ࡱ> u@ bjbj 2\v& VVVV0 0 0 8h $(,,"NNNNNNU(W(W(W(W(W(W($)R",l{(NN{(VNN( % % %jNNU( %U( % %%%N  ^fJg0 "%U((0(%,#,%VV,%8Nl %8NNN{({( 0 $j0 'The Courage to Live': Woman, morality and humanism in Fei Mu's Spring in a Small Town Susan Daruvala, University of Cambridge Fei Mu's film Spring in a Small Town came out in September 1948, just over one year before the founding of the People's Republic of China. Although some critics praised it for its cinematographic virtuosity, it did not do very well in cinemas and did not run for long. In 1950 Fei Mu went to Hong Kong to set up the Longma film company with colleagues, but tragically, he died of a heart attack at the age of 45, just a few months later, and he and his work sank into oblivion for over 30 years. However, in 1983 Spring in a Small Town was shown at a festival of Chinese films in Italy, and was hailed as one of the greatest Chinese films ever made, one which is deeply rooted in Chinese aesthetics and daringly modern in terms of technique. A successful remake by Tian Zhuangzhuang, titled Springtime in a small town came out in 2002. Before talking about the 1948 film, I'd like to say a little bit about Fei Mu, who directed it. Fei Mu was born in Shanghai in 1906, and moved with his family to Beijing when he was 10. There he attended a French-language school and also learned some English, Italian, German and Russian. His was a bookish family and he also read widely in Chinese, and scholars see him as someone who combined traditional Chinese learning with his western education very naturally. While he was still at school he became one of a group of friends who were passionate about film and set up a magazine titled Hollywood. He continued writing about film in the years to come. Fei Mu was in school in Beijing at a time when the tumultuous New Culture Movement, which rejected "tradition" and many conventional social practices, was sweeping through the universities. He was 13 when anti-government demonstrations on May 4th 1919 intensified the assault on China's past, which was blamed for China's contemporary humiliations at the hands of the Western powers. But Fei Mu was probably too young to have been directly affected. After leaving school he went into an office job as an accountant at his family's behest, and in 1926, at the age of 20, he willingly submitted to an arranged marriage at a time when many young people were refusing to do so. But a few years later he did go against his parents wishes and started to work for a film company. In 1932 he went to Shanghai, the centre of the film industry, and worked for the newly established Lianhua Film Company, which brought together a number of smaller Chinese studios. Its goal was to revive the Chinese national film industry and produce films for the domestic market, and it soon attracted educated urban audiences. Fei Mu directed several films starring Ruan Lingyu. When she committed suicide, he stood somewhat apart from those who blamed her death on her marriage troubles and the fearsomeness of gossip in a harsh society. Society had broken far more people than just her, and he wanted to understand what factors in her life had pushed her to the decision. In an essay on her death, he explored her inner sense of insecurity and pessimism. Fei Mu is often described as having great sympathy for women and is said to have had particularly close relationships with his mother and his wife. According to his daughter, Fei Mu's mother was beautiful, intelligent, well-read and strong-willed. She behaved with traditional respect towards his father, but she was also the decision-maker in the family. In contrast, Fei Mu's wife was shy and retiring, but he treated her with sensitivity and they were a devoted couple. Fei Mu once likened the components in an ideal marriage relationship to those of a boat. Instinct was the boat, the emotions were the sails, and wisdom the rudder. Although we can't read too much into this, it can perhaps help illuminate the human relationships in Spring in a Small Town. At the very least, it suggests that instincts and emotions are integral parts of a relationship, but that these must be directed by wisdom, or intelligence, or else the boat runs the risk of running aground. In the light of Fei Mu's writings, it is fair to suggest that the source of this intelligence is to be found, broadly speaking, in the Confucian teachings which have played a dominant role in Chinese society for two millennia. I say broadly speaking, because Fei Mu, like many others, distanced himself from what he felt were the outmoded aspects of Confucianism, such as the idea that sons were more valuable than daughters. Confucianism is concerned with the establishment of moral order in the world, and the establishment of benevolent government to care for the members of society: