On Monday, October 28, 2024, the V Independent Film Festival Instar was inaugurated, with physical venues in Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, Berkeley, and Munich. In Cuba, as has been the case in recent editions, the programming will be available through the digital platform Festhome.

In this edition, among the works from more than 15 countries, the audience will have the opportunity to appreciate, for the first time, a selection of contemporary independent Chinese cinema. Given that Cuba and China share a history of restrictions on freedom of expression, I have focused this article on the censorship that Chinese cinema has faced in recent years.

The inclusion of these works raises a dialogue that helps understand how censorship shapes narratives and art in societies under control regimes, the strategies of expression under censorship, and the ways to evade or question the norms imposed by the state. It is also an excellent opportunity to analyze how contemporary Chinese filmmakers confront social and political conflicts within the limits imposed by authoritarianism.

The Chinese films featured in the competition and those selected for the retrospective to be screened in Munich are the result of the cooperation between the Chinese Independent Film Archive (CIFA) and the Hannah Arendt Institute for Artivism (Instar), whose common goal is to continue supporting the filmographies of countries suffering from dictatorships or totalitarian governments.

Fortunately, in the opening credits of none of these films will the dragon mark appear.

But we will discuss that later.

An Exhibition by Tania Bruguera to Remember What a Tania Bruguera Exhibition Provoked

Looking back, we can see that the film section of the Hannah Arendt Institute for Artivism originated from the ideas generated during a simultaneous exhibition of the visual artist and Cuban Cinema under Censorship, curated by Dean Luis Reyes, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 2018. If at that time a dialogue arose from the relationship of both projects, this year, at the Munich venue of the Villa Stuck Museum, The Condition of No, an exhibition by Tania Bruguera, curated by Roland Wenninger, will directly engage with the retrospective programmed by the Transnational Film Festival on independent Chinese cinema.

In examining Instar's personal background—an expert in revolutionary persecution—The Condition of No will add a series of conversations about censorship, cancellation, and boycotts faced by creators today, with a special emphasis on German artists.

Baby Shower for the Magazine Fantasma Material

Another surprise at the Festival was the public presentation of the first issue of the magazine Fantasma Material, which, in collaboration with Rialta Ediciones, paid tribute to the legacy of Cuban-American scholar Gilberto Pérez on October 26, 2024, at the Cineteca in Madrid.

According to José Luis Aparicio, the festival's artistic director and co-editor of the magazine along with film critic Dean Luis Reyes, "this annual publication will focus on the study of independent film production, especially that which is made in the Global South."

Crouching Artist, Hidden Dragon: A Story of Censorship and Contemporary Chinese Cinema

Even before the emergence of the People's Republic, the Chinese Communist Party recognized the power of cinema as the main medium of propaganda. Following the example of the USSR, they created their first film unit in 1938—with Soviet help, of course. This laid the foundations for Chinese cinema as a tool of ideological coercion. This tradition was reinforced after 1949 with the establishment of the principles of socialist realism as a guiding canon, a rudiment of what would become one of the most complex and developed censorship apparatuses in the world.

In countries suffering from dictatorships, the persistence of indoctrination in the popular imagination can create an inhibition that functions as self-censorship. Since any manifestation that deviates from officialdom will severely complicate the creative freedom of fiction directors, once again, independent cinema will turn to documentary as the ideal genre for expression.

In the late 1980s, a type of documentary began to emerge in which the camera no longer acted as an ideological appendage. The prominence of reality subverts the message, remaining outside any type of narrative interference. The films begin to stand out for their marked realism as opposed to the theatricalized and decadent tone of Maoist realism.

Documentaries such as Drifting in Beijing, by Wu Wengwang—whose filming was interrupted by the repression during the Tiananmen protests—managed to break through the iron curtain of censorship, participating in international festivals and gaining recognition.

As part of the Festival, the retrospective scheduled in Munich will coincide with several themes that have motivated independent Chinese filmmakers in recent years. Among the documentaries, one will showcase the work done during the large-scale demolitions caused by the "Three Gorges Dam" project. With Bing Ai (2007), director Feng Yan pays tribute to rural life and the struggle of a family living in a village by the Yangtze who loses everything. In the name of progress, the construction of the world's largest dam will force 1.13 million people to be displaced. The protagonist's unequal struggle illustrates the tragedy and helplessness of the people before the relentless machinery of the state.

In The Cold Winter (2011), Zheng Kuo documents the struggle of artists in various districts of the 798 Art Zone in Beijing, who were evicted—supposedly—to facilitate urban growth. The studios, which are also the artists' homes, suffer a series of supply cuts during an especially cold winter, exposing the brutality, injustice, lack of scruples, and absurdity of socialist planning. Figures like Ai Weiwei highlight the resistance of artists during the events known as the Chang’an Avenue demonstration, a peaceful protest that was swiftly suppressed by the police.

