What makes them willing collaborators? The global context of Chinese motion picture co-productions

Globalization of production

Ben Goldsmith et al. (2010) trace the origins of transnational feature film production to ‘project thinking’, a trend in US civil engineering and military manufacturing during the latter half of the 20th century. In order to facilitate large-scale projects, designers and procurement officials opened the door to bidders who provided detailed specifications about inputs, processes and costs for the components they hoped to contribute to a major engineering endeavour. These would be reconciled with bids from other contractors and subcontractors, many of them hundreds of miles away, requiring interoperable elements and systems. It also involved a contestable bidding system that encouraged competition and innovation, which meant that transparent standards were necessary to facilitate the contracting process. Certainly, these projects were susceptible to the influence of dominant firms, but the bidding process nevertheless encouraged the participation of multiple players, all of whom operated according to a shared set of protocols, which in the long run made it possible for the geographic dispersion of production (Dicken, 2015). Moreover, innovations in communication, transportation and shipping have made it possible to create ‘global assembly lines’ that have dramatically transformed the geography of industrialization (Castells, 2000; Harvey, 1990; Sassen, 2000). No longer is it presumed that cars or their component parts will be manufactured in Nagoya, Turin or Detroit. The geography of production has grown more expansive and dispersed as companies, cities, states and national governments engage in ‘locational tournaments’ to lure contracts, factories and jobs to their territories (Mytelka, 2000).

Goldsmith et al. (2010) contend that the globalization of film production can in part be explained by this trend, as today the major motion picture producers scour the globe for favourable locations for their projects. Indeed, producers and studios employ dedicated staff that are assigned to compare the relative merits of prospective locales. One executive describes the process as framed initially by aesthetic concerns related to the script, noting, for example, that certain stories require a particular urban or rural look. Yet, despite such constraints, talented crew members dress their sets and frame their shots in ways that can make a Malibu ranch look like an Army base in Korea or a neighbourhood in Prague look like 19-century London. Moreover, film studios in places like Hyderabad advertise themselves as infinitely malleable, providing soundstages and backlots that afford a range of visual possibilities for the discerning producer (Kumar, 2010). Thus, narrative and visual aesthetics may be the departure point, but studio executives then move quickly to a menu of economic calculations, taking into account exchange rates, tax breaks, subsidies and other economic incentives. Only then do they begin to compare facilities and crew base (Anonymous, forthcoming).

Where once it was the case that producers occasionally ventured beyond the studio gates, today it is presumed that most producers will shop around, a process facilitated by organizations like the Association of Film Commissioners International (AFCI), which annually holds a conference that attracts officials from around the world who set up booths to pitch the merits of their locales to motion picture producers and location executives. The conference also features workshops and panels that provide venues for sharing concerns and fostering a common language for proposals and budgets. Representatives from Hawaii, Dubai and Qingdao eagerly showcase their ability to collaborate according to global standards. Of course, some commissioners already enjoy long-term relationships with studio officials, having hosted visiting producers for many years. For them, the action on the convention floor is less consequential than the private meetings and informal conversations outside the hall. Nevertheless, they too must compete with eager aspirants, such as the Wanda Group, which arrived with a flourish at the 2015 AFCI conference, its lavish booth perched at the entrance to the convention floor, establishing a conspicuous presence for the new competitor.

Besides these locational tournaments, producers furthermore rely on local service firms that provide detailed breakdowns of available resources and relevant costs. Should they land a contract, service firms secure locations, resources and crew. They also provide other forms of support, such as negotiating permits, translating work orders, mediating conflicts and lobbying local officials (Sanson, 2014; Szczepanik, 2016). In addition to acting as an institutional interface, these firms offer location scouts with extensive and intimate knowledge of ‘authentic’ locales as well as landscapes that can stand in for distant counterparts. Indeed, city-for-city ‘doubling’ is a common practice, as was the case with World War Z when Glasgow was tricked out as Philadelphia and a town on the island of Malta as Jerusalem. It becomes more challenging, however, when sweeping vistas are involved. According to one scout, wider camera angles and panning techniques are far more exacting. ‘It’s easier to cheat an urbanscape with an interior or a city block’, he says. ‘You need fewer degrees of sellability to make it work’ (McNutt, 2015: 47; see also Hagen, forthcoming). It is harder, on the other hand, to make rural New Mexico look like the countryside of Cornwall. Nevertheless, the shared institutions and protocols of this interoperable system have given many locales the opportunity to participate in the production infrastructure of global motion pictures, but they have also made them more vulnerable to competition and to the whims of fleet-footed producers.

