Talking
'Bout Their Generations One
of China's hottest young directors and his filmmaker father find
that they might not be as far apart as they had imagined
John Stanmeyer for TIME. Hot director Zhang Yang, 33, and his filmmaker father Zhang Huaxun find common ground in a Beijing bath house
Beijing director
Zhang Yang, 33, burst onto the international scene in 1997 with
the release of the tender romantic comedy Spicy Love Soup. His
critically acclaimed second film, Shower, examines the tense relationship
between tradition and modernity in China, as seen through the
eyes of a father and his estranged son, who are reunited—and
eventually reconciled—in the old man's traditional Beijing
bath house. Zhang Yang's father, Zhang Huaxun, is himself a veteran
filmmaker who made his mark as director of the mainland's first
kung fu movies in the 1970s.
A
SON'S LAMENT
I n the late 1970s, chinese people—especially the young—began
to yearn for the modern. What followed was a massive wave of construction,
in which buildings across the country were torn down and replaced
by skyscrapers.
Unfortunately, the transformation altered people's lifestyles
as well as their architecture. I grew up in a traditional Beijing
home, built around an open courtyard. I spent my childhood running
across the rooftops of the compound—and under the loving
protection of the neighbors within. But that Beijing has become
unrecognizable. Bit by bit, the city's history and unique architectural
styles are fading, becoming little more than fragments of people's
memories. Traditional kinship—those intimate yet relaxed
bonds that once joined families in their quadrangles—is wiped
out when people move into high-rises. I am not against modernization
or change. But if "progress" takes place at the expense of one's
cultural heritage, then it is horrendously damaging.
I made my film, Shower, to record this process of rapid social
transition. I wanted to explore visually certain changes in human
relations, particularly those between generations, that can be
difficult to express verbally. As we worked, the scriptwriters
and I couldn't help but associate the narrative with our own experiences
and feelings, which found their way into the script. Those were
often painful memories: I left my parents and began to live independently
as soon as I graduated from college. Although I chose a filmmaking
career like my father, we shared hardly any common ground in our
views about films and our ways of thinking in general. Because
of that, our interaction dwindled, to the point where I avoided
any serious discussions with my parents, thus causing the gap
between us to widen.
This is a prevailing phenomenon in today's China. Young people
move out as soon as they can, leaving behind what they feel are
irreconcilable differences with their parents' generation. But
often their own actions deepen the divide. The opportunities and
temptations that abound in today's China have bred a great deal
of impetuosity among young people, who are obsessed with instant
success. Purity and simplicity in human relations have given way
to concerns about money and self-interest. I suppose this is an
unavoidable stage of social development. But China's youth should
realize that, in fact, older people are genuinely willing to understand
young people's minds. Often what's actually more difficult is
for young people to learn to accept the older generation. Bridging
the communication gap requires efforts on both sides.
Only by learning this lesson the hard way can people understand
how they have been sidetracked by an obsession with the new, the
modern. The pity, however, is that by then much of our treasured
culture and emotional attachments will be long gone.
ALSO IN YOUNG CHINA: THE ARTS 
