We Have Boots (我們有雨靴, Evans Chan, 2020)

“Fight pragmatically for the impossible” is the advice from Chan Kin-man, cofounder of Hong Kong’s Occupy Central Campaign, in Evans Chan’s follow-up to his 2016 documentary Raise the Umbrellas, We Have Boots (我們有雨靴). Part of a projected trilogy which began with To Liv(e) in1991 examining Hong Kong in the aftermath off Tiananmen Square and may never now, the director fears, be completed, the sprawling two-hour doc runs through six turbulent years of Hong Kong protest, dissecting the failures of the Umbrella Movement and implications of the passing of the National Security Law in the midst of a global pandemic in June 2020.

Evans Chan opens with a faintly ridiculous propaganda video which outlines what the film describes as “Chinese exceptionalism” in that China can feel fairly smug about itself as it did not rely on exploitation, colonial massacre, or slavery to become prosperous nor has it submitted itself to Western democracy. The narrator of the video appears to view the people of Hong Kong as brainwashed foster children turned against their homeland by the “fake news” of international propaganda seeking to portray it as a source only of authoritarian oppression and, in fact, growing up to become “time bombs” posing a threat to Mainland security. In an ironic cut, Chan then drops us directly into a traumatic raid on a subway station in which we witness extreme and random police brutality directed against ordinary citizens. 

Yet Chan is not sparing of the Movement either, directly documenting concerns among the protestors at the Umbrella Movement five years after the fact as they complain of over centralisation, that their “democratic” movement did not practice what it preached when the main platform acted like a command centre and refused to listen to other points of view including those advocating for violent action. Meanwhile the more militant arm of protest movement finds it increasingly difficult to escape criticisms of entrenched xenophobia in its openly anti-Mainland stance, describing Chinese migrants as “smugglers and looters” in reference to a trend accusing frequent visitors from the Mainland trafficking supposedly safer commodities such as baby milk which had been the subject of scandals owing to lax safety standards. The same group also objects to Mainland women dancing in the streets as an affront to local Hong Kong culture, adopting the Sanskrit “Cina” to refer to the country while viewing those coming from wider China as “colonisers” rather than migrants hellbent on undermining the traditional culture of the island. 

Nevertheless, Chan also makes plain the various levels of Kafka-esque obfuscation the opposition faces in its goal of gaining universal suffrage and true democracy for Hong Kong. Young councillors are abruptly disqualified after “misusing” their swearing-in speeches by flying flags which state Hong Kong is not China or otherwise badmouthing the Mainland or political process. Unable to find appropriate offences to discourage the ringleaders, they come up with nebulous charges such as “incitement to incite public nuisance” which are essentially meaningless not to mention counter-productive save that they prevent those who receive custodial sentences from standing for further political office. 

One young man appears only in full protest gear clad in black head to toe, presumably keen to maintain his anonymity as he details his role as a frontline protestor. We’re reminded that China essentially disappeared five booksellers from Causeway Bay for the crime of selling problematic books, only one of whom later resurfaced explaining he’d been held on the Mainland against his will. The leaders of the movement fully expect to pay with their freedom and, according to Chan Kin-man at least who turns down the opportunity of exile abroad, view participation in their trials as facet of their resistance. “Being young is a crime,” the anonymous protestor laments. His generation don’t expect to have money, they don’t expect to have children, in short they do not expect to have a future, all they have is resistance. While the international press holds up Hong Kong as a bastion against incremental authoritarianism in an age of democratic recession, China describes the Be Water protests as “riots” and continues to target prominent protest leaders driving some into exile. With a mix of stock footage, talking heads interviews, and experimental dramatisations, Chan spins a melancholy picture of a Hong Kong facing the crushing despair of the Security Law, but as the poem which inspired the film’s title reminds us, they have umbrellas, they have boots, they have each other and so the fight is not yet over. 


Trailer (English subtitles)

Love and Death in Montmartre (蒙馬特之愛與死, Evans Chan, 2019)

It’s difficult to believe, in some ways, that the world could have changed so much in just a couple of decades. Qiu Miaojin gained a cult following and widespread acclaim as an openly gay defiantly lesbian writer in the early ‘90s, but sadly took her own life in Paris at the age of 26 in 1995. Hong Kong director Evans Chan’s Love and Death in Montmartre (蒙馬特之愛與死) expands his 2017 documentary which aired as part of TV series celebrating Sinophone writers and though he claimed not to have been much interested in Qiu as a personality, explores her life, love, and legacy from the perspective of a Taiwan which has now become the first Asian nation to legalise same sex marriage. 

The film’s title is inspired by Qiu’s final novel completed shortly before her death in exile in Paris. Though she became well known as an out lesbian writer publishing under her own name as a woman who loved women, Qiu, the documentary implies, never actually came out to her family and eventually fled a Taiwan which had recently entered into democratic freedom but was nevertheless still conservative and socially oppressive. In Paris she looked for freedom artistic and personal, but continued to struggle with herself in her internal contradictions which were also in a sense provoked by a hostile society. 

Interviewed 25 years later, many of Qiu’s friends and contemporaries point out that she preceded rather than participated in the burgeoning LGBTQ+ movement which only began to gain ground after her death, but that her work nevertheless helped to raise visibility and acceptance of lesbianism in Taiwan and beyond. Lacking a language to describe herself, her slightly ironic adoption of the term “Lazi” for lesbian was adopted by women who love women in Taiwan, in turn inspiring the Mainland’s “Lala”. As another interviewee suggests, Qiu’s work was also ahead of its time in giving voice to the author’s anxiety in the impossibility of defining gender, at times longing to be made entirely male or entirely female while evidently feeling neither term entirely fitted only later claiming to have discovered an integrated self in the depths of her heartbreak. 

An actor Qiu met university who subsequently starred in one of her short films excerpts of which are included in the documentary recalls her anxiety that repressed emotions once unleashed have the capacity to consume, and in her case at least this may have been the truth. Close friends recall the self harm scars on her arms where she burned herself with cigarettes following the end of a relationship, consumed by her own need for all encompassing passion yet also filled with self-loathing. Perhaps tellingly and presumably for reasons of privacy, her lover at the time of her death does not appear in the documentary which goes out of its way to avoid naming her beyond the “Xu” which appears in her letters, Qiu attributing their breakup to her “intensity” which had unfortunately turned violent further contributing to her sense of shame and instability. 

Yet the translator of Last Words from Montmartre advances that Qiu’s suicide was also in a sense a literary act, the culmination of an artistic life in the tradition of tragic authors she had admired such as Osamu Dazai or Yukio Mishima. Another friend wonders if she might have been suffering from bipolar disorder, while her former professor reflects on her decision to adopt the name “Zoe” while in Paris, a name which itself means “life”. In Taiwan Qiu had worked for a suicide hotline, yet eventually took the decision to die. Qiu’s work cannot indeed be divorced from the manner of her death, but nor can its legacy be denied in contributing to the birth of a movement that she sadly did not live to see.

Including clips from Qiu’s short films and excepts from a short inspired by Qiu’s life directed by bisexual Shanghainese filmmaker Lotte Yue, as well as reenactments featuring Qiu dressed alternately as a crocodile as in her famous novel or as a veiled ghost, Chan charts her artistic legacy through Asia and beyond with recent translations of her novels into French and English, but also juxtaposes the oppressive society she struggled to escape with the comparatively more liberal world of today which she perhaps even in the tragedy of her life and death helped to bring about. 


Love and Death in Montmartre streamed as part of this year’s San Diego Asian Film Festival.

Original trailer (English subtitles)