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  1. #1
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    Top Gun knock-offs

    Column by Nicolas Groffman
    Top Gun was twice remade in Chinese, why didn’t anybody notice? Clue: PLA
    Chinese fans loved the original so much there just had to be a remake. But, writes Nicolas Groffman, that’s when the military got involved
    PUBLISHED : Monday, 29 October, 2018, 8:02am
    UPDATED : Thursday, 01 November, 2018, 4:41pm
    Nicolas Groffman



    In the summer of 1986, my friend Charles and I saw a trailer for the most amazing film conceivable, with F-14s landing on carriers.

    They crashed down amid the steam in super-modern all-grey livery. The film came out a few months later and only those with large reserves of intellectual snobbery failed to enjoy it. It was Top Gun.

    In mainland China and Hong Kong, the movie was called “Zhuang Zhi Ling Yun”, a good metaphorical name implying reaching for the clouds. It is a perennial favourite in China, and many know the movie scene by scene, as became apparent when in January 2011 the PLA Air Force released footage of aerial combat exercises, including a scene of a successful attack on a drone.

    Except it wasn’t.

    It was a clip from Top Gun. Chinese internet users spotted this immediately, exposed the trick, and humiliated the air force, which removed the clip from its website and presumably told off whoever was responsible – but the seed of an idea had been planted. China must have its own Top Gun!

    The 2017 film Kong Tian Lie, or Sky Hunters, which stars Fan Bingbing and her boyfriend Li Chen, was billed as being the first movie to have the full cooperation of the PLA Air Force. It was not.

    That honour goes to Jian Shi Chu Ji, or Sky Fighters, released in March 2011. It did not get good reviews from ordinary cinema-goers, because it managed to strike that special blend of cliché and tedium that robs even potentially exciting situations of all passion.

    You would think that filming J-10s in dogfight sequences would inevitably be thrilling.

    But all suspense is removed; no one is ever in danger for more than 30 seconds, and scenes of the inquiries into dangerous flying last longer than the scenes of the actual dangerous flying.


    Top Gun is a perennial favourite for many Chinese film-goers. Photo: Alamy

    Sky Fighters does however have moments of comedy. At a press conference for obsequious civilians, the film’s hero, General Yue, answers a foreign woman who throws him a tricky question. “You are the bravest pilot I have ever seen,” she says, “but what do you think of George W Bush?” to which Yue replies, “I’m better than him, because he can’t speak Chinese, and I’m a better pilot.”

    He also explains to another foreign reporter that “war is best avoided, but if it comes, it is better to be prepared”. The reporter is at first surprised but then nods as he slowly comprehends these sage words.

    Other reviews of this film have noted its scene-by-scene mimicking of Top Gun – granted it has a motorbike-along-the-runway scene, and it has the two male protagonists at odds who are reconciled at the end.

    But it’s definitely a movie in its own right – and one which is old-fashioned and uncool. It even has a scene where the general’s wife sneaks up behind her husband and covers his eyes to make him guess who she is, while he pretends to run through a list of other girls. What comedy!

    Chinese people of a certain age will remember a popular song from 1991 with lyrics describing a similarly annoying event and a man who guesses Mary, Sunny, and Ivory.

    Come on, air force guy who wrote the script for the 2011 movie. You had 20 years to think of something new. Even the bar scene seems struck in the 1990s, with people ordering coffee as if it’s a new invention, and there are fruit bowls holding cherry tomatoes and bananas. Very KTV.

    Weirder still, when they move to a new base, the commander hands over a bag of “feminine products” to the two female officers. I’m not making this up. The women are delighted, of course.


    The 2011 Chinese film Sky Fighters flopped. Photo: Handout

    Cut to 2017 and the much flashier Sky Hunters. The heroes are too cool even to wear proper air force uniforms, having been issued with sunglasses and leather jackets. In the six years that have gone by, Chinese studios have learnt to flash cash and get Hollywood bigshots on board.

    They have Hans Zimmer for the score; they have the guy who did the computer-generated effects for Game of Thrones; they have lots of foreign extras.

    Sadly, however, the PLA, once again, insisted on controlling the script and the production. And once again, they drained it of any real suspense or innovation.

    At one point the movie makers seem to realise this – when a Chinese fighter inverts above a US spyplane, the pilot yells, “I think I’ve see this in a movie somewhere.”

    Of course he has – it’s from the first five minutes of Top Gun.


    China’s J-10 fighters take a starring role in both films. Photo: Handout

    But instead of having the foreigners spout nonsense as in the 2011 film, the Americans say things that sound Hollywood-like – “He’s cute. Cuter than you,” says the female spy-plane crew member to her male colleague, referring to the hero Li Chen.

    And – I’m not sure if this is meant to be a joke – Islamic State-style terrorists have one member who roars pointlessly when angry and looks like a comedy version of BA Baracus.

    Fan Bingbing doesn’t have much to do in this movie, but she has a key role in its most idiotic scene.

    The hero is thought to have perished, and so she stands alone on the runway – until … oh, why are there hundreds of people running behind her with happy faces? What have they seen? She turns and sees his smoking damaged plane is limping towards them through the grey sky.

    Her expression turns to joy as she realises he has survived. Meanwhile we, the audience, wonder why so many people are celebrating before he has even landed.

    And indeed how can he land with the entire cast – and extras – cheering and dancing jigs in his flight path?


    Li Chen starred in Sky Hunters, but the air force insisted on having the final say. Photo: Handout

    The film has its good points. It’s interesting to see all those new Chinese aircraft: the Y-20 airlifter, the J-20 stealth fighter and the H-6, as well as the J-10s and J-11s that we saw in Sky Fighters.

    Li Jiahang is excellent as the dopey pilot who is taken hostage. And Tomer Oz, an Israeli actor sporting an Islamic-looking beard, is weirdly menacing as a Central Asian air force veteran who becomes a terrorist boss. And there’s a parachuting scene with a German shepherd dog which is just plain fun.

    Chinese film-goers, not known for their polite reviews, generally panned the film.

    It got two stars on Douban.com. About the most positive review was titled, “Is Sky Hunter so awful that you can’t watch it?” concluding generously that it wasn’t.

    People were particularly rude about Fan Bingbing, of course, but it’s hardly her fault the movie was no good.

    No one was bold enough to blame the military for meddling in the movie, but that is probably why Top Gun succeeded back in 1986 while Sky Hunter fails.

    In 1986, the US Navy supported the movie studio but was smart enough not to tamper with the story and the production.

    In China, the military made the movie, and expected everyone else to do as they were told. The result was what you’d expect from the military: discipline, technology, and no freedom of expression. Perhaps the 2023 version, which I predict will be called Sky Warriors, will be better.

    Nicolas Groffman, who practised law in Beijing and Shanghai, is a partner at law firm Harrison Clark Rickerbys in London
    THREADS
    Where in the world is Fan Bingbing?
    Chinese Counterfeits, Fakes & Knock-Offs
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  2. #2
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    Car knock offs

    Chinese Copycats That Will Make You Angry
    YESTERDAY BY JAY TRAUGOTT CAR CULTURE
    They're worse than you think.

    It was only a matter of time before a Chinese automaker squeezed its way into the highly lucrative American car market. Many have tried and failed, but now that Zotye has announced it’ll launch an SUV in the US for 2020, we figured it was time to highlight Chinese-built cars and SUVs that shamelessly copied vehicles (with help from the government) from the likes of Mercedes-Benz, Jeep, Bentley, Ferrari, and Porsche.

