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Discuss the ways in which the Second Sino-Japanese war has been represented in two
different periods of modern China. Illustrate your answer with reference to at least two
films.

The Sino-Japanese War of 1937 1945 was a traumatic period in Chinese history, during
which China was subject to intense aggression from Japan. Chinese filmic narratives of the
war differ depending on the period in which they were created. War films of the Maoist
period created and propagated one monolithic acceptable history of the war, which was used
to further political agendas; since the beginning of the reform period in the late 1970s,
however, Chinese filmmakers have begun to explore alternative interpretations of this
important period of history. In particular, portrayals of Japanese and Chinese characters, and
depictions of violence and suffering, differ between these two periods.
During the Seventeen Years between the establishment of the Peoples Republic and the
beginning of the Cultural Revolution (1949 1966), films about the Sino-Japanese war were
encouraged by the state in keeping with Mao Zedongs pronouncement in his Yanan Talks
that art should serve politics; indeed, the topic of the war itself served the political interests
of the CCP as a source of national pride and Communist Party heroics (Ward 2008, p. 131),
used to foster mass enthusiasm for the new task of nation-building and bolster the legitimacy
of the Party. This meant that there could only be one permitted interpretation of the history of
the war: one that emphasised the heroism and victory of the masses and the CCP over the
Japanese enemy and the Guomindang collaborator. Heroes and villains in these films,
therefore, were delineated in a black-and-white fashion, often with more than a little
exaggeration. Acceptable subject matter for these films included biographies of famous
Communist martyrs, as in 1950s Zhao Yiman () and 1958s Five Heroes of Langya
Mountain (Langya shan wu zhuangshi ), or small successful military
campaigns, such as 1962s Landmine Warfare (Dilei zhan ) and 1954s The Urgent
Letter (Jimao xin ), which was made specifically for children (Zhang 2003, p. 183).
Japanese soldiers, as villains, were depicted in an unfailingly unsympathetic light. Portrayal
of the Japanese soldier in war films of the Maoist period relied heavily on stereotype and
caricature, both in order to mark the enemy out clearly, and to belittle the Japanese, so that
rather than a figure of fear, the Japanese soldier became the object of mockery. The visual
cues used were often ridiculous and highly unflattering: they were depicted as
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moustachioed, with big round glasses and a piggy face (Ward 2008, p. 135). In some
cases this was exaggerated further with the use of facial prostheses. In The Urgent Letter, for
example, one of the Japanese soldiers is portrayed by a Chinese actor sporting prosthetic
buck-teeth, which gives him an absurd appearance (The Urgent Letter, 1954). Such
representations are taken further in Zhao Yiman, in which the use of dental prostheses and
thick glasses on Chinese actors playing Japanese soldiers is even more pronounced (Zhao
Yiman, 1950). In addition, the Japanese were shown to be bumbling and incompetent, often
shouting loudly, mangling the Chinese language and easily falling victim to the strategies of
the Chinese. The Japanese army contingent in The Urgent Letter is comprised of individuals
unintelligent enough to be repeatedly outwitted by a twelve-year-old. In Five Heroes, the
incompetence of the Japanese soldiers is underscored by a scene in which they get lost in the
mountains in the dark (Five Heroes of Langya Mountain, 1958), while in Landmine Warfare,
the Japanese officer, having fallen afoul of Chinese ingenuity several times, is mocked in a
scene where he begins hallucinating, having gone completely mad (Landmine Warfare, 1962).
