Editor's note: The author of the article is Leng Chan. The article reflects the author's views and not necessarily those of CGTN.

A few years ago, I was invited to write a short piece about the Taiwan-based Golden Horse Awards. I gave it a cheeky title, "The 'Golden Horse' is a mighty steed." The editor thought it sounded too colloquial and unworthy of the awards' prestige, so they dropped it. At the time, the respect, high hopes and even reverence people had for the Golden Horse Awards were palpable and etched in everyone's minds. Who could have predicted that, years later, we'd find ourselves here? I forced myself to glance at this year's Golden Horse Awards and could only lament how its brilliance has faded, leaving behind a "golden" hue tarnished and a "horse" grown weak. The transformation stirs a deep sense of regret.

Why was the Golden Horse once so glorious? Ask ten people, and you'll get ten answers. This, in itself, speaks to how the Golden Horse Awards flourished thanks to a convergence of complex forces. Yet at its core, two key factors stand out.

First, the seamless exchange across regions – Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macao and the Chinese mainland. When the Golden Horse Awards were first established, they were not only geographically confined to Taiwan but also culturally stifled by the ideological constraints imposed by the Taiwan authority. At best, they served as an insular form of entertainment, incapable of exerting any meaningful cultural influence. It wasn't until the late 1980s and early 1990s, when the awards transitioned into a more independent, civilian-run operation, that exchanges with Hong Kong and mainland filmmakers surged. This marked the beginning of a cultural renaissance – a convergence of Chinese cultural branches into one flow. The Golden Horse Awards became one of the arbiters of Chinese-language cinema. Without the broader domestic and international context of the time, such a transformation would have been unthinkable.

Second, during its golden years, the people in charge of the Golden Horse Awards had a genuine understanding of art and culture. Their insights enabled them to offer true respect to filmmakers – even when misunderstandings or biases inevitably surfaced. This professional attitude, in turn, inspired a cultural idealism that resonated with filmmakers, particularly industry giants, who were willing to pour their hearts into the awards. Their collective effort raised the Golden Horse's credibility and influence, positioning it as a worthy rival to the mainland's Golden Rooster Awards and Hong Kong Film Awards in the race to crown the ultimate arbiter of Chinese-language cinema.

In simpler terms, the Golden Horse Awards once thrived because they broke down barriers and promoted unity and exchange, leading to a wide range of artistic innovation and cultural progress. Without these two ingredients, its success would never have been possible. But when the Golden Horse strays from these principles, the harder it tries to fight forrelevance, the more complete its failure becomes.

The current actions of the Golden Horse Awards' organizers and their vocal supporters can be aptly described as "courting disaster by stubbornly doing what shouldn't be done." It's almost as if they're sharpening their knives to butcher the very horse that once carried them to glory. Take director Ang Lee, for instance. He is undoubtedly a staunch supporter of the Golden Horse Awards, yet his loyalty has been turned against him. Time and again, he's dragged onto the stage – sometimes blindsided and undermined, other times paraded as a symbol of dwindling authority. Meanwhile, his contributions to Chinese history and culture through cinematic innovation and artistry are conveniently glossed over. Ang Lee has effectively become a "film hostage," forced to endure the spotlight with a weary, bittersweet smile.

This year, he presented the Lifetime Achievement Award to the late actress Cheng Pei-pei. One wonders if the organizers ever watched Cheng's portrayal of She Tai Jun (She Saihua ) in "Legendary Fighter: Yang’s Heroine." It's deeply ironic that they invite filmmakers who sincerely respect and embody Chinese traditional culture to lend credibility to what is, in essence, a political variety show – sometimes subtly, sometimes brazenly – advocating separatism. The cognitive dissonance is staggering, and the absurdity of it all borders on the surreal.

There's a cruel irony here: Both the motives and methods of these individuals are nothing new. History has seen such theatrics play out repeatedly, and the endings are always the same – a failure as written in the pages of history. While it's true that such farces represent a particularly dark and unpleasant chapter of Chinese cultural heritage, their futile performance only serves to highlight an even greater irony.

