The Spark and What the Spark Can Invent - By Ma Qingyun
When I was in college, the students in the Western Literature department were still very arrogant. Later, it became popular to attend Chen Chao's (poet, avant-garde poetry critic) lectures, which were almost always packed. Among them, the majority of female students would occupy the back rows, separated from Brother Chen Chao by a desk. On stage, saliva would fly; off stage, hearts would secretly yearn. In those days of Chinese literature, attending Mr. Chen Chao's class was a kind of cultural pilgrimage, akin to how nowadays people stream "Inseparable." Years later, when I asked some classmates who had once been passionate, they could barely remember anything. They remained silent. They knew that Chen Chao's thoughts and words were profound, but they hadn't absorbed anything, let alone practiced it.
Mr. Chen Chao's fate wasn't as tragic due to this trend-following style. His audience was never entirely empty, though most should have been pushed out to feed dogs. This reminded me of my high school English teacher, Mr. Huang Qingkui. Mr. Huang's classes also formed a kind of prestigious popularity, although everyone outwardly showed disdain for his lessons—because listening to him wouldn't bring any direct or effective information for the college entrance exam. However, after many years of struggle, Mr. Huang Qingkui proved his value with something called "special education wisdom," just as Mr. Chen Chao used his noble birth and head to establish his prominent position in poetry criticism. They were sparks, and the most useful sparks for this nation, initially dismissed by the majority of onlookers.
That year during a family gathering, I joked with Mr. Huang, asking if he had even one student over the years who made him proud. With a sly look, he replied, “Not many. You count as half.” Mr. Huang had taught for many years, and countless students had passed through his hands, but those who truly ventured into philosophy or literature could be counted on one hand. But from the way he looked at me, I realized that in life, having one student to be proud of is a blessing. Both Mr. Huang and Mr. Chen carried the stubborn pride of intellectuals. This stubbornness, or perhaps obsession, is crucial for a nation's development. To deeply understand this obsession, we need to pass the torch.
During my early studies under Mr. Huang, I often discussed the topics of utility and disutility. As I grew older and started making a living, I suddenly understood that what I did and pursued were all considered "useless" by the general populace. Too often, I was playing with an art film that had no audience, while most people were thinking about how to make a blockbuster with revealing dances and heterosexual themes. Fortunately, I learned the dialectics of "use" and "disuse" from Mr. Huang, constantly reminding myself that what seems useless at the moment may actually be greatly useful. Coincidentally, Mr. Chen Chao also admired Zhuangzi’s fables about chickens, gourds, and large trees. With their guidance as these sparks, I can firmly walk on a path that appears "useless."
"The Movie Week Drunken" is a talk show that seems "useless." From the perspective of the audience, few are willing to take the time to watch movies, fewer still think deeply after watching, and among these few, even fewer will watch this weekly broadcasted movie review program. Cultural things can only form trends, making people blindly follow like rushing to sit in Mr. Chen Chao's class, without rational thought because the audience fundamentally doesn't think, they just follow trends. This might be a deep-seated sorrow. Pseudo-knowledge has no future, fake culture is popular.
Regarding whether "The Movie Week Drunken" should compromise with the general audience, Mr. Drunken said the key is to see who it's for. Even if this program compromises and becomes more refined, it won't win the cheers of all internet users. I, however, become obstinate again, choosing not to compromise. Thought isn't something that compromises. The pleasure of reading lies in the mutual intellectual game. "The Movie Week Drunken" is actually an intellectual game between ideas. This game unfolds between the program and the audience. I don't expect the program to give the audience anything or change anything, but spending 11 minutes watching it can give the audience mental fatigue and happiness, like the relief after a short sprint.
Mental enjoyment, currently speaking, is quite luxurious. Just like after getting used to fast food, I need a gently stewed small chick. "The Movie Week Drunken" is like a slowly stewed small chick. At first, there may not be much meat, but if stewed long enough, it becomes a rich broth, far surpassing fast food in nutrition. This program has now been running for five episodes, which is equivalent to five hours of stewing. Tonight, we're recording the sixth episode, which means six hours of stewing. I imagine that Mr. Huang and Mr. Chen in their youth also went through such a slow-stewing process. These six hours might seem useless, but who knows what is truly useful?
"The Movie Week Drunken" is like putting a pot of water on barren land of entertainment-based movie reviews. Whether it will grow is unknown, but it has already burned for a few hours. There are no independent film critics in the People's Republic of China. Starting with "The Movie Week Drunken," it might not have independent programs or independent critics, but this independence is theoretically useful against "foolish clamor." What use is independence? But what seems useless might be the most effective. This is a kind of resolution by the master, but since I've attended his classes, I have my own stubbornness.
The joy of "The Movie Week Drunken" lies in the collision of ideas and the combustion it generates. Each of us is wild grass on the field, waiting for our burning thoughts to appear. The program's ability is limited, only able to burn a tiny part of the vast wilderness, reaching a few viewers with our spiritual stew. However, we can aspire to a larger combustion range, because the wild grass craves the flames more than the tame fire—previously, I was the wild grass, and now this spark might just be burning the wild grass.
In a past conversation with Mr. Zhao Cenpu in a village at the foot of a city building, we talked about the non-compromise of writing. Why should we compromise? Why should we flatter our readers? Between writers and readers, collisions are the most brilliant, especially the stubborn non-compromises, though this audience is niche—just like how few people can resonate with "Mr. Tree." Being niche isn't scary; what's scary is compromising and flattering the majority. This shouldn't be the backdrop of art.
But according to my meaning, "The Movie Week Drunken" should become a place for high-level exchanges of ideas, where intellectual sparring is complex and magnificent. But I know that if this happens, the audience will decrease. I've compromised somewhat by lowering the depth of the program. I worry about my compromise—what am I doing?
However, this gentle stewing chicken will gradually cook. Unexpectedly, a soulmate might collide with it, sparking a flame, calling another soulmate, then acquaintances introducing soulmates. Perhaps this is the phase that the spark must go through, just like how Mr. Huang and Mr. Chen's fires spread. Carefully thinking about it, both teachers have only two or three truly accomplished students. Those who join the frenzy and follow trends usually arrive after the big fire starts, similar to how the big shots and the revolutionaries claim kinship after the fact. Not starting a big fire, overnight everyone wants to be kin. Thus, everything seems indifferent.