Chapter 12 Glory to Eternity

It is impossible to speak about the early half of my life without

mentioning Kawakita Nagamasa, the now deceased president of Tōhō Tōwa Film

Company, Ltd. For Kawakita’s relationship with Chinese fi lms, I refer readers to

such specialized publications as Satō Tadao’s Cinema and Cannon Fire (Kinema

to hōsei, 1985) and Shimizu Akira’s “Zhonghua Dianying [China Film Company]

and Kawakita Nagamasa” (“Chūka Den’ei to Kawakita Nagamasa,” 1986).1 Kawakita

established the China Film Company in Shanghai in 1939 around the time I was

working on Song of the White Orchid, Man’ei’s joint venture with Tōhō.

At the time, led by Director Amakasu Masahiko, Man’ei had already been

established in Manchuria’s Xinjing making “national policy” fi lms. Beijing had

Huabei Dianying (North China Film Studio), an establishment linked to Man’ei.

But in Japan-occupied territories in central China such as Shanghai and Nanjing,

there was still no “national policy” establishment to advance Japan’s cultural

agenda.2 With that in mind, the Japanese army in central China specifically picked

Kawakita as Japan’s representative to create a new company.

Until then, Kawakita and his wife, Kashiko, had been in charge of Tōwa Trading Company, importing European productions as well as producing and exporting Japanese fi lms.3 As the fighting intensified, the army’s control became more

stringent, and the quota for imported films was reduced. It was at that point in

time that they were asked to participate in this new venture in Shanghai.

When the military sounded for opinions from fi lm circles, all its leading figures recommended Kawakita for the job. Not only was he experienced in the management of international films and extraordinarily knowledgeable about both the

Japanese and the foreign fi lm industries; he was also the only person in the business who was fluent in Chinese, English, German, and French. Indeed, Kawakita

had a cosmopolitan sensibility rarely seen among the prewar Japanese. On the other

hand, he was not an over-zealous occidentalist blinded by his admiration of imported cultures; he was a citizen of the world with the heart of an Asian. A man

of refined cultivation, his understanding and affection for China and the Chinese

186

Glory to Eternity

187

in par ticular ran deep. The fact that his company and his daughter were named

“Tōwa” (Eastern harmony) and Kazuko (child of peace), respectively, reflected his

desire for peace and harmony between the East and the West.

In this, the influence of his father, Kawakita Daijirō, was considered extremely

important. A graduate of the Army College, Daijirō was active during the RussoJapanese War as a captain in the artillery. After the war, he was invited by the Qing

government to teach warfare at the newly created Baoding Military Academy,

which was established in an effort to modernize China’s army. Apparently enjoying full respect and complete trust from the Qing army, he was also admired by

all the cadet officers. At General Yuan Shikai’s request, Daijirō alone remained in

Beijing after the end of his tenure to serve as a military advisor for the training of

China’s elite officers. Shortly afterwards, he was shot and killed by an unknown

assassin in Beijing. At the time, his son Nagamasa was five years old.

To find out the truth surrounding his father’s death, Nagamasa traveled alone

to China during his summer vacation when he was a third-year secondary school

student. There, he sought to meet Duan Qirui, then Premier and former head of

the military academy. The meeting did not materialize, but Nagamasa did receive

a gracious reply. In it, Kawakita Daijirō was described as China’s great benefactor, and should Nagamasa come to China, the Premier was said to be happy to

consult with him on his personal questions.

Nagamasa subsequently studied at Beijing University. Like his father, he

thought of dedicating himself to working toward Sino-Japanese friendship, but

anti-Japanese sentiments from the May Fourth Movement were still smoldering

at the time. Finding it difficult to continue his studies under such circumstances,

he decided to cut short his stay and went to Germany instead. Upon his return to

Japan, his experience inspired him to venture into the business of importing European fi lms. Meanwhile, after learning by accident that the Director of Aviation

General Ding Jin was a close friend of his father’s, he visited the general in Beijing

and learned for the first time the truth about his father’s death.

The story is as follows. Preparing to spend the rest of his life in China, Captain

Kawakita Daijirō remained in Beijing and became a naturalized Chinese citizen.

His work training an elite group of Chinese military officers, however, incurred

the suspicion of Japan, leading to the intervention of the Japanese military police

and his subsequent assassination.4

To Kawakita Nagamasa, the China with which his family had been so closely

associated for two generations was his second home. One statement he often made

was that the war between the two nations was so personally painful that it threatened to tear him apart. Now the Japanese military was about to create a company

to promote its national policy while entrusting him to the job. He was at a loss as

to what to do.

188

Chapter 12

In “My Life History” (“Watakushi no rirekisho,” Nihon Keizai Shimbun, 1980),

he wrote, “If I didn’t do it, someone else would. If that someone had no sense of

conviction or understanding about Sino-Japanese relations, he would act only according to the army’s wishes and fail miserably. That would not be in the best interest of either Japan or China.” He finally accepted the army’s request after much

consideration, but with one condition: the army would have no say in the company’s management in which he himself would be given total control.

With the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War, a number of Shanghai

filmmakers promptly offered their services to the Communists, while others moved

to Chiang Kai-shek’s power base in Chongqing or fled to the British colony of Hong

Kong. The majority of them, however, stayed behind in Shanghai’s international

concessions to continue their fi lmmaking. At the time, Japan was still not at war

with the Allied Powers. The International Settlement of Britain, the United States,

Japan, France, and Italy, along with the exclusive French Concession—those “weaponless solitary islands of resistance”—served as expedient bases for Chinese patriots to engage in anti-Japanese operations. To be sure, this period lasted only until

December 8, 1941, when Japan declared war on Britain and the United States.

Likewise, to Chinese fi lmmakers, those international concessions served

as “solitary islands of resistance.” With the exception of Xinjing’s Man’ei and

Beijing’s Huabei Dianying, all the fi lm companies and studios on the Chinese

continent could be found on these “solitary islands,” then referred to as China’s

Hollywood. Audaciously, Kawakita established Zhonghua Dianying, a company

under Japanese control, in one of those locations. If he had founded it in the Japanese residential quarters of Hongkou,5 an area guarded by the Japanese army, he

feared that the new establishment would simply be seen as a natural extension of

the Japanese military. In other words, he wanted to provide the first proof that

Zhonghua Dianying was in the same company as other Chinese fi lmmaking studios by establishing its headquarters in that precise location.

Yet, it was, after all, an establishment to promote Japan’s national policy and

was hardly in any position to participate in anti-Japanese cultural activities. On

the other hand, should it engage in any obstructionist tactics against resistance

operations by Chinese film companies, the Shanghai art world would simply turn

its back against it. Thus, Zhonghua Dianying did not function in the same capacity

as Man’ei by producing propaganda fi lms reflecting Japan’s continental policy.

Instead, it specialized in the selection of Chinese-made fi lms deemed acceptable

to both Japan and China before distributing them to and screening them at

Japanese-occupied territories within China as well as in Japan proper.

