Film Name: 长安三万里 / Chang An
With the release of “Chang An,” my anticipation for this film—arguably the most romantically titled domestic animated feature—has finally come to an end. This long-awaited journey ultimately failed to deliver a romantic experience. It inevitably brings to mind Li Shangyin’s verse from “Luo Hua”: “My heart yearned for spring’s end, yet all I gained was damp sleeves.” In the end, it was all for naught, leaving only wet sleeves and soaked garments.
At some point, China’s youth began envisioning Li Bai as a dashing youth clutching a gourd of wine. While Honor of Kings reimagines many ancient figures, it remains a dream-weaver for a new era. Such dream-weaving thrives boldly in games yet hesitates timidly in animation.
“Chang An” builds upon the cultural backdrop of the Tang Dynasty, aiming to use Tang poetry—etched into the Chinese psyche—as its entry point. This was a promising creative concept. Yet unexpectedly, the film delves into the An Lushan Rebellion of the Tang era, portraying the frustrations of these poets, the bureaucratic world, warfare, and harsh realities. This transforms what should have been an accessible cultural gateway for every Chinese viewer into an insurmountable cultural barrier.
Many viewers reached for their phones during the screening to look up historical references—what exactly was the An-Shi Rebellion? Who was Gao Shi? An interesting phenomenon emerged: on July 2nd, the premiere date at Xi’an’s Tang Dynasty Night City, Baidu searches for Gao Shi surged twelvefold compared to the previous day, while searches for Li Bai and the An-Shi Rebellion more than doubled.
Whether these searches stemmed from confusion or genuine interest remains unclear. What is certain is that while poetry resonates with audiences, the An Lushan Rebellion felt tangential to their lives. People entered theaters seeking relatable experiences, only to encounter a story disconnected from their reality—leaving them with a sense of “gaining nothing but dust on their clothes.”
Perhaps the creative intent behind “Chang’an” was to imbue the film with realism through historical writing, thereby crafting richly layered poet characters steeped in history. By highlighting the inevitable clash between their individual natures and the turbulent times, the film aims to reveal the cruelty of reality—a cruelty that serves as the perfect backdrop for timeless verses. Yet even within this harsh reality, genuine human connections endure.
That sounds quite profound. But did the film truly convey these elements effectively? Was the historical context presented in a way that audiences could grasp? With so many poets portrayed, did even Li Bai come across as convincing to viewers? Did each poem allow audiences to feel the unique mindset behind its creation and the subtle, implied meanings within its lines? Did the emotional bond between Gao Shi and Li Bai genuinely move you? On the surface, the film attempted to cover everything, yet it failed to deliver on any front. It’s not entirely the film’s fault. Attempting to cover history, portray characters, and convey emotions all at once presents an immense challenge.
Animated films, as a cultural medium, are ill-suited for biographical narratives. They excel at capturing a single phase or cross-section of life, not its entirety. Rather than tracing Li Bai’s entire journey—from youthful brilliance to turbulent middle age to his unfulfilled quest for enlightenment in old age—the film would have served better by focusing on his most luminous period or a single poem.
The poem that moved me most in the film was precisely the simplest one, “Jing Ye Si.” His longing for his father, intertwined with the image of a full moon reflected in a wine cup, evokes profound and varied reflections. This sense of shared emotion is incredibly potent and universally resonant. I even feel that a film that successfully captures the full spectrum of emotions within a single “Jing Ye Si” would already be a remarkable achievement.
Conversely, “Jiang Jin Jiu,” the film’s grand finale, though employing uniquely imaginative animated language comparable to the metaphorical rhetoric of the Book of Songs, fails to resonate deeply with me precisely because its emotions are too vast and complex. Such depth is difficult to convey fully within the brief runtime of an animated film.
In fact, most of the poetry in the film isn’t composed spontaneously by the protagonist in a given moment. Instead, it’s mostly a repetition of previously written verses, making it difficult to accurately convey the emotions felt when the poem was originally composed. Yet it is precisely these emotions that are crucial for the audience to understand the poetry.
Let’s talk about the brotherly bond between Gao Shi and Li Bai. Their friendship was indeed as pure and simple as water, yet it also carried a sense of boundless loyalty. But upon closer reflection, aside from their sumo wrestling match and that single word “no,” there’s little memorable interaction between them. A decade-long friendship, like flowing water, passed swiftly. Wang Lun’s farewell to Li Bai earned him the poem “The waters of Peach Blossom Pool run a thousand feet deep, yet they cannot match Wang Lun’s affection for me.” If Gao Shi and Li Bai’s deep bond ultimately didn’t culminate in a poem commemorating their friendship, it would inevitably feel lacking and incomplete.
Now, let’s discuss the portrayal of poets in the film. Intellectuals and scholars are notoriously difficult to please. With so few opportunities to serve their country, it’s no wonder they often feel frustrated and unfulfilled. The portrayal of these so-called literary luminaries—constantly holed up in taverns, indulging in poetry and squandering money—hardly inspires admiration or affection. While these talented individuals harbored noble aspirations to serve their country, how many truly persevered beyond Gao Shi? Most were either exploited by politics, swallowed by the tumult of the times, or renounced worldly affairs altogether. What, then, remains worth cherishing in Chang’an? The closing verses of Chang’an’s poetry stir the soul, yet when juxtaposed with the fates of these poets, their beauty fades. The film fails to resolve the conflict between idealism and reality—or rather, it offers no convincing, contemporary interpretation for this inevitable dilemma.
My favorite element is the portrayal of the young Du Fu. A lively, adorable buck-toothed boy, he becomes the most spirited presence in the film. Talented yet free from ambition, he serves as the film’s sole gateway to a child audience. In fact, I believe the film’s unsuitability for children stems largely from such entry points being too scarce. Yet when I consider that even this endearing Du Fu ultimately succumbs to the currents of his time, I cannot help but sigh with regret.
Therefore, since this is an animated film, shouldn’t Li Bai, Du Fu, and Gao Shi have been given an animated world? A world detached from the turmoil of the Tang Dynasty, a world where they could realize their dreams. A story centered on poets should be filled with Chinese-style romance, yet it instead reveals Chinese-style cruelty. Among so many moving verses, only “Jiang Jin Jiu” was paired with animated imagery; the rest were conveyed solely through voice recitations. Given this, why insist on animation at all? Wouldn’t live-action casting be far more fitting?
Still, “Chang An” represents a direction for Chinese animators exploring traditional cultural expression. So even though “My heart yearns for spring’s end, yet all I gain is dampened robes,” I remain convinced that “The time will come when we ride the wind and break the waves, hoisting cloud-like sails to cross the boundless sea.”
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