By Gülruz Polat
This week, I revisited the classic anti-Japanese war film Kucaihua. Though a black-and-white production from the 1960s, lacking the spectacular visuals of modern cinema, it possesses a uniquely raw and natural texture. Through the actors' authentic emotional portrayals, the film captures an individual's awakening and growth amid the relentless flames of war—a chapter of unyielding spirit preserved on camera. It is not merely a film about revolutionary history; it is a tribute to women.
Set in a simple village in Jiaodong, Shandong, during the War of Resistance Against Japan, the film traces the transformation of Mother Feng—a rural woman whose world once revolved entirely around her family. After losing both her husband and son to the war, we witness her painful yet resolute awakening through grief and struggle. With delicate cinematography, such as the scene where she silently weeps while mending clothes under lamplight, the director quietly yet powerfully conveys a mother's profound and unadorned love amidst the torrents of history.
What struck me most was the nighttime scene in which she packs for her youngest son. Under the kerosene lamp, she stitches one garment after another, her needlework impossibly dense. Suddenly, she pauses, gently stroking the worn jacket as if touching the faded warmth of her child's youth. There is no dialogue, no music—only the occasional sputter of the lamp. In that silence, a love so raw and a sorrow so tender seem to permeate every corner of the screen.
Acting undoubtedly serves as the cornerstone of cinematic art, especially in the black-and-white films of that era, where actors carried even greater weight. Without the support of modern technology and innovative techniques, these films relied almost entirely on the actors' craft to sustain the entire production. Directors and screenwriters of the time often had to convey complex emotions and inner turmoil through minimal sets and props, depending wholly on the actors' physical presence, gaze, vocal delivery, and subtle emotional shifts. Devoid of today's special effects and CGI, every micro-expression and nuanced gesture from the actors could determine the film's artistic depth and emotional resonance.
Thus, it is fair to say that actors in black-and-white cinema were not only the soul of the film—they also embodied the constraints and charm of their time, becoming the most vivid embodiment of that era's cinematic art.
That is why I hold nothing but admiration for Qu Yun's performance. She never forcefully "acted" heroism but, through delicate and precise emotional expression, rendered the mother figure authentic, tangible, and deeply sincere. More importantly, the director avoided melodramatic close-ups of tears and agony. Instead, he depicted her walking alone toward the old locust tree at the village entrance—the same tree her son Degang often climbed as a child. Standing beneath its branches, she lifts her head and gently touches the trunk, as if reconnecting with a warmth from the past. Soft sunlight reflects in her eyes. In that moment, all her sorrow gathers into a silent cloud—a grief more powerful than any dramatic outcry. She makes us believe that heroes are not born; they are those who, even after enduring immense suffering, choose to keep moving forward.
The Kucaihua (Bitter Herb Flower) serves as a consistent and vital motif throughout the film. Its very name carries a taste of bitterness, symbolizing hardship and resilience. It grows in fields and rocky crevices, enduring wind, rain, and scorching sun—yet never bending its spine amid adversity. But humans are not born with a fixed essence or destiny; rather, they define themselves through the free choices they make within their specific circumstances—how they choose to face their situation.
From an existentialist perspective, human beings do not inhabit an abstract world but are "thrown into" a concrete, material, and historical "situation." This situation forms both the stage and the constraint for all human choices and actions. In the film, the war serves as the overarching backdrop—Mother Feng has been thrown into the violent historical process of the War. The barren, war-torn land of Jiaodong, with its desolate mountains and dilapidated villages, constitutes the physical boundaries of her existence. During this period, survival itself becomes a daily battle; death is not distant but random, irrational, and ever-looming.
Even more despairing is the severe class oppression embedded in the social structure—landlords control the land and resources, stripping her family of their means of survival. This systemic, merciless oppression places her and her family at the bottom of society, their labor ruthlessly exploited.
Here, the Kucaihua naturally becomes a symbol of the female characters' fate and emotions, particularly the strength and resilience women demonstrate amid the chaos of war under a rigid patriarchal system. The flower is Mother Feng—a woman who appears fragile, yet when immersed in a world of death, reveals a steely and formidable power.
This is powerfully captured in one scene: right after Mother Feng kills the collaborator Wang Jianzhi, a beam of light from the sky falls across her mud-stained face, while behind her sways a patch of Kucaihua in the wind. This moment symbolizes her self-redefinition—she rewrites what it means to be a woman, a mother, a nurturer, transcending the identity of "non-violent." She breaks free from the Kucaihua's fate of passively growing in the soil of suffering, and instead forges her own roots into weapons, piercing upward from below through the very darkness that bred all injustice.
I have always believed that everything comes down to choice—that the greatest form of maternal love is not some innate tenderness, but the bravest choice made in the face of the world's absurdity. This lies at the very heart of the existentialist tenet: a person is the sum of their choices. Through her decisions, Mother Feng forged herself into an enduring emblem of the revolutionary mother.
From a feminist perspective, the Kucaihua in the film transcends its symbolism of wartime hardship—it becomes a powerful celebration of women's resilience, defiance, and self-affirmation. Amid oppression, adversity, and historical challenges, the female characters continue to express, in their own distinct ways, a fierce longing for life and a pursuit of freedom. Through this recurring motif, the film not only conveys the conflicts and challenges embedded in gendered roles but also illustrates how women under specific historical circumstances transcended traditional expectations, revealing multifaceted strength and unyielding resolve.
In contemporary Chinese cinema, there exists an alarming trend in the creation of anti-Japanese war-themed films. Under the dominance of commercial logic, the collusion between capital and markets has gradually reduced what ought to be solemnly documented history into carefully packaged cultural consumer goods in certain productions. Through exaggerated and even absurd narrative techniques, these works undermine the solemnity of history, leading to the entertainment and fragmentation of war memory. This creative tendency is quietly reshaping the public's historical awareness, not only blurring the boundaries of historical truth but also diminishing the works' intended function of preserving collective memory—reducing profound reflection to fleeting emotional ripples in entertainment-driven storytelling.
In contrast, Kucaihua stands out through its nuanced yet grand narrative, which interweaves individual fate with collective trauma. It profoundly reveals the severe hardships endured by ordinary people during the War and their spiritual growth under extreme conditions. By portraying the courage, sacrifice, and dignity of common individuals facing the brutalities of war, the film distinguishes itself among war-themed movies. It carries the weight of historical memory while radiating a transcendent humanity that speaks across generations.
Gülruz Polat is a teaching assistant at CUHK, Shenzhen. She holds an MA in Communication from HKBU.
The views do not necessarily reflect those of DotDotNews.
Related Readings:
A Thousand Hamlets | Thoughts in Autumn's whisper
A Thousand Hamlets | The dialectic of fast and slow: Reflections on trains and railway travel
Comment