Lights, camera, dissent

When the Beijing Film Studio was established in 1949, the same year as the founding of the People's Republic of China, it was tasked with the mission of building the country's film industry by producing movies depicting revolutionary victories.

Today, the site is a shadow of its former self with abandoned film sets decaying behind locked gates. The ominous, circled character chai (literally "demolish") is painted over many of the studio's sites, where dying shrubbery clings desperately to cracking brickwork.

Adding to the decay, many of the walls bear the ugly scars of whitewashed protest slogans scrawled by disgruntled employees who fear a future without money and jobs.

Rising tension

On the former set of a Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) soap opera, the few remaining gatekeepers of the studio sit drinking tea and chatting; the absence of filmmakers and tourists means they have little else to do with their time.

"I've seen more productions made here than I can count," said a security guard surnamed Kang, who like his co-workers serves the studio as a jack-of-all-trades. "Each city needs a landmark to retain its culture. I think the Beijing Film Studio is one of these not just for the city, but for all the films that were made here. For those of us who have been here so long, it will be very difficult to say goodbye."

Tension has steadily escalated in recent weeks at the abandoned studio, located in Xitucheng, Haidian district. Many of the workers still at the site who spoke to Metro Beijing were apprehensive about being identified for fear of repercussions. Last Friday, facing redundancy with no pension and minimal savings, some of them decided to take a stand.

They complained to anyone willing to listen as they hung banners and painted slogans on the side of old film sets that read: "After 20 years, we have no money and no future. How could you do this to us?" The next day, their protest was over; the slogans painted over with sullen, gray paint.

"I can't say much about it because we're going for more negotiations with the company," Kang said of their bitter standoff. "As you can tell, this is still a sensitive issue."

Uncut history

After the reform and opening-up policies initiated by former leader Deng Xiaoping, the studio began making commercial films rather than "public service" or moral productions. In 1999, the studio was bought by the China Film Group (CFG), the country's largest State-run film company. Under its helm, the studio produced films that drew hefty acclaim including Farewell My Concubine (1993) and The Last Emperor (1987), the latter of which won nine Academy Awards.

Despite its rich history and heritage, the site is slated for demolition next month after an upgraded studio and production center was established in 2008 in the capital's rural northern district of Huairou. For the past four years, a slew of production companies have steadily abandoned the old studio.

It was open to tourists until July 27, when it officially closed its doors even to the general public. On August 10, the last of the film companies left the studio, reducing it to just a scattering of buildings used by students from the neighboring Beijing Film Academy.

"This problem isn't confined to the Beijing Film Studio; it's a concern across the country," said another studio security guard, surnamed Ren. As a migrant worker employed by the studio for a decade, Ren faces an uncertain future once the studio closes. "This is the situation we [migrant workers] have; people are treated differently," he sighed.

Despite several phone calls from Metro Beijing to various CFG departments, no one was willing to respond to enquiries about the fate of the studio or its workers. The property management for the site said they had been kept in the dark about the demolition, despite the chai signs painted either side of the office doors.

On Sunday, retired workers of the studio posted an open letter on the walls of the compound appealing to its owners and moviegoers to protect the site. They also alleged the demolition is being made to make way for the construction of new luxury hotels, and not government-subsidized housing.

Reeling from the loss

On Monday, CFG delegates met workers at the site and promised that arrangements would be made for insurance and pensions of some of the older workers. Younger members of staff have been promised jobs as security guards to be stationed at soon-to-be-demolished buildings, and have been told they will be offered other positions in the future. But not all workers are optimistic despite these assurances.

"We're not legal experts and we're not sure just how good our new contracts will be," Zhu Jie, a security guard aged in his late-20s, told Metro Beijing. "They haven't issued any details about what will happen to us after the demolition or what these new jobs might be."

Bulldozers occupy the rear of the studio and a gaping hole is all that remains of some of the production rooms. Nearby, old, red brick buildings covered with fading slogans made famous by Chairman Mao Zedong loom as the next casualties of the heavy machinery. Almost nothing will be spared of the studio, heralded in its heyday as the "Hollywood of the East."

Over the last two decades, workers at the studio have rubbed shoulders with some of Chinese cinema's biggest stars. Name-dropping around the tea table switches between martial arts legends Jet Li and Jackie Chan to ethnic Mongol actress Siqin Gaowa.

"The more famous they were, the nicer they were to talk to," recalled Kang. "Those who had only just become famous were the arrogant ones you had to watch out for."

Waiting to be reassigned, workers have set up camp on the set that was used to shoot Rickshaw Boy (1983), based on the namesake classic novel by Chinese literary great Lao She.

Perhaps the only people unfazed by the studio's demolition are the crowds still anxiously waiting outside, hoping to be cast as extras in China's next blockbuster. The throng of people still lines the streets, seemingly oblivious to the fact their window to stardom now awaits at Huairou.

"I've heard the studio is going to be destroyed," said Ye Aihua, an unemployed young man hoping to be cast as an extra. "That really doesn't matter. Whatever happens, we'll keep coming here. We're just chasing the movie dream."

Chen Ya'nan contributed to this story