《紙牌屋》中的中國新形象

When the history of America’s onscreen visions of China is written, from Charlie Chan to “House of Cards,” it may be that a turning point came with a film that had almost nothing to do with China at all. Instead, it was one about the Middle East.

Representations of China began to appear on the American movie screen in the nineteen-twenties. Back then, the country was generally cast in the role of a beguiling, reflective, and fundamentally dangerous counterpart. In “The Bitter Tea of General Yen” (1933), a warlord on the make casually orders the execution of his captives, then justifies it to his comely American guest as a more humane solution than letting them die of starvation in prison. Consistent with the clichés of the day, the general had a lascivious streak—he foists “sing-song” girls on an American missionary—but he remains a man of depths; he sweetly recites love poems and waxes philosophical to the heroine.

To a viewer with no knowledge of China, the country, which was then in a state of upheaval, seemed intrinsically menacing. “No attempt was made to understand why the wars occurred, nor the role of imperialism in precipitating the crisis, which led to the downfall of the Manchu dynasty and the ensuing anarchy,” Richard Oehling, who writes on film and history, observed in an essay. Worse, he noticed, many of the films on the subject “suggest or imply an alien civilization.”

After a brief interlude around the Second World War, when the role of villain was assigned to Japanese characters, the American renderings of Asia drifted back to China, without much sophistication acquired along the way. There was “The Manchurian Candidate” (brainwashers); Wo Fat, of “Hawaii Five-O” (general turned super-criminal); and Julius No, in James Bond’s “Dr. No” (the “unwanted child of a German missionary and a Chinese girl” who eventually meets his end when he is buried under a giant pile of guano). Rarely were the actors any more genuinely Chinese than the characters. Charlie Chan was played by Warner Oland, a Swede. Wo Fat was portrayed by Khigh Dhiegh, who was a mix of American, Egyptian, and Sudanese.

A decade and a half after the end of the Cold War, as China’s economy thrust the country into the role of an emerging superpower, the narrative took a new turn. Instead of being depicted as mysterious or thuggish, the Chinese characters in “Syriana” (2005), the Middle East thriller directed by Stephen Gaghan, were framed as formidable, sophisticated opponents. A Chinese delegation seeking natural-gas drilling rights from an Arab prince arrives speaking fluent Arabic, in contrast to Matt Damon’s American energy analyst, who knows only a few pleasantries. As a plot element, it was brief and secondary, but it was unprecedented, as far as I could tell, and it gave way to a new generation of onscreen Chinese villains: in “Batman: The Dark Knight” and the latest Bond, “Skyfall,” in which our hero battles the usual onslaught against spectacular futuristic backdrops in Shanghai and Macau.

With the Netflix series “House of Cards” (adapted from the British television show of the same name), the onscreen China has taken another turn. I watched the first season with trepidation: at the time, I was living in Beijing and preparing to move to Washington, D.C. (Are congressmen really lurking in parking garages waiting to snuff each other out?) It’s more relaxing, a year later, to watch Frank Underwood as one of his neighbors. (Members of Congress, it turns out, don’t lurk in parking garages. They Uber.)

When the “House of Cards” plot turns to China, the themes are contemporary and plausible: cyber espionage, rare earths, territorial disputes, and a cunning, meditative, libertine plutocrat who plays on his connections at the highest ranks in Beijing. By the low standards of cinematic history, the depiction of China rings true enough—the show is a hit, with subtitles, in China—and it does a fine job of capturing a moment in time when it can be difficult to know if a man like the character Xander Feng, the emissary from Beijing, speaks for the leaders whom he purports to represent. Retiring the image of a monolithic Chinese government is one of the show’s innovations.

But, now that we’ve mastered the latest incarnation of the Chinese onscreen villain, maybe the time has come for popular American productions to explore other elements of the modern-day Chinese story: the dramas of aspiration and social mobility; the struggles around identity and patriotism and who speaks for the country; the fights over education, the environment, and employment.

If those plotlines sound familiar to Americans, they should; never have the engines of middle-class drama in China and America had so much in common. For the moment, though, it’s refreshing to watch a production in which it is the Americans, not the Chinese, who are expected to be beguiling, reflective—and fundamentally dangerous.從陳查理（Charlie Chan，美國作家厄爾·德爾·比格斯筆下的華人探長）到《紙牌屋》，在美國屏幕上中國形象的歷史上，可能稱作是轉折點的是一部幾乎與中國無關的電影。相反，它是一部關於中東的電影。

