It is difficult to apply a purely critical perspective to Beijing Bastards, a film that stands as a landmark of independent Chinese cinema. Good or bad – such judgments feel irrelevant for works that can be categorized as Generational Cinema. The few years past since 1993 feel like centuries for China, and the film remains a raw reflection of the post-Tiananmen era, at least of the No-Future youth that persisted. In itself, it is simply one of the early attempts at independent Chinese cinema by a member of the now-famous Sixth Generation of the Beijing Film Academy, but its significance goes beyond that.
Follow our Tribute to Chinese Mainland Cinema by clicking the image below
When it comes to the plot – but does the plot really have any importance as the movie is mainly a vehicle for Cui Jian‘s music, the legend of Beijing’s rock scene – we wander with a group of aimless and defiant young people in the embryo of the local underground rock scene. The main character, Karzi, portrayed by Li Wei, is a young nihilistic bar tender and occasional event promoter in a double search: a search for his pregnant girlfriend, Maomao, who disappears after a quarrel regarding a possible abortion and at the same time a search to secure a venue for Cui Jian’s band performances, with all the bureaucratic or financial roadblocks we can imagine. Both desperate.
The film incorporates multiple live performances by the iconic Cui Jian, who plays a fictionalized version of himself. These performances are scattered throughout the film, mirroring the rebellious spirit of Beijing’s youth at the time. Unfortunately, they often feel like mere interludes rather than a true narrative device, as one might see in musicals or differently in the choral tradition of ancient Greek theater. Moreover, they gradually take over the narrative itself. However, the songs undeniably highlight the mindset of this disillusioned generation. Cui Jian’s lyrics are central in conveying the helplessness of this group of young artists caught in a cycle of jamming, drinking, having sex and fighting, repeating it all with no ideals in sight. But they also subtly give substance to the cold indifference of the central character. Should we interpret the final sequence and the alleged birth of Karzi’s son as his redemption? That’s for you to judge.
Regarding the form, it intentionally adopts a punk aesthetic – so don’t expect Ozu’s compositions here. It is raw, subversive, without the sharp cinematography of Hu Bo’s “An Elephant Sitting Still” (2018), his obvious offspring as generational landmark. The selection of shooting locations – gloomy dive bars, lowly hutongs – and the mostly nightly shots are surely deliberated. If not simply due to the lack of formal filming permits, it more likely reflects an intention to expose the back alleys of the early stage of Beijing’s violent modernization.
This pursuit of a true form would, in fact, will be further explored in Zhang Yuan‘s next feature, the rare but notable documentary “Guangchang” (1994, aka “The Square”), a black-and-white essay capturing a day in the life of Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, five years after the 1989 protests .These two films marked the end of the first semi-documental phase of his career, just a few months before he was swept up in a first roundup of blacklisted banned filmmakers of the 6th Gen, along with Wang Xiaoshuai or Tian Zhuangzhuang (technically from the 5th for what it’s worth). Two years of banishment that will lead to his most famous work, “East Palace West Palace” but that is another story for you to read next in Asia Movie Pulse.
Ultimately, while not as cinematically accomplished as Kirill Serebrennikov’s “Leto” (2018), which naturally comes to mind as its exact Russian counterpart, its spirit remains untamed and must be approached like a forgotten punk vinyl from the era: undoubtedly scratched and worn, yet still crackling with the same energy of despair decades later.
