By Chi Tung and Brian Hu

Part two of our ongoing film festival dialogues looks at how sound and image contribute to the success (and shortcomings) of Hou Hsiao-hsien's Three Times, Tsai Ming-liang's The Wayward Cloud, and Peter Chan's Perhaps Love.

Chi,

Since our last set of letters, the big news in Chinese cinema was the love the Academy spread all over Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain. It came in the form of eight Oscar noms, including best picture and best director, all of which were hardly surprising given the hoopla surrounding the film from all corners except the strategically silent conservative right. Meanwhile, Brokeback Mountain opens at number one in Lee's homeland of Taiwan, where movielovers, nativists, straights, and gays await their native son to bring home the first ever best director Oscar given to a non-white. It appears Lee is off to solidify his status as Taiwan's most beloved homegrown filmmaker.

What this means of course is that great Taiwanese films -- without the privilege of big press coverage, glamorous awards, and Hollywood stars, of course -- will slip out of memory. Documentaries like Let it Be and the terrific Jump! Boys, the horror film The Heirloom, and a pair of new films by maverick Cheng Wen-tang turned heads but appear headed for the bargain bin, which is too bad because they are at the forefront of several emerging trends in Taiwanese cinema, and because, while nowhere as epic or polished as Lee's recent films, did decent business, and in their own small ways proved that there is in fact a market for local films.

The Palm Springs International Film Festival showcased the two most discussed Taiwanese films of 2005: Hou Hsiao-hsien's sparkling Three Times and Tsai Ming-liang's heart-wrenching The Wayward Cloud. Hou's film has been called everything from Hou's greatest hits reel, to the history of Taiwan in the 20th century, to the deserving winner of the Golden Horse Awards' best picture (a claim made by Ang Lee), to Hou's best film in years. I think all four claims are somewhat overblown, but there's no denying the extraordinary skill exhibited in the three-part formal, historical, and emotional experiment. If anything, I'd argue that Three Times features Hou's most exhilarating use of sound to date. Clearly, the second section -- played out in near-silence with intertitles -- shows Hou's use of sound at his most experimental: notice how Shu Qi's vocals so deceptively turn from background to foreground music, or how the section creeps into a sound film in its final moments so that the surprising sound of rustling papers seems to viscerally draw her dreams to a tragic end, while helping the film transition into the third segment.

In this small space, I can hardly scratch the surface of the use of sound in Three Times. But I feel I must add something about Hou's use of popular music throughout the film. In each section, characters for various reasons (all of which vary by historical circumstances) are unable to express their romantic desires and anguish and thus resort to pop songs instead. In part one, the characters speak to each other through pop hits -- "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes," "Rain and Tears," "Love Song" -- with a sweetness matching similar moments in the films of Wong Kar-wai and Wes Anderson. In parts two and three, those songs are sung directly by the characters, and the genres and mode of singing reflect cultural expectations of gender, class, and subcultures. Part three is blessed with another great score by the pioneer of the Taiwanese underground, Hou regular Lim Giong.

I've said about all I have to say about The Wayward Cloud in a previous APA article. I was starting to have doubts after writing that article, especially as claims of misogyny and the use of easy shocks came down on the film, but seeing the film again with a very different audience confirms for me how powerfully the film plays if you know how to position yourself between various discourses of pornography, Taiwanese culture, and Tsai's previous films. The film's use of classic Mandarin songs is as good -- if not better -- than those in Tsai's The Hole, although I found Hou's use of songs more emotionally authentic. Both films become musicals in many ways, and placed next to Peter Chan's fabulous Perhaps Love (also screened at Palm Springs), shows what a great year it was for Chinese musical films.

Brian

B-hizzle,

It really is a shame that local Taiwanese cinema has seen such a steady decline, especially when one of its exports -- the indomitable Ang Lee -- is enjoying such success here in the states. Nevertheless, in Tsai Ming-liang and Hou Hsiao-hsien, we still have two masters at the top of their game and who, as you pointed out earlier, are so adept at synergizing sound and image that it almost seems like an afterthought to discuss the other merits of their films.

But discuss them we shall. Shot for shot, Hou Hsiao-hsien just might be the greatest living filmmaker on the planet. And Three Times is swathed in a look that perfectly juxtaposes the old Taiwan and the new Taiwan. The three sections, in addition to being laid out chronologically, are also organized schematically -- part one is full of idyllic iconography and pool halls: the Taiwanese equivalent of the hop or the jazz club. Part three is all motorbikes and adolescent angst, only now, crestfallen glances and polite withdrawal have been replaced by 21st-century neuroses. Part two, to me, is the most problematic, even though, as you said earlier, it represents the film's most blissful marriage of sound and image. What it doesn't do as well is engage us emotionally, at least not without anachronistic flourishes (the silent dubbing) that suck the vitality out of the interaction between Shu Qi and Chang Chen's characters. As a whole, Three Times is resplendent without ever becoming transcendent -- it needs Hou to match his technical vigor with more than just recycled themes and near-longueurs. Still, though I'm certain that Hou is capable of better, he still puts 99% of today's auteurs to shame, even when operating at only half-mast.

