooting speed, the diegesis
of the film appears slowed down, creating slow motion. If the projection
is higher than the shooting speed, the diegesis of the film appears sped
up, creating fast motion. In the era of manual camera, cinematographers
achieved fast motion by undercranking the camera. This has led to fast
motion regularly being referred to as undercranking.
Undercranking reduces the number of frames capturing the event in
front of the camera. Generally, the undercranked footage is projected
at the standard 24 fps. Thus, undercranking yields temporal accelera-
tion. This acceleration compresses the duration of the cinematic event.
This effect of undercranking becomes most visible in the technological
limits of the technique, time-lapse photography, which functions pre-
dominately as a temporal ellipse in narrative cinema. In compressing the
duration, undercranking breaks from the verisimilitude cinema main-
tains toward “real life.” By temporally varying from its profilmic coun-
terpart, undercranked footage draws the spectator’s attention toward
time. While cinema has always been fascinated and predicated on move-
ment, movement and, by extension, time become the focus of under-
cranked footage.
UNDERCRANKING AND STEP-PRINTING IN WONG KAR-WAI’S FILMOGRAPHY 237
STEP-PRINTING
In contrast to undercranking, which draws the spectator’s attention to
movement, step-printing highlights the cinema’s foundation on the still
image. Step-printing duplicates a single frame. Predominately in narrative
cinema, filmmakers use step-printing to create freeze frames, the aesthetic
limit of the technique. Whether creating a freeze frame or duplicating a
single frame only once, step-printing extends the duration of the cinematic
event beyond that of its profilmic counterpart. Momentary as it is, move-
ment drains from the image.
While step-printing drains visual movement within the diegesis of
the film, the projected image still relies on the continual forward move-
ment of the cinematic apparatus; that is, it is only through the relentless
movement of the projector that the cinematic image remains on screen.
At the level of the mechanical apparatus, movement persists, though its
visual counterpart stops. When step-printing begins, the temporality of
the apparatus and diegesis begin to diverge. The longer the duration of
the step-printing, the greater the discrepancy between the temporalities
becomes. This divergence of cinematic temporalities serves as a method
to unhinge and destabilize the spectator from the film. By unhinge and
destabilize, I mean that the spectator becomes aware of the act of recep-
tion, aware that he is watching a movie.
While discussing the inappropriateness of defining cinema by the
instant, Mary Ann Doane alludes to the ability of step-printing to high-
light the act of reception:
Temporality is one of the signifying materials of the cinema, a part of its expe-
rience for the spectator. However, there is a sense in which the very concept
of the instant is inappropriate for defining the cinema, which always deals with
extensive duration. Even the shortest shot traces a process in time, and a freeze
frame dictated the duration of its own reception. The instant, properly speak-
ing, belongs to photography and to the individual film frame, which is never
seen as such by the spectator. A single shot one viably produces the effect of
temporal continuity and, hence, of “real time” (Doane 2002: 183–184).
Extending on what Doane said about the freeze frame, I argue that every
moment in cinema defines its duration of reception. The freeze frame, how-
ever, draws attention to its duration of reception. As the cinematic technique
underpinning the freeze frame, the same can be said of step-printing; that is,
238 P. SULLIVAN
step-printing draws the attention of spectator toward the duration of recep-

tion and the instant. In a sense, step-printing makes the individual film frame,
the instant, seen by the spectator. Thus, step-printing shifts the spectator’s
normal perceptual alliance with movement to the instant.
COMBINATION OF UNDERCRANKING AND STEP-PRINTING

The pairing of undercranking and step-printing modifies each other’s indi-
vidual effects on temporality. While each effect individually causes a visible
divergence between the cinematic representation’s duration and the profilmic
event’s duration, these techniques in combination reunite the cinematic rep-
resentation’s duration and that of the profilmic event; screen time matches
“real” time. Though “real” time duration and cinematic duration now cor-
relate, the pairing of undercranking and step-printing modifies the represen-
tation of movement and time in cinema. The step-printed frames fracture the
exaggerated, fluid movement depicted during undercranking. This leads to a
depiction of movement as disjointed and blurred, alienating the viewer from
the action of the film. By representing movement as disjointed and blurred,
the combination of undercranking and step-printing goes against cinema’s
regular effortless display of clear, crisp movement. The blurred movement
of undercranking and step-printing actually calls into question the represent-
ability of movement and time by the cinematic apparatus.
Illegibility constantly haunts the representation of time. In order to avoid
illegibility, cinema sacrifices continuous duration. The cinematic apparatus
maps time onto spatially distinct frames. In this spatialization, duration is
lost. In contrast to cinema, the photographic work of Etienne-Jules Marey,
which the pairing of undercranking and step-printing visually echo, did not
use continuous duration in its representing of time. Marey desired to depict
time via movement as continuous, but in this drive for the representation of
continuous movement, Marey’s images would become illegible. The spatial
limit of using a single photographic frame to capture movement would
ultimately hinder the comprehensibility of the image (Doane 2002: 57).
While Marey’s images verged on incomprehensibility, Marey preferred this
method to cinema’s, for he saw cinema as presenting a false notion of time.
Marey’s view that cinema presents an inaccurate representation of time
stems from cinema’s sacrifice of continuous duration. Mary Ann Doane
reads Marey as seeing a “double deception” at work in cinema because of
the sacrifice of duration: first, that “truth resides in visibility,” and second,
that “cinema replicates time perfectly without loss” (Ibid., 62).
The pairing of undercranking and step-printing responds to these

“deceptions” of cinema. First, the pairing shows that cinema does not
reproduce time without loss. It shows that cinematic time is built on the
instant amid an excess of movement. By revealing that cinematic time is
built off the instant, it presents cinematic time as constructed and, thus,
mediated. Second, by showing that cinematic time as constructed, the
pairing questions the cinema’s linking of truth and visibility. The construc-
tion of cinematic time is no longer taken as objective or “true.” I take
Wong Kar-Wai as using this breaking down of the “objective” of cinematic
time to comment on the subjective of time, particularly during moments
of love.1
UNDERCRANKING AND STEP-PRINTING IN WONG’S

FILMOGRAPHY
The cinematic combination of undercranking and step-printing first
appears in As Tears Go By. The film follows Wah (Andy Lau), a young
impassioned gangster, as he tries to keep his friend and fellow gangster, Fly
(Jackie Cheung), out of trouble while navigating a burgeoning romantic
relationship with Ngor (Maggie Cheung), his cousin from Lantau Island.
Fly’s ego and reckless behavior keep dragging Wah back into the criminal
world, while Ngor offers a possible escape from Hong Kong and the vio-
lent life Wah lives there. However, Wah’s love and loyalty to Fly ultimately
leads him to his death. In the final scenes of the film, Wah returns to Hong
Kong hoping to talk Fly out of a doomed assassination mission, targeting
a police informant. Unable to get Fly to abandon the hit, Wah follows Fly
and finishes the killing for him after he is gunned down by police. Though
Wah completes the hit, he is also killed by the police fire. The film ends on
a freeze frame of Wah’s dead body.
Before the assassination scene that closes the film, Wong uses the com-
bination of undercranking and step-printing in Wah’s revenge on fellow
gangsters for attacking Fly and during Wah and Ngor’s romantic embrace
on Lantau Island. During Wah’s revenge and closing assassination scenes,
the combination subverts spectatorial expectations for clarity and, thus,
knowability during moments of heightened action. Wong’s use of the
combination during these moments creates perceptual distance from the
violence. The blurring between reduced and excessive movement dis-
rupts the clarity of violence and will be echoed later in Wong’s cinema.
However, it is the romantic moment of Ngor and Wah that serves as the
240 P. SULLIVAN
originary moment that couples the pairing of undercranking and step-

printing with love. Wah comes to Lantau Island, interrupting Ngor on a
date. He tactfully departs back on the ferry, yet as he goes, Ngor catches
up to him. At the terminal, the couple embraces. In a medium close-up,
the film captures Wah passionately lunging for Ngor, who, at first, appears
startled but then meets his embrace by throwing her arms around him.
Created by the pairing of undercranking and step-printing, the blurred
movements of their bodies fill the frame. As Wong’s filmography pro-
gresses, undercranking and step-printing continue to become more cen-
tered on the moments of love.
Wong uses the editing technique for the climatic scenes in As Tears
Go By. It will not be until Chungking Express that the pairing of under-
cranking and step-printing is used exclusively to address the connection
between love and time. With Chungking Express, Wong embeds the pair-
ing of techniques into a film intimately concerned with the construction
of time and the role emotions play in that construction. Wong opens
Chungking Express on the crowded streets of Hong Kong. The Woman
in the Blonde Wig played by Bridgette Lin twists through the crowds,
searching, as we find out later, for drug mules. The camera frantically
tries to keep up with her. The film briefly cuts to a shot of the Hong
Kong sky. Over this, we hear a voice-over of Cop 223, played by Takeshi
Kaneshiro. Moments later, we are visually introduced to him. He also
twists through the streets, pursuing a criminal. The film displays Cop
223’s pursuit in the blurred visuals of undercranking and step-printing.
The scene ends by pausing on him bumping into The Woman in the
Blonde Wig.
The chase sequence serves as a narrative event that, like the combina-
tion of undercranking and step-printing, holds the instant and duration
in tension. Cop 223’s chase of The Woman in the Blonde Wig reinforces
the structuring of time produced by Wong’s unique editing. As a proton-
arrative fragment, the chase developed and became popular during cin-
ema’s early, pre-classical years. The chase sequence loosely links moments
of spectacle into a narrative trajectory. The chase sequence, in a sense,
primed cinema’s transition from early cinema to full-blown narrative cin-
ema. Though the chase points to a new structuring of cinema, one based
on narrative progression, it does not fully abandon early cinema’s invest-
ment in spectacle, display, and the instant. Rather, in the chase sequence,
we can read a balance between spectacle and narrative, between the instant
and duration.
Cinema’s ability to create a temporality distinct from the profilmic

events is an irreducible aspect of the relationship between cinema and
time. Early cinema and narrative cinema differ in the temporalities they
create out of the profilmic events. Early cinema’s preference for the “spec-
tacular reveal,” for the sudden moment of surprise, not only discloses cin-
ema’s inheritance from vaudeville, but also suggests an entirely different
structuring of time. Rather than the development of sequential events that
logically lead the spectator from the beginning to the end of the film, as in
narrative cinema, early cinema foregrounded the instant, the temporal cat-
egory central to its construction. The pleasure early cinema offers centers
on a structure of time based on the instant—the sudden moment of reveal.
This differing structure of time has lead film historian Tom Gunning to
dub early cinema a “cinema of attractions.” Teasing out the difference
between early cinema’s and narrative cinema’s structures of time, Gunning
writes, “The act of display on which the cinema of attractions is founded
presents itself as a temporal irruption rather than a temporal development”
(Gunning 2004: 46). Early cinema creates a temporality based around
temporal irruption—the instant—while narrative cinema creates a tempo-
rality focused on progress.
In the chase sequence, early cinema’s temporality based on the
instant becomes interwoven with the temporal progress of narrative.
Spectacle becomes woven into narrative. The chase sequence com-
bines temporal irruption and temporal development. The complexity
of the temporality involved in the chase sequence arises out of the pair-
ing of these two depictions of temporality. This temporal pairing cre-
ates a tension between spectacle and narrative, a tension between the
instant and development. The tension that the chase sequence main-
tains finds a visual parallel in Wong’s combination of undercranking and
step-printing.
Cop 223, over the opening chase scene, muses, “Every day we brush
past so many other people. People we may never meet, people who may
become close friends.” Later, when he bumps into The Woman in the
Blonde Wig, he continues, “This was the closest we ever got just 0.01
centimeters between us. But 57 hours later I fell in love with this woman.”
Cop 223’s reflection on love and time frames the chase scene. Love can
either make time rush by or linger, often both in the same moment. The
combination of undercranking and step-printing with its bursts of speed
and, then, moments of stillness provides a visual echo of love’s effect on
time.
242 P. SULLIVAN
Wong continues to use this theme of connecting undercranked and

step-printed moments with moments of reflection on love in his follow-
ing film, Fallen Angels, a film originally intended to be part of Chungking
Express. Similar to Chungking Express, the film follows two separate story-
lines: one of a hit man and his agent, who loves him, and the other of He
Zhiwu, a mute man who breaks into shops and who loves Charlie, a woman
trying to find her ex-boyfriend’s fiancée. Though there is more interaction
between the storylines in Fallen Angels than in Chungking Express, we are
still left questioning the relationship between the two storylines.
Numerous scenes within Fallen Angels employ the combination of
undercranking and step-printing. In one scene, He Zhiwu, played by
Takeshi Kaneshiro, reflects on love through the voice-over. The pres-
ence of Kaneshiro, the voice-over, and the pairing of undercranking
and step-printing make this scene recall the opening of Chungking
Express. This time, the reflection occurs in a café, with He sitting next
to Charlie. Charlie sits staring off into space, while He reflects on love
and time. He Zhiwu states, “They say women are made of water so
are some men. Most people fall in love for the first time as teenagers.
I guess I’m a late bloomer. Maybe, I’m too picky. On May 30, 1995,
I finally fell in love for the first time.” The voice-over expresses this
moment as the instant He Zhiwu fell in love. Again, as with Chungking
Express, the voice-over motivates us to think about the connection
between love and the moment it occurred. It is difficult not to read
the pairing of undercranking and step-printing as a visual reflection of
He Zhiwu’s dialogue about love and time. This scene is of particular
interest for the difference between the representation of Charlie and
He Zhiwu’s movements and those of the passersby. Charlie and He
Zhiwu move very little and the technique does not blur their move-
ments as much as the passersby that rush past. Here, the combination
serves as a method to visually separate He Zhiwu’s from the rest of
the world. He is set apart, for he is experiencing a different tempo-
rality. The love he feels for Charlie disrupts his perception of time.
Time lingers for him, while the world rushes by. Wong visualizes this
division between an internal perception of time affected by love and
external temporality through the combination of undercranking and
step-printing. Furthermore, by having the rest of the world go blurry
and having Charlie and He Zhiwu clear, this scene comments on the
way in which love affects memory. Charlie remains clear in He Zhiwu’s
memory because she is the object of his love. Being unimportant, the
rest of the world remains only a blur. During He Zhiwu’s reflection,

the pairing serves as a visual technique to represent the way love creates
a temporality distinct for those in love.
For his films in the 2000s, Wong used undercranking, step-printing,
and the combination of the two far less. In the Mood for Love, a film that
nostalgically revisits Hong Kong in the 1960s, contains each effect sepa-
rately, but the combination remains absent. Rather, the film expands on
and achieves an effect similar to the combination of undercranking and
step-printing through a pairing of undercranking with the intention-
ally slowed movements of the actors, Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung.
Like the pairing of undercranking and step-printing, the change in acting
combined with undercranking serves as a way to separate the characters
from the world around them. The separation emerges from the difference
between the characters’ internal perception of time and an external world
time. This distinction between internal and external time occurs during
moments in which the characters must wait. The relationship between
waiting and love is one of the central themes of the film, and the pairing
of undercranking and slowed acting serves as a uniquely cinematic way to
highlight it.
In the Mood for Love centers on Mr. Chow (Leung) and Su Li-zhen
(Cheung), who coincidently become neighbors. Mr. Chow and his wife
rent a room in an apartment next to the apartment in which Su Li-zhen
and her husband rent a room. Mr. Chow and Su’s spouses are often absent
because of work. As the film progresses, Mr. Chow and Su begin to sus-
pect their partners of having an affair together, which the film confirms.
Mr. Chow and Su begin to imagine and react what the affair of their
spouses is like. During this time of reenactment, they also begin to write
a martial arts novel. Spending much of their time together, they begin to
fall under the scrutiny of Su’s landlady. To avoid further scandal, Chow
rents a hotel room, 2046, for them to write in. Though they promised
not to become like their partners, they fall in love, yet Su resists Chow’s
advances. Finally unable to be with Su, Chow decides to leave Hong Kong
for Singapore. He tells her he will wait at the hotel for her, only to depart
before she arrives.
For In the Mood for Love, Wong foregoes the combination of under-
cranking and step-printing, his first film to do so since the combination’s
introduction into his filmography. However, each temporal-altering cin-
ematic technique appears separately, both during moments of waiting.
For step-printing, this moment comes when Mr. Chow and Su Li-zhen
244 P. SULLIVAN
wait under an awning outside of the apartment building to avoid the rain.
Within the film, this ordinary act of waiting to escape the rain serves as a
moment that illustrates the waiting that Chow and Su undergo through-
out the course of the film. Wong reinforces the event of waiting through
the use of step-printing during this scene. Therefore, step-printing drains
the movement of the image. This motionlessness created through step-
printing mirrors the stillness associated with waiting, the lingering of time.
For undercranking, the moment of waiting comes when Mr. Chow
and Su must wait, again trapped by the rain, at the noodle shop near their
apartment. Against the bustling backdrop of restaurant staff and patrons,
Chow and Su linger around the café, never engaging one another in con-
versation. Segments of undercranked footage are inserted into this scene.
Both characters act in slow motion. Thus, when filmed in undercranking,
Chow and Su’s movements appear to be at a speed that approximates
normal movement. The motion of their movements, however, appears
unnatural and haunting, with leaps and jerks amidst smooth bodily action.
While Chow and Su’s motions estimate the everyday movement, the
surrounding environment of the café appears as the exaggerated move-
ment of an undercranked footage. Again, as we have seen in Fallen Angels,
temporality becomes a way to separate the central pair from the rest of the
world. Whereas He’s love of Charlie alters his perception of time, waiting
motivates Chow and Su’s separation from the world. Their time lingers, for
they are stuck while the rest of the world continues to rush by. The staff
continues to make and serve food. The patrons continue to eat. The dis-
tinction created between the internal temporality of Chow and Su and that
of the rest of the world, which Wong achieves through undercranking and
acting. This style visually echoes the motif of waiting he creates throughout
the story: Chow and Su waiting on their spouses, the pair waiting at the
noodle shop and in Mr. Chow’s room, and Mr. Chow waiting at the hotel.
Wong places waiting as a central dimension of Chow and Su’s romance.
Through this waiting, Wong intimately links time and love, a connection
he will continue in the sequel to In the Mood for Love, 2046 (2004).
For 2046, Wong returns to the combination of undercranking and
step-printing. The film follows Mr. Chow through a series of relationships
during his stay at a hotel room, 2047. He has returned to Hong Kong
from Singapore with the help of a different Su Li-zhen (Gong Li), also
called Black Spider, a celebrated gambler. During their time together in
Singapore, Chow and Black Spider become romantically involved, but the
relationship does not last as Chow returns to Hong Kong and Black Spider
refuses to come. In Hong Kong, Chow moves from one relationship to