中國的代表形象最早出現在美國電影屏幕上是二十世紀二十年代。當時，中國通常被扮作是欺騙性的、深思熟慮的、完全危險的對應人物。在《袁將軍的苦茶》（1933）電影中，追求名利的一名中國軍閥隨意下令對他俘虜的犯人執行死刑，並且還向他清秀的美國客人證明這是比讓他們在監獄裏餓死更人性化的解決方案。如同當時的陳詞濫調一樣，這名軍閥也有好色的品性，他矇騙美國傳教士的歌女，但他仍然是一個有深度的人，他也會溫柔地朗誦愛情詩，或向女主角談論哲學。

對於不瞭解中國的觀衆來說，當時正處在動盪狀態中的這個國家似乎本質上很險惡。“沒有人試圖去理解爲什麼會發生戰爭，也沒有提及導致危機的帝國主義角色，而這場危機最終導致了滿清王朝的覆滅和隨之而來的無政府狀態。”寫電影和歷史評論的理查德·厄爾林（Richard Oehling）在一篇文章中寫道。他還注意到，更糟的是，很多關於這一主題的電影“顯示或暗示一種異域文明。”

在第二次世界大戰中反派角色被分配給日本這樣一個短暫的插曲之後，美國對亞洲的描繪未經多少變化就又回到中國。比如說《滿洲候選人》（The Manchurian Candidate）中的洗腦者，《天堂執法者》（Hawaii Five-O）中的吳法（超級罪犯）和詹姆斯·邦德的《諾博士》（Dr. No，“一個德國傳教士和一箇中國女孩遺棄的孩子”最終被埋葬在一個巨大的鳥糞堆而結束其一生的故事）中的朱利葉斯。這些演員中卻很少有完全符合角色的中國人。陳查理的扮演者是華納·歐蘭德（Warner Oland），一個瑞典人。刻畫了吳法角色的則是Khigh Dhiegh，一個美國、埃及和蘇丹的混血兒。

冷戰結束十五年後，隨着中國經濟的增長推動該國成爲一個新興超級大國的角色，敘述模式發生了一個新的轉折。中國不再被描繪成神祕的或嗜殺成性的，由斯蒂芬·加漢（Stephen Gaghan）導演的中東驚悚片《辛瑞那》（Syriana，2005年）的中國形象是被構建成強大的、老謀深算的對手。向阿拉伯王子尋求天然氣鑽探權的中國代表團到達時講着一口流利的阿拉伯語，而相比之下，馬特·達蒙的美國能源分析師只會用阿拉伯語寒暄幾句。作爲劇情的元素，這個細節是短暫而次要的，但卻是前所未有的。據我所知，舊形象讓位給新一代的熒幕中國惡棍：在《蝙蝠俠：黑暗騎士》（Batman: The Dark Knight）和最新的邦德電影《007：大破天幕殺機》（Skyfall）中，美國英雄依然對戰來自敵人的猛攻，但卻是在上海和澳門的壯觀的未來主義背景之中。

在Netflix的美劇《紙牌屋》（改編自英國電視同名節目）中，屏幕上的中國形象已經又產生了一個轉折。我看第一季時提心吊膽：當時我正住在北京，並準備搬到華盛頓特區（難道國會議員真的潛伏在車庫等待着消滅掉對方了嗎？）一年後看着弗蘭克·安德伍德（《紙牌屋》中凱文·斯派西扮演的一位報復心極強的中年議員）成爲他的一名鄰居時真是令人鬆了一口氣。（事實證明，國會議員並不潛伏在車庫裏。他們都用Uber打車。）

當《紙牌屋》的情節轉向中國時，主題是當代的且可信的：網絡間諜，稀土，領土爭端，以及一個狡猾的、沉思的、放蕩的富豪，後者依靠他在北京高層中的關係網絡發揮作用。按照電影史上的低標準來說，對中國的描繪足夠真實——這部美劇（帶字幕）在中國走紅了——而且它捕捉到了精彩的瞬間，即可能很難知道一個像角色馮贊德（Xander Feng）這樣的男人，一名來自北京的使者，是否爲其所聲稱代表的領導辯護。放棄完全統一的中國政府形象是該劇的創新之一。

然而，現在我們已經掌握了最新的中國在熒幕上的惡棍形象，也許已經到了美國流行電影探索現代中國故事的其他要素的時候了：關於抱負和社會流動的戲劇；圍繞身份、愛國主義和誰爲國家發聲的鬥爭；爲教育、環境和就業而奮鬥。

如果這些主要情節在美國人聽來感到很熟悉的話，事實也的確如此。中美兩國的中產階級戲劇的設計從未有過如此多的共同點。雖然就目前而言，看一部由美國人，而非中國人扮演欺騙性的、深思熟慮的、完全危險的角色的劇還是令人耳目一新的。