So when I sat down to watch Voces8, an acclaimed English octet, at the National Center for the Performing Arts, I expected insight. I thought that a capella performed by professionals would be qualitatively different from those Friday nights on the quad. And it was, in terms of quality and song choice (less pop, more English ballads), but in the end it was just eight people singing, making sounds, and occasionally snapping to the beat. But if I thought I was confused, it seemed that most of the audience was worse off.

Singing without instruments is as old as time, but a capella as we know it evolved about a hundred years ago in the United States at colleges. Groups have been formed steadily since but this form of vocal music remains a uniquely Western tradition. So performing Bach and Gershwin in a capella in Beijing is something akin to performing Farewell My Concubine with shadow puppets at the Met.

Not surprisingly, after the first piece a few people started nodding off and by the end of the fifth piece only about half the audience was clapping. The man next to me checked his cell phone (in vain because service is blocked once the performance begins) and was reproofed by an usher on the other side of the hall with a laser pointer. During the rest between the second and third movements of “Singet dem Herrn” someone, thinking the song was over, began clapping loudly though the audience was told beforehand that there were four movements. This happened again toward the end of “Fever.”

Before you write this off as ignorance or embarrassing folly, think of how you’d do watching Noh or tauromachy. Perhaps you’d be able to appreciate the surface novelty but could it really affect you? Would you really understand what was going on? This begs the question if one is able to appreciate an art without a sufficient understanding of the medium or source material. How can I understand the improvisations of “I Got Rhythm” if I’ve never heard it before? If we can’t, then Western high art is waging a losing battle in the world and an almost impossible one in China. Opera, symphony, and a capella are Western art forms just as Chinese Opera, erhu solos, and crosstalk are Chinese ones.

When viewed this way, the two hemispheres seem so far apart but I suppose there’s something to be said for cultural exchange. However, without offering a proper introduction or context, I don’t know if the audience walked out intrigued or boggled. The whole experience seemed backward to me. The only people in suits were the performers—most of the audience wore polos and shorts. In fact it seemed that the NCPA was merely an attempt to bring “culture” to China. The inside, with its museum, gift shop, and glass facade, looks like the Platonic ideal of an opera house, like what someone who had never seen an opera would draw when asked to draw an opera house.

At the end of the concert, the arrhythmic applause suddenly became unified and oddly militaristic, increasing in tempo, like the end of a slow clap. It was odd, but perhaps that’s how Chinese audiences register appreciation. I know that when Chinese audiences see something they like or think is funny, they tend to clap in the middle of the performance, no matter what is going on. So when the familiar cadence of “Carmen” appeared in the first encore, some in the audience began to clap along. They were promptly shushed.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have my camera with me, so I didn’t get any pictures. The streets had been cleared of traffic beforehand, and the tanks badly disguised. Some sort of square, boxy tarp had been set up with clear plastic “windows” in front so the driver could see. However, the driver was definitely encased inside the front of a tank. Also, underneath the “skirt” of the covering were tank caterpillar treads.

Three of them rolled by today. A source who works nearby told me that the same thing had happened several days ago—only it was 7 or 8 tanks then.

Where the final destination for those tanks is, I can’t imagine—but they were heading towards city center. Perhaps Tiananmen Square? I last saw the tanks heading north towards Fuxingmen, which is a straight shot to Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City.

This year is the 20th anniversary of the events of 1989—perhaps the government is preparing early for any possible trouble? I can think of few other reasons why at least 3 tank platoons would be deployed in the center of Beijing.

Everyday, millions of rational, thinking human beings trudge through the Beijing Subway and place their bags on a magical conveyor belt designed to protect us from acts of violence on public transportation.  But it is utterly meaningless pageantry.  To me, the Beijing security check is truly an existential encounter—I’m overcome with the realization that what I’m doing is completely meaningless.  Here’s why.

The Introduction of the Security Check
The Beijing Subway began operation on October 1, 1969, on the 20th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China. And for the next 39 years passengers rode in peace and safety, barring the odd electrical fire (November 11, 1969—3 dead, 100+ injured) or construction tunnel collapse. But on June 29, 2008, that peace was shattered, replaced by fear of something happening at the upcoming Olympic Games. The government allocated 3,690 security officers to the 123 subway stations in town. The officers were stationed at subway entrances and diverted travelers with bags to security checkpoints (an X-ray machine and a dude with a security wand).  The requirement was a logical step, following the pre-Olympic bombings in Xinjiang and Yunnan, but, as we now know, nothing happened. This could be seen as a triumph of the transit authority, who found myriad contraband on passengers going for a ride, but, more soberly, it was simply because no one felt like killing anyone on the subway during the Olympics.

