For weeks now, the ranks of Chinese visitors to Hong Kong have swelled with a brand-new category of tourists: moviegoers.
In a response to the censoring of a film about love and betrayal in Shanghai during World War II by Taiwanese director Ang Lee (李安), Chinese movie fans have flocked by the thousands to Hong Kong to see the full, uncut version of the film Lust, Caution.
The phenomenon of so many people voting, as it were, with their feet has highlighted the public's rapidly changing attitudes toward the long unquestioned practice of government censorship of the arts, and prompted debate about the way films are regulated in China.
Travelers have made their way to Hong Kong to see movies before, of course, but always in much smaller numbers. Critics and commentators in China attribute the interest in Lee's movie to a variety of factors, from word of mouth about risque sexual content stripped from the censored version, to a sensitive political subtext rarely seen in Chinese cinema, to the fame of the Academy Award-winning director.
Perhaps most important, though, is the rise of a class of affluent urbanites in China's rich eastern cities who have grown increasingly accustomed to ever more choice in their lives.
"I went to Hong Kong with my girlfriend to see Lust, Caution because it was heavily censored here," said Liang Baijian, 25, a businessman and stock market investor from the Guangxi autonomous region. "We could have bought a pirated copy of the movie here, but we were not happy with the control and wanted to support the legal edition of the film."
At least one Chinese movie fan has tried to sue the State Administration of Radio, Film and Television, which regulates the industry, for deleting some of the film's content. Ang Lee has said the censored material was regarded as politically unacceptable in Beijing because it reinforced the notion of sympathy between a young Chinese woman and a collaborator with the Japanese occupiers. The lawsuit has been rejected by Beijing courts.
Many in the Chinese film industry support the idea of introducing a ratings system like the one used in the US, which advocates say would lessen the need for outright censorship. The state film administration, however, has resisted thus far.
Other travelers to Hong Kong, meanwhile, said they accepted the rationale of a censorship system in a country of stark disparities in regional income and education, but thought the practice was no longer justified in cities.
"For myself, I strongly object to censorship, but for the country as a whole, I think I can still understand its necessity," said Yan Jiawei, a graphics designer from Shanghai who saw Lust, Caution on a recent business trip to Hong Kong. "It has something to do with people's educational level. In big cities like Shanghai, people will treat the deleted scenes as art, while those in less developed areas will only think of them as immoral."
People within the movie industry here said the fact that a censored Lust, Caution was available at all in China demonstrated how far the parameters of the acceptable have broadened since the beginning of the reform era more than two decades ago. Not long ago, local film was dominated by plots heavy-handedly reinforcing conventional lines between good and bad. Unquestioned love of country was a favorite theme.
While many have been drawn to Lust, Caution by the allure of sex scenes, even more groundbreaking is the notion of a traitor in a leading role depicted as an attractive character instead of a villain.
"The country has undoubtedly become more and more open and advanced, and this is the tide of history, which no one can prevent," said Fang Li (方勵), a leading producer. "Compared to a market economy that's developing so fast, I've never seen an industry in China as backward as the film industry, though."
Fang said much of the blame for this lay with the censors, a group of mostly elderly people who work in committee and invite critical comment from branches of government, from the Women's Federation to provincial governments, all seeking to present their constituency in the best light and to avoid offense.
The censors "spend most of their time worrying how not to lose their post," he said. "They are very careful not to make mistakes."
Other critics of the system said the country's censors have become much more careful about leaving fingerprints. Wu Di (
"Now, under the so-called harmonious society, they wouldn't do things so baldly," Wu said.
Instead of publishing a banning notice, the same result is achieved today with a few phone calls, which leave little trace.
Li Yu (
"People who make movies in China understand the situation well, and a lot of them are criticizing the system, saying that censorship prevents them from making good movies, which is partly true," Li said. "But I feel the environment is becoming more and more relaxed."
Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) caucus whip Fu Kun-chi (傅?萁) has caused havoc with his attempts to overturn the democratic and constitutional order in the legislature. If we look at this devolution from the context of a transition to democracy from authoritarianism in a culturally Chinese sense — that of zhonghua (中華) — then we are playing witness to a servile spirit from a millennia-old form of totalitarianism that is intent on damaging the nation’s hard-won democracy. This servile spirit is ingrained in Chinese culture. About a century ago, Chinese satirist and author Lu Xun (魯迅) saw through the servile nature of
In their New York Times bestseller How Democracies Die, Harvard political scientists Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt said that democracies today “may die at the hands not of generals but of elected leaders. Many government efforts to subvert democracy are ‘legal,’ in the sense that they are approved by the legislature or accepted by the courts. They may even be portrayed as efforts to improve democracy — making the judiciary more efficient, combating corruption, or cleaning up the electoral process.” Moreover, the two authors observe that those who denounce such legal threats to democracy are often “dismissed as exaggerating or
Monday was the 37th anniversary of former president Chiang Ching-kuo’s (蔣經國) death. Chiang — a son of former president Chiang Kai-shek (蔣介石), who had implemented party-state rule and martial law in Taiwan — has a complicated legacy. Whether one looks at his time in power in a positive or negative light depends very much on who they are, and what their relationship with the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) is. Although toward the end of his life Chiang Ching-kuo lifted martial law and steered Taiwan onto the path of democratization, these changes were forced upon him by internal and external pressures,
The Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) caucus in the Legislative Yuan has made an internal decision to freeze NT$1.8 billion (US$54.7 million) of the indigenous submarine project’s NT$2 billion budget. This means that up to 90 percent of the budget cannot be utilized. It would only be accessible if the legislature agrees to lift the freeze sometime in the future. However, for Taiwan to construct its own submarines, it must rely on foreign support for several key pieces of equipment and technology. These foreign supporters would also be forced to endure significant pressure, infiltration and influence from Beijing. In other words,
RSS