From Witness to Performer: The Evolving Interview Methods in Wang Bing’s Documentaries

Chinese director Wang Bing’s latest filmography continues to push the boundaries of documentary filmmaking, transforming the humble interview from mere archival tool into an aesthetic force. This article presents a comparative analysis of Si ling hun (Dead Souls, 2018) and Hei yi ren (Man in Black, 2023), tracing the evolution of Wang’s interview methodology as it metamorphoses from a vehicle for oral historiography to a canvas for sensory and performative storytelling. Through this shift, Wang challenges the very paradigms of participatory cinema. This study explores how Wang’s use of interviews transcends documentation to interrogate and preserve hidden political landscapes, while simultaneously invoking and honouring personal and collective memories and traumas.

Wang Bing’s eight-hour film Dead Souls represents the culmination of his Jiabiangou series, succeeding He Fengming (Fengming: A Chinese Memoir, 2007), Jiabiangou (The Ditch, 2010), and Yizhi (Traces, 2014). Inspired by Yang Xianhui’s book Gaobie Jiabiangou (Farewell to Jiabiangou, 2003), the film catalogues the poignant narratives of Anti-Rightist Movement survivors, a 1957 purge led by Mao Zedong that followed the Hundred Flowers Campaign’s brief period of open criticism.¹ The movement saw over 550,000 victims persecuted, most of which were intellectuals.² Over 12 years, Wang Bing conducted interviews with survivors and gathered testimonies delegated to the Jiabiangou and Mingshui re-education camps, located in Gansu Province’s arid northwest, nearly Jiuquan.

Wang Bing’s signature directorial approach is emblematic of observational filmmaking, characterised by its unobtrusive nature that allows for the organic unfolding of events in front of the lens, as outlined in Bill Nichols’ taxonomy of documentary modes.³ Wang’s camera serves as a silent, discreet witness, a presence that records reality with minimal intervention and judgement. This filming style permeates his oeuvre, from Tie xi qu (West of the Tracks, 2003) to San jie mei (Three Sisters, 2012), and from Feng ai (‘Til Madness Do Us Part, 2013) to the most recent Qing chun (Youth, 2023), demonstrating a steadfast dedication to authentically portraying the lives of his subjects. The Jiabiangou series is notable for weaving extensive interview segments into the fabric of his predominantly observatory work, suggesting a participatory element in line with Nichols’ categorisation, yet still firmly grounded in the observatory methodology.

The interview segments in Dead Souls, often lasting between 20 to 30 minutes, overwhelm, frighten, or even bore the viewer in the raw narratives of the subjects – unfiltered, extended encounters that oscillate between monologues and responsive dialogues to Wang’s infrequent questions. Wang’s engagement is hands-on, either physically anchoring the camera himself or placing it intimately near his subjects. In terms of the editing, he intervenes minimally, if at all, allowing the juxtaposition of interview footage to construct the film’s narrative organically. The only edits he makes are to add plain text providing the historical context or supporting archival materials, such as letters. This deliberate editorial choice eschews dramatization and directs the focus squarely onto the personal histories etched in the subjects’ recollections.

 From the perspective of oral history documentation, Wang Bing’s filming and editing methods lend authenticity to the testimonies of the survivors for two primary reasons: the comprehensive range of subjects who were interviewed and the inter-referentiality of their narratives. With many Jiabiangou survivors deceased and the remaining witnesses being advanced in age, there is an acute imperative to capture these firsthand accounts as a means to illuminate historical truths, particularly when such events have been systematically omitted from official Chinese historiography. While individual narratives echo the stark reality of each subject’s experience, a uniformity emerges in their testimonies. The interviewees articulate the absurdity and randomness of the “Rightist” label, the dire scarcity of food, and delve into meticulous detail about rationing and smuggling sustenance, specifying quantities down to the exact gram of flour, the number of noodles, and biscuits. Names are recalled with precision: those of informants who caused their ordeals, and the innocents who suffered or perished from abuse, overwork, or starvation. These overlapping and interlocking narratives create a web of mutual corroboration, with each account reinforcing the others, collectively amplifying the depiction of the Anti-Rightist Movement’s cruelty.⁴ It is within this chorus of shared and echoing memories that a formidable process of truth construction is realised.

In a marked shift from his established style, Man in Black, released in 2023, might initially not seem attributable to Wang Bing. The film, notably for its concise sixty-minute duration, departs from Wang’s minimalist approach in favour of a highly orchestrated production. Employing precise cinematography, lighting, and sound design, it is set against the backdrop of the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord in Paris, enhancing the narrative centred on Wang Xilin, a pre-eminent Chinese classical composer. Despite its distinct stylistic approach, this article argues that Man in Black remains intrinsically linked to Wang Bing’s cinematic continuum, acting as a reflective counterpart to Dead Souls. The film’s aesthetic evolution is not so much a break but an advancement of the narrative and cinematic discourse that Dead Souls initiated. Man in Black represents a deliberate reconfiguration of the interview format – moving from archival to performative, from chronicler to collaborator – channelling it as a potent medium of storytelling that is both engaging and provocative. 

