Zhang Yimou’s 1996 drama utilises a spectrum of colours to reflect the domestic prison that a young woman finds herself in.
“Alright, I’ll get married… Let me be a concubine. Isn’t that a woman’s fate?” says 19-year-old Songlian (Gong Li) at the beginning of Zhang Yimou’s Raise the Red Lantern. Tears trickle down her motionless face, faintly reddened by the light outside, as she stands in white before a black-framed window. In this opening image, colour already hints at the forces that will shape her fate: innocence confined by an oppressive world. Now, the film’s intricate visual language can be rediscovered in a new 4K restoration, arriving in UK cinemas on 6 November to mark its 35th anniversary.
Set in 1920s China, Zhang’s drama follows Songlian after poverty forces her to abandon her university studies to marry the wealthy, much older Master Chen (He Saifei) as his fourth concubine. Each evening he chooses which woman he will spend the night with; red lanterns are lit in the chosen woman’s courtyard, while she is rewarded with a foot massage and the privilege of selecting the dishes for the following day. As the women compete for his attention, the household’s rigid hierarchy gradually transforms Songlian, eroding her sense of self.
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In Chinese culture red traditionally signifies joy and good fortune. Couples wear red at their wedding, red envelopes are given to children during Chinese New Year and their birthdays, and red lanterns celebrate family reunion in major festivals. Yet Zhang turns this familiar symbol on its head – when a concubine is selected for the evening, the light from rows of red lanterns fills her bedroom with an oppressive glow. On her first night with Master Chain, Songlian complains that the light makes it difficult to sleep.
Against the house’s otherwise muted palette of cold yellows and blue-greys, the lanterns are almost inescapable. What appears to be a privilege becomes a form of confinement: the chosen woman is enveloped in red, while the others can only look on with envy. Rather than simply representing joy or romantic passion, red becomes a mechanism of control. It announces Master Chen’s favour, makes the women’s relative status visible, and fuels the female rivalry through which his authority is maintained.
Colour also charts Songlian’s transformation. When she first arrives at the Chen household, she wears a white top and a black skirt, resembling the student she once was. At one point, she opens her luggage and looks at her former white school uniform, recalling a life beyond the household’s walls. In Chinese culture, white is a complex colour, associated with death and purity. While white mourns Songlian’s lost innocence, her clothing shifts towards red and black as she becomes increasingly consumed by her desire for Master Chen’s attention. These darker, more forceful colours accompany her growing cruelty towards her servants and her retaliation against Zhuoyun, the second mistress. Through Gong Li’s remarkable performance and the changing palette of her wardrobe, Songlian’s descent becomes visible: she begins as an innocent, unworldly young woman, but gradually adopts the very logic of domination that imprisons her.
The other mistresses’ costumes similarly distinguish their characters. Yuru, the first mistress and the oldest of the four, is often dressed in dark purple. Her subdued appearance suggests her distance from the power struggle among the other women, as well as the degree of respect she possesses, even though Master Chen’s affection has long since passed her by. Zhuoyun’s yellow garments, often adorned with elaborate patterns, reflect the ambiguity and calculation that lurks beneath her outward composure.
By contrast, Meishan, the third mistress, is conspicuously vivid. A former opera singer, she often wears bright red and lives in a room decorated with colourful opera masks in green, blue and red. While the other women largely remain within their rooms, she sings and dances in the courtyard. Framed by Zhang’s static, wide shots, her movements stand out against the stillness of the grey household as the only moving soul there. Her colourful presence suggests a defiance that the others have surrendered, but her apparent freedom remains fragile. Even the most spirited woman cannot escape the rules governing the house.
Above them all is Master Chen, the centre of the women’s lives despite being largely absent from the screen. He is rarely shown face-on or in close-up, and his black clothing makes him seem less an individual than a shadow presiding over the household. Black lends him an aura of authority, which makes him a more foreboding presence. Despite the absence of his individuality, the women’s actions and anxieties are shaped by his rules and the need to secure his favour. He represents not simply one man’s dominance, but a patriarchal system whose rules have become so embedded that they govern the women’s lives even when he is nowhere to be seen.
Zhang’s mastery of colour lies in how it works alongside space, power and character. The courtyards and rooms confine the women within a carefully ordered world, while lanterns and costumes make their positions within it immediately legible. Colour does not merely illustrate their emotions; it shows how their tragic lives are shaped by the patriarchal system.
There is, however, one colour that quietly escapes this world of red, black, purple and yellow: light blue. It appears only once, in the ribbons tied around Songlian’s braids when she first arrives at the Chen household. Against the more neutral colours of her outfit, the delicate blue feels almost incidental..yet it belongs to a moment before the household has fully remade her, evoking the youth, serenity, and possibility of the life she has left behind.
As red, black, and the deadly grey come to dominate Songlian’s world, that fleeting whisper of blue becomes a melancholy reminder of what the household cannot give her and what it will take away. Raise the Red Lantern is a poignant film where a man’s favour determines a woman’s place, and a portrait of the world where patriarchy teaches these women to live within its boundaries; its colours speak where these women cannot.
