Left in the dark

The story Power cut halts film fest opening appeared on the front page of Metro
Power was cut midway through a movie screening at the festival's opening ceremony on August 18. Participants confirmed with Metro Beiing that some people restricted access to the opening ceremony, but they could not identify who those people were or who cut the power during the screening of the film Egg and Stone (2012) about sexual abuse in a rural Chinese family directed by Huang Ji.

"The festival started at 1:30 pm on Saturday, but a power failure plunged the whole screening room into sudden darkness about three hours later when we were watching the film," an audience member surnamed Wu told Metro Beijing on Sunday.

Festival organizers admitted that they were pressured by authorities not to go ahead, but decided to still hold this year's event in a low-key manner.

The festival continued the next day, with over 100 audience members in attendance.

The back story:

I spent nearly one hour trying to find the venue of the festival on Sunday, which was held surreptitiously in the artist community of Songzhuang village, Tongzhou district. There were no banners or advertising, with the only sign to tell people they were at the right location a humble house number on a wooden door.

Nobody answered when I knocked on the door, but I could clearly hear people were inside. After calling the media officer of the Li Xianting's Film Fund's headquarters, an organizer of the festival let me in.

"Did you bring a camera or digital recorder with you? You'd better not use them," a woman named Min Jie advised me over the phone in a low voice. "Do you notice some people are around you or looking at you? Pay attention to them and I will open the door for you later."

I felt like a spy in a war film trying to get in touch with my comrades at an underground organization.

After three minutes, the door opened slightly and a woman leaned out to look around.

"Quickly enter," she ordered, opening the door slightly wider to let me in.　

To my surprise, the festival was held in an exquisite courtyard. Trees lined the front with stone sculptures nestled among plants creating an artistic atmosphere.

As I wandered in, I found many people were talking in the open yard where organizers had set out tables and chairs.

Festival-goers included film critics, independent cinema lovers, directors and students.

"Some other people are watching movies in the house. We arranged two big rooms for today's film screening," Min explained.

She also told me that the courtyard belonged to Li Xianting, an art critic and contemporary art curator, who used it as the headquarters of his namesake fund.

When I requested an interview with Min and other festival-goers, she flatly refused and said it wasn't appropriate.

"We don't want others to know that we're still holding the festival. Your story might expose our location and authorities will stop us again just like they did on Saturday," she said.

I had spent such a long time trying to find the festival's location and had earlier that morning arranged with Min for an interview, so I was determined not to leave until I had quotes I could use for my story.

Fortunately, they eventually agreed to give me an interview after my repeated requests. After waiting nearly one hour, Zhang Qi, director of operations at the Li Xianting Film Fund, arrived to have a talk with me.

I was frank in telling her I had a lot questions about the development of independent cinema in China. I wanted to know why organizers refused to apply for approval from authorities? Why was the development of independent films restricted in China?

"The real reason they don't allow us to run such a festival is that some content in the films is sensitive and still taboo in China," Zhang explained.

For example, the film Demolition (2008) by American director J.P. Sniadecki was filmed at a worksite in Chengdu, Sichuan Province. It examines the plight of migrant workers struggling to fit in amid an ever-changing urban landscape.

Such content is sensitive with authorities, meaning if films were submitted for approval they would most likely be rejected and the festival would lose its appeal, Zhang said.

I also interviewed Angela Zito, a professor of anthropology and China studies at New York University who has lived in China on and off since 1979.

I thought she would criticize the government's censorship of the festival, but she refused to be drawn into the debate.

"It's your country's business, so you should solve the problem yourselves. But independent films should have more space, no matter whether it's here or in Western countries," she said.

BIFF isn't the only independent film festival in China. Others include the Chongqing Independent Film and Video Festival and the Yunnan Multicultural Visual Festival. All Chinese independent film festivals face the same struggles to secure support from the government, financial or otherwise.

Further hindering their growth is the lack of public support for independent film festivals compared to international film festivals that are attended by celebrities.

A festival-goer surnamed Liu told me that he likes "real" films, regardless of whether they make him sick, angry or sad.

"Independent films always reflect the real world, which is why I like them. I think every filmmaker should have the freedom to tell whatever they want," Liu said.

"If these films are shared among a small group of people who are interested, why do authorities need to intervene?"