the other, refusing to become committed to anyone. Intercut through
the film are scenes from the science fiction story Chow is writing, which
follows a passenger on a train coming from a place called 2046, a place
people go to, to recapture lost memories. At the end of the film, Chow
returns to the Singapore casino, looking for Su Li-zhen/Black Spider only
to find that she has left.
It is during the final scene with Chow in Singapore that Wong returns
to the combination of undercranking and step-printing. Once Chow
learns Black Spider has left, he begins gambling. Wong shows the casino
in his signature combination. Chow sits playing cards as the hectic envi-
ronment of the casino blurs behind him. The setting of the casino, where
Wong links undercranking and step-printing, serves as a place to represent
memory, that is, Chow’s memory of Su Li-zhen, and chance, which ties
into the film’s understanding of the relationship between love and time.
As shown in Fallen Angels, the combination of undercranking and step-
printing acts as a motif to visualize the effect of love on memory. Chow
returns to the casino, a place connected to the Black Spider and, thus,
through substitution, the other Su Li-zhen as well. As such, it is not an
objective space but a place seized by emotion for Chow. Here, the com-
bination serves as a way to reflect this. Chow’s memory of this place and
time, steeped in emotion, inhibits an objective representation of the place.
In addition to serving as a site of memory, the casino functions as a place
that emblematizes chance. It is hard not to read this spatial representation
of chance in relationship to time and love, given the casino’s connection to
Su Li-zhen. Chow’s earlier voice-over, where he muses about the relation-
ship between love and time, further motivates a reading of the connection
between time, love, and chance. Chow states that love is a matter of tim-
ing. Chow’s remark makes explicit the theme of missed timing in roman-
tic relationships, which runs through Wong’s filmography. The pairing of
undercranking and step-printing that expresses the subjectivity of time for
his characters finds an echo in the setting of the casino that spatially rep-
resents this connection between missed timing, chance, and love. In this
final scene, prompted by the pairing of undercranking and step-printing as
well as the setting, 2046 leaves us to contemplate the connection between
love, time, and chance—the connection that, through the contingency of
time, love is not cast as changeless but rather in motion.
In a medium deeply invested in the regular exhibition of movement
and time, the pairing of undercranking and step-printing becomes a way
246 P. SULLIVAN
for Wong Kar-Wai to cinematically treat time as a subjective material, that

is, whereas directors have long used narrative structure such as flashbacks
to signify a subjective experience of time, the pairing is a cinematic way to
do so. Wong uses this to reflect the experience of love. The combination
visually reflects the way moments of love distort time for the individual.
Wong’s pairing suggests that during moments of love, time is in flux for
the individual, alternating between lingering and hastened moments, and
that this perception of time separates the individual from the rest of the
world. Thus, Wong’s pairing of undercranking and step-printing acts as a
cinematic way to represent the temporality of one who is in love.
NOTE
1. In Planet Hong Kong, Bordwell notes Wong’s use of romance to
address themes about time. While Bordwell seems to predominately
locate representations of this theme in Wong’s film’s mise-en-scène,
I am suggesting that the combination of undercranking and step-
printing can be read as an expression of time and love.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bettinson, Gary. 2015. The sensuous cinema of Wong Kar-Wai: Film poetics and the
aesthetic of disturbance. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press.
Bordwell, David. 2000. Planet Hong Kong popular cinema and the art of enter-
tainment. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Doane, Mary Ann. 2002. The emergence of cinematic time: Modernity, contingency,
the archive. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Gunning, Tom. 2004. ‘Now you see it, Now you don’t’: The temporality of the
cinema of attractions. In The silent cinema reader, ed. Lee Grieveson and Peter
Kramer, 41–50. New York: Routledge.
CHAPTER 14
Mirroring Alterity: The Imaginary China

and the Comedic Self in Chandni
Chowk to China
Michael A. Mikita
INTRODUCTION
This chapter examines critically Nikhil Advani’s popular film, Chandni
Chowk to China (2009). Despite being critically panned upon its release,
the film’s preoccupation with the intersections between the two great
cinematic epistemes of Asia—at all levels of production and visual nar-
rative—situates it at the locus of an inter-Asian filmic discourse and
centralizes it within the cinematic grammar of Bollywood’s gaze in the
direction of China. Similarly, the film’s fusion of Bollywood music and
dance with Hong Kong martial arts unites the twin paragons of global
cinema, enabling a reading of the film that engages with these narrative
trajectories. Chandni Chowk to China is shown to rely heavily upon self
and intra-Orientalisms in its construction of its imagined China, mobi-
lizing tropes common to the West to do so. Unpacking these notional
configurations of China as manifested in the film, this chapter draws
on the insight of Slavoj Žižek (2004) about a functional difference
between cinematic narrative and texture to investigate the filmic subtext
M.A. Mikita ()

Rio Hondo College, Whittier, CA, USA

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_14
248 M.A. MIKITA
at multiple discursive levels. The film’s use of hybridity in the bodies

of multiple bifurcated Chindians attenuates the underlying structures at
play. As the modality of intermixture plays out in different ways and
through different bodies, the film’s reliance on mirroring and duality
becomes a reflection on the complicated interplay between identity—
properly understood as preconscious interest—and subjectivity, the com-
bination of this identity with unconscious desire and structural position
(Wilderson III 2008: 106). The filmic construction of a narrative link
between the profane comedy and sacred reincarnation closes the circuit
of Sino-Indic elisions, while exposing the question of what it means to
be and to become Chindian (Tan 2009).
Chandni Chowk to China introduces its protagonist, Sidhu (Akshay
Kumar), whose initial buffoonery and awkwardness belie what the film’s
narrative presents as an unharnessed internal strength within the Indian
self (Chaudhary 2003). Sidhu begins the film as a simple cook on Gali
Paranthe Wali, a narrow street in the Chandni Chowk district of New
Delhi. Aswin Punathambekar (2005: 156) argues that Chandni Chowk
is visualized a “lower-class space,” and that putting Chandni Chowk in
the film’s title is similar to the use of such localized and classed signi-
fiers as Harlem or South Central in Hollywood. When a group of villag-
ers believe Sidhu to be the reincarnation of the ancient Chinese warrior
Liu Sheng and beckon him to aid their threatened village, Sidhu is given
with an opportunity to redefine himself. As the idea of an Indian self
is constructed though the film’s diegesis, so is the tangential construct
imagined, that of the Chinese other, against whom the Indian is con-
trasted and alternatively either aligned or opposed. These notions of a
deixic subjectivity and objectivity are complicated by the existence of
a still-greater Other, the faintly realized but overgirded symbolic pres-
ence of Whiteness, whose predation upon both has shaped their mutual
visions of not only themselves but of one another. Chandni Chowk to
China texturally reflects upon how this colonial legacy, experienced today
as globalization,1 impacts the ways in which India and China visualize
one another through the prism of Whiteness, even when whiteness is not
part of the conversation.2 Chandni Chowk to China concerns an Indian
who travels to China, with his half-Chinese, half-Indian friends, to train
under a (Hindi-speaking) Chinese master, Chang (Roger Yuan), to defeat
a Chinese adversary, Hojo (Gordon Liu). As such, the cinematic construc-
tion of a privileged Indian gaze on China reflects the remarks by Zhou
Ning about intra-Orientialism:
MIRRORING ALTERITY: THE IMAGINARY CHINA AND THE COMEDIC SELF... 249
For both Japan and India, it is impossible to signify China through any
framework not mediated by the West, and it is also impossible to find a sense
of self-approval outside of this Western-centric framework. The image of
China formed in the imaginary of the Indian and Japanese mind is not only
referential to the bi-directionality of cultural relations between China and
themselves, but is moreover referential to the three-pronged relationship
between the image of the Asian nation of itself, of China, and of Western
Modernity. In this tripartite arrangement, Western Modernity has the
breadth and power to enforce what is described anon as “intra-Orientalism,”
wherein which Asian nations measure their own “Oriental” self-identity
through the vision of other Oriental bodies within the Western imaginary,
vis-à-vis their own position measured against the Other Oriental body. Intra-
Orientialism shapes the vision of China held by the other Eastern nations,
and causes it to become a reproduction of Western motifs. Eastern or Asian
nations cannot go beyond Western modernity as the premise, orientation,
and method of the construction of their image of China, because of the role
inter-Orientalism plays in the establishment of this imaginary (Zhou 2009).
Zhou Ning’s depiction of an Indian-imagined China mirroring that

of the West is reflected in Chandni Chowk to China, which regular-
izes an internal mediation of an Oriental self that better enunciates the
Western constructs of the Other commonly shown in the broad corpus of
Hollywood’s cinematic engagements with the Orient. The codified struc-
tures underlying the white imaginaries of both his self-Orientalized notion
of self and the intra-Orientalized visions of the others he encounters await
his engagement with them. As Sidhu goes to China to be a savior to a
group of impoverished Chinese who see him as a reincarnated hero, he
does so not as a White man would have done; he does not go to fight and
fornicate his way through Cathay. Despite this difference, Sidhu still enters
a remarkably Orientalized China, a space profoundly colored by the inflec-
tions of a colonizer he virtually never encounters as he fights an adversary
he barely even sees.
REGURGITATING THE OTHER’S CHINA

While en route to the village, Sidhu dreams of China, creating an oneiric
space of choreographed dancers inhabiting anachronistic terrains remem-
bered from filmed Chinas of the past and placing Sidhu in the position
of imagining a Sinicized item number. Sidhu’s dream is initiated by an
in-flight video introduced with on-screen text, “the land of magic and
250 M.A. MIKITA
mystery,” with an image of a costumed Chinese girl robed in brightly

colored garments, followed by the proclamation, “Welcome to China,”
in a characteristically “Oriental” font overlaid before a picture of the Hall
of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City. This commodified vision
of an advertised China sets the tone for Sidhu’s subconscious narrative,
which places him in three different constructed imaginaries, enrobed in
period-appropriate attire and leading his fellows in song. In each choreo-
graphed number, Sidhu dances before a legion of costumed compatriots,
only to be joined by his love interest, Sakhi (Deepika Padukone), and
sidekick, Chopstick (Ranvir Shorey), who sing songs which complicate
and countermand his own. The first of these elaborate dance numbers
places him in the lead of a regiment of gold-costumed Chinese soldiers
in the courtyard of a forbidden city engulfed in yellow flowers, appearing
for all intents as a living terra cotta army, as he leads them in a martial
dance. Sidhu’s dance is at one point broken by his slipping on a banana
peel in a moment of forced comedy. Their dance integrates Indian and
Chinese dance styles, synthesizing visual motifs as he sings of his sim-
plicity and commonness. His army is joined by a flock of yellow-robed
consort girls, headed by Sakhi, who sings of his unattractiveness. They
are then joined by a red-robed Chopstick, who mocks him for chasing
her despite his appearance and attitude. This big-number dance routine,
performed on a lavish set, featuring elaborate costumes, and with a large
number of Chinese extras, was a cornerstone of the film and featured
prominently in advertisements and promotional material. It neverthe-
less rests upon a foundation of a gesture toward exoticizing otherness,
placing the characters in period costume and removing them from their
contexts. Sidhu’s lament, Sakhi’s lamentation and Chopstick’s lambast-
ing all contrastively displace them from their setting, the visual spectacle
reworked to comedic farce with the slapstick movement of Sidhu, the
garish faces made by Suzy, Sakhi’s twin sister, and the iterant mocking
of Chopstick. This theme of a triangular arrangement between desire,
disgust and schadenfreude is repeated in a more elaborate number set in
1920s Shanghai, with the ladies costumed in cheongsams and the men
wearing double-breasted suits and fedora hats. Here, the modality of the
imaginary is reconstituted at the site of prewar Shanghai, a place which
figures prominently as a preoccupation in Hollywood gazes in the direc-
tion of the Pacific, from the noir, in films such as The Lady from Shanghai
and The Big Sleep, to the neo-noir, in China Moon and Chinatown (Ma,
December 2004). As much as this second dance installment locates an
imaginary China within a noir pastiche, the third incarnation of the

dance lumpenizes it to locate it in an urban cool, displacing the visual
narrative of the past and giving way to a kinetic, street-inflected dance
replete with crimped hair and bandanas. This final turn on the imaginary
reconnects the notion of a Chinese space with the urban, de-temporaliz-
ing this construct even as it racializes it. The Indian dream of a dancing
China here primarily returns to notions rendered normative by white-
ness, recapitulating to visuals and motifs regularized within Western cin-
ematic engagements with China, reflecting rather than refracting notions
common to Western Orientalisms (Marchetti 1994).
The dream of China experienced while on the way to it serves to enun-
ciate a central problem underlying the film, which is its conceptual inability
to narrate a vision of China that is much differentiated from any seen medi-
ated in the West; a failure to see an Indian China different from a Western
China. This is reflected in the film’s efforts toward intertextuality, which
are directed at duplications or homages to Hollywood films’ mistreatments
of Asian subjects. The film’s primary antagonist, Hojo, kills by throwing
his bowler hat at his victim and slitting their throat, in the same manner as
Oddjob, the henchman in the James Bond film Goldfinger, and dresses in a
way that resembles that character as well. Hojo’s resemblance to a Korean
Bond villain furthers the constructed imaginary of Chinese adversary, reca-
pitulating to a contrived notion of Othering the Chinese while doing so in
a way vocalized within a Western text and thematically linking the Indian
opponent to the Western one.3 In keeping with this Bond theme, the film
features an extended sequence when Sakhi visits the Chinese laboratories
for Tele-Shopping Media (TSM), which produces a number of Bond-like
gadgets, including a device that translates from one language to another
and an umbrella that both protects against bullets and doubles as a para-
chute. TSM’s Chinese provenance reflects the Western anxieties about the
Chinese usurpation of American technologies, along with the concomitant
fear of Chinese disregard of Western restrictions on copyright and intel-
lectual property. The visuals of the TSM factory floor, with workers all
dressed in blue and wearing clear plastic hairnets or yellow hardhats, mir-
rors a common image of China in the West of a vast warehouse, the factory
of the world, and conjuring notions of poor working conditions and sui-
cides associated with media narratives of Foxconn and other Chinese tech
companies (Haddad 2007; Fallows 2007). The film here confirms these
Western portrayals of China, working to reinforce the imaginary of Factory
China and furthering the impression that connections made within the
252 M.A. MIKITA
film to Chinese sites and subjects are more greatly likened to the Western
referents rather than they are to the Chinese subjects they are intended to
represent.
In furtherance of this insistence upon representing a thoroughly
Western vision of its (ostensibly Indian vision of) China, Chandni Chowk
to China invites and, frequently, insists upon comparisons with the work
of American director Quentin Tarantino, and most specifically with his
foray into inter-Asiatic discourse in the diptych film Kill Bill. Overt links
to the Kill Bill films abound, from the casting of Gordon Liu as the pri-
mary antagonist Hojo to the music video conclusion featuring (white)
women clad in yellow jumpsuits in emulation of Uma Thurman’s role
as The Bride, but there are other subtle motions in the direction of an
underlying effort to replicate Kill Bill’s hyper-hybridity and intercul-
tural mishmash scattered throughout the film. A protracted fight scene
between Hojo’s henchman Joey and the united pair of Sidhu and Chang
takes place in a restaurant made to resemble the Tokyo nightclub of Kill
Bill’s climax battle between The Bride and the Crazy 88s, and similarly
reflecting a visual motif of artificial, Orientalist spaces conjured of a con-
stituent China. Chandni Chowk to China’s Tarantino homages continue
in the transformative training sequence, as Sidhu, under Chang’s tute-
lage, struggles to prepare his body and mind for the anticipated con-
flict with Hojo. This sequence is replete with the normative motions
common to any action training sequence, with its montages and upbeat
soundtrack, and yet it places as its locus of physical self-improvement the
torturously repetitive gestures of rolling and hitting, much akin to those
used by Gordon Liu’s character to teach Kill Bill’s Bride, a meta reflec-
tion on the kung fu trope. These referential engagements with a popular
Western text viewing the adoption of a foreigner by a Chinese as their
master and trainer entangles the notions of a constructed Chinese master
as imagined by the West and by the Indian; the modalities of an Indian
imaginary of being Sinicized through a racialized training and philoso-
phizing (“Fear not 1,000 moves practiced once, fear the single move
practiced 1,000 times,” which Chang tells his pupil is “an old Shaolin
saying,” is internalized and employed by Sidhu to defeat Hojo) are mani-
festly correlated at the same mimetic sites as their Western counterparts.
Here, the Bollywood vision of the Chinese master enrolling the non-
Chinese pupil under his tutelage to defeat a Chinese adversary at the
same time as he woos the (police) chief ’s daughter directly echoes the
normalized Hollywood one.4
Hojo’s Chineseness is rarely questioned by the narrative reality of the

