Mo Yan: How Society Gives Birth to a Great Writer

In my “Advance Reading in Chinese: Modern and Contemporary Literature” class, we were assigned a short reading of Mo Yan(莫言)’s speech in a form of transcript. The speech was from the 2009 Frankfurt International Book Fair in Germany.

Mo Yan

Mo Yan is a world-renowned author of Red Sorghum Clan (1987), which was made into the film Red Sorghum starring Gong Li (巩俐) by acclaimed director Zhang Yimou (张艺谋). Mo Yan is a controversial writer on the question of whether he deserved the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Wen Yun Chao, a Hong Kong based activist and blogger, commented, “Mo Yan doesn’t deserve this prestigious honor,” and added that the “Nobel Literature Prize is a symbol of humanism and freedom of writing, but unfortunately we cannot see such qualities in Mo Yan.”

Why this criticism of Mo Yan? Perhaps it is because many believe that he endorsed Mao Zedong’s speech at Yan’an in 1942 regarding Art and Literature in one of his works. In this speech, Mao discussed the certain “role” of artists and writers in a developing socialist state: “to work solely in the service of the political aims of the party.” As a result, Mo Yan has been questioned as a supporter of authoritarianism.

When I first came across these arguments in the news in 2012, largely due to my lacking of understanding and knowledge of Mo Yan, I speculated that his works and intention might not entirely embody the traits of a Nobel Prize winner in Literature.

However, when I read Mo Yan’s speech in Germany for my class, I started to understand his perspective on “writing” more clearly. A part of the transcript of his speech says:

… 好的文学，好的作家当然离不开社会生活。作为一个中国作家必须对中国社会所发生的一切保持一种高度的兴趣，而且有深入的了解和经验。你要对社会上所发生的各种各样的问题有一个自己的看法，这种看法可以和所有人都不一样。对于一个作家、对于文学来讲，最可贵的就在于它和所有人都不一样。

- 莫言

In this particular excerpt, Mo Yan emphasizes the influence of society on writers. The particular society in which one lives essentially gives rise to a one-of-a-kind experience for a writer. As a result, the writer starts asking questions and becomes curious toward the society, and this process allows for the writer to think about the different aspects of the society and to create a work of literature distinctive to the writer.

If one were to read the entire transcript, one will come to understand his argument even more clearly – whether one agrees with Mo Yan or not. Unfortunately, this speech was delivered in Mandarin, and I only had the luck of coming across this transcript in a Mandarin-conducted literature class. But if you do read Mandarin, the transcript of the speech may help you understand Mo Yan’s argument better.

After generally discussing Mo Yan’s speech, my professor displayed a slide with this single question on her PowerPoint presentation:

“莫言对作家和社会生活的关系，尤其是和政治之间的关系持什么看法？”

This vaguely translates into: “What kind of perspective does Mo Yan hold toward the relationship between writers and their life in the society, particularly concerning their relationship with the government?”

Gong Li in Red Sorghum

My class raised various points; different examples came to mind that applies to Mo Yan’s argument.

One can even go back as far as Plato and his Republic . If Plato did not live in Classical Greece, where the republican theory of political philosophy was in its early development and where his ideas of the representative elect and city-states were welcomed, his work may not have been so innovative and detailed.

One of the many modern examples could be John Hersey’s Hiroshima . Consider if Hersey hadn’t been in Japan to cover stories for The New Yorker on the reconstruction of Japan after the destruction of the atomic bomb – could Hiroshima have been so emotionally challenging?

As such, there are countless examples that can support Mo Yan’s point on society’s influence on writers, regardless of how devastating or restrictive the writers’ environment could be. Anne Frank’s diaries could have not been written in such vividly tragic expressions if the Nazis hadn’t came into power in Germany and occupied the Netherlands. Wan-suh Park’s book on her personal experiences as a child could not have been so intriguingly powerful if the Japanese Occupation in Korea never happened.

To answer my professor’s question, I believe Mo Yan is trying to convey the message that writers should learn to accept and scrutinize their society (or their government). In some cases, it may not be pleasant; in fact, it could be devastating – such as living through the Sino-Japanese War in a poor rural part of Shandong, China – as the example of Mo Yan’s Red Sorghum Clan portrays. However, by expressing one’s experiences of his or her daily life through writing and offering it up for others’ understanding and examination, one may truly produce “伟大的文学,” the great literature, that Mo Yan speaks of in his speech in Frankfurt, Germany.

Take a Look: Vintage 1920s Ads

Postmodern consumerism tells us, You are what you buy. Well, are we?

