Liberty Times (LT): In 1989, Taiwan had only recently come out of martial law and the ghost of the Taiwan Garrison Command still lived on in people’s hearts, yet you chose to tackle the 228 Incident, which was largely a taboo subject at the time. How did you minimize risks to the greatest extent possible?
Chiu Fu-sheng (邱復生): Let me start from the very beginning. Before I even started making movies, I made a living selling video cassettes. [Editors’ note: Chiu founded ERA Communications Co] I had to go on business trips to Los Angeles or Cannes, France, to ensure that I had a unified source of import.
I happened to arrive in Cannes for the Cannes Film Festival in 1988, and I witnessed how movie producers and directors were able to enjoy their moment of glory, walking on the red carpet amid cheers and flashing cameras.
Photo: Fang Pin-chao, Taipei Times
As I stood on the fringe, I asked myself: Why is it that I can only stand here and buy the stories of others? Why is it that Taiwan could not have the privilege of walking on the same red carpet? [Taiwanese director Hou Hsiao-hsien’s (侯孝賢) Daughter of the Nile (尼羅河女兒) was that year featured at the Directors’ Fortnight and not at Cannes.] Why could I not sell my stories to the world?
It was then that I vowed to myself that one day, I would take Taiwanese films to the Cannes Film Festival.
LT: So, you began your foray into the movie industry to gratify your sense of vanity?
Chiu: Entirely correct; I had indeed started with that original intent to walk on the red carpet.
It is my belief that no one who had ever visited Cannes would be able to forget the sense of accomplished vanity when the media of the world are screaming your name. Of course, it is only after I made the decision to learn how to make films that I came to realize that the quality of Taiwanese films were not up to global standards.
Not only did we not have synchronous recording, we did not even know what optical printing was. Our audio had no layered depth and we only had the one scene — perpetual rain. It was a mess and it was no wonder we were usually dismissed at the initial selection process.
Prior to making A City of Sadness (悲情城市), I decided there must be synchronous recording of the film, so I moved the post-production of the film to Japan. The film was developed in Japan as well, and two separate copies were made — one to be sent to Venice, Italy, and one sent back to Taiwan for review by the [now-defunct] Government Information Office.
When the film became the first Taiwanese film to be nominated for the Golden Lion award at the Venice Film Festival, there was someone who blew the whistle on us.
They said that we had illegally transported a copy of the film overseas to ensure that even if the film was banned from screening in Taiwan, it would still be shown publicly in Venice.
They had not expected that I had filed a request in accordance with the law for overseas development. The film had left the borders legally and they had nothing on me. They would have pounced at any loophole and made it more serious than it was to ensure that I would be sent to jail.
LT: Given the 228 Incident was a taboo subject before martial law was lifted, did you feel apprehensive about being the first to bring it to the silver screen?
Chiu: At that time, director Chen Kuo-fu (陳國富) was my film consultant. Through him, I met Hou, who brought up the idea of filming a series of 10 movies. The first films he came to me with were the “Taiwanese History Trilogy” — A City of Sadness, The Puppetmaster (戲夢人生) and Good Men, Good Women (好男好女) — starting off the story with the defeat of the Japanese and the landing of the [Chinese] Nationalist [Party (KMT)] army in Keelung. The second film in the series would focus on the lead-up to the 228 Incident and its aftermath, while the third film would be a reflection on life under Japanese rule.
At the time I thought to myself: As martial law has been lifted, then the restrictions on film topics must also be lifted. Simply discussing the landing of the Nationalist army in Keelung would not be very interesting, the 228 Incident had to be discussed for the film to be worth making.
Many people within my circle told me to be cautious, but I told them I was not calling for a revolution and I was not discussing national secrets or something of the sort. I was simply telling a story of that period of history, told from the perspective of one family’s misfortune.
Furthermore, screenwriter Chu Tien-wen’s (朱天文) father grew up during that period of political struggle; Hou is a waishengren (外省人, Mainlander) and grew up in Kaohsiung’s Fengshan (鳳山); and the film’s production crew was comprised of both benshengren (本省人, people who came to Taiwan before World War II) and waishengren.