film, inasmuch as he speaks Chinese, his henchmen are all Chinese and he
even has the capacity to deny access to China to an adversary; at the level
of what Slavoj Žižek refers to as the Reality of the Virtual or the level of
texture, however, Hojo is aligned with a predatory whiteness that compels
his actions and renders him adversarial to both the Chinese villagers and
their Indian compatriots. Hojo is cinematically introduced as an enemy
returned, driving up to Zhang’e village in a Rolls Royce and accompa-
nied by white accomplices in business suits and ties. Narration informs the
viewer, “He knows riches worth millions are hidden here, he sells their
treasures to foreigners.” Hojo’s villainy stems here from his collabora-
tion with outsiders, as a privateer hawking cultural capital to investors and
employing the indentured labor of a serfdom class. Hojo’s racial alliance is
presented throughout the film as being on the side of White neocolonial-
ist, be it joining his white companion to an evening at the opera or ship-
ping his diamonds off to investors. Hojo is seen as a boss within China
whose orders and impetus come from abroad in the form of an exploitative
foreign interest. Hojo’s main henchman is a large white man named Joey,
whose complexion and hair are so artificially white as to appear albino, a
hulking physique in line with his phobogenic whiteness that ruptures nor-
mative raced vectors of power as he does Hojo’s bidding, rather than the
other way around. Hojo’s threat to the characters is cinematically under-
scored by his link with this rarely seen other. Hojo’s initial fight with Sidhu
sees his unexpected break with the cinematic fourth wall, glaring at and
then spitting on the camera (and viewer), as Hojo’s contrived enmity with
Sidhu emerges with his murder of Sidhu’s adopted father, Dada. Hojo’s
assault on the Chang family likewise ruptures filial unity as Hojo steals
Sakhi’s twin sister, Suzy, raising her to be his lieutenant, treasure exporter
and overseas diamond mule. As Hojo’s adversarial relationships with the
Changs, Sidhu and Chopstick develop over the course of the film, they do
so with this textural support from his relationship to an amorphous and
veiled Whiteness that works actively against the Chinese and Indian char-
acters, even as the narrative functions to support their self-Orientalized
visions of each other.
Chandni Chowk to China places a special emphasis on the role of the
Great Wall of China, zooming in on it from space in the first frames
of the film, returning characters to it with an uncanny frequency and
situating it as a crucial terrain for negotiating and reifying its semi-
otic construct of what it means to be—or to become—Chinese. The
254 M.A. MIKITA
opening scene is set in the past, when the Wall is shown in its state of
actively being used as a defensive barricade and brought into nomi-
nation as being an edifice erected to “protect the land”; the Wall is
later reworked into being “just for tourists,” reconstituting its formal
grammar. The Wall itself is figured as being transformational, as having
multiple modes or states of constituency. When shown to be a protec-
tor of the land, it is adding the original, Chinese Liu Sheng in that
task, defending attacks from adversaries and consecrating it with his
resistance as the edge of China, the barrier beyond which China ceases
to be. This representation is reinforced when, after Hojo defeats Sidhu,
he gives orders for him to be thrown out of China; this is not accom-
plished by putting him on a plane or revoking his visa, but by physically
casting him from off the Great Wall. The prefiguring of the Great Wall
as a physical stand-in for a space of excision from China is fully real-
ized as the Wall is also seen to be the site of the theft of Suzy from her
father and mother by Hojo and his lieutenant as Chang battles Hojo on
the Wall. As his daughter is stolen, Chang is himself cast off the Wall
to fall into the neither region beyond, to spend the next decades as a
beggar who had forgotten the memory of his family. Later, as Sidhu
trains in preparation to challenge Hojo, he runs up the Wall, stands
upon it to contemplate his efforts and even bounds over the side in
stride, shouting victoriously in accomplishment. A contrived ceremony
is held by the villagers at the base of the Great Wall, at what is described
by them to Sidhu as a marker indicating the place where Liu Sheng
died (the marker actually merely identifies the Great Wall as being a
Major Historical and Cultural Site Protected at the National Level),
even as a slapstick chase of the confused Cheng twins takes place on
the Wall above. This chase scene serendipitously brings all of the char-
acters together for the first time, even though many of them do not
knowingly interact. As a unifying thematic concept and visual edifier
connecting narrative themes, the Great Wall is called upon throughout
the text to lend prominence and meaning to scenes and events. The
Bollywood imaginary of the Great Wall as navigated by Chandni Chowk
to China revolves around its status as an executor of territoriality, a bar-
rier for and guidepost to entry into China, and as it serves to welcome
Sidhu into Chineseness after he masters kung fu. The Great Wall serves
as a backdrop to all the film’s narrative-level events, at the same time
that the filmic texture level also negotiates with the modalities of the
Wall, as a space where the self and the other interact in the contested
bodies of characters who serve as alternating structural placeholders for
racial subjectivities in the film.
BIFURCATED IDENTITIES, CONJOINED SUBJECTIVITIES

Chandni Chowk to China takes particular care to ensure that all of the
characters of narrative import are linked to a subjective mirror against
which the notional self can be interrogated and examined or against whom
the character can bring the self into articulated consciousness. This pro-
vocative mirroring of characters opens a generally sophistic film to a more
nuanced reading into the linked parallelism among the dual—and duel-
ing—selves and others at play. The Indian protagonist Sidhu shares his
body–mind complex with a promise that he is, in fact, the reincarnated
Chinese Liu Sheng, identified as such by a religious ceremony, which
called villagers from Zhang’e all the way to India to seek his anticipated
sublimity. By providing the Indian protagonist with a Sinicized notion
of his own agency—a Chinese half—he is able to engage with and sig-
nify China in an unexpected way, to interface with the notion of a mul-
titude of being and to reconceptualize his very nature. His constructed
self comes to inhabit this doubled identity as he goes from being offered
a narratively false construct of Liu Sheng by his sidekick Chopstick to
being betrayed by this notion and demanding of himself that he actively
embody Liu Sheng, vowing to himself to become Liu Sheng when he, in
disgrace, returns to the sanctified marker (marked by its artificial prov-
enance, we recall, but nonetheless signified with narrated sanctification
to Sidhu). Here, the Othering of the self is a function of identity, of pre-
conscious interest.5 As when Sidhu arrives in Zhang’e village, they dress
him in oversized and ill-fitting Chinese garments that garishly mark his
lack of Sinity6 at this point in the film. Sidhu’s affective doubling is ren-
dered fully manifest, constituted as subjectivity, as bourgeoning uncon-
scious desire, when he trains with Chang to become the Liu Sheng he
so desired. His internalized modal shifts are paired with a visual, physi-
cal transformation as he loses his mustache and pony-tail queue, both of
which marked his slapstick awkwardness as well as, in terms of visual mark-
ing, his Indianness. Sidhu’s physicality transforms itself, his body reconfig-
ured by the discursive machinations of Chang’s Sinicizing gestures and the
affective resonance of Dada’s death. Dada, despite being marked from his
256 M.A. MIKITA
initial appearance (introduced kicking Sidhu comically high into the air), is
never able to redirect Sidhu’s profligate nature in Chandni Chowk, despite
his many efforts to do so. It is only through the reconstructive grammars
he erects around “Liu Sheng-as-becoming” that enact the desired changes
within. Sidhu’s embodiment of his Liu Sheng ideal, however constructed
or contrived it might be, and subject itself to critical inquiry, is marked
as well by a sartorial shift as he attires himself in the Chinese changshan
jacket for the remainder of the film. Sidhu’s assumption of a Sinicized-
self coordinates with a path of self-discovery that comes in the form of a
vision of his slain paternal figure, Dada, who comes to remind him of the
lessons he had garnered over the course of the film. His Dada encourages
him to know his true self, forcing him to recall the philosophy imparted
upon him by his paternal stand-in, Chang, and enabling him to synthesize
the lessons he had acquired from his kung fu training with the experience
garnered from a lifetime as a chef in India. Sidhu’s transformation from
an obstreperous nuisance into a kung fu folk hero is narrated as being
born of his ability to internalize this amalgam of Indian and Chinese pop
philosophy as his filmic trajectory inculcates the dual constructs of self
he embodies. As Sidhu’s subjective agency becomes incorporative of his
constructed Liu Sheng, the appellation “from Chandni Chowk to China”
becomes less a locative maneuver as an ideological one, as much as it is a
delocalizing gesture as an internationalizing one.
As with Sidhu’s internalized divide with a racial doppelgänger in his
Liu Sheng, the twin characters of Suzy and Sakhi replicate this patterning
at the same time that they externalize the intended parallelism. In doing
so, they embody two modalities of the film’s imagined hybridity that also
serves as commentary on racial authenticity. Here, one actress plays two
roles as Chindian twins: Sakhi, raised by her Indian mother after her father
Chang disappears on their excursion to the Great Wall as an infant, who
later becomes the Indian spokesperson for an electronics company, Tele-
Shopping Media, and Suzy, stolen from her parents by her father’s adver-
sary, Hojo, who raises her to serve as an assassin and contraband mule in
dark about her past. In the dual bodies of Sakhi and Suzy, Chandni Chowk
to China intuitively transliterates the ontological problem of hybridity by
bifurcating its modalities into two physical bodies and articulating them
along the film’s topology of racial difference. Sakhi and Suzy are twin sisters,
yet the film’s narrative articulates difference in the way they are represented.
Suzy is as subaltern as is Sakhi, their sites of difference united by their
mutual alterity in the face of the Other-other. Sakhi, onomastically identi-
fied as the more Indic of the two, is introduced to the viewer through an
advertisement for TSM’s product Dancemaster G9, a pair of anklets which
promise the wearer the ability to dance in a variety of ways, advertised as
“Bhangra to Beyonce,” showing a split screen of Sakhi dancing in a tradi-
tional lehenga choli, and later showing her wearing other Indian garments
and marked with a bindi. While Sakhi’s Indianness is never overtly repre-
sented in this advertisement as shown elsewhere in the film, she is nonethe-
less sartorially marked early as the film unfolds. Suzy is similarly marked by
her implied Chineseness in a cosmetic, rather than vestmental, way with her
exoticized eye makeup, a darker shade of hair, fairer complexion and bangs.
Suzy and Sakhi’s physical markings are revelatory of how these notional
hybridities are circumscribed as this identificatory cleft is rendered material
though their bifurcated racial experiences. As the film progresses to this
end, Suzy and Sakhi find their lives following parallel, if mirrored, narrative
strands, with Sakhi and Suzy being subjected to similar physically comic
engagements with Sidhu and Chopstick. As Sakhi follows Sidhu to prove
her innocence from a crime committed by Suzy, she continues to chase him
at the behest of her father; their paired encounters with Sidhu and common
fates in the closet continue the symmetric thrust. On the one hand, Sakhi
represents the film’s construct of normative identification, performing the
role of self and subject as imagined to be relational to a viewer, imparting to
her a crucial narrativized agency; on the other, Suzy presents an ontology
of otherness, an inscrutability constructed out of a misrecognition of self
and a narrativized incapacity to bring her subjectivity into vocalization.. As
Jared Sexton notes of the importance of mixture in constructing notions
of race, “Racial differences are elaborated out of the tableau of mixture;
they depend on it for their articulation, their social existence, however tenu-
ous and provisional. Hybridity … serves as the support of difference rather
than its antithesis or, in another vein, its source of deconstruction” (Sexton
2008: 34). In this reading, the Chindian is important to the construction of
being either Chinese or Indian. Suzy and Sakhi’s split racial identities under-
score the visual language of unintelligibility underwriting the film as its now
regularized recapitulations to firmly established Western tropes uproot the
Sinicized Indian even as it supplants the Sinicized hybrid. Sidhu’s trans-
formative subjectification of Chang’s teaching, the village’s need of his aid
and Sakhi’s desire for him are radically reworked in Suzy’s transformational
reunification with her unknown father. Suzy’s path to unearthing an Indian
subjectivity, though divesting from an imposed Sinic identity, relies upon
her rejection of the structural lackey in her adopted father, realigning the
258 M.A. MIKITA
topological conduit in the narrative’s favor. It is through the use of this tex-
tual patterning linking Suzy and Sakhi that their bifurcated structures find
a narrative coherence.
It is this narrative coherence, mobilized at an ideological level,
which motivates the other mirrored and hybridized Chindian character,
Chopstick, whose own narrative tensions between a manufactured identity
and an occluded subjectivity compose his character’s fraught tendencies.
Chopstick is introduced immediately following the opening credits, pro-
viding a closure to Sidhu’s syncretic search for a sacerdotal solution to
his woes. Chopstick’s rejoinder here was one of fusion, uniting Chinese
and Indian geomantic traditions, proclaiming himself to be the only Fung
Shastra master in the world, and a master of feng shui and vastu shastra.
Chopstick’s twinning of Asian schools of thought positions himself within
the narrative as the conjoiner of divergent conceptual strands, an inter-
mediary between one and the other. His temple is perched on a rooftop,
with only a gating fencing him off from the Delhi skyline, situating his
own space above the other consulted gurus, as well as placing him within
an entirely urban setting. In a manner much akin to Suzy, Chopstick is
sartorially and cosmetically marked by his Chineseness, with a Fu Manchu
beard, his hair worn in a top knot with two curly extensions hanging from
the sides and him never seen wearing anything other than symptomatically
Chinese dress. Chopstick’s ability to understand Chinese puts him in the
position of having to translate for the two villagers who believe Sidhu to
be a reincarnation of Liu Sheng, but rather than informing Sidhu that
the men want him to fight for their village, he misleads Sidhu into think-
ing that they have come because he had once been a great Chinese king
and not mentioning the threat. Chopstick is entreated to do so, how-
ever, only after pausing to listen to the conversation between his shoulder
angel and his shoulder devil, each urging him in one direction or another.
Importantly, here, his shoulder angel is seen wearing a white sherwani,
iconically linking him to the Indian half, at the same time as his shoulder
devil is dressed in red Imperial Chinese robes emblazoned with a dragon.
These racially bifurcated figures return over the course of the film when
Chopstick faces a moral dilemma, each time the Indian angel imploring
him to make the decision to aid Sidhu while the Chinese devil urges com-
plicity with the villain. Here again, the film articulates a divided hybridity
that locates the Chinese half in the position of the dishonest while depict-
ing the Indian half in the position of the audience-centered conscience. As
Chopstick’s betrayal of Sidhu gives way to the death of Dada, Chopstick
tries to make amends to Sidhu by joining Hojo’s gang and feeding infor-
mation to Sakhi and Chang, rehabilitating himself through his actions and
regaining some narrative agency. His hybridity enables him access to both
Chandni Chowk and China, spaces, which have this kind of permeability
between them to no other character, save perhaps Chang. Chopstick is
shown to be fully intelligible to both poles, constituting a notion of a
self in conversation with both spaces simultaneously and yet neither fully
trusted by nor imbricated within either. Here, the mutual disjuncture
becomes a reflective absence, one identity engaging with the other under
the guise of difference. His twinned identities, as manifested in his Indian
conscience and his Chinese temptation, are never as fully divided as his
gestures toward betrayal would have others believe, resting instead on his
capitulated grammar of “Indian noodles and Chinese curry.”
“COMEDIFYING” THE INDIAN SELF