That said, it was exceedingly difficult to differentiate between a fi lm’s antiJapanese sentiments and its artistic representations. For instance, let’s take Mulan Joins the Army (Mulan congjun, produced by Zhang Shankun, directed by Bu

Glory to Eternity

189

Wancang, and starring Chen Yunchang), a film adopted from the historical drama

Hua Mulan.6 Briefly, its plot is as follows: Once upon a time, when northern China

was invaded by the Huns, all able-bodied males reaching conscription age in the

country would join the army to defend their homeland. In the Hua family, however, Mulan, a daughter, is the only full-grown member living with her old parents and her young siblings. Armed with martial skills she has learned from her

father and motivated by her fervent patriotism, she decides to join the army by

dressing herself in men’s clothes. With her stunning military skills, she eventually scores an impressive victory for her country.

The story was cleverly configured around the paradigm of “borrowing from

the past to ridicule the present” ( jie’gu fengjin). What appeared at first sight as

simply a traditional period film (guzhuang’pian) about a young woman masquerading as a man and destroying a foreign enemy was meant to allude to the victory of the anti-Japanese guerillas over the Japanese army, thereby uplift ing the

national spirit of patriotic resistance. That was the hidden intent of the film’s famed

producer, Zhang Shankun.

There was considerable controversy within the Japanese army over whether

permission should be given to Zhonghua Dianying’s request to distribute this film.

The military police were absolutely opposed to the idea, while the Press Division

staffed by such men as Tsuji Hisaichi, a film critic who was to become a Dai’ei producer, was in favor. Captain Ichiji Susumu, the section leader of publicity, believed

that the film was in respectful accord with the spirit of patriotism as prescribed

in the Imperial Rescript on Education, which stated that “one must devote oneself

with righteous courage to the country at a time of emergency.” In the end, permission was given for the fi lm’s screening.

By distributing Mulan Joins the Army, which could clearly be perceived as an

anti-Japanese production, Zhonghua Dianying and Kawakita Nagamasa were able

to earn an enormous degree of trust from Chinese fi lmmakers. From that time

on, by maneuvering their way through loopholes under harsh wartime conditions,

Chinese producers such as Zhang Shankun and their trusted colleague Kawakita

pledged to coproduce Chinese fi lms for the Chinese and by the Chinese. Kawakita’s staunch determination to prevent Japanese military boots from trampling on

Shanghai’s film world could be attributed to his commitment to maintain, as much

as possible, a friendly and trusting relationship with the Chinese even though the

countries were at war. I was well aware of the progressive liberalism that colored

the Shanghai fi lm world in the 1930s in par ticu lar, thanks to what I had learned

from Iwasaki Akira.

Throughout the prewar and postwar period, Kawakita and Iwasaki, two epochmaking figures in Japanese fi lm history, were the fi lm artists who taught me the

most about the cinematic arts. Those two closest of friends both grew up during

190

Chapter 12

the same springtime of Japa nese cinema; they drank from the same wellspring

as they shared their dreams about the future of Japanese fi lm. Since he was a

student of German literature at Tokyo Imperial University, Iwasaki was a prolific

film critic for Cinema Review (Kinema Junpō).7 Upon his graduation in 1927, his

German language proficiency and wide knowledge of German fi lms led to his

recruitment by Taguchi Company, Japan’s importing agency for the German

fi lm company UFA (Universum Film AG). Iwasaki recorded his fi rst encounter

with Kawakita in his book The Days When Films Were Young (Eiga ga wakakatta

toki, 1980):

It appears that he was not a company employee. A fair-skinned young man

with gentle features, he was sitting behind a desk next to the other staff. Quite

without exception, all the Taguchi employees were what one might call countrybred folks, and if only for that reason, the young man’s presence instilled a

special atmosphere to the gathering. . . . I suppose you could say there was a

certain air of unruffled poise about him, an aura of uninhibited openmindedness, as if the pettiness of Japan had already been squeezed out of him.

I later learned that he was not a Taguchi employee, but someone from the

German side, perhaps a representative of UFA.

This first meeting between Kawakita and Iwasaki marked the beginning of

their strong camaraderie. Taguchi Company, on the other hand, went bottom-up

a year later. On the day it went bankrupt, Taguchi’s three German specialists,

Kawakita, Iwasaki, and another man named Aoyama Toshimi (later Tōwa’s Head

of Publicity), pledged to meet exactly a year later in front of the Imperial Palace.

Far from waiting a year, though, the three began seeing each other frequently less

than a week later.

Shortly afterwards, Kawakita established the Tōwa Trading Company, bringing into it a beautiful secretary named Takeuchi Kashiko, a talented graduate of

Yokohama’s Ferris Girls’ School. Her first assignment was to translate into English the screenplay of Mizoguchi Kenji’s The Wild Love of a Woman Instructor

(Kyōren no onnashishō [1926]), and she did a marvelous job.8 Kawakita married

her a year later. Thereafter, in an attempt to internationalize the Japanese film industry, the two became active on the world stage.

In 1935, four years before Kawakita founded Zhonghua Dianying in Shanghai, Iwasaki visited the city immediately before the outbreak of the Second SinoJapanese War and befriended liberal Chinese filmmakers there. Since his writings

on film had caught the attention of Lu Xun, who subsequently translated one piece

into Chinese himself, Iwasaki’s name was already known among the Shanghai intelligentsia.9 Besides Shen Xiling, Iwasaki’s host in China, progressive fi lm direc-

Glory to Eternity

191

tors active in Shanghai in the mid-1930s included men such as Cai Chusheng, Yue

Feng, Shi Dongshan, and Ying Yunwei. Meanwhile, writers such as Tian Han and

Xia Yan (former Head of the Sino-Japanese Friendship Association) had been producing brilliant screenplays.

Incidentally, Iwasaki’s Shanghai visit coincided with the suicide of Ruan

Ling’yu, a big trendy star who had won extraordinary popularity with fi lms such

as Little Toys (Xiao-wanyi [1933]) and The Defiled Goddess (Shen’nu [1934]).10 It was

a case of life imitating art as the demise of the new modern female icon herself

paralleled the plot of her film New Women (Xin-nuxing [1935]).11 Indeed, the Shanghai fi lm world at the time was pervaded with an air of modernism and liberalism. Making my own debut in the latter half of the 1930s as an actress of Man’ei,

a company seen as a sort of out-of-the-way fi lm studio, I greatly admired the

popular stars of Shanghai, the most sophisticated stage for contemporary Chinese

cinema. In 1985, when I saw a number of productions at a retrospective on Chinese fi lm held at the Modern National Art Museum in Takebashi in Tokyo, I

could pick out the faces of some of my senior colleagues and friends, Li Lili, Wang

Renmei, Chen Bo’er, Bai Yang. . . . Among them, I especially remembered my

close friend Zhou Xuan, the top singer star after Ruan Ling’yu’s death. Two of her

songs, “The Four Seasons-Song” (Siji’ge) and “The Wandering Songstress” (Tian’ya

ge’nu), had for a time captured millions of hearts in the entire country.12 She was

also the first to sing the internationally renowned “When Will You Return?”

