Director: Tianrun Zhang
Cast: Tianrun Zhang, Zhang Jiajun, Chen Shiyao, Li Zhaoyi, Zhou Jianjian, Zhang Yuze
Running time: 27mins
Films about making films are a tricky affair. At the best of times, this genre offers up an incisive look into the way the human mind works – exploring how we use storytelling and trickery to make sense of a chaotic and dangerous world, which could otherwise send us spiralling into madness; but also, how too much of this necessary dishonesty can leave us open to certain damaging ideological impulses. That can be to serious or satirical ends. But walking that tightrope it is easier said than done – and when underestimated, these Russian doll narratives can come across as infuriatingly knowing; consisting of lacklustre in-jokes aimed at surface-level engagement with the industry, for those who build their personality around recognising cinematic references.
The Extras manages to have slammed one foot on either side of the proverbial tightrope, landing it in an uncomfortable position where it flirts with the idea of a deeper analysis of its characters and their flaws; but regularly flinches away to instead recycle one of the many ‘amusing’ anecdotes filmmakers in this genre habitually deploy to kill time. One staple sees a hammy actor butcher his lines on multiple takes, with the same notes every time. Another features the director repeatedly leaving the lens-cap on the camera while shooting. And perhaps the newest of the tropes, destined to be repeated by a new generation of traumatised young filmmakers, sees lockdown practices scupper the possibility of filming on location.
Director Tianrun Zhang plays a fictionalised version of himself, helming a student film project in China – a pseudo-documentary about finding a faceless superstar named Li Xiang. He first introduced the idea to us via a talking-head segment, during which we cut away to shots of him rigorously choreographing the next day’s shooting – not necessarily something which would foster the necessary improvisational skills to create a convincing mockumentary – right down to where his crew will sit in the car, and what music they will listen (and sing along) to, as they journey in search of their subject.
After an excruciating sequence of being encouraged to bounce about in their seats to Uptown Funk, as though “even the act of finding Li Ziang is enjoyable”, we cut to a shot of two of the co-stars, primed for a talking-head-sequence, but too mortified to say anything. It is admittedly the funniest moment in the entire film, but it sticks out because Tianrun Zhang never commits to following it up with any other moments of intense-cringe – or to explore why filming in this manner was doomed to failure even without the approaching storm about to play havoc with production.
The following day, the first day of Covid-19 lockdown halts that planned scene half-way down the highway, and leaves the entire crew stranded in one cramped dormitory. What starts out as sunny optimism on the parts of the filmmakers gradually devolves into simmering resentment, and cabin fever, as real life catches up with them. Marooned in the crowded living space, their relationships with girlfriends deteriorate, their studies suffer, and their potential to look for work post-graduation takes a hit – on top of a potentially lethal virus lurking outside the walls – meaning that the team gradually turns against Tianrun Zhang and his blinkered insistence that they complete production.
There are bigger things at play here. Unfortunately, the production never manages to capture the comical banality in which these boiling tensions so often come to a head. The early interactions between the team to kill time (communal dinners; gathering to play some kind of Let’s Dance video game; sitting around later on a multiplayer racing game on their smart phones) simply become less and less enthusiastic as they progress. But the biting arguments which they inevitably hosted for so many of us during lockdown – and that were really about something else entirely – never present themselves here. That is a missed opportunity to have given the story a little semi-comedic momentum, as well as a way for people who aren’t filmmakers (there are such people, and films about filmmaking have a habit of forgetting as much) to relate to the team’s experiences.
The area which has most promise, meanwhile, relates heavily to how Tianrun Zhang relates to the subject of the film. In the subject of Li Xiang, he has invented a husk into which he can pour his ideological assumptions – a millionaire who triumphed in spite of adversity, who never gave up, no matter what. In the early phase of the pandemic, Tianrun Zhang is keen to find himself in that figure – to pull himself up by his bootstraps and come out on top in the end. But as things progress, he finds less and less of himself in that vessel – and comes to realise that actually there are greater things at play when it comes to ‘success’ than gumption alone.
That has the potential to be something of a compelling and subversive message, both in China and in the wider world, but amid the other noise of the film, it is never delivered with the oomph it needs to really land. With a steadier build-up of comedic or serious tension, landing on this kind of conclusion would feel significantly more earned than it does here – both ordering the madness of life into an understandable narrative arc, and giving an interesting warning of how blind-sided we can be when we follow that compulsion to absurd ends.
Overall: 3 stars
There is of course a certain blurring of the lines at play here. It is hard to say exactly where the film and reality diverge, because it is entirely possible that The Extras started out as a pseudo-documentary about a pseudo-documentary that actually happened – before the lockdown forced its team to make huge changes to it on the fly. In that case, it would be commendable that they managed anything even half this lucid. But it is also something that threatens to give me a migraine if I think about it for too long, so let’s leave it at that.