Local governments and businesses therefore believe that the endgame is not simply to land singular commitments, but rather to establish a pipeline of projects that embellish existing infrastructure and generate sustainable employment. They want to be perceived as more than a touch of local colour or an exploitable resource; rather, they would like to be regarded as a long-term partner and full-service supplier. As Goldsmith and O’Regan (2005) observe, ‘Location production now means extensive or complete packages of facilities, services, and natural and built environments rather than simply being the obverse of studio-based production’ (p. 27). They contend that richly endowed studio complexes create a more flexible production environment and reduce operational risks for visiting producers.

One of the most remarkable successes in this regard is to be found in Wellington, New Zealand, the production base for Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001, 2002, 2003). By the time the third film was released, ‘Wellywood’ boasted world-class facilities for filming, editing, sound mixing, special effects and costume and prop production (Thompson, 2007). Despite its burgeoning reputation, the complex was a service centre (Coe, 2001), not a creative or industrial hub. It was not, nor was it likely to become, a media capital (Curtin, 2003). As the sequel trilogy The Hobbit (2012, 2013, 2014) neared completion, the Wellywood pipeline was drying up. A flurry of negotiations ensued with producer James Cameron, leading to numerous concessions by the studio and government, and a last minute deal to service the Avatar sequels (Child, 2013; Giardina, 2014; Handel and Bulbeck, 2012).

The story repeats itself in many parts of the world: Austin, Detroit, Glasgow and Prague (Sanson, 2015; Story, 2012; Szczepanik, 2016). Each invested significant energy and resources, and each enjoyed a blush of production. Yet, each succumbed to competition from other places that proved more willing to accommodate the needs of producers from major studios. Although many locales have become nodes of the global production apparatus, most operate as service centres, and only a few prove capable of leveraging that status to create an ongoing portfolio of sustainable projects. Those that endure must offer more than tax breaks by furthermore investing in infrastructure, training and human capital. They also need to mobilize an ensemble of related cultural resources that can supplement and sustain a resident production community.

Take, for example, the city of Atlanta, in the southeastern part of the United States. Beginning with a tax incentive package adopted in 2002, city and state officials have subsequently rolled out a host of initiatives aimed at nurturing an elaborate media infrastructure, but just as importantly they have leveraged existing resources that include an international airline hub, a diverse cultural scene and a robust economic infrastructure. Two of the world’s biggest studio complex operators – Pinewood and Raleigh – recently built major facilities in Atlanta, and the region now rivals Hollywood in the number of productions based there. ¹ Yet, despite this sustained and cumulative effort, producers continue to complain about the relatively thin crew base, saying that they have to fly in most of their key staff and almost all of their talent from Hollywood. Although Atlanta has succeeded mightily, its talent base cannot compare to London or New York. It therefore confronts limitations that are similar to Hyderabad and Dubai, both of which have likewise established substantial infrastructure but remain subordinate players in global film production.

While some scholars contend that commercial media have moved into an era of mobile production (Goldsmith et al., 2010; McNutt, 2015), others suggest that this global filmmaking apparatus is far less consequential than national and local media institutions that continue to play an instrumental role in the contextually specific domains in which they operate (Flew and Waisbord, 2015). Although both arguments have merit, it seems best to interrogate the complex interactions between these diverse levels of practice, helping to bring into focus the elaborately networked transnational infrastructure of motion picture production. In doing so, we begin to grasp the rationale behind Wang Jianlin’s ambitious gamble on the Qingdao Oriental Movie Metropolis.