With the outbreak of the Pacific War in December 1941, the Japanese army

occupied Shanghai’s foreign concessions. A series of consolidations of Shanghai’s

fi lm companies resulted in increasingly stringent Japa nese control. Even so,

Kawakita made only one fi lm in collaboration with the Japanese, namely, Lingering Sorrow over Shanghai (Chunjiang yihen, or, in its Japanese title, Noroshi wa

Shanhai ni agaru, 1944).13 Working in partnership with Zhang Shankun, Kawakita

endeavored to produce and distribute Chinese fi lms made by the Chinese, fi lms

that just barely made it to the screen after passing through Japanese censorship.

Those without an international mindset probably couldn’t appreciate how extremely delicate and difficult were his maneuvers to achieve that result. He also

managed to gather in Shanghai a continuous flow of talents from Japan, men such

as Hazumi Tsuneo (Tōwa’s publicity head and a film critic); Kondaibō Gorō (head

of Shōchiku’s planning section); Hirata Ryōei (leftist activist); Shimizu Akira (film

critic); Himeda Yoshirō (translator and writer); Noguchi Hisamitsu (fi lm and

music critic); and others.14

The first time I visited Shanghai was in 1940 when I was shooting on location

for China Nights. At the beginning, I didn’t develop any close friendship with

Kawakita or his associates, as people connected with Man’ei had few good things

to say about him. The fact that Man’ei and Zhonghua Dianying never liked each

192

Chapter 12

other, despite their commonality as makers of Japan’s national policy films, was

a direct reflection of the different temperaments of two Japanese men, Amakasu

Masahiko and Kawakita Nagamasa, the former said to be the butcher of people

like Ōsugi Sakae and the operative behind the formation of Manchukuo, and the

latter a pro-Chinese liberal since his father’s generation.

At a time when Japan was intoxicated with its initial military victories over

the United States and Britain while still keeping its naval defeat at Midway a secret, the army in 1942 held a “Conference on the Alliance of Continental Films”

(Tairiku Eiga Renmei Kaigi), which brought together the three national policy

establishments of Man’ei, Huabei Dianying, and Zhonghua Dianying. What the

conference proceedings demonstrated with increasing clarity was the divergence

between Man’ei and Zhonghua Dianying in their cultural operations within

China, with Man’ei expressing disapproval over Kawakita for not making propaganda fi lms for Chinese consumption. At the time, there was a widespread

rumor that plans had been made for Kawakita’s assassination. Quite unable to

control myself, I shook with trepidation when I, too, heard whispers of such a story

at the time.

Kawakita himself appeared to be quite composed. In his “My Life History,”

he reminisced that “when I heard rumors about my assassination, I wondered

whether two generations in my family, father and son, would end up with the same

fate. Yet I was not scared, nor did I experience any feelings of tragic heroism.” His

wife, Kashiko, on the other hand, was greatly concerned. In her autobiography, A

Life Devoted to Films (Eiga hitosuji ni, 1973), she revealed that whenever her husband departed for Xinjing for business consultations with Man’ei, as he frequently

did, she was “shaken with a terrifying premonition that this was the time.” She

continued, “When Kawakita went to Manchuria, they would always throw a big

drinking party. That man Amakasu was a heavy drinker, and on such occasions,

the two of them would always have to have a drinking competition over vodka or

baijiu.15 Kawakita said that no matter how much he drank, he had never gotten

drunk because he was always feeling tense.”

One time, I was at the same party where the two of them were having such a

drinking competition. It was difficult to tell who the winner was; both drank heavily and yet were able to carry on a cheerful tête-à-tête until the end. Conscious of

each other’s presence, I suppose they acted in a way that would not allow any signs

of intoxication to show. To prove that he was not inebriated, I remember that

Kawakita stood on his hands on a go or shōgi chessboard, inspiring Amakasu to

clap his hands, saying, “Well-done! Well-done!”

As for plans for Kawakita’s assassination, Tsuji Hisaichi, in his “Topics on

Zhonghua Dianying’s History” (Chūka Den’ei shiwa), has the following testimony:

Glory to Eternity

193

The person who called off the plan [for his assassination] was a career fi lmmaker and a man who was among Man’ei’s chief executives. Since he had spent

his whole life working in the fi lmmaking business since his father’s generation, he was able to appreciate Kawakita’s true worth and boldly advised against

the initiative. This is not fiction, but something I heard after the war with my

own ears from the very individual who had advised against the action.

From hints such as “a filmmaker since his father’s generation” and “a Man’ei executive,” the critic Satō Tadao asserted that the abovementioned individual was

Makino Mitsuo, the same man who, with his refrain “Nothin’ to worry about! Just

leave everything to me!” had earlier goaded me into the fi lming of The Honeymoon Express and ended up turning me into a Man’ei star.16 Now that Makino

has passed away, there is no way to ascertain whether he had indeed saved Kawakita’s life. On the other hand, after the Ōsugi Sakae Incident and his subsequent move

to the Chinese continent in the Shōwa period, Amakasu was actively involved in

such affairs as the Harbin riots and the conspiracy to carry out Puyi’s clandestine

journey to Manchuria. Even though he was leading a new life at Man’ei, actively

bringing into his ser vice former Communists and liberal film artists, did he still

not carry the blood of a terrorist in his veins?

At the Conference on the Alliance of Continental Films, Man’ei’s considerable pressure to ensure that fi lms be made to resonate with Japa nese interests

was probably the reason for the decision that Man’ei, Zhonghua Dianying, and

Zhonghua Lianhe Zhipian Gongsi (China United Film Company, an amalgamation of various Chinese fi lm companies) would together produce a fi lm starring

Man’ei’s Li Xianglan. The year 1942 marked the centennial for the conclusion

of the humiliating Treaty of Nanjing, which China had signed after its defeat

by the British in the Opium War. The said undertaking was designed to memorialize that event by producing a period fi lm depicting Lin Zexu and his struggles

against the British over the extermination of opium. It was determined that

its title was to be Wanshi liufang (Glory to Eternity), a phrase derived from the

historical drama’s seminal scene to bestow everlasting glory to Lin’s virtuous

enterprise.