Post-Olympic Hypocrisy
After the Olympics were over and declared a great success, suddenly everything disappeared. The potted trees arrayed along dusty streets, bomb-sniffing dogs at the airport, all gone. But the subway security check remained. Personnel was cut down—instead of six or eight people manning each entrance there were two to four, depending on the time of day.  Today security officers, who are more like station attendants, will blurt a perfunctory, “Please take your bag to the security check,” when you enter the station but most will not care if you walk past without so much as glancing at the machine. At some stations where there is a bottleneck you can’t get away without scanning your bag unless there are lots of other people.  As you might imagine, when there is a crowd, the attendants can’t keep track of who has gone through the checkpoint. In other stations, as long as you drift toward the machine the attendants will let you go, even if you don’t actually place your bag on the conveyor belt.  Of course, this is all moot if you just hide your bag.

Some attendants, if you ask them, will look in your bag instead of having you go through the machine.  The more dutiful ones will place a hand in your bag and fumble around to see if anything is ticking.  Late at night most attendants just don’t care.  When I come home around nine or ten, they are usually standing around socializing and looking at the clock.  The only practical reason I can think of for keeping the security check, is to keep people employed.

Interestingly, after the Olympics, the government got rid of the requirement that ticket sellers on buses must examine oversize bags brought aboard. Although this regulation was meaningless to begin with—the bus bombings in Yunnan and London were done from the side of roads or discarded briefcases on the buses and plus, if someone had a bomb in an oversize bag and the ticket seller asked him to open it, he’d probably just press the detonator—it’s odd that the government would repeal this rule, seeing as how buses can carry as many people as a single subway car, if not more.

The Stranger and the Subway
What the security check proves is that the vast majority of people do not want to kill others on the subway.  Whew.  Because if you really wanted to kill someone,  you would find a way past the security check.  It doesn’t take a criminal mastermind. In essence the security check does nothing to protect us; it is an opiate, an illusion that ironically makes us oblivious to real dangers.  All it takes is one Meursault, one act of violence, planned or otherwise, to shatter our gentle beliefs.  To quote William Carlos Williams, that which is possible is inevitable.  To prevent such an incident, the only two solutions are, 1. to make the check so rigorous that it would almost assuredly remove the possibility of an attack—I’m talking airport security: metal detectors, pat downs—but that would be a massive inconvenience and deeply unpopular; or 2. to remove all security apparatus entirely and stop wasting everyone’s time.   The situation as it stands today, deters only criminal dilettantes—those who would love to kill someone but are too lazy to think of a plan that circumvents a security check.

Coda
Last week saw a tightening of security, almost back to Olympic levels, as the National People’s Congress and the National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference got underway, which suggests that the government doesn’t really care whether you live or die—only if you die at a time that’s inconvenient for them.

A few days ago I saw a foreigner with one of those big bags migrant workers carry. He was stopped at the security check and an employee was asking him why he had packed two knives. I was shocked, and thought for a second that the security check had saved me, but the only thing it proved was that the man was too dumb to hide the knives on his person.

Roman Polanski at the BFA.

The event began with a promising screening of Polanski’s student films, including “Two Men and a Wardrobe” and “The Fat and the Lean,” the former of which Polanski later attributed to his success in securing funding for his first feature film, the Academy Award-nominated Knife in the Water. The showing of these student films—perhaps a bit unsophisticated by current standards—served as an excellent impetus and inspiration for the BFA students present. Unfortunately, the promising start quickly unravelled. The event suffered from:

1) The poor behavior of the press. A massive number of people in the front snapped pictures of Polanski throughout his interview and during the screening of his film, blinding the man and blocking him from view.

2) The poor behavior of the audience, who embarrassingly stormed the stage at the end, mobbing the elderly Polanski and greedily grabbing at him for autographs and pictures.

3) The idiotic usage of pre-written questions as opposed to audience interaction. The questions were largely read aloud from notes by non-Chinese international students who seemed to be under the impression that their questions were actually letters to Mr. Polanski. The translator could not read the hand-written questions so Mr. Polanski was forced to read the questions, which led to one of the most amusing/embarrassing situations of the afternoon: A “question” began, “Dear Mr. Polanski, not sure if you remember me but I met you last week and gave you a copy of my student film. What do you think of my chances of getting into a film festival?”

Cringeworthy.

The mob descends.

There were a few gems, though. After the diminutive Polanski’s arrival on stage, he attempted to hide behind the comically massive bouquet of flowers placed on the table before him. He also articulately and charismatically responded to questions from the arbitrator. Polanski aimed to inspire the students present, advising them to avoid “chopping your films into fruit salad,” and discussing his rambunctious beginnings as a director in film school: Polanski invited hooligans to a conservative school party to liven up his one and only “documentary,” which almost got him expelled and turned him off of documentaries for life. However, Polanski’s love of film kept the school authorities from expelling him, and it was his education and support at the Polish Film School that led to his momentous success as a director.

There were moments of exasperation—when asked about the film Tess, Polanski irritably recalled the fact that Chinese censors chopped the film from two hours and forty minutes to an hour and a half when it was released in China in the early 80′s. But for the most part the director was patient and elegant, and showed a propensity for telling stories and for providing great sound bites. On the responsibility of the director, he said, “The atmosphere on the set depends on the director. If he knows what he’s doing, the crew immediately respects him. If he has passion, they will follow him. If he has a sense of humor, the crew will laugh. [But] if he is depressed, they will be as well.” With regards to film theory, he scoffed, “What is film theory? Tell the story, and if you don’t have anything to say, shut up! Asking a director about theory is like asking a centipede which leg he moves first.”

