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***CONTAINS SPOILERS***

King Hu / Hu Jinquan – A Touch of Zen / Xia Nu
Genre: Adventure / Drama / Action
Country: China / Taiwan
Year: 1969

Zenith.

Certain landmarks in cinema are hailed as the best of the medium because they pushed the boundaries in a time of restriction, held a copious amount of political mass and with status attained from eventual popularity, were able to pass on its legacy via institutional education. While these are all notable factors, they may however, be delusive when taken on their own as limitations since if done so, other nominees more than worthy of the distinction end up unfairly omitted. King Hu’s A Touch of Zen for instance, is a singular achievement in film and especially impressive when quality is assessed in and of itself. Thus, it is essentially due to external reasons that Hu’s finest is not as universally praised as the zenith that it truly is.

Its evanescent presence on lists of established critics may foremost be of political blame. King Hu was born in Beijing but emigrated at the age of 18 to aspire his career abroad (first with Shaw Bros, then in Taiwan and South Korea). Due to severely tense Chinese-Taiwan relations of the past century and communism’s ban on the arts, Hu’s films at the apex of their artistry and craft (chronologically from Dragon Gate Inn to The Valiant Ones), were never enthusiastically received in mainland China (a real travesty in consideration of how nationalistic they were). Hence, Hu often found himself stranded between the alienation of his motherland and the tepid reception of the United States. Unexpectedly, the director may have actually been most acclaimed in Europe, having won the technical prize at Cannes and even presently, more than a decade after his death, the best distribution for his works takes place in Germany.

A Touch of Zen is THE quintessential Wuxia staple. This much is undisputable. There are other contenders which may surpass it in various separate qualifications (mostly the features in Hu’s own filmography – The Fate of Lee Khan is superiorly paced, Dragon Gate Inn more theatrically meticulous and The Valiant Ones a purer cinematic spirit) but as an artistic whole, it is untouchable. Unfortunately, it also makes others (particularly ones outside of Hu’s arsenal) seem frivolous, uninspired in comparison and as such, Wuxia is not a widely respected subgenre as it once had the potential to be. For Eastern viewers, the Wuxia Pian was really China’s filmic answer to the Samurai sagas of Japan and/or the American Westerns. Furthermore, it can be additionally understood in some ways as China’s own countermovement to European Romanticism in its parallel exaltation of ancient heroes, myths, wisdoms and ways.

Wuxia’s preeminent masterpiece then is an advocate of a concept equivalent to Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk (a total synthesis of the arts propelled in romanticist and/or nationalist ideals). Here the arts, which consist of performance (music in the score and soundscapes, theatre in dramas, mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, dance in the action choreography), literature (quotations and idioms of philosophies in Zen Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism) and visual (paintings, writings, sculptures, architectures and settings) strive towards the broader picture in unison. For Western viewers, such a complete experience may be a difficult and unfamiliar one but to its credit, this film fortunately, does not feel the need to compromise. It does not find the necessity to saturate and explain itself like a lesser one would. Instead, it realizes that art does not cater and alter itself for anyone and that it is really up to viewers to adapt and educate themselves. Emphasis on the holistic vision is what projects A Touch of Zen ahead of the rest.

Immediately from the opening board of credits (both here and in any Hu film), a nation's rich history and culture is proudly on display in simple yet elaborate layout of Chinese calligraphy with classical music in accompaniment. Played by authentic, traditional instruments, Wu Daijiang’s original score (presented in thematic variations within the acts) is vital to the central theme of nostalgia, chivalry and enlightenment. Inwardly, the musical decisions are likewise pivotal. In the scene "A Secret Rendezvous," lyrics of the ballad render any type of speech useless and direct contrast within the music from sweet to wistful and sparse to assiduous offer a palette of different sentiments. Sounds of bells and ornamented trills put to the inaction of the town elicit parts of surprise and tension while frontal Buddhist chants perfectly prepare for the entrance of the monks. When a beam of light penetrates on screen, a sharp embellishment in the music follows suit, proving a purpose exists for every part.