“Greetings, people of 2010”, a photo taken in 1910

One hundred years, or a century, could pass faster than we feel; but although 100 years is just a blink in our long history, there are certainly a lot of moments to value. (Before Hallmark even told us so.) Let’s see two products the world was being marketed – and/or what they were buying – in the 1920s.

1. Cigarettes

Lithographed cigarette advertisements pictured demurely sexy Chinese “belles”

The French advertisements for cigarettes went full-out artistic and exotic

While American cigarette companies hired physicians and doctors – even Santa – to reassure on cigarette’s healthy-by-association goodness. Hello, Don Draper!

2. Make-up

Chinese ads seemed to emphasize the “Snow White” ideal – jet black hair, sleek eyebrows, rosy cheeks, and red lips: innocent, but knowing

Ads for L’Oreal and Vivaudou (the latter a slight cheat, it’s an American company founded by a Frenchman): Art Deco exuberant joie de vivre in one campaign, and seriously sensuous in another

Maybelline taps old – then, new – Hollywood glamour

Classic and elegant, these are the distinctive features that advertisements from the 1920s have shown. Some ideals of beauty never fade with time.

Category, People: He Hacked “Jeopardy”

Who is Arthur Chu?

A 30-year-old compliance analyst and voice-over performer from Cleveland, Ohio, Chu’s four-day winning streak on Jeopardy (total: $102,800) has brought trivia fans and game theorists into the same room – but, like a junior high school dance, at opposite sides.

He returns today for his 5th appearance.

Chu’s tactics on the show includes a hovering thumb over the buzzer (pressing before Alex Trebek completed the sentence) and the “Forrest bounce”, first executed by Chuck Forrest on Jeopardy in 1985, which forgoes the established method of following through with one category from top-to-bottom and instead hunts around the board to find and clear Daily Doubles. (Chu wagered the minimum of $5 in categories he did not know.)

The Jeopardy “game board”

The carpal-tunnel buzzer-blitz is to prevent the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire chit-chat drag: to get through as many questions, and as much monetary winnings, as possible. The “Forrest bounce”, as noted in a Slate article by Ken Jennings (the Jeopardy champion only defeated on his 75th appearance), has been used a few times between Chuck Forrest and Arthur Chu: by David Madden (2005), Roger Craig (2010-2011), and IBM supercomputer Watson (2011).

And, even more so than how Chu is smashing what the viewers expect of the game itself in his “unsportsmanlike” behavior, he’s also targeted for his rumpled, nerdy looks. The Jeopardy “villain” is easily targeted for the lowest common denominator of racial epithets: his haircut, his “chinky” eyes, his size, his clothes, his masculinity. What, nothing about his celebratory dinner of dog meat?

(Compiled by Angry Asian Man)

Chu has been giving as good as he’s gotten on Twitter.

He’s also refreshingly self-aware in interviews:

“The unspoken rule is that if you’re on Jeopardy, you should be in a suit and tie, you should be genteel, and here I am, I’m poorly dressed, I have a bad haircut, I’m intense,” he says. “Well, the fact is it’s ludicrous: I’m an out of shape, nerdy Asian guy who’s become a ‘sports legend’ because I’m good at a trivia game. What do I have to apologize for? This is the only time in my life I’m going to get to do something like this. Of course I’m going to milk it! If I don’t, it’s back to a life of office jobs and being a nerdy Asian guy.”

Here’s a question: Why go on game shows, if not to win?

Damn if you do, and damn if you don’t. But I know which one I’d rather choose.

Looking Through My Lens: Why I Take Pictures

In an era where people enjoy taking pictures on their iPhones, I’m still walking around with a manually adjustable film camera. I need to spend hours in the darkroom processing the negatives to make prints. My friends always ask me what keeps me enthusiastic in my photography and why I choose a film camera over a digital one. While I do like my high-performance digital camera, I see the world differently through a film camera.

Usually, I have to wait a few days – sometimes, even a month – to see what I’d shot. In the darkroom, under the dim orange light, I drop the photo paper into the developer, flipping it for about thirty seconds; the image would appear, spreading from the corners to the center. A minute later, I carry the fresh print in a tray under normal light, and I see a scene from the past.

At times, the negative may appear “boring”, but I’d go ahead and print it. To my surprise, there are details I hadn’t noticed, either when taking the picture or in the darkroom: an old woman with her face raised to the afternoon sunshine as a man passes by, walking his dog; students in a blur, jogging down a path; customers, at a restaurant, with the soft glow of light bulbs overhead. The people and the harmony of these scenes make me realize the eternal appeal of Charlottesville, my town, and why Thomas Jefferson chose to make his home here so long ago.

