Voices of Beibei - China's First Cultural Beibei Oral History - Beibei Cultural Interview Records

Author: Hu Minggang, Shi Yike / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: The story behind the film Fei has a meaningful origin. I've been away from my hometown for many years, and there are two people I've never forgotten. One was a pig farmer in the village where I attended primary school. Every day, he would drive a herd of pigs past our school gate. Back then, he was in his mid-thirties or early forties, thin and melancholic, always carrying a whip on his shoulder and a bottle of alcohol tucked in his belt. The whip was never seen in use. Whenever unruly pigs strayed into our school, he'd mumble something, and the pigs would obediently return to the herd. The bottle, however, was occasionally pulled out from his belt, and he'd take a swig. Back then, I thought his life was incredibly romantic—wandering the fields every day with a group of pigs. But soon, I heard he was a madman—he wanted to marry a female news anchor from China Central Television (Beijing), while looking down on everyone else. As a result, he never found a wife. I went to a household with a TV just to watch that female anchor. The elegant woman appeared on the black-and-white screen every evening at 7 PM, reporting on world news. After watching her, I was stunned. When I next saw the pig farmer, I was utterly impressed by him. He dared to dream of marrying someone who lived on TV! What an amazing dream it was. Though it couldn’t be fulfilled, he preferred to remain single. Where could one find such an extraordinary person?
The other was from my village. In my memory, he always seemed young because he died young from a rat poison overdose. He was slim and agile, didn’t like farming, and often vanished from the village, only to return and recount his adventures outside. He’d talk about being a bodyguard for a big boss, fighting with gangsters—everyone listened in awe. He lived off these stories. Later, when I watched videos, I realized he was exaggerating. But he had indeed visited Shaolin Temple, as he showed us his train tickets to Henan. Whether he learned any martial arts is unknown, but he never fought anyone. One day, he fell in love with a girl—a migrant worker he met while working in Qingdao. He was hopelessly in love, but she didn’t reciprocate. No one knew why—perhaps there was simply no reason for her to love him. He was in agony, chasing after her every day. The girl, unable to bear his persistence, said, “Buy a motorcycle, and I’ll go with you.” Motorcycles were extremely popular in the 1980s. Of course, he couldn’t afford one—neither did he have money or wealthy parents. Distressed, he wandered the village in a state of agitation. He desperately borrowed money but couldn’t get any. He even considered selling his family’s dilapidated house, but it was too run-down to fetch enough money for a motorcycle. He couldn’t sleep, wandering the village night after night, his eyes bloodshot. People said he was crazy. As if to confirm their suspicions, he took rat poison. He was discovered and saved. For a while, he seemed to regain his senses, sitting up and saying, “In a year, I’ll ride a motorcycle to pick you up,” then lay down and never woke up again.
This summer, I took my girlfriend Qi Junwei back to my hometown. As she was admiring the rural scenery, I suddenly spotted the pig farmer at a bend in the road. He was in the fields, among the pigs, still carrying the whip on his shoulder and the bottle in his belt. Twenty years had passed, yet he was still there. My heart grew heavy, and the image of the other young man—also called a madman—suddenly flashed in my mind. At that moment, or perhaps always, I realized they were never truly mad. They simply followed their inner desires, just like a man falling in love with a woman, like someone reaching out to grasp something that was beyond them. One was separated by a television screen; the other by a motorcycle. One continued to wander the earth, companionship with pigs and strong drink; the other lay dormant in the earth, listening to the whispers of grass, then awakening with the arrival of autumn. Many stories came to me in autumn, and my year began with it. These two people—or perhaps these two friends—also visited my memory. But this time, I wasn’t writing about them. They were merely the origin of the story I was about to tell, a story about myself. Because like them, I had once yearned to pursue something as lofty as stars, and I still do today.
Amid the warm autumn in Beijing, I finally wrote down the words “fade out” for the screenplay Secret Soul, marking the end of my work on this script since July 2004. I felt a sense of relief. In July 2004, I first encountered this story; in August, I wrote the first draft, but the very next day, I scrapped the entire script and began rewriting it. Halfway through, the story stalled. The reasons were two: First, I couldn’t continue writing about “Duo Duo” after she grew up—every attempt felt awkward. Second, my writing time was inconsistent, as I was also working on other projects. This situation persisted until October. Thanks to my country, I was granted a seven-day holiday. I locked myself in my room for seven days and finished the latter half of the story. But the very next day, I immediately scrapped the entire work again, still finding the life path and emotions of “Duo Duo” after she grew up to be awkward. This time, however, I decided to seek help from my teacher and friends. I printed the screenplay and gave it to my respected teacher Liu Zhenyun and my dear friend—you. It turned out to be a wise decision. After Liu Zhenyun teacher affirmed the starting point of my script in one afternoon, he provided strategic guidance on direction and tone. He told me: “You should capture the subtle waves of a person’s inner growth.” After reading the script, he offered valuable feedback, giving me concrete help. But for some reason, one evening, I still decided to call you. During our conversation, you shared two wishes from your childhood. I liked these wishes and was grateful to be able to incorporate them into my story. I believe you were sent by God to help me. Thank you for giving me the chance to correct the in the film’s tone. I also want to thank my girlfriend Qi Junwei, who listened to my struggles with the story late at night and helped me regain my sense at critical moments. It was her who told me: “You should use Shi Di Ke’s wishes and complete your story through them.” That’s when I finally saw the final vision of this film. I began to feel calm. I knew that as long as I followed the right narrative path, the story would guide me to the end. Thank you to everyone who helped me navigate the story and fly through it. P5-7