A cinema of interaction
At the beginning of Ni neibian jidian “What time is it there” (Ming-liang Tsai / Taiwan, France / 2001) we are confronted with an old man sitting in an abandoned apartment. Quietly smoking a cigarette, he seems like he’s been left behind. At one moment he stands up, calling out the name of his son, Hsiao-kang (played by young Taiwanese director Kang-sheng Lee). Finally he walks to the balcony, while the camera lingers on a bit longer. This is the last time the viewer will see him alive, the last moment the director allows him to experience. Framed through a series of doorways, we see him in the distance, a solitary, inaccessible figure. To me he seemed waiting for something he actually didn’t expect to happen anymore. Waiting, more as a habit than an expression of actual hope, and the probability that this person hadn’t articulated such feelings before - at least not openly. The call for his son thus becomes a symbolical gesture, a mixture of desperation and capitulation. The whole scene is shot from one single camera-position, the angle carefully chosen. A living tableau, in which the actor is as important as his surroundings. Carefully we are led in and out of a seemingly unimportant event, though what is actually happening is a lot. No editing interrupts the flow of time.
The beauty of this moment lies as much in the execution of the scene as in the event itself. Through the whole arrangement, the viewer is able to observe and feel the character at the same time. And this feeling of responsibility for the character depicted is exactly what separates Tsai from similar filmmakers. While their films often seem cold and detached, Tsai never loses a sense of intimacy and tenderness, making his protagonists instantly accessible, and the viewer able to relate to them. Though we might not always know what’s going on, or why the characters are behaving in a specific way, we can always feel the urge that is driving them.
To anyone familiar with Tsai’s previous films, the depiction of urban loneliness is an established theme. Its reverberations in space and time are shown through a number of isolated moments, which at first seem to have little in common. But in the course of the films, connections are established, characters fleshed out, meanings revealed. His cinema, is a cinema of patience. But not the patience of a viewer who is waiting for something to happen, but the patience of an observer who is aware that life means every moment, which always has a meaning of its own. While your expectations are altered, and your prejudices challenged, you get the chance to experience the world anew. The difficulty that the characters are presented without background and without a psychological or sociological profile, is thus turned into an actual strength, heightening the intensity of our experience. But experience may not be the right word, as you are forced to participate in the film in order to unravel its secrets. The interaction of the viewer with the image, as well as the characters, becomes a crucial point in the cinema of Tsai Ming-liang. The irony of it, lies in the fact that the people themselves seem at first oblivious to this necessity. Staggering around in the Taipei, they are usually unable to form even the most basic connections with their environment.
The characters, through which Tsai tries to analyze this state, have remained the same throughout most of his films. Besides Hsiao-kang, we also have his mother (played by Yi-Ching Lu), his father (Tien Miao), and his love interest Shiang-chyi (Shiang-chyi Chen, who first appeared in “The River” (1997)). The same set of characters is also featured in “What time is it there?”, the directors fifth feature film.
After the introduction, Tsai abruptly cuts to Hsiao-kang who is riding in a Taxi with the remaining ashes of his father. The death that happened between these shots isn’t shown for at least two reasons. Firstly it illustrates the fleetingness of time itself, and the abruptness in which our lives can be altered. Secondly (and more importantly) it underlines once more what we were able to witness in the first scene. Death can already happen in life. Compared to this, physical death seems like a minor occurrence. Nevertheless it is this earthly passing that sets the following events into motion. After the ceremony, Hsiao-kang’s mother waits for her husband to be reincarnated. After various rituals she discovers one night that the time on the clock in the kitchen has been readjusted. Believing this to be her husbands work, she starts adapting to this new time-frame, having dinner at night, and shading the apartment in the mornings. While his mother keeps drifting more and more into this mindset, Hsiao-kang has an experience of a different kind. While selling watches on the street, he meets a Christian girl on her way to Paris. She insists on buying his watch, and after he gives in, he becomes obsessed with her. He first starts adjusting all of his watches to Parisian time, until he completely abandons his work, devoting his time to modifying all the clocks he encounters in Taipei. In one scene he is shown breaking into a control center, while in another we can observe him trying to alter an enormous clock from the top of a skyscraper. In addition he becomes scared to leave his room at night, and because he is thus unable to reach the toilet he starts urinating into plastic bottles. Seemingly unaffected by the death of his father, he is mourning for the absence of the girl, watching films about Paris and drinking red wine. Nevertheless his longing for the girl mirrors the state of his mother. Both keep trying to escape from reality, from their present lives and their loneliness, while the girl in Paris also seems to be fleeing from something. Wandering aimlessly around the city, she tries to phone somebody several times without success. Yet, those three persons’ lives become strangely intertwined. At one moment we see Hsiao-kang crying in his sleep, only moments after his mother had been crying in the kitchen. In another scene, the girl in Paris has a chance-meeting with the aged protagonist from a French film Hsiao-kang has been watching. He cheers her up when he gives her his phone-number, after having observed her unsuccessfully searching for one.