Man in Black

At the beginning of the film, Wang Xilin, aged and naked, presents his body before the lens – a body carrying the imprints of a life lived: the sag in his flesh, his skin a canvas of wrinkles and scars. Ascending the stairs, each step is taken with a mix of dignity and discomfort, the latter evident in his cautious gait. He makes his way to centre stage and performs a repetitive motion: a slight bending of the knee, both arms reaching behind his back to clasp one another. His balance falters; he collapses, whimpering on the floor out of frustration. He rises, only to succumb to gravity once more. For the initial 20 minutes of the film, dialogue is absent. The only sounds are those of his body interacting with the imposing space of the theatre, until he settles onto a padded bench in the auditorium. Almost abruptly, a fervent narrative unfolds, his words cascading with intensity and rhetoric.

Wang Xilin’s story unfurls as dual chronicles. The first arc traces his journey from his enlistment in the People’s Liberation Army at 13, through his academic endeavours at the Shanghai Conservatory, to his sufferings during the Cultural Revolution, and the persistent censorship he faced. His role as an intellectual and subsequent public denouncement of the conscription of art into political propaganda marked him a target for persecution, culminating in his arrest and brutal torture. Interwoven with this political turmoil is his lifelong odyssey in music composition. Wang’s major symphonies, crafted under the shadow of the same repressive forces, become his sole means of resilience, articulating the inexpressible not through words but through the eloquence of musical scores. The entwined strands of Wang Xilin’s narrative, detailing his tribulations and his undying commitment to his art, underscore the conjoined collapse of his freedoms – both as an individual and as an artist.

For those familiar with Wang Bing’s engagements with the Jiabiangou survivors in Dead Souls, Wang Xilin’s testimony unfolds as if in conversation with the questions that Wang Bing poses in his interviews. It is conceivable that such dialogues between the director and the composer have occurred numerous times off-camera, laying the groundwork for what would become a cinematic portrayal. In bringing this interaction to the screen as a performative enactment, Wang Bing transforms the conventional interview into a poignant display of cinematic artistry that redefines the potential of the interview format.

As an interviewee, Wang Xilin is particularly eloquent. Under Wang Bing’s direction and through the lens of French cinematographer Caroline Champetier, Wang Xilin’s narrative – infused with both spoken words and bodily gestures – comes to life. He speaks of a chapter called “Mad Man,” drawing inspiration from his own perceived madness and the insanity he observed in others. His voice, laden with emotion, asserts that “A mad man doesn’t have a song,” a reflection on his desperation and his commitment to creating a voice for himself and for others.⁵ Describing a later segment of one of his symphonies, he meticulously evokes a scene that juxtaposes xie (血, blood) and xue (雪, snow), creating a symbolic contrast between violence and silence – a metaphor accentuated by the almost homophonic nature of the two words in Chinese.⁶ He describes a vivid picture: a landscape dominated by a swath of blood, with his hands dramatizing the chaos through rapid and expressive movements, while above, in serene counterpoint, is the tranquil descent of snow, his hands now mimicking the slow fall of snowflakes. Wang Xilin’s artistic sensitivity charges his speech with profound emotion, rendering it not just engaging, but almost commanding for the audience. He shares his narrative with rich detail and a descriptive fervour, while laying bare his psyche and soul – his struggles, his descent into madness, his disorientation under the weight of an oppressive political climate, his compassion for fellow sufferers, his burning desire to resist and rebel, and his quest for liberation. He devotes everything into his music.

 The director’s strategic sound design introduces another layer of intensity to the atmosphere, already charged by Wang Xilin’s expressive words and movements. What sets this instance apart in documentary filmmaking is the intentional modulation between diegetic and non-diegetic music, namely the interplay of Wang Xilin’s own vocal narrations and the symphonies he has composed. Wang Bing orchestrates an auditory dance: at times, the music swells to eclipse Wang Xilin’s voice, while at other moments, the voice asserts itself, rising above the orchestral backdrop. This back-and-forth creates a gripping tension, a sense that there is a deliberate, perhaps even confrontational, interplay between Wang Xilin’s musical articulations and his spoken testimonies. Subtitles continue to appear, not to confuse the audience or obscure the narrative, but to further immerse the senses, plunging the audience into the narrative’s turbulence and evoking a whirlwind of disorientation as if caught in an aural maelstrom.