Xia Nu, the Chinese title, translates to “Gallant Female,” carrying with it some complaints in reference to the mistranslation albeit the existent title actually seems to superiorly underscore the film’s fundamental thematic whole. There are extremely prominent uses of symbolism in Hu’s zenith. From the very first shot (that of a spider web in the dark, depicting the cimmerian, tangled corruption of “worldly affairs”) to the last (that of the abbot's blinding silhouette, suggesting the achieved state of “zen”) lies a plethora of open-ended yet purposeful interpretations with what’s in between seen as one’s own rational and natural progression towards that profound destination.

The sun shot (that with the camera lens aimed directly at the sun under various means of approach) is symbolically, the most significant and its primary purpose seems to be that of radiance: to hint or emit clarity to the audience. Its entrance felt as early as the second shot from the opening frame, an instant juxtaposition is made (against the web), foreshadowing a theory and technique that will only familiarize itself further as the film unfolds. When Ku faints in his attempt to pursue the fight between Miss Yang and Ouyang Nin, the sun shot is a call from nature to reassert his role as a thinker, not a fighter. When Abbot Hui subdues his villain amidst the flashback, the rays of the sun behind him assumes the shape of illumination, shining its “enlightenment” on the subject as a way to calm and/or to convert the unjust. When Ku tries to find Yang by turning to the sky for answers, the sun is quickly covered by clouds, conveying that trouble is about to brew. Before the ending sequence where it is utilised to the next stratum, the final sun shot takes place after a nearby woodcutter identifies Ku from a wanted poster and it implies a lift of his initial uncertainty.

While Ku and Yang are the leads, they are still ultimately subordinate to “zen,” demonstrated by their kneeling gestures in the last scene after consuming most of the screen time. Even the abbot, who was the physical manifestation of “zen” is mortal and understood to have died in the end (as he bleeds gold from a stab to the heart.) Therefore, what elevates A Touch of Zen to the level of esotericism is its transcendence of characters, more specifically of individuals and this, is most characteristic of the elites in any art.

Shadow is used to prominent effect. The face of the agent Ouyang Nin is often hidden in the first act to express mystery and antogonism yet at the same time, similar feelings are provoked with a motivic, close-up shot into his eyes and evil is depicted in his expressions when others look away. In fact, shadow happens to be his very entrance on numerous occasions. The mere second of it at the end of the rendezvous indicates the film's denouement to any sense of short-lived joy. Likewise, space is used to laudable results. When Ouyang Nin leaves Ku's home and all three step outside the door, the camera stays inside, facing the window in paper backdrop as shadows line up within the frames in a single shot. Items of focus are as centered and clear in distant shots, such as Ku's perspective down the alley of the combat between Ouyang Nin and Miss Yang on top of the wall (ushering in the clash of Yin and Yang). The first appearance of Commander Hsu and his henchmen also has them barely visible, just fitting in amidst a thicket of thin trees.

Visual natura lives onscreen in languid greens and whites as chosen colors capture a dreamlike manner in motion with leaves, flower flakes and pollen falling off trees like snow in the breeze, illustrating Ching Lu Fort as an almost apocalyptic fantasia delineated in Tarkovsky's Stalker a decade later. Impressively seized, the cinematography really exposes the unseen side of China's natural wonders (while set in Taiwan). In contrast to the overpopulated and polluted modern premise, waters here are a clear, bluish green and falls with the purity of cleansed tides while snowwhite rock and fog from the high mountain gorges elicit beauty straight out of an ancient painting. Additionally, Hu’s trademark of authentic costume design and location make for visual bravura. The Bamboo Forest scene before intermission shows complementary colors of red (from costumes) and green (from bamboo) colliding in spectacle. Ripped off endlessly by all Wuxia works to follow, this scene at Green Bamboo Hill is filmed with the definition of grace in its dual showdown. Visual metaphors also offer as elemental transitions. A smatter of coal transitions into high mountains (small rock into big rock) for a flashback and when it ends, a pot of water is used to put out the fire, as if to distinguish memories in a reassertion of reality. Glacier ice transitions into water to suggest a passing of time as well.

