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University of Edinburgh
Graduate School of Literatures, Languages & Cultures

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Representing Male Homosexuality in Mainland Chinese Film
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Examination Number: B037151
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Programme Name: MSc in Chinese Studies 2013/2014
Supervisor: Dr Julian Ward

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Word count: 14,966
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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: Introduction

CHAPTER 2: Contextualising Homosexuality in Mainland China4

Homosexuality in Imperial China

Homosexuality in the Peoples Republic of China

Homosexuality in China Today

CHAPTER 3: Negotiating Chinese Homosexual Identities

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Local and Global Gayness

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Homosexuality and the Discourse of Suzhi

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CHAPTER 4: Queer Chinese Cinema

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Representing and Constructing Tongzhi Culture Through Film

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New Queer Chinese Cinema

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Chapter 5: Film Analysis

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Farewell My Concubine: The Artist Against the State

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Lan Yu: Emerging Gay Identities

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Cui Zien and The Old Testament: Deconstructing Aesthetic Conventions

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Chapter 6: Conclusion

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Works Cited

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Filmography

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CHAPTER 1: Introduction

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This paper will examine the issue of male gay representation in mainland Chinese
cinema through the analysis of a variety of aspects of homosexual identities in three films:
Farewell My Concubine (1993), Lan Yu (2001) and The Old Testament (2002). Through
such a process, this study aims to establish the way in which homosexuality is portrayed in
each film, the wider implications of these portrayals, and their potential to produce
changes in mainstream views on homosexuality within Chinese society. Through these
analyses this paper will demonstrate that, although much progress has been made in the
last twenty years, a common series of negative themes such as forced marriages,
subjection, prostitution or death, as well as a sorrowful spirit, still dominate film
representations of Chinese gayness.
In order to contextualise the emergence of male tongzhi (gay) identities and
communities, an overview will be provided of the evolution of the status of homosexuality
in Mainland China since ancient times. Subsequently, this paper will discuss the two
predominant theories among academics regarding the construction of tongzhi identities,
those of local gayness and global gayness, as well as the theory that links the negotiation
of tongzhi identities with the discourse of suzhi. A qualitative analysis will follow of each
one of the films mentioned above. These films have been chosen based on their social
significance, relevance and availability, with social significance defined here as the
recognition and availability of these films within Chinese mainstream contexts, relevance
as the level of innovation and contribution of the film to homosexual representation in
mainland Chinese cinema, and availability as the ease of accessibility for the author of this
paper. Whereas the two first analyses will focus solely on the content of the films, the third
one will include a brief discussion of the work of Cui Zien as a filmmaker as his entire
output is relevant to the question that concerns this dissertation.
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CHAPTER 2: Contextualising Homosexuality in Mainland China

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Homosexuality in Imperial China
There exists a widespread conception in China that homosexuality has never been a
part of traditional Chinese culture. Instead, it is held to have been transported into China
from the West during the late Qing dynasty (Ma 118). However, a number of recent studies
have began to challenge this view. Using historical accounts and literary sources, some
authors have argued that homosexual behaviour not only existed but had been largely
tolerated throughout significant periods of Ancient Chinese history.1 Both works of literature
and court annals from the Zhou to the Ming dynasties contain references to same-sex love
affairs between emperors and ministers, teachers and students and opera actors and
patrons, suggesting that male homosexual practice was inextricably bound up with
structures of social power (Cao 841). These homoerotic literary traditions have also left
their mark on the Chinese language. Euphemisms such as yutao ( sharing the
remaining peach) and duanxiu ( cut sleeve), for example, which both refer to male
homosexual practices, were originally derived from works of classical Chinese literature
(Ma 219).
Even if such evidence does imply a certain tolerance of homosexuality in ancient
Chinese society, it is unlikely that the practice was actually accepted. Indeed, there exist
several reports of officials being punished with demotion after their homosexual activities
were publicly revealed (Ma 122). As opposed to the condemnation of homosexual
behaviour in many traditional Western societies, which was based largely on moral and
religious grounds, any lack of acceptance in ancient China stemmed more from the
perception of homosexuality as an obstacle to achieving the ideal Confucian personality.
Homosexual practices went against Confucian morality, as they were considered to be

For a detailed account of these records see Hinsch and Xiaomingxiong.

excessive expressions of sexuality, and prevented the individual from fulfilling the moral
obligations to his parents of getting married and continuing the family line (Kong 152, Cao
841). Having said that, homosexuality per se was not explicitly condemned by Confucian
morality and, once marital obligations were fulfilled homosexual behaviour was generally
tolerated, if carried out with discretion (Cao 841). This is largely because homosexuality
was understood at the time as a behavioural trait, rather than an essential identity,
something that is reflected in the absence of a word for homosexual person in classical
Chinese (Chou 23).
In fact, it was only during the Qing dynasty (1644-1911) that homoerotic practices began
to be regulated and, subsequently, penalised, due perhaps to the more conservative
attitudes towards sexuality of the new Manchu rulers (Gil 570). However, the greatest
changes to Chinese attitudes towards homosexuality were not entirely derived from Asia.
By the end of the 19th century, following a series of military defeats and internal turmoils,
Western powers had started to penetrate into China, bringing with them new socio-political
theories, as well as perceived advancements in fields such as science, technology and
medicine. The latter of these included a new medicalised conception of homosexuality,
which had arisen in the West during the 19th century and largely replaced the moral and
religious focus of earlier times. In China, the increasing adoption of this viewpoint meant
that traditional ways of thinking were reversed. Homosexuality was now viewed not as a
behavioural trait, but instead as an identity defined by a pathological condition (Cao 842).
The increasing study of Western socio-political theories by Chinese academics would also
lead to interesting changes in the status of Chinese homosexuality, albeit more indirectly.
At this time, new intellectual currents in China were calling for the westernisation of
Chinese culture in order to modernise the country and achieve progress. Under the
influence of Western Enlightenment, one of the means proposed by a number of
intellectuals to achieve modernisation was the simplification of the Chinese language and
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adoption of the vernacular as the new model for intellectual writing, which would greatly
improve literacy rates and spread knowledge. One unintended consequence of this
simplification drive was that classic literature, written in classical Chinese, became
sidelined in popular consciousness (Ma 123). Therefore, the aforementioned references to
same-sex love in historical accounts and literature were virtually forgotten until very
recently, when gay activists have used them as a strategy to claim Chinese homosexuals
belonging in Chinese culture (Jones 97).

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Homosexuality in the Peoples Republic of China
Following the establishment of the Peoples Republic in 1949, the Chinese Communist
Party espoused the Maoist discourse of revolution, which emphasised collectivity over
individuality, and claimed altruism as a virtue. Sexual conduct which deviated from the
puritan normative (inside the heterosexual marriage and with the purpose of reproduction)
was heavily repressed as it was considered self-indulgent, Western and bourgeois, thus
hindering the development of the socialist state (Kong 153). While not explicitly included in
the Criminal Code, homosexuality began to be criminalised and prosecuted under the
offence of hooliganism (liumang zui ), an umbrella term that covered a variety of
government-censored behaviours, such as pederasty, prostitution, and both extra-marital
and pre-marital sexual activities (Ma 124). The links established during this time between
homosexuality, mental illness, hooliganism and foreignness still prevail up to this date and,
together with AIDS,

remain a fundamental root of the stigma endured by homosexual

individuals in contemporary mainland China (Kong 154).

However, as the Maoist discourse was replaced in the 1980s by the reform and opening
up process under Deng Xiaoping, the existence of homosexuality within Chinese society
did manage to gain some degree of recognition. As with the aforementioned changes at
the end of the 19th century, these developments were once again partly attributable to a
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drive for modernisation and increasing contact with the West. The new emphasis on
economic development established during the opening up process increased the
availability of information from and about the West, including accounts of the previously
unheard of American and European gay emancipation movements that took place during
the 1960s and 1970s (Ma 125). The spreading of this information had a significant impact
on the formation of Chinese gay individual and community identities, particularly after the
1990s, when the social and economic reforms had started to show their effects (Kong
154). Another decisive factor in the acknowledgement and visibility of homosexual
communities by the Chinese government and mainstream media was the AIDS epidemic
that spread through China during the 1990s. In order to effectively disseminate information
about safe sex and AIDS prevention among the homosexual population, the government
health agency had to work with gay communities, associations and NGOs. As a result of
this cooperation, gay communities and organisations earned a certain legitimisation from
the government, and for the first time homosexuality began to be discussed publicly (Cao
843). Conversely, the association between homosexuality and AIDS would also became a
seemingly irreparable thorn in the sides of gay right activists in China. The consequences
of the resulting stigmatisation will be discussed briefly below.

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Homosexuality in China Today
Despite the continuing stigmatisation of homosexuals and the absence of legal rights
protecting and supporting gay individuals or couples, the last twenty years have seen
significant progress in tolerance and acceptance. In 1997 the Penal Code was revised and
homosexuality was decriminalised, while in 2001 the Chinese Psychiatric Association
removed homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses. These two landmark advances
have greatly contributed to the improvement of the status of homosexuals in China (Kong
155). However, the influence of both Confucianism and communism has left an indelible
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mark on Chinese cultural values, and homosexuals often still find themselves the victims
of discrimination. Homosexuals frequenting public places such as bathhouses, public
bathrooms and parks, or even gay establishments, risk being arrested under various
pretexts, as was the case during the crackdown by the Beijing police on several gay
meeting points prior to the 2008 Beijing Olympics (Vembu).
Furthermore, despite the tremendous transformations which have taken place in China
in the last twenty-five years, one of the greatest challenges still faced by homosexuals
remains the enduring influence of the Confucian notion of filial piety. The resulting pressure
to get married and have children to continue the family bloodline is arguably greater in
China than in many other countries, and makes it extremely difficult for homosexuals to
obtain acceptance outside the gay community. The situation is further aggravated by the
one-child-policy, which leaves the responsibility of continuing the family name on the
shoulders of a single individual (Neilands 839). This is reflected in interviews carried out by
several scholars, in which many interviewees considered marriage a social obligation that
could not be avoided.2 Some of the interviewees were fearful of coming out (chugui ),
and pursuing stable homosexual relationships, due to the risk of being rejected by their
families and discriminated in matters such as employment, housing or health care
(Neilands 839). Indeed, the pressure to marry does not only come from the family, but also
from the government, as married couples not only enjoy much higher social statuses but
also greater economic benefits (Kam 62). This leads to many homosexual individuals
leading a double life, attempting to combine a heterosexual public life and a homosexual
private life. Although the consequences of leading a double life (or passing) have not
been studied in the particular case of Chinese same-sex individuals, studies carried out in
different countries have proved that it can have adverse psychological effects in the long
term (Neilands et al. 842).

