No artist captures the aimless pain of alienation quite like Tsai Ming-liang. His first feature, 1992’s “Rebels of the Neon God,” can almost be described as “The 400 Blows,” by way of “Taipei Story,” (only stranger) Tsai being quite possibly the third most influential director of Taiwan’s second New Wave movement, alongside Edward Yang and Hou Hsiao-hsien. One of the most compelling aspects of Tsai’s movies is the ongoing evolution of his career-long relationship with actor Lee Kang-sheng, whom Tsai treats as his own spin on Jean-Pierre Léaud’s Antoine Doinel from François Truffaut’s body of work, following Lee’s intimate growth, or lack thereof, across 10 films.
READ MORE: ‘Days’: Tsai Ming-liang’s Latest is Minimalist But Moving [NYFF Review]
Embodying a character named Hsiao-Kang — whose performance by Lee has come to represent Tsai as a director — a man who rarely speaks but always seems to be looking for any way to insert himself into intimate situations of some kind. There is a tangible sense of artistic tension to Tsai’s layered compositions and soundscape, following Lee’s sad voyeurism as he wanders in and out of various social circles, reflecting the director’s own desire to attain a sense of belonging. “Days,” Tsai’s newest project, feels distinct from his previous efforts in that Hsiao-Kang has grown so ill with age that he’s now physically incapable of doing everything he once longed for at a distance. This idea was touched upon already in Tsai’s third film, “The River,” in which the young character, and the actor, began experiencing severe neck pain. In 2014, Lee’s health problems reared their ugly head again, and Tsai began collecting footage of his treatment.
But “Days” did not fully coalesce into a film until 2017 when Tsai met a young Laotian man in Thailand named Anong Houngheuangsy, trained in massage therapy. Bringing together these two lone sets of ideas and images, a poetic motion picture about two disparate sides of loneliness helping to heal each other came to be. Culminating in an 11-minute massage scene, Tsai’s newest is an artistic personification of Abbas Kiarostami’s beautiful theory that “cinema is only half made on the screen,” tapping into his trademark stillness as a way of physically soothing what ails the audience alongside Hsiao-Kang.
Tsai Ming-Liang’s ‘Stray Dogs’ Is A Must-See Masterclass In Directing [Review]
Much like the late Iranian filmmaker’s final statement, “24 Frames,” director Tsai Ming-liang is very much a purveyor of “art museum cinema,” having showcased his 2013 film “Stray Dogs” in art-gallery type spaces, overseas. Sitting down for an extensive chat with the truly incomparable filmmaker, we discussed a wide array of topics, not only about his new film but his overall approach to cinema, the re-appraisal of works such as 1998’s “The Hole” (which takes place during a pandemic crisis), plus his growing idea about putting certain movies in museum settings, and how finding viewers for such films has much to do with blurring the line of what audiences see as conventions of cinema.
*A very special thanks to Vincent Cheng for providing translation assistance!*
This film started as two different sets of documentary footage and turned into a kind of cinematic poetry about a connection forming. You’ve spoken on how you “collect images that touch you intimately.” Does that stem from something you notice about yourself, or about life, in your actors as an observer, or is it primarily about capturing the essence or feeling of a moment?
How these 2 parts came together had to do with the direction of my latest artistic outlets as a creator of images. With “Days,” I was not thinking about how I could make a film out of it. We started in 2014 — at the time, I was very involved with museum projects and theatrical productions, such as the “Walker” series. We were invited to Europe to do some performances, and Lee Kang-sheng had a stroke and became ill when we landed, which exasperated a problem he’d had with his neck 20 years ago. We had a cinematographer with us, and I wanted to capture the state of illness he was going through. I intentionally tried to deposit those images away for future use at a museum. From 2014 to 2017, we captured and archived those images.
It wasn’t until 2017 that I meant Anong, a Laotian worker in Thailand. We made contact through video chat. That’s where I saw him hanging about in his apartment — a very simple apartment — and I saw him cooking in that space and drinking with his friends. I found it very moving and felt compelled to capture and archive those images for future use. It wasn’t until I talked to my cinematographer (Jhong Yuan Chang) later that we thought about combining these two sets of images.
You captured this distressing, almost industrial-seeming acupuncture procedure on Lee’s neck and spine, in which you can feel the terrible discomfort. What exactly is happening in those shots?
