A scene from Antonioni's sprawling epic Chung Kuo China (1972)...
Between the shooting of Zabriskie Point (1970) and The Passenger (1975), Italian auteur Michelangelo Antonioni was invited by China's Maoist government to film an ethnographic documentary (read: propaganda) celebrating the great Chung Kuo (Middle Empire), the result of which was this controversial three-part epic. The film was rejected by the Chinese government upon completion, branded anti-communist by Chairman Mao, who succeeded in banning it from exhibition. Only in 2004 was Chung Kuo China first screened in Beijing, and it now arrives on UK shores courtesy of Mr Bongo, specialists in world cinema (last year they distributed Martin Scorsese's epic My Voyage To Italy, 1999). Naturally I met news of this release with excitment, but the film - even discounting Antonioni's strictly enforced shooting itinerary, government-imposed - is an incredible disappointment, spanning 220-minutes with what amounts to little more than a collection of holiday snaps...
Admittedly, Antonioni does prefigure this journey with a statement freeing himself of any educational responsibility, admitting that the film was not conceived with the intention of informing, but rather observing. "We're not pretending to understand China", he says, suggesting that the film's ultimate goal is to present "a large collection of faces, gestures and customs." This being the case, what one might hope to find in Chung Kuo China is a portrait of life across the country's various regions; a depiction of their classes, politics, religions and families. Through the Venice-like canals of Suzhou, past the Nanjing bridge and right up to the bustling city of Shanghai, Antonioni leaves no stone unturned, but the smallest of artistic decisions makes this expedition more of a chore than I'd ever have considered possible. So many scenes depend on language - children singing songs for Chairman Mao, the meeting in a Beijing park to discuss art, and a conference, this time in a small agricultural village, to consider the upcoming harvest season - but Antonioni decides not to subtitle their conversations, instead relying on his own dry narration to illustrate each sequence. Could this be to locate us in the director's own foreign shoes? Or perhaps it's another condition of Mao's regime? Either way the audience can only infer so much from gesture, and the feeling of alienation which arises from each scene becomes incredibly wearing over the course of three hours.
Antonioni's subjects are also frequently perplexing, particularly the extended sequence of a young woman undergoing a Caesarean section. The purpose of the scene is to acknowledge Chinese methods of anesthesia (acupuncture), but it runs into such explicit - and unnecessary - detail that I began to ache for a stricter editorial hand, or at least a more focused one. The film really comes alive when exploring the nooks and crannies of each city, such as a beautiful antique trading store in Beijing, or the wonderful performance at a local puppet theatre. It'd also be unfair to deny the sheer power of some of Antonioni's compositions (especially around the Great Wall), and his attention to detail ensures that each location feels well mined by the time we relocate. Chung Kuo is essentially a mosaic, cut to the same dreamlike rhythm of the director's fictional work (notably 1964's The Red Desert), but too often I found myself wishing for something more organized; less sprawling and more adhesive. Observing the culture is inherently interesting, but if we never learn anything about it, how useful can this observation possibly be?
The film might be best watched on a double-bill with Zhang Ke Jia's The World (2004), another ethnographic docu (sort of) about China's The World Theme Park, which showcases miniature reconstructions of global landmarks; The Notre Dame, The Leaning Tower Of Pisa and The Twin Towers ("we still have ours") among them. It's a fascinating little film, mocking of China's aspiration toward Western ideals and technologies, but also of The World itself, which is the country's most profoundly sad modernization. It's designed as a tourist locale, arranged to inspire an interest in culture, but its very existence draws sightseers away from the real China, which becomes increasingly stripped of its own identity year by year. Both films are highly relevant time capsules, but in Chung Kuo China Antonioni is straightjacketed by his hosts. Even so, we can glimpse traces of the world which would provide Ke Jia with his subject 32 years later. Much has changed, but it appears that China is still caught between traditions old and new, wrestling with its own self-image and fighting to build a future it hasn't yet settled on...
The Disc/Extras
Unfortunately the film appears to have suffered irrevocable print damage, exhibiting serious grain and infrequent flickering issues. Antonioni's compositions can be quite striking, but they're dogged by this poor transfer, which I don't doubt Mr Bongo has fought hard to rectify - the damage here has built over year's of negligence. The sound mix, however, is crisp and clear. Perhaps most baffling is the complete lack of extras. There's a fascinating story behind the making of Chung Kuo China, and yet nothing here - no talking heads, no booklet - to shed any light on the rich history of what was once considered a lost masterpiece. The film isn't up to that standard in my opinion, but in any case this release can't shake the feeling of being a bit of a missed opportunity.
Chung Kuo China is released on DVD on March 5th...
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