The action, like in other works of Hu, is operatic in nature and scenes are filmed like a dance (such a concept is extended by John Woo, an admirer of Hu, in his later heroic bloodsheds involving guns). Invisible trampolines and loose, selected wardrobe make for aerial freedom in movement like floating spirits. Compared to Dragon Gate Inn, there is more of a degree in realism among these scenes and with them a mystic quality that does not directly suspend belief like in "wire-fu" flying. Whereas the former is more orchestrated in its detailed layouts and precisely placed positions, A Touch of Zen had freer movement and a less confined style in choreography. Kurosawa’s Rashomon undoubtedly had the most influence on this film in numerous areas: the introverted sense of awkward spontaneity, the perception of beauty versus the clumsy reality, the filming of moving feet in the forest and of course, the sun shots mentioned above.

A Touch of Zen shifts the focus on a different lead in each of the three acts. The lead for the first act (so emphatically targeted that it could be a character study) is scholar Ku Shenchai played by the outstanding Shih Chun in the performance of his career and in many ways, one that is completely bipolar to his previous role. Ku is middle aged in his thirties and lives with the demands of his oblivious but caring mother. She carries much of the unwise, conventional Chinese stereotypes and does not know what is best for her son (as evidenced by her misreading of Ouyang Nin.) It is in this simultaneous contrast and clash of ideals between Ku and his mother that some humor resides. A wise scholar and painter, his philosophy is wholly Eastern: to appreciate, be humble and happy with what he has (Taoism) as opposed to Western: to pursue higher occupational status and power (Capitalism). With a dualist and complex personality, Ku is without a doubt a point of fascination. He carries about a mature demeanor, is a citer of proverbs, an astute military strategist yet at the same time, he is also still a boy at heart who lives with his mother, possessing a childish curiosity, clumsiness, short attention span and is easily distracted. Even when he reiterates bits of wisdom, he delivers it with a premature hesitance. Ku will not hesitate to dismiss fortune telling as a foolish superstition but firmly believes in the presence of ghosts despite the fact that his model Confucius, did not. His character can be best apprehended in the morning scene following the battle at Ching Lu Fort, where the entire East Chamber Army was trapped and slaughtered. At first, he is arrogant, laughing and taunting his victims, flaunting his machismo in a show of victorious pride but then, suddenly he becomes pale with shock upon the realization of what exactly transpired, the magnitude of those perished, the catastrophic proportions of human lives lost. Consequently, he is alone, as if woken up from a dream while everyone else has passed on. This is the basis of his multi-dimensional personality.

The focus for the bulk of the film (especially the second act) is on Yang Huiching or Miss Yang, played by Hsu Feng in the role that established her as King Hu’s lead actress. “Gallant Female” is not descriptive of her character, it embodies it. Yang is a cold, detached fugitive and one of the most emotionless females to grace the screen. In this way, she resembles more like the knight as opposed to the damsel, carrying on Hu’s successive tradition of the semi-feminist lead. The only point where she deviates from her character is during the rendezvous and even then, it is short lived and performed without much affection. The love story within is also of note because it can be argued that there really is none on the part of Yang and that she only participated in the rendezvous as a favor for Ku’s mother – to carry on the family heritage. This is another instance where the East vs West customs are apparent. Here in the traditional Chinese romance, love is seen as a duty for the sake of family over the desire of the individual. If anything, Yang and General Shih appear more as a couple just by their mannerisms in battle.