When the fi lm’s staff and cast were announced, the Shanghai fi lm world was

stunned. The chief producer was Zhang Shankun, a preeminent figure in Chinese

film, while Bu Wancang, Zhu Shilin, and Ma-Xu Weibang, all great masters, would

jointly serve as directors.17 The fi lm’s patriotic hero was to be played by the leading Chinese actor Gao Zhanfei. Surrounding him were two beauties: Chen Yunchang, a prominent actress of Mulan Joins the Army fame, and the very popular

Yuan Meiyun. The handsome and popu lar Wang Yin was chosen for the role of a

194

Chapter 12

troubled young opium-addict-turned-patriot, and Li Xianglan was to play his

girlfriend.18

Lin Zexu, played by Gao Zhanfei, is at center stage, with Yuan Meiyun in the

role of his devoted wife. Finding her love for Lin unrequited, Chen Yunchang’s

character, Zhang Jingxian, decides to support Lin’s endeavor by devoting herself

to developing medicines to combat the harmful effects of opium. At the end, she

dresses herself as a man and leads the resistance movement against the British in

a role reminiscent of the main character in Mulan Joins the Army. I played a heroine in the fi lm’s subplot, a popular peddler of candies who campaigns against the

damaging effects of the drug through her singing.

As in the case of Mulan Joins the Army, what distinguished this fi lm from

most others was its strategy of jie’gu fengjin, “borrowing from the past to ridicule

the present.” With its message of resistance against the Anglo-Saxon attempt at

colonizing China through the Opium War, the fi lm was seen by the Japanese as

an instrument for rousing the fighting spirit against the hated “American and British dev ils” (kichiku Bei’ei). From the Chinese perspective, on the other hand, it

was a fi lm of resistance against a foreign enemy—Japan. The story thus afforded

an interpretative fluidity to accommodate every spectator’s ideological position.

That was precisely the ingenious idea brought forth by the collective wisdom of

Kawakita and Zhang after they meticulously weighed both the Japanese and Chinese agendas.19

Kawakita often said that there was not a single Chinese who aspired to genuine friendship with the Japanese invaders who trampled on his country with their

muddy boots. As a matter of fact, even Zhang Shankun, said to be the most proJapanese among Shanghai’s fi lm circle, was an anti-Japanese fi lmmaker. All the

films in which he was involved had in secret gone through prior inspection by the

Chongqing government. This was something Kawakita seemed to be aware of, and

Zhang, too, seemed to know that Kawakita knew. Precisely because of these two

men, the flames of war time Chinese cinema could continue to glow in Japaneseoccupied territories. Of course, the current Chinese government does not recognize fi lms made at that time with Japanese priorities in mind, with Glory to Eternity heading the list. Yet there are many who knew that men of conscience were

doing their very best under the most difficult conditions.20

I was glowing with anticipation with what I might be able to accomplish in

this fi lm. Since 1938, I had played only the role of a Chinese maiden in what

had essentially been Japanese films, and my popularity was limited only to “Manchuria” and Japan. In this sense, my part in Glory to Eternity was tantamount

to my debut within the mainstream cinema with a market covering the entire

Chinese continent. Furthermore, I would be acting among the company of prominent stars.

Glory to Eternity

195

Man’ei, for its part, was doubtless anxious to seize the opportunity of launching

itself as an equal to China’s mainstream film establishment. While I was the only

participating Man’ei actor, Iwasaki Akira was given the responsibility of project

design on Man’ei’s behalf as part of its support arrangement. Perhaps his close

friend Kawakita was working in the shadows to make this happen. In any case,

Iwasaki was good enough to be my wise advisor from the time of the project’s initial planning stage in July 1942, through first filming in November, until its completion in June of the following year. Come to think of it now, I was again reminded

that beginning in 1942, during my latter career with Man’ei, almost all my major

films benefitted from Iwasaki’s advice and supervision. Perhaps due to the fact that

Iwasaki himself has left almost no record of his association with Man’ei, his major

role in the planning and production of Man’ei films has not been well-known. In

this connection, he was also the producer for my 1942 film Winter Jasmine (Geishunka, directed by Sasaki Kō, a Man’ei and Shōchiku joint venture).21

The fact that Glory to Eternity was a patriotic fi lm driven by nationalistic

sentiments did not dispel the distrust held by some participating Chinese actors

toward the shadowy presence of Man’ei and Zhonghua Dianying as companies

under Japanese influence. For instance, Chen Yunchang, the leading actress of her

generation, made no attempt to conceal her displeasure and treated me with

guarded caution in the beginning; she suspected that Li Xianglan, portraying the

disgraced Chinese maiden in such fi lms as China Nights, might be a Japanese.

After living with me for a while, however, she began to notice how my way of

thinking was different from that of the average Japa nese and gradually began

to warm up to me. One time in our makeup room, she revealed that she had received a threatening letter from a fan who had learned that she was going to appear in a joint venture with Man’ei before castigating her as a woman without

shame and a traitor to her country. She also said that from the outset she had had

no desire to take part in the fi lm, but she couldn’t very well refuse the part since

the one who had invited her was Zhang Shankun, a man to whom she felt indebted since the days of Mulan Joins the Army.

I was left with many mixed emotions. Once the other actors and I had been

working together for an extended period of time, we began to learn about each

other’s thoughts and inclinations through casual interactions. I found that, as cultural performers, all my Chinese colleagues held anti-Japanese sentiments for good

reasons. One time, as the five of us in leading roles had a chitchat while awaiting

the right moment for our next location shooting, one of them told me that he knew

I had given a cold shoulder to a “big shot” from the Japanese army. The story went

as follows:

At the time, a high-ranking staff officer of the Japanese army, a man swaggering with self-importance around Shanghai—to be sure, not within the European

196

Chapter 12

and U.S. concessions or in the areas where the Chinese lived, but just around the

Japanese quarters of Hongkuo—had persistent ly asked that I come to entertain

him at a Japanese restaurant. Having seen the anguish of the fighting men on the

frontline, I strongly abhorred Japanese soldiers who behaved with haughty arrogance toward the defenseless Chinese people. This man knew that I was Japanese,

and when he discovered that I had been dancing in a nightclub with the Chinese,

he admonished me for frequenting a dance hall at a time of national emergency

and for flirting with the Chinese before calling me a “rotten hi-kokumin,” someone not worthy to be called a Japanese. What on earth made it wrong to dance with

the Chinese in a nightclub, but well and good to serve sake to a Japanese soldier

inside a private room of a Japanese restaurant? I was so angry that I refused all

his “invitations.”

Perhaps unable to take such insults lying down, he ended up setting fire to

the Japanese restaurant and burning down the establishment. Of course, he reportedly gave other reasons for his action, but among Japanese residents in Shanghai, everyone was whispering under his or her breath that he did it out of spite for

being rejected in love. I only learned about this episode later on, but apparently

news about what had happened in the Japanese quarters got disseminated instantaneously within the Chinese community.

At precisely that time, the Japanese battleship Izumo was docked in Shanghai harbor. After I finished my makeup in the morning, I noticed a raucous crowd

of people around Chen Yunchang—publicity officials from the Press Division,

newspaper reporters, their cameramen—all asking her to go with them to the

battleship to offer a bouquet to the captain as a welcoming gesture. What those

people were after was immediately apparent. Photographs of the most popular

star and the exquisite beauty of the Shanghai fi lm world on the battleship presenting flowers to the captain would appear prominently in all the papers, complete with commentaries saying this and that about Sino-Japanese friendship.

