Comedy, Film
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Review of the Uyghur blockbuster “Money on the Road”


Update: A full-length version of Money on the Road (featuring Chinese and English subtitles) is now available to view for free on Youtube.

In the autumn of 2014, just in time for the long ten-day break for the National Holiday and Qurban, the Uyghur comedian Abdukerim Abliz released his first full-length Uyghur language feature film (with Chinese and English subtitles). The comedy titled Money on the Road (or This is What Money Does from the Uyghur, and, Running with Money on the Road from the Chinese) features an ensemble cast of stars, including a cameo by the famous singer Abdulla. It follows the misadventures of three Uyghur farmers who come to the city as migrant workers to participate in Ürümchi’s urban renewal. Abdullah, who plays the role of a construction manager named Musa in charge of the demolition of degrading one-story housing on the south side of Ürümchi’s ring road, invites the three down-on-their-luck farmers from his home town near Kucha to come to the city and work for cash. Although they arrive in the city with “hungry-eyes” as “greed” is defined in Uyghur (see comments below), anticipating quick money, they soon find that migrant labor is hard work.  Then, suddenly, the plot turns when they unearth a case of old second-edition renminbi in the rubble of one of the ping-fang owned by an old Han man who came to the province during the early days of the PRC. Suddenly the three feel as though they have struck it rich. Friendships are tested, hijinks ensue, and the three suddenly find themselves wined and dined by a newly rich Han businessmen intent on taking advantage of their naiveté.

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Drawing on their lack of manners in order to make a windfall with their highly collectable bundle of antique bills, the businessman fetes them at a five-star hotel where they gorge themselves on all-you-can eat polu and trying out an exclusive mud bath. Eventually the three find themselves fleeing the businessman and their cousin Musa, who wants to return the money to its rightful owner, and stumbling across the desert where they find themselves stranded. Yet China Mobile rises to the challenge, and even in the midst of the Taklamakan they are able to call in a helicopter rescue. The money is given back to the Lao Xinjiang grandpa, the rich businessman goes mad in the desert, and the farmers from the countryside are given government subsidized housing.  And so the story ends with all of the loose ends tied in neat little bow. The credits roll to the sound of Abdukerim rapping about the corrupting power of money (the soundtrack to the movie trailer featured at the top of this review).

In many ways the film extends Abdukerim’s work in sketch comedies or etots for which he has become so famous over the past decade. As in those plays, he asks viewers to consider the organizing forces in Uyghur society and question the way those emerging trends are interacting with older sets of values.

The theme of this film is the way so many rural Uyghurs are no longer satisfied with village life and salaries that provide enough for a family but not enough for a new car, wide-screen TV, or ability to travel and experience city life. The three main characters named Kerim, Selim, and Alim are all deeply dissatisfied with their place in a village where time is organized by cock fights rather than the rise and fall of the stock market. Their desires are symptomatic of wider forces of dissatisfaction in Uyghur rural life: everyone wants to bring more of the world into their lives and the main way they see this happening is through the gravity of money. Abdukerim points out this obsession with money through the gleaming gold teeth of Selim’s future mother-in-law; with the way the Kerim and Alim are able to abandon their families in order to work in the city; and the way they are almost driven to abandon their friendships in order to consume more.

As in much of his previous work, Abdukerim highlights the way rural Uyghurs encounter the broader Chinese world. He makes fun of the way the businessman refers to the main characters as Ke-limu, Se-limu, and A-limu: the three Limu-s. He shows us how ridiculous a lavish five-star hotel can be and how funny it can be to see newly rich farmers in that space.

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Yet the movie is also a departure from Abdukerim’s previous work. While his previous comedy turned on cleaver phrasing, metaphor, and puns in spoken language, in this film we see him turning to visual puns and slap-stick humor. For instance: at one point we see a rural Uyghur man riding on the back of a donkey on the back of a truck; we see Kerim trying to revive Alim by flapping his arms in the midst of the desert; there is a scene at a wedding where Selim dances mad with grief over the loss of his girlfriend in a parody of Sufi ecstatic passion. There are numerous instances in which bodily humor is invoked: someone gets hit on the head, a bed collapses, a stomach gets comically enlarged and so on.

At one recent screening of the film, everyone from the age of 2-70 was laughing; they wept when the figures on screen cried; they called in response to the pleas of the characters as the melodramatic tension tightened near the end of the film. Of course the absurd propaganda story elements that suggest Uyghur migrants might receive the jobs that nearly universally go to Han migrants and the helicopter rescue of three rural farmers are premises that do not resonate with Uyghur realities – but these concessions to the Xinjiang Ministry of Culture did not appear to stop anyone from enjoying the film.

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6 Comments

  1. Yusupjan says

    Dear Beigewind, thank you for all your fascinating and informative posts. I really enjoy reading your blog. I just wanted to direct your attention to one small slippage in translation: “ach köz” (greedy) does not refer to ‘open eyes’ (achghan köz; from achmaq) but rather to “hungry eyes” (like in Dirty Dancing 😉 ‘Ach’ here means hungry — though of course it still derives from the verb ‘achmaq’ (to open) in “qursaq achghan”: the stomach is open = hungry.

    • Hey Yusupjan, thanks for drawing that out — “hungry eyes” is certainly more evocative and a better way to think about this.

      On a related note, the other day I was discussing the concept of “open-mindedness” with a Uyghur friend and he brought the discussion around to a discussion of greed. Which to my thinking seemed like an interesting connection. I don’t think it would happen often in other cultural contexts; for him the idea of the “openness” in “open-mindedness” triggered a negative association with “ach köz.”

      • Yusupjan says

        Hi Beigewind, sorry, I only just saw your reply now. That really is an interesting consideration. Indeed in many contexts the (verbal or adjectival) metaphor of “ach”/open does have rather negative connotations. This is probably due to its meaning hunger and greed – that is, one metaphorical use has become so strong that it colours the other uses (however we want to draw a distinction between metaphorical and non-metaphorical use anyway (see Max Black etc.) … a question that is very interesting to consider in regard to Uyghur kinship terminology by the way). In a quite oldschool (almost culturalistic) interpretation one could speculate that this negative connotation may derive from a cosmology not directed at “development” and “progress” as the “modernistic ideology” prescribes, but rather at conservation and stability.
        I am also curious as for how you translated openmindedness, or which Uyghur word approximates it. I know that the connotation is not entirely one-sided though, since Uyghur parents do talk about sending their children overseas to “open their brains/minds/view” (kallisi échish üchün). But this might be a relatively new way of using the metaphor and their might be counter narratives to that very expression too.

      • My friend said the closest thing he could think of to “open-mindedness” was ” ئوچۇق كۆڭۈل “. Which really means open-hearted and has more to do with friend relations than a critical openness to ideas.

  2. Mirshad says

    A lot of people do say “كاللسىنى ئېچىش” for opening one’s mind though. Your friend might not be thinking about this. It could also be a regional thing, depending on where your friend is from.

  3. Yusupjan says

    Thanks, I never heard that, but I just thought of another example:
    “mijazi ochuq adem” (مىجازى ئوچۇق ئادەم),
    which certainly has positive connotations, but also a different kind of metaphorical meaning to it, as the openness in this sense is more of a happyness or friendlyness which in English would not necessarily take on this metaphor… (English native Speakers, please correct me if I’m wrong)

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