Yao-Chinese Folktales

The Shadow of the Mountain: Reclaiming the Monster

For decades, the global conversation around Chinese animation has been one of potential rather than realization—a dormant giant often caught between the shadows of Miyazaki and Disney. But with *Yao-Chinese Folktales* (Zhongguo Qitan), the Shanghai Animation Film Studio hasn’t just returned to the table; they have kicked it over. This eight-part anthology is not merely a collection of folklore; it is a stunning act of cultural reclamation, using the supernatural to dissect the hyper-modern condition. It suggests that to understand the human heart, one must first look at the monsters.

The series is overseen by chief director Chen Liaoyu, but its brilliance lies in its refusal to adhere to a single visual dogma. Unlike the uniform gloss of commercial 3D features, *Yao* offers a texture that feels handcrafted, almost tactile. The animation shifts violently and beautifully between episodes—from the soft, porous ink-wash aesthetic of "Nobody" to the stark, silent graphite surrealism of "Goose Mountain." This is cinema that breathes, rejecting the sterile perfection of algorithm-driven "content" in favor of an artistic vernacular that feels ancient yet urgently contemporary.



Nowhere is this duality more piercing than in the premiere episode, "Nobody" (or "Little Monster's Summer"). Directed by Yu Shui, it deconstructs the untouchable epic *Journey to the West* by shifting the camera away from the heroes. We do not follow the Monkey King; we follow a nameless pig demon, a low-level grunt in the villain's corporate hierarchy. He is tasked with making arrows and scrubbing pots for a boss who views him as fuel, not family.

The emotional intelligence of this episode is devastating. The pig demon is not a monster in the traditional sense; he is the ultimate "dagong ren"—the weary modern worker crushed by impossible KPIs and middle-management cruelty. When he visits his mother, and she fusses over his bald spot rather than asking about his "career," the film transcends fantasy entirely. It captures a specific, suffocating filial love that rings universally true. We watch not for the climactic battle, but to see if this little creature will be allowed to survive the crushing weight of the narrative he is barely a footnote in.



If "Nobody" provides the emotional anchor, the second episode, "Goose Mountain" (directed by Hu Rui), provides the artistic thesis. Adapting a Southern Dynasties novella, it plunges the viewer into a silent, fever-dream narrative involving a scholar and a goose-spirit who carries a lover inside his mouth, who in turn carries another lover inside hers.

It is a Russian nesting doll of desire and deceit, rendered in a style that evokes traditional scroll paintings gone mad. The visual language here is challenging; it refuses to hold the audience’s hand, demanding we surrender to its dream logic. The silence of the episode screams louder than any dialogue could, creating a haunting meditation on the fickleness of the human (and inhuman) heart.

Ultimately, *Yao-Chinese Folktales* succeeds because it trusts its audience. It understands that folklore is not a dusty museum exhibit, but a living framework for processing our current anxieties. Whether exploring the terror of the unknown in space or the quiet desperation of a village bus ride, the anthology proves that the "national style" (xin guo feng) is not about superficial aesthetics. It is about a distinct philosophical gaze—one that looks at a monster and sees a mirror.