jeoneungd

Every once in a while, a series or film comes along that reaches somewhere deep inside you and leaves a permanent imprint. For me, that was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I suspect Liu Jingyu’s Changyang will be one of those characters for me.

A Winter’s Sun Wakes the Wind in Spring Hill is a series I already know I will want to watch again and again. And somehow, “满纸长情” the song Kuma and Lyu sang together feels like the perfect musical metaphor just like “Moonriver”. Some stories simply stay with you.

The final episode, appropriately titled “Beholding,” may be the most beautiful expression of Changyang’s love. His joie de vivre, passion and emotional intensity make us wish that everyone could experience a partner who looks at them the way he does. For Changyang, there is only one person in his eyes. Gender becomes irrelevant. What he sees is the person, the soul he has chosen to behold.

And perhaps that is exactly what Zelia is trying to say.

The series feels like a commentary on China’s risk-averse attitude toward same-sex relationships. “The social divide between us” does not weaken their love; it seems to intensify it. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then societal pressure makes their bond stronger. The more the world tells them what they cannot be, the more determined they become to simply be.

I was particularly intrigued by Zelia’s use of Venezuela’s brutal Hunter School as the antithesis to the social constraints surrounding homosexuality in China. Was this simply part of the story, or was Zelia deliberately creating a symbol of rebellion against rigid systems of control? The Hunter School represents one extreme of a society that attempts to reshape people through force. China’s social environment represents another kind of pressure, less physical, perhaps, but capable of controlling lives through conformity, shame and public judgment.

Then Zelia finally makes her own Hitchcockian cameo, appearing as Director Li. I translated the text message she sent and reads as follows:

“Mulan disguised herself as a man to join the army in place of her father. When a woman dresses as a man, it's called "leiwu satao" (a type of martial arts performance); when a man dresses as a woman, it's labeled "effeminate culture." Is this a case of cultural hatred towards women, or a societal lack of confidence in its own culture? Ultimately, it's only when humanity entered a patriarchal society that we fell into a social acceptance of male worship.
What does it matter if you're male or female? We're all just a shell containing a soul. Some retain their spirit, some lose their soul; some are clear-headed and blind, some can't distinguish right from wrong. When will humanity be able to let go of gender?”

And what she says after their film is criticized for being gay-centric may be the most direct statement of the series’ philosophy. Mulan can disguise herself as a man and be celebrated as a heroic cultural icon, yet when a man displays femininity, society is quick to condemn him. Zelia asks whether this is cultural hatred toward women or simply a society insecure about its own definitions of masculinity.

Her conclusion is even more provocative.

What does it matter whether we are male or female? We are all merely shells containing a soul. Some retain their spirit. Some lose it. Some remain clear-headed while others become blinded by convention. Some can distinguish right from wrong, while others simply follow what society tells them. And ultimately, she asks: When will humanity finally be able to let go of gender?

That, to me, is the real theme of this series. Love does not see gender first. Society does.

Zelia’s reference to Chinese netizens as moths dying in a flame could not have been more pointed. The frightening power of strangers to elevate, destroy or even ruin someone’s life through online judgment is a sobering commentary on modern society. Reputation becomes public property, and people who have never met you can decide who you are.

Shi Yu Hao’s redemption caught me completely off guard. But beneath that redemption, I also sensed something darker, the price people sometimes pay when they become trapped by the expectations of others. In a country where the entertainment industry has seen a disturbing number of young actors do not live beyond 45, the storyline carries an uncomfortable resonance about the cost of losing one’s way, one’s identity and ultimately one’s will to live.

Very few series know how to end on a high note. A Winter’s Sun Wakes the Wind in Spring Hill does.

It ends with a rising sun.

Not a declaration that everything has changed. Not a fantasy that society has suddenly become accepting. But a suggestion that change is possible. That love can survive the systems designed to contain it. That perhaps one day, China may look at same-sex love not as something that needs to be hidden, explained or condemned, but simply as love.

And that is why the final image stays with me. It reminds me of that lone man standing in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square. One person standing against something vastly more powerful. He did not stop the tanks. But he made the world stop and look.

Perhaps that is what Changyang does. He simply stands there, loving the person he loves.

And asks us to behold.