Movies of War

Chinese animation filmmaker Zao Xu’s feature debut “Light Pillar” was announced to be included in this year’s Berlinale, which completed the “Perspectives” section in the last minute. Graduated from the Beijing Film Academy, Xu’s previous works include “Love Music Friend” (2025) and “No Changes Have Taken in Our Life” (2023). His films have been selected for the International Film Festival Rotterdam and the Animafest Zagreb, and he has won the Golden Dove at the DOK Leipzig and the Grand Prize at the Image Forum Festival. The film’s natural setting is winter. All the characters move at a slower pace than usual, and their perception of the world and their desires seem subdued, almost dulled. Was this “slowness” an aesthetic decision, or was it a result of the narrative structure? Both. This style of performance is extracted from a collective portrait. It’s a microcosm of a particular group. By using this approach, their characteristics become amplified, and their hazy, drifting state of existence is externalised through their movements. It also, Of course, relates to the story itself. The film takes place in a declining studio complex. Compared to the outside world, it is an abandoned corner. In such a corner, people’s ways of thinking and living naturally slow down, even become stagnant. The outside world may be developing rapidly, but within this isolated pocket, everything grows more closed-off. Why do you think this method effectively conveys the group’s characteristics? It’s connected to their work and lifestyle. Their jobs aren’t particularly busy; they have a lot of spare time. It’s uklike the kind of work we do, constantly racing against deadlines. They may even feel idle. This slow rhythm of life can be expressed very clearly through the characters’ physical movement. What led you to choose a film studio complex as your subject? Were the details drawn from your own observations? Before making this film, we visited more than a dozen studio bases across China. I combined interesting and playful elements from each. There’s also a similar studio near my home that I often pass by, so I observed it almost subconsciously. Those observations enriched the film’s details. The subject matter is also related to my work experience. I once worked in set decoration, which involved scouting locations at different studio complexes. Therefore, I’m very familiar with these environments. At the same time, it reflects the broader film industry today. Studio complexes are a foundation. If the film ecosystem is thriving, sets are constantly updated. But once production slows down, buildings aren’t renovated as frequently and remain in an aging state. Through such an entry point, we can observe the ecological state of the entire industry. Is this reflection based on your observation of current realities? Yes. On the one hand, it’s the condition of studio complexes; on the other hand, it’s the changes in shooting methods. In the past, sets were dismantled immediately after a shoot. Now, due to technological developments, especially LED visual effects, on-location shooting has become less common. In terms of shooting formats, we used to shoot horizontally in studio complexes, but now cameras are often turned vertically. The story is set in the near future, where AI and technology intervene in daily life. Yet human consciousness and desire seem destabilised. When depicting the protagonist Zha (Da Peng) entering the virtual world, you chose to present the VR sequences through live-action footage — reversing the usual practice of inserting animation into live-action films. For this solitary man living in the future, virtual reality appears even more “real.” Do you think AI further blurs the boundary between genuine and virtual emotions? Certainly. But I don’t think that kind of emotion is necessarily negative. Whether you place your feelings in a virtual world or in another real person, I see no problem — as long as you feel at ease with it. If someone chooses to immerse themselves in a virtual world, that’s also a personal choice. Sometimes there’s no need to insist on finding everything in real life. “Light Pillar” was originally conceived as a fully animated film. But no matter how I tried to depict the difference between virtual and real within animation, I felt a certain powerlessness, because both would still be animation. To maximise the contrast, I realised I had to use another medium. I considered 3D or stop-motion, but they weren’t extreme enough. Live-action felt like the most radical solution. It inherently offers a richer, more dimensional presence. Shooting handheld, in contrast to the relatively static and rigid quality of animation, creates a stark opposition. Besides, the animated world is in winter; and we set the virtual world in summer time — in every aspect, the two realms are pulled completely apart. Ultimately, what the film wants to express is Zha’s experience of reality as something two-dimensional — flat, and slightly stiff. But once he enters the virtual world, it becomes vibrant and alive. By interweaving these two forms, the contrast becomes immediately perceptible, even without any dialogue. For someone like Zha who lives in such an era, how can they find emotional belonging? I think it’s by the discovery of beauty around them. Take the cat in the film. The creature always keeps a certain distance from Zha and doesn’t constantly circle him. But at a crucial moment, it pulls him back. As he spends every day with it, he may not realise how important the cat it is to him. Yet when he truly encounters difficulty and lowers his gaze, he finds that the most beautiful things were right beside him all along. The story unfolds in a studio complex on the verge of collapse: no new productions arrive; no tourists visit; even employees rely on meagre wages to survive as the company’s bankruptcy looms. Does this reflect your prediction about the future of the film industry? I see it as a natural phenomenon — just like metabolism. Today we use LED effects to replace real locations; in the future, perhaps we’ll shoot the entire films in virtual worlds without any physical environment. That could become a new mode of filmmaking, but it doesn’t guarantee good films. It’s like having many stationery supplies. But they don’t necessarily help you study better. What matters is how you use the tools to express yourself. We don’t need so many “stationery supplies” for truly great films — sometimes, one or two simple tools are just enough. Faced with so many “stationery supplies”, which would you choose? I’m quite traditional. Drawing with a pen on paper feels more grounded to me. But that doesn’t mean it’s the best method. Beyond technology’s impact, the film seems tinged with nostalgia. For instance, Zha is in search for a lost toy produced in the 1990s, buying one-yuan ice pops at an amusement park, as well as the “dreamcore” atmosphere of the live-action segments where he inhabits. How do you understand such emotional undercurrent? It stems from Zha’s longing for a better life. He likes old toys — childhood may have been his happiest time. The entertainment setting aligns with his nostalgia for the past. The “dreamcore” atmosphere functions like a filter over memory. People always feel the past was better. Decades from now, they might think this current era is not bad either. It’s just that here and now, one happens to think the past was better. How did you scout the live-action location, and how did you create that nostalgic atmosphere particularly? It’s a park not far from our Beijing studio, known for its evening light shows with peculiar, shifting illuminations. In regard to technique, I used somewhat abrupt zoom-ins to evoke the feeling of DV-style home videos. Colour grading and aspect ratio also emphasised that mood. Music was crucial. Tracks distinctive to that era, especially those with a “dreamcore” quality, can instantly transport the audience back in time. The ending feels like a tragic swan song: a studio complex witnessing its own destruction during filming, stones falling from the sky like an apocalyptic spectacle. What message did you hope to convey? It depends on perspective. If you look up from below, it feels like the sky is collapsing. But if you look down from above, from the god’s perspective, it is just as natural metabolism. I wouldn’t say that cinema has perished; instead, it has survived in another form. Such transformations are inevitable. If you think from a historical standpoint, everything will eventually disappear and be replaced by something better. So in my view, the ending is not seen as a tragedy but a normal phenomenon. We may, of course, bemoan it, sighing “Alas! It’s gone,” with a tinge of regret. But when something new arrives, after a century, we will probably exclaim that it works perfectly well. Tags:Da PengLight PillarZao Xu