Fan Bingbing On Mother Bhumi, Working Again in China After Tax Case

Returning to Tokyo International Film Festival 15 years after she won best actress for Buddha Mountain in 2010, Chinese superstar Fan Bingbing is winning plaudits for her distinctly unglamorous turn in competition entry Mother Bhumi.

Borderline unrecognizable as a single-mother-cum-farmer-cum-spiritual healer in an ethnic and religious melting pot of a rural Malaysian village, Fan carries the probably overambitious picture. Chong Keat Aun weaves the film in and out of colonial legacy, ethnic tensions, land rights, politics, misogyny, family drama, spirituality and the supernatural. Holding it together is some stunning cinematography from Leung Ming-kai making full use of the Bujang Valley setting, and Fan.

Once China’s highest-paid actress, and one of the highest-earning globally, Fan appeared in a succession of hits including I Am Not Madame Bovary, The White Haired Witch of Lunar Kingdom and One Night Surprise. And she was introduced to worldwide audiences with appearances in Hollywood productions such as Iron Man 3, X-Men: Days of Future Past and The 355.

But Fan’s world came crashing down in the late 2010s amidst tax evasion allegations that culminated in fines and retroactive tax bills reportedly in the region of $100 million. She then disappeared completely from screens for around five years, before beginning to reappear in projects overseas in 2022. Her mesmerizing turn in Mother Bhumi, which translates as mother earth, suggests a renaissance that is exploring new depths to her acting.

Fan sat down with The Hollywood Reporter during the festival in Tokyo to talk about her demanding role, what she learned during her five-year hiatus, the state of Chinese arthouse cinema and whether she will ever make another film in her homeland.

I understand you approached the director about this film, what drew you to the story?

Before meeting the director, I had already seen two of his films—Snow In Midsummer (2023) and The Story Of Southern Islet (2021)—and I thought his cinematic language was very distinctive. When we finally met, there wasn’t even a finished script yet, but when he told me the story, I was deeply moved. A woman who’s a farmer by day and a spirit-medium by night: it’s such a fascinating, complex character.

How did you prepare for the role?

This character was actually quite difficult for me. First, her life is very far from my own, and second, she’s very different from any roles I’ve played before. I spent a long time preparing together with the director. It’s a story he knows intimately — something he experienced growing up — so his own memories and feelings built a very good bridge for me to reach the character.

The hardest part was the language. They were totally different from my mother tongue. I couldn’t understand a word at first. It was like learning English from scratch when you only know Chinese. I had to speak five or six different dialects in the film, so starting three or four months before shooting, I practiced every day using recordings the director made for me. Every couple of days we’d have a video session together where he’d check my progress. By the time filming began four months later, I didn’t even need to carry a script, every line was already in deep my head. It was key for me to make sure the language didn’t become a barrier during the shoot.

For the farming scenes in Kedah, Malaysia, since the character works as a farmer by day, I also went there a few months early and lived with local farmers. Every day I learned how to transplant rice, herd buffaloes, and do real farm work. That way, when filming started, it didn’t feel unfamiliar. The most difficult thing was working in the flooded rice paddies. There were snakes, blood-sucking insects, and swarms of mosquitoes; I’d often end the day covered in bites. But I told myself this was part of the process, because that’s the reality of how local people live.

How did you study the healing rituals?

The director’s father is a very famous healer in that region. When something strange happens or people feel unwell, they go to him for help. The shamanic elements of the character were modeled directly on the director’s father: his way of performing rituals, his expressions, everything. I videoed him and then studied from the video — his speech, his chants, his breathing, even the emotions when he was “possessed” by spirits. I learned it all by mimicking him.

Were there things you learned from this role that you will use in the future?

It was a very special experience. In China it’s extremely rare to get a role like this. The character is powerful, she helps everyone around her, but despite being seen by her village as someone with great powers, she still has her own confusion, pain, and pressures she can’t resolve. Even though others see her as almost divine, she remains human, with all the helplessness that entails. It made me think deeply: what really is “power,” and what does it mean to simply be human? The character is rich and multilayered—a very weighty role. The story itself is also about conflict over land, and about defending your rights to the land you live on.

