Film Name: 风语咒 / The Wind Guardians
After watching “The Wind Guardians,” I felt a small sense of satisfaction. This satisfaction likely didn’t stem from pure joy or simple happiness, nor from witnessing grand spectacles or dazzling special effects. Instead, it came from meeting several characters with distinct personalities whose stories we genuinely wanted to explore, from emotions conveyed with understated yet profound weight, and from the crisp, engaging rhythm unique to the “Painted World” universe—a pace that never grows tiresome. If one doesn’t crave more, this is truly enough.
“The Wind Guardians” tells a “Painted Jianghu”-style retelling of the “Chen Xiang Rescues His Mother” tale. Only here, Chen Xiang isn’t a hero so righteous he borders on sanctimonious, and his mother isn’t a benevolent figure who wins through grace and moral standards. This mother-daughter pair in the film is distinctly earthy, even carrying a touch of streetwise grit. Yet this cannot obscure the profound, ordinary yet magnificent bond between them. Particularly poignant is the scene where, after a heated argument, the mother heads alone to the pharmacy to fetch medicine—just as she has done countless times over the years. The stark contrast before and after this moment suddenly commands deep respect for this mother.
Characterization stands as the greatest strength of the “Hua Jianghu” series. With just a few strokes, it breathes life into its figures, revealing the complex, profound personalities lurking beneath their surfaces. Whether it’s the village chief Wang Fugui or the “underworld” trio, these minor characters, despite limited screen time, manage to convey a certain endearing charm. The protagonists’ extended courtship—spanning dozens of minutes—meticulously charts their evolution from chance encounter to mutual understanding, then to deepening affection. By contrast, the Xialan warriors feel almost like an afterthought.
The film has little to do with the Xialan at all. Even without them, Windspeaker’s Curse would still exist. It explores the contradiction where, under an unfair meritocracy dictated by birth, true talent goes unrecognized by the system yet gains the people’s approval. It portrays the bleak reality that, despite the rhetoric of anyone becoming a hero, true heroes are invariably determined by bloodline. Yet whether it’s contradiction or sorrow, when the village children pick up their Xialan seals once more, you realize the world isn’t one where everyone can be a hero. But everyone can fulfill their role. Some are destined to endure hardships and achieve greatness, while others are destined to joyfully embrace faith and entrust hope to others. There’s no superiority or inferiority—only mutual fulfillment.
If “Shenxiang Rescues His Mother” knew from the start how to save her—simply by splitting the mountain with an axe—then Lang Ming’s rescue of his mother in The Wind Guardians was entirely improvised, with the resolution ultimately simplified. This is the film’s greatest flaw: its casual treatment of the price paid for a hero’s coming-of-age. If humans become Rakshasas due to desire and thus become prey for the Tàotie, can Rakshasas truly revert to human form after escaping the Tàotie? If a choice were reversible, it wouldn’t carry such profound resonance. Lang Ming’s journey to becoming a Wind Cursing hero merely involves losing a light that never truly belonged to him. Not only is his mother safe, but he also gains a wife. Without sacrifice, where is the growth?
The film also fails to sufficiently explore and depict its core element: wind. Wind Chant, Wind Chant—without wind, what universe? Why exactly does wind transcend the Five Elements to become the force that defeats the Tàotie? What does wind truly represent—freedom, or the yearning of love? Why could the Taotie, which devours all, not consume the wind? It must be because the wind possesses a meaning that transcends such devouring. Yet the film’s exploration of this aspect is clearly lacking. The very first shot should have been of the wind, and the final shot should have returned to it. The film should have focused on elaborating the relationship between Lang Ming and the wind, their inexplicable bond, and why he could wield the wind so masterfully. After all, there is no inherent connection between being blind and being able to master the wind.
Since we’ve mentioned blindness, let’s conclude by discussing this central premise. As the first blind protagonist in Chinese animated film history, it represents a breakthrough. The film depicts his regaining and losing sight again, each shift laden with profound emotion. Particularly poignant is the moment after his sight returns—he sees everything, yet fails to recognize the face of his mother, the one person he longs to see most. This nuanced and heartrending detail is masterfully crafted.
However, I’d like to share my own perspective: while it’s valid to depict blindness as obscuring the world’s outward appearance, the character’s “inner vision” allows him to perceive things invisible to others—to sense the world’s subtleties through hearing, smell, and touch in ways ordinary people cannot. Yet I take issue with certain tropes in Chinese martial arts fiction depicting blind characters as hyperactive. Physical agility should not define a blind person’s unique value. Such fabrications lack real-world foundation, feel arbitrary, and even disrespect the blind. While “dead blind man” may be used affectionately, it risks perpetuating societal misconceptions and should be used with caution.
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