In “To Kill a Mongolian Horse,” which premiered at Venice, heroism is not instant—it requires time, particularly the kind that attracts audiences at popular horse shows. “I’m from here—I grew up on this land. Yet, each time I witness these shows, I find myself moved. They’re breathtaking, but eventually, my focus shifted to the performers,” shares debut director Jiang Xiaoxuan with Variety.
Curiosity led her behind the scenes.
“The performers don elaborate costumes and makeup to transform into these heroic figures. It’s a process, not something innate. Even Marvel superheroes have their ordinary side before they suit up. But how do they put on that armor?” Jiang muses. Drawn from true events and inspired by her friend Saina—who takes the lead role—Jiang crafted a tale of a Mongolian horseman who becomes a performer while striving to save his ranch. Meanwhile, the mother of his child pushes him toward a more conventional job.
“My friend faced similar choices to earn a living and find his place in society. It resonated with me,” Jiang reveals.
“I was at a crossroads in my filmmaking journey, grappling with how to create the films I’m passionate about while also maintaining a sustainable career. Many of my peers turned to commercials for financial stability, so I understand the dilemma of pursuing something that offers little in return. Plus, I was approaching the age where Asian parents start asking about marriage,” she chuckles. “The conflict between societal roles and the desire to be authentic— I’ve felt that too.” Selected for the Venice Days section, the film, produced by Zhulin Mo for Da Huang Pictures, is a collaboration between Malaysia, the U.S., Hong Kong, Korea, and Japan, with Pluto Film managing sales.
“We succeeded because of our minimal budget. We worked with nonprofessionals, which was a blessing. If a scene called for a blizzard, we waited for a real one,” Jiang explains. “Such films are rare now, especially post-COVID. Many lack access to international funding or the comfort to communicate in English. My team was fortunate to have those skills, and we were present at the major markets.”
While Jiang fought for her film, her protagonist is less assertive, caught in a transition with little control. “I call it passive resistance, which can be amusing. He’s not part of a grand Mongolian hero’s journey outside the shows. When he finally acts, it feels like the fourth wall is broken,” she says.
Through it all, his horse remains a constant companion.
“It wasn’t about overtly showing their bond. I wanted the horse to mirror his state—aging, no longer useful, a reflection of a way of life fading away. They’re both out of place, yet perfect for each other,” Jiang adds. “White horses hold deep spiritual importance for Mongolians—and they look fantastic on screen!”