Despite their frantic attempts to stage a Taiwan "independence" spectacle cloaked in a veneer of de-sinicization, they remain trapped in the ugliest, most insignificant corner of the very Chinese cultural legacy they claim to reject. What we must do is clear: Discard this hollow and twisted fragment of history while preserving the authentic and virtuous essence of traditional Chinese culture. Only then can we move into the 21st century with grace and confidence, unburdened by such petty distractions.

In recent years, the Golden Horse Awards have adopted what they likely see as a clever strategy: gathering a group of like-minded "fair-weather friends" from the Chinese mainland and Hong Kong to form a cozy alliance in the chill of winter. If these "friends" produce works that can be likened to "cultural weapons," it aligns perfectly with the awards' current agenda. If some of these "friends" once held influence in the film world, they're elevated to prime seating on the awards stage to boost the show's image. And if one of these "friends" happens to have been favored by the West, they are treated as veritable "chosen ones."

Looking at this year's list of Golden Horse winners, one can't help but sense an almost pathological generosity of the organizers, not unlike Taiwan authorities when they splurge on overpriced American arms deals. As is customary, these "friends" return the favor by acting as though they've stumbled upon rare kindred spirits, effusively expressing their gratitude and surprise. It's a performance reminiscent of certain officials during the Republican era, basking in their warm "camaraderie" with Japan and the United States. Of course, the world has changed, and some of these friends couldn't attend in person to fully indulge their theatrics under the spotlight – a missed opportunity they may privately regret.

But even if they had, the result would be nothing more than a lightweight farce. These filmmakers and their works have already faded into obscurity within mainland cinema. Figures like Lou Ye and Wang Weihua represent a bygone era of self-absorbed intellectualism, peddling outdated narratives that are disconnected from reality and do little to enlighten or uplift. Watching their films leaves audiences stifled and frustrated.

Then there's the newer crop of filmmakers who blur the line between personal eccentricity and public expression, mistaking exhibitionism for artistry and disregarding both the principles of art and the norms of society. The new generation of mainland audiences are very critical of their works, and have long seen through the veneer of such so-called "art films," stripping away their pretense.

These works, unable to gain traction in the mainland, somehow manage to find their way elsewhere – a feat that's almost impressive in its own way. But when you consider the track record of Taiwan authorities buying subpar American arms – choosing "the bad over the good" – it becomes clear this same logic applies to films.

The arc of history follows a spiral path, advancing in waves. As a veteran moviegoer, I've had the privilege of witnessing the Golden Horse Awards rise to prominence, and I rejoiced in its glory days. Now, watching its decline, I feel some regret – but not devastation. After all, we must accept that even the steadiest horse may stumble. And time will tell that the true achievements of the Golden Horse Awards lie in their foundation: the artistic exploration of Chinese-language cinema, the modern reinterpretation of traditional Chinese culture and the unique context of Chinese modernization.

The problem today, however, is best captured by the saying, "You can never wake someone who pretends to be asleep." Taking this further, you'll never persuade those who go against the tide of history because they stand to gain from it. And once they've benefited, why would they care if the flood water rises? The only effective solution is to follow the wisdom of Yu the Great: Tackle the root of the problem and manage the flood. When that day comes, the Golden Horse Awards will finally rise from its trough and continue forward on a steady path.

On the topic of horses, here's a timely anecdote. Ma, as a surname in Chinese, literally means horse. Shortly after the Golden Horse Awards ended, the Ma Ying-jeou Foundation hosted a delegation of Chinese mainland students and faculty in Taiwan. Among them was Ma Long, the world table tennis champion, whose visit sparked an enthusiastic wave of excitement. Ma Ying-jeou clearly understands something the Golden Horse organizers do not: cultural icons like Ma Long, who inspire and captivate, are the true thousand-mile steeds capable of driving the future. Recognizing this, Ma Ying-jeou even took the opportunity to spar with Ma Long at the table, earnestly and in good spirits.

As the saying goes, “An old horse knows the way.” But finding the right path after wandering astray takes more than mere performance – it requires true wisdom and courage. Without that, no matter how savvy or resourceful, one risks being little more than a horse trader, rather than someone capable of shouldering the weighty responsibility of cultural revival.

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