People walk into their own cinema, and become part of it. Who, then, remains to be the witness, the playwright, and the actor?
As eerie and bizarre as the cover image—a deer appearing from behind a concrete column in a concrete hall emptied of the human—suggests, Shuang Xuetao’s short story collection Hunter gathers 11 brutally surreal vignettes of ordinary lives in Beijing and Shenyang. Development in the urban landscape of northeastern China is haunted by the remnants and mutation of collapsed empires: the Manchu and the Japanese ones.
A shenyang native, Shuang Xuetao grew up from the 1980s witnessing much of the city’s heavy industry grinds to a halt as the country, led by the east coast powers like Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Shenzhen, accelerated its investment in the postindustrial economy. A few failed attempts to emulate Beijing’s global trade strategies pushed Shenyang into a deeper and wider economic depression, spanning from the city center to the periphery. Cheaper food, service, and labor prevail, but the city drags itself towards a dull horizon. The characters in Shuang’s stories inhabit this melancholy and dreary reality, and at the same time embody it. The tangible world shifts just like the mediascape: things, people, relationships, and events suddenly occur out of nowhere, create their own theater of sorts, and swap the characters and the spectators’ positions. Those theaters don’t stay where they are, nor do they disappear. They fold into other realities, shuffling past, present, and future like a deck of cards.
Death feels imminent at all times in the stories. It threatens to jump out of depression, jealousy, hopelessness, the loss of innocence, and, especially on the land of the former Manchu and Japanese empires, restless imperial memories. In “Sen,” a Japanese director-turned war criminal Yamamoto who survived an assassination attempt by a Western man in the 1940s in Peiping turns his experience into a feature film and sells it to a Chinese director decades later, while the film and the experience could have switched places already. In the “Martial Artist,” the only meeting between an underground Chinese Communist Party sympathizer and a Japanese martial artist in the 1930s ended up with the former’s murder by the latter’s disciple. Dou Chongshi’s martyrdom to protect a mysterious Japanese manual of magic and the intactness of the CCP’s network sent Dou Dou, now orphaned, onto his academic journey across the country, only to find himself strangely protected from both the Communist persecution and the unresolved Japanese revenge in the Cultural Revolution in the late 1960s.
Yet, instead of killing, the threat lures the protagonists in and out of cycles of hallucination. Instead of horror and scare, these stories rather implement Mark Fisher’s theory of “the weird and the eerie.” “The allure that the weird and the eerie possess is not captured by the idea that we ‘enjoy what scares us’. It has, rather, to do with a fascination for the outside, for that which lies beyond standard perception, cognition and experience.” Fisher differentiates the weird as something present that cannot reconcile with or be represented by the familiar, but is nonetheless juxtaposed with the homely. In comparison, the eerie is concerned with “Why is there something here when there should be nothing? Why is there nothing here when there should be something?” It is fundamentally about agency, like that of capital—“conjured out of nothing, [but] nevertheless exert[ing] more influence than any allegedly substantial entity.”
Shuang’s stories enact what one could perhaps call the “Dongbei (northeast) noir.” Rather than horror, they engage with the hollowness of modern everyday life. Where death could be executed, the story twists and, in a snap of a finger, life slips into a different dimension. At the same time, the protagonist is jerked out of the dimension of dreaming where he was. In these stories, precisely as Fisher describes, the weird and the eerie are affects, “but they are also modes: modes of film and fiction, modes of perception, ultimately, you might even say, modes of being.” Who wouldn’t say this sudden, dramatic shift of modes of being, from history to dream to film, from rehearsal to reality and back, very much emulates the chaotic time we are in, that promises a future and shatters it the next moment? That builds a ground of livelihood and yanks it from under our feet the next moment? That assigns a trauma to the past and hurls it back to us the next moment? Surrealism is more real than fictional, than ever.