    While some Chinese customers may have been fooled by these blatant design thefts, Westerners are not. So we dug through the archives to find some Chinese vehicles whose designs are the most blatant rip-offs. Before you ask, China passed a law to protect its domestic carmakers by making it nearly impossible for a Western automaker to prove to a Chinese court its patented designs were stolen. So don't expect these ripoffs to stop anytime soon.



    Eagle Came
    Let's begin with the worst of them all. Translated as the 'Eagle Came' (presumably, it sounds better in Chinese), where to begin with this one? Well, the Eagle Came debuted back in 2015 attempting the impossible: fusing a Ferrari with a Porsche. Its headlights and grille are very Ferrari California T-like while the rest of is all Porsche 718 Cayman. Even the badge looks like it was ripped off a Porsche.

    Built by Suzhou, the Eagle Came is also all-electric, capable of a 0-62 mph of 4.8 seconds. Top speed, however, is only 75 mph.



    BYD S8
    Is this just a rebadged Mercedes-Benz CLK-Class convertible? Nope, it’s the BYD S8. BYD stands for ‘Build Your Dreams,’ or, in this case, someone else’s. The S8 first premiered in concept form back in 2006 at the Shanghai Motor Show and went into production for 2009. Fortunately, it lasted for just a single model year. That’s because only seven examples were sold.

    Unlike the Mercedes, the S8 was front-wheel-drive and was powered a 140-hp 2.0-liter four-cylinder engine instead of a V6. It also featured a folding metal roof, just like the Mercedes SLK. Now, here’s the ironic bit: BYD not so long ago signed a technical agreement with Mercedes so it's safe to assume that all is forgiven for this blatant ripoff.



    BAIC BJ80
    This is the BAIC BJ80, a 4WD luxury SUV that looks suspiciously like the iconic G-Class. On the bright side, it costs an awful lot less, starting off at 288,000 yuan, or about $43,000. Launched for 2016, the BJ80 is powered by a choice of turbo diesel inline-fours linked to either a six-speed manual or automatic. At many angles, it’s a dead ringer for the G-Class, and yet, there was no lawsuit by Mercedes as far as we know.

    Like the original G-Class, the BJ80 was initially developed for the military, in this case, the People’s Liberation Army. And just when you thought BAIC couldn’t more blatantly take the design of a foreign automaker for its own purposes, it did so again with another SUV. Read on.



    BAIC BJ90
    The mind reels. This is not a Jeep Grand Cherokee. It’s the BAIC BJ90. And it’s also a Mercedes-Benz GL-Class. Yes, really. The BJ90 is based on the GL-Class as part of an agreement with Mercedes whose parent company Daimler now has a 12 percent stake in BAIC.

    Legally use the platform of one automaker and illegally swipe the design of another? Welcome to China. The BJ90’s drivetrain is also all Mercedes. A choice of two engines are offered (sales began earlier this year): a 3.0-liter twin-turbo V6 with 333 hp and a 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8 with 421 hp. Even the seven-speed automatic and 4Matic all-wheel-drive system is Mercedes-sourced. The interior, not at all shockingly, is from Mercedes, too. The three-pointed silver star, however, has been replaced with BAIC’s logo on the steering wheel.



    Hawtai B35
    Try not to laugh too much, but the Hawtai B35 was originally a Porsche Cayenne clone back in 2011. Today, it’s a Bentley Bentayga clone, at least up front. Like we said, there is no shame. Underneath its ugly skin (let’s face it), is a first generation Hyundai Santa Fe platform. Power comes from a 2.4-liter four-cylinder with 184 hp or a turbo 1.8-liter with 160 hp. Two gearboxes are on offer: a five-speed manual and a four-speed automatic. Okay. We’re done here. This one is just too pathetic to keep writing about. Moving on…



    Geely GE
    Perhaps we spoke too soon regarding pathetic. This is the Geely GE, a literal carbon copy of the Rolls-Royce Phantom. Revealed back in 2010, the Geely GE was initially a concept and later went into production in 2014. Supposedly, production ceased earlier this year. Geely has, to its full credit, greatly improved over the past few years by actually getting involved with the global auto industry. Its financial successes enabled it to purchase Volvo and Lotus, for example.

    The GE was proof that it was capable of building a luxury car, though not one of its own design. Look closely and even the “Spirit of Ecstasy” hood ornament has been closely copied. But hey, the GE is far cheaper than the Phantom, costing around $45,000.



    Jinma JMW 2200
    The Jinma JMW 2200 tries so hard to be a BMW i3. Just look at its twin-kidney grille and curved body panels. It’s absolutely horrible to look at. Sorry about that. But it is all-electric, powered by a lead-acid battery providing energy for its three kWh electric motor. Top speed is said to be – wait for it – only 31 mph. It can barely go 75 miles on a single charge. A full recharge requires about seven hours. Why anyone would buy this for regular road use is beyond us. You’d be better off buying a motorcycle or scooter. But if a Chinese golf course is ever looking for more stylish (to an extent) golf cars, we know exactly what it ought to buy. Photos courtesy of Car News China.



    Land Wind X7
    We actually traveled all the way to the Shanghai Auto Show back in 2017 to see this one in-person. The Land Wind X7’s claim to fame was how much it resembled the Land Rover Range Rover Evoque. Jaguar Land Rover even sued Jiangling Motor for its design rip-off, but the Chinese government put a stop to that. It’s almost as if Jiangling Motor reverse engineered an Evoque, made a few slight tweaks and called it a day. Funnily enough, JLR builds Evoques in China, its first Chinese-built SUV. Jiangling Motor could’ve cared less.


    These don't make me angry. I would enjoy driving one of these here in the U.S., although I don't trust Chinese reliability with cars just yet.
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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    Fake Wine

    CHINA RAIDS UNCOVER MORE THAN 50,000 BOTTLES OF FAKE WINE, WORTH $14.4 MILLION
    1 Minute Read
    Produced by Tim McKirdy / @timmckirdy
    Updated on 2018-11-27



    Raids in China’s Hebei province have uncovered more than 50,000 bottles of counterfeit wine, with a total value of $14.4 million. The haul included around $1 million worth of fake Penfolds (one of China’s most-popular imported wine brands), as well as around $865,000 of imitation Changyu wines (China’s oldest winery.)

    Police were acting on a tip from an authorized Penfolds distributor, The Drinks Business reports, though the date of the raids was not disclosed. Other branded fake wines were also discovered, but their names were not released.

    The seizure is the latest in a string of Chinese counterfeit Penfolds busts. In August, around 8,000 bottles were discovered in Liaoning province. In April, police seized roughly 50,000 bottles in Zhengzhou city.

    Mike Clarke, CEO of Treasury Wine Estates, which owns Penfolds, spoke out on the counterfeited wines at the beginning of the year, saying: “We’re putting a stop to this. This is nonsense.” But recent busts indicate the task may be even bigger than first expected.

    Published: November 27, 2018
    The first time I went to China, the tournament I was in was sponsored by a wine company. They made Chinese wine (I still have some) and a western red. Each of us competitor was given complimentary bottles. That red was gawdawful. We drank it anyway.
    Gene Ching
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    Chinese Counterfeits, Fakes & Knock-Offs

    Marvel At China's Own Iron Man Type Movie
    Brian Ashcraft
    Yesterday 7:05am Filed to: IRON MAN


    GIF: 機甲戰神孫悟空
    Sure, Iron Man 3 was filmed partly in China, but that’s still a Marvel movie and an American superhero. Tomorrow, the country is releasing its own movie inspired one of its greatest heroes, revamped with an Iron Man-style suit.

