Creating films of a political nature under government censorship is a herculean task. In essence, filmmakers must portray their subjects cogently enough to make any meaning apparent to a wider audience, whilst still maintaining the subtlety necessary to avoid the wrath of over-zealous censors. Even then, the most concerted efforts can still not be enough. The presence of censorship itself instead becomes a perverse vehicle for the truth, as is the case with writer-director Li Ruijun’s beautiful but inescapably compromised Return to Dust, a film whose true meaning only becomes apparent when you realize what’s been taken away.
On the surface, not much happens in Ruijun’s film. It’s a stark piece of social realism so fiercely committed to the day-to-day minutia of its subject that it initially comes across as frustratingly mundane. Following a poor rural couple living on the fringes of Chinese society, comparisons could be made to similar yet more engaging works of slow cinema, such as Sohrab Shahid-Saless’s masterful Still Life, or even last year’s Utama. In contrast to those films, though, Ruijun’s direction has a cold, distanced touch. Information is presented nominally, and one senses that there’s a certain amount of context missing that would make the film’s oblique narrative more understandable.
Return to Dust follows Ma Youti (Renlin Wu) and Cao Guiying (Hai-Qing), middle-aged members of a poverty-stricken rural community who are hastily married off to one another by their respective families. Ma Youti is a farmer who plants and harvests corn in exchange for meager compensation from an exploitative landlord, to whom he also donates blood due to sharing a rare blood type. His wife, meanwhile, suffers from incontinence because of an unspecified illness that has turned her into a societal outcast. Abused by her family, Guiying finds refuge in Youti’s gentle care, and the two form a pensive, tender bond. The couple’s day-to-day routine largely consists of physical labor. Youti constructs a house from mudbricks and guides his donkey through town, carrying loads of hay, seeds and fertilizer. The donkey is a readily apparent metaphor for Youti himself, a workhorse broken down through years of neglect by the ruling class, and unable to break free from the tethers that bind him.
The community surrounding Youti and Guiying appears distanced and aged beyond its years. If Guiying could afford to see a doctor, for instance, she may be able to diagnose her illness. Instead, she’s mostly ignored and remains unwell. When Youti and Guiying are selected to move into an apartment in the city, it’s presented as an order rather than a choice. “People can live here,” Youti asks, his apartment tour filmed by an eager news crew, “but where do my donkey, my pigs and hens live?” No answer follows.
If this all sounds rather dreary, it’s because it is. Even purposefully so, the film pacing borders on strenuous, which is only compounded by the largely unstylistic visuals and minimalistic dialogue. The performances are utterly believable. Hai-Qing is a professional actress; her costar Wu is not. A farmer by trade, he imbues his character with a considerable amount of authenticity which often renders the film closer to documentary than narrative. But the film comes to vivid, if gentle, life in its smaller moments. Youti and Guiying’s romance of shared compassion is remarkably poignant, even as the circumstances surrounding them tend to work against their favor. Despite frequent setbacks, the couple builds their own house, harvests their own food and could, if given the opportunity, live contentedly on their own terms.
Return to Dust was briefly the most successful film in China during its initial release there in July of 2022, especially notable given the film’s non-commercial and arthouse slant. However, the film was mysteriously pulled from Chinese cinemas and streaming platforms and was even altered before its complete removal. Text at the end of the film states that “Ma Youti moved to his new home in the winter of 2011 and started his new life with the help of the government and the warm-hearted villagers.” This is, of course, completely incongruous with the film that precedes it, and indicates that Ruijun’s narrative of poor peasants whose desires are at odds with Chinese bureaucratic leadership made certain censors uncomfortable. Though much of the film appears less overtly politicized than slice-of-life, the desire to cover up such stories makes them inherently political. It’s only after finishing Return to Dust that one can fully comprehend the meaning, and considerable power, behind the film’s unassuming execution.
Ruijun was born and raised in the same north-west province of Gansu where Return to Dust takes place. It speaks to the power of his film that it was able to make such an impact, almost $14 million when converted to USD, in its brief theatrical run. The narrative has clearly struck a chord with audiences, and one hopes that international viewers will turn out to see it as well. Trying to erase the film only grants it more power. In the end, Return to Dust is a love story, however bleak, that finds quiet resilience in places long since forgotten.
Photo courtesy of Film Movement
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