Through this role, I felt again that even when life is difficult, we need confidence to face tomorrow. That strength is something I took from this character.

You’ve now worked with filmmakers from China, across Asia, in Hollywood, what differences have you felt in the way they work?

I think film people form a borderless community; there aren’t real boundaries between nations. At film festivals, as a jury member, I’ve watched 20 or 30 films from many countries. Even if you don’t understand the language or political background, good acting can still move you deeply. So, I absorb positive energy from creators everywhere.

Of course, there are differences. Hollywood studio productions are extremely strict about schedules — everything runs precisely on time. In Malaysia, filming was calmer and more organic. It felt like living together, communicating naturally, without the pressure of rigid timetables. It’s a bit like why people go to Southeast Asia to relax (laughs).

You’ve shot a film in Japan starring Lily Franky and Gabriel Byrne. How was that experience?

I just wrapped a film in Japan with director Wang Ying and Lily Franky. It’s based on a novel by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, a strange and beautiful story about an old man and a young woman. Director Wang used his unique film language to reinterpret it through a modern lens.

I had many scenes with Lily Franky: he’s truly an extraordinary actor, a national treasure of Japan. Acting with him doesn’t feel like acting at all; it feels like simply living inside the story. I hope audiences will have a chance to see this very special, almost magical film. About 80 percent of my dialogue was in Japanese, so I learned another new language!

You were out of the film business for about five years. Did it change the way you think about acting and cinema?

I was away from Chinese cinema for a while, but it opened a new window for me. I got to encounter subjects and collaborators I’d never have met otherwise, and discovered new creative impulses. For me, that was actually a gift. Those five years became a time to pause and absorb. Being an actor means constantly outputting — expressing — but rarely having time to take in new experiences. This was a period of reflection and learning. I came to understand life more deeply — the difficulties and things that are hard to attain. Some people, when faced with hardship, give up. But the brave ones grow stronger and want to express more. I think I’m that brave girl (laughs).

There’s a Chinese saying: “To rebound, you must first hit the bottom.” If you only fall halfway, you can’t spring back. Hitting the lowest point gave me resistance, courage, and new emotional depth — anger, helplessness, pain — all of which become fuel for an actor. Without such emotions, you can’t truly play new roles. I’m still drawn to stories about women’s lives and struggles, and I’d like to keep doing more arthouse films.

This might be a difficult question but would you like to make films in China again?

It’s not a difficult question. The problem is that Chinese cinema today lacks diversity. This year’s National Day box office in October was lower than in 2014, which is worrying. Audiences now prefer short online dramas: one-minute episodes they can binge while on the toilet! People no longer have the patience to sit quietly in a dark cinema and dream. It’s a great loss, not just in China but worldwide. If I make another Chinese film, I want it to be one where I truly feel something for the character.

Of course there are still people making art-house films in China, but it’s getting harder. The economy around it is tough, and ticket sales rarely cover the costs. There are directors like Jia Zhangke and Zhang Lu, and the many younger sixth- and seventh-generation filmmakers need real support.

In Europe, there are dedicated funds and theaters for art films, giving them a chance to survive. In China, if an art film doesn’t do well on its first day, screenings are cut by day two or three, so no one gets to see it. Back when I was making art films in China, there was a healthy audience base, and some even earned a billion yuan ($140 million) at the box office. That environment has almost disappeared now.

Finally, I thought your performance in Mother Bhumi was exceptional, but I have to say that you looked uncomfortable smoking. Were you ever a smoker?

I’ve never been a smoker. The cigarettes I smoked in the film were hand-rolled, an old-fashioned kind that was like pipe tobacco. They’re so much stronger than regular, modern ones — so I’m a better performer than you think I am (laughs).