The colour of confinement in Raise the Red Lantern

“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 35^th 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.

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.