Reenchanting the World Through Myth. Alena Saveleva on Hu Li Jing: The Fox Spirit

In Hu Li Jing: The Fox Spirit, filmmaker and visual artist Alena Saveleva enters the realm of myth, animism, and transformation. Set in a distant, timeless forest, the film follows Hu Li Jing, a fox spirit who, weary of her own immortality, undertakes a ritual of abstinence—refusing to hunt for men’s hearts for one thousand days—in an attempt to rediscover her femininity and her place between worlds. But when she steps peacefully into the human world, she is met not with understanding but with fear and violence.

Alena, whose background spans spatial design, fine arts, and media arts, approaches cinema as a visual and philosophical medium, rather than purely as a narrative storytelling tool. Her work focuses on non-linear structures, mythological figures, and what she describes as the “decentralization of the human perspective.” In Hu Li Jing, myth becomes a vehicle for exploring rebirth, femininity, and the fragile boundary between the human and non-human. The film has been selected for several international festivals, including the Ghent Short International Film Festival (2026), Experimental Forum(2026), Laredo Folklore Film Showcase (2025), the Vesuvio International Movie Awards, and the Video Art and Experimental Film Festival (2025).

For Final Cut Magazine, Alena discusses myth, animism, visual perfection, and why cinema still has the power to re-enchant the natural world.

Alena, your film draws on mythological traditions, such as the Fox Spirit legend. What first drew you to this figure, and how did it shape the film?

I have been fascinated by the figure of Kumiho, the Korean vision of the Fox Spirit, since an early age through Korean animation. Being more broadly exposed to Chinese culture in my recent professional life, the direction of my research shifted toward Hu Li Jing, which appears to be a less overtly ominous creature, implying a more liminal and subtle nature beyond strictly defined correlations.

The story is driven by convictions of animism and unfolds in a timeless space that carries a contemporary aesthetic. Although the events take place somewhere in China—more precisely on Han land than in China as a modern state—I also employ the codes of a commonly accepted artistic vision, such as the sublime and ecstasy.

Your work often explores non-human perspectives and mythological themes. What were you trying to express with Hu Li Jing: The Fox Spirit on a deeper level?

In this piece, I render a liminal feminine entity undergoing a painful definition of her beastly essence. She is testing the boundaries of her immortality and rapacity.

The Fox-Woman tears off all her nine tails, along with self-ripped flesh and exposed vertebrae. She is deceptively enchanted by the image of her own prey—a man, in this case. The struggle between them, the aggression and incomprehension she encounters when she arrives with a raw and innocent proposal of cohabitation, draws the viewer’s attention to the disconnection from the ecology of the external world that a human, focused on a self-synthesized reality, is now experiencing.

Eventually, Hu Li Jing returns to her original divinity, to the genuine world of the ineffable. This world is driven by instincts and biological imperatives, yet its predatory aspect appears calming and natural, while still subtly eerie—like everything that belongs to the realm of the unspoken and the unknowable.

This is a very visually driven film. What were the main challenges during production?

As is common in self-impelled, low-budget productions, following a tight shooting timeline was the main challenge. However, I enjoyed the state of being hyper-focused, balancing visual perfection with the limited hours my crew could offer.

You mention visual perfection as a principle in your work. Can you talk about that?

I am particularly concerned about this—not only in this project, but as a principle. I always strive to pursue visual perfection.

The beauty—detected in the habitual natural world on a frantically obsessive basis, even as I employ the language of the grotesque to sharpen perception and reveal the necessity of shadow and decay—is my primary language, because this visual bliss allows the audience to delve more deeply into the innate philosophical undertones without distraction.

Your background is quite diverse—design, fine arts, media arts. How did cinema become your main medium?

I come from a complex background in spatial design, academic fine arts training, and eventually media arts. However, throughout my journey in art, film has always been my primary source of inspiration.

Since adolescence, I have cultivated a serious cinephile taste, seeking cinematic experiences that evoke exaltation rather than mere entertainment. As a media artist, I have been particularly drawn to working with live-action footage, considering it the most genuine and cinematic medium within the realm of moving imagery.

You’re already developing new projects. What themes are you planning to explore next?

I am currently working on another short film, which can be seen as a continuation of my ongoing experiment. The new production will pursue a much larger scale and crew, exploring the theme of the demonic in relation to feminine, non-human significance, as well as self-sacrifice on a deeper level.

I also have preliminary ideas for the short that would follow this one and my first feature, for which I have already been developing a series of concept art pieces. It will be based on an ecologically charged Slavic fairytale and set in the post-climatic taiga of timeless, shamanic Siberia.

Are there filmmakers whose work has had a strong influence on you?

My favorite director is Kim Ki-duk. I admire his filmography as a series of psychologically dark, partly violent, and exaggerated experiences which, beyond any contradiction, reveal the hidden light and exhale that accompanies suffering and tension.

Final Cut: Why Hu Li Jing Matters

Watching Hu Li Jing: The Fox Spirit, I was struck by how rare it has become to see films that are not driven by plot, but by belief—belief in myth, in image, in atmosphere, in the possibility that cinema can still function as a ritual rather than just a story.

Alena Saveleva’s film does not try to entertain in a conventional sense. Instead, it tries to transform the viewer’s state of mind. It belongs to that strand of independent cinema that is closer to video art, mythological storytelling, and slow cinema than to traditional narrative film. And that is precisely why it feels important.

Independent cinema has always been a space where filmmakers could explore forms and ideas that the mainstream industry has no place for: spiritual cinema, mythological cinema, philosophical cinema. Hu Li Jing sits firmly within that tradition. It reminds us that cinema does not only exist to reflect reality—it can also create new mythologies, revive ancient ones, and reconnect us to something older and less rational than modern storytelling.

In a film landscape dominated by structure, genre, and market logic, films like Hu Li Jing feel almost like quiet acts of resistance. They insist that cinema can still be poetic, symbolic, and mysterious. And perhaps independent cinema needs films like this—not to lead the industry, but to keep its soul alive.