Yu Xian

Yu Xian is a filmmaker from Jinan, Shandong Province, and a 2024 graduate of the Directing Department at the Beijing Film Academy. After years of taking art school entrance exams, he was finally admitted on his fifth attempt—something he considers both lucky and fated. Ever since, he’s been determined to stay the course in filmmaking. Lately, a verse comes to mind: “Beacon fires light up the western capital; my heart remains unsettled. Who can transcribe your story, like the elusive Tai Xuan Classic written in old age?” It echoes the mix of frustration and hope he often feels—of chasing something profound, even when the path remains unclear.

How did the idea for the script come about? And how much of it is based on truth?

Three years ago, I read a short story by Lee Chang-dong titled Lots of Shit in Nokcheon窗体顶端. It’s set against the backdrop of the Gwangju Uprising in Korea and tells a story of brothers—about suspicion and betrayal during a time of political unrest. I was deeply moved by the way it depicted ordinary people caught in the tides of history. That inspired me to write a story about betrayal between brothers. I began searching for a historical backdrop that carried enough tension and moral complexity, and I eventually landed on the COVID-19 pandemic. During the three years of the pandemic, I was a vocal and radical opponent of the restrictions. I rarely wore a mask and often clashed with local authorities. I genuinely believed what I was doing was right—that the problem lay with the rules, not me. Then the control measures were finally lifted, around December 2023, and by that time most people in China had already tested positive. I also became infected then. The experience was suffocating—I was bedridden for a week, in pain, unable to sleep. That was when I started to reflect. I had always believed that lifting restrictions was the right thing to do, but the aftermath brought immense suffering. For young people, it might just be physical pain—but for the elderly or those with weak immune systems, it meant death. A week later, I returned to my hometown. Shortly after, my grandfather also tested positive. I remember thinking: if he were to die at that moment, wouldn’t I bear some responsibility? And if so, how would I even begin to explain it? That thought became the foundation of this film. Human tendencies like avoidance and self-preservation are difficult to talk about. Everyone carries a bit of them—it’s just that not everyone gets put in a situation that strips them bare. But this is part of human nature, inevitable. And it’s precisely this complexity that makes a person feel real, layered, complete. As for what’s based in truth: yes, I did test positive, returned home before I fully recovered, and my grandfather also got sick. Why did I go home? At the time, I thought it wasn’t a big deal—I underestimated the consequences. The ancestral record in the film is also real. My grandfather’s family does have one, with documentation dating back to the 18th century. It traces dozens of generations, and I only learned about it in the past two or three years. The tradition of passing down family records still exists, though it’s faded with time—but in regions like Shandong, it remains quietly present.

How did you collaborate with Gao Tianshi? What were you looking for in him as an actor?

This was our first time working together, though I had seen him on set twice before when we were both involved in other projects. Tianshi is a directing major, and he has a strong sense for rhythm, tone, and the physicality of performance. After each day of shooting, I would go to his room and we’d rehearse the next day’s scenes together in advance. There’s a quiet intensity in him, but it only emerges under the right circumstances—because in daily life, he’s actually very outgoing and talkative. There were two scenes where everything aligned perfectly: the paper-burning ceremony at the funeral, and the final scene. The funeral scene was especially difficult to shoot. We had a conflict with the landlord that made the atmosphere incredibly tense. To avoid disturbing the neighbors, everyone on set was whispering, barely making any sound. Ironically, that silence created a suffocating, emotionally charged space for the actor. The entire night, the set was quiet, and Tianshi completely sank into the mood. As for the final scene, it was freezing cold that day and the wind was fierce—like the verse from The Records of the Grand Historian describing Jing Ke: “Hsiao-hsiao soughs the wind, oh-Cold the waters of the Yi.” The two actors’ faces were stung by the wind, and the sense of sorrow and farewell was heightened by the harsh environment. It all came together in a way that made the emotion feel raw and true.

Why was this film shot in Gaolou Village? Does the place hold personal meaning for you?

Gaolou Village, in Huantai, is where my grandfather lives—so in a way, it’s my hometown, even though I’ve probably only been there a dozen times. I wouldn’t say I have a strong emotional connection to the village, but it has always felt like a kind of symbol, a quiet reminder that this is where I’m from. One of the main reasons we chose to shoot there is practical: in China, filming in urban areas is heavily regulated and can be very inconvenient for location shoots. In contrast, rural villages and small towns are much more relaxed in terms of oversight, making them far more suitable for this kind of production.

This film carries a persistent sense of sorrow and a muted, gray tone. What was cinematographer Yaobo Jun doing to create that? What did you see in his work?