the individual contributes to the goal of social harmony and good government by observing elaborate rules of behaviour in social relationships and by focussing on his own self-improvement through a process of study. Of course, the individual referred to here would have been a member of those strata of the population able to afford the education. Confucianism had its enormous effect on Chinese culture because it became the state ideology in dynastic China, and had a central place in the curriculum of training for those who wanted to work in government. Fei Mu considered that Confucian morality and ethics, which were primarily concerned with how to be human in an imperfect world to be the most important part of Confucius's legacy, and he actually made a film about Confucius in 1940. He was attacked by leftist critics who said Confucius had been tied to the feudal ruling classes and was irrelevant to the present, but Fei Mu countered that he had tried to strip Confucius of the false image built up by conservatives over the centuries to show the real man and his humanistic message. He maintained that Confucius was not a religious teacher, but a scholar who tried to work out a morally just way of living. Spring in a Small Town is a meditation on human relationships and is structured by a conflict between love and duty. The film deals with a love triangle and is set in 1946, just after the war. It was actually filmed in Songjiang, a town one hour away from Shanghai, but it could represent anywhere in China. The bomb-damaged, but still elegant house where much of the action is set can be seen as a microcosm of the war-scarred country. The master of the house, Liyan, is an invalid. His wife Yuwen manages the house and the upbringing of Liyan's teenage sister, aided by a manservant. The damaged house could also be a metaphor for the couple's relationship: they have been living in separate quarters for the last two years and speak very little to each other. But then suddenly, there arrives an old friend of Liyan's whom he hasn't seen for a decade. It turns out that the visitor, Zhichen, and Yuwen already knew each other, and had been in love years before, and the two soon realize they still have strong feelings for each other. Apart from bringing a breath of fresh air to the household, Zhichen is a doctor and able to reassure Liyan about his health, so Liyan also takes great comfort from his presence. However, Liyan becomes very disturbed as the three of them come to realize the predicament they are in, and the film moves towards its climax. Although the passion stirring beneath the surface in the film is breathtaking, this is not melodrama. The film probes the complexity of the relationship between love and propriety, between reality and ideal. In this it is reminiscent of a perennial English favourite, David Lean's 1945 film Brief Encounter, in which housewife Laura Jesson meets a doctor named Alec Harvey, on one of her weekly shopping trips to town and then continues to meet him, week after week for about two months. Although the relationship begins quite innocently, the couple fall in love, but in the end they separate, unable to take the steps which would destroy their worlds. As Laura tells Alec, love isn't everything, "self-respect and decency matter too." At the end of Spring in a Small Town, Zhichen leaves, and Yuwen and Liyan are shown standing on the city wall and looking into the distance. At one point in the film Liyan had hoped his young sister and Zhichen might marry in the future, and the film leaves this open as a possibility. Fei Mu was known by his peers as the "poet-director," and some critics have commented that the film is saturated with the atmosphere of a classical Chinese boudoir poem. This is a traditional genre of song lyrics that is "associated with images of women and love, and therefore, with the feminine in language and sentiment." It frequently depicts a once-beautiful woman, sleepless, cold and alone in her room at night, perhaps watching a candle melt into tears. Outside, falling leaves or rain speak of the passing of time and intensify her pining for her lover, who has long since departed. In Fei Mu's film, many of the tropes of such poetry are present: moonlight, orchids, a candle, and the refined interiors with their screens and pillows and curtains. Moreover, just as Laura Jesson in Brief Encounter is the epitome of English middle-class good breeding, in Spring in a Small Town, Yuwen is self-possessed and elegant, showing a classical femininity in her movements. Fei Mu evidently wanted this stylized femininity to be an aspect of Yuwen's character. He told the actor Wei Wei, who played her, to her to model her movements on those of the legendary Peking Opera performer Mei Lanfang. Mei Lanfang was of course, a man. Traditionally only