Network analysis of feature film production

One of the signal features of networks is that connections are seen as more important than physical proximity. Hollywood’s prominence as a media capital is therefore premised not on its geographical centrality but rather on its established relationships with many other production and distribution centres. In the parlance of network studies, it functions as a hub with a density of links (or ‘edges’) that enhance and sustain its status. Other locales want to build relationships with Hollywood institutions – corporate, financial, creative and technical – because those relationships in turn act as a gateway to collaborations with other locales. If you want access to the world’s leading directors (both talented and bankable), you go to Hollywood. If you are a director and want to participate in some of the most ambitious film productions, you either live and socialize in Hollywood or you seek representation from agents that promote your talents and availability there. If you are a film commissioner that wants to enhance the production capacity of your city, you travel to Hollywood for the AFCI, which is also where producers shop for connections to ‘local Hollywoods’.

Networking is important for those on the bottom that are trying to work their way up, but it is just as important for those at the top that are trying to harvest the advantages of global networks. For example, a Hollywood producer might turn to a production service company based in London, a regional hub, that can negotiate logistics and mobilize crew members to produce at locations across Europe. ² This service company has ongoing relationships with local partners that in turn have connections on the ground. So, for example, the line producer in Budapest is connected to the staff in London that is feeding the budget breakdown to the Hollywood studio executives who are weighing their options for shooting in a host of locations. These same executives are networked with banks, investors and distributors that provide loans, presales and equity partnerships that will finance the production.

Thus, Hollywood’s dense and extensive connections matter, but so too does the fitness of those connections. Networks are both flexible and self-generating, which means that network analysis aims to show how specific, grounded choices that are iterated many times can result in complex structures with significant and enduring outcomes (Albert and Barabási, 2002; Barabási and Albert, 1999). The line producer in Budapest builds a relationship with the London production services firm for commercial reasons, but the relationship grows out of the coincidence of their encounters and the perceived utility of their ongoing interactions. It is furthermore engendered by experiences and relationships that may involve social affinities, interactions and attachments that are non-commercial. That is, network theory does not treat these actors as rational economic beings. Their relationships are instead commercial and social, and one might argue cultural. Moreover, since network theory thinks in terms of dynamic systems, it points to the historical contingency of such relationships, which in this case – Hollywood producer, London location manager and Budapest line producer – are profoundly different today than they might have been in the 1980s. Indeed, the geography of screen media production today is more dispersed, dynamic and flexible than ever before. Yet, flexibility does not imply the absence of hierarchy or the emergence of horizontal relations of power. For instance, London is a screen media hub whose significance has grown substantially since the 1980s. It today boasts an impressive array of studio and post-production services; and it is the regional command centre for most Hollywood films that are shot in Europe. However, in the broader context of global feature film production, London nevertheless remains a subordinate node in Hollywood’s global production network.

Similar dynamics prevail in the Middle East where it might make sense for a Hollywood producer to secure financing from Rotana in Dubai, a company that can ensure access to theatres and satellite channels throughout the region. Despite these attractive attributes, Rotana remains a regional player. It cannot operationalize a global release, nor is Dubai likely to foster a creative community or talent agency infrastructure that can mobilize marquee talent for a major motion picture. Rotana may be a good fit for a Warner Bros. producer who wants to release a film in the Arab World, and, alternatively, Warner Bros. may be a suitable conduit for bringing Arab finances into Hollywood productions, but overall, Warner Bros. is likely to be a better fit for many more types of partners from many more locations than is Rotana. Moreover, Rotana’s status as the leading media conglomerate in the Arab world is likely to be enhanced by its association with the Hollywood community. Its executives would therefore prefer to attach themselves to a Hollywood venture than one based out of Montreal or Jakarta. For most media firms and creative talent that operate (or aspire to operate) in a global context, the opportunities and benefits of Hollywood connections are more important than physical proximity. This is because access to Hollywood serves as a gateway to other geographically dispersed nodes in the network. It increases the likelihood of exposure to a broad array of professionals and institutions that might prove useful regardless of physical location.

