Ju Dou

Tianqing falls in love with Ju Dou, his uncle's wife who is tortured for being childless. However, after they have an affair, they discover that his uncle is impotent and try to conceal the truth.

**Summary: 8/10: a ravishing, unsentimental portrait of patriarchal cruelty and its inherited wreckage, anchored by an early, electric Gong Li performance and filmmaking so powerful it set the standard for a generation of world cinema that followed it.** There is a particular cruelty in banning a film for depicting cruelty, and China's Ministry of Culture proved as much when it tried, and failed, to withdraw Zhang Yimou's *Ju Dou* from Oscar contention after already suppressing it at home. Two officials were made to write self-criticisms for daring to submit it; Zhang himself walked away unscathed, and later suggested, dryly, that the film had offended a government "composed largely of older men" precisely because it portrayed one so damningly. The irony writes itself: a film about a tyrannical old man's sadistic control provoked tyrannical old men into trying to control it. Set in a rural silk-dyeing mill in 1920s China, *Ju Dou* is adapted from Liu Heng's novella "Fuxi Fuxi," and the source material's bones show through the fabric of the film like a watermark. Ju Dou, married off to the mill's aging, sadistic, impotent owner Yang Jinshan, finds a kind of contraband tenderness with his nephew Tianqing. This is old, feudal China, but a coerced female, a patriarchal ownership disguised as marriage, and inherited violence is neither old nor feudal. They are current themes dressed in another century's costume. Gong Li, in what amounts to her breakout performance, carries the film's entire moral weight without ever seeming to strain under it. Her Ju Dou is not a passive victim waiting for the plot to rescue her; there's a flint in her stillness, a calculation beneath the suffering, and a hint in what she must refuse to show the men around her. It is a brilliant performance built on containment, and Gong Li would go on for three more decades in Asian film proving that her masterful acting was no fluke. Zhang Yimou's direction here is more assured than in *Red Sorghum*, his striking but slightly looser debut. Working with cinematographer Gu Changwei, who would later shoot *Farewell My Concubine* to another Oscar nomination, Zhang turns the dye mill into something akin to a confessional, a place where color says what the characters are forbidden to express. The bolts of fabric bleeding red and indigo coming into frame in a film mostly under-saturated aren't decoration. They're the film's metaphor, externalizing desire and dread into color the way Sirk or Powell once did, but filtered through a distinctly Chinese visual grammar of ritual and repetition. Speaking of the visual repetition, it never broke my absorption in the story, though it did make me wonder whether that's an artifact of an older Chinese cinematic vocabulary or simply Zhang's own instinct toward the cyclical. Given how thoroughly the film is about inheritance, about a son becoming the very thing he was born to destroy, I'm inclined to read it as thematic rather than merely stylistic; time doesn't march forward in Yang Jinshan's world, it loops, the way domestic violence loops through a bloodline until someone refuses to pass it on. Whether or not repetition was a convention of the period's film language, it works here as a formal echo of the story's fatalism. The film premiered in competition at Cannes, drawing a Palme d'Or nomination, and became the first Chinese film nominated for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, a distinction that made Zhang Yimou an international name while his own government pretended otherwise. Watching it now, the film's craft feels only slightly dated while Zhang's direction and vision have lost none of the power and depth that must have frightened the Chinese censors. What makes *Ju Dou* so much more than an exquisitely shot melodrama is its refusal to let anyone off the hook, even the audience. *Ju Dou* doesn't ask to be forgiven for its bleakness. It asks only that we recognize this mill, this marriage, and this suppression enforced by men who confuse fear for respect, as something closer to home than the costumes suggest.