    This is Armored Warfare God: Sun Wukong. Also known as the Monkey King, Sun Wukong is one of the classic characters of Chinese legend and lore.

    陳艾斯

    @AceTaiwan
    Follow @AceTaiwan
    More
    我還能說什麼?

    中國電影「機甲戰神孫悟空」預告釋出,讓漫威看了也傻眼
    https://www.techbang.com/posts/63382...from=home_news



    8:40 PM - 16 Dec 2018
    Not only is Sun Wukong the main character in one of China’s greatest works Journey to the West, but he also inspired and spawned Goku in Dragon Ball.

    Now, the Sun Wukong character has been reworked for modern Chinese cinema audiences, complete with an Iron Man type suit, monkey motif mask and questionable CGI. It certainly does not appear connected with Marvel!



    As ET Today reports, the reaction online in China has been harsh, with Marvel fans calling out the filmmakers.


    Screenshot: 東森新聞 CH51


    Screenshot: 東森新聞 CH51

    Chinese language media has been quick to point out obvious similarities with the Iron Man movies.

    Armored Warfare God: Sun Wukong comes out tomorrow in China.
    I wanna see this.

    THREADS
    Armored Warfare God: Sun Wukong
    Chinese Counterfeits, Fakes & Knock-Offs
    Monkey King
    Gene Ching
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    I still wanna see this



    This Iron Man knockoff got laughed off the internet
    Zheping Huang
    JAN 02, 2019
    A new CGI movie adaptation of beloved Chinese classic Journey to the West has met an untimely demise. Meant to be a futuristic spin on the mythological classic, the movie instead got laughed off the internet because its armor-clad hero looks a little too much like Iron Man, from Marvel Comics franchise.

    The film, titled Armored War God Monkey King, was expected to stream exclusively on Tencent Video over the festive period, but got yanked before debut, as Marvel fans in the world’s largest internet market pelted it online.


    Photo: QQ

    The promotional trailer of the film drew much flak online after it showed the Monkey King, also known as Sun Wukong, getting a makeover that included wearing a bright red-and-gold armored suit and headgear, with an artificial intelligence-powered assistant and display—similar to that used by Iron Man, the superhero alter ego of business magnate Tony Stark in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

    Armored War God also features a hi-tech version of antagonist Yang Jian, the three-eyed god in the novel. Yang wears a silver-coloured, full-body armor that people thought was way too similar to War Machine, Iron Man's buddy.


    Yang Jian (L) and Sun Wukong, in the trailer. / Photo: QQ

    How dare you?

    The trailer ignited outrage in China’s internet community. “Stan Lee passed away not that long ago. How dare you?” one wrote on microblogging site Weibo, referring to the late iconic Marvel comic books writer, editor, and publisher.

    The film’s producers, Daishu Movie of Beijing, and Guangzhou-based Grandmet Presentation, said they took inspiration from Iron Man, the Transformers film franchise and Japan’s Gundam series of giant robots.


    The movie poster, before debut. / Photo: QQ

    “We can make armored heroes that belong to China,” the producers said in one of the film’s promotional videos. “No matter how difficult the process is, we’ll carry with us our childhood dreams, presenting to the world a Chinese-made smart armor.”

    But that attempt to tap into nationalist sentiment did not prevent their film from being yanked off the schedule of Tencent Video, which also removed the unpopular trailer.

    The official Weibo account promoting the film was also deleted.

    Neither Tencent nor the producers responded to our request for comment.


    Sun Wukong's AI-inspired dashboard, similar to what Iron Man uses in Marvel movies. / Photo: QQ

    Sorting out intellectual property rights as online video soars

    The widespread criticism of Armored War God has come as intellectual property rights remain a key issue in China’s trade war with the US.

    US President Donald Trump has repeatedly lashed out at China’s lax IPR protection laws, forced technology transfer and alleged IP theft, saying they cost the United States as much as US$600 billion each year.

    Development work on Armored War God started in 2016 and film production took a month, with more than 200 people involved in post-production work, according to a press release cited by Chinese media.

    To be sure, China’s online film market has been booming, helped by the wide adoption of online streaming services like Tencent Video, Baidu-backed iQiyi and Youku Tudou, a subsidiary of Alibaba Group Holding. These platforms are tapping into Chinese consumers’ growing appetite for original content. Alibaba is the parent company of the South China Morning Post.

    Still, it is not uncommon for Chinese studios to take inspiration from Hollywood and their domestic peers. For example, a 2016 Chinese online film called Mad Sheila ripped-off the plot and some characters from Oscar-winning post-apocalyptic action film Mad Max: Fury Road.

    After Chinese comedy film I Am Not Madame Bovary became a hit two years ago, copycat films followed, sporting titles like I Am Madame Bovary and Who Killed Madame Bovary?.

    This story was adapted from an original article published in the South China Morning Post.

    Zheping Huang
    Zheping is a technology reporter covering cryptocurrency, blockchain and gaming for the South China Morning Post. He is a contributor to Inkstone. Previously he wrote about China for Quartz.
    THREADS
    Armored Warfare God: Sun Wukong
    Chinese Counterfeits, Fakes & Knock-Offs
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    Knock-off ad campaign

    I confess that I'm guilty of this too. For example: got qi?

    ADFREAK
    A Chinese Washing Machine Brand Blatantly Lifted Design Army’s Stunning Ballet Campaign
    New ads circulating online seem copied almost verbatim
    By David Griner
    |
    February 5, 2019


    Design Army's 2018 Hong Kong Ballet creative, at left, was copied without credit by Little Swan, one of China's 20 most valuable brands.

    Last week, Pum Lefebure began to get a flurry of messages from her contacts in Asia, all with a similar question: “Have you seen this?”

    Co-founder and chief creative officer of the celebrated Washington, D.C., agency Design Army, Lefebure has an extensive global network of clients, peers and fans, and some who use Chinese social and messaging apps like WeChat or Weibo had noticed something circulating on the apps that seemed frustratingly familiar.

    As she soon learned, a Chinese washing machine brand called Little Swan had launched an ad campaign that was lifted almost 100 percent from Design Army’s 2018 visual rebranding campaign for the Hong Kong Ballet. While many ad campaigns duplicate themes, techniques or visual metaphors drawn from other marketing, this one is rather blatant.

    Most of the contacts messaging Lefebure were shocked and infuriated when they saw the copycat campaign. Perhaps more unnervingly, one of her Asian clients saw it and asked if Design Army was behind the new campaign as well.

    “It’s OK to be inspired,” Lefebure tells Adweek. “It’s not OK to trace and copy and pull in stuff, then bill your client for the creative work you didn’t really do.”

    Here’s a look at how some of the images compare:




    In two of the executions, the visuals seem to have been reshot almost exactly as originally designed by Design Army and photographer Dean Alexander. In the version with the dancer doing vertical splits, however, the same photograph seems to have been used with only minor adjustment (namely flipping it to a mirror image).

    Little Swan is no small mom-and-pop business lacking the means to build its own ambitious campaign. Its parent company, Midea, says Little Swan was founded in 1958 as China’s first washing machine manufacturer and today is “among the 20 most valuable brands in China, with valuation estimated at 15.02 Billion RMB.” Adweek has reached out to Midea for comment on the similarity between the two campaigns, and we will update this article if we hear back.

    It would also be hard for Little Swan to argue it was unaware of the Hong Kong Ballet campaign, which, in addition to running in the same country, was widely featured by news outlets around the world.