See Lucetta Yip Lo Kam, Li et al. and Neilands et al.

The end of the 20th century marked a turning point for the visibility and public
discussion of homosexuality in China and the emergence of the homosexual subculture
known as tongzhi.3 The final years of the century saw a proliferation of gay and lesbian
bars in the biggest cities, not to mention the first conference about lesbianism, which took
place in 1998 in Beijing. In the year 2000, a TV show included for the first time a friendly
discussion on the issue of homosexuality with openly homosexual guests: renowned
sexologist and scholar Li Yinhe , lesbian activist Shi Tou and filmmaker Cui
Zien (Ma 132). Efforts were also undertaken to expand the civil rights of
homosexuals. In the year 2003, Dr. Li Yinhe presented the Same-sex Marriage Bill to the
Legislative Affairs Commission of the National Peoples Congress, in an attempt to amend
the current marriage law. However, her proposal was not approved and the bill was not
included in the agenda. Her subsequent efforts, in 2005, 2006, 2008 and 2012 have also
been unsuccessful (Cochrane 4). Furthermore, many public events concerning
homosexuality still face opposition. For example, the organisers of the Beijing Queer Film
Festival continued to encounter opposition from police forces on a yearly basis until 2013,
when the event finally took place without incident (Tan, Brzeski). In 2009 the first Gay
Pride event took place in Shanghai and, although the parade had to be cancelled because
of police intervention, subsequent events were allowed to take place without obstruction
(S. Lau).
Many authors have highlighted the importance of emerging technologies, particularly
telephone hotlines and the internet, in the creation of group consciousness and the
development of a gay subculture.4 This has been especially true in China, where there is
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Since the 1990s, mainland Chinese homosexuals have increasingly adopted the term tongzhi (used
during Maoist times to mean comrade and re-appropriated by a Hong Kong gay activist at the end of the
1980s) to identify themselves. As Ma Jinwu explains, tongzhi filled a lexical gap left in the Chinese language,
as the classical terms yutao () or duanxiu () were no longer recognised by young individuals, and
the term tongxinglian () was loaded with negative connotations (130). Tongzhi is increasingly popular
among Chinese gay communities because it refers to a hybridised way of being gay, combing local Chinese
and global gayness (Ma 130), as well as being gender neutral and invoking positive cultural references (Lim
12).
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See Loretta Wing Wah Hos Gay and Lesbian Subculture in Urban China as well as Li et al. and Cao.

no equivalent to the American pink press, and gay activists have until recently had few
opportunities to publicly campaign for gay emancipation and against stigma (Cao 845). In
the face of limited civil rights, cyberspace has provided a safe space for homosexuals to
discuss issues of identity, share materials, communicate with one another and find
relationships (Ho, Gay 103). Accordingly, recent years have seen the online proliferation of
gay websites, social networks and blogs within China.5
Indeed, in the past two decades homosexuality has gained greater visibility and has, to
a certain extent, ceased to be a taboo subject in mainstream society. Homosexuals now
have more opportunities to interact and associate both online and in physical
establishments. However, there still have been no significant legal developments since the
removal of homosexuality from the list of mental illnesses in 2001 and, compared to other
same-sex communities in Western countries, the tongzhi community in China still lacks
several basic civil and political rights. The following section will analyse the two main
currents of scholarly thinking on how homosexual individuals construct and manage their
identities under the aforementioned circumstances.

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For an in-depth analysis of the gay space in the Chinese cyberspace and for a list of the most relevant
websites, see Loretta Wing Wah Hos Gay and Lesbian Subculture in Urban China, p.158.

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CHAPTER 3: Negotiating Chinese Homosexual Identities

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Local and Global Gayness

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Does the enhancement of social acceptance and respect for same-sex
eroticism need to be conducted through a homo-hetero duality? How
meaningful is it to understand human intimacy by defining identity by the
gender of erotic object choice? [] Why should we divide people into
homo and hetero in the first place?
- Chou Wah-shan (103)

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The formation of gay Chinese identities has been examined most frequently within the
framework of queer theory, a field that emerged in the 1990s and that should be situated
in the intersection between LGBT studies and womens studies (Tang 22). Queer theory
argues that sex, gender and sexuality are social constructs and examines the
miscorrelations between them. This field of studies calls for the deconstruction of
heterosexual/homosexual binaries, as well as the challenging of heteronormativity and
hegemonic masculinity (Tse 6, Tang 22).6 While queer theory rejects the oversimplified
division of sexual orientations between the rigid categories of homo and hetero, recent
academic debates on the negotiation of gay identities in China have largely reappropriated two key opposing narratives contained within queer theory. The first
supports the existence of a global gayness, while the second denies the existence of
such a concept and focuses instead on local gayness. Authors identifying with the former
see gay identity as a transnational and global phenomenon. Their opponents, however,
aim to deconstruct this notion of global gayness by examining different forms of
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For further information on queer theory, see the works of Judith Butler, Teresa de Lauretis, Eve Sedgwick
and Diana Fuss.

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homosexual cultures that exist outside of the West. In this way, they challenge the
hegemonic Western gay culture and push for the recognition of alternative gay lifestyles.
Authors such as Chou and Jones have argued against the existence of a global
gayness by looking at the particularities of Chinese tongzhi cultures. They argue that these
Chinese individuals and communities shape their identities in a different manner than their
Western counterparts. Jones, for example, suggests that Chinese same-sex individuals do
not necessarily construct their identities based on sexual inclination, but that there are
many other overriding constructed identities carrying a greater weight, such as region,
generation, economic and social position, high or low human quality, or suzhi (),7 and
even the imagined community of the nation itself (Jones 96). On a community level,
Jones warns that it would be a mistake to adopt an ethnocentric attitude and examine
these communities from the point of view of the Western gay liberation discourse, with its
politics of visibility, coming out and its engagement with the Human Rights discourse as a
strategy to achieve emancipation (85). Firstly, according to Jones, the political and cultural
milieu of these communities calls for a different strategy to achieve self-acceptance and
integration in society. Secondly, the marginalisation of homosexuals in China largely takes
the form of the pressure to continue the family bloodline, as opposed to both the threats
and actual physical violence experienced by homosexuals in some parts of the West, such
as the USA (85). Another particularity of Chinese gayness for these authors is the number
of homosexual individuals who have entered into heterosexual marriage. As mentioned
previously, this phenomenon is not rare in China, and many individuals avoid identifying as
homosexuals, gay, tongzhi or tongxinglianzhe () even though they carry out
same-sex practices. For Chou Wah-Shan, both the traditional Chinese conception of
homosexuality as a social attitude rather than as an essential identity, and the absence of
the Western duality of homosexual/heterosexual in Chinese culture help to explain why

A more in-depth discussion of the term suzhi will be provided in the following section.

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heterosexual and homosexual practices are not mutually exclusive, and why participation
in tongzhi communities does not necessarily imply that a certain individual claims tongzhi
identity for him or herself (100). Indeed, Jones explains that being married is the norm
rather than the exception and, unlike in Western gay communities, such status not
preclude an individual from being accepted within homosexual circles. In some cases
marriage is even preferable, as it means that the person has fulfilled his or her social
obligations, contributing to his or her high human quality, or suzhi (101). Thus, according to
these authors, the notion of global gayness fails to represent the politics of Chinese gay
identity, as in the latter the boundaries of homosexuality and heterosexuality are far less
distinct. For them, the politics of local Chinese gayness help Chinese same-sex individuals
to accept themselves, cope with social stigmatisation and reconcile the demands of being
a tongzhi with the demands of membership in the other communities (the family, the
nation) in which they participate (Jones 110). Having said that, both do agree that the
adoption of the politics of Chinese gayness as a strategy of self-acceptance has also had
an important downside for Chinese homosexuals, in that it can ultimately represent an
obstacle for the dissemination of information on safe sexual practices and HIV prevention.
Chou has argued that individuals who make gayness and belonging to a gay community
an essential part of their identity are more easily targetable for AIDS prevention campaigns
or work groups and are thus more likely to be concerned with safe sex practices than
those who do not come out as gay (102).
The works of Jones and Chou have done much to further understanding of
homosexuality within China. However, it could be argued that a number of their
conclusions ought to be subjected to re-examination. Firstly, some of the particularities of
Chinese gayness described above could result from the nature of oppression faced by
homosexuals in China, rather than the distinctiveness of Chinese gayness itself. Indeed, a
homosexual individual entering into a heterosexual marriage may be influenced more by
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family and social pressures to comply with the mandates of heteronormativity, than by the
consequences of a less defined conception of sexual orientation in Chinese culture.
Secondly, the excessive emphasis these authors place on the localness of Chinese gay
identities arguably leads them to disregard the undeniable Western influence and the
conflation of dynamics in the shaping of Chinese homosexual identities, as well as to
overlook the demands for increased civil rights of some members of this sexual minority. In
this way, Jones and Chou unintentionally conform to those oppressive, patriarchal and
homophobic discourses grounded on local traditional values (Zhao 3). Finally, by arguing
that individuals who openly identify as being gay are easier to target by AIDS prevention
campaigns, these authors fail to recognise that AIDS represents a threat for the entirety of
the population, not just the minority homosexual community. AIDS prevention and sexual
health campaigns should arguably be seeking at the whole of the population regardless of
sexual orientation. Indeed, according to a 2012 report by the Ministry of Health of the
Peoples Republic, only 17.4% of the cases of people living with HIV were transmitted by
homosexual contact, whereas heterosexual transmission and drug injection use account
for the 46.5% and the 18.4% respectively (6). By associating homosexuality with AIDS and
preventing with coming out, these authors inadvertently contribute both to the further
stigmatisation of the gay community and to the general lack of awareness regarding the
true nature of HIV transmission in China.