The protagonists of the film are all trying to contact somebody who isn’t there, who doesn’t answer, reacting to situations they have constructed in their minds. Unable to deal with the problems in a rational manner, their ways of finding relief keep throwing them back on themselves. Thus their behaviour keeps spiralling further into the absurd.
The structure of Tsai’s films is often built on such a premise. A simple event triggers a progression of events, linking the character’s lives until a connection has been achieved. The filmmaker keeps sending his protégés on an intricate voyage towards self-discovery, his compassion being a ray of light leading them out of the dark, and his films a symbol for the necessity of hope. Despite the long takes and the heavy topics, the films rarely appear gloomy or ponderous, instead keeping a distinct sense of humour. A poetic sense of the absurd, that is delivered in a light-handed fashion which is constantly aware of its own presence. Tsai’s techniques are never calling attention to themselves, but are put into the service of the overall structure. In a way, Tsai remains a storyteller in the traditional sense. His films always lead to a conclusion that urges us to reconsider our situation along with the characters. And despite the open endings, the chain of events which has been set into motion makes its own claims that cry to be resolved. Without pointing a finger at us, through his unflinching way of posing the problem Tsai heightens our awareness of situations that are a pressing issue in our modern times, challenging us with a concept of cinema, which defies easy solutions.
The culmination in “What time is it there?” happens during three simultaneous sexual encounters, after which the characters all reach a decision. The girl in Paris packs her bags and departs from the hotel. Hsiao-kang gives away his bag of watches, abandoning his profession, and his mother starts to accept the death of her husband. When Hsiao-kang comes home in the morning, he finds his mother asleep in the kitchen while the light is shining into the room again. He lies down beside her. At the same time the girl is shown asleep on a chair in the open. When her suitcase is stolen by a bunch of kids that throw it into a nearby pond of water, the dead father appears in the frame and fishes it out.
In order to come alive and affect the lives of some people, he had to be dead first. His wife comes into contact with her emotions, confessing in a crucial scene her difficulty in coping with his absence. When his son displaces his grief onto another persons’ absence, a possible feeling of love is rekindled. In the end, after his son and his mother have come closer to each other, the father, like a good spirit, prevents a further loss for the girl, appearing at the desired time and space, the “there” from the title of the film. But this happens only after both were able to let him go and while all characters are asleep. During this state the boundaries which separate dreams from reality become meaningless, this world and the afterlife coming together. Maybe Tsai wants to tell us that though only in dreams and in art wishes are instantly granted, life has a way of arranging itself that can also fill us with hope. Coincidences don’t necessarily produce negative results, when every event opens the doors to a new experience, when fate and the free are resulting out of each other. His films are always a voyage, from the closed to the open, from a determined position into the possibilities of life. Creatively exploring new ways of experiencing and coping with established situations, he inspires us to rethink our position, and stay on the move. But looking at his characters, who though often on the move, seem locked inside of themselves, we are reminded that the movement has to be inward first.
While the light is now shining on the protagonists, and the paths they can take have been expanded, the film ends on an optimistic note. The father, who seemed caged in the small apartment at the beginning, is now moving into open space. And the wheel of life starts turning again.
The beauty of this moment lies as much in the execution of the scene as in the event itself. Through the whole arrangement, the viewer is able to observe and feel the character at the same time. And this feeling of responsibility for the character depicted is exactly what separates Tsai from similar filmmakers. While their films often seem cold and detached, Tsai never loses a sense of intimacy and tenderness, making his protagonists instantly accessible, and the viewer able to relate to them. Though we might not always know what’s going on, or why the characters are behaving in a specific way, we can always feel the urge that is driving them.
To anyone familiar with Tsai’s previous films, the depiction of urban loneliness is an established theme. Its reverberations in space and time are shown through a number of isolated moments, which at first seem to have little in common. But in the course of the films, connections are established, characters fleshed out, meanings revealed. His cinema, is a cinema of patience. But not the patience of a viewer who is waiting for something to happen, but the patience of an observer who is aware that life means every moment, which always has a meaning of its own. While your expectations are altered, and your prejudices challenged, you get the chance to experience the world anew. The difficulty that the characters are presented without background and without a psychological or sociological profile, is thus turned into an actual strength, heightening the intensity of our experience. But experience may not be the right word, as you are forced to participate in the film in order to unravel its secrets. The interaction of the viewer with the image, as well as the characters, becomes a crucial point in the cinema of Tsai Ming-liang. The irony of it, lies in the fact that the people themselves seem at first oblivious to this necessity. Staggering around in the Taipei, they are usually unable to form even the most basic connections with their environment.
The characters, through which Tsai tries to analyze this state, have remained the same throughout most of his films. Besides Hsiao-kang, we also have his mother (played by Yi-Ching Lu), his father (Tien Miao), and his love interest Shiang-chyi (Shiang-chyi Chen, who first appeared in “The River” (1997)). The same set of characters is also featured in “What time is it there?”, the directors fifth feature film.