As Chandni Chowk to China makes frequent use of twinned or mirrored
characters and plots to accentuate racial difference between China and
India, these patterned visions of Indian, Chinese and Chindian selves
become points within the film’s ideological constellation of miscege-
nation, contrastive frameworks demanded by the narrative for them to
choose an alternating side. The film produces as an output of competing
modalities of Sino-Indian hybridization, playing them out in the bodies
and minds of the various characters and relying upon parallelisms set up
between them to locate the idealized space of ontological realization. As
the film works to underscore its narrative of the Chindian, the constit-
uent elements of being Chinese or Indian for Sidhu, Chopstick, Sakhi,
Suzy and Chang are broken down and rebuilt with the perceptivity of one
another in relationship to an invisible Other. The textural structure of the
film sets up as its notional framework of achievement an ability for charac-
ters to locate a space of being both Chinese and Indian, rather than merely
one or the other, and to inhabit both structural positions simultaneously;
this is achieved at some point by both Sidhu and Chang, who are able to
balance these dualities through the controlled practice of a homogenizing
ontologicalization. In this rendering, kung fu itself becomes a philosophy,
its religiosity as self-edifying and value-erecting as any God. Sidhu and
Chang navigate the fuzzy boundaries of a libidinal economy through their
mastery of a sacred physical art as they work together to conjure inhuman
powers to liberate Chopstick from Hojo’s son late in the film.
260 M.A. MIKITA
The diegetic resolution of finding an ontological amelioration from

the libidinal constraints of a structural position, inculcating the homog-
enizing lessons of kung fu, is only rendered a plausible reading of the
conclusion to Chandni Chowk to China when properly contextualized
within the film’s broader discursive engagement with religion and its
acculturated and racialized preoccupations. Sidhu is introduced to the
viewer as he conducts a series of farcical, but recognizably Indic, reli-
gious exercises. He is shown praying before an idol hoping to win the
lottery, only to curse at it when he does not win. But when he does
win a lottery ticket, he bows to the idol in gratitude and burns it with
a candle. He resorts to a montage of other religious attempts at attain-
ing wealth as his personal life in Chandni Chowk is intercut with his
visits to a number of soothsayers and astrologers, each of whom reacts
to his revealed fate with negative pantomime. These various modes of
Indian religiosity are played up for laughs as Sidhu is unable to find any
meaningful outcome or positive fulfillment in them at the same time
that the soothsayers all react to their reading of his fortune with dismay.
The montage of this early segment of the film underscores the narrative
trajectory of Sidhu’s inability to attain his desired outcomes through
the prefigured designs of self-articulated faith. Sidhu’s internalized con-
cepts of spirituality are quickly deflected to comedic effect as he returns
time and again to his search for a miraculous agency specifically marked
as being Indian. Sidhu’s misappropriated efforts to attain a religious
fulfillment are read here as a compensatory gesture, a vocalization of
his unconscious identifications working through their inability to cali-
brate their gap with his preconscious interests. Sidhu can enunciate his
desires, but his inability to articulate the unconscious desire to be struc-
turally relocated becomes the root of the farce as his gestures toward
compensation between what he can say and what he does not know
become “comedifying” (Kärjä 2011: 78).
The jocular engagement with the religion of the self is underlined with
the motif of the God in the potato, Sidhu’s belief in his having been blessed
by a potato sporting the likeness of Ganesh, a symbol never fully relin-
quished in the film. Indeed, Sidhu’s recalcitrance to part with his security
object continually serves as both a joke and a semiotic marker, symptom-
atically locating the film’s diegetic rupture between narrative and texture
as the potato’s thematic repetition works to unhinge much of the nominal
agency the narrative labors toward imparting upon Sidhu. Sidhu’s belief
in his potato continues after the death of Dada, and even past his assump-
tion of the implicit duality of becoming Liu Sheng, continuing to erect

shrines to it even while preparing for his final conflict with Hojo. Sidhu’s
insistence on maintaining his belief in the potato in the face of mounting
evidence against it exemplifies Slavoj Žižek’s notion of a fetishist split;
Sidhu knows very well that it is merely a potato, but his ideological scaf-
folding rests so firmly upon the notion that it has a greater meaning to the
extent that he will construct new edifices of imaginary around it to sustain
it. Sidhu genuflects to the potato nearly anytime a fortuitous event occurs
as the cathected object is continually signified to mean whatever it needs
to mean in a new situation. As the film wears on in this way, it becomes
assumptive to reimagine the potato as a construct of Sidhu’s alterity itself,
constantly realigning itself to suit the new situations thrust upon it. In this
way, the cinematic narrative of the joke of Sidhu’s Ganesh potato, the con-
ceit that his holding on to so overtly artificial a construct as a potato god,
gives way to the textural joke of intra-subalternity in the face of the reality
of the Other. As Sidhu is knocked to the ground in the climactic battle,
his potato lands on the ground in front of him as Dada emerges from
beyond the frame, reiterating the messages of self-reliance and directly
asking the implied question, “Do you still believe God is in the potato?”
Sidhu’s response to this vision is to visualize Hojo as a massive potato,
displacing the totemic potato with an Oedipal one, cheered on by the
imaginary and real father in a quest to defeat the symbolic. When Sidhu’s
path to success over Hojo emerges from his imaginary reconstitution of
Hojo as a potato, the cinematic investment built up in the symbolic potato
is too great to simply pass it off as just another vegetable to be chopped,
as the narrative invites us to do. Instead, the textured architecture of what
the potato has come to mean by this point in the film, engulfed as it is in
Sidhu’s abject need for a totemic marker, imposes a constituted attack on
the structures necessitating such a totem be employed and externalized.
The comic marker of the potato is symbolically reworked into the joke of
defeating its larger version, a comedy of selves and constituents.
Sidhu’s defeat of the joke of his potato god belongs to the text’s broader
constellation of laughing at itself. While in Chandni Chowk to China, the
Indian filmic construction of the Chinese Other rests largely upon its
notional alignment with mediated visualities articulated in the narratives of
White cinema, recapitulating to regularized idioms of the Great Wall, the
Chinese village and the Shanghai skyline, it differs from the Western mode
of Orientalized gaze by redirecting the joke of the comedic other onto the
self, making fun of the Indian, rather than the Chinese. The film is marked
262 M.A. MIKITA
by this peripeteia in the reflection of the cinematic gaze onto the produc-
ing self rather than the visualized other. In this film, the comedic other
emerges in the form of the Indian protagonist, whose antics serve as the
source of laughs rather than those of the Chinese. This is a marked contrast
from normative modes of Western cinema, wherein the Orientalized other
is mobilized for laughs in examples spanning the corpus, from Charlie
Chan to Long Duk Dong. This trend has not abated, as seen in the come-
dic construction of Chon Wang in Shanghai Knights or Inspector Lee in
Rush Hour, both of which employ Jackie Chan as sidekick largely so he
might be made fun of. This reconstruction on the gaze notionally posi-
tions the joke at the site of the I/eye, the liminal self. It is the lacuna of
the joke of the Chinaman that situates the sanctification of kung fu in a
uniquely Indic light. Kung fu becomes the praxis for an identificatory sub-
jectification, the site of the film’s notion of ultimate becoming.
NOTES
1. This chapter draws on the insights of Ward Churchill (February 25,
2002) to define globalization as “a structural interlock between state
and corporation that allows for the consolidation of a power block
that is capable of projecting itself upon the world, exporting itself in
terms of an order or hierarchy that works to the detriment of all it
encounters for the benefit of those that organized it in the first place.”
2. The physical absence of whiteness does not diminish its ideological
presence (Fanon 1994).
3. As Sean M. Tierney (2006) states, “In each film, the protagonist’s
ethnicity is questioned as an inhibition but found to be irrelevant. It
is the position of the present study that these films are beneficially
understood through a theoretical framework of strategic rhetoric of
whiteness expressed in four common themes: The supraethnic via-
bility of whiteness, the necessary defeat of Asians, the disallowance
of anti-White sentiment, and the presence of at least one helpful
and/or generous Asian cohort.”
4. From Kickboxer (1989, Mark DiSalle and David Worth) to The
Karate Kid, Part II (1986, John Avildsen), the trope of a mostly
White martial arts student who ends up with his master’s attractive
female relative is a familiar one to Hollywood.
5. Adopting the reading of Frank B. Wilderson III (2008: 107), “Black
Skin, White Masks is attentive to the subject’s structural positional-
ity. This is the level of subjectivity that bears most essentially on
political ontology. It is the level of subjectivity that most profoundly

exceeds and anticipates the subject. It literally positions him/her
paradigmatically. … One can … assert ‘identity’ at the level of pre-
conscious interests … but one cannot dismantle the filial economy
through which one is always already positioned as boy or girl.”
6. The use of the ontology, of the condition of Sinity, first appeared in
Roland Barthes’ Mythologies. Roland Barthes (1973: 107) describes
it as an ephemeral concept: “China is one thing, the idea which a
French petit bourgeois could have of it not so long ago is another:
for this peculiar mixture of bells, rickshaws and opium-dens, no
other word possible but Sininess.” He goes on to add in his notes,
“Or perhaps Sinity? Just as if Latin/latinity=Basque/x, x=Basquity.”
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Barthes, Roland. 1973. Mythologies. London: Paladin.
Chaudhary, Nandita. 2003. Speaking the self into becoming? Culture and
Psychology 9(4): 471–486.
Churchill, Ward. 2002, February 23. Episode 93: Meet the new boss, same as the
old boss: Globalization, genocide, and resistance. Retrieved on July 4, 2015
from http://www.unwelcomeguests.net/093_-_Meet_the_New_Boss_Same_
as_the_Old_Boss_%28Ward_Churchill_on_Colonialism_and_Globalization%29
Fallows, James. 2007, July 1. China makes, the world takes. Atlantic Monthly.
Retrieved on July 4, 2015 from http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/
archive/2007/07/china-makes-the-world-takes/305987/
Fanon, Frantz. 1994. Black skin, white masks. New York: Grove.
Haddad, Mona. 2007. Trade integration in East Asia: The role of China and pro-
duction networks. World Bank Policy Research working paper, No. 4160.
Retrieved on July 4, 2015 from http://elibrary.worldbank.org/content/
workingpaper/10.1596/1813-9450-4160
Kärjä, Antti-Ville. 2011. Ridiculing rap, funlandizing Finns? Humour and parody
as strategies of securing the other in popular music. In Migrating music, ed.
Jason Toynbee and Byron Dueck. New York: Routledge.
Ma, Sheng Mei. 2004, December. A touch of yellow in film noir. Paper presented
at the 2004 Modern Language Association Convention. Retrieved on July 4,
2015 from http://www.case.edu/affil/sce/Texts_2004/Sheng-mei-ma-
mla2004.htm
Marchetti, Gina. 1994. Romance and the “yellow peril”: Race, sex, and discursive
strategies in Hollywood fiction. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Punathambekar, Aswin. 2005. Bollywood in the Indian-American diaspora.
Mediating a transitive logic of cultural citizenship. International Journal of
Cultural Studies 8(2): 151–173.
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Sexton, Jared. 2008. Amalgamation schemes: Antiblackness and the critique of mul-
tiracialism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Tan, Chung. 2009. Historical Chindian paradigm: Inter-cultural transfusion and
solidification. China Report 45(3): 187–212.
Tierney, Sean M. 2006. Themes of Whiteness in Bulletproof Monk, Kill Bill, and
the Last Samurai. Journal of Communication 56(3): 607–624.
Wilderson III, Frank B. 2008. Biko and the Problematic of Presence. In Biko lives!
contesting the legacies of Steve Biko, ed. Andile Mingxitama, Amanda Alexander,
and Nigel Gibson, 95–114. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Zhou, Ning. 2009. Kua wenhua xingxiangxue di ‘Dongfang hua’ wenti [The
question of orientalization in cross-cultural phenomenology]. Fujian Luntan
[Fujian Tribune: The humanities and social sciences bimonthly] (4): 27–32.
Žižek, Slavoj. 2004. The ongoing ‘soft revolution’. Critical Inquiry 30(2):
292–323.
CHAPTER 15
Hong Kong, Films, and the Building

of China’s Soft Power: The Cross-
Promotion of Chinese Films on Globally
Oriented State Television
Lauren Gorfinkel and Xuezhong Su
INTRODUCTION
To date, there has been significant discussion on the desire of the
People’s Republic of China (PRC) to “go global” and to see Chinese
films and television channels and other cultural products become com-
petitive in the international market (Zhu 2010: 207). One of the key
aims of this “going out” policy is “to present China’s voice globally”
and to portray a positive image of China against the many negative views
in the Western media (Zhu 2012: 169, 182). However, there has been
limited empirical analysis of how Chinese films are being promoted to
Western/foreign audiences. This chapter addresses this gap by examin-
ing how China’s globally oriented television media is being drawn upon
L. Gorfinkel ()
Macquarie University, Sydney, NSW, Australia
X. Su
China Research Centre, University of Technology Sydney,
Sydney, NSW, Australia

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8_15
266 L. GORFINKEL AND X. SU
as one means of promoting Chinese films, and analyzes how China does
so in the context of the global cross-promotion and soft power push of
its various media outlets.
More specifically, this chapter examines the promotion of Hong Kong
films, filmmakers, and stars, as well as discussions of Hong Kong–Mainland
coproductions, successes of Chinese films in international film festivals,
and box-office revenues on CCTV’s English-language programs. Through
the analysis of transcripts of CCTV’s broadcast, online documentaries, and
cultural news reports about Hong Kong movies, directors, actors, joint
productions, and film festivals between 2008 and 2013, it addresses such
key questions as: How is CCTV attempting to appeal to international
audiences in its framing of Hong Kong in film-related reports? What do
CCTV’s reports around Hong Kong–Mainland film cooperation suggest
about China’s global ambitions? How are state-sanctioned Chinese films
and television stations supporting each other in China’s push for global
cultural recognition? To what extent does Hong Kong play a special
role in bridging the gap between Mainland China and the West in film
promotion?
The chapter argues that the Mainland is overwhelmingly represented as
a savior of the Hong Kong/Chinese film industry and as being at the cen-
ter point for a new culturally flourishing China-centered era. The narrative
of Chinese films also fits within a larger story of China’s increasing eco-
nomic growth and global competitiveness. Whether the related messages
actually appeal to foreigners, however, is questionable given an underlying
tension between discussing the film industry in a way that focuses on the
crossing of cultural boundaries, which may appeal more to an interna-
tional audience, versus the need to promote “China’s view” in line with
the nationalist sentiments of domestic audiences.
THE FILM INDUSTRY AND CHINA’S SOFT POWER

In 2007, in his keynote speech to the 17th National Congress of the
Communist Party of China, former President Hu Jintao spoke of the
significance of building China’s “soft power.” Soft power, as famously
introduced by American political scientist Joseph Nye, Jr., is broadly used
to refer to the attractiveness of a country’s image abroad. It theorizes,
for instance, positive stances toward countries by foreign audiences that
come through the popularity of circulating cultural products from that
country, in contrast to hard power that may come through economic or
HONG KONG, FILMS, AND THE BUILDING OF CHINA’S SOFT POWER:... 267
military coercion. However, the distinction between economic and cul-

tural power is often blurred, and scholars and politicians use the term in
different ways. Hu’s speech linked the notion of soft power to a number
of broad-ranging social, ideological, and moral goals, including that of
China’s international competitiveness in a global market economy. The
enhancement of China’s cultural and media industries was particularly
foregrounded (Hu 2007).
China-based scholars have echoed the need for China to develop its
media industries, including film and television, so that they perform a
more influential soft power role for the state. While recognizing the rela-
tively “weak” impact of China’s media soft power at present, Li Kang and
Lan Huang (2013: 70) argue that “excellent film and television programs
[should be] able to disseminate the spirit and disposition of the nation
and let the whole world know about the national culture and value.”
More specifically, Chinese media should “disseminate Chinese culture,
eliminate cultural estrangement [later worded as: ‘influence the stubborn
cultural opponents’], resolve cultural conflicts and consolidate under-
standing, [and gain the] recognition and support of people from all over
the world” (Ibid., 68). Kang and Huang (2013: 70) compare the Chinese
film industry with Hollywood, which has “unconsciously influenced the
whole world” and “enables [the] U.S. to possess the great advantage of
soft power” through “continuously disseminat[ing] the U.S. dream and
values.” Qinyu Hao (2013: 24) also argues that Chinese films should not
only pay attention to profits, but “also play a role in promoting Chinese
tradition and increasing the influence of Chinese culture.”
One of the key strategies of the Chinese government–controlled film
industry in competing against its main rival, Hollywood, in domestic and
international markets, has been to imitate the Hollywood system (Wan
and Kraus 2002: 420). It has drawn lessons from Hollywood’s techno-
logical expertise, the use of international stars, appeal through to “glittery
action,” and promotional techniques (Ibid., 425–426). At the same time,
the Chinese party-state has been inspired by Hollywood techniques to
improve its propaganda aimed at both domestic and international audi-
ences (Ibid., 428). Well-known stars, special effects, dramatic plot, and
visual appeal have been used to “humanize” its propaganda and blur
boundaries between official propaganda (main melody) films and commer-
cial films, such that even productions made with private financing (much
of which is from Hong Kong) now “bear the stamp of both Hollywood
and the Party” (Ibid., 430–434).
As Stanley Rosen (2010) explains, however, the fact that films are
blockbusters in China does not necessarily mean foreigners will rush
to see them. On the one hand, foreign-language films in general tend
to attract very limited audiences, particularly in the target market the
USA—although Chinese films have done well in the global market com-
pared with other non-English-language films (Zhu and Rosen 2010: 8).
A second problem is that foreign audiences tend to read politics into
Chinese films and may be more likely to appreciate films that are explic-
itly antigovernment or banned in China as opposed to mainstream films
that are sanctioned within the state-controlled system. Foreign audiences
also tend not to appreciate films unless they correspond to a particular
perception of China. Films set in the countryside or during a certain
dynastic period are much better accepted than Chinese films about con-
temporary urban life (Rosen 2010: 52–54). One of the main problems
for appealing to international audiences is that many of the preferred
blockbusters that are sent overseas tend to be “hyper-nationalist” in
tone and fail to “compete against the wide world of glittering escapist
entertainment” (Zhu and Nakajima 2010: 32). They “do little to pro-
mote Chinese soft power abroad” (Rosen n.d.). In fact, as Rosen (2011)
argues, Chinese-themed Hollywood films have a much better chance of
having a positive effect on China’s international image than China’s self-
produced films. The major challenge for the Chinese film industry is to
meet the apparently contradictory goals of “making the industry com-
petitive in globalized markets while also maintaining the state’s grip on
culture” (Zhu and Nakajima 2010: 33).
GLOBALLY ORIENTED TELEVISION AND THE PROMOTION