men performed in Peking Opera, and he specialized in playing women's roles. Actually, although I called it a classical femininity, Mei Lanfang brought many innovations to Peking Opera, and succeeded in redefining the way female roles were played by combining gracefulness with vivacity, so there was something quite modern about it too. Given what I have said about the poetic aura of the heartsick woman, the stylized, classical femininity of Yuwen, and most of all the ending: husband and wife stay together and the former lover leaves, it would be very easy to see Spring in a Small Town as a moralistic, conservative take on marriage, one that condoned the practice of socially-prescribed rules of virtue regardless of the unhappiness caused. Worse, from this short description, viewers might expect to see a fetishized, passive beauty being imprisoned as a creation of a morbid male imagination. But this is not the case: the film transcends its ostensibly conservative narrative surface and through its cinematic techniques becomes a truly modernist work. It is these aspects that seem the most closely related to Chinese aesthetics. The so-called "boudoir poems" I mentioned just now, which flourished between the 10th and 13th centuries, had a visuality and sense of time which lends itself to film. One scholar, describing works by the 13th century poet Wu Wenying writes, Frequent transposition between reality (actual experience) and the illusory experience of dream and reverie, vision and flashback is a pronounced feature of these love poems. As the development, or movement, of the poem is primarily guided by memory, emotional association, and sense perception, rather than any apparent logic, time sequence is often disrupted and spatial viewpoint shifted without any clear demarcation: the poem moves backwards and forwards between reminiscence and description, between past and present. The most startling thing about the film is the way it is dominated by the voice-over of the female protagonist, Yuwen, which means that we hear of what is happening from her viewpoint and enter very deeply into her subjective world. This is another resemblance with Brief Encounter. I'd like to show you the first moments in both films where we hear the voices of Yuwen and Laura. Spring begins with Yuwen walking along the city wall: This is where she goes when she has been to buy vegetables and the medicine her husband needs. She says: "Walking here, I feel as if I'd left this world behind, my eyes see nothing. My mind is empty." If it weren't for the vegetable basket reminding her of who she was, she might stay there all day. Yuwen clip beginning of film. In the clip from Brief Encounter we see Laura going home on the train, after she and Alec have finally separated. Laura clip Apart from the intimacy of the voices, I'd like to draw attention to the music on the soundtrack: Laura is identified with Rachmaninov's 2nd Piano Concerto, and Yuwen has a few bars of swelling orchestral music which come up when she walks along the city wall and this shows that we are entering her private space and subjectivity which significantly, is freer on top of the city wall than when she is at home. In both cases, the narration is ambiguous. Is it telling us what happened or what is happening? How much is fantasy, how much memory? The uncertainty draws us deep into the woman's interior world. Both are films written by men about women (a point made several times about Brief Encounter) so the question arises, how does the woman's voice emerge in them, and what sort of voice is it? We can say straight away, that in both films a lot hangs on the sterling performances of the lead female role. But what is said in the voice-overs reflects different representations of gender. Yuwen has a much more equal relationship with the two male protagonists than does Laura Jesson. Richard Dyer notes that Laura is the reliable teller of her own story but is not listened to by either her husband Fred, or Alec. In fact, Laura's narration is addressed to Fred in her mind, although she cannot tell him directly what she has been through. Laura's husband is a kindly man, but so complacent that when he wife comes in and tells him she's been to the cinema with a man she met he just says "good for you," and goes back to his crossword. Throughout her narration, Laura constantly makes asides, "that was silly of me," "of course, I should have known better," that show how deeply she has internalized the discourses of patriarchal authority. Yuwen in her voice over right at the beginning of the film, describes herself and her husband and acknowledges their despair in strikingly frank terms: "We never say more than a couple of words to each other. He says he has tuberculosis, I think he is neurotic. I don't have the courage to die, and he