Documenting a moment of happiness

(Photo: Shabai Chen)

As a beginner in film photography, I felt frustrated whenever I’d ruin a roll of negatives. Later, I learned photography is a personal experience: the negatives may be ruined, the positives may be lost, but one’s memories occupies forever a space in one’s heart.

Last Spring Festival, I met an old Chinese woman with her five-months-old granddaughter. She was helping take care of the infant for her own daughter. The baby’s name was Jiu Yue, which meant September in Mandarin; we had a long conversation, and I took a roll of black and white pictures of them. Unfortunately, it didn’t come out the following month, and I nearly cried when I looked at the blank negatives.

I sat on a bench outside the studio, holding my camera and feeling its weight, trying to find meaning in this format. Finally, I told myself, that although I lost the physical representation, I’d met a nice woman and a cute baby, had a sweet conversation. I felt warm when I thought of the beautiful afternoon. I still had my memory; the only pit was that I couldn’t share it with others.

A photograph doesn’t show the truth; it’s first and foremost there to show you what the photographer sees. An example: on Tuesday, April 16, 2013, the University of Virginia’s Chapel bell tolled 32 times at 9:43 a.m., once for each of the victims in the April 16, 2007 shooting at Virgina Tech and for the victims of the bombing at the Boston Marathon a day prior. I sat in the garden, counting the bells; looking through the trees and through my lens, I focused on the bells and documented that moment to 1/125th of a second.

The author at an art exhibition

(Photo: Shabai Chen)

Photography is not about aperture, shutter speed, or framing; to me, it’s about life. It slows down my rapid pace, reminding me of the meaning of life and that it is wonderful. I enjoy not only the process of making prints in the darkroom, but also matting and compiling a portfolio – all those moments, memories, stories, and surprises together. My portfolio is about me: about walking in the forest, lying on the grass, looking at my shadows, seeking soft lights, and listening to my own voice.

Life is like photography: we develop from the negatives.

Recently, I did what my teacher told me in my first class: turn off your phone while taking pictures. Then, I turned on a peaceful world with sky peeping through the trees, outlining the delicate edges of the leaves; a little boy with a balloon; blooming flowers with morning dew still on them. That was what I saw through my lens.

Little boy with balloon

(Photo: Shabai Chen)

The Evolution of Chinese Characters

An ancient woman with snow-white braided hair sits hunched in front of a crackling fire, skillfully and carefully etching lines with a sharp object into a large ox bone. These strokes slowly form vaguely familiar figures: a square with a mark in the middle for “sun”, a shape with three points shooting upwards for “mountain”, what looks like a running stream for “water”. Later, this diviner will heat up these inscribed bones until they crack so that she can interpret the resulting patterns: an answer from the gods.

Oracle bone, Shang dynasty

Fast-forward 400 years: a craftsman deliberately carves intricate figures composed of individual lines and disconnected strokes into a bronze wine vessel, characters that bear significant resemblance to the ones from centuries ago, but are nevertheless slightly different.

Another 400 years later, the Qin emperor declares the unification of the writing system, whose individual characters are again modified versions of those from 400 years ago. However, like an ever-growing family tree, one can still detect a strong resemblance between these characters and their previous counterparts.

Five hundred years pass. In the Han Dynasty, this likeness is still present. During this time in history, an official script is established that eventually leads directly to the beginnings of a regular written language, which becomes the basis of modern day traditional Chinese characters.

A basic sketch of the evolution of Chinese characters

This is the basic evolutionary path of Chinese characters. Many people believe that Chinese characters derive from pictographic origins; that is, each character is designed based on what it represents. However, this is only true for a very small percentage of characters. In fact, most characters are pictophonetic and arise from a “radical”, which provides the basic meaning and phonetic expression of the character.

For this reason, my mom always claims that Chinese characters are quite easy to learn. If one does not recognize a Chinese character, he only needs to be able to discern the radical in order to have a good chance of guessing not only the gist, but also the general pronunciation of the character!

Today, there are writing styles beyond the basic standard script. For example, cursive writing is commonly used in Chinese calligraphy, and is respected and well-known for its artistic, flowing strokes. Additionally, there is freehand cursive, which is less abstract than cursive writing, and thus more legible to the general public. Furthermore, large seal and small seal scripts are forms of writing often used for personal stamps and stationary. Lastly, there has recently been a surge in popularity of simplified Chinese, especially in mainland China. This type of script was adopted more than 50 years ago as a governmental attempt to increase accessibility of knowledge to the masses and to eradicate illiteracy.

