As I sit down for tea with animator Zhang Xiaotao in his Beijing studio, he talks excitedly about the development he’s witnessed in the animated works coming out of mainland China — progress that mirrors the rapid development of the country itself. “In today’s experimental Chinese animation,” he says, “one really important aspect is the focus on what’s happening in society today, and the changes that are taking place in our cities. From the start, these topics have been a focus for my work.”
When Western audiences think of East Asian animation, Studio Ghibli and other Japanese anime is probably the first thing that comes to mind. And with good reason: Japanese animated film and TV has been a driving force in the industry for decades. But East Asia’s first ever feature-length animation — the 1941 classic Princess Iron Fan — was actually created in China. And ever since, Chinese animation has been on the frontier of innovation in the medium, from paper cutouts to puppets to ink-and-water animation. Communist China’s meishupian — literally, “fine art films” — were by and large produced by the state-owned Shanghai Animation Film Studio. These animations were designed to showcase Chinese aesthetics and technology both at home and abroad, combining traditional art forms and Western technology with often breathtaking results.
However, things have changed since Mainland China’s reform and opening, the post-1978 period when China began re-establishing diplomatic and trade ties with the Western world. Since then, animation — like everything else — has undergone a rapid transformation. With the turn of the millennium and the rise of digital media, a new generation of Chinese animators has begun exploring themes and using techniques which would have been unimaginable a few decades ago. International influences abound, from Japanese anime like Akira and Ghost in the Shell to the video art of Bill Viola and Nam June Paik.
Crossing boundaries between local and global, digital and analogue, and fantasy and reality, this new animation isn’t just about folk tales for children. It’s also a powerful medium to help audiences understand what is happening in their country today. Their work reveals a whole new set of preoccupations, at the forefront of which is China’s breakneck urbanization and modernization. Chinese animation, once groundbreaking but held back by the tumult of China’s 20th century, is beginning to find its feet again thanks to the creativity and dedication of a new generation of creators — but their challenges are far from over.
For many creatives, animation is the best way to explore and address this phenomenon. Animator Bu Hua was first drawn to the art form due to its convenience and versatility. “All you need is one person or a small team and you can make it,” she says. “With a digital paintbrush, you can do whatever you want.” No need for a big team, location shooting, or massive gallery space—with some software and an Internet connection, art can be shared instantly, which is how Bu Hua found an audience for her first animations in the early days of Flash. This is a sentiment echoed by many of China’s independent animators. Digital animation techniques give them an unequalled freedom of expression.
Bu’s animations often touch on her own life experiences and the way that she sees the world. Works such as “Maomao’s Summer” and “Savage Growth” powerfully visualize an individual perspective on decades of sweeping change. Asked if China’s urbanization affected her work, Bu says that “there has definitely been a direct impact, because we are all products of our environment…. I don’t think that animation has to directly show the image of the city itself — like the buildings, the cars — if these these things aren’t portrayed, the work still contains their impression…. If [my animations] don’t directly describe city life, the things that I make still come from a city person, and reflect the fantasies and imagination of an urbanite.”
And what fantasies! Bu’s works are full of surreal symbolism, from giant hooded figures to white hands which fly like birds. She draws on a rich variety of aesthetic sources ranging from the work of South African animator William Kentridge to her own father’s traditional woodblock prints. “Transcending reality is the most powerful weapon of animation,” she says. “It can portray things that don’t exist in real life, things that would be difficult to capture on film.”
Bu’s not interested in cities themselves so much as the people who live in them—“the more important theme is human nature,” she explains, citing as an example “the feelings of being human (natural) in a city (sociality).” This is where animation comes into its own. Without real-world limitations, it can portray those complicated experiences in ways that live-action film can’t.
Even when those experiences verge on trauma, these animators don’t shy away from tackling difficult subject matter. From Pi San’s bitingly satirical viral videos to Liu Jian’s bleak, violent urban thrillers, independent animators aren’t afraid to be candid about the growing pains China has faced over recent decades.
Zhang sees this as an important part of his work. “I’m not a commercial director,” he says. “I’m a contemporary artist. So I should be more sharp and more extreme.” He sees animation as the avant garde, and isn’t afraid to take his own work seriously as a place for experimentation and criticism. In the past he’s taken on subjects as weighty as the Sichuan earthquake, the Chongqing steel industry, the pressures of the Gaokao high school examination system, and the destruction of China’s temples.