OF CHINESE FILMS
China Central Television’s (CCTV) global arm attempts to play a key role in
promoting Chinese films to international viewers through its various plat-
forms, including CCTV-News (CCTV’s 24-hour English-language news
channel),1 CCTV-Documentary (CCTV’s English-language documen-
tary channel),2 and CCTV.com (the English section of the comprehensive,
multilingual China Network Television website CNTV.cn). An impor-
tant English-language program that promotes Chinese films on CCTV-
News is Culture Express,3 which started broadcasting in the early 2000s.
Culture Express is a fast-paced, upbeat, and colorful infotainment-style
show that includes the promotion of event movies marketed as must-
see blockbusters. It tries to create a “buzz” around the movies, star appeal,
special effects, and films with large budgets and high-tech special effects.
As with the adoption of Hollywood techniques in Chinese films, CCTV
is aiming to make its style more attractive and persuasive (Zhu 2012:
174). The program offers snippets of trendy cultural news that targets a
youth audience with relatively young hosts, many of whom are non-PRC
nationals. Starting in 2003, Culture Express was actually the first CCTV-
news program, along with Biz China, to feature non-PRC nationals as
hosts (Jirik 2008: 220), an approach designed to appeal to foreign view-
ers. Culture Express, which also has an online presence, is divided into
seven segments, including The List, which provides insights into the lives
of artists; Spotlight, which reports on current cultural events in China;
Interview, involving interviews with famous performers and artists; and
24/7, which reports on cultural and entertainment events around the
globe. Many of these segments promote films, actors, actresses, and direc-
tors from Hong Kong.
To draw insights on CCTV’s framing of the role of Hong Kong in the
Chinese film industry, for this study, we draw on Culture Express segments
as well as “Hong Kong—10 Years On,” an eight-part series, which was first
been broadcast in 2007, re-broadcast on CCTV-Documentary in 2011,
and continued to be available on demand via the CCTV-Documentary
website at the time of writing in 2013.4 We consulted news reports on the
Hong Kong film industry that appeared in keyword searches on CCTV.
com and CCTV.cn, including transcripts of all CCTV reports about the
Hong Kong film industry from 2008 to early 2013 that include online
formats of the aforementioned programs. We were curious to find out
the extent to which the “Hong Kong” brand was being used as a hook to
appeal to English-speaking audiences.
CCTV is China’s largest and only centrally administered television
network and maintains a leading market position at home. Of all Chinese
television stations, CCTV is the key network with permission to expand
its presence globally as part of China’s push for international influence
(Curtin 2010: 269). It has a special role in advocating China’s culture
overseas in such a way that supports the goals of the propaganda min-
istry (Zhu 2012: 169–171). More specifically, CCTV-News has a remit
to contribute to providing “wider perspectives in the global informa-
tion flow” with “a special focus on China” as well as “events taking place
in Asia and all developing countries.” It promotes itself as providing
international audiences with “a window into understanding China” as
well as “the world at large” (“CCTV-News, Your Link to Asia,” April

26, 2010). CCTV-Documentary (English/international edition) in its
broadcast/satellite and online forms is likewise a result of the central
government’s heavy investment into its “multi-channel, multilingual,
multidimensional” global media networks (He Yujie 2010: 74).5 In
2010, CCTV’s “free-to-air satellite signals [could] be received by more
than 85 million viewers, in over 100 countries and regions” (“CCTV
News, Your Link to Asia,” April 26, 2010). Just as the Chinese film
industry is attempting to compete with Hollywood, CCTV is clearly
positioning itself to compete with powerful Western television organiza-
tions, like CNN and the BBC, and is attempting to rebrand itself as a
cutting-edge global broadcaster (Zhai and Zhou September 26, 2012).
Both television and film outlets have the potential to cross-promote each
other as part of China’s broader soft power goals.
Yet, while CCTV is aiming to increase its influence abroad, and can
potentially play a special role as a platform for promoting China’s state-
sanctioned films to overseas audiences, it is well-known for being particu-
larly constrained in its content and tone as a result of having to adhere
to directives set by the central authorities in Beijing (Fung 2009: 179;
Yu 2001: 197; Curtin 2010: 264). CCTV has a mandate to present the
Chinese perspective and help the world better understand China as part
of the party-state’s “external publicity work” (Zhu 2012: 173). CCTV
therefore faces many of the same problems and limitations as Chinese
films in relation to international attitudes to media produced under
the sociopolitical constraints of Mainland China. State discourse about
both the film and television industries largely reflects a transmission- and
technology-oriented view of media communications, which assumes
that a one-way push of information reflecting China’s own “voice” will
assist in the cause for a better global image (Sun 2010). The result is that
CCTV seems to be getting significant global coverage, but thus far, there
is very little evidence of global impact.
As with the question of audience appeal in the context of film, the
attempt to reach out to both domestic and international audiences
simultaneously is problematic. CCTV’s international programming is
increasingly available on satellite and cable packages in countries around
the world (Jirik 2008: 89), and is particularly aggressively marketed to
English-speaking audiences in Asia, Europe, and the Americas (Zhu 2012:
173). Yet, there is little evidence of overseas audiences regularly tuning in.
CCTV is not seen by foreign audiences as credible or objective, and con-
tinues to be perceived as a propaganda tool for the Chinese government.

It has a long way to go to come close to competing with the BBC, CNN,
and Al Jazeera (Zhu 2012: 194).
It may well be the case that more Mainland Chinese viewers watch
CCTV’s internationally oriented English-language programming than
the intended target audiences of foreigners, particularly Westerners and
Americans in China or abroad. Drawing on an online survey conducted
in 2003 on its English-language channel’s (then known as CCTV-9)
audiences, Chen Qianqian (2006: 95) reported that the percentage of
Mainland viewers (58 %) was indeed higher than that of international
viewers (42 %), with a larger number of viewers of CCTV-News likely to
be made up of domestic students who are using the channel to practice
their English (Chen 2006: 95; Guo 2010). If CCTV’s English-language
programs are aiming at once to cater to overseas/foreign audiences with
a “window on China” while providing Chinese audiences at home with
a “window on the world,” as John Charles Jirik (2008: 308) suggests,
then this raises interesting questions about the framing of content. For
instance, are these programs really more about attracting international
audiences or appealing to the nationalistic sentiments of domestic audi-
ences? In other words, are they more about catering to the domestic
dimension of China’s soft power push?
THE ROLE OF HONG KONG IN THE PROMOTION

OF CHINESE FILMS TO OVERSEAS AUDIENCES
Historically, Hong Kong has had the most globally influential film indus-
try in Asia (Rosen n.d.: 16). Hong Kong’s film industry boomed dur-
ing the 1970s and 1980s, and gained a great following in Chinese and
Western contexts, with particularly strong interest among Taiwanese,
Southeast Asian, and overseas Chinese audiences. Hong Kong’s produc-
ers, many of whom had experience in the USA and Europe, had a high
degree of freedom of creative expression. Its films were well-marketed,
with Hong Kong’s kung fu and action films known for breaking through
cultural barriers. The success of Hong Kong films was in marked contrast
to films from the Mainland, which seemed to lack creativity and appeal
outside of China (Bishop 1985: 64–69). It would therefore make sense
for China to attempt to attract international audiences through draw-
ing on the Hong Kong brand that has been built up and appreciated by
global audiences over time.
However, the Hong Kong film industry has faced significance challenges
since the 1980s. During the 1980s, restrictions were placed on access into
Southeast Asian countries that were developing their own film industries,
while heavy censorship restricted access into Taiwan (Ibid.). The end of
British colonialism in 1997 led to many anxieties, which resulted in a rapid
decline of the quality of film production (Curtin 2010: 268). In the late
1990s, many of Hong Kong’s talented producers, directors, and actors
moved abroad (Curtin 2010: 268; Hu 2006: 410). Due to ambiguities in
the censorship policy, a culture of self-censorship developed, which alien-
ated moviegoers in Hong Kong, Singapore, and Malaysia. Audiences and
investors became disillusioned with the output of the Hong Kong film
industry, which produced a large number of low-grade products (Curtin
2010: 268). The Asian financial crisis in 1998 also affected the quality of
output (He 2010). With a loss of revenue and reputation, producers had
a choice of either focusing on the very small Hong Kong market or coop-
erating with the Mainland media organizations to create films that con-
formed to the wishes of Chinese official censors. Many filmmakers turned
to the Mainland market for survival (Curtin 2010: 269; He 2010). The
Close Economic Partnership Arrangement (CEPA) came into effect in
2004, under which Hong Kong filmmakers sought and gained unprec-
edented access to the Mainland market and no longer had to face the same
restrictions as foreign filmmakers.
As a Special Administrative Region under the “one country, two systems”
policy, Hong Kong straddles a boundary between the foreign “other” and
the Chinese mainstream self, being both integrated into and separated from
Mainland China. The city also maintains a unique identity at the cultural
crossroads between China and the West. The increasingly intense collabo-
rations between filmmakers and actors from across the Chinese-speaking
world, particularly since 2004, has meant that the classification of films and
actors as either “Hong Kong” or (Mainland) “China” has also become
blurred (Berry 2010: 118–119). In this chapter, we hypothesize that such a
distinction may be milked to strategic effect by China’s state media to create
both a “softer” and a “stronger” image of China’s influence. Globally well-
known stars from Hong Kong like Jackie Chan may be drawn on to attract
international audiences, while reports as a whole may be geared toward dis-
seminating messages of China’s ever-creative and attractive culture industry.
While Hong Kong films may have historically had less of a political
image than those made in the Mainland, the intense collaborations and,
indeed, reliance of the Hong Kong film industry on the Mainland may
have also impacted on the Hong Kong brand image. Under CEPA, the
Hong Kong–Mainland joint productions face the same censorship rules as
other Mainland films, which no doubt has an impact on the interpretation
of those films abroad. The intense focus of Hong Kong filmmakers on the
Mainland market may also have an impact on the appeal to international
audiences of Hong Kong–Mainland joint production blockbusters, with
80 % of Hong Kong films being made with the Mainland market in mind
(Zhu and Rosen 2010: 5). Private financing from Hong Kong as well as
the Mainland is being used to back Chinese blockbusters in order to com-
pete with Hollywood, which still dominates box-office sales in Mainland
China (Hao 2013: 16–17). Yet, ironically, and as intimated above, in the
attempt to “counter and pre-empt Hollywood,” global competition from
Hollywood has led to a “vigorous” process of the “re-nationalization”
of the Chinese film industry (Yeh and Davis 2008: 48). In other words,
Hong Kong film-makers and actors are also involved in making films that
glorify China. It is doubtful that highly nationalistic films, whether made
with the direction of Mainland or Hong Kong filmmakers, would appeal
to large numbers of foreign English-speaking audiences.
We now turn to an analysis of how CCTV’s English-language cultural
news programs have framed, promoted, and discussed issues surrounding
Hong Kong and Chinese films, directors, actors, joint productions, film
festivals, and awards ceremonies between 2008 and early 2013 to obtain a
deeper sense of how Hong Kong/Chinese films are being used as part of
China’s global cultural outreach. We assume that the written and audio-
visual texts produced by CCTV journalists reflect, to a large extent, the
social and political constraints within the state-controlled television media.
The findings thus provide insights into the political thinking of the central
government about the key messages it wishes to relay to international
audiences via cultural programming about the role of Hong Kong and
China’s soft power ambitions.
FROM DECLINE TO REVITALIZATION: IN GRATITUDE

OF MAINLAND SUPPORT
CCTV’s commentary on the Hong Kong film industry focuses on activities

since 2003 when the Chinese Ministry of Commerce and the Hong Kong
government signed CEPA, “the first free trade agreement ever concluded
by the Mainland and Hong Kong” (“Film Ties Form Culture Bridge,”
June 27, 2012). CCTV’s reports referred to CEPA as “an event of enor-
mous significance” and characterized the arrangement as being “crucial to

the restoration of Hong Kong’s confidence.” The coverage highlighted
the indispensable role that China played in rescuing Hong Kong “out of
its difficulties” and in revitalizing its economy (“Hong Kong, 10 Years On
(7): Relying on the Motherland,” April 5, 2011). While fear of Mainland
censorship resulting in many professionals leaving Hong Kong for the
West and other places in the lead up to 1997 is noted by some scholars as
among the reasons for the Hong Kong industry’s decline, this is not men-
tioned in the CCTV-documentary. Rather, the listed contributing factors
are limited to “the loss of its leading professionals,” “the shrinking of the
international market,” and “the limited choice of subject matter” (Ibid.).
Part 7 of the CCTV-documentary, “Hong Kong, 10 Years On,” sub-
titled “Relying on the Motherland,” outlined the origins of CEPA and the
benefits China brought to the fledgling Hong Kong film industry (Ibid.).
It told the story of how, until 2004, Hong Kong films had to compete
with other foreign films, including Hollywood blockbusters, to get into
the Mainland market, for which there was an annual quota of 20 foreign
movies after China’s joining of the World Trade Organization in 2001, as
opposed to the annual quota of ten overseas films prior to that.6 However,
under CEPA, Hong Kong films were no longer subject to restrictions
placed on foreign films shown in China, and have instead been distrib-
uted as national films that are subject to the censorship by the Chinese
film authorities. The report outlined how, in June 2003, former Premier
Wen Jiabao, who had witnessed the signing of CEPA to be implemented
on January 1, 2004, traveled to Hong Kong, bringing with him “expres-
sions of concern from the people of the nation,” effectively presenting an
image of Mainland authorities’ good deeds in saving the Hong Kong film
industry. It did not mention the fact that the policies were also needed to
help stimulate the Mainland’s own state-owned film industry, which had
struggled to adapt to market forces initiated in the 1990s (He 2010).
The documentary highlighted the shift in popularity for Hong Kong
films over time, referring back to the peak period within the Hong Kong
film industry at the end of the 1980s “when it became number two in
the world with over 400 movies a year, second only to the U.S.” This
compared to just 50 films a year being produced in 2011. In the late
1980s, people everywhere in the world were watching Hong Kong films.
However, “as time passed, the light faded, the miracle disappeared and
the brilliance began to fade.” This framing emphasized the need for the
Mainland to intervene and rejuvenate the Hong Kong film industry,
returning it to its former glory (“Hong Kong, 10 Years On (7): Relying

on the Motherland,” April 5, 2011).
CCTV’s reports emphasized the role of the central government in
increasing collaborations and deepening relations between Hong Kong
and Mainland filmmakers, thereby leading to the growth in film produc-
tion and development of the film market across these two regions. A
CCTV-News report in 2009 covered a promotional tour of representa-
tives from the Hong Kong Film Development Council who visited the
State Administration of Radio, Film and Television (SARFT), the peak
body that administers, supervises, and censors the television, radio, and
film industry. The report highlighted that these representatives went to
Beijing “to express gratitude to [for] the support for Hong Kong mov-
ies” (“HK Film Promotional Tour Sets Off,” July 20, 2009). Wu Siyuan,
from the Federation of Hong Kong Film Makers, is also indirectly quoted
on CCTV as crediting the SARFT with easing limitations again, allowing
for the postproduction of coproduced films to be made in Hong Kong.
This point is substantiated with figures detailing an increase of copro-
duced films by 500 % since 1997. It boasts of investment from Hong Kong
financiers into over 100 theaters on the Mainland, thereby making China
“the biggest market for Hong Kong movies” (“HK 12 Years: Culture and
Education Exchanges,” July 5, 2009). While Chinese policies and regula-
tions are obviously fundamental to the prospects of Hong Kong filmmak-
ers, CCTV puts a positive spin on the roles of its regulators in creating the
right policies and incentives to build a flourishing film industry. In con-
trast, Hilary Hongjin He (2010a) and contributors of this book like Jing
Jing Chang, Siu-Keung Cheung, and Kinnia Shuk-Ting Yau have assigned
greater agency to Hong Kong filmmakers who have negotiated with the
Mainland authorities for “national status.”
ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT: THE WELL-OFF CHINESE

