Among the scenic Longjing tea plantations, just a few paddles across Xi Lake from the renowned city of Hangzhou, live Mulian and his mother Taihua, apparently in harmony. Taihua is a hard-working single mother tea plucker after her husband – likely homosexual – abandoned them. She is in a relationship with the owner-manager of the estate where she is employed. Her son Mulian, an innocent young adult closely connected to nature, is now old enough to begin seeking employment. All would have been well, if not for Mulian’s obsession with relocating to the city in search of his missing father, who is rumored to have joined a monastery there.
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After Taihua’s relationship is brutally exposed, sparking a scandal in the village involving her potential mother-in-law, she decides to support her son’s wish: along with a younger fellow co-worker, they move to the city, hoping to find their fortune. And fortune, indeed, is found! Mulian quickly finds himself working for an elderly care service company, or more simply, a business crudely exploiting abandoned seniors. Meanwhile, his mother gets caught up in a direct sales organization called Butterfly International, which outwardly trades herbal foot patches. Her involvement comes through the brother of her friend, who seems to have benefited greatly from it, promising a Grail of a 10.8 million yuan as ultimate bonus! Showing all the signs of a Ponzi pyramid-scheme – with the necessary empowering glittering events and brainwashing ceremonies of allegiance – things take a critical turn when Taihua eventually uses the money from the family house sale to invest in an inventory.
Let’s cut it short: the movie is a miss. Referring to the iconic Chinese Buddhist tale “Mulian Rescues His Mother” (from hell) – you get the general idea of the plot from there – “Dwelling by the West Lake“ was designed as the second instalment of the ShanShui (“Mountains and Water”) trilogy, succeeding the acclaimed “Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains” (2019). In contrast to his first effort, the film feels generally unbalanced and indecisive, with a somewhat repetitive and insistent edit. The rural scenes are painfully naive, while the urban parts fail to contrast. As Taihua, Jiang Qinqin‘s hysteria often edges into parody, while the young Wu Lei portraying Mulian struggles to foster any sincere empathy. The director’s apparently absence of choices in the form, as well as in the direction to take – perhaps in an attempt to smoothly transition from the poetic tone of his previous films to something more impactful – leave us somehow doubtful. Moreover, the obvious lack of guidance of the two lead actors, just like being left to drift on their own, raises questions. So, is there anything to salvage from this shipwreck? Obviously yes!
If you really give it some thought, you’ll realize that, in a handful of standout shots, many “broken” movies tend to stick in your memory whereas numerous solid, well-executed features are quickly forgotten. Similarly, the recent Mohammad Rasoulof’s “Seed of the Sacred Fig” (2024) comes to mind, where any critique falls short against the powerful subject and a pair of remarkable scenes that defy stricto sensu reviews. To illustrate my point, you needn’t wait longer than the opening credits to witness one of the most brilliant tracking shots, with a virtuoso camera travelling from the tranquil illuminated tea plantations to the awaking Hangzhou, literally echoing traditional Chinese painting. A true display of cinematic mastery. Moreover, although repetitive, the glittering events staged by the promoters showcase undeniable talent, vividly recreating with a genuine authenticity how easily individuals can be lured into such a scheme. The frantic but fluid camera movements augmenting the shows, coupled with the actors’ immersive performances, make most of these scenes truly hypnotic.
Besides, while I’ve been quite critical of the lead performances, I can’t overlook the remarkable work of the supporting actors (Chen Jianbin, Bi Wu), and particularly Wang Jiajia‘s exceptional portrayal of an ambitious and highly committed promoter. She navigates the role with strength and energy but also a certain sensitivity, underscoring the crucial role that mid-level pawns play in pyramid schemes where belief often outweighs simple manipulation or greed. She could have probably been a more interesting central character: sometimes executioners can be more cinematographic than victims.
Taking things further, if there is no direct critique of the authorities or any political considerations here, the director, whether intentional or not, offers a subversive commentary on modern China, questioning if people aren’t simply trapped in a massive pyramid scheme, naively supported by sincere yet brainwashed individuals. In a rapidly aging China, where material success is the sole aspiration, the director seems to ask: Isn’t this just a never-ending sprint to nowhere? This burning questioning of a new generation of directors and screenwriters becomes a recurring motif in contemporary Chinese cinema, as seen in “Return to Dust” (2022, Li Ruijun) and “To Kill a Mongolian Horse” (2024, Jiang Xiaoxuan), each in its own context.
So yes, it’s a miss, but Gu Xiaogang‘s potential remains untouched. The corrosive message he conveys on an unaddressed and relevant subject should resonate deeply with Chinese audiences. The film would have benefited from a sharper, more concise edit to have a stronger impact; especially with such actors ready to give their all, heart and soul. For the time being, I await the third instalment of his promised trilogy with even greater curiosity.