    For her part, Lefebure is handling the situation with good spirit and, while frustrated, says she holds no grudge against or disrespect for the Chinese marketing community. In fact,

    “As creative people, we all get inspired by someone, I understand that,” she says. “But when you start grabbing things, pulling them apart, photoshopping things and reshooting them without trying to hide anything—then you bill the client, put their logo on it, that’s too far.”

    She does worry that social media’s sharing economy has created confusion around intellectual property and the ethics of building on someone else’s creative work. Lefebure hopes this incident will be used as an educational lesson for young designers and marketers.

    “I’m not sure that kind of education is being communicated to the future generation,” she says. “I hope someone tells them this isn’t right.”


    David Griner
    @griner
    David Griner is creative and innovation editor for Adweek. He's been covering agencies, creativity, technology and marketing innovation for more than a decade and is host of Adweek's podcast.
    Gene Ching
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    ttt 4 2019!

    Woah. A White Rabbit unauthorized 'knock-off' by a Los Angeles ice cream maker.

    White Rabbit ice cream is a hit in Los Angeles
    Shanghai-based candy manufacturer calls the flavor 'unauthorized'
    by Jethro Kang March 5, 2019 in Food


    Photo via Food & Wine.

    An ice cream made with the famous Chinese candy White Rabbit has proven so popular in Los Angeles over the past Lunar New Year despite it being “unauthorized,” said the Shanghai-based sweets manufacturer.

    Wanderlust Creamery in Los Angeles created the flavor with website Foodbeast using 1.3 pieces of the iconic candy in each scoop, including the edible paper wrap, which is mixed into a milk and butter base, said Wanderlust co-founder Jon-Patrick Lopez. The candy wrapper is also used around the cone.

    The ice cream debuted over Chinese New Year and was originally planned as a special throughout February. Between February 1 and 20, Wanderlust sold 50 gallons of White Rabbit ice cream, then sold 50 more gallons in three days as news soon spread via Facebook, Instagram, and WeChat.



    Wanderlust now plans to extend the offering to March, but they’re having difficulty sourcing the White Rabbit candy. Stock is not readily available, and rival ice cream makers are also creating White Rabbit flavors and competing for supply.

    They might soon encounter yet another obstacle: White Rabbit manufacturer Guan Sheng Yuan, which has been making the candy since 1959, told Shanghai Morning Post that the product was created without authorization and the company has not “cooperated with any relevant parties.” Their US agent is currently investigating for possible brand infringement.

    Yet China Daily reported that Guan Sheng Yuan was “inspired by the creation of the White Rabbit ice cream in the US.”

    While Wanderlust has inspired copycats in the US as well as in Malaysia and the Philippines, they aren’t the first ice cream maker to dream up a White Rabbit flavor. Singapore dessert cafe Sunday Folks introduced a similar ice cream last November called Little White Rabbit.
    I'd be all over this if I wasn't lactose intolerant and pre-diabetic.
    Gene Ching
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    Slightly OT

    Letter from Lishui
    October 26, 2009 Issue
    Chinese Barbizon
    Painting the outside world.
    By Peter Hessler


    Chen Meizi and Hu Jianhui at their gallery, which specializes in art for the foreign market. Scenes of Venice and Dutch towns, which Chen refers to as “Water City” and “Holland Street,” are popular.Photograph by Mark Leong

    In the countryside southwest of the city of Lishui, where the Da River crosses a sixth-century stone weir, the local government announced, four years ago, that it was founding a Chinese version of the Barbizon. The original French Barbizon School developed during the first half of the nineteenth century, in response to the Romantic movement, among painters working at the edge of the Fontainebleau Forest. Back then, the French artists celebrated rural scenes and peasant subjects. This wasn’t exactly the mood in Lishui: like most cities in eastern China’s Zhejiang Province, the place was focussed on urban growth; there was a new factory district, and the export economy was then booming. But the local Communist Party cadres wanted the city to become even more outward-looking, and they liked the foreign cachet of the Barbizon. They also figured that it would be good business: art doesn’t require much raw material, and it’s popular overseas. They referred to their project as Lishui’s Babisong, and they gave it the official name of the Ancient Weir Art Village. One Party slogan described it as “A Village of Art, a Capital of Romance, a Place for Idleness.”

    In order to attract artists, the government offered free rent in some old riverside buildings for the first year, with additional subsidies to follow. Painters arrived immediately; soon, the village had nearly a dozen private galleries. Most people came from China’s far south, where there was already a flourishing industry of art for the foreign market. Buyers wanted cheap oil paintings, many of which were destined for tourist shops, restaurants, and hotels in distant countries. For some reason, the majority of artists who settled Lishui’s Barbizon specialized in cityscapes of Venice. The manager of Hongye, the largest of the new galleries, told me that it had a staff of thirty painters, and that its main customer was a European-based importer with an insatiable appetite for Venetian scenes. Every month, he wanted a thousand Chinese paintings of the Italian city.

    Another small gallery, Bomia, had been opened by a woman named Chen Meizi and her boyfriend, Hu Jianhui. The first time I met Chen, she had just finished a scene of Venice, and now she was painting a Dutch street scene from what looked like the eighteenth century. A Russian customer had sent a postcard and asked her to copy it. The painting was twenty inches by twenty-four, and Chen told me that she would sell it for about twenty-five dollars. Like most people in the Ancient Weir Art Village, she described Venice as Shui Cheng, “Water City,” and referred to Dutch scenes as Helan Jie, “Holland Street.” She said that over the past half year she had painted this particular Holland Street as many as thirty times. “All the pictures have that big tower in it,” she said.

    I told her that it was a church—the steeple rose in the distance, at the end of a road bordered by brick houses with red tile roofs.

    “I thought it might be a church, but I wasn’t sure,” she said. “I knew it was important because whenever I make a mistake they send it back.”

    Through trial and error, she had learned to recognize some of the landmark buildings of Europe. She had no idea of the names of St. Mark’s Basilica and the Doge’s Palace, but she knew these places mattered, because even the tiniest mistake resulted in rejection. She worked faster on less iconic scenes, because customers didn’t notice slight errors. On the average, she could finish a painting in under two days.

    Chen was in her early twenties, and she had grown up on a farm near Lishui; as a teen-ager, she learned to paint at an art school. She still had a peasant’s directness—she spoke in a raspy voice and laughed at many of my questions. I asked her which of her pictures she liked the most, and she said, “I don’t like any of them.” She didn’t have a favorite painter; there wasn’t any particular artistic period that had influenced her. “That kind of art has no connection at all with what we do,” she said. The Barbizon concept didn’t impress her much. The government had commissioned some European-style paintings of local scenery, but Chen had no use for any of it. Like many young Chinese from the countryside, she had already had her fill of bucolic surroundings. She stayed in the Ancient Weir Art Village strictly because of the free rent, and she missed the busy city of Guangzhou, where she had previously lived. In the meantime, she looked the part of an urban convert. She had long curly hair; she dressed in striking colors; she seemed to wear high heels whenever she was awake. On workdays, she tottered on stilettos in front of her easel, painting gondolas and churches.

    Hu Jianhui, Chen’s boyfriend, was a soft-spoken man with glasses and a faint crooked mustache that crossed his lip like a calligrapher’s slip. Once a month, he rolled up all their finished paintings and took a train down to Guangzhou, where there was a big art market. That was how they encountered customers; none of the buyers ever came to the Ancient Weir Art Village. For the most part, foreigners wanted Holland Streets and the Water City, but occasionally they sent photographs of other scenes to be converted into art. Hu kept a sample book in which a customer could pick out a picture, give an ID number, and order a full-size oil painting on canvas. HF-3127 was the Eiffel Tower. HF-3087 was a clipper ship on stormy seas. HF-3199 was a circle of Native Americans smoking a peace pipe. Chen and Hu could rarely identify the foreign scenes that they painted, but they had acquired some ideas about national art tastes from their commissions.