MASSES AS HONG KONG’S SAVIOR
Across a large number of reports is an underlying narrative of the Mainland
market as a stable, growing, and increasingly prosperous place for for-
eign investment. The basis for the success of Hong Kong film activities
is not only the large Mainland population, but also the growing wealth
of ordinary Chinese who have money to spend on leisure activities like
watching films at the cinema, which thus results in impressive box-office
figures. The wealth of Mainland Chinese is also expressed in relation to
their desire and financial ability to travel to Hong Kong and see the glam-
our of the place, with which they have become acquainted through watch-
ing Hong Kong films. The documentary “Hong Kong, 10 Years On”
describes how Hong Kong’s own Avenue of Stars was set up to cater to
Mainland tourists. China’s media power is thus demonstrated by virtue of
its market size (Yeh and Davis 2008: 43).
Compared to the rising wealth of the Mainland residents, the Hong
Kong people are framed as struggling, with their fortunes being reversed
over time in comparison with the Mainland. Explaining the problems
resulting from the failing Hong Kong film industry, Eric Tsang, Chair
of the Hong Kong Performing Artistes Guild, remarked, “We have seen
many of the people who work behind the curtain leaving the industry to
drive cabs and do other work. They just could not wait any longer because,
after all, they had to eat” (“Hong Kong, 10 Years On (7): Relying on the
Motherland,” April 5, 2011).
Eric Tsang’s comment challenges the stereotypical view of Hong Kong
as a prosperous place and the Mainland as less developed, supporting the
state’s narrative of the revival of Mainland China as well as its responsibil-
ity in helping its Special Administrative Region to prosper. The Mainland
market is framed as a vital avenue for “transforming the sluggish Hong
Kong movie business,” as evidenced through China’s contribution,
accounting for “almost 70 percent” of the revenue of Hong Kong films
(“Film Ties Form Culture Bridge,” June 27, 2012). The reports also give
the impression that the full potential of the massive Mainland market is
yet to be realized, which is presented as an exciting prospect (Ibid.). In
relation to the announcement of a new Hong Kong–Mainland project,
the “5510 Big Movie Plan,” launched in Beijing in 2009 (Ibid.), Jimmy
Heung, Hong Kong film producer and owner of Win’s Entertainment, was
quoted on CCTV sharing his optimism for the “future of the Mainland
market” and for the future of economic growth between these two enti-
ties, excitedly remarking on the ten-fold increase in revenues made by
films now compared to a decade ago when he first went to Beijing (“Hong
Kong, Mainland Plan ‘Big Movies,’” April 1, 2009).
In discussing the success of the film Confession of Pain (Shangcheng
2006), which premiered in Beijing in December 2006, director Andrew
Lau expressed dissatisfaction with audiences’ reception of the film in
Hong Kong, but was “very happy with how it did on the Mainland.”
The film exceeded his expectations for revenue by about 30 million yuan
(US$4.89 million). Similarly, the action film Seven Swords (Qijian 2005,
dir. Hark Tsui) was reported as reaching only 8 million yuan (US$1.3
million) in Hong Kong, but topping 83 million yuan (US$13.53 mil-
lion) on the Mainland (“Hong Kong, 10 Years On (7): Relying on the
Motherland,” April 5, 2011). Consistently framed in this way, the mas-
sive Mainland audience is perceived as an asset to and a savior of the
Hong Kong film industry.
SUCCESS THROUGH “NATIONAL” UNITY

AND COLLABORATION: CHINA, HONG KONG, AND TAIWAN
The importance of film industry collaborations between the Mainland,

Hong Kong, and Taiwan can be seen in numerous CCTV-News and Culture
Express reports. Hong Kong executives, directors, and actors are quoted
in CCTV’s reports extolling the benefits of collaborations and coproduc-
tions, and clarifying the importance of collaborations with Mainland. In
relation to Hong Kong in particular, the “growing” cooperation is evi-
denced with “many Mainland stars starting to work in Hong Kong” and
acting in Hong Kong movies (“Film Ties Form Culture Bridge,” June
27, 2012). Hong Kong film director Peter Chan explained, “It is already
difficult to tell which movie is made in Hong Kong, which one is made in
the Chinese Mainland, and which movie is under co-production” because
“movie industries in Mainland and Hong Kong have mixed together”
(“HK 12 Years: Culture and Education Exchanges,” July 5, 2009). The
blurring of boundaries between the Hong Kong and Mainland film indus-
tries is emphasized as a positive illustration of the success of the policy that
has smoothed the way for Hong Kong’s reintegration into the People’s
Republic of China and of Hong Kong and Mainland citizens’ acceptance
of this new joint identity.
Cooperation between the three Chinese entities of Hong Kong,
Taiwan, and the Mainland also helps to establish an image of an ever-
strengthening Greater China cinematic network, with the Mainland
playing a pivotal role. Quoting world-renowned Hollywood and Hong
Kong director John Woo, one report emphasized that stronger col-
laborations among filmmakers in the Mainland, Hong Kong, and
Taiwan brought benefits to both the Mainland and Hong Kong, helped
boost creativity, and contributed to the maturity of the Chinese movie
industry. Director Stanley Kwan was also quoted praising the Chinese
movie industry, saying that great progress had been made as a result of
enhanced facilities and new stars emerging across the Straits. Joint col-
laborations such as Hero (Yingxiong 2002, dir. Zhang Yimou), Kung Fu

Hustle (Gongfu 2004, dir. Stephan Chow), Painted Skin (Huapi 2008
dir. Chen Jiashang), and Ip Man 1 and 2 (2008, 2010, dir. Ye Weixin)
had “helped wake up the Hong Kong movie industry from its dormant
state,” with success measured in huge box-office revenues (“Harbin Film
Festival Concludes,” January 20, 2011).
An emphasis on the central role of the Mainland within the Chinese
film industry reinforces an image of China’s growing economic strength
as well as its active, open policies to interactions with creative workers
outside the Mainland. An image of a strong Chinese film industry is also
important for presenting an image of China/Asia in contrast to the global
influence of the Hollywood-dominated Western film industry. While the
latest Hollywood films to be released in China are promoted and Chinese
audiences’ love for Hollywood blockbusters are acknowledged in CCTV
reports, there is a far greater amount of coverage of Chinese blockbusters.
An emphasis on the mobility of film stars and directors between
Mainland China and Hong Kong and further abroad, especially the USA,
also reinforces an image of China’s open-door policy, first initiated under
Deng Xiaoping in the late 1970s, and which accelerated in the 1990s.
While in the past, filmmakers and actors tended to leave the Mainland
for better opportunities in Hong Kong and the USA, thanks to CEPA,
Mainland China is now promoted as a dynamic place for Chinese filmmak-
ing. Reports detailing the biographies of famous actors (all male) tend to
emphasize their return or attraction to Mainland China as the most recent
and important step in their careers. One example is Donnie Yen, who
was born in Guangzhou (Canton) in 1963, attended the Wushu Academy
in Beijing, grew up in Boston, and worked in Hong Kong. However,
noted as his greatest success, as measured by the huge income at the box
offices around the world, was his role in Hero, directed by the highly
acclaimed and most internationally successful Mainland Chinese direc-
tor Zhang Yimou7 (“Donnie Yen, Hong Kong Action Star,” January 19,
2009). The story of Vincent Zhao also illustrates a trajectory away from
and back to the Mainland. In 1992, Hong Kong film producer Corey
Yuen identified Vincent Zhao as a martial arts talent while visiting the
Beijing Sport University. Zhao’s acting career led him to Hong Kong,
back to Mainland China, followed by a brief stint in Hollywood, before
he returned to Beijing to work for a Hong Kong–Mainland coproduc-
tion (“Vincent Zhao (Chiu Man-Cheuk),” January 20, 2009). The latest
career movement of Chinese actors and filmmakers is toward, not away,
from the Mainland. This not only reinforces the attractiveness of con-
temporary China, but also advances the idea of the growing influence
of Chinese soft power. It is not surprising that Mainland Chinese media
would promote a Mainland Chinese role, but it is significant as part of
the greater effort to influence global audiences about the positive cultural
value that China is bringing to the region and the world.
GOING INTERNATIONAL: FILM FESTIVALS, HONG KONG,

AND A RISING CHINA
The revitalization of Chinese culture is measured in part through the suc-

cess of and praise for Chinese films at international film festivals as well as
through promotion of Asian and Chinese film festivals staged in Hong
Kong, the Mainland, and Taiwan. Film festivals are one avenue for pro-
moting Chinese films as well as proving that Chinese films are now inter-
nationally competitive, placing China firmly on the world stage. CCTV
reports have highlighted a sense of pride in seeing films by Chinese film-
makers (with collaborative Chinese films directed by Mainland, Hong
Kong, and Taiwan filmmakers) excelling in major international film fes-
tivals. The jurisdictions of directors from Hong Kong or Taiwan may be
strategically omitted, while those from the Mainland may be emphasized.
A CCTV report on the 2012 Venice Film Festival, the oldest film fes-
tival in the world, highlights the “multiple Golden Lions won by direc-
tors like Ang Lee, Zhang Yimou, Jia Zhangke and Hsiao-hsien Hou”
(“Venice Film Festival Winds Up, ‘Pieta’ Wins Golden Lion,” September
9, 2012). In this particular report, Taiwanese-born American Ang Lee,
Taiwanese actor and director Hou Hsiao-Hsien, and Mainland directors
Zhang Yimou and Jia Zhangke were collectively placed under the banner
of Chinese filmmakers. In praise of “the only Chinese film lined up for the
69th Venice International Film Festival, Tai Chi Zero: From Zero to Hero”
(Taiji 1: Congling Kaishi 2012), director Stephen Fung’s Hong Kong
identity is omitted, whereas in other contexts, Hong Kong identities are
specifically labeled. The report, however, makes special mention of the
“debut of one of China’s best Wushu athletes, Yuan Xiaochao, gold medal
winner in the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games,” referencing a major interna-
tional event representing China’s national pride (“Chinese Film ‘Tai Chi
0’ Premiers at Venice Film Festival,” September 2, 2012).
Quotes from festival directors are sought to highlight the vibrancy
and the coming of age of films from China. Toronto International Film
festival codirector Cameron Bailey is quoted as saying, “We’re going to

see a really strong presence from Asia generally, and China in particu-
lar because that’s where a lot of the momentum is right now.” He also
points to the economic power of China at present, noting, “In terms of
the economy, there’s just an incredible surge in financing in films com-
ing out of Asia, particularly out of China, just reflecting the growth of
the Chinese economy” (“Chinese Movies to Feature 2012 Toronto Int’l
Film Festival,” July 25, 2012). Comments from prominent foreigners in
the film industry like Bailey reinforce the notion of China’s rising eco-
nomic and cultural power.
Festivals and awards ceremonies in Hong Kong, as well as in the
Mainland and Taiwan, are emphasized as alternatives to the well-known
European film festivals, with numerous reports on the Hong Kong
International Film Festival (HKIFF) in particular. The HKIFF is pro-
moted as “one of Asia’s most reputable platforms for filmmakers, film
professionals and filmgoers from all over the world to launch new works
and experience the latest outstanding cinema projects.” Hong Kong
International Film Festival Society Chairman, Wilfred Wong, is fre-
quently quoted in ways that connect Hong Kong/China to the world.
In 2009, he spoke of the importance of the festival to “bring hope to
people” during the “global financial crisis” and as a platform to “dis-
cover and introduce new creative film talent to the world” (“Hong Kong
Int’l Film Festival to Open in March,” February 27, 2009). In 2010, he
was quoted in Culture Express promoting the HKIFF as “Asia’s leading
platform for discovering and promoting the best of Chinese language
cinema” as part of the celebration of “a new renaissance of filmmaking in
Greater China” (“The 34th Hong Kong International Film Festival Kicks
Off,” March 22, 2010). Via CCTV, Mainland China plays a key role in
supporting and promoting this new vibrant Chinese culture. Given that
Hong Kong is officially part of China, the prestige of the HKIFF acts as
a platform for showcasing China’s position in the film world. However,
since 2011, Beijing has boasted of its own International Film Festival,
which in effect is set as a rival to the HKIFF.
The Beijing International Film Festival has been described by a CCTV
reporter as a “dream [that] came true.” The dream of the coming of age
of Beijing’s film industry is given weight through quotes from American
heavyweights like director James Cameron, who, for instance, is noted as
having expressed his amazement at the box-office success of Titanic 3D on
the Mainland, which “surpassed the film’s total revenue from other parts
of the world” in just two weeks (“Global Film Industry Eyes Beijing,”
April 25, 2012). According to the same CCTV report, “Currently, Beijing
has more studios, regular film goers and movie theatres than any other
city in China. Such a film obsessed city wouldn’t be complete without its
own international film festival” (Ibid.). The top three prizes available in
Chinese film industry—the Hong Kong Film Awards, Taiwan’s Golden
Horse Awards, and the Mainland’s Golden Rooster Awards—which all
involve contestants from the three regions, are frequent topics for CCTV
reports. Simply by being the voice that relays information about these
Chinese events to people around the world, CCTV positions the Mainland
as a key player within the Greater Chinese film industry.
HONG KONG’S ROLE IN PROMOTING EAST–WEST

UNDERSTANDING
Hong Kong’s unique position as a bridge between China and the West
is the focus of discussion in CCTV’s reports. The global popularity and
appeal of male Hong Kong star “brands” like Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan,
and that of Mainland-born stars who have made their names through pop-
ular Hong Kong films like Jet Li are well promoted by CCTV. Jackie Chan,
in particular, features regularly in CCTV’s English-language reports, with
selected remarks by Chan reinforcing China’s cultural achievements and
collaborations between the East and the West. Chan is well-recognized in
the US market, with five of the top ten Asian films in the USA from 1994
to 2003 being Jackie Chan films (Rosen 2010: 39). He is therefore a good
choice of brand to promote China’s film activities abroad. Significantly,
as Amanda Weiss (2013) notes, Jackie Chan has, since the mid-2000s,
taken on an increasingly visible role as China’s “global” ambassador, a
star whose identity has shifted from being intimately intertwined with
the Hong Kong–local to the global after gaining recognition through his
international coproductions. Weiss argues that Chan currently embodies
different images in the USA, where he is seen as “clean, desexualised,
and comedic,” and in the Mainland and Hong Kong, where he is more
likely to be perceived as “a lady’s man, an inattentive father, a political
loudmouth and a respected film-industry big gun” (2013: 223). CCTV’s
focus on Chan thus appears to milk his more positive image in the eyes of
international, and particularly US, audiences.
Yet at the same time as Chan’s global popularity is used to attract for-
eign audiences to CCTV programming, he is also used to educate them
about China’s cultural achievements. This is similar to how Hong Kong

and Taiwanese stars are used to attract Mainland domestic audiences to
state-supported messages in a less propagandistic and more palatable way
than before (Gorfinkel 2011). For instance, by representing China at the
Toronto International Film Festival’s inaugural Asian Film Summit, Jackie
Chan is quoted in CCTV as requesting from Westerners a better under-
standing of China:
I think we need to have this summit, I hope that more westerners will come
to China, more western producers, directors come to China, and collabo-
rate on films. Films on Chinese subjects that can be introduced into foreign
countries. … I believe this will help the western society better understand
the Chinese culture (“Kung Fu Master Jackie Chan at Toronto Festival to
Promote China’s Film Industry,” September 10, 2012).
While CCTV draws on Jackie Chan’s global appeal to present a global-

ized China, messages such as those above which teach foreigners of their
own ignorance, simultaneously support Chinese nationalistic ideals, which
would likely be less enticing to international audiences and more relevant
to domestic audiences, who may, as discussed above, comprise the major-
ity of viewers of CCTV’s English-language programming. Furthermore,
accusations of Chan’s overt support for the party-state has been widely
noted and criticized in Hong Kong and Taiwan, particularly as a result of
statements he made in April 2009 at the Boao Forum on Hainan Island
and again in China in December 2012, supporting the state’s position
on the need to control Chinese people in order to avoid chaos (Ghosh,
December 13, 2012). Whether these comments are made to be politically
correct or whether they represent personal beliefs, Chan’s remarks fit
with a broader discourse of CCTV, which draws on statements from non-
Mainland elites to demonstrate to both foreigners and domestic audiences
how much people outside of the Mainland wish to cultivate a good rela-
tionship with the country by supporting China and its political status quo.
In another example, in July 2012, a Mainland reporter paraphrased
Toronto International Film Festival director, Cameron Bailey, as stating
that “a key reason for creating a forum like the Asian Film Summit at the
Toronto International Film Festival is to bring industry leaders from the
East and the West together to bridge the gap,” and directly quotes Bailey
remarking, “To get them talking to each other so they can understand each
other better and work better together to everyone’s advantage” (“Chinese

Movies to Feature 2012 Toronto Int’l Film Festival,” July 25, 2012).
While Bailey does not specifically mention China, patterns in the reporting
imply that the Asian Film Summit, like other international events, will help
bridge the difference between the East and the West and promote cross-
cultural ties, with an emphasis on the West understanding China.
At the same time as expressing the need to build East–West relation-
ships, there are also historical reminders of the need for the West to
respect China, given the humiliation China suffered at the hands of the
West during colonial times. One of the films CCTV promotes to its
English-speaking international audiences is Chinese Zodiac (CZ12) (Shi’er
Shengxiao, 2012), director Jackie Chan’s final action movie, which pre-
miered in Beijing. In this film, Chan acts in the role of a hunter who must
repatriate the last four missing bronze heads of the 12 animals of the
Chinese zodiac, previously taken from Beijing’s Old Summer Palace by
French and British forces during the Second Opium War (1856–1860)
(“Kung Fu Master Jackie Chan at Toronto Festival to Promote China’s
Film Industry,” September 10, 2012). While on the one hand, Chan’s
film is promoted because audiences across the globe may be interested in
this famous actor’s new work, we question whether the reminder of past
injustices by the West to China (as a matter of fact statement without any
critical reflection) will specifically appeal to targeted foreign audiences of
CCTV. As one reviewer of the film sarcastically summarized in an online
blog not associated with CCTV:
Sadly, audiences who came searching for epic stunts and comedic martial
arts will be left rather disappointed. However, fans of lengthy multilin-
gual bickering about national pride, the plight of displaced antiquities and
assuming responsibility for the actions of our forefathers are in for a treat
(Marsh, December 15, 2012).
Amanda Weiss (2013: 227) has also noted Jackie Chan’s recent pro-
pensity to position himself in nationalistic terms whereby the West is rep-
resented as “the Other” who must now look up to a rising China. The
selection of films discussed on CCTV reflect those that are officially sanc-
tioned in the Mainland, and of these, many are presented in a way that
appeals to a sense of Chinese national identity, perhaps making them more
suited to Chinese rather than foreign audiences and possibly working
against the East–West understanding. Thus, the choice of state-sanctioned

Chinese films which are promoted through state-sanctioned cultural news
television programs and the discussions around the films may simultane-
ously attract and repel Western audiences.
COVERING CRITICISMS: TOO COMMERCIAL, PANDERING