The final attention is on Abbot Hui, easily the most intriguing monk in film. Provided by the bold presence of Roy Chiao, his performance as the Abbot may be the film’s best. Although occupying less screentime than Chun and Hsu, Chiao’s Hui leaves perhaps the greatest impact. He is a perfect embodiment of what his character vows to be. Immediately from introduction, he is easily likable and his personality (supplemented excellently by Chiao in a bold, understated almost minimalistic approach) exuberates kindness and reason. The abbot is convincingly at peace with his inner self as he repels confidence and experience, moves with the calm and collectedness of a demigod as opposed to his nervously scattered enemies. Even though he is purely good and advocates the traits of Buddha, he also takes no prisoners in battle and has a sympathetic disgust for worldly violence. Unlike other films of the same ilk, violence here is not seen as a means to an end. It does not solve any of the main characters’ problems. Ouyang Nin was defeated as was Wu Munta and eventually even Commander Hsu, the East Chamber lead, but it is implied that there will be successors (Eunuch Wei for example, does not make an appearance). Similar to nature and life, there will always be those to take its place. If these three characters are in fact, what each act is centered on, then we may derive from this that Ku symbolizes the personal, Yang the societal and Hui the spiritual chapters of this epic.

Act I consolidates occupation, marriage and family. Populous complaints of this film take place here with the torpid pace, the real-time curiosity and prevalent inactivity. However, these traits all fall perfectly in line for the very intention is to depict the mundane aspects of everyday existence and yet it is all still shot so effectively. Seemingly inaction on screen does not equate inaction. There is really plenty of tension here despite no physical result but through the thought process of the characters, identities are kept secret and motives are blurred. Ku’s exploration of the mansion courtyard, this concept of misadventure in search of what does not exist (not to mention the later idea of “death by the unseen” precedes both Aguirre, the Wrath of God as well as Apocalypse Now.

Act II is an examination of justice. Many episodes here are in the dark and even when the heroes plot, the setting takes place in confined meetings either at night or indoors during the day, mirroring the secret undertakings of reality. Haunted rumors easily distributed and digested could be a metaphor of the gullible corruption in the system. Like love, the roles are often a matter of duty for the villains and the exploited. There lies no blanket, moral intent of good or bad even if the intent is somewhat clear – this is an underlying aim of the film. Doctor Lu agrees to treat Ouyang Nin as a patient even though the former is being hunted by the latter. The villain refuses. Thus, a certain pride in the characters asserts their roles beyond individualism. They are born and they are fated. Destiny for them is the ultimate thesis of anti-existentialism.

The action scenes in Ching Lu Fort, captured in extended takes and without fast cuts, are likewise set in almost complete darkness. This is firstly an advised decision, such that only parts of the whole can be seen but just enough that one can follow without difficulty. Darkness is also strategically pivotal for similar to Seven Samurai, vast numbers (here literally hundreds of men) fell at the hands of a few. Therefore, it is useful to temporarily veil the trap as the audience sees from the East Chamber Army’s point of view. The audience is also set in first person lens of the magistrate and teased when he is seemingly discovered and confesses but Hu deftly spins the situation as part of the scheme.

Another crucial element of A Touch of Zen is the restrained but ever-present emotion. Notable for Eastern cinema, it was especially composed during the persecution of Yang Lin. Here is an honorable man who died from torture his convictions and desires to reveal truth and from this, a normalised tale of revenge or a call to righteousness (a conventional cliché in martial art films) could have emerged. Instead, a supreme question of justice is raised beyond restrictions for it is the corrupted that hunt. It is not Yang’s daughter vowing to avenge the cruel death of her father but it is in fact, she who is being sought after. Justice here is not an eye for an eye or righting the wrong. It is simply the right to BE. Furthermore, when Ku’s child is dropped off next to him with a brief note by an intermediary, it marked the end of his potential romance and a future with his family. Sadness could be traced in his eyes but not a single tear was shed despite the fact that the viewer can sympathize. When it comes to emotional distribution in the film, less is most definitely more.

Act III deals with the transcendental and is the epitome of film as an artform. The crux of the conclusion takes place amidst the ethereal foliage of the bamboo forest, where rays of sun penetrate through brightly for an atmospheric arena where truths reveal. Movements become even more gravity defying now with camerawork becoming less linear and increasingly progressive (horizontal motion spins succeed vertical jumps of the cast). Then, a sublime moment is exposed. The personified movements of the monks are mimicked by the reaction of nature as counterpoint. The nearby leaves shake and water flows in the shimmering glow of light integrated with various quick cuts guided by Abbot Hui’s voice to provide a total collage of feeling. When the monks are stationary, so are the natural elements around them as if to imply that they are in fact, nature itself. Further distance between East and West beliefs are evidenced with the treatment of religion. Buddhism here is seen as an escape from the treachery of ordinary life. It is passive, not intrusive and actually highly elitist, possessing secrets that are of practical worldly use (martial arts). These are all diametric to Judeo-Christian traits.