‘Preferential attachment’ and ‘fitness’ dynamics are general mechanisms of network infrastructures and they operate at various geographic scales and have been evident across the long arc of human history. They existed in ancient empires, among regional trading partners and within national political institutions. In an era when transportation and communication technologies have rendered the friction of physical distance less daunting, these mechanisms have played a very consequential role in the globalization of social relations and institutions. Thus, the elaborate networks in today’s transnational motion picture industry are to some extent a self-generating set of relationships that are based on practical choices being made by actors throughout the system. Network analysis can therefore help to foreground some of the mechanisms through which the motion picture business has been globalizing since the 1980s (Barabási, 2014).

Again, however, this does not mean that media operate in an endlessly fluid or plastic environment. Contours of socio-cultural difference – such as nation, race, language and gender – can significantly influence preferences or perceptions of fitness among networking institutions and individuals. And, although networks overlap, each has constituencies that operate according to distinctive cultural presumptions and professional protocols. Accordingly, Dubai is a crossroads for transnational television within the Arab world and is an interface between Arab and global media. Likewise, Mumbai is the media capital of South Asia as is Miami for Hispanic media. Moreover, each of these hubs makes use of service centres within its respective sphere of operations. Telemundo in Miami contracts with producers in Bogota, Buenos Aires and Mexico City. Mumbai is networked to media resources in Chennai, Hyderabad and the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Interestingly, Rotana employs very few workers from Dubai, relying instead on a transnational workforce of Lebanese, Palestinian, Egyptian and Syrian talent.

Other networks are more nationally focused. For example, in the Chinese film and television industries, the ruling regime in Beijing has fostered an ensemble of institutions that interface with significant partners in Hong Kong, Guangzhou and Shanghai as well as a host of facilities and professionals in Hengdian, Wuhan, Shenzhen and Qingdao. Party leaders have furthermore parlayed their influence over the national distribution infrastructure into a linchpin for domestic and global productions. By self-consciously seeding the growth of mainland movie audiences, the PRC has emerged as an imposing force in East Asia, greatly influencing the strategies and operations of media institutions in Japan, Taiwan, Singapore and South Korea. It has, furthermore, refigured the edges and valences of media networks. Professionals in each of these locations know that most regional projects can only take flight if they involve collaborations that will enhance access to mainland cinemas. Interestingly, over the past few years, Hollywood executives have grudgingly come to a similar conclusion about many of their global film projects.

Just as production networks require common protocols to engender functional proximity, so, too, is the distribution business woven together by a matrix of programming markets, trade shows and film festivals. Although making transactions and building relationships are explicit objectives for each participant, the events also foster a set of norms and professional protocols, as well as a common language of professionalism (Bielby and Harrington, 2008; Havens, 2006; Moran and Keane, 2004). One can observe similar dynamics at film festivals that celebrate excellence through exhibition and critical discourse about aesthetics, popularity and commercial value, often comparing films from different eras and different parts of the world (Balio, 2013; Iordanova, 2015; Stringer, 2001). These networks and institutions promote a series of professional exchanges so that grounded local practices become implicated in global systems as they circulate more widely. This is true at the level of artistic performance, but also operates in craft, professional and labour practices.

Media professionals gather intelligence, adjust perspectives and build relationships while they are collaborating on the job or socializing off the clock. Whereas once these activities were largely restricted to local and national contexts, the new geography of encounters has grown more fluid and expansive. Producers and writers tap story ideas and generic conventions from near and far as they conjure up new projects to pitch to financial backers. Craft employees observe the techniques that their counterparts use to frame images, light characters and mix soundtracks. Actors and their handlers keep an eye on promotional techniques that help to advance the careers of their peers. Exhibitors, programmers and advertisers around the world increasingly share a common set of metrics for assessing and describing audience behaviour. And, those who distribute and criticize content employ a converging language about aesthetic and commercial values. Much of this is observable in official settings, but just as importantly it is discernible in private encounters when tips, anecdotes and gossip are shared about important trends and personalities. The scholarship on human capital and creative clusters persuasively argues that geographic proximity is the baseline for many of these exchanges, but today one is struck by the growing number of institutional settings that facilitate the movement of media professionals, generating repeated encounters and enduring ties among networked actors who are otherwise physically dispersed.