Chinese characters in these films conformed to various different archetypes. Civilian
character types included brave peasants and enthusiastic youngsters eager to do their part for
the war effort (Ward 2007, n.p.). These characters, though lacking in formal military training,
are often shown to be clever and resourceful, as well as unfailingly optimistic in the face of
Japanese aggression. The villagers of Landmine Warfare, for example, are constantly one
step ahead of the Japanese invaders, as all of them contribute what they can to the guerrilla
resistance effort, continually developing newer and cleverer types of landmines. Even when
some of their number are taken hostage by the Japanese, they refuse to back down and remain
undaunted. Similarly, the twelve-year-old Haiwa in The Urgent Letter is held up as a role
model for children, possessing the qualities of fearlessness, persistence and resourcefulness in
dangerous situations. The benevolent and wise Communist Party member and the soldier of
the Eighth Route Army were also particularly important character types, as they were needed
for the CCP government to style itself as the guiding force that led the Chinese masses to a
bright future (Ward 2011, p. 89). The titular character in Zhao Yiman is an example of such a
Party member: not only does she lead the proletarian militiamen in their resistance efforts
against the Japanese, she is also seen interacting closely and amicably with rural peasants in
scenes of happy and harmonious everyday village life. The young Eighth Route Army
soldiers of Five Heroes possess a high level of political consciousness (Ward 2007, n.p.).
They are full of praises for Communist Party Chairman Mao Zedong, and fantasize about
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seeing him when the war is over. These Chinese characters in Sino-Japanese War movies
seem never to feel fear, and never to lose hope.
Another common archetype found in Maoist-period war films was that of the Chinese traitor.
These were usually members of the Guomindang and were portrayed as cowardly, morally
bankrupt and all too willing to collaborate with the Japanese against the interests of the
Chinese people (Ward 2008, p. 135). Furthermore, this was the only role Guomindang
soldiers were permitted to play in this genre; they are never offered a chance at redemption.
This was an important part of the accepted narrative of the Sino-Japanese War in film: by
including cowardly Guomindang collaborators as secondary villains, the CCP could foster
popular antipathy towards the Nationalists and claim primary responsibility for the victory
over Japan, thereby securing its own legitimacy. Landmine Warfare shows a Guomindang
minesweeper assisting the Japanese army in finding the landmines planted by the villagers
and Eighth Route soldiers, while Guomindang soldiers are seen among the ranks of the
Japanese in The Urgent Letter. The Communist hagiographies Five Heroes and Zhao Yiman
are even more outright in their condemnation of the Guomindang collaborators. In Five
Heroes, one of the soldiers states that the Guomindang are such bloody capitulators (Five
Heroes, 1958), and indeed there are several scenes in which a Guomindang soldier is seen
attempting, unsuccessfully and to comedic effect, to ingratiate himself with the Japanese
commanding officer. In Zhao Yiman, the titular heroine openly proclaims that the
Guomindang leader Chiang Kai-Shek has actually sent troops to the northeastern countryside
in order to block the Communist guerrillas anti-Japanese resistance efforts.
In spite of the subject matter of Maoist-era war films, violence, death and physical suffering
are generally not focused on in great detail, and tragedy and trauma are downplayed so as not
to affect the overall optimistic mood of such films. Instead, the euphoric joy of victory is
given precedence (Riep 2008, p. 135). When Chinese deaths are shown, it is evident that
those dead are martyrs and not victims; violence done upon them only serves to highlight
their heroism. This way of depicting violence and death served political interests: instead of
focusing on the tragedy of individual suffering and death, these films prioritise the
aggregated and averaged deaths of large numbers of anonymous people who die swift,
heroic deaths and are therefore martyrs upon whose sacrifice the nation has been built (Riep
2008, p. 135 136). In Landmine Warfare there is a scene in which a village is sacked and
some villagers killed. These deaths receive extremely little screen time and are imbued with
no significance individually; instead, the deaths are significant in the aggregate. Similar
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scenes in Five Heroes show the sacking of a village and later the dying moments of a young
woman, which are meant to be not tragic moments, but inspiration for a renewed assault on
the enemy. Violence in The Urgent Letter, with its target audience of young children, is very
minimal, with the hero Haiwa sustaining only a minor injury to his hand, a heroic battle scar.
A notable exception is Zhao Yiman. After the villages are attacked and burned there is a shot
of severed Chinese heads dangling from the branches of a tree. True to its historical subject
matter, the film also includes scenes of the famous martyr Zhao Yiman being tortured and
beaten while being held captive by the Japanese. The torture, however, takes place while the
camera is focused on the shadows on the wall. The final shot of the film is Zhao bravely and
defiantly marching towards the site where she will be executed, whereupon the image fades
to black. It is this image, then, of the fearless hero facing death that remains with the audience.
