Editor's note: Mai Ruoyu, a special commentator on current affairs for CGTN, is a veteran journalist and film critic from the Taiwan region. The article reflects the author's opinions and not necessarily the views of CGTN.

Since the political turbulence at the 55th Golden Horse Awards in Taiwan in 2018, cross-strait film exchanges at this once-revered event have ground to a halt. On the other hand, the Chinese mainland's Golden Rooster Awards, relocated to the coastal city of Xiamen in east China, has become a bastion of cinematic excellence. This shift made the Golden Horse Awards retreat to its insular roots, predominantly featuring films made in Taiwan. 

After a six-year hiatus, the 61st Golden Horse Awards last month saw the return of entries from the mainland and Hong Kong, giving a superficial impression of restored relations. Yet, a closer look at the nominees and winners reveals an unsettling descent into political manipulation. 

This year, three mainland directors – Lou Ye, Wang Xiaoshuai and Geng Jun – dominated the main Golden Horse Awards categories, such as Best Feature Film, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Actor. Their nominated work shares a common thread: They faced censorship or failed to get approval in the mainland. This signals that the Golden Horse's embrace of mainland films is nothing more than a strategic gamble, turning banned films into award-winning "heroes." This maneuver attempts to project an illusion of freedom and fairness while exploiting cinematic controversy to bolster political narratives.

But is this "freedom" and "fairness" authentic? The facts speak for themselves. This year's Golden Horse Awards, which claimed to have 276 mainland film entries, operated under opaque rules revealing only the shortlisted nominees and keeping the non-nominated films hidden from scrutiny. This approach raises serious doubts about the integrity of the selection process. For seasoned viewers familiar with mainland cinema, like I, the Golden Horse Awards failed to capture the richness and diversity of Chinese-language films. With such a flawed system, the nominations and winners are no longer a credible showcase of the best in the industry.

The contrast is striking. The cinema of the Chinese mainland consistently delivers exceptional films. This year I’ve had the pleasure of watching films like "Article 20" earlier this year, "Dwelling by the West Lake" and "Viva la Vida" in April, "Like A Rolling Stone" in September and "To Gather Around" in November. Meanwhile, previous hits like "Lost in the Stars," "No More Bets" and "Creation of the Gods I: Kingdom of Storms" demonstrate the sheer breadth and depth of the mainland's cinematic landscape. 

None of these works were featured at the Golden Horse Awards, yet their quality speaks for them, with actors like Lei Jiayin ("Article 20") and Li Gengxi ("Viva la Vida") receiving this year's Best Actor and Best Actress at the Golden Rooster Awards respectively. 

As someone who has spent 30 years as a journalist and film critic, it is disheartening to witness the decline of the Golden Horse Awards. Once a prestigious platform representing the pinnacle of Chinese-language cinema, it now serves as a vehicle for political agendas, sidelining the artistic excellence it once championed.

Criticizing the Golden Horse Awards doesn't mean just pointing out its disregard for high-quality mainland films. Its embrace of controversial, banned works comes at the expense of the genuine cinematic innovation it claims to foster, and today's Golden Horse Awards protects and promotes uninspired local productions, which benefit from lack of competition. 

Take this year's "Dead Talents Society," for example, a film from Taiwan that won five technical awards. The film, about ghostly influencers competing for an annual underworld prize, suffers from a lackluster premise and uninspired execution. Similarly, "The Embers," a film about Taiwan's White Terror period, fails to deliver emotional depth or artistic impact. Such mediocrity highlights how far the Golden Horse has fallen from its former glory. 

In the past, when Taiwan's cinema hit rock bottom and Hong Kong films were no longer in their heyday, the Golden Horse struggled to maintain its Oscar-inspired design and format. It was late director Li Hsing who, recognizing the rise of Chinese mainland cinema, opened the doors for mainland entries at the right time. Over the next decade or so, the Golden Horse Awards leveraged the star power of mainland actors and actresses to ascend to international prominence, earning the reputation of being the "ultimate stage" of Chinese-language cinema. 

But now, I must caution fans of Chinese-language films – and those mainland critics who once viewed a jury seat at the Golden Horse Awards as a badge of honor. When an award ceremony becomes an untouchable sacred cow, worshiped without question or criticism no matter how imperfect or flawed it is, it's no longer a celebration of art but a sign that something has gone deeply wrong.

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