Overall, Polanski’s Q&A was a great opportunity which was somewhat wasted. With less bureaucratic planning and a more relaxed Q&A, the session would have been more insightful, and allowed the BFA students to show off its best assets: its students.

The author of this article was a former student of the Beijing Film Academy. The author requested that the article be published anonymously. Any e-mails responding to this post will be forwarded to the author.

Howard Goldblatt, who was a guest last week at the Bookworm‘s International Literary Festival, would certainly agree. “Translation is inadequate, but it’s all we have if good writing is to have its life extended, spatially and temporally,” he wrote in a Washington Post article six years ago. Goldblatt, a research professor at Notre Dame, has published over thirty translations and is largely credited for bringing contemporary Chinese fiction to an English-speaking audience. In his hour-long session at the Bookworm, Goldblatt talked about his path to becoming a translator and his philosophy on translation. (For those not present, many of the questions asked during the evening can be found in this interview from Full Tilt)

Like many late-blooming intellectuals, Goldblatt was a “terrible, terrible student” and almost flunked out of college. But he graduated, and after graduation he made the “irredeemably stupid” decision to join the Navy. It was during his first tour that he was sent to Taipei but it wasn’t until he was redeployed to Taiwan after a brief stint in Vietnam that he began to study Chinese and found that he had an ear for the language. After completing an MA at San Francisco State University and a Ph.D at Indiana University, he began his career as a translator.

Although the night was billed as “Contemporary Chinese Fiction,” the moderator, Eric Abrahamsen from the blog Paper Republic, kept the questions strictly to translation after admitting he had a vested interest in the subject, which left little chance for Goldblatt to expound on the state of contemporary Chinese fiction apart from debunking exaggerated criticisms that there was no good fiction coming out of China. The evening proceeded with a careful prodding of what Goldblatt considered was a translator’s role and several anecdotes that illuminated the sometimes-rewarding, sometimes-punishing process of translating a novel.

Goldblatt believes that as a translator he has a duty to three things: the author, the text, and the reader–and the most important of these is the reader, whose understanding of the text trumps all other considerations. Indeed, what good is a translation if no one wants to read it? He acknowledged that translation was a losing game, but it had to be done for people who were unable to read the original text and to allow the text a new life in a new language. In rare cases he admitted he had the chance to breathe new life into the text, adding a pun here or a joke there that wouldn’t have worked in the original language. But his loyalty to the reader has gotten him in trouble, with authors and editors alike. Some authors have been unhappy with his work, claiming that it sounds too foreign, while others (he mentioned Mo Yan specifically) gave him free reign and were happy to answer questions when they arose.

He told a story about a detail in one of Mo Yan’s stories. There was a scene where an automobile was driving down a bumpy road, making a certain sound. Goldblatt felt the detail was extraneous and asked the author whether the fact that the road was bumpy was important. Mo Yan responded, of course it was, because it shows that the villagers by the road are so poor they scrape the road to make it uneven so that when coal trucks pass, the shaking will knock some of the coal off, which they then gather and use to heat their homes. Without a careful translator and a willing author, a minute detail like that surely would have been lost on its way into English.

Another anecdote about translation revolved around a cliché in Su Tong’s My Life as Emperor. Su Tong took the phrase “lick his wounds” and translated it literally into Chinese which Goldblatt then translated directly back into English. This small gaffe (a choice between fidelity to the text and fidelity to the reader) did not escape the practiced eye of John Updike who, in his review in The New Yorker, called the choice of wording “just plain tired.” Updike, of course, could not be expected to read the original Chinese for his review. Goldblatt chuckled as he retold this story, saying that maybe it was an instance where he was too faithful to the text. It seemed to me that, after so many years, he had come to terms with the paradoxical nature of his work.

During the hour-long conversation, Goldblatt shifted effortlessly between English and Chinese and at times he would say whole sentences in Chinese if it better suited his meaning. It made me think that Chinese literature, in the hands of someone who not only spoke, but clearly understood both languages, was safe for years to come, although he called for new translators after admitting that he couldn’t go on translating forever. Other than an apocryphal assertion that Murakami Haruki has had more short stories published in The New Yorker than any other author (he could have been joking because Murakami isn’t even close), Goldblatt was humorous and self-effacing, nothing like I’d imagined a notable scholar would be (a professor in college told me horror stories about Donald Keene).

Goldblatt, who at times seemed beleaguered by his chosen profession, in the end praised his job and said all the choices he made in his youth were worth it if they had brought him here. Many times during the night he would ask rhetorically why anyone would want to be an translator. Oddly enough, it was a question he had answered six years ago:

Because I love it. I love to read Chinese; I love to write in English. I love the challenge, the ambiguity, the uncertainty of the enterprise. I love the tension between creativity and fidelity, even the inevitable compromises. And, every once in a while, I find a work so exciting that I’m possessed by the urge to put it into English. In other words, I translate to stay alive.