Gilbey on Film: Accidental beauty

We shouldn't think films are ever born fully-formed.

Whenever the filmmaking process is divided into percentages (1 per cent inspiration, 99 per cent perspiration, that sort of thing), it's surprising that such factors as luck or necessity are excluded altogether from the equation. There's a fantasy, one to which I am highly susceptible, that everything which ends up on screen was always meant to be there. Blame it on auteur theory, or simply a child-like faith in the miracle of movies, but there it is.

Occasions when this has not been the case tend to be filed away as freak exceptions. -- think of the devastating final shots of Roman Polanski's The Ghost and Mike Leigh's Naked, both of which were invented on the hoof after shooting had begun. (In fact, Leigh always adheres to this process, as he explained to Amy Raphael in her excellent book Mike Leigh on Mike Leigh: "[T]here's a big difference between the sort of ideas you have before you start shooting a film and what sort of creative process goes on when you've shot 99 per cent of the film, your cinematic juices are flowing and you've got the hang of the film you're making.")

But it was helpful this year on two separate occasions to have myself disabused of the whimsical notion that a film is ever born fully-formed. In these instances, my eyes were opened by two female directors, Kelly Reichardt and Andrea Arnold. (Quite coincidentally, both had just shot their newest movies in the old-fashioned and almost-defunct 4:3 aspect ratio, which produces a square rather than rectangular frame.) Back in March, I met Reichardt to discuss her stark western Meek's Cutoff. One of the most contentious parts of this deliberately intense and slow-moving film was its elliptical ending, which leaves the audience to speculate on what might lie in store for the parched, desperate characters trudging along the Oregon Trail. The enigmatic final shots are so integral to the film's mysteries that I was surprised to learn that a different ending had been planned right up to the day of shooting. Reichardt told me:

The film actually ends a little differently than the script. The sun went down before we got our final shot on the last day, and I came back home without an ending to the movie, which is really devastating. I had to rearrange it in my mind. We didn't have the money to go back out there with all the actors and the animals and the wagons, so it had to become something other than what it was designed to be. I have this little prayer I say, where I tell myself that the lack of means is somehow working in my favour. Often it's true, and it can lead you some place good. In this case, it led me to an ending which was more suited to the film.

You have to be malleable. When I'm making a film, I want the script to be as far along as possible. But then all through scouting locations, the script is constantly changing to fit the places where things will happen. Then the actors come along. Things you've imagined being said in a certain way come out of their mouths sounding completely different, and I don't have a lot of rehearsal time so you have to adjust to that. If you knew how it was all going to be, then it wouldn't be such an interesting process. You read about Hitchcock, and how he said that shooting was boring because you knew everything that was going to happen, but then he wasn't working with our kind of budget or locations. I'm a big planner but it's still important to be open to whatever the day offers you when you're there.

I got an even greater surprise last month when I met Andrea Arnold (whose new version of Wuthering Heights I review in the next issue of the NS). I commended her on a particular moment in her 2006 debut, Red Road, which I consider to be one of the most imaginatively suggestive shots in recent cinema: a CCTV operator trains her camera on a suspicious-looking man who darts suddenly into the long grass on a stretch of waste ground, only for a lean fox to emerge a few seconds later from the other side of the undergrowth, creeping across the deserted road and vanishing into the night. The intimation, of course, is that a metamorphosis of some kind has occurred. I may actually have gasped when I saw that in a cinema for the first time, and I think I gasped again when Arnold revealed to me that the shot was entirely unplanned and fortuitous:

It was an accident; it's not like we had a fox there in the grass, ready to be released! When you're making a film, you often get less than you expect because what you start out with in your heart is such a pure thing, and the obstacles during production can be so immense and brutal. But, every now and then, you get so much more than you could ever have imagined. And the shot with the fox was one of those moments. To see it come out of the grass -- it was such a pure moment. I was delighted! I knew it was going in the film, no matter what. And I'd already written into the script the scene where the characters hear the fox noises later on. If you live in London, as I do, then you hear those awful noises all the time; it's just the strangest sound, like babies being murdered, and I wanted that in the film. The CCTV footage was shot before everything else, and it all just tied in beautifully. When that happens, you're, like, [she raises her eyes heavenwards] 'Thank you!' You feel like you've been given a big present.

And so do we, sitting gobsmacked in the stalls.

"Meek's Cutoff" and "Red Road" are available both on DVD. "Wuthering Heights" is released in cinemas on Friday.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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What does the end of the one-child policy mean for China's disabled population?

Even after the policy was abolished last year, cultural prejudices against disabled people have proven hard to shake.

In a small shop hidden in the shadows of the gleaming, golden arches of the two-storey McDonald’s next door, Liu Wenzheng has been developing photographs since 1995. Business in his north Beijing neighbourhood is slow but steady. Every now and then, a Western couple will come in to have a photograph taken of their newly adopted Chinese child. The child is nearly always “imperfect” in some way, whether it’s something as minor as a cleft palate, or a more challenging disability.