Her well-defined features assuming an expression of adamant sternness, Chen

flatly stated, “No, I refuse to go,” the bluntness of her voice suggesting no grounds

for compromise. She then turned to Yuan Meiyun at her side and quickly said in

a soft voice, “I wonder if they aren’t aware that we hate the Japanese military. I

was called a traitor just for appearing in this film. If they had my photograph

welcoming a Japa nese battleship, I would be too ashamed to look anyone in

the face.”

To confi rm what he had heard, the Press Division official inquired in his

translation-style Chinese, “So, you refuse no matter what?” while his Chinese colleague ner vously attempted to calm her down. Reluctantly, Chen agreed on the

condition that she not be used as a publicity tool. Thereupon, she was dragged along

like a prisoner and forcibly shuffled into an automobile.

Glory to Eternity

197

However, the next day’s papers ostentatiously carried pictures celebrating “mutual friendship” with the “beauty” Chen Yunchang presenting a bouquet to the

captain in his white navy uniform. Chen was sobbing the whole day when this

happened, and while subsequently doing a take, she would suddenly burst into

tears. It appeared that a tidal wave of telephone protests and threatening letters

was rushing in.

For me, it was an emotionally disturbing experience as well. I suppose Chen’s

popularity as a Shanghai actress starring in a much-talked-about fi lm currently

in production was why she was ordered to do what she did. If I were in her position, I, a Japanese, would probably agree to do the same without resistance. . . .

The Nichigeki Incident the year before in 1941 had revealed my identity as a Japanese to some circles in Japan, but in China, I was still thought of as a Chinese

born in Beijing and reared in Fengtian, or else a person of mixed parentage. On

an occasion like this, a heavy shadow of guilt fell upon me and made me think

seriously for the first time about quitting my profession as an actress.

I believe that the Chinese actors in Glory to Eternity were vaguely aware that

I was Japanese; at least Wang Yin, my love interest in the fi lm, knew about it. My

first act after filming began was a rendezvous scene with him. While shooting the

sequence of me running to the mountain hut where he was hiding, the director

Bu Wancang, our acting coach, turned and spoke something to me. However, his

strong Shanghai accent made it utterly impossible for me to understand what he

was saying. Standing frozen on the spot, I felt so agitated that I was about to burst

into tears. Just then, hiding inside the hut, Wang nonchalantly showed me what

to do next by gesturing a soft knocking at the door. That’s it! I was asked to knock

at the door! Following the director’s instructions, I did just that before poking in

my head by way of finishing my act in the scene.

And so Wang Yin knew I was Japanese, and he saved me from my predicament with his quick wit.22

With its theme of exhorting China to rise up as a nation, Glory to Eternity

gained extraordinary popularity when it was released in June 1943; the size of its

audience was said to be unprecedented in the history of Chinese cinema. “The

Candy Peddling Song” (Maitang-ge), written by the renowned Shanghai composer

Liang Leyin, which I sang, also became an instant hit throughout China.23 According to Liang, he composed the song around his image of One Hundred Men

and a Girl, an internationally popu lar musical with [Leopold] Stokowski himself

appearing in the conductor’s role and its star, Deanna Durbin, performing “The

Drinking Song” (Kanpai no uta).24

Apparently, those smoking opium had a yearning for things sweet, which explained why the candy peddler frequented opium dens. Her “Candy Peddling Song”

went as follows:

198

Chapter 12

The heavenly pleasures of opium cure all diseases, a most flavorsome panacea. Now how about a candy for a taste change? A candy after opium brings

you paradise on earth. . . .

Peddling her candies in the opium den, the girl becomes a popular figure there

and then develops an affection for a virtuous-minded young man and a close friend

of Lin Zexu’s. Trying somehow to save him from the hell of addiction, she attempts

to talk him out of his habit. Then, in no time, the lyrics of her song shift to admonishing addicts for their use of the drug:

Your obsessions for the sparkle from the opium plate, for opium’s aroma and

taste, all those will destroy you. Look at your misshapen back and your protruding shoulders! Come, throw away your lethal opium pipes and never look

at them again!

After listening intently, the addicts start changing their minds and begin leaving

the opium den. Its British proprietors ask their bodyguards to catch the girl and

her boyfriend, but the two make a narrow escape into the mountains. There, the

lovers embrace in a hut under a starry night and sing “Song of Quitting Opium”

(Jieyan ge), which becomes a sweet love song.

The fi lm was screened not only in Shanghai but throughout China wherever

movie theaters existed, regardless of whether the area was occupied by the Japanese army. Kawakita told me, with an air of satisfaction, that “the fi lm went to

both Yan’an [the base of Chairman Mao Zedong’s Communist government] as

well as Chongqing [the capital of Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist government].”

The record sales of “The Candy Peddling Song” also scored a big hit.25

I feel a little ill at ease quoting the following which has something to say about

me, but this was what Tsuji Hisaichi commented on Glory to Eternity in his

“Topics on Zhonghua Dianying’s History”:

To be sure, there were rumors suspecting Li Xianglan as a Japanese. But for

the Chinese audience drawn to her acting and singing in Glory to Eternity,

such an issue was moot. They unconditionally applaud performances as long

as they are outstanding, pleasurable, and beautiful. I am inclined to think of

this open-mindedness as a facet of the Chinese personality.

The records of “The Candy Peddling Song” traversed the occupied territories, furtively crossing the battle lines, and were sold briskly in areas

under Chongqing’s administration as well as those under Communist control. Looking at this, I felt all the more certain about what the occupied territories really meant. From the Chinese perspective, the belligerently armed

Glory to Eternity

199

party, which had secured lines of communication or occupied a few inbetween spots within the vast Chinese territory, was nothing more than a

temporary nuisance. The Chinese were certainly astute enough to know how

to move freely without provoking that aggressive party.

Years later during a visit to China, I was told by Sun Pinghua, then Chief Secretary of the Sino-Japanese Friendship Association (and currently head of the association) that he had seen Glory to Eternity. When I visited North Korea (DPRK),

Chairman Kim Il-sung wanted to shake my hand as if he were seeing an old friend

before telling me that he had earlier seen my fi lm in Jilin Province where the antiJapanese guerilla forces were hiding.

*

*

*

The year 1943 was extremely busy. I appeared in as many as five fi lms, including

the carry-overs from the year before and the ones I was concurrently making: Sayun’s Bell (Sayon no kane),26 Chorus of Prayer (Chikai no gasshō), The Fighting Street

(Tatakai no machi), My Nightingale, and Glory to Eternity. In utter exhaustion,

I returned to my parents’ home in Beijing. My desire to retire from the film industry grew ever stronger, but for the time being, I just wanted to rest.

Since Li Xianglan was publicly presented as a Chinese woman from Beijing,

the city greeted her first Chinese fi lm Glory to Eternity with considerable critical

acclaim. But my heart was fi lled with only a sense of gloom. I had been deceiving

the Chinese people who had no knowledge that I was Japanese—that was the unremitting sense of guilt that was hanging over me, and I felt that I had been driven

into a tight corner. Making the matter worse was the fact that, as the war became

more protracted, my close Chinese acquaintances, like other Chinese, were increasingly resolved in their anti-Japanese attitudes. More and more of them departed for areas where they could join the resistance movement.

Wen Guihua, my best friend during my days at Yijiao Girls’ School when I

was entrusted to the Pan family, had also dedicated herself to the anti-Japanese

movement. A daughter from a distinguished family in Wangfujing, she continued her friendship with me even after I became an actress, and every time I returned home to Beijing, we would see each other.

One day I received an unanticipated telephone call from her mother. When

I rushed to Guihua’s Wangfujing house, I found her collapsed on the earth floor

near the entrance and dissolved in tears. She had always been attired most fashionably, but this time, wearing only tattered cotton, she had her hair bound at the

back into a bundle like an amah, and tears were streaming down her mud-smeared

face. Beside her was a knocked-over wicker trunk tied with a straw rope. Her mother

told me that Guihua had been trying to sneak away from home the night before

200

Chapter 12

and was brought back when she was discovered. “She was just crying without telling us why. You’re her close friend, and that’s why I asked you to come so that she

might tell you what’s going on.”

Her parents were unable to find out much as they were simultaneously flustered and angry at their daughter’s behavior. I stayed at their house for the night,

and when Guihua finally calmed down, she told me a little at a time the reason

behind her runaway attempt. Her boyfriend, a Yenching University graduate, had

given up hope on Japan-occupied Beijing before joining the resistance movement

in the Chongqing area, and she was anxious to join him there.

In describing her attempted Beijing-Chongqing trek, she noted that while she

might perhaps be able to catch a train to go as far as Kaifeng, no means of transportation was available for the rest of the journey. Guihua told me that she intended

to spend about three days climbing over the mountain in the area, but a lot of time

would be necessary to cover the extraordinary distance from there to Chongqing.

I knew the route; the vicinity of Henan, where we had had the location shooting

for Yellow River two years earlier, served as the secret passageway for those who

fled to areas free of Japanese occupation. Indeed, I had witnessed with my own

eyes a number of overturned vehicles submerged in the Yellow River; they told the

story of escapees who tragically lost their lives after they were discovered by the

Japanese army. The bodies of their vehicles were completely wrecked as a result of

Japanese gunfire.

During that night, as she was wiping her tears in a less agitated state, she played

for me Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” before going to bed. That, she said, was

her goodbye to the piano, and her goodbye to me.

Guihua succeeded in running away from her home the second time she tried.

There was nothing I could do other than to pray for her safe journey. She finally

arrived in Chongqing without incident and was able to join her boyfriend. Now

the couple are making their home in Taiwan.

Though I myself was emotionally exhausted, I was receiving splendid critical attention in Beijing. Shortly after Guihua’s departure, the city’s various Chinese newspapers requested that I have a joint press conference with them. Although

I was not keen on it, I couldn’t very well decline. Before the interview, the images

of Wen Guihua and Chen Yunchang kept running through my mind. How was

I going to present myself in the interview? And if questions about my nationality

should arise, how should I answer them?

That’s it! On this occasion, I would confess that I was Japanese.

I made the case with one Mr. Li, head of the press club’s board of governors

and a friend of my father. “Today, I don’t want to hold back anything anymore.

May I say at the outset that Li Xianglan is really Yamaguchi Yoshiko, a Japanese

woman who was born in China and loves China?”

Glory to Eternity

201

Li strongly shook his head in disapproval. “I am absolutely against it. There

may be some Chinese within China who know exactly who you are. But even they

do not wish to acknowledge the fact. You are Chinese and a star that we and Beijing have produced! I don’t want you to shatter our dream. You must present yourself as Chinese.”

There were close to fifty reporters gathered at the press conference in Beijing

Restaurant, and the interview, hosted by Li, went on in a friendly atmosphere. From

start to finish, the questions were all related to the shooting of Glory to Eternity

and things about other Shanghai actors.

“Well now, I think this is a good time to—” As Li was about to bring the interview to a close, somebody cried out sharply, “Ms. Li Xianglan!” A young reporter rose from his seat and said, “I wish to ask you one last thing.”

I knew this would happen.

“I wish to inquire what your real intentions were in appearing in a series of

Japanese films such as Song of the White Orchid and China Nights. Far from showing any understanding of China, those films could even be thought of as an insult to our country. You are Chinese, aren’t you? Then, why did you choose to appear in them? Have you not abandoned your national pride?”

While I had been preparing myself for this, my mind still sank into a state of

confusion. That was precisely the moment when I wanted to say that I was Japanese, though I had been told that I mustn’t make the confession at this particular

juncture; doing so, I was advised, would be worse than maintaining silence. I could

no longer hold on to any coherence in my train of thought. The seconds ticked by,

and the atmosphere at the conference site was frozen with tension.

Independent of my confused mind, however, my voice rose quite naturally

from the deep recesses of my heart.

It was a mistake I made before I was twenty years old, at a time when I was

not able to comprehend anything to the fullest. I made such a mistake out of

my ignorance, and I regret it today. I now apologize before you all that I

appeared in those films. Please forgive me. I will not make the same mistake again.

My voice seemed to have a will of its own even though I was in an abstracted state

of mind. Right then, I heard uproarious applause from the reporters rising from

their seats. I bowed my head until the sound subsided.

*

*

*

On my way home from Beijing Restaurant, I went alone to the Imperial Ancestral Temple, my favorite park in the city. As I was walking along the road densely

202

Chapter 12

lined with old pine and oak trees, I sank deeply into thought, just like the days

when I was in the girls’ academy.

What exactly was this entity “Li Xianglan”? During my first visit to Japan when

I was eighteen, I was scolded to my face by a Japanese in Shimonoseki that I should

act like a Japanese. And now in Beijing, I was criticized for not having behaved

like a Chinese. When I candidly apologized for my transgressions, the majority

of the reporters were good enough to applaud despite their suspicions that I was

Japanese. I thought “Li Xianglan” had to go. In any case, I was determined that I

should leave Man’ei.

First, in order to consult Iwasaki Akira, a person I could trust, I took a flight

to Tokyo on the excuse of some other business. I had just renewed my three-year

contract with Man’ei that year, and I wondered if Man’ei would allow me to

leave. Iwasaki’s rather casual response was, “Well, you know, a contract is made

to be broken. Same as taking a train. You buy a ticket only when you want to

get on and then off. Don’t be too uptight about it, and just do what you think

is right.”

In the autumn of 1944, I finished my set shooting for Field Army Orchestra

(Yasen gungakutai) in Tokyo before flying to Shanghai. After my final consultation with Kawakita Nagamasa, I returned to Xinjing to request a meeting with

Director Amakasu.

