For years, China’s underground gangs, known as jianghu, lived by a strict, Robin Hood code of honor. But what happens when old school, Chinese morals meets the chaos of globalization?
Director Jia Zhangke has made a name for himself in the international film community with movies like “Mountains May Depart” and “A Touch of Sin”—films that peel away the shiny veneer of China’s fast-evolving society and expose the true, human cost of rapid modernization. His latest film, “Ash Is Purest White” is a tour de force that spans a twelve-year-long, über complicated relationship between ingenue, Qiao (Zhao Tao), and her gangster boyfriend, Bin (Fan Liao). When Qiao serves a five-year sentence to protect her boyfriend, she emerges from prison only to find that Bin has moved on to another girl. Their whirlwind, and ultimately emotionally abusive, relationship serves as a microcosm to explore issues that plague the fast-growing Middle Kingdom.
Qiao and Bin’s gang is mostly comprised of middle-aged men—Qiao being the only exception. These are guys who have operated in the underground for quite some time. When a couple of thugs from a newer, younger gang senselessly attack Bin in the street, the attackers are taken to the gang’s headquarters and simply verbally reprimanded, in hopes of scaring the youths into leaving them alone. The plan backfires. The two later gather all their friends and publicly beat Bin into a bloody pulp and launch a series of events that test—and break—Bin and Qiao’s relationship. This isn’t Kansas, er—Xinjiang anymore.
Although “Ash” is decidedly a bummer, there are moments of levity peppered throughout that help relieve its overwhelming sense of heaviness. As Qiao and Bin bump and grind away the night in a neon-flooded night club to the tune of the Village People’s “YMCA,” Bin’s illegal gun falls out of his pocket and onto the dance floor with almost comedic timing and kills the lighthearted vibe in a most unrighteous manner. As the song continues to play, Jia juxtaposes images of the poverty stricken town with flashes of the two continuing to dance at the club. There is a clear disconnect between the modern image of Western luxury that Qiao and Bin aspire to enjoy and the reality that they live in.
Like all of Jia’s films, “Ash” has a tight, well-curated aesthetic. Each frame feels like it could be a photograph and, as per usual, Jia uses color to convey emotion. The early parts of Qiao and Bin’s relationship are tinged with a warm, Polaroid-like hue, but as Qiao serves out her prison sentence, her world turns bleak and bland. While our beleaguered heroine delivers prisoners their morning meals, her bright blue jacket is the only splash of color in the otherwise dreary, snow-covered prison.
But, perhaps one of the most striking things about “Ash” is the overwhelming lack of women in the jianghu world. Qiao (played by Jia’s wife Tao), is the only woman in her hometown gang. She’s no pushover though, and isn’t afraid of arguing with and slapping her “brothers” during games of mahjong. When she finds herself on the streets after being released from prison, Qiao boldly executes a number of hilarious scams to help her get back on her feet, including conning a man out of a motorbike with the promise of sex and finessing away supposed abortion money from careless men.
Though gang members repeatedly prostrate and pander to Bin, it’s clear that Qiao wears the proverbial pants in their relationship. She’s the one gangster that adheres most closely to the code of honor. She even goes so far as to take care of Bin years after he abandons her when he becomes partially paralyzed by a stroke. Qiao not only feels it’s her duty to do so as a gang member, but also as someone who once loved him. Jia has a knack for portraying female characters in a deeply empathetic and human light—something very rare among male directors.
Despite all that Bin inflicts upon Qiao, it’s hard not to root for him. There’s the fleeting hope that Bin will start treating Qiao better because, well, he supposedly lives his life by a code. But, despite his disdain for the younger generation of thugs and their lack of honor, Bin is even worse than they are. Bin is completely self-serving and egocentric. He represents a new image of China—one that struggles to find its footing between the old and new. Though the conclusion of “Ash” leaves more questions unanswered than answered, “Ash” begs the question if traditional morals have any chance of surviving in a Chinese modern society that hopes to advance at all costs. There’s something to be said about the foolishness and futility of human desire in “Ash.” Something ugly, but beautiful.