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Homosexuality and the Discourse of Suzhi
In order to understand the strategies used by Chinese male homosexuals to negotiate
their identities and communities in a way which is acceptable within the official
heterosexual discourse, Jones argues that it is necessary to understand how they
strategically adopt and reapply official discourses; in particular, the discourse of
civilisation or suzhi (108). He holds this discourse to be the successor to the discourse of
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revolution during the Maoist years, whose call was to commit to class struggle, and
subsequently to the discourse of reform during the reform and opening up, whose call
was for individuals to commit to material progress (90). For Jones, the discourse of
civilisation is more recent and it calls for human quality and civility. However, quality and
civility fail to capture the complexity of the term suzhi, which Rofel explains indicates a
broad-ranging semioticpolitics in China (qtd. in Jones 90). Notions of patriotism,
traditionalism [] modernity, knowledge, hygiene, politeness, urbanity, wealth and taste
are all combined in the concept of suzhi (Jones 90). If the discourse of revolution
discriminates against the bourgeois, the capitalist and the foreign, and the discourse of
reform discriminates against the unscientific and the inefficient, the discourse of
civilisation discriminates against the rural, the primitive and the uneducated, ironically
precisely the same subjects that were eulogised by the discourse of revolution (91).
Jones asserts that the representation of the homosexual as deviant has been replaced
by a representation that adopts the discourse of suzhi and that grants him or her a place in
society, that of the good homosexual. He or she is presented as urbanised, healthy,
educated, well dressed, wealthy, patriotic and highly civilised, and thus has an acceptable
position in the community (95). On the opposite side, there is the rural migrant invented as
ignorant, primitive, risky and uncivilised (99). This is reflected in the floating population or
rural migrants in the cities, whose homosexual members are often rejected in gay
communities because of their association with prostitution and HIV, and are thus
considered to be false homosexuals. Migrant worker homosexuals themselves are thus
less likely to identify as gay, tongzhi or homosexual than urban homosexuals (100). In fact,
the term of Money Boys (often MB) or maide ( for sale), a derogatory term for male
same-sex prostitutes, is often less related to occupation than to social category and
origins. Indeed, a large number of the men who have sex in exchange for money would

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not be considered Money Boys, as long as they are considered to have a sufficiently high
suzhi (102).
As mentioned above, by transferring the label that has been applied to them for so
many decades to others; in this case, the migrant workers from rural areas, the gay
individual is granted a place in society and is protected against discrimination. Despite this
development, such imaginary protection has two main downsides. Firstly, it increases the
vulnerability of urban gay individuals against sexually transmitted diseases. In this
discourse, AIDS is largely associated with those of low suzhi, and therefore there exists
the belief that if one identifies as being urban and civilised, or avoids associating with such
low quality people, this is a protection against HIV in itself, and thus a reason not to take
precautions (Jones 107). Secondly, and somewhat alarmingly, the prevalence of the suzhi
discourse has created a new class of doubly-marginalised homosexuals. This subclass is
particularly composed of migrant workers and Money Boys, who find themselves excluded
both from the larger society and from the urban gay communities (Rofel qtd. in Jones 109,
Ho, Speaking 498). At present, little information is available on how such double
marginalisation has affected the lives of these individuals, and such a topic could provide a
worthy subject for future research.
In his article, Jones claims to examine the recent development of identity and
community among gay men in China (83). However, his study appears to be mainly
centred on gay communities in Chinas larger Han-dominated Eastern cities, and does not
take into consideration the heterogeneity of cultures within China. Not only does focusing
ones research on such similar regions neglect the large disparities in the levels of
economic and social development between rural and urban areas, but also the various
ethnicities, religions and even languages that coexist within the boundaries of China.
Perhaps the emergence of homosexual communities is a urban phenomenon, but until

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broader research is carried out, both geographically and ethnographically, his conclusions
cannot claim to represent the whole of China.

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CHAPTER 4: Queer Chinese Cinema

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Representing and Constructing Tongzhi Culture Through Film

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If films and filmmakers produce culture, they are also produced by it. Thus
it is impossible to separate films and filmmakers from the society within
which they exist.
- John Belton (1)

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In order to examine some of the claims and preoccupations of the homosexual cultures
in China, the medium of film has been chosen for its unique capacity to both reflect the
culture it is produced in and to transform it. Film is a cultural product, one which both helps
the viewer understand a particular culture and society, and interacts with that society by
producing new meanings. Film is also a language, and one that, unlike literature or
theatre, is more easily understood and directly accessible for the masses (Zhao 18). Thus,
if it can be argued that cinema possesses the ability to enable filmmakers to construct
reality and contribute to socio-political change, then film can be considered a useful
means for filmmakers concerned with the issue of homosexuality to make themselves
visible and promote certain changes in society. Their access to the viewing masses
creates great potential for filmmakers to influence perceptions of reality. A filmmaker
concerned with homosexual issues thus has the opportunity to capture and disseminate
certain hardships, concerns or claims shared by the homosexual community to a wider
audience. This paper will examine three different films and the different methods used by
their filmmakers to achieve this, and will evaluate the varying effects and significance of
their endeavours on Chinese society and the status of homosexuals within it. The analysis
includes the films Farewell My Concubine (Chen Kaige, 1993), Lan Yu (Stanley Kwan,
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2001) and The Old Testament (Cui Zien, 2002). Through this work, it is unlikely that a
precise and complete picture of homosexuality and homosexuals in China will emerge,
and given the heterogeneity and fluidity of Chinese gay cultures, as held by Zhao, it could
be argued that such an enterprise would be somewhat futile (117). Instead, this paper
aims to highlight the specific ways in which these three filmmakers have dealt with the
theme of homosexuality, and the ways in which their films have both reflected and
impacted on homosexual subcultures in China.
While the films chosen for this paper were all produced after 1993, due to the absence
of available films that deal with this topic produced in the mainland before this date, it
should be noted that certain themes relating to homosexuality and queerness have been
explored in other Sinophone cinemas previously. For Suen, the first films to touch on the
subject were The Eighth Station (, Fok Yiu-leung,1984) for Hong Kong, and Crystal
Boys (, Yu Kan-ping,1986) for Taiwan, although homosexuality was not the central
theme of either of the films (20). The Taiwanese The Wedding Banquet (Ang Lee
1993) is considered to be the first gay Sinophone film, as the plot centres around a gay
Taiwanese migrant in the USA who is forced to marry a woman to meet the wishes of his
conservative father. In addition, there exists a body of cinematic work dealing with gay
themes produced by different diasporic Chinese filmmakers, such as Alice Wu (American
Chinese) and Simon Chung (Canadian Chinese). However, despite the commonalities that
may connect these cultures (the widely discussed issue of Chineseness), the different
political and social environments in these regions have produced contrasting ways of
constructing and representing homosexual identities in film. For this reason, this
dissertation will focus exclusively on mainland Chinese film. A comparison of the different
forms of representation of homosexual identities in different Sinophone cinemas would
however be an interesting topic for further research.

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A further motive for concentrating exclusively on mainland Chinese film is the extent to
which cinematic productions have been closely interwoven with recent history, in addition
to serving often as important vehicles of social change. Chinese films from the 1930s to
the 1980s have reflected the socio-political change experienced by the Chinese people. At
the same time, cinema has long served as a tool that responded to the socialist agency,
particularly so during the Maoist years. Following economic reform the film industry
became increasingly commodified (Navallo 6), and film became a prominent medium to
convey cultural and social criticism. Therefore, in the process of understanding how
homosexuality has been represented in film and how this representation has influenced
the gay community, mainland Chinese cinema is particularly useful for its tight links with
ideologic movements and cultural re-evaluation.

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New Queer Chinese Cinema
The current of films dealing with homosexual themes beginning in the 1990s with films
such as Farewell My Concubine, has been branded by some authors as New Queer
Chinese Cinema (Leung 518, Metzger, Desire 301). For these authors, New Queer
Chinese Cinema is a descendent of the American New Queer Cinema that appeared in
the early 1990s and was itself influenced by elements of queer theory. Leung defines
queer cinema as a medium that unsettle[s] the parameters of heterosexuality and its
kinship structure; confound[s] expectations of coherence between gender identity, gender
expression, and the sexed body; expand[s] the possible configurations of sexual and
emotional bonds; and subvert[s] the aesthetic conventions and heterocentric
presuppositions of mainstream cinema (519). Another key feature of the American New
Queer Cinema is its spirit of political defiance, aimed both at mainstream society and at
the tolerated gay culture that exists within it (Aaron qtd. in Leung 519).

