Black Dog

A dog is never just a dog in cinema

In cinema, the ethos of an animal depends more on human beings than it does in the real world. Even though their habitats are systematically invaded and violated by humans – making it increasingly impossible for them to live unprompted, “natural” lives – an animal framed through the cinematic apparatus is always burdened with meanings, symbols, and stories it never asked for, nor needed. While the documentary form may present rare cases that come closer to depicting the animal as such, their existence nevertheless remains filtered through the human-made gaze, turning them into “subjects” of a narrative, a discourse.

The argument that animals are used as signifiers of human experiences and emotions is nothing new, and attempting to expose the limits of animal representation in the arts – in this case, cinema – is itself a paradoxical endeavour, since the very act of discussing the condition of animals entails, once again, objectifying them. We put animals in cages – actual, discursive, and figurative – and yet we are also confined, by our own incapacity to relate to and understand their existences.

Whether or not they attempt to acknowledge, or even explore, their own limitations, every film with an animal protagonist is a reiteration of this two-sided problem. Chinese filmmaker Guan Hu’s Un Certain Regard winner Black Dog is a film that, without delving too deeply into philosophical or ontological exploration, constructs its story through personal, social, and political metaphors carried by animals. The opening sequence is striking proof of this, setting the tone and atmosphere for what will later unfold, punctuated by a pack of dogs that suddenly erupts into the frame: a sort of bestia ex machina, leaving behind an overturned bus, a group of stunned passengers, and an irate driver.

One wonders how many Westerns begin with a carriage and its neat voyagers falling victim to the surprise attack of brazen outlaws or furious Indians seeking to reclaim their land. We may be thousands of kilometers from the Wild West, but the barren landscapes of the Gobi Desert do the trick: we’re only five minutes into the film and have already met its supposed villains – or, dare we say, its anti-heroes?

Among the travellers is a solitary, distant man, whose name we later learn is Lang. Casually looking for ways to detach from the rest of the group, Lang appears to be an outsider himself. Having been released from prison, where he served time for his involvement in a murder, he is now on his way back to his hometown. Hu’s approach to Lang as a protagonist is rather sketchy, merely hinting at some details about his past, such as his being a locally famous stunt performer. His connection to the murder – which puts him in a feud with the notorious snake farmer “The Butcher” Hu, who holds a violent grudge against him for killing his nephew – remains uncertain. A sick, alcoholic, zoo-owner father looms in the background, his absence weighing heavily in the rooms of the house to which Lang returns. Clad in a stoic gaze, buzz-cut hair, and worn-out clothes, the nearly mute protagonist of Black Dog embodies the modern reimagining of the lonesome cowboy.

Upon his return, Lang finds his grey, industrial hometown in the midst of full-blown transformation and chaos. Although the decaying houses and shabby streets still bear traces of once-thriving urban life, many of its residents have long since left in pursuit of a better, more promising future. In their stead, packs of stray dogs roam freely throughout the town. The soundscape serves as a scene-setter – the radio broadcasts announcing the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics, mixed with the cacophony of barking dogs on the run and the shouts of humans on their tail – encapsulating aurally the unfolding story. Meanwhile, Lang’s silence creates a palpable contrast with the oppressive, relentless noises of his surroundings.

Hu’s vision is predominantly rooted in the kind of social realism often explored in Chinese arthouse films circulating through the international festival circuit, to the point where certain images feel all too familiar: dimly lit, empty factories; crumbling housing complexes. However, the part-desert, part-mountainous landscapes bordering the town, combined with its turbulent canine inhabitants, introduce a spatial eeriness, as if we’ve stumbled into a post-apocalyptic world that is a crossbreed of Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs (2018) and Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys (1995).

As mentioned above, dogs are never just dogs in movies, and Black Dog is no exception. While it does not go as far as a full-fledged allegory, the dogs – untamed nuisances in a society striving to impose order and control – embody the remnants of China’s social and economic growth: the past everyone wants to leave behind (look at the European capitals – do you ever see a stray dog on the streets?). The local authorities come up with a solution, forming semi-official groups tasked with collecting all unregistered dogs. Since Lang is out on probation, he somehow ends up joining one of these groups, run by a certain Uncle Yao – played by none other than the ever charismatic Jia Zhangke. As the dog hunt unfolds, the titular black dog remains on the loose, continuing to wreak havoc in the town and, since he’s suspected of carrying rabies, a bounty is placed on his head.

Although Lang isn’t fully invested in the dog-catching craze his townsfolk have embraced – at times even sabotaging it – the promise of money changes the game, and he sets out to find the on-the-run aggressive black whippet. Their first encounter, which precedes the official hunt, is both poignant and full of humour. At the very beginning of the film, upon his return to town, Lang pauses his idle stroll to urinate at the corner of an old building – only to be barked at and chased by the scrawny dog, who sees him as an intruder on his territory. A dog is never just a dog in cinema, and Hu does not miss the chance to sprinkle in a touch of “masculine” antagonism between Lang and the four-legged fugitive – a familiar trope from adventure or Western genres – that will later evolve into affinity and connection.

After being bitten during his rather unsuccessful attempts to catch the fierce animal, Lang finally decides to take the dog home and keep him in quarantine – to observe whether either of them will show signs of rabies. That’s when their bond begins to blossom. As two strays discarded by society, Lang and the black dog become mirrors of one another. The scenes in which Hu captures their short-lived daily routine are a visual and emotional feast, with Lang bathing him, and strumming his guitar while the dog rests beside him. While humans barely get a few words out of Lang, he speaks at length to his canine companion through his whistle – their private language – which he refuses to abandon even in the dog’s final days, its sound becoming fainter and fainter as his small body grows weaker and weaker.

Black Dog is a film crafted with wide, all-encompassing frames, both visually and narratively. Despite Hu’s technical finesse in handling each of the side and background stories – the solar eclipse, the Olympic inauguration, the traveling circus, and Lang’s feud with the snake farmer – the ambition occasionally feels excessive, as the story ultimately centres on Lang and his personal search for belonging.

Yet again, a dog is never just a dog in cinema; within the narrative economy of the film, Lang’s whippet – now a protective and well-behaved companion – plays a significant role in the protagonist’s fate. This is not to say that Hu falls into the typical trope of bad guy kills the dog to get revenge, but he does flirt with it – keeping the audience on edge, hinting at the possibility, before ultimately tying the story together in a way that is both heart-warming and heart-breaking. Hu’s treatment of the titular black dog also carries a fair share of anthropomorphism: the dog entrusts his “family” to Lang. A dog is never just a dog in cinema; in this case, he is the sidekick, the loyal friend whose sacrifice or death prompts the hero’s growth, transforming him morally.

Black Dog is not a film driven by radical, boundary-pushing propositions in relation to the cinematic genres it draws from. Instead, it bears traces of melancholic kinship and heartfelt homage to the good old tropes and figures familiar to seasoned spectators. It’s an old-timer’s film for old-timers: a story of ghost towns, stray dogs, and futureless men that mirrors its own idiosyncrasy and nostalgia in an industry obsessed with crafting brand-new, shiny, flawless images.