The 228 Incident-related content discussed in the film was reasonable and acceptable to everyone involved in the film. I think what the film was trying to portray was how all Taiwanese families got through the 228 Incident — it was trying to play on ethnic sensitivities.
When the censors looked at A City of Sadness, they were pleased with it. They only asked that I remove the gunshot sounds representing executions, which I immediately refused.
At about that time I received word from a reporter in Venice who told me the film had a good chance of winning a big award, which made the Government Information Office nervous.
Then-office deputy director Liao Cheng-hau (廖正豪) tried to persuade me to remove the gunshot sounds, but as Hou was already on his way to Venice, I got his agent, Chan Hung-chih (詹宏志), involved.
Even from a young age I was like the angry youth of today, and in that moment I told Liao that I was not in a position to demand that the director cut the gunshots from his film. Martial law had already been lifted at that point and it was my opinion that leaving the film uncut should be part of creative freedom.
LT: Did then-office director Shao Yu-ming (邵玉銘) almost lose his position for his decision not to ban the screening of A City of Sadness?
Chiu: Shao told me afterward that he was almost fired from his job because of the decision.
At the time, the office would often ask experts or civilians to participate in a review when it had to make a decision on sensitive issues; it was in essence lending the film credibility through a consensus of multiple individuals.
Shao had been very careful and even asked 30 people to make the review, all of them agreeing that the film adhered to standards.
Then-premier Lee Huan’s (李煥) secretary-general, Wang Chao-ming (王昭明), criticized Shao for bending the rules, saying that he, too, could find 30 people that would reach a unanimous “banned screening” rating for the film. In any case, the film did not receive an official license for screening until it won the award in Venice.
LT: How would you respond to those who have called you opportunistic for making the first film on the 228 Incident?
Chiu: I did not have any grand sentiments and I was not trying to undertake some historic task, I just wanted to present the memories of an era.
My family was also affected by the 228 Incident. At the end of the film when the characters are told to “keep quiet and just focus on eating,” that part was added to the film under my recommendation to Hou.
The 228 Incident was always hanging over our heads; families were invariably affected by political influence. I grew up in the shadow of the 228 Incident and my uncle on my mother’s side was imprisoned because of it.
At the time, my uncle had just graduated from medical school at Taipei Imperial University [now National Taiwan University]. He was working at a sugar plant’s infirmary when patients injured in the 228 Incident began pouring in.
Because my uncle was doing his best to treat the injured, he was accused of assisting the “mob” and was taken into custody. My family had to pay a lot of money to get him out of prison.
My dad was also working at the sugar plant as director of agricultural affairs. As my dad provided the plant’s chairman with accommodation at our home to keep him safe from the hostilities, he was accused of keeping the chairman — who was a waishengren — under house arrest. He was arrested and only released after the chairman came forward to speak on his behalf.
As my mom was pregnant with me at the time, my dad told me about it later. He said that gunshots could be heard everywhere as people were being tried and executed.
My dad said after that first night he knew what “terror” was and from then on he always told us: “Keep quiet and just focus on eating.” It was from little memories like this that the movie was born.
LT: Did the success you achieved following A City of Sadness, working with Hou on The Puppetmaster and with [Chinese director] Zhang Yimou (張藝謀) on To Live (活著) satisfy your aspirations to the point that you changed professions?
Chiu: The most beautiful thing is to have a dream, and for me that dream was to walk on the red carpet — such a minute, but honest dream.
You could say I was just a young man who thought of nothing but walking on the red carpet, but there are many young Taiwanese with the same dream. They want themselves and their work to be seen by the world.
I have always believed I could achieve this as a Taiwanese, because Taiwanese films are worthy of the world stage. Those of us in the industry all embrace this dream — to go to Venice, Cannes and even attend the Oscars.
Chan believes that people at the time achieved results by charging forward with naive courage. I think that Hou and I were not that naive, it is just that there was no one in the industry to help us. We fumbled about and were able to make the first step in globalizing Taiwanese cinema.
I am glad that I was able to have those dreams and see them realized.
Translated by William Hetherington and Jake Chung
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