20

Despite the open cinematic representation of homosexual lives and relationships being
a more recent phenomenon, it has been argued that queer themes have been present in
Chinese cinema since its inception, with New Queer Chinese Cinema merely a recent
strand of a larger trend (Leung 519). Stanley Kwans film documentary Yang Yin: Gender
in Chinese Cinema (Nansheng nxiang: Zhongguo dianying zhi xingbie :
), released in 1996, offers an exploration of the Chinese, Hong Kong and Taiwanese
films that have candidly experimented with the boundaries of gender and sexuality in
dealing with themes of male bonding and cross-dressing. For Leung, such experimentation
is precisely the reason why Chinese Queer Cinema can still be categorised as queer
despite the lack of a spirit of political defiance that characterises its American counterpart
(534).
Despite the control of the Chinese Communist Party in the production of films having
decreased since the reform and opening up period, a rigid censorship apparatus still
determines the films which can be officially distributed. In a state where public displays of
homosexuality remain somewhat taboo, films concerned with LGBT themes are more
often than not banned (Pickowicz 7). Because of this strict censorship, queer themes are
thus usually found in the work of independent filmmakers.8 Perhaps the outstanding
exception to this is Chen Kaiges Farewell My Concubine, which was officially released
and distributed throughout China in 1993. Although this film did face censorship problems,
being banned twice, the objections of the censors were based more on the particularities
of the main characters eventual suicide, rather than any depictions of homosexuality and
transgenderism. According to Cui Zien, the acceptance of the censors stemmed largely
from the films observance of the dominant patriarchal values, as the main character Dieyi
completely identifies as a female and accepts subordination to the male character,
Xiaolou. In this way, the homosexual relationships depicted in the film did not challenge
8

It should be noticed here that, in the case of Chinese cinema, the term independent' refers to
independence from the Chinese state rather than from the private conglomerates that dominate many
industries such as the American film industry (Pickowicz 3).

21

the power dynamics dictated by patriarchal Chinese values (Cui, Communist 420).
However, this film was to prove the exception rather than the rule, and virtually every
subsequent film dealing with homosexuality has faced the opposition of the censorship
system. The apparent impossibility of producing and distributing films dealing with
homosexuality through legal channels inside a system where homophobic forces still
prevail, combined with the emergence of new video technologies in the last decade, such
as DV (Digital Video), which allow the production of film at minimal cost, have lead to the
existence of a lively underground cinema movement. The small scale of the production
and distribution of these films, which is carried out in the gray area between private and
public, keeps them relatively outside the radar of the Chinese government. Paradoxically,
this actually offers filmmakers more freedom to experiment with queer themes and adopt
political stances than would be available within the official system (Zhao 21). Indeed, in
one interview, the filmmaker Stanley Kwan admitted the knowledge that his film Lan Yu
was unlikely to be released because of its subject matter gave him a strange sort of
license to just shoot and see what happens (Ng). Despite the illegality of independent
films, the government largely tolerates their production as long as they do not directly
criticise the Party or the Chinese State. Pickowicz argues that this leniency is a result of
the belief of cultural liberals within the Communist Party that independent cinema works as
a pressure release mechanism which can help project a softer image of China abroad
(7). However, independent filmmakers do not receive official funding or support, and so are
often forced to look outside China, not only for funding, but also for production, distribution
networks and audiences.
Another problem faced by independent filmmakers is that their films cannot be
distributed officially in mainland China, either on DVD or in cinemas, given their illegal
status. However, many of these films have managed to effectively circulate through
alternative channels, such as unofficial festivals in universities and special exhibits in art
22

galleries, and screenings in cafs and bars (Zhang Y. 36). The emergence of film clubs,
where one can rent a private room for a few hours, also allows independent filmmakers to
screen their works in front of smaller audiences.9 The biannual Beijing Queer Film Festival,
established in 2001, provides opportunities for some filmmakers to screen their work in
front of a larger audience, although, as mentioned before, the organisation of the festival
has often experienced problems with the authorities. The greatest level of distribution,
however, is achieved through the thriving pirate DVD market and illegal internet exchanges
and downloads (Zhao 22, Metzger, Desire 309).
Overall, existing on the fringes of the law and without the support of the Chinese
Government has proved to be somewhat of a double-edged sword. While many
filmmakers are forced to struggle to fund and distribute their work, this experience can
often lend the finished films an air of prestige which may appeal to certain markets. Within
China, independent films concerned with gay issues are likely to be watched not only by
Chinese homosexuals and scholars interested in gay representation, but also by a number
of urban intellectuals attracted by their banned and underground status (Zhang Y. 35).
Such films may also appeal to audiences abroad for similar reasons. Yingjin Zhang has
argued that a large proportion of the Chinese independent film audience is actually
composed of Western middle-class film festival goers looking for exotic national cultures,
innovative artists, and political subversive elements (35). Indeed, a number of independent
Chinese films have been screened and acclaimed in major international film festivals
abroad and even obtained important awards (Leung 518). In this way, some independent
films may actually reach a wider audience than better funded and more widely distributed
mainstream official Chinese productions.
This paper has utilised a combination of officially approved and independent films to
discuss the treatment of homosexuality in Chinese cinema, and will seek to examine the

For an in-depth discussion of the cultural consumption of Chinese independent films in film club, see
Nakajima.

23

common themes and key differences in their representation of gay issues in the context of
their differing production environments, political constraints and intended audiences. The
three films will be analysed in chronological order, which will hopefully also give an insight
into the changing character of filmmaking over time in China.

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Chapter 5: Film Analysis

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Farewell My Concubine: The Artist Against the State
Chen Kaiges Farewell My Concubine (Bawang bie ji ), hereafter
Farewell, was released in 1993, shortly after Ang Lees The Wedding Banquet (Xiyan
), which is considered to be the first Chinese language film to deal with the subject of
homosexuality. This Chinese, Taiwanese and Hong Kong co-production, adapted from a
novel by Lilian Lee, stars some of Chinas most popular actors, such as Gong Li and Leslie
Cheung, and was widely acclaimed in international festivals. Its success brought Chen
Kaige, one of the most renowned figures of the Fifth Generation of Chinese cinema, a
level of recognition that he had not obtained since the release of his opera prima, Yellow
Earth (Huang tudi ), in 1984. The film caused controversy both domestically and
internationally for its treatment of cross-gender and homosexual themes, as well as its
portrayal of the modern history of China, prostitution and Beijing Opera. Indeed, despite
winning the Palme dOr at Cannes, a Golden Globe award, a BAFTA award and being
nominated for Best Foreign Language Film for the Oscars, the film received a good share
of negative criticism and was twice banned in China (Dong 3). In particular, its director was
denounced as homophobic by Western critics and of having sold out to the West by
Chinese critics.
The film both starts and finishes with the two main characters, Cheng Dieyi (Leslie
Cheung) and Duan Xiaolou (Zhang Fengyi), two retired Beijing Opera actors, in a theatre
in Beijing, two years after the death of Mao Zedong and the conclusion of the Cultural
Revolution. The core of the film is a flashback of the lives of Dieyi and Xiaolou and their
relationship with the world of Beijing Opera, the political turmoils of the twentieth century
and each other. The flashback begins with Dieyis prostitute mother selling him to an opera
troupe. From a young age, the children in the troupe receive a hard training based on
25

beatings. Dieyi too is subjected to this, and is violently forced to identify as female to
achieve excellency in his performance as concubine Yu Ji in the opera Farewell My
Concubine. This opera, which becomes Dieyis and Xiaolous signature performance, tells
the story of the king of Chu who has lost everything to the Han conquerors, with the
exception of a concubine and a horse. When he is surrounded by the enemy he sets the
concubine free; however, instead of leaving she uses his sword to kill herself in order to
remain loyal. As they grow old Dieyi and Xiaolou become successful actors and develop a
close relationship. However, that relationship is changed forever when the latter decides to
marry a former prostitute, Juxian (Gong Li), an act which propels Dieyi to become the lover
of a rich patron, Master Yuan (Ge You). While Xiaolou and Juxian attempt to survive by
adapting to the successive political movements over the next few decades, Dieyi is
submerged in a destructive pattern of opium-smoking and depression as he observes the
art that he so loves transformed and progressively devalued. Following the onset of the
Cultural Revolution, the opera troupe is denounced by Dieyis apprentice Xiaosi and taken
out into the streets to be publicly humiliated for practicing a traditional art. There, Xiaolou is
pressured into betraying Dieyi by revealing his homosexuality. In an act of revenge, Dieyi
betrays Juxian by revealing her past as a prostitute. To protect himself, or perhaps to
protect Juxian from his bad reputation, Xiaolou publicly repudiates her, which leads to her
suicide by hanging. The following scene cuts back to the films initial setting, an empty
theatre in Beijing in 1977, where the two actors have reunited to play Farewell My
Concubine one last time. Dieyi, perhaps realising that the Han (as an allegory for the
Communist Party) have defeated his king (Xiaolou, who is too old to perform the opera
properly), commits suicide with Xiaolous sword, meeting the same fate as concubine Yu
Ji.
Farewell is a complex work that deals with a number of themes: art, the artists
relationship with the state, political and social movements, love and betrayal. Despite
26

homosexuality not being its main theme, Farewell is nonetheless significant given that it is
the earliest and most well-renowned mainland Chinese film to depict and discuss it. Some
scholars have interpreted Farewell as an historical critique of both Nationalist and Maoist
China (bleak and brutal), in contrast to the old society (cruel, yet culturally diverse). Such
critiques are generally centred around attitudes towards art, with the Nationalists and
Communists depicted as disrespectful, violent and uncivilised through their lack of
appreciation and disrespect of Beijing Opera. This manifests itself not only through their
lack of visual appreciation of the art, but also through their attempts to destroy it. This
destruction is physical on the part of the Nationalists, who riot and wreck the opera house,
and more symbolic on the part of the Communists, who attempt to appropriate the opera
for political ends. The directors disgust at both is displayed through their unfavourable
comparison with the traditionally hated Japanese invaders, whose appreciation of Dieyis
performance actually sets them out as civilised and cultured by comparison (McDougall
117). The Nationalists are depicted particularly negatively, and the death of Juxians
unborn child at their hands could be seen to reflect both their brutality and their stifling and
suffocating of the burgeoning art scene of the time. Chens criticism of Maoism can be
considered more pronounced when examining his use of betrayal. As children, Dieyi and
Xiaolou would always protect each other. However, when they become adults and the
Cultural Revolution arrives, they turn against and publicly betray each other. Xiaosi, who
betrays both his master and the entire opera troupe, and whose motivations are never
revealed in the film, arguably embodies the monstrosity of the Maoist era (Silvio 185).
This is perhaps a reflection on an episode in Chens own life, when he publicly denounced
his own father, a member of the Guomindang, as a spy of the nationalists (Havis 9). The
Cultural Revolution is held accountable for sons turning agains fathers, friends turning
against friends and apprentices turning against masters.

