21/05/2026
Two weeks ago we wandered through the utopian fervour of Joris Ivens and his sympathetic portrait of Maoist collectivism at the height of the Cultural Revolution, which began 60 years ago this month
If Ivens gave us revolutionary theatre with the curtains carefully pressed, Michelangelo Antonioni’s Chung Kuo, Cina (1972) offered something far stranger: not propaganda, nor outright critique, but a long, puzzled stare. Filming across the eastern reaches of the People’s Republic, Antonioni applied the same modernist sensibility that had led his fictional characters through landscapes of emotional dislocation. Instead of revolutionary triumph, he captured queues, silences, awkward glances, and the peculiar poetry of ordinary boredom—the "temps mort" that defined his 1960s cinema. His wide-angle cinematography further reduced individuals to tiny figures swallowed by monumental landscapes—less heroic citizens than lonely souls stranded inside history itself. China, in Antonioni’s hands, became not a revolutionary spectacle but a vast, unreadable modernist canvas.
Unprepared to see elderly women with bound feet and nameless faces drifting silently through enormous public squares, Madame Mao and her faction launched a "hyperbolic denunciation," accusing him of "vicious motives" for filming barren lands instead of socialist progress. Yet Cold War irony rarely lacks imagination: Taiwan promptly screened the documentary as evidence of communist failure. One regime’s slander became another’s propaganda victory.
Half a century later, Chung Kuo, Cina survives as something more valuable: an accidental archive of unscripted humanity, captured before history could tidy itself up.
If an artist captures a version of a culture that the culture doesn't recognize, who owns the 'correct' image? Should they satisfy the subjects' expectations or remain faithful to their own 'puzzled' vision? We would love to hear your thoughts.