As the final confrontation approaches, Abbot Hui can be realized as the contra to Death from The Seventh Seal. With such a commanding presence, light shines with him rather than on him and conversely, light shines on Hsu and not with him. Yet through all this, Hui is lit bright (thus, Good) and Hsu dim (thus, Evil), signifying the most actualized depiction, juxtaposition and exploration of these two timeless forces. The last scene is the best in all of cinema, displaying the most plausible outcome if a standoff were to ever occur between Good and Evil. It is closest to a visual representation of Socrates’ teachings in The Republic.

Even in action, Good is simple and efficient. Hui never lands a series of attacks for usually one blow is enough to stun, its ideal aim of striking. Evil, on the other hand, is manipulative and deviant. Hsu exploits a plethora of moves for detriment and confusion, its ideal aim is to kill. On the outermost manifestation, Evil seems to understand Good better than vice versa because Good always tries to win over Evil, which is utterly and totally impossible. Prior to the showdown, we, the audience have experienced Evil but never in its purist form. Ouyang Nin (the captain from Abbot Hui’s flashback) subdued when confronted and Wu Munta’s men from the previous act were obviously victims of their conscience, conveying that they were not wholly evil. If one can believe in “ghosts” extracting revenge or justice, then he is not evil personified for as stated by Wu himself, “it is the ghosts that fear evil.” Here Hsu uses the counterpart deception, eliciting the illusion of a desire to convert before revealing the true venom within. Although he never fully fools Hui, he does succeed in distracting him sufficiently to strike when his guard is down. Similar to the way the battle at General’s mansion was unfolded, director Hu makes emphatic that it is the psychological edge or (the ART of war) that holds real power.

It is imperative to understand that Good will never defeat Evil because Good, in its perfect form, cannot kill. It is always prone to forgive, to participate in the process of conversion, not in execution. Hui humbles himself in front of his enemy for one second, and his mistake is fatal. Yet even in the presence of death, his last blow is enough to self destruct Hsu, ushering in that at the same time, Evil will never defeat Good because Evil, in its perfect form, does not have the collectiveness of Good to triumph. It is so unpredictable and volatile that it corrupts not only itself as evidenced by Hsu’s actions, but also those around him (in this case, his family). The same notion can be reflected in earlier fates of Munta and his advisor.

Inverted elemental shots of negatives interjected into Hsu’s psychosis are to insinuate his utter descent into insanity and as a divider between fantasy and reality. Floating heads represent the lives of his sons who were about to die and at his very hands to boot. It is of intrigue that even when both are at the end, Good seems to assert a moral victory. Though defeated by Evil, Hui spends his final moments “above” everyone, meditating in peace and even on his feet while Hsu breaks down and suicides into a gutter, on his back, eventually picked off by vultures. In the very last few shots, Hui’s face or “identity” is lost in the sun as he becomes “the faceless one” or Zen itself. Finally, both Good and Evil pointed towards the east in their last moments and it is of no coincidence that east is the location of the rising sun, of tomorrow, of a new dawn and of life.

Philosophically, A Touch of Zen resembles closest to Lao Tzu’s Tao te Ching. In profundity, it is the paradox that remains and Hu’s zenith, like The Tao, thrives eternally in it. Xia Nu is fundamentally paradoxical – in its treatment of the immaterial (spirits are mocked but spirituality is seriously revered) and in its analysis of purified Good and Evil without binary categorization. Most vitally, like Tao te Ching, it teaches one to think but in no way it does it teaches one to think a certain way. The above is still simply only one singular interpretation.

Let one's own adaptation of enlightenment unfold like an esoteric beam.

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