 Building on the sensory engagement discussed earlier, Wang Bing’s Man in Black further challenges traditional documentary techniques that typically demand the camera’s focus to remain on the subjects while they speak, often making the spoken words the primary substance of the testimony. However, Wang Bing emphasizes the concept that testimony is not merely verbal; it is a multi-sensory experience conveyed through various mediums. A striking example of this is his decision to present Wang Xilin naked, thereby showcasing his vulnerable, fatigued, and aged body – a silent witness to decades of physical and mental torments. Furthermore, the camera often gives attention to seemingly minor details, such as Wang Xilin’s toes. Tracking shots that start with his torso frequently end with a focus on his toes, which subconsciously keep time – whether he is re-enacting traumatic struggle sessions, humming music, or simply speaking – suggesting a deep internal rhythm. In this way, Wang Bing explores how subtle body movements and small gestures can serve as powerful conveyors of truth, revealing the suppressed impulses within Wang Xilin’s body and the music born from long-standing oppression through the quiet motion of his toes.

Man in Black

The stylistic shift and aesthetic choices in Man in Black, while appearing novel, are a continuation of Wang Bing’s approach from earlier works, where interviews were employed more conventionally. In Dead Souls, despite the heavy reliance on the authenticating power of spoken words, Wang Bing’s focus on non-verbal communication and sensory engagement is evident. He captures subjects in moments of motion and introspection – walking around their homes, zoning out, or slowly pulling curtains – sometimes before, during, or after interviews. A particularly poignant scene involves Zhou Xiaoli, then 86, whose voice rises passionately as he recalls his haunting experiences in Jiabiangou. Here, Wang Bing abandons his typically static, observational camerawork in Dead Souls to follow Zhou’s movement. He also features Zhou playing the piano – though for only a few seconds – a precursor to Wang Xilin’s piano performance in the latter part of Man in Black.⁷ The abrupt camera shift to capture Zhou from the kitchen area where the camera was originally positioned creates a dizzyingly impactful visual that connects to Wang Xilin’s later expressions through music. These revisited scenes in Dead Souls likely underscore how Wang Bing’s documentaries have consistently evolved, ultimately paving the way for the dramatized and aestheticized dialogue of his latest work. 

Dead Souls: Part III & Man in Black

In order to realize such dramatization and aestheticization, Man in Black introduces a stark contrast in its mise-en-scène, departing significantly from all of Wang Bing’s previous works. In Dead Souls, interviews take place within the subjects’ homes, immersing viewers in the fabric of their everyday lives. Common sights include scroll paintings, calendars, coloured photos, and decorations that project their intellectual identities. In contrast, Man in Black sees Wang Bing stripping away the setting’s original context entirely. The cinematography features spiralling camera movements that mirror the theatre’s architecture, showcasing Wang Xilin’s body. To a certain extent, his body is both objectified and sanctified, akin to Michelangelo’s David (1501–04) poised at the centre of a museum, commanding close observation. The setting, whether resembling an opulent theatre or a classical museum, transforms into a vast vessel encapsulating pain, loss, tragedy, heroism, and morality.

The mise-en-scène also greatly alters the audience’s perceived proximity to the subjects. Within Wang Bing’s observational approach, the audience is drawn into the intimate spaces where interviews occur – an invitation to the stark realities of the subjects’ experience while preserving the detachment inherent to an observer’s role. This approach is characterised in Dead Souls by its length, slowness, and repetition, fostering a sense of being simultaneously connected and distant. In Man in Black, however, the audience is almost coerced into immersing themselves mentally and emotionally in the narrative and performance. By situating the interview within a round theatre and casting a strong spotlight on Wang Xilin’s naked body, Wang Bing effectively pulls the audience from the safety of their screens into the theatrical space, akin to being positioned at the forefront of a trauma theatre. This intense engagement paradoxically amplifies a sense of detachment, morphing into a feeling of helplessness – stemming from witnessing another’s pain without the means to offer a solution to such an insurmountable struggle.

A comparative analysis of Dead Souls and Man in Black illuminates the role of the interview within Wang Bing’s oeuvre, where it morphs from a medium of inquiry to a stage for performance. These interviews extend beyond mere journalistic or archival functions, ascending to cinematic and thematic significance. As evidenced in Dead Souls, Wang Bing acknowledges the power of oral histories and explores the potency of non-verbal expressions and sensory portrayals as vessels of testimony. Man in Black amplifies this foundation, elevating the interview to a performative art form. In doing so, Wang Bing sculpts an experience that fosters an interpretive and co-creative dialogue between the interviewee and the director, as well as between the interviewee and the audience. This experimentation not only enriches the understanding of the subjects’ narrated experiences but also reimagines the portrayal of authenticity in documentary filmmaking, asserting performance as a vector for truth and emotional resonance.

Endnotes