"The tears simply wouldn't stop""Puruogangri isn't a distant place; it's a coordinate of conscience!"."They left their souls on the glacier, and left their tears with me." "The purest film of the year, so pure it pierces the heart."

At the end of 2025, to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the establishment of the Xizang Autonomous Region, the film "The Distant Puruogangri" was released in theaters across the country. Focusing on the perseverance and dedication of aid-Xizang cadres and the local people, its true story resonated powerfully, earning widespread acclaim.

"The Distant Puruogangri" is not a film "about Xizang," but one about "how people live in Xizang." It pushes the majestic scenery into the background and brings choices, endurance, and sacrifice to the foreground.

Amidst the long journeys, oxygen-deprived breaths, loss and perseverance, it asks again and again: If one's whole life is spent far away, how should a person live with fate?   What lines left aid-Xizang cadres in tears, making them exclaim, "This is exactly our daily life"? What kind of decision led two directors to persist at five thousand meters plateau with less than half the oxygen and in temperatures below minus twenty degrees, risking life for a single frame? What kind of team allowed the camera to truly enter the uninhabited zone for the first time, turning the daily reality of grassroots cadres into the heart of a mainstream film? And what kind of shoot compelled the director to sign a waiver before venturing deep into the wild, and led an actor to dive repeatedly into freezing water for over forty minutes—all for one irreplaceable moment of truth?

When the aid-Xizang cadres carries his late wife's body toward the wilderness, is his cry of"I quit!" a shout of breakdown or the starting point of perseverance? And as we sit in the warm cinema, can we truly grasp the silent echo of 50 years of persistence and farewell in the song"Answer"?

On this episode of"Chunni's Weekend Time," Chunni hosts an exclusive interview with the creative team behind"The Distant Puruogangri": director Zhao Hantang, screenwriter Cai Yu, Lobsang portrayed by Ngawang Rinchen, Lhamo portrayed by Wangdrotso, Liu Guangwu portrayed by Wang Jiaqiang, and Xiao Sun portrayed by Tenzin Yangdron. Let us together feel the cast and crew's wholehearted dedication, risking life for art. Within breathtaking landscapes and profound humanity, we come to understand what it truly means for"the ordinary to be great."

Hypoxia on the plateau, minus thirty degrees Celsius, surviving on just three or four hours of sleep a day, how did 19-year-old Tezin Yangdron manage to film her first-ever scene in a no-man’s land? Challenged with the weighty role of grassroots worker"Xiao Sun" in her acting debut, why did she lock herself in her room to cry alone? And what led the director to"scold"her on set? In such extreme conditions, winds strong enough to sweep a person away, tomatoes frozen rock-hard, face cream that had to be wrapped in blankets overnight, how did this selfie-loving, cheerful girl from Lhasa endure altitude sickness, loneliness, and self-doubt? When she lay in the car with lips purpled, breathing through an oxygen mask, did she ever think of giving up? The song"Answer" that plays at the end of the film carries in its lyrics the weight of 200,000-year-old glaciers and fifty years of steadfast dedication, but to whom, exactly, is this"answer"addressed?

What makes the herders believe that a stethoscope can cure all ailments? When Lhamo's white coat fluttered in the highland blizzard, and the stethoscope pressed against the herder's chest—was it a clash of unfamiliarity and trust, or an embrace of goodwill and innocence? Why did the scene featuring real herders as actors fill the set with laughter and warmth? When the herder insisted on looking straight at the camera to deliver his lines, his puzzled, "Don’t you always look at the phone when taking pictures?" what kind of sincerity and clarity lay behind it? How was the miracle of a cesarean section performed at an altitude of 5,000 meters created? The two children named"Huo Dangsheng" and"Huo Yousheng"—what gratitude and remembrance do their names carry? When Wangdrotso said, "The children will live in a better place," did this hope stem from the progress of the times, or from the steadfast dedication of countless medical workers?

How did Wangdrotso make the medical workers feel more authentic? 

To film in the uninhabited zone, did the crew really sign a "life-or-death waiver"? Was it worth traveling counterclockwise across one of the planet's hardest-to-reach places, just for one shot? 

At an altitude of 5,700 meters inside a volcanic crater, how did they survive by chipping ice? After running out of food and water, they chewed ice to quench their hunger and cooked yellow rice with alkaline water—what was the true belief behind such artistic creation? That birthday cake shattered into crumbs—was it a gesture of tenderness in the wilderness, or a poignant act of perseverance amid hardship? Dancing in seven layers of pants at -30°C, when Tang Shiyi was hit by falling chunks of snow, was she thinking of romance or on the verge of breaking down? When the snow of the uninhabited land fell upon the camera lens, was it obscuring the story or revealing the creators' relentless pursuit of perfection?

Did filming in the uninhabited area truly involve life-and-death risks?  

Why did the creative team risk a nearly "suicidal" shoot over 62 days on a 5,000-meter ice field, where oxygen levels are less than half those of the plains? How did Ngawang Rinchen channel the life experiences of his herder heritage into the unvoiced yet earth-shaking cry of Township Head Losang? When he repeatedly plunged into the ice river at -27°C for over forty minutes, was it the character sustaining the actor, or the actor offering himself as a sacrifice to the role?

Ngawang Rinchen grew numb from hypothermia in the freezing water yet remarked, "In the water, at least I don’t feel the wind." This absurd yet poignant logic reflects the most profound truth of this land. What drove this group to willingly lose over ten pounds and endure heart rates soaring to 108 bpm, all to capture every frame "as beautiful as a screensaver"?

How did Ngawang Rinchen face challenges without fear in pursuit of perfection?

Why did Zhao Hantang and Cai Yu choose to immerse themselves in the uninhabited region of northern Xizang in February, when oxygen is most scarce? The 360-degree panoramic view of glaciers can only be captured in winter—what irreplaceable creative conviction lies behind this pursuit of extreme visual aesthetics? Encircled by glaciers in the Changtang uninhabited zone, it takes four days to set up tents and five days to complete the shoot. Summer brings vast marshes with no passable roads, while only the frozen rivers of winter offer a brief window of opportunity. Is this struggle with the rhythms of nature a creative compromise or an artistic necessity?

The pristine beauty of snow falling on glaciers is a fleeting wonder, only possible to capture before the strong spring winds arrive. How many bitterly cold days and nights did the creative team endure to seize this ephemeral beauty? Those deeply moving stories, inspired by real lives devoted to passion and paying homage to the land through genuine settings—can such unwavering dedication reawaken our reverence for pure artistic creation?

Why insist on location filming?

Who was it that ran at an altitude of 5,000 meters clutching the body of their beloved, every breath feeling like their chest was being torn apart? Who shouted, "I quit!" only to silently return to their post in the snowstorm? Why did the director first think of Liu Guangwu for the role, and how does Wang Jiaqiang interpret this character that almost "mirrors reality"? Why did he say that the scene of rushing out carrying his wife was the ultimate test of physical and spiritual exhaustion? When the camera retraced the actual route of sending his wife's body to Lhasa, did the colleagues who once helped carry the coffin dare to look directly at the screen? When the dream of the small shop shattered on the icefield, did the steering wheel point toward home or the nation? Could the words, "From now on, I'll listen to you in everything," still call back the spring that had passed away?

Translator: Dan Zhen, Liu Fang

Photo & Filming: Xizang Daily

Review: Li Chengye