doesn't seem to have the courage to live." No apology here for the statement, none of Laura's omnipresent sense of guilt. Although Yuwen also doesn't talk to her husband about her feelings for Zhichen, she is quite direct when speaking to Zhichen, ready to question him and ready to tease him, and to express ambivalence about her feelings for him. There is another subtle complication: although the voice-over is Yuwen's, the camera angles are often from Liyan's viewpoint. As he is an invalid and often sitting or reclining, the camera angles are low and this helps to convey his sense of loss, or inferiority, to the viewer. This gives the film a dual subjectivity. Most of the scenes are shot in a single long take, with very little camera movement, and when the camera moves between protagonists it moves laterally, giving them a kind of equality. In Brief Encounter Laura's subjection to her husband Fred is shown in a shot at the end of the film when she starts crying after what he thinks is "a bad dream." As he embraces her, the camera moves forward and Fred fills the screen, obliterating her face. [Laura and Fred] Alec is also self-assured and condescending to her, and quite often they are shot in profile, facing each other. It is as if they are each leaning across a gap from their separate worlds, and she is on her guard against him, or the threat he represents to her way of life. In contrast, Zhichen, the former lover, and Yuwen often appear side by side as they speak to each other, rather than confronting each other head on. They also seem to experience equally the stress and emotional confusion caused by the resurfacing of their passion. This is shown in a striking sequence when they meet on top of the city wall. Liyan had told Yuwen that he wanted to test the waters and see whether Zhichen and his little sister, now sixteen and old enough to be engaged, would be interested in considering marriage together. Yuwen tells Zhichen and they immediately start to argue about why he didn't get a matchmaker when she was sixteen. The dissolves and the abrupt changes in the positions of the actors' bodies, together with the stark, empty sky behind them suggests the emotionally perilous position they are in. [Dissolves ] Finally, when Liyan and Yuwen stand on the wall, they too are facing in the same direction: Yuwen is slightly ahead of her husband, and leans to give him a hand. [Spring ending] In the 1930s, Fei Mu described his guiding principle in film-making to be the avoidance of the theatricality and suspense that made the viewers concentrate on the narrative to find out what happened next. He wanted instead, to engage them by concentrating on psychological description, and move towards producing a self-reflexive, thoughtful response. In his early experiments, he tried to ensure that audience engagement with the plot was secondary, by using flashbacks and flash-forwards, not always successfully for the critics. In fact, we can see him doing this right at the beginning of Spring in a Small Town, when just under the opening titles we see Meimei and Zhichen hand-in-hand accompanied by the manservant Huang walking away into the distance, although the shot is brief and its significance still unknown to the viewers. Fei Mu wanted to engage the viewers' emotions by creating atmosphere through cinematography and mise-en-scene, and he was always keenly interested in new film techniques. Although he wanted to move away from theatricality in film, he believed Chinese film owed a great debt to modern, spoken drama, and during the war years he worked in theatre more than film. Fei Mu believed that where film was inferior to spoken drama was in its inability to sustain the emotion of the actors in their performance, because of the breaks between shots. But this was something that could be compensated for by giving the actors more opportunities to respond to their emotions. He told Wei Wei to incorporate many of her own habitual gestures that he had noticed into her performance, including her way of crumpling her handkerchief between her palms, and loosening her collar when she had drunk too much. Similarly, after meeting Zhang Hongmei, who played the younger sister, for the first time, Fei Mu told her to wear her own clothes and shoes and to keep her hair in plaits the way it was, for the filming. His most important injunction to her was to forget the script. He asked her to choose which song to sing in the scene of the evening of Zhichen's arrival, and when she decided on a folksong that a student would have learned at school, he had her sing it and then shot the scene without rehearsing it any further. In the boating scene, Fei Mu insisted that the song should be recorded live, and not dubbed on afterwards. All this was because he wanted the film to feel "lifelike, truthful and