27

However, taking into account the films release date, only four years after the
Tiananmen Incident, other scholars, such as Silbergeld and Lim, propose an alternative
interpretation. As a play within a play the film allows ancient Han times, when the original
opera is set, to be interpreted as the time in which the film is set (1930s to 1970s), and the
time in which the film is set to be interpreted as the post-Maoist, post-Tiananmen period
(Silbergeld 116, Lim 84). This is particularly evident in the first scene, when Dieyi and
Xiaolou are reunited in the empty auditorium. The two are shown having a dialogue with
an unknown third voice, which comes from outside the frame:

!
Voice offstage: Its been over twenty years since youve performed together, hasnt it?
[]
Xiaolou, stuttering: Thats right, eleven years. Yes.
Voice offstage: Its due to the Gang of Four and the Cultural Revolution.
Dieyi, hesitantly, insincerely: Isnt everythingdue to the Gang of Four?
Voice offstage: Things are better now.
Dieyi and Xiaolou turn to look at each other in disbelief.
Dieyi, slowly, insincerely: Thats for sure, everythings fine now.
Xiaolou: Uh, ah, yes, yes. (as transcribed in Silbergeld 117).

!
The silences, stuttering and significant way in which they turn to look each other seem
on the surface to contradict the notion that things have improved since the Cultural
Revolution. In actual fact, Silbergeld believes that their exaggerated insincerity and unsure
manner is meant to suggest something else to the viewer: a link between their present and
that of post-Tiananmen China and, more specifically, the continuing usage of scapegoats
by the Chinese Government (118).

28

Such implicit critiques and the over-flamboyant imagery of the film have often been
received negatively in China, with many accusing Chen of submitting to Western cultural
hegemony and creating a film for Westerners. Xu has counter-argued that all cinematic
language is in itself language invented by the West and, consequently, there cannot be a
pure Chinese cinema uninfluenced by the West (158). He further argues that, by
categorically rejecting the regressive narrative of history shown in the film (which
contradicts the official progressive orthodox Marxist philosophy of history) and dismissing it
as a strategy to please Western audiences, these critics fail to recognise the potentially
positive effects that opening up the officially controlled Chinese film industry to new voices
could have on Chinese film (179). He goes on to denounce the practice of official
authorities rejecting well-made Chinese cinematic output such as Farewell, while
simultaneously allowing the screening of highly commercialised (and arguably poorer
quality) Western films, seemingly on the basis only of their depiction of sensitive social
issues or historical events. According to Xu, such an attitude highlights the official
reluctance to engage with products that threaten the Chinese Communist Partys officially
established cultural values and historical discourse (160).
Of greater relevance to this paper, Farewell raises a number of questions through its
portrayal of transgenderism and homosexuality. For example, what is the relation between
Dieyis homosexuality and his forced transgenderism/femininity? Is transgenderism a way
of expressing his homosexual desire, or is his homosexuality the result of his identification
with concubine Yu Ji? The different reviews of Farewell contain vastly differing
interpretations and responses, an outcome which Metzger believes reveals the ambiguity
of the treatment of those issues in the film itself (Farewell 229). As one example, Dieyis
homosexuality is never explicitly confirmed, and any homosexual acts, such as between
Dieyi and his patrons, are not captured by the camera but left to the viewers imagination,
inviting them to construct their own meanings. Metzger has argued that, rather than being
29

absent from the film, the bulk of the films homoeroticism is encapsulated in Dieyis and
Xiaolous childhood. Indeed, the film does suggest a close physical relationship between
the two children trough scenes in which they are seen sleeping and bathing together, and
one in particular in which Dieyi licks Xiaolous wound to relieve his stinging. For Metzger,
placing the homoerotic content in the childhood years allows Chen to suggest a
homosexual relationship without offending international viewers, as the idea that children
have any subjective sexuality is near-anathema to American culture (Farewell 221). This
may well be the case, although such an explanation does assume a preoccupation with
Western viewers on the part of Chen which may not have existed. One alternative theory
could be that avoiding scenes of overt homosexuality may have proved crucial in evading
greater official censorship, something that was more likely to be at the forefront of many
directors minds at the time.
Most Western critics concur that the Freudian interpretation of femininity, which
understands the female as the non-man and the female body as a body with a genital
deficiency, is applied throughout the film (J. Lau 23). Dieyis violent process of
psychological gender transformation begins during his childhood in the Warlord era, when
his prostitute mother, in an obvious act of symbolic castration, chops off his supernumerary
finger so that he can be accepted in the opera troupe. Once he is accepted and begins
training as a dan (a female impersonator), he is often physically punished by the instructor
for being unable to remember a particular line: I am by nature a girl, not a boy, mixing up
the terms girl and boy. Later, when Dieyi, dressed and made up as concubine Yu Ji, fails to
remember the aforementioned line in an important performance for a potential patron, a
former imperial eunuch, an angry Xiaolou inserts a smoking pipe in his mouth in a
symbolic act of rape, forcing blood to come out of his mouth. For Lim, the phallic
penetration of the pipe by a male into a male transforms the latter male into a female so
that Dieyi occupies the discursive position of the feminine/feminised and henceforth
30

negotiates his homosexuality as such (75). After this episode Dieyi is able to recite the
line correctly and to secure the patrons patronage. It is not until that moment that he gives
up his efforts to reaffirm his male identity and adopts the role of the concubine Yu Ji, not
only on stage, but also in real life (J. Lau 23). Immediately after this scene, the opera
director agrees to have Dieyi sent to the patron so he can meet him (and eventually rape
him), convinced by the stage manager who tells him The concubine will have to die one
way or the other (Silbergeld 105). After the rape scene, Dieyi finds an abandoned baby on
the street and feels compelled to adopt it. Thus, he becomes a mother and the cycle of
his feminisation is completed (Lim 74). These scenes establish Dieyi as a non-male
character in the eyes of the viewer, symbolically lacking male genitalia and psychologically
subservient to the stronger male characters, especially Xiaolou. Throughout the film, both
Dieyi, essentially castrated, and Juxian, a woman herself, are both shown as submissive
and faithful to Xiaolou, who appears loyal only to himself. Their devotion eventually leads
to their deaths, while Xiaolou himself lives on. As such, Farewell reflects the oppression
imposed on women, homosexuals and transexuals by the patriarchal values that continue
to dominate Chinese culture (Zhang B. 103).
Some critics have denounced the portrayal of homosexuality in Farewell as homophobic
and complicit with heterosexual views on homosexuality. McDougall argues that
homosexuality is shown as something unnatural and perverted. Indeed, out of the three
supposedly homosexual characters in the film, Dieyis transformation in sexuality appears
largely the result of an aggressive process of forced feminisation, the eunuch is shown to
be a paedophile and a rapist, while Yuan Shiqing is portrayed as a decadent and
manipulative pervert. In contrast, Juxian and Xiaolous relationship is portrayed as normal,
and her character appears a positive role model despite her former profession (122).
Similarly, Kaplan believes the film should be criticised for perpetuating negative
stereotypes of homosexuality that associate it with both femininity and childhood traumas.
31

In her view, the homosexual character Yuan Shiqing embodies the archetypal seductive
and effeminate aesthete, while Dieyis defiant sexuality and inability to relate to women are
held to be caused by the trauma of his abandonment by his mother. For her, the film
largely helps perpetuate the stereotype of queerness as a result of over identification with
the mother. (270). Lim agrees that homosexuality and femininity are linked in the film, but
claims that such a strategy is used more to allegorise the inequitable relationship between
powerless artists (such as filmmakers) and the powerful state, as opposed to functioning
as an essential part of homosexual identity. For Lim, the impotent feminised position
established by Chen in Farewell personifies the perceived status of those marginalised by
central power (70).
Lim is not the only author to question the criticisms above. In the opinion of Zhang Benzi
the film is an attempt to give voice to the languagelessness of the homosexual
experience in China. For him, Dieyis deviant sexuality is shown to be connected to his
mothers rape by an old man, with the association between rape and homosexuality in this
case implying that both Dieyi and her mother are violated by a culture that denies
homosexuality and female sexuality (104). In contrast, Silvio argues that Dieyi is not gay
at all, but that his homosexuality exists only as a manifestation of his commitment to both
the mental internalisation of a role and the exteriorisation of that role onto the surface of
the body (187). Indeed, there have been several examples of committed performers
conflating on and off screen identities and such an explanation could ring true for Dieyi,
whose commitment to the role of Yu Ji had been developed both through the imposition of
physical acts of violence and his own fascination with her story. Such a theory also finds
support from the director himself, who has stressed in interviews his own identification with
Dieyis intense commitment to artistic excellence. Like Dieyi, Chen is also a great master
of his art who is unable to separate it from his everyday life, a self-proclaimed workaholic,