    “Americans prefer brighter pictures,” Hu told me. “They like scenes to be lighter. Russians like bright colors, too. Koreans like them to be more subdued, and Germans like things that are grayer. The French are like that, too.”

    Chen flipped to HF-3075: a snow-covered house with glowing lights. “Chinese people like this kind of picture,” she said. “Ugly! And they like this one.” HF-3068: palm trees on a beach. “It’s stupid, something a child would like. Chinese people have no taste. French people have the best taste, followed by Russians, and then the other Europeans.” I asked her how Americans stacked up. “Americans are after that,” she said. “We’ll do a painting and the European customer won’t buy it, and then we’ll show it to a Chinese person, and he’ll say, ‘Great!’ ”

    Lishui is a third-tier Chinese factory town, with a central population of around two hundred and fifty thousand, and, in a place like that, the outside world is both everywhere and nowhere at all. In the new development zone, assembly lines produce goods for export, but there isn’t much direct foreign investment. There aren’t any Nike factories, or Intel plants, or signs that say DuPont; important brands base themselves in bigger cities. Lishui companies make pieces of things: zippers, copper wiring, electric-outlet covers. The products are so obscure that you can’t tell much from the signs that hang outside factory gates: Jinchao Industry Co., Ltd.; Huadu Leather Base Cloth Co., Ltd. At the Lishui Sanxing Power Machinery Co., Ltd., the owners have posted their sign in English, but they did so from right to left, the way Chinese traditionally do with characters:

    dtl ,.oc yrenihcam rewop gnixnas iuhsil

    It’s rare to see a foreign face in Lishui. Over a period of three years, I visited the city repeatedly, talking to people in the export industry, but I never met a foreign buyer. Products are sent elsewhere for final assembly, some passing through two or three levels of middlemen before they go abroad; there isn’t any reason for a European or an American businessman to visit. But despite the absence of foreigners the city has been shaped almost entirely by globalization, and traces of the outside world can be seen everywhere. When Lishui’s first gym opened, it was called the Scent of a Woman, for the Al Pacino movie. Once, I met a demolition-crew worker who had a homemade tattoo on his left arm that said “KENT.” He told me he’d done it himself as a kid, after noticing that American movie gangsters have tattoos. I asked why he’d chosen that particular word, and he said, “It’s from the cigarette brand in your country.” Another time, I interviewed a young factory boss who wore a diamond earring in the shape of the letter “K.” His girlfriend had an “O”: whenever they were together, and the letters lined up, everything was all right.

    The degree of detail often impressed me. The outside world might be distant, but it wasn’t necessarily blurred; people caught discrete glimpses of things from overseas. In many cases, these images seemed slightly askew—they were focussed and refracted, like light bent around a corner. Probably it had something to do with all the specialization. Lishui residents learned to see the world in parts, and these parts had a strange clarity, even when they weren’t fully understood. One factory technician who had never formally studied English showed me a list of terms he had memorized:

    Padomide Br. Yellow E-8GMX

    Sellanyl Yellow N-5GL

    Padocid Violet NWL

    Sellan Bordeaux G-P

    Padocid Turquoise Blue N-3GL

    Padomide Rhodamine
    continued next post
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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  9. #9
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    Continued from previous post

    In the labyrinth of the foreign language, he’d skipped all the usual entrances—the simple greetings, the basic vocabulary—to go straight to the single row of words that mattered to him. His specialty was dyeing nylon; he mixed chemicals and made colors. His name was Long Chunming, and his co-workers called him Xiao Long, or Little Long. He would consult his notebook and figure out the perfect mixture of chemicals necessary to make Sellanyl Yellow or Padocid Turquoise Blue.

    He had grown up on a farm in Guizhou, one of the poorest provinces in China. His parents raised tea, tobacco, and vegetables, and Little Long, like both his siblings, left home after dropping out of middle school. It’s a common path in China, where an estimated hundred and thirty million rural migrants have gone to the cities in search of work. In the factory town, Little Long had become relatively successful, earning a good wage of three hundred dollars a month. But he was determined to further improve himself, and he studied self-help books with foreign themes. In his mind, this endeavor was completely separate from his work. He had no pretensions about what he did; as far as he was concerned, the skills he had gained were strictly and narrowly technical. “I’m not mature enough,” he told me once, and he collected books that supposedly improved moral character. One was “The New Harvard MBA Comprehensive Volume of How to Conduct Yourself in Society.” Another book was called “Be an Upright Person, Handle Situations Correctly, Become a Boss.” In the introduction, the author describes the divides of the worker’s environment: “For a person to live on earth, he has to face two worlds: the boundless world of the outside, and the world that exists inside a person.”

    Little Long had full lips and high cheekbones, and he was slightly vain, especially with regard to his hair, which was shoulder-length. At local beauty parlors, he had it dyed a shade of red so exotic it was best described in professional terms: Sellan Bordeaux. But he was intensely serious about his books. They followed a formula that’s common in the self-help literature of Chinese factory towns: short, simple chapters that feature some famous foreigner and conclude with a moral. In a volume called “A Collection of the Classics,” the section on effective use of leisure time gave the example of Charles Darwin. (The book explained that Darwin’s biology studies began as a hobby.) Another chapter told the story of how a waiter once became angry at John D. Rockefeller after the oil baron left a measly onedollar tip. (“Because of such thinking, you’re only a waiter,” Rockefeller shot back, according to the Chinese book, which praised his thrift.)

    Little Long particularly liked “A Collection of the Classics” because it introduced foreign religions. He was interested in Christianity, and when we talked about the subject he referred me to a chapter that featured a parable about Jesus. In this tale, a humble doorkeeper works at a church with a statue of the Crucifixion. Every day, the doorkeeper prays to be allowed to serve as a substitute, to ease the pain for the Son of God. To the man’s surprise, Jesus finally speaks and accepts the offer, under one condition: If the doorkeeper ascends the Cross, he can’t say a word.

    The agreement is made, and soon a wealthy merchant comes to pray. He accidentally drops a money purse; the doorkeeper almost says something but remembers his promise. The next supplicant is a poor man. He prays fervently, opens his eyes, and sees the purse: overjoyed, he thanks Jesus. Again, the doorkeeper keeps silent. Then comes a young traveller preparing to embark on a long sea journey. While he is praying, the merchant returns and accuses the traveller of taking his purse. An argument ensues; the traveller fears he’ll miss the boat. At last, the doorkeeper speaks out—with a few words, he resolves the dispute. The traveller heads off on his journey, and the merchant finds the poor man and retrieves his money.

    But Jesus angrily calls the doorkeeper down from the Cross for breaking the promise. When the man protests (“I just told the truth!”), Jesus criticizes him:

    What do you understand? That rich merchant isn’t short of money, and he’ll use that cash to hire prostitutes, whereas the poor man needs it. But the most wretched is the young traveller. If the merchant had delayed the traveller’s departure, he would have saved his life, but right now his boat is sinking in the ocean.

