An Unfinished Film

I CANNOT STOP CRYING. The film is only not longer than 2 hours but that really is a mere documentary of the very start and the followed 3 years of worse than hell we've actually been thru. We may have moved on now but THAT 3 YEARS of pure oppression and suffering is not to be forgiven and forgotten. The girl that cried for her mom following the ambulance carrying her mom's body to cremation without being allowed to see her one last time. The girl locked in the building whose mom jumped out of the window was just lying right outside, and she was not allowed to come out. The fire, the people who cannot escape for the building was locked with chains. And the fact that you are not even allowed to talk about any of it.

Just finished watching An Unfinished Film in the cinema. As a film that is prohibited from being screened in mainland China, it's actually quite restrained in its portrayal. The scene where the crew reunites and toasts as the song "Twilight" plays is both peaceful and poignant; the melody and lyrics feel so powerful.

When you think about it, what has Lou Ye captured in this film? Nothing more than documentation. The camera is honest, and the person holding it is not afraid of being blacklisted. A literally unfinished film, a banned old song-woven together, they fight against a memory that is fading and constantly redefined. Though the viewing experience was a bit traumatic, I don't regret it at all; I found it meaningful. Thank you, Lou Ye.

This experimental film draws its essence from temporal dislocation-repurposing old movie footage and blending it with newly shot material to form a new narrative. The resulting intertwining of timelines creates a hazy, dreamlike atmosphere. Especially under the shadow of the pandemic, it pulls the audience into this suspended space where time and memory dissolve into one.

The frequent use of phone-shot footage embedded within the cinematic frame adds a layer of realism, though it also feels jarring-hovering somewhere between documentary and fiction. The dramatic tension reaches its peak under themes of lockdown and conflict, evoking a collective memory. Viewers are transported back to that surreal period.

Though the film may not reach a wide audience, it stands as a vital visual record of an extraordinary time. The dialogue often references things invisible to the audience, leaving them amused or confused-like the director's private jokes or self-mockery. Still, the existence of this film ensures that one day, someone will watch it. And that alone is enough.

I had long heard of this film and rushed to see it as soon as it screened in London. As the film says, how tragic it is to finish a movie that can't be shown. But during a masterclass, the director said he simply forgot-forgot that filming here wasn't allowed, forgot about censorship. He just filmed what they wanted to film, and only afterward did they think about how to solve the problems.

"All your life, you search for a reason to love the land beneath your feet. But what does the greatness defined by others mean to you?" What moved me the most were the real documentary footage and the ending theme. Turns out, I haven't forgotten anything after all. While the film's value lies more in its social reality than in its artistic form, I'm grateful to see directors like Lou Ye still documenting what truly happens in China.

It reminds me of Zheng Yuanjie's novel The Pegasus Bus that I read as a child. A new bus encountered citywide gridlock on its very first trip. The driver adhered rigidly to the rule 'no opening doors before reaching a stop,' refusing to let passengers disembark. The traffic jam lasted twelve years, with the government air-dropping supplies by helicopter to sustain those trapped. Passengers got married, had children, formed organizations, and even apprehended lawbreakers onboard. A new generation grew up within the sealed bus, regarding it as their 'whole world.' Now that I think about it, are we really so different from those living on that bus?