32

too busy to have a normal family life (Silbergeld 107). Thus, for both men the attainment of
perfection has served largely to marginalise them from society (McDougall 120).
In conclusion, Chen Kaige creates a visually precious and emotionally moving story
which describes the way in which a talented female impersonator sacrifices his masculinity
in order to achieve artistic excellence. While scholars will continue to interpret this process
in different ways, this paper concurs with those scholars such as Silvio and Lim, who
argue that Dieyis homosexuality was not necessarily intended as a portrait of the gay
experience in 20th century China, but rather as an allegory for the filmmakers commitment
to his art and the feminised and subjugated position of Chinese artists in relation to the
state. Indeed, Dieyis three homosexual encounters are all could all be said to symbolise
the sacrifices necessary for an artist to fully perfect his or her craft. For example, Dieyis
first homosexual encounter with the imperial eunuch marked the completion of the process
in which he succeeded in fully adopting the identity of Yu Ji and became accepted as a
true member of the Beijing opera profession. However, rather than being an occasion for
celebration, it is clear that Dieyis achievement resulted not only in his emasculation, but
also left him at the mercy of several wealthy high-rank patrons, for whom female
impersonators were often expected to be sexually available (Lim 71). Thus, the implication
here may be that artistic dedication and acceptance in China must often come at the cost
of ones independence. Once this process has been completed, the second interaction can
be considered inevitable. Dieyis homoerotic desire for Xiaolou is a natural consequence of
both his internalisation of the role of Yu Ji, given that Xiaolou plays the king of Chu, and
the subjugation he has had to endure to reach this point, leading him to depend on the
powerful male role models who helped create him. Similarly, Dieyi is only able to accept
the sexual patronage of Master Yuan after painting his face with the theatrical makeup
representing the king of Chu (Larson 339). Both interactions arguably represent the
difficulty of resisting the influence of the state once an artist has accepted and committed
33

to their vision of artistic perfection.

!
Lan Yu: Emerging Gay Identities
Hong Kong director Stanley Kwans Lan Yu (), released in 2001, deals with
homosexuality in a way that is radically different from Farewell and other early cinematic
representations of the theme. A Hong Kong-Chinese co-production, the film is an
adaptation of the 1997 novel Beijing Story (Beijing gushi ), which was written and
published online by an anonymous author, with the pen name Beijing Tongzhi.10 The novel
is part of the so called yaoi or tongrenn culture, initiated in Japan and popular throughout
Asia at the time, which produces male homosexual stories aimed at female audiences
(Berry The Chinese Side 35). Beijing Story immediately became the most read novel in
the Chinese gay community, in turn stimulating a new wave of online illicit gay fiction (Leng
16). Stanley Kwans adaptation, filmed illegally without official approval in Beijing, caused
controversy for its inclusion of the Tiananmen Incident in the plot, raw portrayal of male
sexuality and depiction of corruption (Friess). Although it was not officially released in
China, the combination of international funding and a crew with knowledge of the local
Chinese film industry proved effective in avoiding censorship (Lim 40). Moreover, it was
well received internationally, obtaining five awards at the 2001 Golden Horse Awards and
being screened in major festivals such as Sundance and Cannes.
The story is set in Beijing and spans a decade between the 1980s and the 1990s. It
explores the love story between Handong (Jun Hu), a successful businessman son of a
Party official, and Lan Yu (Ye Liu), an architecture student from a rural area in the North
East of China, who is forced to work as a Money Boy to support himself. Far removed from
the spectacular theatricality of Farewell, or the aesthetic refinement of Wong Kar Wais
Happy Together (, 1997), Lan Yu is a small and intimate melodrama about the

10

The novel is available in Chinese on http://www.shuku.net/novels/beijing/beijing.html and in English on

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/beginnings/beijing-story/ (accessed on 17/07/2014).

34

ups and downs of a relationship between two men, and about coming to terms with ones
sexuality. The story is discrete, almost mundane, emphasising the normality of
homosexual relations.
Despite the title, it is Handong that is the central character of the film, and the narrative
follows his changing feelings for Lan Yu. Much like Farewell, the film starts where it ends,
on the day Lan Yu dies. After Handongs voice on a black screen informs us that Lan Yu
has been dead for three years, the first scene shows Lan Yu shaving and getting ready for
work on the day of his death, with Handong sleeping in the background. The central part of
the film is formed by Handongs memories of their relationship, told in the form of a
prolonged flashback. Lan Yu is hired by Handong as a prostitute and they spend the night
together. From that point, they embark on an intermittent relationship in which Lan Yu
receives presents (money, expensive clothes, a car, and eventually a luxurious villa) and
becomes Handongs protg. Despite accepting these gifts, Lan Yus feelings for Handong
are genuine and not based on any materialist interest. However, Handong is unwilling to
commit the relationship and starts seeing other men. When Lan Yu finds out the couple
separate. A few months later, in June 1988, Handongs brother-in-law, a government
official, reveals to Handong that the police are planning that night on clearing Tiananmen
Square, where the student protests are taking place, and warns him that he spotted Lan
Yu among the demonstrators. This episode forces Handong to acknowledge his feelings
for Lan Yu, and the couple revive their relationship, moving together to a villa in the
outskirts of Beijing. However, Handong soon decides to fulfil his filial duty and marry his
interpreter, leaving Lan Yu heartbroken. Handongs marriage is eventually unsuccessful
and they subsequently divorce. While the reasons for their divorce are never shown on
screen or explained, the viewer is lead to believe that Handongs inability to forget Lan Yu
may have been a contributing factor. A few years later, Handong runs into Lan Yu, who
now works in a construction company, and manages to invite himself for dinner, after
35

which the couple once again revive their relationship. However, shortly after Lan Yu
discovers that Handongs company is in legal trouble and that Handong will soon be
imprisoned on charges of money-laundering. In order to free his lover from prison, Lan Yu
sells his villa and all of Handongs gifts to him, using the resulting money and his own
savings to pay a bribe. Following this sacrifice, Handong is eventually ready to reciprocate
Lan Yus feelings for him and the couple finally find happiness However, Lan Yu is
suddenly killed in a construction accident, leaving Handong heartbroken. The final scene
of the film shows Handong driving past the construction site, three years after the accident,
still grieving over Lan Yus death.
Although the plot includes many of the typical elements of a romantic melodrama, the
conventional melodramatic narrative appears somewhat disrupted (Chan 155). Indeed,
changes in time are often signalled only by subtle and barely perceptible details, such as
the size of mobile phones, different fashions, cars or the changing of the seasons, which
has lead some reviewers to describe the film as confusing (Curnutte, Fries). The sense of
disruption is also apparent in the erasure or withholding of significant dramatic moments
that are never fully portrayed on screen. Chan argues that this strategy deflects focus from
the melodramatic nature of the story to the quotidian character of the gay relationship
(144). Stanley Kwan himself confirmed his use of disruption in Lan Yu, explaining that time
lapses and omissions within the narrative were intended to create a space where
audiences can make their own connections and inferences (Ng). One example of this is
Handongs marriage, to which the film only dedicates one scene. Here, the two newlyweds
have the following conversation while preparing for their wedding pictures:

!
Jingping: Everything settled?
Handong: Settle what?

36

Jingping: Nothing special. But if you have any unresolved emotional business,
please dont bring it home with you.
Handong: Emotional business? Your imagination is running wild.
Jingping: Not imagination, female intuition. Handong, you cant fool me. Were both
adults. Everyone has a past. (As transcribed in Chan 156).

!
Instead of portraying the disintegration of the marriage according to typical
melodramatic tradition, with this scene Kwan hints the couples future problems in a subtle
way (Chan 156). A further example of this can be found in the scene in which Handong
goes out into the streets to look for Lan Yu during the Tiananmen protests. Despite the
dramatic potential of the events, any violence and chaos are merely hinted at. The viewer
can observe bicycles speeding past Handongs car and away from the square, the sound
of distant shots and the blood on Lan Yus shirt, but there is little of the graphic political
melodrama that could be expected when the personal merges with the political in a public
space, such as when the opera troupe is taken out into the streets during the Cultural
Revolution in Farewell (Chan 158). That the experience may have been traumatic is
reflected only in Lan Yus desperate tears when the two are back in his room, although in
the very next scene the two of them are shown in a new car, driving and joking, as if the
incident had never happened. The focus was thus on the immediate effects of the events
on the relationship between the two men, rather than their wider implications on society.
Indeed, for Chan, this reference to the Tiananmen Incident could have implied a critique of
the Chinese government and its political repression against students, but the omission of
the actual conflict on screen; that is, the disruption of the expected melodramatic structure,
deflects the attention away from the political drama and transfers its effects onto the
personal emotional space, and onto the political goal of the demonstrators, and perhaps
also of the main characters, to live a happy life in a society free from oppression (158).
37

It is precisely for this emphasis on quotidianity and the intimate space that Lan Yu is
original in its representation of homosexuality. There appears to be nothing exceptional in
Lan Yu and Handongs relationship, a fact which is emphasised by repeated references to
mundane aspects of life, such as the shampoo used by Lan Yu. Homosexuality is only
problematised through Handongs inability to reciprocate Lan Yus commitment in their
relationship. This is not because he refuses to acknowledge his gay orientation, but
because, unlike Lan Yu, he refuses to let his sexual orientation guide his life choices,
perhaps prejudiced by the society in which he was raised. The closer Handong gets to Lan
Yu emotionally, the more effort he makes to deny his feelings. Despite that, he repeatedly
goes back to Lan Yu, with each of their re-encounters marked by an intense and emotional
embrace (Eng 460). In this way, the film reflects the evolution in mentality between
different generations. For the older Handong, marrying and having a child is an obligation
which does not interfere with his sexuality; in his words, it is not a big deal, whereas for
Lan Yu they imply disloyalty.
According to Eng, Handong also represents the emerging modern capitalist class (475),
whereas Lan Yu encapsulates conflated notions of the Marxist premodern hoarder and
the modern political dissenter (478). The logic of capitalist circulation directs the way
Handong relates to Lan Yu, conceiving their relationship in terms of a business
transaction. Handong uses his assets (gifts) in exchange for Lan Yus affection, a logic
which allows him to avoid commitment and the responsibility of emotional attachment
(475). However, Lan Yu rejects the accepted logic of capitalist circulation and, although he
does accept Handongs gifts, he does so for their emotional value rather than for their
exchange value. The only moment when he actually uses the gifts is when he sells them
to obtain the bribe that frees Handong from prison, thus resolving the narrative crisis (479).
As such, both characters are forced to learn a lesson about the inseparability of emotional
value and exchange value (479).
38