The Memo (2023), made by Badlands Film Group, describes the most intense period of repression that Shanghai experienced during the worst days of the COVID-19 pandemic. The masterful editing of footage compiled from mobile phone cameras turns this video diary into an unprecedented document on the brutality of police action during the lockdown.

The Second Interrogation, directed by Wang Tuo in 2022, establishes a curious symbiosis between the figure of the artist and that of the censor. Taking "The Seven Sins" as a reference—one of the most emblematic works from the period before the 1989 student uprisings—the documentary philosophically elaborates on the meaning of art and the artist, leading to a role reversal between both figures. The censor-turned-artist seems to understand the true meaning of art in a totalitarian government, while the artist becomes an undercover watcher analyzing the dangers of art ideology for the state.

Disorder (2009), by Huang Weikai, is an unrestrained exploration of the most decadent reality of Chinese society. The editing establishes incoherence as the thread connecting a story built from chaotic fragments, creating in the audience a state of helplessness that is as harmful as it is overwhelming. In the city, everything is out of control, everyone feels overwhelmed. The range of grays in the film accentuates the amateurish tone of the images, releasing a pseudo-journalistic haze that is so depressing it feels almost tangible.

Fortunately—as mentioned before—none of these films bears the dragon mark.

The Dragon Mark: A Country with Films for All Ages

The dragon logo is nothing more than the colorful seal of approval from the Film Section of the State Administration of Radio, Film, and Television of China. Along with the logo, the license for broadcasting, the year it was granted, and the total number of films that passed censorship that year are noted.

The arduous work of the censors—who usually work in groups of five—can lead to the direct cancellation of films; however, it is more common for them to propose changes to the director that they deem necessary. Currently, the review process follows the guidelines of the 2016 Film Industry Promotion Law:

Article 16: Films must not contain the following content:

Violations of the basic principles of the Constitution, incitement to resistance or undermining the implementation of the Constitution, laws, or administrative regulations.

Content that endangers national unity, sovereignty, or territorial integrity; leaks of state secrets; endangering national security; harming national dignity, honor, or interests; or advocating terrorism or extremism.

Undermining exceptional ethnic cultural traditions, inciting ethnic hatred or discrimination, violating ethnic customs, distorting ethnic history or historical figures, hurting ethnic sentiments, or undermining ethnic unity.

Inciting the undermining of national religious policies, advocating cults or superstitions.

Endangering social morality, disturbing social order, undermining social stability; promoting pornography, gambling, drug use, violence, or terror; instigating crimes or imparting criminal methods.

Violations of the legal rights and interests of minors or harming the physical and psychological health of minors.

Insulting or defaming others, or disclosing others' private information and violating their legal rights and interests.

Other content prohibited by laws or administrative regulations.

Like in Cuba, the laws that support censorship can vary or redefine their scope according to the needs of the state. Historical events such as the Tiananmen Massacre or Words to Intellectuals, a speech delivered by Fidel Castro in 1961, clarify any doubts in this regard.

The fate of international films seeking to be screened in China must also pass through the State's censorship filter. During this process, they can be "synthesized" or modified to gain approval. A paradigmatic case is Ang Lee's Lust, Caution, which won the Golden Lion in Venice in 2007 but had to lose up to 30 minutes to pass censorship. Renowned directors like Zhang Yimou, despite occasionally playing by the rules of officialdom—he directed the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics in 2008—have faced temporary bans on several of their films, including withdrawals by the production from international festivals.

Both national and international films must avoid violence and explicit sexual content. The absence of a classification system in China leads to absurd situations where all films must be suitable for all ages.

With the advent of the digital age, independent productions not only expanded their reach, but the intensification of online censorship also targeted the rise of activism. Academic Ying Qian describes this in Power in Frames:

"As more connections were established between filmmakers, public intellectuals, and grassroots activists, a new political cinema began to emerge, characterized by a clearly activist subjectivity and aesthetic. These works, no longer satisfied with passive observation or affectionate portrayals of victimized individuals, adopt an active interventionism and an investigative attitude by the filmmakers, who seek the hidden reality beneath the visible surface."

The implementation of the so-called "Great Firewall" as a definitive censorship tool has posed a huge obstacle for the dissemination of independently made films. The blocking of social networks, applications, search engines, video platforms, media, and streaming services makes China one of the most censorship-heavy places on the planet.

Films in Competition and Retrospectives

Among the films competing at the 5th Instar Festival, contemporary Chinese independent cinema will be represented by the documentaries An Asian Ghost Story (37 min, Hong Kong, Netherlands) directed by Bo Wang in 2023, and Republic (107 min, China, Singapore) by director Jin Jiang, also copyrighted from last year.

The competition list includes a total of 15 films, mostly documentaries, featuring contributions from 21 countries.