Yaobo Jun kept emphasizing his desire to shoot in a more box-like aspect ratio—4:3 or 2:1. From the beginning, we envisioned using a lot of close-ups and intimate shots to really magnify the actors’ performances. A reference we both liked was Rosetta, which felt very fitting. But given the gear we had—an ARRI Mini LF—there were certain limitations for us at this stage, so we had to adopt a more stable and minimal approach to camera movement. As for the tone, we took inspiration from the paintings of Andrew Wyeth, especially Christina’s World. Ours doesn’t feel quite as expansive, but we were drawn to that kind of emotional texture—quiet, heavy, restrained. Yaobo is an incredibly energetic cinematographer, full of ideas and passion. For example, he really wanted it to rain in the final scene, though we weren’t able to make that happen. He’s deeply invested in the narrative role of cinematography—he wants the camera to not just observe, but to carry tension and emotion. We’ve known each other for over six years, so there’s a strong mutual understanding. We’re also comfortable with each other’s flaws. He’s still maturing in terms of temperament—understandable for his age—but within a crew, his role sometimes requires a steadier presence. That said, I’m no exception; I’m emotional, not exactly seasoned either. But we both share this almost blind passion, and sometimes that reckless unity—everyone committing to an imperfect decision—can yield something unexpectedly powerful. Maybe it’s that similarity between us that makes working together feel so natural.

One of the most climactic moments in the film is the funeral scene, rooted in Chinese folk and ancestor worship customs, often seen as superstitious. How did you plan this sequence?

From the beginning, I envisioned the climax to be the moment when the funeral bowl is thrown but doesn’t break. In Chinese funerals, that’s considered extremely inauspicious and deeply embarrassing—it’s rare, but it does happen. That moment of failure carries a heavy symbolic weight. When I first saw the open plain where we would shoot, I immediately wanted to capture its vastness—to show how small a person can feel in such an environment. So I structured the sequence with a close-up that cuts sharply to an extreme wide shot, emphasizing both the intimacy of ritual and the overwhelming scale of nature.

What does the scene where Gao Tianshi covers his late grandfather’s feet mean to you?

To me, that moment represents his desire to preserve his grandfather’s dignity. He doesn’t want others to see the frailty of death—those exposed feet feel undignified, so he instinctively covers them. Originally, I envisioned the feet as bare and pale—a striking, vulnerable image. But during the shoot, there was some debate about what would be more culturally accurate, and in the end, we put shoes on him. Looking back, I believe we should’ve kept the feet bare. It would’ve had more emotional impact and made sense narratively too, since the funeral was hastily arranged and lacked proper preparation. That detail would’ve emphasized the rawness and imperfection of the moment.

What was it like to study film at the Beijing Film Academy?

From the very beginning, I knew I wanted to study directing at the Beijing Film Academy—not necessarily because of what they teach, but because it’s the best film school in China. I felt like that’s where I should be.

It actually took me five years to get in. By the third year of reapplying, I started to feel a bit lost and worn out. When I finally got in, it was a mix of persistence, a shift in mindset, and a bit of luck. The year I was accepted, the entrance exam was moved online because of the pandemic, and I was surprisingly relaxed during the process. That probably helped. There are some things about the Academy that I really appreciate—especially the creative hunger. Everyone around me had this intense drive to make something. At least in my year, we were always pushing each other: if one project didn’t work out, we were already thinking about how to make the next one better. That kind of competitiveness is important, I think. To be honest, the Directing Department doesn’t feel like a regular academic department—it feels more like a guild, or maybe a collective. I’m not sure if that makes sense in English, but it reminds me of the old martial arts sects in ancient China, more than a modern school. And that creates a strong sense of closeness between people.

Are there any contemporary Chinese filmmakers you would recommend?

I would definitely recommend Zhang Dalei, the director of Why Try to Change Me Now. His work is exceptional—reminiscent of Hou Hsiao-hsien and Edward Yang. He has a very restrained approach to visual storytelling, and his camera movements are always subtle yet precise, capturing the characters’ gestures and expressions in a way that feels effortless. You’re rarely conscious of the camera, which makes the experience all the more immersive. He’s also incredibly skilled at staging long takes and revealing off-screen space. His scenes feel both realistic and charged with tension. I think he has a deep understanding of performance—he’s able to capture those small, delicate moments that carry emotional weight and dramatic intensity.

What’s your next film project?

I’m currently working on a feature-length screenplay. The story follows Qi Zheng, a loan company agent, and his older brother Wang Zhong, who suffers from epilepsy and has a constant tremor in his left hand—something indirectly caused by a childhood accident, when Qi Zheng crashed a motorcycle into a tree while giving his brother a ride. Desperate to find a cure, they look into various treatment options. One day, Qi Zheng lands a major deal at work but ends up messing it up badly. He gets beaten up and falls into serious debt. Just then, he receives another one of those scam calls he’s gotten many times before—promising fast money. This time, he follows the lead and ends up inside a Christian organization with cult-like tendencies. They recruit him to help launder money by funneling donations into loans and bonds. His brother, meanwhile, joins the organization too, hiding from debt collectors. Ironically, in this exploitative, deceptive system built for profit, the two brothers accidentally end up doing a number of good, meaningful things. And in their bizarre tug-of-war between religion and survival, they even begin to witness what might be called… miracles.