In speaking about the genre of the historical film, Rosenstone states that filmmakers in recent
years have begun to use cinema to explore social and political topics in a way that present[s]
the possibility of more than one interpretation of events rather than keeping to self-
enclosed, neat, linear stories (Rosenstone 1988, p. 1182). Since the death of Mao Zedong
and the beginning of the reform period in the late 1970s, Chinese historical cinema has
moved in a similar direction. These more recent representations of the Sino-Japanese War are
more varied, and tend to view the war not in terms of heroism, but on a smaller and more
individual human scale (Riep 2008, p. 130). By and large, these films do not have a serious
political agenda; rather, they question the established narratives of the war. Some of these
films, such as Zhang Yimous Red Sorghum (Hong gaoliang , 1987) and Flowers of
War (Jinling shisan chai , 2011), and Jiang Wens Devils on the Doorstep (Guizi
lai le , 2000), focus on personal stories with the war as a backdrop. Lu Chuans City
of Life and Death (Nanjing! Nanjing! ! !, 2009) is different, being a documentary-
like depiction of the events of the Nanjing Massacre.

A major way in which these more recent films differ from their Maoist predecessors is in
their treatment of the Japanese aggressor. In Red Sorghum, for example, they are almost
ignored: their role is diminished and secondary to the romance plot (Red Sorghum, 1987).
The audience is not given the opportunity to interact with the Japanese soldiers as characters;
instead, they are a faceless force of barbarity and cruelty. In other films, they are afforded
varying degrees of humanity, reflecting the search for possible alternative interpretations.
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Flowers of War depicts the Japanese rank-and-file as frightening, with war paint and barking
voices. The officer Hasegawa, however, is an educated and cultured man, who shows a
slightly softer side: he plays a song of homesickness on the church organ, which causes the
other Japanese soldiers to join in the singing (Flowers of War, 2011). City of Life and Death
takes this further, offering the audience a glimpse into the Japanese conscience through the
character of Kadokawa (City of Life and Death, 2009). He is often seen to experience
reluctance, regret and disgust at the things he witnesses and is forced to participate in, with
the result that, overcome with pain and remorse, he shoots himself in the head at the end of
the film, representing the way in which war destroys the aggressor as well as the victim.
Perhaps the most interesting treatment of Japanese characters is seen in Devils on the
Doorstep, in which director Jiang Wen, inspired by the war films of the Maoist past, plays
with and deconstructs their old clichs and racial stereotypes to humorous effect (Silbergeld
2008, p. 95). The character Hanaya, for example, is depicted familiarly as a moustachioed
and slightly wild-looking man given to screaming loudly, and constantly looking for a way to
commit suicide. Eventually, however, he begins to feel gratitude toward the Chinese couple
who take care of him, and he is shown to be a good person at heart (Devils on the Doorstep,
2000). Other Japanese soldiers are shown acting aggressively toward Chinese peasants in
accordance with their training, and moments later breaking character and doing something
silly, like chasing a chicken. A major topic explored in this film is the similarities between
the Chinese and Japanese as opposed to their differences (Silbergeld 2008, p. 92). Ultimately,
however, the Japanese are, at this point in history, still the aggressors and capable of acting
with great cruelty.
In these films, Chinese military presence is much weaker than in the Maoist war films. The
Chinese army is completely absent from Red Sorghum, while a short-lived Chinese sniper
and a young wounded soldier have small parts in Flowers of War; in City of Life and Death, a
brief Chinese military resistance is shown, but the soldiers decide to disperse, knowing that
there is no hope left; and in Devils the Nationalist army is only seen at the end having
regained control over the area after Japans surrender. These films make no mention of the
Communist-Nationalist dichotomy at all. In Red Sorghum and Devils, this is due to the
directors intentions of foregrounding personal dramas rather than the events and politics of
the war itself. City of Life and Death and Flowers of War also have an additional reason: as
Nanjing was the Guomindang capital, there were no Communist heroes there (Ian Buruma,
quoted in Riep 2008, p. 139).