    When I flipped through Little Long’s books, and looked at his chemical-color vocabulary lists, I sometimes felt a kind of vertigo. In Lishui, that was a common sensation; I couldn’t imagine how people created a coherent world view out of such strange and scattered contacts with the outside. But I was coming from the other direction, and the gaps impressed me more than the glimpses. For Little Long, the pieces themselves seemed to be enough; they didn’t necessarily have to all fit together in perfect fashion. He told me that, after reading about Darwin’s use of leisure time, he decided to stop complaining about being too busy with work, and now he felt calmer. John D. Rockefeller convinced Little Long that he should change cigarette brands. In the past, he smoked Profitable Crowd, a popular cigarette among middle-class men, but after reading about the American oil baron and the waiter he switched to a cheaper brand called Hibiscus. Hibiscuses were terrible smokes; they cost about a cent each, and the label immediately identified the bearer as a cheapskate. But Little Long was determined to rise above such petty thinking, just like Rockefeller.

    Jesus’ lesson was easiest of all: Don’t try to change the world. It was essentially Taoist, reinforcing the classical Chinese phrase Wu wei er wu bu wei (“By doing nothing everything will be done”). In Little Long’s book, the parable of the Crucifixion concludes with a moral:

    We often think about the best way to act, but reality and our desires are at odds, so we can’t fulfill our intentions. We must believe that what we already have is best for us.

    One month, the Bomia gallery received a commission to create paintings from photographs of a small American town. A middleman in southern China sent the pictures, and he requested a twenty-four-inch-by-twenty-inch oil reproduction of each photo. He emphasized that the quality had to be first-rate, because the scenes were destined for the foreign market. Other than that, he gave no details. Middlemen tended to be secretive about orders, as a way of protecting their profit.

    When I visited later that month, Chen Meizi and Hu Jianhui had finished most of the commission. Chen was about to start work on one of the final snapshots: a big white barn with two silos. I asked her what she thought it was.

    “A development zone,” she said.

    I told her that it was a farm. “So big just for a farm?” she said. “What are those for?”

    I said that the silos were used for grain.

    “Those big things are for grain?” she said, laughing. “I thought they were for storing chemicals!”

    Now she studied the scene with new eyes. “I can’t believe how big it is,” she said. “Where’s the rest of the village?”

    I explained that American farmers usually live miles outside town.

    “Where are their neighbors?” she asked.

    “They’re probably far away, too.”

    “Aren’t they lonely?”

    “It doesn’t bother them,” I said. “That’s how farming is in America.”

    I knew that if I hadn’t been asking questions Chen probably wouldn’t have thought twice about the scene. As far as she was concerned, it was pointless to speculate about things that she didn’t need to know; she felt no need to develop a deeper connection with the outside. In that sense, she was different from Little Long. He was a searcher—in Lishui, I often met such individuals who hoped to go beyond their niche industry and learn something else about the world. But it was even more common to encounter pragmatists like Chen Meizi. She had her skill, and she did her work; it made no difference what she painted.

    From my outsider’s perspective, her niche was so specific and detailed that it made me curious. I often studied her paintings, trying to figure out where they came from, and the American commission struck me as particularly odd. Apart from the farm, most portraits featured what appeared to be a main street in a small town. There were pretty shop fronts and well-kept sidewalks; the place seemed prosperous. Of all the commissioned paintings, the most beautiful one featured a distinctive red brick building. It had a peaked roof, tall old-fashioned windows, and a white railed porch. An American flag hung from a pole, and a sign on the second story said “Miers Hospital 1904.”

    The building had an air of importance, but there weren’t any other clues or details. On the wall of the Chinese gallery, the scene was completely flat: neither Chen nor I had any idea what she had just spent two days painting. I asked to see the original photograph, and I noticed that the sign should have read “Miners Hospital.” Other finished paintings also had misspelled signs, because Chen and Hu didn’t speak English. One shop called Overland had a sign that said “Fine Sheepskin and Leather Since 1973”; the artists had turned it into “Fine Sheepskim Leather Sine 1773.” A “Bar” was now a “Dah.” There was a “Hope Nuseum,” a shop that sold “Amiques,” and a “Residentlal Bboker.” In a few cases, I preferred the new versions—who wouldn’t want to drink at a place called Dah? But I helped the artists make corrections, and afterward everything looked perfect. I told Chen that she’d done an excellent job on the Miners Hospital, but she waved off my praise.
    continued next post
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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  10. #10
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    Continued from previous post

    Once, not long after we met, I asked her how she first became interested in oil painting. “Because I was a terrible student,” she said. “I had bad grades, and I couldn’t get into high school. It’s easier to get accepted to an art school than to a technical school, so that’s what I did.”

    “Did you like to draw when you were little?”

    “No.”

    “But you had natural talent, right?”

    “Absolutely none at all!” she said, laughing. “When I started, I couldn’t even hold a brush!”

    “Did you study well?”

    “No. I was the worst in the class.”

    “But did you enjoy it?”

    “No. I didn’t like it one bit.”

    Her responses were typical of migrants from the countryside, where there’s a strong tradition of humility as well as pragmatism. In the factory town, people usually described themselves as ignorant and inept, even when they seemed quite skilled. That was another reason that Chen took so little interest in the scenes she painted: it wasn’t her place to speculate, and she scoffed at anything that might seem pretentious. As part of the Barbizon project, the cadres had distributed a promotional DVD about Lishui, emphasizing the town’s supposed links to world art. But Chen refused to watch the video. (“I’m sure it’s stupid!”) Instead, she hung the DVD on a nail beside her easel, and she used the shiny side as a mirror while working. She held up the disk and compared her paintings to the originals; by seeing things backward, it was easier to spot mistakes. “They taught us how to do this in art school,” she said.

    Together with her boyfriend, Chen earned about a thousand dollars every month, which is excellent in a small city. To me, her story was amazing: I couldn’t imagine coming from a poor Chinese farm, learning to paint, and finding success with scenes that were entirely foreign. But Chen took no particular pride in her accomplishment. These endeavors were so technical and specific that, at least for the workers involved, they essentially had no larger context. People who had grown up without any link to the outside world suddenly developed an extremely specialized role in the export economy; it was like taking their first view of another country through a microscope.

    The Lishui experience seemed to contradict one of the supposed benefits of globalization: the notion that economic exchanges naturally lead to greater understanding. But Lishui also contradicted the critics who believe that globalized links are disorienting and damaging to the workers at the far end of the chain. The more time I spent in the city, the more I was impressed with how comfortable people were with their jobs. They didn’t worry about who consumed their products, and very little of their self-worth seemed to be tied up in these trades. There were no illusions of control—in a place like Lishui, which combined remoteness with the immediacy of world-market demands, people accepted an element of irrationality. If a job disappeared or an opportunity dried up, workers didn’t waste time wondering why, and they moved on. Their humility helped, because they never perceived themselves as being the center of the world. When Chen Meizi had chosen her specialty, she didn’t expect to find a job that matched her abilities; she expected to find new abilities that matched the available jobs. The fact that her vocation was completely removed from her personality and her past was no more disorienting than the scenes she painted—if anything, it simplified things. She couldn’t tell the difference between a foreign factory and a farm, but it didn’t matter. The mirror’s reflection allowed her to focus on details; she never lost herself in the larger scene.

    Whenever I went to Lishui, I moved from one self-contained world to another, visiting the people I knew. I’d spend a couple of hours surrounded by paintings of Venice, then by manhole covers, then by cheap cotton gloves. Once, walking through a vacant lot, I saw a pile of bright-red high heels that had been dumped in the weeds. They must have been factory rejects; no shoes, just dozens of unattached heels. In the empty lot, the heels looked stubby and sad, like the detritus of some failed party. They made me think of hangovers and spilled ashtrays and conversations gone on too long.