honest." For the drinking scene at the younger sister's birthday party, he had his actors drink tea and play guessing games for the whole afternoon, and shot 480 feet in one go, seeing that as the best way to achieve the naturalness, the ease of contact between the actors that makes the movie so convincing. The combination of this naturalness with Yuwen's stylized femininity adds to the power of the film. Fei Mu told Wei Wei to "reveal emotion and stop at the limits of propriety" (fa yu qing, zhi yu li). The Chinese word for emotion qing, which is used here, is rich in meaning and allusions. Its means disposition, but particularly since the 17th century, it has had connotations of romantic love, desire and passion so intense that it can transcend life and death. Qing was made all the more erotic for being beneath the surface or concealed, and inevitably challenged the structures of society and the family, which was the ideological building block out of which society was built. In the film, when Zhichen first arrives, he comes in through a hole in the garden wall, which is symbolic of the breaching of boundaries. When after the birthday party, Yuwen, still dressed in an elaborately embroidered dress goes to Zhichen's room, her voiceover says "it's like being drunk, being in a dream," and the word dream immediately conjures up the most famous Chinese play, The Peony Pavilion by Tang Xianzu, a contemporary of Shakespeare's. The beautiful heroine of the story falls asleep in the garden and dreams of her lover, whom she has never met in real life. Consumed by this passion, she wastes away and dies, leaving behind a picture of herself. In the end she manages to appear in a dream to the man, who has fallen in love with the picture. He has her exhumed, and brings her back to life. In the film we see a brilliant shot of the bright moon and then hear Yuwen's voiceover "Now the moon is already high in the sky and there's a slight breeze," which is a metaphor for her mounting desire and fluttering heart. When she gets to Zhichen's room and walks in and lights the candle, we feel she is ready to seduce him, and he resists, leaving the room and eventually locking the door with her inside. This is quite unlike Laura in Brief Encounter. It is only after Yuwen has cut her hand breaking the door pane that she returns to her senses, and Zhichen, bandaging her hand, gives way and kisses it. The importance of hand contact between the two in the film is striking, and immediately brings to mind the strict rule, laid down in antiquity, against hand contact between a man and woman who did not know each other. The rules of propriety are constructed of injunctions like this. This makes Zhichen's act of kissing Yuwen's hand transgressive. In contrast, Zhichen and the younger sister have no hesitation about holding hands, and do so in front of the servant Huang, suggesting that they are more liberated but also less glamorous than Zhichen and Yuwen. There is another dimension to the film and that is that it can be read as a national allegory, and certainly was read as such by leftist critics who called the film decadent and perverse and accused Fei Mu of expressing the weakness of the bourgeois intellectual. The conservative ending goes against the grain of the modern Chinese ideological rejection of Confucianism as institutionally repressive and stultifying to the individual. A much more commonplace ending would have been to have Zhichen and Yuwen leave the decaying rural town and begin a new life together; a leftist film might have made the love interest implicit, but sublimated it under revolution: the protagonists would have left to fight, their love for each other and for the country merging together. As national allegory, the film reflects post-war exhaustion and fear of the future. For the Chinese, the 2nd World War began with a full-scale Japanese invasion in 1937, which forced the nationalist government to move its capital inland. After some initial cooperation between the Nationalists and the Communist Party, the country was effectively divided into three: areas held by the Japanese, by the Nationalists and the Communists. After the Japanese surrender in 1945 there was a moment of hope, but by 1946 Nationalists and Communists were embroiled in a civil war and the outcome was becoming clear in 1948. By setting the film just before the civil war, Fei Mu places the film in a period of fragile possibility. However the sense of gloom and foreboding in the film comes from Liyan, sick at heart that the family fortunes have been destroyed, physically ill and weak and estranged from his wife. Liyan, in his long traditional scholar's gown, reading classical books and burning incense is a backward-looking symbol of a class and a culture that is on the way out. Zhichen, tall and vigorous