Because Chinese script is the oldest script in East Asia, its influence can be seen in many Asian writing systems, such as Japanese and Korean, both of which consisted entirely of Chinese characters before adapting Chinese script to create their own writing systems. Indeed, the Chinese writing system is deeply entrenched in the history of East Asia, and continues to play a crucial part in the development of Chinese society.

Why My Asian Parents Love “The Godfather”

I remember summer from thirteen years ago, days where I spent endless hours playing in the green grass outside my apartment: getting dirt on the bottom of the sundresses my Chinese grandmother had painstakingly made, scuffing my shoes, stepping in mud, and hiding behind bushes. My best friend was the girl who lived directly above me, who wore her long hair in pigtails and chased me around the building; we’d climb over fences, hide from our parents, and sneak food from the kitchen to eat on our adventures. We were best friends, close enough to be family. While we were discovering this lesson hiding behind thorny bushes and smashing red berries, my parents were learning the same from one of the greatest movies of American cinema: The Godfather.

For nearly every year after their first viewing, they tried to get me to watch the movie with them. When Harry Potter became popular, they watched the films with me and swore that The Godfather was a thousand times better, deeper, and more exciting than a boy wizard could ever be. When I became interested in the silly teen romance novels that silly young teenagers often read, they told me to watch The Godfather and report back to them about love, and how the bonds between families, nations, and ethnicities were infinitely stronger than the temporary lust of adolescents who barely knew how to drive.

I didn’t listen to them, because I was convinced that their fascination was old-fashioned and boring, and that my generation’s storytellers have perfected filmmaking and novel-writing, which was still rough and being polished thirty, forty years ago. I procrastinated in watching the movie, pushing it off for years upon years until the winter break of my sophomore year in college, when I was suddenly struck by a sudden desire to watch the movies that I’d shirked from for a long decade.

(Photo: expatlingo)

They were worth the wait. For three hours I sat before the television, my eyes glued to the screen, afraid to blink for fear of missing some subtlety in the actors’ motions that would have ruined the rest of the plot. My mom sat by my side, pointing out the motivations behind the Godfather’s actions that I didn’t understand. For example, when Sonny Corleone publicly disagreed with his father before others, he was warned to “never tell anyone outside the family what you’re thinking”.

It’s a common theme for Asian parents that their children, the newer generation, don’t understand the bonds of families and the strength of nationalism. For the most part, this is true. As I watched the members of the Corleone family willingly sacrifice themselves and put their lives on the line to defend their family’s honor, I respected them for making the sacrifice that I know I personally could never choose.

I now understood. The movie was perfect for them: a Chinese couple who had recently immigrated to the United States in search of the American dream, but faced the challenge of overcoming a language barrier, discrimination, and struggling to synthesize the closed and conservative Chinese culture with the open and liberal American mindset. They found their answer contained in the plastic tapes of Francis Coppola’s The Godfather, where the opening scene beckoned them in, and the charm of Michael Corleone kept them watching.

They understood why the Families depended on Don Corleone. He had made the sacrifices necessary and dirtied his hands so his children could live happy lives, just like how my parents gave up a comfortable life in China – their social circle, their homeland – to raise two Chinese-American children in the nation of dreams. This was the ultimate love, beyond any pretty words from fluffy novels. And this was the first time I understood this.

My parents watched the interactions between the characters evolve from loyalty, love, and care to cold, merciless business transactions, and felt themselves moved in ways they’d never expected – especially by an American film. And I, through an Italian family, came to understand my own Chinese roots.

A Tragic Love Story in the Garish Lights of Shanghai

“If one day I’d disappeared, would you look for me?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Would you look for me as madly as Mardar did?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Would you keep looking forever?”

“Yes.”

“Until death?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

This is the conversation at the beginning of Suzhou River (苏州河), between Meimei, a girl in cheap make-up and gaudy dresses, working at a dive bar, and her on-again, off-again boyfriend, a poor, unnamed videographer. He tells her the story of Mardar, a courier who buzzes on a motorcycle along Suzhou River, who was once in jail for some years because he kidnapped a young girl.

The story takes place in the gritty suburb of Shanghai in 1990s China. Abandoned warehouses and factories and chaotic slums huddle along the banks of Suzhou River, which transports tons of trash along with steamers and their cargo and avaricious owners to the fast-growing metropolis.