    The associations were different when you came from the outside. There were many products I had never spent a minute thinking about, like pleather—synthetic leather—that in Lishui suddenly acquired a disproportionate significance. More than twenty big factories made the stuff; it was shipped in bulk to other parts of China, where it was fashioned into car seats, purses, and countless other goods. In the city, pleather was so ubiquitous that it had developed a distinct local lore. Workers believed that the product involved dangerous chemicals, and they thought it was bad for the liver. They said that a woman who planned to have children should not work on the assembly line.

    These ideas were absolutely standard; even teen-agers fresh from the farm seemed to pick them up the moment they arrived in the city. But it was impossible to tell where the rumors came from. There weren’t any warnings posted on factories, and I never saw a Lishui newspaper article about pleather; assembly-line workers rarely read the papers anyway. They didn’t know people who had become ill, and they couldn’t tell me whether there had been any scientific studies of the risks. They referred to the supposedly harmful chemical as du, a general term that means “poison.” Nevertheless, these beliefs ran so deep that they shaped that particular industry. Virtually no young women worked on pleather assembly lines, and companies had to offer relatively high wages in order to attract anybody. At those plants, you saw many older men—the kind of people who can’t get jobs at most Chinese factories.

    The flow of information was a mystery to me. Few people had much formal education, and assembly-line workers rarely had time to use the Internet. They didn’t follow the news; they had no interest in politics. They were the least patriotic people I ever met in China—they saw no connection between the affairs of state and their own lives. They accepted the fact that nobody else cared about them; in a small city like Lishui, there weren’t any N.G.O.s or prominent organizations that served workers. They depended strictly on themselves, and their range of contacts seemed narrow, but somehow it wasn’t a closed world. Ideas arrived from the outside, and people acted decisively on what seemed to be the vaguest rumor or the most trivial story. That was key: information might be limited, but people were mobile, and they had confidence that their choices mattered. It gave them a kind of agency, although from a foreigner’s perspective it contributed to the strangeness of the place. I was accustomed to the opposite—a world where people preferred to be stable, and where they felt most comfortable if they had large amounts of data at their disposal, as well as the luxury of time to make a decision.

    In Lishui, people moved incredibly fast with regard to new opportunities. This quality lay at the heart of the city’s relationship with the outside world: Lishui was home to a great number of pragmatists, and there were quite a few searchers as well, but everybody was an opportunist in the purest sense. The market taught them that—factory workers changed jobs frequently, and entrepreneurs could shift their product line at the drop of a hat. There was one outlying community called Shifan, where people seemed to find a different income source every month. It was a new town; residents had been resettled there from Beishan, a village in the mountains where the government was building a new hydroelectric dam to help power the factories. In Shifan, there was no significant industry, but small-time jobs began to appear from the moment the place was founded. Generally, these tasks consisted of piecework commissioned by some factory in the city.
    continued next post
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
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  11. #11
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    Continued from previous post

    Once a month, I visited a family named the Wus, and virtually every time they introduced me to some new and obscure trade. For a while, they joined their neighbors in sewing colored beads onto the uppers of children’s shoes; then there was a period during which they attached decorative strips to hair bands. After that, they assembled tiny light bulbs. For a six-week stretch, they made cotton gloves on a makeshift assembly line.

    On one visit to Shifan, I discovered that the Wus’ son, Wu Zengrong, and his friends had purchased five secondhand computers, set up a broadband connection, and become professional players of a video game called World of Warcraft. It was one of the most popular online games in the world, with more than seven million subscribers. Players developed characters over time, accumulating skills, equipment, and treasure. Online markets had sprung up in which people could buy and sell virtual treasure, and some Chinese had started doing this as a full-time job; it had recently spread to Lishui. The practice is known as “gold farming.”

    Wu Zengrong hadn’t had any prior interest in video games. He hardly ever went online; his family had never had an Internet connection before. He had been trained as a cook, and would take jobs in small restaurants that served nearby factory towns. Occasionally, he did low-level assembly-line work. But his brother-in-law, a cook in the city of Ningbo, learned about World of Warcraft, and he realized that the game paid better than standing over a wok. He called his buddies, and three of them quit their jobs, pooled their money, and set up shop in Shifan. Others joined them; they played around the clock in twelve-hour shifts. All of them had time off on Wednesdays. For World of Warcraft, that was a special day: the European servers closed for regular maintenance from 5 a.m. until 8 a.m., Paris time. Whenever I visited Shifan on a Wednesday, Wu Zengrong and his friends were smoking cigarettes and hanging out, enjoying their weekend as established by World of Warcraft.

    They became deadly serious when they played. They had to worry about getting caught, because Blizzard Entertainment, which owns World of Warcraft, had decided that gold farming threatened the game’s integrity. Blizzard monitored the community, shutting down any account whose play pattern showed signs of commercial activity. Wu Zengrong originally played the American version, but after getting caught a few times he jumped over to the German one. On a good day, he made the equivalent of about twenty-five dollars. If an account got shut down, he lost a nearly forty-dollar investment. He sold his points online to a middleman in Fujian Province.

    One Saturday, I spent an afternoon watching Wu Zengrong play. He was a very skinny man with a nervous air; his long, thin fingers flashed across the keyboard. Periodically, his wife, Lili, entered the room to watch. She wore a gold-colored ring on her right hand that had been made from a euro coin. That had become a fashion in southern Zhejiang, where shops specialized in melting down the coins and turning them into jewelry. It was another ingenious local industry: a way to get a ring that was both legitimately foreign and cheaply made in Zhejiang.

    Wu Zengrong worked on two computers, jumping back and forth between three accounts. His characters travelled in places with names like Kalimdor, Tanaris, and Dreadmaul Rock; he fought Firegut Ogres and Sandfury Hideskinners. Periodically, a message flashed across the screen: “You loot 7 silver, 75 copper.” Wu couldn’t understand any of it; his ex-cook brother-in-law had taught him to play the game strictly by memorizing shapes and icons. At one point, Wu’s character encountered piles of dead Sandfury Axe Throwers and Hideskinners, and he said to me, “There’s another player around here. I bet he’s Chinese, too. You can tell because he’s killing everybody just to get the treasure.”

    After a while, we saw the other player, whose character was a dwarf. I typed in a message: “How are you doing?” Wu didn’t want me to write in Chinese, for fear that administrators would spot him as a gold farmer.

    Initially, there was no response; I tried again. At last, the dwarf spoke: “???”

    I typed, “Where are you from?”

    This time he wrote, “Sorry.” From teaching English in China, I knew that’s how all students respond to any question they can’t answer. And that was it; the dwarf resumed his methodical slaughter in silence. “You see?” Wu said, laughing. “I told you he’s Chinese!”

    Two months later, when I visited Shifan again, three of the computers had been sold, and Wu was preparing to get rid of the others. He and his friends had decided that playing in Germany was no longer profitable enough; Blizzard kept shutting them down. Wu showed me the most recent e-mail message he had received from the company:

    Greetings,

    We are writing to inform you that we have, unfortunately, had to cancel your World of Warcraft account. . . . It is with regret that we take this type of action, however, it is in the best interest of the World of Warcraft community as a whole.

    The message appeared in four different languages, none of which was spoken by Wu Zengrong. It didn’t matter: after spending his twenties bouncing from job to job in factory towns, and having his family relocated for a major dam project, he felt limited trauma at being expelled from the World of Warcraft community. The next time I saw him, he was applying for a passport. He had some relatives in Italy; he had heard that there was money to be made there. When I asked where he planned to go, he said, “Maybe Rome, or maybe the Water City.” I stood with him in the passport-application line at the county government office, where I noticed that his papers said “Wu Zengxiong.” He explained that a clerk had miswritten his given name on an earlier application, so now it was simpler to just use that title. He was becoming somebody else, on his way to a country he’d never seen, preparing to do something completely new. When I asked what kind of work he hoped to find and what the pay might be, he said, “How can I tell? I haven’t been there yet.” Next to us in line, a friend in his early twenties told me that he planned to go to Azerbaijan, where he had a relative who might help him do business. I asked the young man if Azerbaijan was an Islamic country, and he said, “I don’t know. I haven’t been there yet.”
    continued next post
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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  12. #12
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    No counterfeit Peppas in PRC

    Peppa Pig won't fall victim to Chinese knock-offs? I suspect I could still find some in China...or maybe at the Dollar Store.