After the introduction, Tsai abruptly cuts to Hsiao-kang who is riding in a Taxi with the remaining ashes of his father. The death that happened between these shots isn’t shown for at least two reasons. Firstly it illustrates the fleetingness of time itself, and the abruptness in which our lives can be altered. Secondly (and more importantly) it underlines once more what we were able to witness in the first scene. Death can already happen in life. Compared to this, physical death seems like a minor occurrence. Nevertheless it is this earthly passing that sets the following events into motion. After the ceremony, Hsiao-kang’s mother waits for her husband to be reincarnated. After various rituals she discovers one night that the time on the clock in the kitchen has been readjusted. Believing this to be her husbands work, she starts adapting to this new time-frame, having dinner at night, and shading the apartment in the mornings. While his mother keeps drifting more and more into this mindset, Hsiao-kang has an experience of a different kind. While selling watches on the street, he meets a Christian girl on her way to Paris. She insists on buying his watch, and after he gives in, he becomes obsessed with her. He first starts adjusting all of his watches to Parisian time, until he completely abandons his work, devoting his time to modifying all the clocks he encounters in Taipei. In one scene he is shown breaking into a control center, while in another we can observe him trying to alter an enormous clock from the top of a skyscraper. In addition he becomes scared to leave his room at night, and because he is thus unable to reach the toilet he starts urinating into plastic bottles. Seemingly unaffected by the death of his father, he is mourning for the absence of the girl, watching films about Paris and drinking red wine. Nevertheless his longing for the girl mirrors the state of his mother. Both keep trying to escape from reality, from their present lives and their loneliness, while the girl in Paris also seems to be fleeing from something. Wandering aimlessly around the city, she tries to phone somebody several times without success. Yet, those three persons’ lives become strangely intertwined. At one moment we see Hsiao-kang crying in his sleep, only moments after his mother had been crying in the kitchen. In another scene, the girl in Paris has a chance-meeting with the aged protagonist from a French film Hsiao-kang has been watching. He cheers her up when he gives her his phone-number, after having observed her unsuccessfully searching for one.
The protagonists of the film are all trying to contact somebody who isn’t there, who doesn’t answer, reacting to situations they have constructed in their minds. Unable to deal with the problems in a rational manner, their ways of finding relief keep throwing them back on themselves. Thus their behaviour keeps spiralling further into the absurd.
The structure of Tsai’s films is often built on such a premise. A simple event triggers a progression of events, linking the character’s lives until a connection has been achieved. The filmmaker keeps sending his protégés on an intricate voyage towards self-discovery, his compassion being a ray of light leading them out of the dark, and his films a symbol for the necessity of hope. Despite the long takes and the heavy topics, the films rarely appear gloomy or ponderous, instead keeping a distinct sense of humour. A poetic sense of the absurd, that is delivered in a light-handed fashion which is constantly aware of its own presence. Tsai’s techniques are never calling attention to themselves, but are put into the service of the overall structure. In a way, Tsai remains a storyteller in the traditional sense. His films always lead to a conclusion that urges us to reconsider our situation along with the characters. And despite the open endings, the chain of events which has been set into motion makes its own claims that cry to be resolved. Without pointing a finger at us, through his unflinching way of posing the problem Tsai heightens our awareness of situations that are a pressing issue in our modern times, challenging us with a concept of cinema, which defies easy solutions.
The culmination in “What time is it there?” happens during three simultaneous sexual encounters, after which the characters all reach a decision. The girl in Paris packs her bags and departs from the hotel. Hsiao-kang gives away his bag of watches, abandoning his profession, and his mother starts to accept the death of her husband. When Hsiao-kang comes home in the morning, he finds his mother asleep in the kitchen while the light is shining into the room again. He lies down beside her. At the same time the girl is shown asleep on a chair in the open. When her suitcase is stolen by a bunch of kids that throw it into a nearby pond of water, the dead father appears in the frame and fishes it out.
In order to come alive and affect the lives of some people, he had to be dead first. His wife comes into contact with her emotions, confessing in a crucial scene her difficulty in coping with his absence. When his son displaces his grief onto another persons’ absence, a possible feeling of love is rekindled. In the end, after his son and his mother have come closer to each other, the father, like a good spirit, prevents a further loss for the girl, appearing at the desired time and space, the “there” from the title of the film. But this happens only after both were able to let him go and while all characters are asleep. During this state the boundaries which separate dreams from reality become meaningless, this world and the afterlife coming together. Maybe Tsai wants to tell us that though only in dreams and in art wishes are instantly granted, life has a way of arranging itself that can also fill us with hope. Coincidences don’t necessarily produce negative results, when every event opens the doors to a new experience, when fate and the free are resulting out of each other. His films are always a voyage, from the closed to the open, from a determined position into the possibilities of life. Creatively exploring new ways of experiencing and coping with established situations, he inspires us to rethink our position, and stay on the move. But looking at his characters, who though often on the move, seem locked inside of themselves, we are reminded that the movement has to be inward first.
While the light is now shining on the protagonists, and the paths they can take have been expanded, the film ends on an optimistic note. The father, who seemed caged in the small apartment at the beginning, is now moving into open space. And the wheel of life starts turning again.
posted by A | 12:37 PM
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