Dual Vision: Guan Hu Speaks on Life's Essence in 'Black Dog' and 'A Man and a Woman' Unveiling Together

In the whirlwind of 2024, Chinese filmmaker Guan Hu has been busier than a cat in a fish market. In May, he snagged the illustrious Un Certain Regard award at the Cannes Film Festival for his tenth directorial offering, Black Dog. This honor, you might say, is the cherry on top of his already impressive career sundae. Just weeks later, he graced the Shanghai International Film Festival with another gem, the pandemic-centric exploration titled A Man and A Woman. And hold onto your hats, because by July, he was knee-deep in pre-production for his ambitious WWII action flick, Dong Ji Dao, slated for a release next year. Oh, and now, as if his plate isn’t full enough, Black Dog is also strutting its stuff at the Tokyo International Film Festival.

A member of China's influential sixth generation of filmmakers, Guan made his debut back in 1994 with Dirt, a raw and gritty snapshot of the Beijing rock scene in the early '90s. Since then, he has danced between the realms of indie gems like the dark comedy Cow (2009) and grand spectacles such as the WWII epic The Eight Hundred, which raked in $461 million, earning the title of China’s top-grossing film of 2020. Quite the tightrope walker, isn't he?

Now, Black Dog unabashedly falls into the offbeat auteur category, featuring Eddie Peng as Lang, an ex-con who’s coolness is rivaled only by the desert sun, but his silence speaks volumes. Set against the backdrop of the 2008 Beijing Olympics—a moment hailed as China's grand entrance onto the world stage—Lang’s struggle in a bleak town near the Gobi Desert feels as distant as the moon from Earth. But here’s where things get interesting: instead of rounding up strays like a wannabe dog catcher, he forms an inexplicable bond with the scrappiest street dog in town. The Hollywood Reporter’s critic, in a moment of poetic clarity, described it as “a very strange time and place, where men and dogs seem to be forever chasing each other around a desolate city on the verge of state-sponsored demolition.” Now, isn’t that something? Talk about a dog-eat-dog world.

A Man and A Woman, on the other hand, features A-listers Huang Bo and Ni Ni as two souls adrift in Hong Kong’s sterile quarantine hotel during the pandemic. Imagine two troubled strangers confined to adjacent rooms, sharing fragile moments over shared cigarettes from their balcony perches while waiting for the city’s fabled skyline to flicker back to life. It’s like a romantic comedy waiting to happen, except, you know, with a pandemic twist.

During a Zoom call, Guan reflected on the strong atmospheric undercurrents of both films, asserting that “time and place are very important in film.” It’s not all glamour and glitz; it’s about embedding historical truths within the narrative threads. He spoke of wanting viewers to grasp what was on people's minds during the 2008 Olympics and the pandemic. In Black Dog, he aimed to unveil the often-forgotten tales of small towns—places that were once vibrant but now resemble ghost towns where only the remnants remain, buildings standing like weary sentinels with stories etched in their walls.

Now, add to this tapestry the fact that Guan spent years cohabiting with five dogs during the pandemic. You can only imagine the level of introspection he experienced in the quiet company of four-legged friends! This period of tranquility allowed his creative juices to flow, birthing a film focused on the poignant communication between humans and their furry confidants. Isn’t that a narrative we could all rally behind?

As the conversation unfurled, Guan touched upon the integral role of rock music in his work, especially with Lang—a former rock star, no less. He revealed, “Rock music was a revelation; it awakened a rebellious spirit in us.” Ah, to be young and wild, feeling like a superhero in a world where rules didn’t apply. This raw energy echoes through both films, capturing a sense of resignation and a longing for the thrill of youth, yet faced with the reality of middle-aged ennui. It’s as if nostalgia was the uninvited guest at a party of responsibility.

Guan insightfully pointed out that both films deal with frustrations but offer diverging resolutions. The leads don’t want to retreat to their old lives but are pulled, tethered by family and societal expectations—climbing the mountain of life while contemplating the possibility of an escape. Except it’s not that easy, is it?

When asked about the pandemic's impact on his storytelling, Guan reflected on the dichotomies it presented: profound loss on one hand, and creative space on the other. These two characters, quarantined together, face the opportunity to confront their lives—mirroring the larger struggle we all experience when life insists we hit the pause button.

And let’s not forget the rockstar moment when he secured rights to Pink Floyd's music for Black Dog. A lengthy, heartfelt letter melted their hearts. Who knew a love letter could broker such a deal? It’s a testament to the power of art connecting us across time and space.

Finally, in an emotional nod, he shared that he dedicated Black Dog to his father, reflecting on the complex relationship often filled with friction, yet culminating in so much more. Isn’t that what cinema is all