Standing next to the director’s desk, Amakasu was already waiting for me.

On his desk was a pocket-size Iwanami publication Lawrence of Arabia (Arabia

no Rorensu).27

“Thanks for your good work! You must be exhausted!” “Was Mr. Kawakita

well?” “Say, Glory to Eternity has received excellent reviews!” To his series of questions, I answered only in one-word affirmatives. I found it difficult to launch into

my subject, but finally, I decided to make a go of it.

“Thank you for all your kindnesses over the years.”

Perhaps he would fly into a rage, but I had to say it.

“I can no longer pretend that I am Chinese. So far, I have found myself squeezed

between Japan and China, and I am much anguished because of it. I can no longer

bear living as Li Xianglan. I hope you will allow me to rescind my contract.”

After I finished, I lowered my eyes and waited for his response.

“I understand perfectly.”

When I lifted my face, I saw through his round-framed spectacles that he was

grinning a little with a characteristic trace of embarrassment.

Scratching his head, he said, “I understand you perfectly. Thank you for all

your hard work over the years.” He stood up as he spoke, called his chief of personnel on his desk telephone, and asked that Li Xianglan’s contract be brought to

him. He then said with an air of relief:

Glory to Eternity

203

I have come to appreciate myself how unnatural it is for you to assume the

identity of Li Xianglan. I have no idea what Manchukuo and Man’ei will become, but you have a long future ahead. By all means, let your own wishes be

your guide. If possible, I hope you will develop your career in Japanese fi lm.

But even if you do work in Japan, I am sure there will be many difficult moments. Please do take good care of your health and follow your heart.

“Thank you very much.” As I bowed, the personnel chief came in with my

documents.

Nine months later, in the early morning of August 20, 1945, when the Soviet

army entered Xinjing, Amakasu took potassium cyanide in his office. The director Uchida Tomu attempted to induce vomiting by putting salt into his mouth and

lifting his legs, but his efforts proved futile.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 12: Glory to Eternity

1. Satō Tadao, Kinema to hōsei (Tokyo: Riburopōto, 1985); Shimizu Akira,

“Chūka Den’ei to Kawakita Nagamasa,” in Kōza Nihon eiga, IV, Sensō to Nihon eiga

(Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1986). To this list one might add “Tōwa no hanseiki: 1928–

1978” (authorship unspecified) in Tōwa no hanseiki (Tokyo: Tōwa Tōhō Kabushikigaisha, 1978), especially pp. 282–299. See also n. 4, below, for a bibliographical reference

to Kawakita’s own autobiographical account.

2. The original uses the expression “bunka kōsaku,” an innocuously sounding

euphemism for advancing cultural propaganda, especially in Japanese-occupied territories.

3. On Tōwa’s history and its contributions, see Tōwa no hanseiki, pp. 231–350.

On over sixty short essays and various reflections by prominent Japanese film critics

330

Notes to Pages 187–191

(Iwasaki Akira, Satō Tadao, et al.), writers (Kawabata Yasunari, Shiga Naoya,

Mishima Yukio, et al.), artists (Umehara Ryūzaburō), performers (Bandō Tamazaburō,

Yamaguchi Yoshiko, et al.), and fi lm directors (Ōshima Nagisa, Shindō Kaneto) on

fi lms Tōwa brought to Japan, see Tōwa no hanseiki, pp. 12–209. On the impact of

imported European fi lms by Tōwa as seen through the eyes of a precocious child

growing up in prewar Tokyo, see Katō Shūichi, A Sheep’s Song: A Writer’s Reminiscences

of Japan and the World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), pp. 83–84.

4. For those episodes and a brief account of Kawakita Nagamasa’s early life,

see Fu Poshek, Between Shanghai and Hong Kong: The Politics of Chinese Cinemas

(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003), pp. 95–97. Kawakita himself wrote

about his own discoveries of the circumstances surrounding his father’s death in My

Recollections, trans. Kikuko [sic] and Bill and Irene Ireton (unspecified date or place of

publication, private edition), an English version of his reminiscences “Watakushi no

rirekisho,” Nihon Keizai Shimbun, April 3–May 2, 1980, pp. 2–3, 16–19. According

to Who’s Who in China (Shanghai: Mirros Review, 1920), quoted in My Recollections,

p. 17, General Ding Jin (1879–1958) was one of the young Chinese officers trained by

Kawakita’s father.

5. A district in the northeastern part of Shanghai and the site of China’s

League of Left ist Writers and the original residences of such prominent figures as Lu

Xun, Mao Dun, and Guo Morou.

6. Produced in 1939 by Shanghai’s Huacheng Film Company, a subsidiary of the

Xinhua Film Company, based on a time-cherished Chinese legend set in the Northern Wei Dynasty. The screenplay was by the playwright Ouyang Yuqian.

7. Published from July 1919 until the present except for a war time interruption from 1940 to 1946, the authoritative film magazine Kinema Junpō (or Kinejun for

short) initially covered foreign fi lms before enlarging its critical range to include domestic productions as well. Its annual “Best Ten” lists of foreign and Japanese films

have received considerable media and public attention. A “Kinema Junpō Readers’

Award” was established in 1974 to recognize the most popu lar fi lm of the year.

8. Based on a Kawaguchi Matsutarō story, the film starred Sakai Yoneko, Nakano Eiji, and Okada Yoshiko.

9. The Iwasaki piece Lu Xun translated was “Senden sendō shudan toshite no

eiga.” Iwasaki also wanted to see the Chinese fi lm Yuguang-qu (Song of the Fisherman, directed by Cai Chusheng, 1934), which had won an award at the Moscow

Film Festival. Apparently, the visit generated considerable suspicion from the Japanese Special Higher Police, who feared that Iwasaki had had communications with

the Chinese Communist Party. See Yau Shuk Ting, Honkon Nihon eiga kōryūshi,

pp. 10–11.

10. Directed by Sun Yu, Xiao-wanyi narrates with considerable dramatic force

the vicissitudes of a traditional woman toymaker against the backdrop of war and

extraordinary human misery. Wu Yonggang, then only twenty-seven, directed the

memorable Shen’nu in which Ruan Ling’yu gives a brilliant performance playing a

nameless prostitute whose motherly instincts lead to crime and imprisonment yet

Notes to Pages 191–193

331

elevate her to the level of a virtual goddess. The fi lm has remained one of the most

memorable in early Chinese fi lm history.

11. Directed by Cai Chusheng, New Women tells the experiences of a young woman

named Wei Ming, a music teacher and an aspiring writer who is forced to become a

prostitute before committing suicide. Mercilessly hounded by Shanghai’s gossipy tabloids over her private life and alleged abuse by her lover, Ruan Ling’yu took her own

life shortly before reaching twenty-five and just a little over a month after the release

of New Women in Shanghai. Center Stage (distributed by Golden Harvest, 1992), an

acclaimed Hong Kong fi lm directed by Stanley Kwan and starring Maggie Cheung,

is based on the life of the actress. See also Richard J. Meyer, Ruan Ling’Yu: The Goddess of Shanghai (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2005), packaged with a

DVD of Ruan’s The Defiled Goddess.

