A leading member of the new Sixth Generation of Chinese filmmakers—following the rightly heralded Fifth Generation, which includes Zhang Yimou, Chen Kaige, and Tian Zhuangzhuang—Wang Xiaoshuai established himself as a strong voice of dissent with 1994's Frozen, an underground film that he made under the pseudonym "Wu Ming." (Translation: "anonymous.") Wang's most recent films, 1998's uneven B-picture So Close To Paradise and the simple, uncompromising new Beijing Bicycle, bury subversive sentiments in familiar genres and the shrewd use of symbolism, much like the work of the generation before him. In spite of Wang's efforts to sneak it through the system, So Close To Paradise was gutted by state censors, who objected to Wang's corrosive portrait of late-'80s Shanghai, and kept the film on the shelf for three years. But it may be a sign of the rapidly changing times that Beijing Bicycle, a pointed critique of materialism and class division in the new economy, was allowed to slip past with its dramatic potency intact. Wang borrows the basic premise of Vittorio De Sica's neo-realist classic The Bicycle Thief, looking at Beijing from behind the handlebars to reveal a changing city. In the new Beijing, the modern world mingles with an increasingly antiquated one, and the gap between the haves and have-nots grows more pronounced. A similarly sharp division exists between the two main characters: one a young man from the country trying to eke out a livelihood in Beijing, the other a lower-class urban teen seeking status among his well-to-do classmates. Having just arrived from his village, Cui Lin takes a job with a messenger service that pays him 10 yuan per delivery. Once he reaches 600 yuan, Cui will be able to pay off the company mountain bike and earn a more sizable cut of the courier fee. When someone steals his bike just a day before he makes the payment, Cui vows to track it down and get his job back, despite the seeming futility of finding it in a massive city where bike traffic floods the roadways. After a doggedly persistent search, he finds the bike in the hands of Li Bin, who in turn bought it at a flea market with money he stole from his father. In spite of their varying backgrounds and circumstances, both are under tremendous pressure to hold onto the bike: Cui needs it to survive and establish his independence, while Li wants desperately to fit in with his wealthier friends and maintain his grip on this marginal status symbol. Even without its bleak and affecting story, Beijing Bicycle would work beautifully as a travelogue alone. It visits the high and low ends of the social spectrum, from towering skyscrapers and swanky health spas to the maze of squalid back alleys that still wind around the city. Though repetitive and heavy-handed at times, the film doesn't succumb to cheap sentimentality or waver from its insistently despairing view of the class struggle. In paying homage to De Sica, Wang finally clarifies his own vision.