On the riverbank lived a teenage girl named Moudan, who had two pigtails and who liked to wear a red jacket. Her father got rich through smuggling, and he’d usually hire Mardar to take his daughter out whenever he brought a new mistress back home. Over time, Moudan grew attached to the man who ferried her back and forth on a shabby bike. They fell in love with each other and were happy for a while.

This is happiness: Mardar (Jia Hongsheng) and Moudan (Zhou Xun)

One day, Mardar picked Moudan up at her house, as usual; however, he brought her to a deserted warehouse and locked her in. She realized that her lover had schemed with crooks to extort ransom from her wealthy father. Forced to kidnap Moudan after they noticed his growing affection for the girl, Mardar wanted to send her back home, but she seized an opportunity to run away and jumped into the Suzhou River. Her body was never found, and Mardar was arrested. Upon his release from jail, he began looking for his old love, convinced she’d survived the waters.

When he met Meimei at the tawdry bar, he was convinced that she was actually Moudan. She thought him a lunatic, as he kept gibbering about his story; gradually, she was moved by his persistence and took him into her bed. Soon, Mardar found the real Moudan, and left the heartbroken Meimei with the videographer. At the end of the film, Mardar and Moudan, after drinking much alcohol, were found drowned in Suzhou River, their deaths never known as an accident or a suicide.

The director of the film, Lou Ye, one of the “Sixth Generation” Chinese filmmakers, chose the actress Zhou Xun to play the dual roles of Moudan and Meimei in Suzhou River. Her excellent performance won her the Best Actress Award in the 2000 Paris Film Festival, and though well-received abroad, Suzhou River was not publicly screened in China due to Lou being under a filmmaking ban by the Chinese government at the time.

A shot of Suzhou River from the film

In this tragic love story, Lou leads our sight away from the garish image of bustling, thriving Shanghai, and instead to the margins of society: crooks, prostitutes, smugglers, and laborers. The two main characters in the film, Mardar and Moudan, form a jarring contrast with other profit-seeking people in the scenes. Perhaps the discrepancy created by these two figures is what Lou pursues: true love has become rare in the society depicted in Suzhou River.

People don’t waste time looking for love; instead, they care more about money. Only Mardar and Moudan will stick to their lovers, and as a counterpart is the relationship between Meimei and the videographer. In the end, Meimei left her shabby apartment and a note for the videographer: “Come and look for me.” He, of course, didn’t follow, and confessed, “Compare to looking for Meimei, I would rather close my eyes and wait for the coming of my next lover…”

In many aspects, Mardar and Moudan are ordinary people, struggling for a better life along Suzhou River like everyone else. Mardar, who’d committed crime, could barely be called a “good” person: poor, anonymous, and abandoned, Mardar and Moudan are losers according to the materialistic standards of society. However, what made them stand out is the devotion of their relationship, a romance twinkling from the smelly, dark depths of Suzhou River.

Throughout the film, Lou created the microcosm of a cold and dystopic society more or less representative of 90s China. In such a world, love between Mardar and Moudan is instead rendered unrealistic and absurd, growing into a traumatic experience with only one ending. True love is vulnerable in such a world where the two lovers cannot be understood; only at the bottom of Suzhou River is their love able to gain its eternity.

The Hanbok as Haute Couture

When I was a little kid, one of my favorite outfits was my hanbok, or traditional Korean clothing. I was enamored with its vibrant colors, asymmetrical bow, and flowing skirt, so on more than a few occasions, I wore it to school and to dinner parties, undeterred by the stares people often gave me.

The author wearing hanbok as a toddler

Their confusion stemmed not only from the contrast between traditional Korean clothing and the typical American outfit of T-shirts and jeans but also from their unfamiliarity with hanboks. Many times, I got asked if I was wearing a cheongsam or a kimono.

We’ve all seen cheongsams or kimonos reinvented and popularized (and sadly, in some cases, exploited) within the fashion world, but there has been relatively little seen of the hanbok. In recent years, however, the hanbok has been entering the runway, presumably due to the growing cultural and economic influence that South Korea has on the international community. This once old-fashioned outfit has been re-defined, transitioning from a relic of the past into a chic item suitable for any catwalk or boutique.

Below are some examples of haute couture hanboks:

Fashion shows featuring modern hanboks, like this one in 2009, occur regularly in Korea.

Although hanbok dresses are what have grown popular in the fashion scene, hanboks worn by men have also undergone reinvention, as seen in the Hanbok Fashion Show in Seoul in October 2011.