TOO MUCH TO THE MAINLAND MAINSTREAM MASSES
While most CCTV reports supported the status quo, a few reports hinted
at the unfortunate impacts of the overwhelming commercial focus on
the Hong Kong (and Chinese) film industry. There was an undercurrent
that implied that too much commercialization would lead to a reduction
in quality and a new decline for the Hong Kong film industry and the
Chinese film industry as a whole. A CCTV.com report wrapping up the
year in Chinese film in 2009 provided an unusually harsh attack on the
industry (although it was mixed with more positive reports about box-
office results):
It is indisputable that 2009 was a year when China’s film industry grew at a
never-before-seen rate, at least in terms of box office results and film quan-
tity. However, the growth in such factors has not necessarily translated to an
improvement in quality. In fact, most film critics agree that 2009 has wit-
nessed some of the worst works in the country’s film history, an unhealthy
trend that could result in dragging the entire industry down (“Chinese Film
2009,” December 31, 2009).
The report criticized the fact that “art house and indie films have had
a disappointing year” and expressed disappointment that “the once art
house and inspiring directors” Jia Zhangke and Wang Xiaoshuai had
“simply followed their peers Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige into com-
mercialism.” It feared that China’s film industry was repeating the same
things that “destroyed Hong Kong’s film industry in the late 1990s: blind
investment, neglect of film quality, and the quest for cash and competi-
tion.” It also went so far as to credit Hong Kong director and producer
Derek Tung-Shing Yee as “stating that the Hong Kong film industry was
officially dead” and that “Chinese filmmakers need to be on guard so that
we too are not mourning the death of the Chinese film industry in a few
years’ time.” The report, however, ended on a positive note of hope for
the improved quality of Chinese films in the future (Ibid.).
Two years later in 2011, CCTV raised the issue of the suffering Hong
Kong film industry again. Speaking at the Taiwan-based Golden Horse
Awards, Hong Kong star Andy Lau “expressed his worries about Hong
Kong cinema,” saying that “I was there when Taiwan [cinema] was in
decline. Now Hong Kong is experiencing its worst time. I hope we
can be as strong and persistent as you are, and like you, we may rise
again.” While the exact nature of Lau’s concern was not stated, in the
same report, Sylvia Chang, jury chairwoman of the 48th Golden Horse
Awards, expressed her regret about the financial situation of Hong Kong
films, remarking, “Now we only have movies with either really big bud-
gets or very small ones. There is nothing in between. There is no diver-
sity. I think it is something we all have to think about” (“Golden Horse:
The Ultimate Chinese Film Honor,” November 29, 2011). The desire
of Hong Kong filmmakers to cooperate on smaller-budget as well as big-
budget films was also reported earlier in 2009 (“HK Film Promotional
Tour Sets Off,” July 20, 2009). While it is interesting that CCTV is offer-
ing some criticism of the rising prosperity of the Hong Kong and Chinese
film industry and not only reinforcing its main line that celebrates the
economic development of the Mainland-centered film industry, it is
important to note that the specific points of criticism tend to focus on
economic rather than political problems.
While the impact of censorship on the quality and reception of films,
which foreign media and critics tend to emphasize, is rarely mentioned,
in 2013, the limitations of ideological impact were hinted at, giving a
sense of CCTV’s and China’s openness and self-reflexivity. When Hong
Kong film director Tsui Hark was presented with the “Maverick Director
Award” at the 2013 Rome Film Festival, the report quoted the juries’
praise for Hark’s ability to create films that “address Chinese cultural iden-
tity with no ideological buffers” (“HK director Tsui Hark,” November 18,
2013). In discussing the popularity of German director Rolan Emmerich’s
films in China, largely to do with “intense explosive scenes, many on his-
toric landmarks” like the White House (Independence Day) and Statue of
Liberty (The Day After Tomorrow), the reporter noted:
If he follows the path of many Hollywood filmmakers to co-produce a film

with China, he will find it difficult to destroy any iconic landmark, particu-
larly in major cities such as Beijing and Shanghai. And to damage buildings
with political importance is mission impossible (“Filmmaker Says Chinese
like Good Movies Set Anywhere,” July 23, 2013).
While politics, ideology, or censorship never seem to be mentioned

directly as a problem in CCTV reports, cultural differences between
Hong Kong and the Mainland are sometimes presented as obstacles that
need to be worked through. The reports raise the issue of the need to
cater to the “different tastes and backgrounds on the Mainland and in
Hong Kong” (“Top Five Films During Spring Festival,” April 8, 2010).
There is evidence of directors who seem to be adapting well. Hong Kong
veteran Johnnie To is noted for shifting his genre from “stylish action
thrillers” to “light comedies” in an attempt to appeal to the Mainland
moviegoers (“Hong Kong IFF Announces New Ambassador, Reveals
Films,” February 28, 2011). However, there is a subtle implication that
the attempt to appeal to the purses of the Mainland masses results in the
loss of a unique, local, and raw approach to filmmaking in Hong Kong.
This notion came up in a CCTV report on the 28th Hong Kong Film
Awards in 2009, which introduced the highly localized, small-budget, and
award-winning Hong Kong film The Way We Are (Tianshuiwei de ri yu ye),
directed by Ann Hui. Culture Express acknowledged that it was rare to see
a film with “Hong Kong flavor” and “made exclusively with local money”
at a time “when the Hong Kong film industry is increasingly catering to
the booming market in the Chinese Mainland with historical and Kung
Fu epics” (“Best Actress,” May 4, 2009). CCTV thus expressed some
sympathy for the need for a localized Hong Kong approach—or at least
a recognition that Hong Kong and international audiences may relate to
this perspective—and the problems with appealing to a massive Chinese
audience.
CONCLUSION
Despite the inclusion of some criticisms (perhaps in an attempt to appear
balanced, open, and self-reflexive to an international target audience),
CCTV’s English-language reports about the Hong Kong film indus-
try from 2008 to 2013 overwhelmingly promoted the Hong Kong film
industry as flourishing as part of a new China-centered era. To a consid-
erable extent, they gave the impression that the Mainland had helped to
revitalize the Hong Kong film industry after a period of decline in the
late 1990s by focusing on joint productions, bestowing generous policies
on Hong Kong by the SARFT, and offering a strong market for the con-
sumption of Hong Kong films. Excitement over unexpectedly large box-
office revenues for Hong Kong films and coproductions on the Mainland
were frequently mentioned in direct and paraphrased quotes by Hong
Kong filmmakers and actors. The fact that the success of the Hong Kong
industry is intimately tied to the expenditure of a large number of people
in the Chinese Mainland who can afford the cinema experience subtly
exemplifies a message about China’s developing economic conditions and
rising living standards, which is a major factor upon which the legitimacy
of the ruling Communist Party is based.
Collaborations between the Mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan are
framed as strengthening the Chinese film industry as a whole, and CCTV
has proudly reported on successes of Chinese films in international film
festivals, as well as the successes of their own international and regional
film festivals in the Mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. The strong
focus on international film festivals helps to establish a sense of the ris-
ing attractiveness of Chinese films on a global scale, and, presented by
CCTV, are subtly representative of China’s rising power in the region
and its desire to position itself in a global media context. CCTV’s focus
on big-budget and technically superior joint collaborations also positions
Chinese films in direct competition with Hollywood blockbusters on a
global as well as domestic level.
Boundary markers between Hong Kong and the Mainland appear to be
strategically maintained and loosened. Globally renowned stars like Jackie
Chan are sometimes framed in general terms as “Chinese” rather than as
specifically “Hong Kong” stars, which may work to soften the boundar-
ies between Hong Kong and the Mainland. At the same time, stars from
Hong Kong, who are better known and may seem less “political” to inter-
national audiences than the Mainland’s home-grown stars, are also used
to educate the audiences (who may be both foreign and domestic) on the
need to recognize China’s cultural development. Meanwhile, it could be
argued that the residue of the image of the Hong Kong film industry as
open and democratic, uniquely positioned between China and the West,
along with the intensifying interactions between the two entities, is drawn
upon in an attempt to promote a positive image of Chinese creative works
on an international stage, despite some attempts by CCTV to downplay
Hong Kong’s economic agency.
Most of the quotes in CCTV’s reports about the Hong Kong film
industry are pro-China comments from Hong Kong directors, inves-
tors, and stars. While the choice of interviewee may be typical of film
reporting and promotion, CCTV’s limited inclusion of the voice of

film audiences—whether from the Mainland, Hong Kong, or abroad—
was noticeable. We only found one report that expressed the views
of Chinese “moviegoers,” drawing on online responses to films that
were released during the 2012–2013 New Year season (“Chinese Film
Marker Enters Busy Season,” December 6, 2013). As Li Kang and Lan
Huang (2013: 69) highlight, little attention has actually been paid thus
far to harnessing and tapping into the views of potential foreign audi-
ences. They argue that previous attempts at promoting Chinese films
have the effect of “making the audience confused.”8 Kang and Huang
(2013: 71) call for more feedback from foreign film and television audi-
ences in order to improve China’s soft power. Yet, as seen in CCTV’s
own reporting of the Hong Kong/Chinese film industry, the tension
between a national and a global appeal remains at the heart of academ-
ics Kang and Huang’s concerns. They prescribe that Chinese filmmakers
need to “international[ize] content to include local and global ele-
ments,” “diversify” content to attract audiences from different cultures,
and “avoid rigid political interference” in order to “give full play to
the creative force of the field of film and television.” At the same time,
Chinese filmmakers need to accurately grasp and represent the “national
spirit” of Chinese culture (Ibid., 70–71).
While CCTV is starting to understand its foreign audiences, or potential
audiences through an online survey on its own website, the overwhelming
focus of activities thus far, based on this analysis, suggests a strong and
coordinated attempt to present a positive image of China to the world by
outsiders in positions of power and to “inject” into audiences in a fairly
top-down, though sometimes upbeat, way a sense of China’s growing
soft power. Drawing on well-known Hong Kong stars and highlighting
collaborations between Mainland and Hong Kong filmmakers may be an
attempt to appeal to foreigners, for whom the image of Hong Kong may
be more accessible, but the associated messages often tend toward, or may
be interpreted as, a defensive position that would more likely appeal to
Chinese audiences. Future studies may engage in in-depth studies with
Chinese and foreign audiences to ascertain whether CCTV’s publicizing
of Chinese films via the appraisal of Hong Kong film stars, producers, and
directors in its English-language programming has any actual effect on
China’s soft power efforts.
NOTES
1. CCTV-News was officially launched as a new channel on April 26,
2010. This relaunch was in turn a rebranding of the former CCTV-
9, known as CCTV International, which was launched on September
25, 2000 as a 24-hour channel aimed at English-speaking audiences
around the world, which currently cover 98 % of the global land
mass (Zhu 2012: 172).
2. CCTV Documentary English Channel is the current CCTV-9,
which was launched in January 2011 (Pindao jianjie, n.d.; Jirik
2008). CCTV Documentary can be accessed at http://cctvdocu-
mentary.cntv.cn/.
3. Culture Express can be accessed at http://cctv.cntv.cn/lm/culture-
express/homepage/index.shtml.
4. “Hong Kong 10 Years On” can be accessed at http://english.cntv.
cn/program/documentary/docu/special/hongkong_tenyear/
index.shtml.
5. By late June 2011, CCTV also had international channels running in
Mandarin Chinese, Spanish, French, Arabic, Russian, and English.
6. In 2012, the quota for foreign films increased to 34, including the
original 20 revenue-sharing films in Chinese theatres and an addi-
tional 14 premium format films like 3D and IMAX (Hao 2013: 11).
7. Zhu Ying and Stanley Rosen (2010: 12) note that much of Zhang’s
appeal comes from his big-budget epic drama style accompanied by
a Hollywood-style marketing campaign.
8. Stanley Rosen (2011) reports on a similar confused response by for-
eigners to the “China Experience” cultural campaign in New York’s
Times Square in January 2011, one day before the visit of Hu Jintao,
which involved a 50-meter video billboard displaying China’s most
prominent faces.
LIST OF ONLINE SOURCES FROM CHINA CENTRAL

TELEVISION’S WEBSITE
“Best Actress.” May 4, 2009. CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from
http://www.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/20090504/102428.shtml
“CCTV News, Your Link to Asia.” April 26, 2010. CCTV.com English. Retrieved
on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/20100426/104481.shtml
“Chinese Film 2009.” December 31, 2009. CCTV.com. Retrieved on May 22,
2013 from http://english.cctv.com/20091231/101690.shtml
“Chinese Film Market Enters Busy Season With 40 Films.” December 6, 2012.
CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 http://english.cntv.
cn/20121206/100016.shtml
“Chinese Film ‘Tai Chi 0’ Premiers at Venice Film Festival.” September 2, 2012.
CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/
program/cultureexpress/20120902/102036.shtml
“Chinese Movies to Feature 2012 Toronto Int’l Film Festival.” July 25, 2012.
CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.
cn/20120725/107756.shtml
“Donnie Yen, Hong Kong Action Star.” January 19, 2009. CCTV.com. Retrieved
on May 22, 2013 from http://www.cctv.com/english/special/
Chinesekungfu/20090119/109495.shtml
“Film Ties Form Culture Bridge.” June 27, 2012. CCTV.com English. Retrieved
on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/program/news-
hour/20120627/112016.shtml
“Filmmaker Says Chinese like Good Movies Set Anywhere.” July 23, 2013. CCTV.
com English. Retrieved on December 2, 2013 from http://english.cntv.
cn/20130723/104109.shtml
“Global Film Industry Eyes Beijing.” April 25, 2012. CCTV.com English. Retrieved
on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/program/cultureex-
press/20120425/109780.shtml
“Golden Horse: The Ultimate Chinese Film Honor.” November 29, 2011. CCTV.
com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/pro-
gram/cultureexpress/20111129/102748.shtml
“Harbin Film Festival Concludes.” January 20, 2011. CCTV.com English.
Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/program/cultureex-
press/20110120/101369.shtml
“HK Director Tsui Hark Honoured with Innovative Director Award in Rome.”
November 18, 2013. CCTV.com English. Retrieved on December 2, 2013
from http://english.cntv.cn/program/cultureexpress/20131118/101669.
shtml
“HK Film Promotional Tour Sets Off.” July 20, 2009. CCTV.com. Retrieved on
May 22, 2013 from http://english.cctv.com/20090720/101689.shtml
“Hong Kong IFF Announces New Ambassador, Reveals Films.” February 28,
2011. CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.
cntv.cn/program/cultureexpress/20110228/105879.shtml
“Hong Kong Int’l Film Festival to Open in March.” February 27, 2009. CCTV.
com. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://www.cctv.com/program/
cultureexpress/20090227/107308.shtml
“Hong Kong, Mainland Plan ‘Big Movies’.” April 1, 2009. CRI English.com.
Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cri.cn/6666/2009/
04/01/1261s470425.htm
“Hong Kong, 10 Years On (7): Relying On the Motherland.” April 5, 2011.
CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/
program/documentary/20110405/103463.shtml
“HK 12 Years: Culture and Education Exchanges.” July 5, 2009. CCTV.com.
Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://www.cctv.com/program/worldwide-
watch/20090705/101127.shtml
“Kung Fu Master Jackie Chan at Toronto Festival to Promote China’s Film
Industry.” September 10, 2012. CCTV.com English. Retrieved on May 22,
2013 from http://english.cntv.cn/20120910/105216.shtml
“The 34th Hong Kong International Film Festival Kicks Off.” March 22, 2010.
CCTV.com. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cctv.com/
20100322/102462.shtml
“Top Five Films During Spring Festival.” April 8, 2010. CCTV.com. Retrieved on
May 22, 2013 from http://english.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/
20100308/103145.shtml
“Venice Film Festival Winds Up, ‘Pieta’ Wins Golden Lion.” September 9, 2012.
CCTV.com. Retrieved on May 22, 2013 from http://english.cntv.
cn/20120909/100816.shtml
“Vincent Zhao (Chiu Man-Cheuk).” January 20, 2009. CCTV.com. Retrieved on
May 22, 2013 from http://www.cctv.com/english/special/Chinesekungfu/
20090120/101681.shtml
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INDEX
A 210–12, 219, 222, 223, 229,

action films, 87, 88, 137, 208, 271 230, 232n6, 247, 252, 254
activism, 70, 77, 80–2, 183 Bombay, xiii, 1, 2, 4, 5, 15, 17, 21,
aesthetics, 2, 7, 16–18, 20, 132, 133, 29, 31, 35, 41, 88, 164, 168,
142, 149, 171, 175, 194, 196, 169, 172, 186, 193–213, 219
197, 200, 217–32 Bordwell, David, 9, 18, 137, 235,
Agamben, Giorgio, 72, 74 246n1
Andhra Pradesh, 30, 31, 88, 90 Britain, 14, 70, 76
Asian-American, 128
As Tears Go By, 235, 236, 239, 240
authoritarianism, 79, 184 C
Cantonese, xi, 8, 9, 19, 58, 62, 64n1,
70, 97, 98, 101, 138–40,
B 142–50, 153, 155, 156, 182,
Bangalore, xiii, 85, 92 194, 195
bare life, 72, 74 capitalism, xii, 36, 47, 60, 82, 181,
Basic Law, 54, 73, 75, 78, 81, 187 185, 186
Beijing, xii, 52, 55–7, 65n6, 75, 76, censorship, 18, 52, 63, 77, 111, 112,
81, 105, 106, 109, 113, 122, 114, 148, 157, 185–7, 272–4,
145, 146, 157, 185, 270, 275, 285, 286
276, 278–81, 283, 285 Chandni Chowk to China, 20, 247–63
Bollywood, v, xiii, 1–21, 29–48, 94, Chan, Jackie, 8, 9, 53–7, 107–12,
114, 123, 128, 131, 163, 164, 114, 137, 262, 272, 281–3, 287
172, 173, 175, 176, 197, 198, Chaos, 70–6, 81
Note: Page numbers followed by “n” refer to foot notes.

DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-94932-8
296 INDEX
Chen, Kuan-Hsing, 4, 86, 106 79, 91, 114, 124, 129, 130, 149,
China Central Television (CCTV), xii, 165, 166, 169, 171, 185, 206,
20, 52, 266, 268–71, 273–88, 213, 241, 275–7, 285, 287
289n1, 289n2 Dharavi, 19, 163–76
Chinese Communist Party, 52, 61, dictatorship, 72, 74
108, 148 discontent, 69, 107, 111, 173, 182,
Chineseness, 56, 90, 105, 106, 140, 185–7, 193–213
253–4, 257, 258 discourse, 2, 4, 7, 8, 12, 15, 19–21,
Christianity, xii, 80 55, 60, 62, 86, 93, 106, 108–14,
Chua, Amy, 125–8 122, 133, 140, 156, 164, 166,
Chui, Vincent, 19, 69, 70, 76–81 172, 182, 185, 247, 252, 270,
Chungking Express, 236, 240, 242 282
Church, 80 diversity, 106, 115, 197, 211, 285
citizens, 17, 37, 73, 77, 80–2, 108, Doordarshan, xiii, 87, 88
124, 130, 133, 134, 164, 168,
183, 186
citizenship, xii, xiii, 75, 113, 122, 133 E
civil disobedience, 32, 81 economic growth, 78, 82, 185, 194,
civil rights, 19, 72 266, 276
Closer Economic Partnership education, xii–xiv, 19, 55, 64n5, 65n6,
Arrangement (CEPA), 9–10, 88, 121–5, 129–34, 138, 143,
51–67, 106, 157, 158, 272–4, 151, 195, 203, 275, 277
278 equality, 80, 138, 151, 173, 186
Cold War, xi, 3, 16, 19, 106, 107, escapism, 12, 19, 163
109, 113, 114, 137–58, 186 ethics, 18, 147–50, 155, 184,
colonialism, xi, 2, 8, 21, 61, 72, 86, 204–6
112, 138, 144, 272
communism, 73
Confucianism, 91 F
coproductions, 10, 52–4, 63, 140, fear, 33, 45, 70, 73–5, 128, 157, 186,
157, 266, 277, 281, 287 251, 252, 274, 284
copying, 88, 220, 222–3, 227, 229, film festivals, 15, 198, 266, 273,
230, 232n2 279–81, 287
corruption, 56, 76–8, 108, 183, 185, filmography, 235–46
210, 228 freedom, 31–3, 70, 77, 80, 81, 130,
145, 157, 208, 271
D
democracy, 42, 61, 69, 76, 78, 133, G
163 Gandhi, xiii, 32
development, xi, xii, 1, 2, 10, 14, 19, gangster films, 18, 61, 99, 111, 182,
33, 34, 43, 51, 59–61, 64n1, 77, 228
INDEX 297
gender, xi, 16, 70, 93, 94, 98, 138, humanities, xiii, 15, 85, 124, 132, 134
148, 151, 154, 186 human rights, 78–81
geopolitics, 14, 72, 142, 147, 150, hybridity, 15, 248, 252, 256–9
163–76
ghetto, 70–6, 171–5
globalization, v, 2, 3, 7, 8, 11, 13, 15, I
59, 81, 114, 138, 140, 156, 165, identity, xi, 4, 6–9, 11, 12, 17, 19, 20,
181, 248, 262n1 44, 55–8, 63, 65n6, 97, 98, 105,
governance, xi, xii, 54, 57, 58, 69, 106, 108, 123, 138, 139, 141,
72–3, 76, 79, 80, 82, 171, 185, 142, 144, 146, 156, 158, 164,
186 175, 187, 194, 248, 249, 255,
Greater China, 10, 11, 19, 56, 63, 70, 257–9, 263n5, 272, 277, 279,
81, 105–15, 277, 280 281, 283, 285
ideology, xii, 6, 18, 106, 132, 142,
146, 173, 206, 286
H imperialism, 34, 86, 106
hegemony, 6, 7, 11, 12, 14, 18, 20, independence, 32–41, 87, 149
82, 132, 138, 182–4 India, xii, xiii, 1–3, 5, 6, 11–14, 19,
hierarchy, 125, 261n1 29–34, 38–43, 45, 47, 85–102,
Himalaya Singh, 19, 93–102 124, 132, 163–76, 182, 197,
Hindi, 6, 12, 13, 16, 29–31, 35, 37, 198, 211, 212, 218, 220, 224,
41, 43, 45, 47, 48n1, 48n3, 228, 232n1, 248, 249, 255, 256,
48n4, 87, 88, 94, 97, 101, 197, 259
210, 212, 217–31, 232n1, Infernal Affairs, 9, 17, 53, 54, 57–9,
232n6, 248 64n3, 137
history, xi–xiv, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 13, 16, injustice, 69, 70, 78, 173, 175, 283
21, 30, 44, 47, 73, 86, 87, 91, I Not Stupid, 121–34
92, 109, 111–14, 132–4, 138, inter-Asia, 3, 4, 14–16, 18–21, 87, 93,
139, 141, 148, 167, 168, 211, 102, 247
213, 219, 220, 284 Internet, 66n12
Hollywood, 2–6, 8–10, 12, 14, 16, In the Mood for Love, 236, 243, 244
17, 20, 53, 86, 88, 102, 137,
138, 147, 172, 193, 217, 219,
222, 224–8, 230, 231, 248–52, J
262n4, 267–70, 273, 274, 277, justice, 18, 35, 37, 42, 57, 69, 75, 77,
278, 285, 287 79, 80
Hong Kong, v, xi, xiii, xiv, 1–21,
51–67, 69–82, 85–102, 105–11,
113, 114, 122–4, 129, 132, K
137–58, 181–7, 193–213, 239, Khan, Aamir, 128–31
240, 243–6, 246n1, 247, Korean Wave, 87, 88, 91
265–89, 289n4 Kowloon Walled City, 70–2
298 INDEX
kung fu, 195, 210, 252, 254, 256, music, xi, xii, 12, 19, 25, 29, 33, 35,
259, 260, 262, 271, 282, 283, 41–3, 47, 209, 224, 247, 252
286
N
L Naqal, 20, 217–32, 232n2, 232n3
Lee, Ang, 279 nation, 4–8, 11, 12, 15, 16, 34, 37–9,
Lee, Bruce, 8, 137, 138, 281 56, 57, 61, 62, 81, 86, 93, 111,
legitimacy, 2, 78, 79, 107, 108, 111, 112, 140, 141, 156, 165, 167,
113, 185, 186, 211, 220, 287 175, 220, 249, 267, 274
liberal arts, 124, 132–4 national cinema, 5–8, 10, 15–16,
liberalization, 11, 18, 42, 137 139–41
Life Without Principle, 20, 181–7 nationalism, xii, 2, 4, 7, 15, 19, 21,
Lung, Kong, 194–5 35, 38, 106, 138, 140, 173
lyrics, xii, 18, 29–48, 203, 225 Neo, Jack, 124, 129
neoliberalism, 20, 69, 132, 133, 181,
185
M neo-liberalization, 11
Macau, 19, 105–11, 114, 140 netizens, 111
martial arts, 8, 16, 19, 57, 87, 88, networks, 63, 81, 171, 270
137, 144, 195, 208, 243, 247, New Wave, 10–12, 20, 63, 66n14, 69,
262n4, 278, 283 138, 139, 193–213
mazdoor, 35, 36 North Korea, 73
media, xiii, 1, 3, 4, 9, 10, 12, 21, 47, Nye, Jr., Joseph, 266
62, 64n3, 77, 78, 106, 112, 144,
165, 167, 171, 174–6, 193, 205,
211, 219, 222, 224, 251, 256, O
265–7, 270, 272, 273, 276, 279, one country, two systems (yiguo
285, 287 liangzhi), 53, 58, 61, 69, 70, 73,
memory, 96, 169, 242, 245, 254 82, 106, 185, 272
mobilization, 82 Orientalism, 2, 4, 20, 86, 93, 102,
modernity, 11, 12, 36, 156, 193–213, 167, 247, 249, 251
249
modernization, 20, 142, 164–6, 194,
196, 201, 206, 213 P
morality, 18, 58, 149, 184, 187, 206 Parallel Cinema, 42, 193–213
motherland, 46, 55, 56, 81, 138, 146, parenting, 4, 19, 121–34
147, 274–7 parodic imitation, 228, 230, 231
multiculturalism, 8, 15, 98 patriotism, 11, 33, 55, 114, 146, 185
Mumbai, 1, 2, 16, 29, 122, 163–6, People’s Republic of China, 17, 55,
168, 170–3, 176, 193, 194, 208, 105, 143, 265, 277
228 photography, 236, 237
INDEX 299
plagiarism, 2, 217, 219–22, 223–6, Sinification, 249, 252, 255–7,

230 263n6
political economy, 7, 21 Sinophone, 66n14, 140, 141
popular culture, xiii, 6, 17, 29, 33, 35, Slumdog Millionaire, 13, 43, 164,
47, 48n4, 86–93, 102, 155 168, 169, 171, 172, 174–6, 186
poverty, 3, 20, 108, 165, 166, 169, slums, 164, 167–9, 172–6
171, 175, 176, 209, 210 socialism, 35, 40, 186
Progressive Writers’ Association, 18, soft power, 17, 265–89
33–5 South Korea, 8, 87, 88, 90, 126
propaganda, 107, 112, 143, 206, 267, sovereignty, 53, 54, 65n7, 69, 72–4,
269, 271 76, 82, 105, 138
protest, 55, 58, 92, 93, 153, 205 space, xiv, 3, 4, 14, 16, 21, 34, 37, 38,
41–2, 72–4, 88, 94, 107, 112,
115, 166, 168, 169, 174, 187,
Q 193–213, 232n1, 242, 245, 248,
Quit India Movement, 32 249, 251–5, 258, 259
State Administration of Radio, Film
and Television (SARFT), 52, 107,
R 111, 157, 275, 286
racism, 93, 94, 175 state-building, 110
Republican Revolution, 106, 107 STEM, 132
Republic of China, 17, 55, 105, 106, step-printing, 20, 235–46
108, 110, 114, 143, 145, 265, subjectivity, xii, 245, 248, 255, 257,
277 258, 262n5, 263n5
reunification, 10, 57, 257 Sun, Yat-Sen, 107–9, 112, 113
rhetoric, 70, 105, 109, 133, 156, 170,
262n3
rights, 19, 69, 72, 73, 78–81, 108, T
113, 185 Taare Zameen Per, 121–34
rule of law, 78 Taiwan, 8, 19, 56, 57, 85, 105–8,
Russia, 85, 182, 289n5 110–15, 140, 145, 272, 277–80,
282, 285, 287
temporality, 20, 236–8, 241–4, 246
S terror, 70, 73–6
Schmitt, Carl, 72, 74 terrorism, 73
Second World War, 70, 142, 144, 145 Third World, 167, 219
sex, 46, 77, 81, 110, 112, 114, 202, Three Narrow Gates, 70, 76–81
204 Tiananmen Square, 75, 80
Shanghai, 79, 122, 141–4, 157, 195, Tiger Mom, 121–34
250, 261, 262, 285 To, Johnnie, 53, 54, 60–3, 64n2,
Singapore, 106, 111, 122, 123, 142, 64n4, 66n10, 182–7, 286
145, 147, 243–5, 272 Touraine, Alain, 80
300 INDEX
tradition, xii, 4, 11, 12, 20, 30, 35, W

44–7, 57, 59–61, 66n10, 80, 91, Wai, Ka-Fai, 19, 54, 60, 64n2, 93–102
138, 139, 164, 165, 172, 175, The Wall, 19, 138, 147–56, 254
184, 200, 203, 218, 220–1, women, 39, 40, 66n12, 74, 92, 126,
229–31, 232n2, 257, 258, 267 150–2, 182, 199, 201, 203, 204,
translatability, 2 242, 252
translation, 3, 14, 15, 112, 151, 218, Wong, Kar-Wai, 8–9, 20, 21, 235–46,
223, 228, 229 246n1
transmission, 2, 218 Woo, John, 17, 53, 137, 277, 54,
transnational cinema, 2, 4, 139, 140 66n10
transnationalism, 2, 4, 7, 8, 15
2046, 236, 244–5
X
Xinjiang, 72
U
Umbrella Movement, 19, 75, 79
undercranking, 235–46, 246n1 Y
United States, 9, 13, 14, 53, 143, Yau, Hermann, xiv, 69–73, 75, 79, 81
145, 151, 156, 165, 171, 175,
199, 205, 268, 271, 281
urbanization, 20, 38, 165, 166, 171, Z
173, 194 Žižek, Slavoj, 247, 253

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GLOBAL

Hong Kong and Bollywood

More information about this series at

Hong Kong and

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016954118

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2016

Cover image by Spandan Banerjee

Printed on acid-free paper

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by Springer Nature

1 Situating Hong Kong and Bollywood Cinemas

Part I The Politics of Representation and

2 The Trajectory of Bollywood Lyrics 29

3 Transformation of Hong Kong Gangster Movies Before

4 Despair and Hope: Political Cinema in Hong Kong 69

5 Chinaman, Not Hindustani: Stereotypes and Solidarity

Part II The Crisis of Representation and

7 What Is So Asian about Asian Parenting? Deconstructing

8 Negotiating Cold War and Postcolonial Politics: Borders

9 Slum Extravaganza!: Cultural and Geopolitical

10 Life Without Principle: Financial Irregularities

Part III The Aesthetics of Representation and

11 Discontents of Modernity: Space, Consumption and Loss

12 Naqal and the Aesthetics of the Copy 217

13 Undercranking and Step-Printing in Wong Kar-Wai’s

14 Mirroring Alterity: The Imaginary China and the

15 Hong Kong, Films, and the Building of China’s

Surajit Chakravarty is Assistant Professor of Urban Planning at ALHOSN

Music as Intangible Cultural Heritage: Policy, Ideology, and Practice in the

Sony Jalarajan Raj is an assistant professor at the Department of Communication,

of Education from Sydney University and was Lecturer in English at Kunming

Fig. 5.1 The advertisement of Gopi Naidu’s Korean Taekwondo

Situating Hong Kong and Bollywood

S. Kolluri (*) • J.T.-H. Lee

© The Author(s) 2016 1

appropriation, elaboration, and plagiarism in the cultural flows between

The Conceptualization of This Project

in our very “enunciative practice.” For her, to “discuss cinema historically

Situating “Nation” and “World” in Asian Cinemas

To analyze Indian films in terms of Western/Aristotelian theory makes as

Cautioning against “progressive claims frequently made for extra-­

By making “a distinction between a theory of world cinema and a world

Recent Dynamics in Hong Kong and Bollywood

the form of coproduction, without being restricted by the import quota

Hong Kong New Wave emerged. Today’s filmmakers have adapted to

begun to address the fissures and contradictions in a fast-changing Indian

its global or transnational outreach different from that of Hong Kong.

Framing Hong Kong and Bollywood

As an exercise in critical pedagogy, this book allows readers from diverse

Today, scholars have rejected the conventional practice that a univer-

Organization of This Book

concerns of the Mainland market. Joseph Tse-Hei Lee (Chap. 4) sees a

state-controlled media has been framing and co-opting Hong Kong to

The Politics of Representation and

The Trajectory of Bollywood Lyrics

A. Mir () • R. Mir

© The Author(s) 2016 29

The use of intermittent songs in theatrical narrative has a long and

The early Urdu Parsee theater first produced adaptations of Shakespearean

LYRICS AND THE FREEDOM STRUGGLE

manzil sabhi ki ek hai, raaheñ alag alag

Though our paths are different, our destination is the same

In the 1940 film Aaj Ka Hindustani (Today’s Indian), directed by

charkha chalaao behno

1 Situating Hong Kong and Bollywood Cinemas

Part I The Politics of Representation and

2 The Trajectory of Bollywood Lyrics 29

3 Transformation of Hong Kong Gangster Movies Before

4 Despair and Hope: Political Cinema in Hong Kong 69

5 Chinaman, Not Hindustani: Stereotypes and Solidarity

Part II The Crisis of Representation and

7 What Is So Asian about Asian Parenting? Deconstructing

8 Negotiating Cold War and Postcolonial Politics: Borders

9 Slum Extravaganza!: Cultural and Geopolitical

10 Life Without Principle: Financial Irregularities

Part III The Aesthetics of Representation and

11 Discontents of Modernity: Space, Consumption and Loss

12 Naqal and the Aesthetics of the Copy 217

13 Undercranking and Step-Printing in Wong Kar-Wai’s

14 Mirroring Alterity: The Imaginary China and the

15 Hong Kong, Films, and the Building of China’s

Fig. 5.1 The advertisement of Gopi Naidu’s Korean Taekwondo

Cautioning against “progressive claims frequently made for extra-