Back to Back with Faces of Guilt: Springtime in a Small Town

As a warm up for the Tian Zhuangzhuang retrospective, I watched his remake of Fei Mu's highly regarded classic of the same title, Spring Time in a Small Town [小城之春] (2002). Though it was my first viewing, I had known about the lofty reputation of the original which precedes it. Fei Mu's adaptation (Spring in A Small Town, 1948) of Li Tianji's novel being so widely acclaimed by Chinese critics and scholars alike, it topped the 100 best list of Chinese films as polled in Hong Kong a few years back.

What struck me about Tian's brilliantly restrained version is its visual economy. Like other minimalists, the depth and sheer intensity of the emotional scenarios are conveyed through channels other than dialogue. For Robert Bresson it was often the eyeline geometries, for Tsai Ming-Liang it is the ruthless gaze on the banality of a human actions. In Springtime in a Small Town, Tian directs his cast, and us, at a body language of guilt and confession.

To simplify an already simple plot. Liyan (Wu Jun) is a good but ill Chinese husband, married to Yuwen (Hu Jingfan) a bored (routine of cooking, grocery shopping and embroidery) and very frustrated (seperate room to husband for three years) housewife. The arrival of an old friend Zhang Zhichen (Xin Baiquing) within their domestic space unintentionally ratchets up the unspoken tensions. Zhang, an old pal of Liyan was also an old flame to Yuwen.

Each character spends lengthy periods, of already long takes, with their backs turned away from each other. As if terrified of revealing their true feelings, towards each other by simply exchanging eye contact. This awkward visual arrangement goes far in charging the economy of silences, pauses and the slightest of body movements. Right from the start at Zhang's arrival, Tian introduces this device.

As Zhang climbs over a broken wall among a dilapidated house (metaphorical of Liyan and Yuwen's marriage), he peers round at the back of Liyan. Immediately offering a great sense of awareness imbalance between characters.

This ploy continues inside the house.

Yuwen is the most persistent with this awkward arrangement throughout the course of the film. Precisely as she is the one, as a good Confucian wife, needing to be the most cautious about her feelings. Yuwen even delivers a substantial amount of dialogue with her back turned towards her target. An awkwardness that shifts in varying degrees of strength from the amount of backs or faces we can or cannot see.

We are complicit with her when she reveals a subtle wryness to camera, but back toward her conversant. Two faces.

When her emotions become increasingly candid and vulnerable, she seems turn her back to us as well. Two backs, to her conversant and us as spectator. In the following scene, Yuwen is veritably chased (albeit in slow-mo) by Zhang around the central axis of the frame. All the time, with her back to Zhang, even when she eventually relents and breaks down to weep.







Towards the end of the film, Liyan's younger sister confronts Yuwen point blank (face to face) with the very unspeakable. How does Yuwen respond?



Silently, but explicitly.