in his Western suit and trilby hat is a city-trained medical doctor, and thus represents modern knowledge and optimism. In one sense, the analogy can be extended to represent East and West. Revolutionaries in the early 20th century referred to China as "the sick man of Asia" and Western medicine symbolized science and progress. The two men are played off against each other, just as Laura Jesson's husband Fred is played off against the much more athletic looking Alec Harvey, who is also, coincidentally, a doctor. Yet, it is important to note that the bond between Liyan and Zhichen is also very strong, and that Zhichen is unwilling to break it. Yuwen finds it hard to choose between the two, and some have suggested that maybe this reflected Fei Mu's own reluctance to choose between the two aspects of China they represent. The pretty younger sister is also oriented to the future, unconcerned by the loss of the family fortune and represents hope. The gentle manservant Huang is the only representative of the labouring classes, and yet seems quite content with his lot. So the film ends rather like a traditional Chinese opera, with all characters reconciled. I want to argue now that this is not just an artefact of Fei Mu's inability to make hard political choices or his war-weariness. It is true, as one critic has suggested that when Yuwen says, "I don't have the courage to die, and he doesn't have the courage to live," many intellectuals, exhausted by the war and afraid of the future, may have felt she was speaking for them. But there is another much more crucial dimension, which comes from the Chinese aesthetics of emotion/desire I referred to earlier in connection with the play The Peony Pavilion. In the preface to that play there is a very famous passage, "Love is of origins unknown, yet it runs deep. The living can die for it, and through it the dead can come back to life. That which the living cannot die for, or which cannot resurrect the dead, is not love at its most supreme. Love is a dream: why can't it be real?" These ideas were part of a much larger philosophic turn to the individual; the human emotion of love was given a greater salience and the dream-world linked to an idea of an autonomous subjectivity. With this as subtext, what Yuwen says can be interpreted as "I don't have the courage to push love to the limits and neither does he." Love now takes on a special significance as a force that can bring transcendence, and enlightenment about the true nature of things. This is what we actually see happening in the film. The passion that flows through the film leads all the protagonists to a clearer understanding. If Fei Mu's film has an air of sorrow or desolation, perhaps part of it comes from his reluctance to jettison this kind of understanding. Although Yuwen's special mode of femininity embodies this love, or qing, she is perhaps initially more blocked and less open than her husband Liyan. When she comes home with the groceries right at the beginning, is he who says he feels he is ruining her life and wants to have a real discussion, but she consistently refuses to talk to him about their relationship on this and other occasions. It is Liyan who asks Zhichen to talk to Yuwen, and he even adds, "It would have been better if she had married you instead." It is of course Liyan who opens the way for his sister to be involved with Zhichen. How does passion lead to transcendence of the situation the protagonists find themselves in? One example comes after Liyan asks Zhichen to talk to his wife. The film then cuts to Yuwen explaining to Zhichen that she loves him, but feels sorry for her husband, and doesn't know what to do. "What should we do?" asks Yuwen, and Zhichen says "Unless" and mumbles about leaving, though it is not clear whether he means he should leave or she should leave with him. The words, "Unless he dies," then escape from Yuwen's mouth, horrifying her, and signifying the first moment of her realization that part of her can contemplate another person's death as a solution to her dilemma. Going back to the film as national allegory, Yuwen's horror affirms that to seek to attain goals though the deaths of others is morally wrong, and is an instance of what I would call Fei Mu's Confucian humanism. Another moment in Yuwen's awakening occurs in the scene when she cuts her hand breaking the pane of glass, the pain symbolizing the high cost of breaking the marriage. Later, upset and unable to sleep she goes to Liyan's room to see if she can find some sleeping pills. Liyan tells her that, when he saw her drinking at the birthday party he saw how happy she was and realized that he had been making her very unhappy. I have to get better! I have to keep on living! he exclaims. A little later Yuwens voice-over proclaims I have to live, I have to ask