Just by chance, we met this doctor practicing Chinese medicine in Taipei. Through our discussion, we realized he is a practitioner of a particular treatment called moxibustion, which uses acupuncture and burning herbs to create a heating sensation. Moxibustion. Check it out. The doctor is Hong Kong-based, so we went back there and decided to find him so Lee Kang-sheng could be treated. I wanted to capture our collaborations with the doctor because it was almost like Lee became this alien-like creature who was being tested on. When we landed, we actually walked for 30 minutes, straight to the procedure and back, shooting not only the treatment but the journey to and from the doctor.
Wow. So, the skywalk shot above the freeway then, that was coming back from the office, as well as all the handheld footage?
Yes, indeed.
From certain profile angles, select moments of that sequence make it look as if Lee’s hugging headphones, like the sounds of the city are deafening his eardrums. It feels very different for you, formally, but the soundscape of your films has always been an essential component.
We were in the heart of Hong Kong with all these buses, going in and out of major roadways — something I really wanted to capture in the soundscape — and that’s a huge part of my film; it’s as much about the audio as it is the visuals. I wanted to amplify the audio and the environment to echo the emotional truth we were trying to capture.
I love Abbas Kiarostami’s movies and “Days” reminded me of his belief that “cinema is only half made on the screen,” and that’s what makes it a therapeutic art form. Here that’s embodied literally… you can feel each finger snap and every stroke of the massage scene as a counterpoint to the torturous acupuncture.
All the shots in this film are very long, especially the massage sequence, compared to others. The only way to capture the essence of this scene was to have continuous motion — this continuous practice of massage therapy on Hsaio-Kang’s body. I was very lucky to have Anong to play this out. He has been trained as a physical therapist and was a massage worker. I also found his movements very elegant, almost dance-like, and they touched me. By capturing these emotions in such a long shot, I can somehow console not only Hsiao-Kang’s body but also the audience as a kind of cathartic experience. Anong’s wonderful performance is what allows it to become so very real — so beautiful and intimate — and I thought you couldn’t ask for something more natural on screen.
I assumed he was a trained practitioner but did not know for sure. I love the way you use cultural elements, often in the background of your frames. Anong is wearing Calvin Klein trunks during the massage, and earlier, he’s framed in front of an Isuzu poster with swimsuit models. A couple of my favorites in some of your other films are the ‘Terminator 2’ arcade machine in “Rebels of the Neon God” and the “What Women Want” poster in “What Time Is There?”
For me, that’s really what I demand with all the shots I want to capture on film. The spaces people live are where they conduct their daily lives, so I will inevitably capture cultural elements, as you put it. I will pay close attention to real things — whether or not the patterns of the times will match the cultural norms, whether through posters or something else. It triggers knowledge in the viewer when it comes to knowing the time and place of a film. I pay close attention to these things because I’m trying to capture daily life.
Sex can still be seen as a taboo subject in culture — although not as much when your first films were made, Hsiao-Kang tiptoeing around it for most of your movies — and you’re less reserved about it now. Have you been conscious of how your approach to things like sexuality has evolved?
The older I get and the more films I make featuring Hsiao-Kang, the more real they get. Part of the reason is that when we were younger, I made a conscious effort to think about the scripts, their structures, and what kind of thematic impact we were aiming for with it, plus all the various other things I wanted to capture. Now that Lee’s older, and even though we’re 11 years apart, I feel as if he’s growing closer and closer to me, age-wise. Almost like he’s become me in the films, more so than in the previous ones. I see Lee on the screen as if he is embodying me, now more than ever before. I don’t think much about the script, structure, or dramatic impact anymore; I focus mainly on just movement. And, by doing so, it becomes more realistic, more natural, rather than thinking about its impact.
I went on a walk through a museum for the first time since the pandemic, and I’m not sure if it’s partially because I’ve been revisiting your work, but I was struck by an overwhelming sense of sadness and just wanting to cry. We allow ourselves to feel joy but resist sadness when beauty stares us in the face. All these emotions need a release, and I feel you’re one of the few film artists who are not afraid to acknowledge this with your approach as you’ve moved into “art gallery movies.”