“Westerners have higher morals. They will adopt disabled children,” Liu tells me over a glass of baijiu, the distilled Chinese rice spirit, at a nearby restaurant. His disappointment in his own people is personal: Liu has been disabled for all of his adult life, since a run-in with Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution left him so badly beaten that his left leg had to be amputated. He was 22 and had been arrested for reading banned American literature.

He spent six months in hospital. After being discharged with a rudimentary wooden limb, he returned to his old job on a Beijing factory floor. “I was tough and people were scared of me,” Liu says, his brusque manner and burly frame illustrating his point. “Not every disabled person would have been allowed back to work with a full salary, to stand there and not do much.” Throughout our conversation, he emphasises the rarity of his situation compared to that of other disabled people. He has worked all his life, is happily married and has an adult son. Most disabled people in China are not so lucky.

A few miles north of Liu’s shop, on the outskirts of an eerily quiet retail park, Alenah’s Home is a warm hub of activity. This private centre for disabled orphans has been looking after children since 2004. The children come from orphanages all around China, which don’t have the funds or the facilities to provide disabled care. Many children, such as Furui, a one-year-old who was abandoned after a premature delivery, arrive with muscular atrophy – a result of months of neglect.

Alenah’s Home is one of the few private centres of its kind in China that look after disabled orphans. They don’t receive any government funding. Chris Hu, a full-time volunteer, tells me that children who are abandoned in China are nearly always female, disabled or both. This is in part a result of China’s one-child policy, which made China’s disabled population fall to 6 per cent of the country as a whole (the global average is 15 per cent) and also produced a gender imbalance of 120 boys for every 100 girls.

China’s one-child policy was officially abolished in January 2016. But Hu agrees with experts who predict that this won’t necessarily redress demographic imbalances. Cultural prejudices against disabled people are hard to shake. Confucian ideology emphasises the idea of the body as a point along an ancestral continuum. Thus, any defect is attributed to a spiritual flaw in the family, even for disabilities, such as Liu’s, which are caused by injury. It is easy to dismiss this kind of abstraction as stereotyping, but when Yuan Xiaolu, a retired journalist who has been blind in one eye since birth, repeatedly tells me, “I don’t blame my mother,” it suggests a genuine anxiety about the perception of her family’s morals.

In wealthy cities, and especially in popular tourist areas, public facilities are becoming more accessible to disabled people. The Chinese government claimed to have invested 500 million yuan in the construction and renovation of 25,000 public toilets in 2015, most of them wheelchair-friendly. This follows changes in the law to encourage greater inclusivity: employers are required to reserve 1.5 per cent of jobs for people with disabilities, or pay a fee to the Disabled Persons’ Employment Security Fund, which is managed by the China Disabled Persons’ Federation (CDPF), a government body.

However, meaningful social change lags behind. Disabled children are more likely to be found – and often abandoned – in poorer rural areas, where women can’t afford abortions and facilities don’t exist to support disabled people. Liu describes the government’s measures as “barely a cup of water when you need the sea”, saying that most companies would rather pay the fine than employ a disabled person.

Even then, John Giszczak, a former China programmes manager for Save the Children, has said that the fees paid to the CDPF often end up being spent on overpriced “pseudoscientific ‘therapeutic’ equipment”.

The CDPF was founded in 1988 by Deng Pufang, the son of the then Chinese leader, Deng Xiaoping. Like Liu, Deng Pufang was paralysed – left paraplegic after an assault by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. Having such a high-profile disabled person in Chinese public life contributed to a more open attitude towards physical disabilities, but this didn’t necessarily spread to all aspects of life.

Similarly, when the Hubei-based farmer Yu Xiuhua, who has cerebral palsy, published her poem “Crossing Half of China to Sleep with You”, which went viral on Chinese social media, she illustrated that her situation was an exception to the opportunities for disabled people, rather than the norm. Like most disabled people in China, Yu was unable to finish school and has spoken about how she has felt “undermined . . . [and] hated” by her body. Still, she insists, “My disability really has nothing to do with my poetry.”

“It’s not the government that’s the problem. It’s the people,” Liu says. China is often characterised as a country where the official Communist Party line is the only one that matters. But most Chinese people I speak to see their culture as running far deeper than political diktats. Policies may change behaviour or improve facilities for disabled people, but social rehabilitation seems a long way off.

Still, I suggest to Liu, he seems to have done quite well for himself. His family and his photography business aren’t the future he foresaw when he first became disabled. “Not really,” he says glumly. “Digital ruined everything.”

Amy Hawkins is a freelance journalist based in Beijing. You can follow her on Twitter @DHawkins93.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge