Something old, something new 2

In the first few frames rolling hills roll, undulating waves undulate, mournful music mourns, impressing on us an impression of pastoral China-ness. Now we see a village sign. Now we are in the village. Now we see and hear a band, men and women in white uniforms, playing and working their way past paddy fields, up steps, to a house. Now we are in the house and near a transparent box, nearer – face to face with the star of the show, my uncle, 80, mouth agape, as if he is amazed to be in the air-conditioned comfort of his coffin on a summer’s day.

It came in the mail the other day, his funeral, an all-out seven-day send-off deep in the Chinese countryside, on DVD. We didn’t know what to think. Ma, who I think loves her older brother more than she likes him, had visited him on his sickbed in the village last month but didn’t want to watch his funeral, not all on her own. Fei and I wanted to watch Bourne, Jason Bourne, not two discs by a village Zhang Yimou. Well, we watched the funeral and I came to admire Mr Auteur’s long continuous takes, which set us shoulder to shoulder with all the action. With my cousins, who are crying as they circle the coffin in multicoloured clothes (don’t they have to be in solemn colours, eh?); as their sire is covered with cloth to be spared the indignity of having his decay on display; as they are handed, while pillars built of brown cakes loom on the altar in the background, the mourning – white linen gowns that are Ming-dynasty fabulous (ah).

My uncle’s one and only son died young. Having lived with the Cultural Revolution and learned nothing from it, he believed sons to be more equal than daughters, the daughter whose other half renounced his family name to bear my uncle’s to be more equal than the other daughters and the grandsons bearing the family name to be more equal than the other grandsons. So we watch as the renouncer is anointed as the chief mourner and handed a short staff…

But now the soundtrack has become a swelling song. I have never heard it before but let me bet you 10 yuan the title is The Good People of the Plum River or something. Mr Auteur pans to the yard and I see it isn’t the radio. It is someone in the multitalented band singing with keyboard accompaniment. I have never seen a busier funeral band, actually. Now they are ambling halfway across the village, drums a-banging and trumpets a-blasting, to grandly receive guests. Now they are ambling out again to grandly take delivery of garlands. Night falls and they are not only singing but also dancing in all their getai glory. Four women are swirling around in Chinese costumes, then twirling sleeves that have been tacked on their band uniforms, then swirling around in slips – to the Alishan song by Teresa Teng, she who still reigns supreme in Chinese hearts. Seeing the show are chattering children, nattering women and twinkling men, one of whom has just fingered his armpit. “You saw what that man said?” Ma says. “What did he say?” “He is laughing at that dancer’s hairy armpits.” Mr Auteur pans back to Mr Armpit and I see it now. “But he has hairy armpits himself!”

All the village are here, bushy armpits and all. Hell, it is the funeral of the year. They will be here too for the finale. They are the finale - an all-encompassing procession at dawn that encompasses dozens of children, two by two, shouldering banners on bamboo poles, the band and everyone else. At the end of the procession - after my uncle is carted to a crematorium rather than a cemetery, one of the few times the funeral breaks with tradition to not break the new laws - the closing credits come on. Somebody has brushed on New-Year-red paper all the contributors to the funeral fund and as the camera pans down and up we see, satisfyingly, each and every name and number - a round of applause, please, for the village Zhang Yimou.