Eng has also brought attention to the extensive use of mirrors, windows and door
frames in Lan Yu. For example, in one scene set in Lan Yus house, Handong stands by
the kitchen door facing towards the kitchen, where Lan Yu is preparing dinner. The kitchen
and Lan Yu are visible to the viewer only through their reflection in a large mirror to the
right of the frame. Eng believes that the mirror was used here not only to bring together the
two separated spaces, but also to reunite the characters occupying them. For him, the
numerous shots in which Lan Yu and Handong appear to the viewer separated by frame,
but united through mirror reflections, unfold a space and time dissonant to conventional
protocols of Western visual representation and traditional understandings of modernity,
revealing a discrepant modernity which he considers to be the queer space of
China (462). This concept of queer space is not limited to the validation of emergent
divergent sexual identities, but is also used to evaluate a wider political area: that of
historical continuities and ruptures among Chinas (semi)colonial past, its revolutionary
aspirations for a socialist modernity, and its contemporary investments in a neoliberal
capitalist world order (462).
In a melodramatic turn of events, the film ends with the abrupt death of Lan Yu at a time
when Handong had finally come to terms with his gay identity and the couple had
seemingly achieved a balance. Although such a tragic ending might not be considered
unusual in a melodrama, the homosexuality of Lan Yu arguably adds new and alternative
dimensions and interpretations. For Eng, Lan Yus death as a homosexual could have
been intended to bestow on him a number of different roles: as the melancholic figure of
the lonely homosexual who has no place in modern China, and thus must be sacrificed; as
the representative of a new and bright (democratic) Chinese modernity yet to come; as the
remainder of a primitive, premodern culture on the verge of disappearing; as a
representative of the socialist past, which is destined to be erased by neoliberal progress
or as a critical allegory for the exploitation of migrant labourers in large cities at the hands
39

of neoliberal capitalism (481). However, his tragic demise may not contain such complex
meaning. Instead, it may have been more a product of the stage in which cinematic
homosexual representation was situated at the time (Chan 160). This will be examined in
further detail in the conclusion to this paper, following the analysis of the final of the three
films.

!
Cui Zien and The Old Testament: Deconstructing Aesthetic Conventions
Cui Zien is an openly-gay Chinese filmmaker, novelist, scholar, columnist and a
research fellow in the Film Research Institute of the Beijing Film Academy. Unlike the
previous filmmakers discussed in this paper, he has been an outspoken activist for the gay
rights movement since the 1990s, and is one of the organisers of the Beijing Queer Film
Festival (Tse 18). As the first gay mainland Chinese filmmaker whose entire filmography
deals with homosexual and queer themes, his films are essential for both the emerging
gay movement and scholars interested in queer representation. His experimental, avantgarde films have no official distribution in China, but are still circulated through
underground circles, illegal internet downloads and the unauthorised DVD market, as well
as in international festivals. Through his deliberate attempts to circulate his films
internationally, as well as his activism, Cui is arguably promoting the membership of the
Chinese gay community to the global queer community (Tse 4).
Cui Zien is a prolific filmmaker, producing several film projects a year, the most
renowned of which being: Men and Women (nannan nn , 1999), Enter the
Clowns (Choujiao dengchang , 2002), The Old Testament (Jiu yue , 2002),
Feeding Boys, Ayaya (Ayaya qu buru , 2003), Night Scene (Yejing ,
2003), Star Appeal (Xingxing xiang xi xi , 2004), My Fair Son (Wo ruhua si yu
de erzi , 2005) and Queer China, Comrade China (Zhi tongzhi ,
2008). Of these, this paper will analyse The Old Testament, which represents well the
40

experimental nature of his films. Before doing so however, it is worth providing a more indepth overview of Cui as a director, including his particular style and the common themes
in his work, given that so much of his output is directly relevant to the topic discussed here.
Cuis raw style, his humorous appropriation of mainstream cultural elements and his
subversion of the gay experience within a homophobic culture have been compared by
Chris Berry to the works of pre-Stonewall filmmakers such as Anger or Smith (The
Sacred 200). For him, Cuis works are animated by an unholy trinity of themes: the
sacred, the profane, and the domestic; that is, religion (Cui was born in a Christian family
and is an adherent), sexuality and kinship (196). With the exception of the documentary
Queer China, Comrade China, which represents a break from his previous narrative style,
the remainder of Cuis films feature two common elements: his rough aesthetics, which will
be discussed below, and the character of Xiao Bo. Leung has argued that Xiao Bo is not a
coherent character, but a marker to highlight the intratextual connections within his films.
This intratextuality invites the viewer to read Cuis films as a body of work, rather than as
individual unrelated films, thus helping consolidate him as a queer auteur (529). Yet, in an
interview with Wang Qi, Cui has denied that his films belong to a single series, and has
stated that none of these films have intentional links between them. Xiao Bo is just a
symbol; he represents an external, superficial link at most (The Ruin 189).
As a queer activist, his films explore plural and fluid queer identities, often including not
only homosexual, but also trans-gendered (Enter the Clowns) and even trans-terrestrial
(Star Appeal) characters (Wang, Embodied 667). However, in his films these identities
are not problematised as in the previous films analysed, but rather normalised to
deconstruct Chinese heteronormativity, its value system and its kinship structure (Leung
530). Cuis queer representations break with previous stereotypical cinematic
representations of homosexuals as either people with abnormal desires, or victims, such
as Lan Yu in Lan Yu or Dieyi in Farewell, as his gay and transsexual characters appear to
41

be at ease with their sexuality and their choice of lives (Zhou 127). Even though explicit
male nakedness is a constant in his films, the homosexual body is not objectified or
exoticised, but rather is often presented in an unflattering manner, defying the conventions
of posing and lighting that contribute to its sexualisation (Zhou 135). Regarding this topic,
Cui has stated the following:

!
Im aware that many queer films emphasize [sic] on aesthetics, sexual desire
etc. I intentionally work against this trend of queer cinema that gradually evokes
your sexual desire first and then satisfy [sic] you (Zheng).

In my films, hardcore gay sex is never what Im interested in. Thats catering to
others voyeuristic desires, I think. Instead, Im more interested in discovering
and revealing the relationship between gay lovers, how they deal with each
other, what their sense of responsibility is, and so on (Wang, The Ruin 183).

!
This is not to say that sexual desire is completely absent from Cuis works. On the
contrary, the de-objectification of the body, together with his experimental aesthetics
and minimal mise-en-scne, plot and dialogue serve to highlight the rawness and
normality of the queer body (Zhou 135). Representing queer characters as everyday,
run-of-the-mill people allows Cui to focus attention on the development of their
relationships with other homosexual and heterosexual characters and the ways in which
they interact with one another (Tse 29).
Unsurprisingly, given their queer subject matter, his films cannot be commercialised
in China, with neither domestic market value nor investment potential (Zhou 126). His
low-budget films are usually funded by himself or small investors and produced at
minimal expense, employing professional and non-professional actors who are usually
42

his friends (Tse 22). The absence of pressure to satisfy funders, audiences or boxoffices allows Cui much greater freedom to produce experimental films that need not be
accessible or profitable. His aim is not to satisfy the expectations of the audience, as
can be seen by his demanding style, but to satisfy his own creative and philosophical
anxieties (Zheng). Cui makes films for himself, which has lead scholars such as Yue to
state that he despises the audience (98). By deliberately deconstructing established film
conventions, he creates his own aesthetic style: minimal plot, slow and disjointed
narrative and dialogue, long takes with little depth of field, abrupt transitions between
takes, minimal mise-en-scne, lighting and make-up, and unsteady camerawork (Yue
99, Zhou 132). These aesthetic choices produce a cinematic language that is unusual,
demanding and tedious, and that goes contrary to the viewing habits of most
conventional audiences. Indeed, his films have even been catalogued by some as
offensive (Zhou 132). However, it could be argued that this dismantling of film
conventions should be understood as an essential part of his queer rebellion against
heteronormativity and his spirit of political defiance, rather than a disregard or
detestation for his audience. In this way, Cui can be seen as the antithesis of Chen
Kaiges self-portrayal as Dieyi, as he is free from the ideological and financial ties of the
official mainstream film industry, while in his output he appears to prioritise quantity over
artistic excellence. The result of this is that his films can be considered lower quality in
terms of aesthetics and narrative style, although such inferior cinematography remains
interesting in that it reflects a greater freedom of experimentation and self-expression
unavailable to mainstream filmmakers such as Chen Kaige.
Given the lack of funding available to him, as well as his somewhat unconventional style
and controversial choice of themes, Cui Ziens emergence as a queer filmmaker arguably
owes much to new emergent technologies, in particular Digital Video, which has promoted
the democratic, accessible and affordable production of film. In the aftermath of the
43