12. The two still much cherished theme songs in the classic film Street Angels

(Malu tianshi, directed by Yuan Muzhi, who also wrote the screenplay, 1937) and subsequently performed by an array of singers from China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, including memorably Zhang Yan. For Zhou and Zhang’s perfomances of “Tian’ya ge’nu,”

see, respectively, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gL9J4ODyMr4 and http://www

.youtube.com/watch?v=dGs1-WfOSqI.

13. Set against the background of the Taiping Rebellion and directed by Yue

Feng and Inagaki Hiroshi with Bandō Tsumazaburō as the Bakumatsu Chōshū samurai Takasugi Shinsaku (1839–1867), the fi lm ostensibly celebrates Sino-Japanese collaboration against British imperialism and political treachery in the tumultuous

years of the Qing Dynasty’s decline. For a study of the controversial fi lm, see Bi

Ke’wei [Paul G. Pickowicz] and Liu Yuqing, “Chunjiang Yihen de shishifeifei yu lunxian shiqi de Zhongguo dianying,” Wenyi yanjiu (January 2007), available online at

http://movie.douban.com/review/5703692/.

14. In May 1942, after the Japanese occupation of Shanghai and the city’s international settlements, Japanese films previously shown only in Japanese quarters started

to find their way into the former foreign concessions. China Nights and Winter Jasmine, for example, were screened in Shanghai in 1943. See Yoshioka Aiko, “Ekkyōsuru

joyū Ri Kōran,” p. 104.

15. A collective term for Chinese liquor with high alcohol content, such as

maotai.

16. See chapter 4.

17. Bu Wancang (1903–1974), an Anhui native who came to Shanghai in 1921,

worked with Ruan Ling’yu in such noted silent films as Love and Duty (Lianai yu yiwu,

1931) and Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood (Taohua qixieji, 1931) before directing

Mulan Joins the Army (1939). He continued his fi lmmaking career in Hong Kong in

the 1950s and 1960s, directing such fi lms as The Evening Primrose (Yelaixiang, 1957),

Strange Bedfellows (Tongchuang yimeng, 1960), and Happy Encounter (Xi Xiangfeng,

1960). Zhu Shilin (1899–1967), especially known for his Mother’s Song (Cimu-qu, 1937),

likewise moved to Hong Kong after the war and directed his controversial Qinggong

mishi (Sorrows of the Forbidden City, 1948) as well as The Happiness of Living Together

332

Notes to Pages 194–197

(Yiban zhige, 1952). Ma-Xu Weibang (1905–1961) is still remembered for his classic

Song at Midnight (Yeban gesheng, 1937), a loose adaptation of Phantom of the Opera

and reportedly the first horror fi lm in Chinese fi lm history.

18. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, Gao Zhanfei (1904–1969) made patriotic fi lms in Wuhan and Chongqing before returning to Shanghai in 1942 and

starring in Glory to Eternity. Besides Mulan Joins the Army, Chen Yunchang (1919– )

starred in such fi lms as Biyuzhan (1940) and Boai (1942) before appearing in Glory to

Eternity. After the fall of Shanghai in 1937, Yuan Meiyun (1917–1999) made two notable fi lms, Xishi (1941) and Hongloumeng (1944). Wang Yin (1911–1988) starred in

about thirty fi lms in the 1930s before becoming a director for the Shaw Brothers

in Hong Kong after the war ended. Yamaguchi and Wang worked again in 1955, when

the latter directed Jin Ping Mei with Yamaguchi playing the role of the seductress

Pan Jinlian.

19. From the Chinese perspective, Japanese efforts at the production of opium

in Inner Mongolia and its distribution within Japanese-occupied territories in China

were naturally seen as a nightmarish replay of what the British had done to their

country in the early nineteenth century. The fact that the British opium “entrepreneurs” in the fi lm were played by Chinese actors, complete with fake noses and exaggerated wigs, has been seen as a caricature of the Japanese attempt to imitate the

British. See Yoshioka, “Ekkyōsuru joyū Ri Kōran,” p. 106.

20. A comprehensive study of the life and works of Zhang Shankun, from his

early days as a henchman to Shanghai’s gang boss Huang Jinrong to his exile to Hong

Kong after the war and his subsequent filmmaking career therein, is provided by Ai Yi,

Shanghaitan dianying dawang Zhang Shankun (Shanghai: Shanghai Renmin Chubanshe, 2007).

21. A note in the original indicates that Kogure Michiyo’s appearance in the

fi lm led to her subsequent marriage to Wada Hidekichi, a Man’ei director.

22. Yamaguchi’s deduction here is not entirely convincing. Her failure to comprehend supposedly heavily Shanghainese-accented speech alone would hardly have

convinced Wang of her foreign nationality. Not a few non-Shanghainese-speaking

Chinese would probably have the same experience. Additionally, Bu Wancang was

an Anhui native, not a Shanghainese, even though he had lived in Shanghai for more

than two decades and might very well have spoken Mandarin with a Shanghainese

accent.

23. Liang Leyin (1910–1989), a native of Guangdong Province who had studied

music theory and composition in Japan, was also an expert er’hu player. He began

his illustrious career as a composer for film toward the end of the 1930s; he wrote the

theme songs for Yujianu, Boai, and Fenghuang yufei during the fall of Shanghai before continuing his composer’s career in Hong Kong in the 1950s and later in Taiwan.

One of his most popu lar and still cherished melodies was “Yue’er wanwan zhao jiuzhou.” An audio version of Yamaguchi singing “The Candy Peddling Song,” along

with short clips from Glory to Eternity, can be seen at http://www.lyrics5.com

/videos.html?vid=GMrYnf2rH6Y.

Notes to Pages 197–207

333

24. “Brindisi” from Verdi’s opera La Traviata.

25. The leading cast with Li Xianglan and Chen Yunchang attracted considerable media attention in Shanghai. The Shanghai Evening Post correspondent Bill Funk

greeted the fi lm in his preview on March 28, 1943, by saying, “[Glory to Eternity] . . .

is so magnificent artistically and so gripping dramatically that it stands practically

alone on my private and unofficial recommended list for a ‘Must see’ picture of the

year.” See Tanaka Kaoru, Shimizu Kiyoshi, et al., eds. Ri Kōran: Futatsu no sokoku ni

yureta seishun, pp. 24–25.

26. For a recent critique of the fi lm from Taiwanese commentators and academics such as Lin Qing-chi, Yang Meng-zhe, and Wang Fu’xiang who unsurprisingly

regard it as blatant Japanese colonial propaganda, see the report on http://www.you

tube.com/watch?v=kUAykNHTG0g.

27. Published in 1940 by the noted literary critic and scholar of English literature Nakano Yoshio (1903–1985).