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The focus in these films has therefore shifted to the civilian. Depictions of the Chinese
peoples experience of the war have changed to allow the Chinese to shed the burden of
unfailing heroism and be seen in the stance of victimhood; they are now allowed to
experience fear. Rather than heroes, Chinese civilians are now struggling to make sense of a
situation that is beyond their control (Ward 2004, p. 115). In Red Sorghum, the peasant
characters live in a romanticized state of harmony and freedom until the sudden arrival of the
Japanese brings tragedy to the forefront of their consciousness. Fear of victimization is strong
in Flowers of War, which features a large group of defenceless Catholic schoolgirls hiding in
a church, and in City of Life and Death, in which the citizens of Nanjing witness atrocity and
are in constant fear for their lives. The peasants in Devils are radically different from those of
films like Landmine Warfare: while not exposed to constant physical aggression from the
Japanese, they live in a state of perpetual nervousness as they pragmatically try to ensure
their own survival.
Chinese collaborators are depicted in these four films, but with differing degrees of sympathy
and nuance. In the case of Devils it is concern for individual well-being that leads the
translator Dong Hanfeng to collaborate with the Japanese; Ma Dasan, who takes care of the
two prisoners out of genuine goodwill, can also be considered a collaborator in the strictest
sense, which is how the film explores the idea of what it means to be a collaborator. The
butcher in Red Sorghum has similar motives of self-preservation. Flowers of Wars
collaborator character, Mr. Meng, is motivated by desire to protect his family, as is City of
Life and Deaths Mr. Tang. In the end, though, all these characters are killed the butcher,
Mr. Tang and Mr. Meng by the Japanese, and Ma Dasan and Dong Hanfeng by the Chinese
military.
Perhaps the most striking feature of these newer films is their graphic depiction of wartime
violence. It is used to significant emotional effect, as individual suffering and tragedy are
focused on, and the scenes of violence are divorced from any pretentions to heroism, creating
a deep sense of futility. The final scene of Red Sorghum is a prime example of this. After the
war has suddenly and disturbingly intruded upon the love story, Grandpa Yu and the other
distillery workers attack the Japanese convoy, but in a final Pyrrhic victory, everyone but
Grandpa Yu and his son has died. The scenery turns red, and Grandpa Yu stands silently and
helplessly as though slowly internalizing the horror of the scene before him. Also included is
a distressing scene in which the village butchers assistant is forced by the Japanese to skin a
man alive; upon doing so, the young man goes insane, and is shown sitting in the grass,
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covered in blood and laughing to himself. Devils takes a thought-provoking approach to
wartime violence, as the film depicts not only Japanese aggression toward the Chinese, but
Chinese aggression toward the Japanese, as well as Japanese-on-Japanese and Chinese-on-
Chinese violence. This emphasis on equality of capacity for violence is part of the directors
intention to show the ways in which war changes human beings into devils (Silbergeld 2008,
p. 127).
Also notable about films of the new period is that the Nanjing Massacre, the extremely
traumatic experience previously ignored by Maoist-era films as a period of weakness devoid
of Communist heroes, finally became part of the filmic discourse of the war. City of Life and
Death portrayed extremely shocking scenes of Japanese atrocities, such as live burial, child
murder and rape camps. The film focuses by turns on several different people who all suffer
in different ways, emphasizing the tragedy of individual suffering while simultaneously
reinforcing the shared nature of the traumatic experience. Flowers of War, which came after
City of Life and Death, prioritises its escape plot and its love story over the war itself,
reflecting the directors intention to show that love and humanity continue to exist in the
midst of war (The Journey to the Screen, n.p.). To set up this contrast, the films depictions
of graphic violence are minimal, but meaningful and jarring, such as the scene of a Japanese
officer playing the organ next to the bleeding corpse of a schoolgirl, and the brutal rape of a
woman who is later bayonetted.
It is clear that different political climates in different periods of Chinas history can lead to
different representations of the same event. While filmmakers of the Seventeen Years kept to
the state-sanctioned narrative of the Sino-Japanese war, the films released since the beginning
of the reform period are moving in the direction of a more critical approach to this established
narrative, and a more nuanced interpretation and depiction of the various aspects of the war,
coming closer to capturing a fuller breadth of human experience.



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