But Zhang doesn’t dismiss the playful side of animation, either. His recent short, The Adventure of Liangliang, created in collaboration with his young son, is a rollercoaster ride through their shared visual imagination. In it, the hero, Liangliang, travels from his classroom to a Song dynasty landscape painting via a crowded train station—all within the space of ten minutes.
The union of different media is a key aspect of Zhang’s animation: “[Animation] is not closed. I think it’s opened, it’s a future medium [sic]…a laboratory for the media of the future. So I’m not too worried about…whether or not it’s ‘animation,’ ‘installation,’ ‘interactive’…. I think that the most important thing is that new ideas and new language should be part of its concepts and methods.”
Bold and visually fascinating as these works are, I had to ask myself: are they relevant beyond the small circuit of academics, festival-goers, and animation nerds (like myself) who actively seek them out? I, for one, would argue yes: many of these animators’ works are distributed directly to online audiences, and have been viewed thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of times. Bu, whose works have gone viral in the past, is generous with her audiences, both national and international: “If anyone can understand or find interest in my animation, then I’m happy. I don’t require them to have any particular knowledge.”
Beyond exhibition spaces, animators participate in commercial projects too, creating animation for popular web series or publicity campaigns. “It is good to have diversified platforms,” explained one animator, who asked to remain anonymous, and whose sleek, futuristic visuals have been featured everywhere from contemporary art galleries to national advertising campaigns. “I think it is a natural thing that a person’s digital work would be showed in different platforms.”
These works are also important for Western audiences because they offer a fresh perspective on what it means to live in Mainland China today. Liu Jian’s latest animated feature, Have a Nice Day, for example, has enjoyed more success abroad than perhaps any other Chinese animation this decade. It was featured on popular film subscription service Mubi and has been screened across the UK and Europe. Irreverent animators like Liu use the medium as a powerful satirical tool for making sense of a rapidly developing reality that feels, at times, overwhelming. “Basically I don’t have much outside urban life,” says the animator who asked to remain anonymous, “and I always stay at home. The buildings out there are quite dense and make me feel uncomfortable… Lots of them are being constructed right now. The structures like a giant net, which makes me feel stressed. Sometimes, these feelings can contribute to the idea of art.”
It’s not all quite so bleak, however. Animations like Lei Lei’s “Big Hands Oh Big Hands” and Sun Yunfan’s “Mung Bean Mash” burst with life and humor. Their post-digital hand-made aesthetics, too, create a powerful immediacy, even when we’re viewing them from the other side of the world.
Many artists still deplore what they perceive as the inferiority of Chinese animation, frustrated by the lack of support and mainstream recognition domestically—as well as continued censorship. Chinese animated TV programming and cinema blockbusters remain lackluster, although there has been improvement year by year. Independent Chinese animators are innovating and breaking new ground, but the lack of an established infrastructure to support their endeavours has limited the sustained growth of the field.
Some critics and practitioners argue that in the early years of the 2000s, new software and online platforms allowed for a wave of relatively unregulated creativity which has now passed — with little or nothing replacing it. Bu Hua, for example, is cautious when describing the state of contemporary independent Chinese animation. “It’s too scarce, so everything that gets made is valuable. Before, animation formed a flourishing ecosystem, with good and bad mixed up together, but the talent would reveal itself…. Now it feels like there isn’t so much animation and moving images around.’
Creative restrictions, a lack of recognition amongst Chinese audiences, and limited financial support can be discouraging for creators. Are these setbacks a blip in an upward trajectory, or the beginning of the end for Chinese animation? Personally, I’m hoping for the former. After all, there are plenty more stories to tell, and brilliant animators ready to tell them — despite the uphill struggle. “Contemporary Chinese society offers up many heart-warming stories. It also presents many worrying questions,” Chinese animation critic Yang Xiaolin commented, in a piece for a 2017 conference. “When audiences watch animations they hope to see magic, to see wonders, but they also hope to see reality, to see their own circumstances—[to see something] that will encourage them in their own lives, and give them confidence about the future.”
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