It’s very important for me first to note the conventions of films being shown in cinemas. Mostly, this involves the story and narrative concept, and these conventions are needed to show the film and for the audience to understand it. If you do not follow conventions, the audience will feel stuck — they don’t know what to do with images in unconventional narratives. To break that particular mode, I wanted to try showing films such as “Stray Dogs” in museum settings, where the audience is actually more understanding and receptive to long takes and slow pacing — the kinds of shots I have in my films. They really seem to appreciate and enjoy the film more in the museum environment. As an artist, it frees me from showing films the way you are expected to: in the cinema. With the museum settings, I have more options.
Later, I thought, “what about making films through this museum logic — make them in a museum, and then show them in cinemas. That’s what I did with my film “Your Face” (also sometimes simply titled, “Face,” or “Visage”). The film is made of 13 long take close-ups, following museum logic rather than cinematic. My intention was to blur somehow the line between the kind of films you’re supposed to see in the cinema and the kinds of artistic video projects you’re supposed to curate for a museum. By breaking and blurring this line, I have more freedom to create as an artist, which is why I’ve been exploring the possibilities of somehow challenging cinema conventions — to try and find new ways to make films, but, mainly, try to find new ways to show films.
I was fortunate enough to see Kiarostami’s “24 Frames” at LACMA. Now that virtual museum tours have become a thing in a pandemic, any thoughts on how such showcases might provide a way to help better expose the world to artists like yourself?
The nature of my films makes them very different from commercial cinema. They are designed more so for the museum space. Going back to talking about blurring that line, one wonders if there might be the possibility of having cinemas solely showing the type of films made for art museums. We need to find a way to blur that line. I’m looking for different ways for my films to be seen, so I don’t have to compromise the nature of how I make them, but, at the same time, that hopefully also means more outlets for them to be seen. Obviously, I will continue to collaborate with art museums. Still, I’d like to pursue the possibility of other options, which I’m thinking about exploring now — the idea of whether or not there will be cinemas that only show movies made and designed for art gallery-type settings.
On the subject of exposing those unfamiliar with your films, it wasn’t until the Criterion Collection put out Edward Yang’s “A Brighter Summer Day” that it became widely available in the West. Hou Hsiao-hsien finally got his first Criterion with “Flowers of Shanghai” recently. Do you think about the impact of these kinds of releases?
Some of my films like “The Wayward Cloud” or “Goodbye, Dragon Inn” are available on blu-ray. I’d hope that in the future there will be an opportunity to distribute my films through the so-called “art museum cinema,” or to come up with a new distribution system just for art museum films. I think that especially could help open doors for artists like me.
Definitely, I feel like time and curation will be kind to your films. I wonder if the idea of “delayed cinema,” combined with your movies playing in a vacuum — where viewers can follow things like the ongoing motifs easier — will find the films play better together. Revisiting your work only enriches it. Contemporary film students love Richard Linklater and Francois Truffaut, who play with time in a very similar manner as you…
I do agree that there is a kind of power to show the films together. It’s also a trend in terms of how institutions worldwide have sought to view my movies. I have been invited to many retrospectives, even though I’m not that old and have only made 10 films [laughs], but they wanted to show my work in its entirety. Mexico did a retrospective, and MOMA might do something next year in New York. I think many classics made by the masters — whether it’s from Italy, Germany, France, Japan, or some New Wave movement — are the films that are greatly admired and get revisited as a collective, bringing more power to them. The same thing can be done for contemporary art films and its lovers; even though they are not in the majority and it’s a very limited number of people, there is a space for retrospectives and people seeing a filmography in its totality, which is especially important for young fans to appreciate and better get to know either my films or other filmmakers’ bodies of work in their entirety. So, I very much agree and have had the good fortune to be invited to such events.
“The Hole” was re-released in the U.S. early into the pandemic, and it certainly predicted some… pathetically primal behaviors of ours, such as stockpiling toilet paper and lived-in selfishness. I’m curious if you’ve revisited that film since the health crisis began…
[Laughs] I haven’t had the chance to re-watch “The Hole” since the pandemic started. But I made the film in 1998, and 2 years later, SARS happened. It’s almost like a prophecy about how the world has evolved, and now we have the COVID virus. These types of symptoms actually show how situations of the world really work; the environment around us is definitely deteriorating, and it isn’t getting better. It’s a wake-up call for all of us to think about how we will try and turn things around and save the earth because if we don’t do so, things will only worsen.