According to Wang Guixiang, “Sometime back, my husband injured a mahjong gambler, and ever since then, his family has been after me, demanding for cash compensation when we attended a family function”. She further stated that “it was bad enough that the family started blackmailing me, once I was done babysitting my kid, the local police had already arrested her parents for unpaid rent and took my stock of pirated DVDs, and as if it wasn’t bad enough, I was losing my divorce case too. And after losing the case, I was now legally allowed to move to Beijing and would not have to deal with the infamous hukou. But that lead to the authorities inviting me to leave Guizhou. The authorities invited me to leave by sending me phone texts and gently hinting me to leave. The authorities wished to invite me back in the future and made leaving out to be a favor to me. After moving back, I ran into my ex who wanted to hire me as a professional mourner.
Although “Cry Woman” was produced two decades ago, it is ever so relevant today. Liu Bingjian has brilliantly encapsulated the essence of the Chinese economic boom’s era although it culminates in a rather bitter realization when looking two decades into the future: rural workers have the same lifestyle apart from having smarter phone devices and more home equipment. However, there is no sign of a renaissance for neo-Sino-realism, there’s no ‘Bicycle Pedlar’ nearby: discharged children will not be used to arouse compassion with no altruistic friend figure in sight to provoke sympathy. Not even a pinch of Ken Loach ‘s kindness is visible behind the camera. Wang Guixiang, just like millions of Chinese women at that time, is not in a position to indulge in self pity, much less will she cry for any emotional rain.
At the start, one figures out that the one who steals the show is Liao Qin. It is said that she is an opera singer, but her barely known singer manages to combine that of every woman of that time and a very special woman who exists beyond the standard techniques of sympathy or identification. Nor is her role about being sympathetic or being sexy. It is a role in the tradition of Chinese cinema’s women’s portraits alongside Ruan Lingyu’s ‘The Goddess’ (1935), Ai Liya’s ‘Ermo’ (1994) and Gong Li’s ‘The story of Qiu Jiu’ (1992).
Even as the Social context of my work was realistic, I did not compromise with the cinematography. The filming (use of wide-angle lenses, few close-ups, availability of natural light) does seem to be aiming at Jia Zhangke‘s early works, though this time there is a commendable sprinkling of black humour too (this hilarious coitus interruptus when the local TV news interrupts their coverage with announcement of recent death that may mean a prospective new customer!). There is a moderate pace, complementing the tempo of the rural life cycle, which has been rescuing the audience from pensive long takes or emotional bits they would have anticipated. All this is done in a timely manner and in keeping with the purposes of this naturalist but highly radical in nature portrait, which is the most striking achievement when the resources available for the shooting of this picture were so minimal: it must be remembered that any attempt at reality be it photos, songs, art installations, in China goes against the magic thinking which will be vehemently opposed by the industry especially the authorities This already was the destiny of “Men and women” Liu Bingjian’s previous movie where he was depicting homosexuality as just an affectionate relationship.
On the whole, this little known piece of the even less known Chinese underground cinema is definitely a detour worth taking. After all, Wang Guixiang is not only weeping for funds, but for all those hardworking women who created China today. Therefore let’s join Mrs. Wang in lamenting!
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