Zhichen to go. Towards the end of the film, we are left in no doubt that Yuwen is deeply attached to her husband. But the new change and awareness in the protagonists has come about through the workings of passion. Seeing in their passion its capacity to cause suffering, Zhichen and Yuwen came to a sort of wisdom that enabled them to let it go, and seeing Yuwen glowing with happiness, caused by the same passion, Liyan had decided to find the courage to live. Of course, at a political moment when everyone was supposed to be marching towards a bright new world, for Liyan and Yuwen to stay rebuilding their old one, was easily seen as reactionary. Critics of Brief Encounter also saw it as reaffirming old values and expressing uneasiness at the changes in values which had come about during the war, when large numbers of women entered the workforce and led independent lives, and I think the cinematography bears that out. But I hope Ive suggested that Spring in a Small Town is not a political statement or a commentary on gender but an attempt to use Chinese resources to come to grips with the pressing problems of suffering and destruction the country faced at the time, and a serious modern expression of humanism.     PAGE  PAGE 15  The most comprehensive source of information on Fei Mu is Wong Ain-Ling [Huang Ai-ling] (ed.) Shiren daoyanFei Mu [The poet-director-Fei Mu], (Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Critics Society, 1998).  Yingjin Zhang, Chinese National Cinema (London: Routledge, 2004), 60-62.  Fei Mu, Ruan Lingyu nshi zhi si, [The death of Madame Ruan Lingyu], in Wong ed. Shiren daoyan, 34-38.  Fei Mingyi, Fuqin shengmingzhong de liangwei nxing, [The two women in Fei Mus life], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 127-140.  Fei Mu, Kongfuzi ji qi shidai [Confucius and his age], in Wong, Shiren daoyan , 65-73.  A point made in a seminal essay by Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong: shiping Xiaocheng zhi chun [Fitting China, transcending tradition: a review of Spring in a Small Town] in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 292.  Grace S. Fong, "Engendering the Lyric: Her Image and Voice in Song," in Pauline Yu ed. Voices of the Song Lyric in China (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993) 108.  Wong Ain-ling, Fang Wei Wei, [Interview with Wei Wei], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 194-208.  Grace S. Fong, Wu Wenying and the art of Southern Song Ci Poetry (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 105.  Richard Dyer, Brief Encounter BFI Film Classics Series (London: British Film Institute 1993), 16.  Dyer, Brief Encounter, 24-27.  Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong, 286.  Dyer, Brief Encounter, 29.  Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong, 287.  Fei Mu, Xiangxuehai zhong de yige xiao wenti, [A small problem in Sea of Fragrant Snow], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 25-26.  Fei Mu, Luetan kongqi, [Some thoughts on atmosphere], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 27.  Fei Mu, Zaxie [Random notes], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 31.  Wong Ain-ling, Fang Wei Wei, in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 206.  Zhang Hongmei, Fei Mu jiao wo wangdiao ta [Fei Mu told me to forget it], in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 210.  Ibid.  Wong Ain-ling, Fang Wei Wei, in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 201.  Anthony C. Yu, Rereading the Stone: Desire and the Making of Fiction in Dream of the Red Chamber (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 56-66.  Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong, 292.  Tang Xianzu, The Peony Pavilion (Mudan Ting). Translated by Cyril Birch. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1980.)  Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong, 289.  Chris Berry and Mary Farquhar, China on Screen: Cinema and Nation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006)  Li Zhuotao, Yihu Zhongguo, chaohu chuantong, 292.  Wong Ain-ling, "Dai xu [In place of a preface] in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 13.  Ibid.  Wai-yee Lee, Enchantment and disenchantment: Love and Illusion in Chinese Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 50.  Wong Ain-ling, Dai xu in Wong, Shiren daoyan, 13. ?@ABYu y   c h h u & - K O U e ! MO׿׿׿׶ײײרנײײײ׶hCh#hWhWH*hrhj6jhl0JUh?s hW h 6h hlhD*h*hlhj6hj h,|h,|h,|h,|5CJaJ hj56 h,|5 hj58@Y)$(.244p677c8o8:CI@MT d`gdZ^gd-dgdld^`gd,|dgd,|\~~3>@K[rtw6TXdjXYZ[ 46?Q4¸°씜제h Uh h^h?h]h+\{h*hh;jhl0JUhh:nnhs2hkZhhrjhr0JUh hnyh?s hD*hxjhjhC9?U'(*v #$ Tsu1FK? 9:;<=S_ȼhBehShD^h[g/6h[g/jhi0JUhP5hlAhCh\hZEh9bh7h#hih h hYhY hhShD^h26h2hD^:g p !!!!" 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