China’s willing collaborators

The complex dynamics outlined above help to explain why Wang Jianlin, who is trying to network his way to the top of the global film business, thought it important to build an elaborate full-service facility that could meet the needs of global producers who are constantly weighing the cornucopia of options available to them. Although especially alert to subsidies and incentives, global producers nevertheless require a support infrastructure that includes production and post-production services as well as world-class accommodations that are attractive to cast and crew who may be in residence for months at a time. Wang is providing those services on a grand scale while shrewdly offsetting the costs of this expensive studio complex by integrating it into a massive real estate development located in an attractive seaside urban centre that is so far immune to many of the problems facing some of China’s larger cities. Located halfway between Beijing and Shanghai, the Qingdao studio complex is close enough to access the resources and networks of neighbouring mega-metropolises, but distant enough to establish a distinctive identity of its own. This is perhaps why an international film festival has been thrown into the mix, featuring commitments from global talent agencies looking to promote their stars and projects in the mainland, and eager as well to develop connections to Chinese talent and media enterprises.

If Dalian Wanda can pull it off, the robust scale and integrated features of the Oriental Movie Metropolis will dwarf any single studio complex built in the past 20 years. This undoubtedly impressive feat would have been far more uncertain – indeed the project never would have gotten off the ground – if the Communist Party had not adhered so tenaciously to its import quota system despite persistent pressures from the US government to lift it or loosen it considerably, especially around the time of China’s accession to the World Trade Organization in 2001. This tenacity is perhaps less a product of visionary leadership than ongoing ideological struggle inside the party over the role of media in the post-Mao era. Quotas, like the film censorship system, are relics of an authoritarian past, and yet they have proven enormously valuable tools that have allowed the government to restrict foreign competition, monitor imported content and capture the lion’s share of revenues from the distribution and exhibition of lucrative Hollywood blockbusters in mainland China. These resources were in turn invested in building up the domestic feature film industry. Government policies also encouraged joint ventures in cinema construction, spurring the development of multiplex theatre chains with topline features that made them attractive anchor facilities for shopping, residential and entertainment complexes favoured by major property developers like Wang. These policies, which at times seemed near-sighted and haphazard, have converged to put China’s movie audience on track to become the world’s largest by 2017. This vast and growing market is accessible to only 34 foreign films per year, but co-productions, depending on the arrangements, enjoy favoured status. Indeed, under certain circumstances, co-productions can qualify as domestic content and circumvent the quota restraints entirely.

With this in mind, Wang’s Oriental Movie Metropolis looks especially attractive by comparison to counterparts around the world. As part of the Dalian Wanda conglomerate, its corporate parent controls one of the largest exhibition chains in China and has expanded its reach into the United States and Australia as well. Moreover, Wang is networked into the motion picture production apparatus of China, but, just as importantly, he is networked to party leaders who perceive him as a trustworthy entrepreneur that shares their cultural tastes and their ultimate aspiration to enhance China’s cultural influence. On the other side of the Pacific, Wang has built relationships with Hollywood’s largest talent agencies and, most recently, Dalian Wanda purchased Legendary Pictures, a production company that is renowned for co-financing branded blockbusters (e.g. Godzilla, Pacific Rim and Jurassic World) that have fared well with Chinese audiences and government censors. Wang is both extending his reach into Hollywood and articulating those networks to Chinese counterparts. Of course, not everyone can be Dalian Wanda’s partner or wants to, but there are numerous other Chinese media companies like Wanda, and, in each case, their “willing collaborators” are well aware of the value of market access, a value that looms ever more significant as China adds 14 new theatre screens with each passing day.