In addition to the retrospective of Contemporary Independent Chinese Cinema, which we have reviewed for the venue in Munich, the exhibition "Panorama of Cuban Cinema" will showcase 17 works of independent production from the island and its diaspora.

The Chinese Representation: A Final Note

When analyzing Republic and An Asian Ghost Story, the first thing that stands out is how different both films are, despite sharing a genre.

As often happens in the documentary world, narratives need to express themselves through certain tropologies. In the case of An Asian Ghost Story, we lean more towards the tropology of fiction. Although the underlying message is far less activist than that of Republic, it is a more carefully crafted work; it doesn’t present itself to the octagon to fight unarmed; the glow of a powerful exoskeleton is noticeable beneath the surface. Conceptually, the film functions well in any competition.

An Asian Ghost Story is a documentary, but it is also a mockumentary. Bo Wang uses the memories of a ghost to construct a timeless story about Asia's economic growth in the late 20th century through the export of wigs during the Cold War. Beyond the synopsis, what stands out is that the film is sustained by everything we would like to find in any kind of cinema. The tranquility conveyed by the narrative leads the viewer to share a type of reception reminiscent of the insolence of fake news, but with such singular meticulousness that it serves as the debut of a director we don’t want time to tarnish. The film’s balance is so unusual that you never feel the lack of footage. It’s not one of those shorts that feel like shorts or those medium-length films that feel like medium-length films.

Bo Wang is capable of narrating a story using cultural fantasy imagery to resonate with different historical moments in communist China, Europe, and the United States, positioned from the peculiar liminality of Hong Kong as a gateway between East and West. It is true that by employing irony and humor to bolster his message, the approach might seem intellectualized. However, this feeling does not stem from the artist needing protection but from a clear conclusion of his creative aspirations.

An Asian Ghost Story exudes cinema despite the minimal presence of staging and the visual strength of the filmed scenes. This is why the balance between urban landscapes and the archival material used in the film is so significant. The narrator’s voice unfolds as it takes on the role of the protagonist, approaching the rest of the anecdote from such a personal perspective that it borders on the lyrical. The selection and scope of the apocryphal characters—the scientist, the hilarious sequence of the television interview—give the film a "cinema-literary" taste that intermingles with the temporal play woven by the ghost of the wigs. Perhaps here lies a well-understood gain from the director's experience as a contemporary artist in relating the meanings of each narrative block from a conceptual standpoint.

If Republic differs from An Asian Ghost Story, it does so primarily through the absence of playfulness. There is no tropology here; the structure is raw, there is no exoskeleton; the film is more dissident. Its director, Jin Jiang, frees the camera within the tiny apartment of Eryang, the protagonist, allowing the story to build upon a constant sanctification of idealism. With no small amount of unease, we witness a sort of teenage Big Brother, where the immaturity and naivety inherent to youth debate and consume themselves in a philosophy of inaction that, at times, seems difficult to defend.

That the intellectual concerns of the characters transmit an ambiguous snobbish aroma is not because we are in the presence of artists—or what is more common at these ages, projects by artists—but because the environment is steeped in an utterly Western aesthetic. Globalization suffers from an artistic refinement expressed through an endless playlist that ranges from Bill Evans' jazz to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, or Bob Dylan. This condition allows the discourse to dwell on cultural and political clichés, even questioning complex issues such as the freedoms highlighted by the Constitution, Mao's ideology, the latest film by Kim Ki-duk, or Trump's noisy convictions.

What is relevant is that this suffocating hole in which the characters have managed to find oxygen—and which the protagonist has dubbed the Republic—cannot be explained solely by the alienation caused by existential crises of capitalism. Let’s not forget we are in China. The most legendary oppression stems from socialism. Here, capitalism is not a social system, even though the country employs a market economy.

The Republic as an existential hideout is justified as the only way out for a group of kids who gather to drink and do drugs but also to speak ill of the Government, critique, philosophize, and feel free.

The film ultimately conveys a decadent pessimism because on the other side of the door lies reality. Perhaps common sense and maturity are there too, but above all, there is reality. Jin Jiang's message, however, resides in that intermediate zone because the young people inhabiting the Republic are not fictional. Perhaps that is why the camera never leaves the house. It doesn’t want to know anything about what is outside.

The reinforced idea strictly relates to the concept of freedom. It doesn’t matter that on an anecdotal level it isn’t complicated to construct an ending for Eryang and his friends. Remaining in that intermediate zone will inevitably bring a bitter aftertaste, even if they choose to save themselves through culture. What we should never do, under any circumstances, is blame them for trying to feel free.

[1] It was screened at the Hong Kong Film Festival in 1991, from where it went on to the Cinéma du Réel in France and the Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival in Japan, among others.

[2] The film One Second, included in the official competition of the 2019 Berlinale, was withdrawn by its producers due to "technical problems" in the film's post-production phase.