Lee Young-hee, a famous hanbok designer, has gained both domestic and international recognition for her unique approaches to traditional Korean dress, holding haute couture fashion shows like this one in Paris in July 2010.

You can see elements of Western and Korean clothing styles combined in these elegant hanbok dresses worn by actress Han Hyo-joo for the September 2012 edition of Vogue Korea.

The hanbok has also appeared in collections by non-Korean fashion designers.

Carolina Herrera based her Spring ready-to-wear 2011 collection on the hanbok and displayed these stunning beauties during New York Fashion Week.

During his time at Dior, John Galliano designed a hanbok-inspired dress for the Christian Dior Spring/Summer 2011 collection.

Miuccia Prada (above) and Giorgio Armani (below)

Renowned designers Miuccia Prada and Giorgio Armani are avid fans of Lee Young-hee’s work and have visited her shop in Korea.

In 2011, Swarovski Elements partnered with Korean designers to incorporate Swarovski crystals into their hanbok designs.

Sandra Oh (of Grey’s Anatomy) wore hanboks made by LA-based designer Kim MeHee (whose hanboks have also been worn by Jessica Alba and Nicky Hilton) for the Spring 2008 cover of NUVO Magazine.

If I were to wear any of the dresses pictured above, I know I’d get stares for all the right reasons: for wearing a hanbok every bit as glamorous and stylish as the little black dress.

The Invisible Culture War: Media Importation in China

Basically every BBC Sherlock fan knows that Season 2 is back. Fortunately, the Chinese audience were the first outside the U.K. to see the drama on Youku (the Chinese version of Youtube) only a few hours after its Wednesday night premiere.

Sherlock, a modern interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s influential detective short stories, fascinates millions of Chinese fans with its unique narrative complexity, incredibly charming yet obnoxious characters, and elaborate camerawork and animation.

Benedict Cumberbatch as the fluffy-haired detective and Martin Freeman as the “What! How?” straight man

Having recognized the tremendous market potential for Sherlock Holmes, Youku Tudou purchased the license for more than a billion yuan (about US$165 million) in order to combat rampant internet piracy with their own high-quality and timely foreign media online broadcasts.

“The BBC will directly provide us with official Chinese language subtitles… which is a first for a British drama released over Youku Tudou,” Zhu Xiangyang, Youku Tudou’s Chief Content Executive, explained. “After a review process where the site’s internal team confirms there are no problems with the video or the subtitles, the episode can immediately be released, and the whole process takes about four hours only.”

Of course, there’s more to the story. From 2010 to 2013, the total amount of American dramas shown on Youku surged, maintaining the increasing rate of viewership at an exponential level. As the largest and most comprehensive Chinese online database of Western media, Youku Tudou monopolized licenses of 25 English-language dramas – viewership during the premiere of 2 Broke Girls’ Season 3 reached 4 million, while the number of people who tuned in for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. was 5 million.

For Chinese online video platforms, foreign dramas equal cash cows. After the State Administration of Radio Film and Television’s effective practice of wiping out online piracy, video websites seized the unprecedented opportunity of huge residual demand and built consumer loyalty by synchronizing more popular American and British dramas.

Gossip Girls in China

Though the price of each episode has risen (from roughly $20,000 to $120,000 yuan) due to fierce competition between different websites, it’s still a drop compared to advertising revenue. Apart from the huge audience, English-language TV dramas also effectively “catch” the eyeballs of the particular consumer segment most desired by advertisers: a typical viewer is a white-collar or an undergraduate student, who is generally well-educated and occupies a relatively higher position on the social ladder. The cultural scheme of targeting the right consumer group proved successful – in 2010, the estimated total revenue generated by the media importation was 1 billion, with future prospects was even more promising.

Nevertheless, though the online market is welcoming, Chinese government has “globalphobic” policies regarding other mediums. Due to the strict content restrictions on television, currently no Chinese TV channels broadcast American television dramas or shows.

On one hand, the general public might not respond well to the unfamiliar lives of people living on another continent – after all, China itself is a gigantic country with a lot happening domestically. On the other hand, an attempt to import Desperate Housewives on CCTV-8 proved a hilarious failure due to weird Chinese dubbing and the scrubbing of all sexual or violent scenes – the plot didn’t make any sense after editing. As well, other Asian countries, such as Korea, have their respective cultural protectionist policies in place to avoid western cultural domination.

The gauntlet’s thrown and trodden upon: the invisible culture war’s already begun.

Main image via NPR