Tiananmen Incident, this new technology was a key element in the emergence of a new
generation of filmmakers, often referred to as the Urban Generation or the Sixth
Generation, who broke away from the grand visual style and the thematic concerns of the
Fifth Generation. Cuis works should be understood within the context of the Urban
Generation for their low budget, gritty style (Tse 21), as well as in the context of New
Queer Cinema for their queer thematics which challenge heteronormativity (Zhou 126).
The use of DV technology allows Cui to film in private spaces, escaping the control of the
state and the eyes of the public, and allows him self-sufficiency for the entirety of the film
production process, granting the freedom necessary to explore queer themes and engage
with social issues concerning homosexuality and transgenderism (Zhou 129). Despite the
further development of video technology and the popularisation of HD cameras, Cui
remains loyal to basic DV cameras, as he aims to, in his words, show the dust of Beijing
Station, not a perfect visual experience made up with artificial light (Zheng). Basic DV
cameras provide the rough quality that, in his opinion, better reflects the developed China
of today.
Modern technology, in particular the emergence of internet streaming and smartphones,
has also played a crucial role in the distribution of Cuis films. Yue highlights the immense
popularity in China of the so-called lightweight videos screened on smartphones, which
can be seen through the proliferation and success of lightweight video hosting websites
such as Tudou (99). Yue has argued that the limitations of this new screening mode (the
size of the screen, poor-quality audio and limited bandwidth) have transformed the DV film
cultures and have forced filmmakers to adapt both the narrative and aesthetics of their
films by using simpler plots, less dialogue and fewer characters, as well as close-up shots
and slow and fast cutting editing techniques (100).
This adaptation to smaller screens was already noticeable in his early film The Old
Testament (2002). This work is composed of three sections, each named after a biblical
44

reference and a date.11 The first, Song of Solomon 2001, portrays the conflicts
experienced by a gay couple after one of them, Xiao Bo (Bo Yu), decides to take in a
former lover who suffers from AIDS and take care of him. Unable to accept the situation,
Xiao Bos partner leaves him but lets him keep the flat they live in. After a while, Xiao Bo
is forced to sell the flat to pay for his friends treatment, but he is unable to find a buyer.
Eventually, he resorts to prostituting himself in order to help his friend. In the final scene,
a choir composed of Cui Zien himself, as well as other actors who star in the film,
informs the viewer that after that [Xiao Bo] goes abroad, to the Kingdom of Heaven,
suggesting his death. The second part of the film, Proverb 1991, tells the story of the
reunion between Xiao Hao (Hao Meng) and Da Yu (Xiaoyu Yu), following an unspecified
period of separation due to Da Yus marriage to a woman. When Da Yu goes to Xiao
Haos flat and informs him that he is now divorced, proposing also that they resume
their relationship, Xiao Hao agrees and throws out his partner. However, Xiao Hao soon
discovers that Da Yu is still married and threatens him with a cleaver in order to force
the couple to sign the divorce papers. They still refuse to sign the document, but Da Yu
does consent to marry Xiao Hao in a private ceremony. However, having been seen
acting affectionately with Da Yu in public, Xiao Hao is fired from his job and the couple
is forced to move in with Da Yus wife. The problems portrayed here in having ones
homosexuality publicly revealed could arguably reflect Cuis own personal experiences,
after he was demoted by the Beijing Film Academy subsequent to declaring his
sexuality openly. In his own words, before coming out I was someone - because I was
a writer, a filmmaker and a teacher. From the moment I revealed my homosexuality,
there was repression (Cui Zien Interview). In the final scene, the choir appears again
and informs the viewer that, eventually, Xiao Hao died. The final and longest section is
Psalm 1981. Here, Xiao Bo (again Bo Yu) is a university student who lives with his older
11

The version of the film utilised for the purposes of this paper is available online on http://v.youku.com/
v_show/id_XOTM2MTE3ODA=.html. However, in alternative versions of the film, it should be noted that the
three episodes appear in the opposite order to that described here.

45

brother and sister-in-law. While his boyfriend was visiting, the sister-in-law learns about
their gay relationship. Deeply worried about Xiao Bos homosexuality, the couple decide
to arrange a forced marriage for him. Xiao Bo attempts to resist and run away with his
boyfriend, but when he reveals these intentions to his brother, the latter threatens to
commit suicide if the younger sibling carries out the plan. Once again, the final scene
reveals the choir, who informs the viewer that Xiao Bo got married and had a child, and
eventually died in his sick bed.
Despite the narratives evident adaptation for the small screen audience, The Old
Testament has a tedious narrative rhythm and unconventional and dizzying aesthetics,
as well as an unpleasant soundtrack. These features arguably render the film more
inaccessible to viewers, thus serving to limit its potential impact on larger Chinese
society. However, the interest value of the film perhaps lies more in the issues it raises,
which reflect the reality and preoccupations of mainland Chinese homosexuals in the
modern China of the final two decades of the twentieth century (1981 to 2001); namely,
those of forced marriage, gay marriage, AIDS and coming out, as well as homophobic
behaviour in the family and the workplace. All three stories contain two common
elements, a homosexual love story and the death of one main character (revealed by
the choir), but deal with differing aspects of homosexual life in China. In Song of
Solomon 2001, the sacrifices made by Xiao Bo to care for his HIV infected ex-partner
reflect the heavy burdens of responsibility often carried by those in homosexual
relationships. The lengths to which he is forced to go could also be considered as an
implied criticism of the ineptitude and inefficiency of the Chinese healthcare system in
treating and caring for marginalised groups of the population infected by AIDS. Proverb
1991 deals with the conflicted feelings of a bisexual individual and suggests the
possibility of polyamorous relationships and gay marriages. Finally, Psalm 1981 deals
with the ubiquitous issues of filial duty and obedience to ones elders, highlighting the
46

excessive pressure this can place on the lives of homosexual individuals. This third and
final section could be interpreted as a denunciation of the ignorance of mainstream
society towards homosexuality, which has done much to establish the predominant
homophobic attitudes and prolong negative stigmas. The final scene of the film shows a
young man cleaning an unidentified Christian gravestone and performing the sign of the
cross in front of it. This character is not clearly visible and thus could represent any of
the partners of the dead main characters, Xiao Hao or any of the two Xiao Bos. Despite
its central theme of death, Chen holds that The Old Testament must not be interpreted
as a gloomy allegory of the homosexuals destiny. Instead, he proposes watching the
film in conjunction with Cuis Enter the Clowns, released in the same year. For him, the
latter films subversion of established sexual identities represents the New Testament,
which invariably follows the Old Testament, and opens up a pathway to a new future in
which society has a changed attitude towards homosexuality (80).

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47

Chapter 6: Conclusion
This paper provides an introduction to gay representation in Chinese cinema through
the analysis of a variety of aspects of homosexual identities and cultures in three films.
While further research, expanding on the selection of films analysed and including lesbian
representation, as well as a wider range of sub-genres, such as documentaries, TV shows
and web series, would be welcomed in order to provide a more complete picture, the three
films discussed here should nevertheless provide a solid basis for interested scholars.
Each production arguably broke new ground in its representation of homosexuals on
screen, as well as (perhaps inadvertently) reflecting the evolving visibility of homosexuals
in urban Chinese society. Farewell is notable as the first mainland Chinese film to
stimulate a discussion on homosexuality, although, as mentioned above, the theme may
have been used more as a metaphor than a vehicle for social change or debate. Lan Yu
was more stark in its representation of gay sexuality and relationships, as well as
commenting on the difficulties

in coming out experienced by homosexuals in China.

Finally, The Old Testament and other films by Cui Zien have gone a step further in their
portrayal of homosexuality by using it to subvert Chinas strict patriarchal and
heteronormative values, and to openly censure the marginalised status of homosexuals in
China.
While these films have positively contributed to gay representation, their impact on
Chinese society has been limited by a number of factors. The effects of strict state
censorship have greatly constricted potential audience sizes for both Lan Yu and The Old
Testament, as has the inaccessible cinematography of the latter, limiting viewership to a
relatively small band of dedicated, intrepid or personally and intellectually invested
individuals and groups. Another limiting factor is the consistent reiteration of negative
themes such as concern with social and familial pressures to get married, loss of control of

48

ones life, male prostitution and death of the gay main character.12 While the repetition of
these themes has been interpreted as a criticism of the negative impact of homophobic
attitudes on the lives of homosexuals, it could also be argued that the utilisation of such
negative narratives reinforces the status quo by not providing any positive role models
able to breath new life into cinematic gay representation. If Chinese filmmakers are to be
successful in both fairly representing the increasing political and cultural relevance of
homosexuality in Chinese society and contributing to a more tolerant attitude, a move
beyond the current stage towards a more positive and unconventional representation will
be necessary. As Chinas economy and society develops further, it remains to be seen
whether the treatment of gayness in Chinese film will follow a similar trajectory to that of
American film, with its more open and positive treatment of alternative sexualities.

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12

This phenomenon is not exclusive of Chinese cinema. Russo has discussed a trend of American
film in the 1960s in which gay characters irreversibly found a tragic ending.

49

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Filmography

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Crystal Boys [Chinese: ]. Dir. Yu Kan-ping. Award Films,1986. VHS.
Enter the Clowns [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2002. DVD.
Farewell My Concubine [Chinese: ]. Dir. Chen Kaige. Miramax Films, 1993. DVD.
Feeding Boys, Ayaya [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2003.
DVD.
Happy Together [Cantonese: ]. Dir. Wong Kar Wai. Kino International, 1997. DVD.
Men and Women [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 1999. DVD.
My Fair Son [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2005. DVD.
Night Scene [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2003. DVD.
Lan Yu [Chinese: ]. Dir. Stanley Kwan. Yongning Creative Workshop, 2001. DVD.
Queer China, Comrade China [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2008.
DVD.
Star Appeal [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2004. DVD.
The Eighth Station A.K.A. Before Down [Chinese: ]. Dir. Fok Yiu-leung. 1984. VHS.
The Old Testament [Chinese: ]. Dir. Cui Zien. Dgenerate Films, 2002. Online video.
The Wedding Banquet [Chinese: ]. Dir Ang Lee. The Samuel Goldwyn Company,
1993.DVD.
Yang Yin: Gender in Chinese Cinema [Cantonese: :]. Dir.
Stanley Kwan. British Film Institute, 1996. Online Video.
Yellow Earth [Chinese: ]. Dir. Chen kaige. Guangxi Film Studio, 1988. VHS.

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