    Peppa Pig safe as Chinese courts crack down on counterfeits
    By Kirsty Needham
    March 12, 2019 — 5.28pm

    Beijing: Chinese courts have seen a 42 per cent surge in intellectual property rights cases, as the Chinese government seeks to show it is heeding foreign business complaints about intellectual property theft.

    The president of the Supreme People’s Court, Zhou Qiang, on Tuesday highlighted the success of a foreign company in defending the copyright of Peppa Pig through a new online court system.


    Peppa Pig has become an unlikely symbol for rebelliousness in China. Here's a non-copyright Peppa Pig tatoo on social media, Weibo.CREDIT:WEIBO

    The Hangzhou Internet Court last year found in favour of two British companies who complained about a Peppa Pig copyright infringement by a Chinese toy company. The company was ordered to pay 150,000 Chinese yuan ($31,000) in compensation and stop selling the fake toys online.

    Intellectual property theft by Chinese companies has been a sore point in trade war negotiations with the United States. China is seeking to strike a deal with the Trump Administration to end punitive tariffs on Chinese goods.'

    Zhou said in the Supreme Court’s work report to the National People’s Congress on Tuesday that 15,000 foreign-related civil and commercial cases had been resolved through Chinese courts in 2018.

    A total of 288,000 intellectual property right trials were conducted in all courts.


    China's Chief Justice Zhou Qiang delivers a report on the country's legal system.CREDIT:AP

    In a legal boost to intellectual property rights protection, a new Intellectual Property Rights court was established in the Supreme Court to deal with “technically strong intellectual property right appeals such as patents,” and to unify standards of judgement. Another 19 IPR courts were built.

    The report said 8325 people were criminally prosecuted for infringing patent rights and trademark rights, an increase of 16.3 per cent, the report said.

    The head of China’s State Administration for Market Regulation, Zhang Mao, said on Monday at the congress that counterfeiting would be “cracked down on severely”.

    ”We need to significantly increase the cost of such acts to make the violators go bankrupt, and to publicly reveal their identities so there is no place to hide,” Zhang said.

    Chinese state media reported that historically penalties for intellectual property rights infringement had been low. Shen Changyu, head of the National Intellectual Property Administration said a new government measure would stipulate compensation that is five-times higher for intentional copyright infringement.

    Chinese courts are regarded as having high conviction rates. The Supreme Court’s annual work report showed it had overturned 10 “major wrongful convictions” in 2018, and acquitted 517 defendants in public prosecution cases and 302 defendants in private prosecution cases.

    Around 1000 court staff were investigated for abusing power.

    Meanwhile, cases involving the violation of personal information grew by 68 per cent.


    Kirsty Needham is China Correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
    Support our forum by getting your gear at MartialArtSmart

  13. #13
    Join Date
    Jan 1970
    Location
    Fremont, CA, U.S.A.
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    48,207

    copycat legos

    Chinese toy company busted for being a massive Lego copycat
    Lepin will no longer be selling its "Lego compatible" block sets
    by Alex Linder April 30, 2019



    A Chinese toymaker has been forced to shut down production of its block sets after being revealed as a Lego copycat.

    Though, perhaps “revealed” isn’t quite the right word. Make a quick visit to lepinland.com and it isn’t difficult to notice the similarities between the Chinese company’s branding/products and those of the world-renowned Danish toy giant.



    Shanghai police first picked up on these similarities back in October of last year, leading to a recent raid on Lepin’s warehouses and factory in Shenzhen which resulted in a whopping 630,000 finished products being seized worth an estimated 200 million yuan ($29.7 million). The products were described by police as being copied from Lego blueprints.

    Four people were also arrested. Here are a few pics from the raid including themed packaging labeled “The Lepin Bricks 2” which was released to coincide with The Lego Movie 2.



    On their website, Lepin offered a number of different block sets which were advertised as being “Lego compatible.” The sets are also considerably cheaper than genuine Legos. For instance, the Millennium Falcon set is priced at $313, compared to more than $800 on Lego’s official website.



    The vast majority of Lepin’s products are now listed as being “out of stock.” On its website, the company has issued a statement saying that it will “temporary” stop production on all LEPIN Blocks Set from May 1st at the request of the Chinese government and Shanghai police.
    Star Union.
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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  14. #14
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    Aug 2010
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    Great Lakes State, U.S.A.
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    1,645
    Screw Union. Will most definitely see some heads roll on this one!

  15. #15
    Join Date
    Jan 1970
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    fake pandas

    Chinese 'panda' pet cafe raises eyebrows
    By News from Elsewhere...
    ...as found by BBC Monitoring
    8 hours ago


    HONGXING NEWS
    A pet cafe in China's Sichuan province lets people play with dogs dyed to look like pandas.

    ​Animal cafes have been springing up all over the world for the last two decades as a place for animal lovers to enjoy a meal alongside their furry friends.

    But a new "panda" cafe in Chengdu in south-western China - internationally known as the home of the giant panda - is raising eyebrows and a lot of concern.

    According to the Chengdu Economic Daily, a cafe recently opened in Chengdu, seems at first glance to be home to six giant panda cubs.

    But the "panda" cafe is - in fact - all bark and no bite because on closer inspection, it turns out they are actually the Chow Chow breed of dogs, which have been dyed to look like China's national animal.

    'Could damage their fur and skin'

    The owner of the cafe, Mr Huang, says that as well as serving food and drink, the cafe provides a dyeing service.

    He tells Hongxing News that he imports his dye from Japan and has hired special staff for dyeing the dogs.

    "Every time we dye it costs 1,500 yuan [$211; £163]," he says. "The dye is really expensive." He says that this is to ensure the quality of the dye, and says that it in no way affects the animals.

    Hongxing News says that a short video inside the cafe had raised awareness of it nationally and has boosted visitor figures.

    But it has also raised a lot of concern. One vet, Li Daibing, told Hongxing News that he urged people not to dye their pets, saying: "This could damage their fur and skin."


    VCG
    Chengdu has become a popular tourist site for seeing the vulnerable species, and national Chinese treasure: the giant panda.

    'Has become normal'

    Dyeing pets became a full-blown craze in China in the early 2010s, first for competitions, but then amidst a domestic wave of "extreme dog pampering".

    Since, however, there has been a growing consciousness in China about animal ethics and testing. Many of the thousands of social media users commenting on the popular Sina Weibo microblog have voiced their concern about such treatments being used on animals.

    Many call the idea "crazy" and note that hair dye can "damage people's hair and scalp", so could similarly affect a dog.

    But others argue that "it's really cute", and say that they perceive animal dyeing "has become normal".

    It's not just China either - earlier this year, the Latitude Festival in Suffolk was criticised by the RSPCA after a flock of sheep were dyed pink.

    Reporting by Kerry Allen
    THREADS
    Pandas!
    Chinese Counterfeits, Fakes & Knock-Offs
    Gene Ching
    Publisher www.KungFuMagazine.com
    Author of Shaolin Trips
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