Tsai Ming-liang is another director who I've come to expect brilliance from, despite the long, nearly insufferable lapses in his narrative, and a painful familiarity with manipulative eroticism. The Wayward Cloud easily has one of modern cinema's most shocking final shots, and it goes a long way in explaining my morbid curiosity with Tsai, even as I shield my eyes in disgust.

Of course, the disgust is precisely the point, and in The Wayward Cloud, Tsai walks a pretty impressive tightrope act, poised between frothy desire and sexual despondency. He wants to leave both you and the characters wanting, the broader implication being that getting your jollies has its share of consequences. Then again, not getting them isn't much of a happy ending either. Not to mention, well, let's just say that fruits were definitely harmed in this film.

The songs though, as you say, are beyond reproach and emotionally direct too. I do wish that at times Tsai worked a little harder to establish a steadier, less-dependent-on-rapport with the audience; there's no doubt that he understands the power of raw, naked (no pun intended) imagery and spatial efficiency, but he also does so while backing us into a corner. Getting no satisfaction is to be expected in a Tsai film; as it turns out, getting simply what you need is an even more slippery slope.

Onward to Perhaps Love. Actually, it didn't sucker me in as much as I would've hoped, despite giving us quite an eyeful of Takeshi Kaneshiro. You obviously feel otherwise. Care to elaborate?

Chi

Chi,

I'm definitely a fan of Perhaps Love, although having only seen it once, I'm not sure I fully understand the complexities of Chan's foldings of time and space, and how the issue of cultural nostalgia (particularly for '30s Shanghai) is articulated by the flashbacks and the film-within-the-film. I do remember, though, that part of what made the film so hard to untangle was that Chan and his talented team of costume and set designers chose to make every scene unclear about what era we're in. For example, some scenes have computers and automobiles, yet the fedoras and trenchcoats tell us something different altogether. Yet, it's doesn't work as simple postmodernism (a la Moulin Rouge) either. The muddiness of the spaces and locations in Perhaps Love tell us something about the way Hong Kong (or is it "Chinese") cinema is imagining its present through its imagined cultural history. I wish I had more specific examples, but I'd have to see the film again.

I was also amused by Perhaps Love's self-consciousness of its transnationality  -- the first time I've seen that in a Chinese film. Jackie Cheung plays a film director bringing together actors from various countries for the musical he is planning. Obviously this is Chan poking fun at himself as one of the main architects of contemporary transnational Asian cinema. I doubt he had something profound to say about the process, but I think it's a sign of the mode of production's evolution when audiences are so aware of the ethnic mixing and matching going on in an industry struggling to stay competitive with Hollywood. Perhaps Love features a mainlander (Zhou Xun), a Hong Kong legend (Jackie Cheung), Korean superstar Ji Jin-hee, and the quintessential transnational Asian, Takeshi Kaneshiro.

As for the musical numbers, I'm a little disappointed given the talent. The choreography is done by Farah Khan, who was responsible for modern Bollywood classics Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, Dil Se..., Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and countless others. Unfortunately, she seems unable to sustain the energy for very long in Perhaps Love, although I believe that's less a function of her effort than of the narrative, which really doesn't need the musical numbers as anything more than markers of "classic" film/music culture. Kaneshiro and Zhou are decent singers, but really sound amateur compared to the godly Jackie Cheung. That imbalance in singing ability reflects the imbalance of the narrative and the love triangle, as Cheung, who is really a minor character in terms of dialogue, explodes as the star when he sings.

But I was very impressed by the film, and I do hope it inspires more Chinese (or other Asian) musicals. I was somewhat disappointed that it didn't tap deeper into the musical styles of 30s Shanghai (think Zhou Xuan) or even the frothy Shaw Brothers musicals from the '60s (think Chen Hou). If anything, the music felt more Andrew Lloyd Webber than anything else, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. Still, it's impressive: the dances and special effects were done at Hollywood caliber, and without the stylistic arrogance of a Rob Marshall or Baz Lurrmann. I'd like to see more. But first, I need to rewatch Perhaps Love.

Brian

Brian,

Your gushing has given me second thoughts about the film -- perhaps I didn't pay close enough attention to its backdoor self-reflexiveness, and slyly inserted anachronisms. Actually, I'm almost sure I didn't, but that probably has more to do with the dopey looking dance sequences and histrionic warbling, which, cultural commentary be damned, should've been Perhaps Love's calling card. Meta-narratives aren't what they used to be -- you can blame the Charlie Kaufmans and David Lynches for that -- so you'll have to excuse me if I seem a little hesitant about the history-within-a-history-within-a-film-within-a-film setup that five years ago, might've bowled me over.

I don't mean to be snarky -- Perhaps Love is a perfectly enjoyable number when it's not trying to be so darn cinematic. And the points you made have eluded me not because the film itself is so vapid, but because it's simply too attached to those grander notions while forgetting some of the basics -- acting that's taut, not treacly; love songs that soar instead of simper. Do I think that Rob Marshall and Baz Luhrmann are stylistically arrogant? Absolutely. But in the case of Perhaps Love, I often found myself wishing the same of Peter Chan. At the very least, it would've made for a more soul-stirring experience, which is kind of the apoetheosis of the classic musical, a la Singing in the Rain or Westside Story and yes, Moulin Rouge.

This is all rather abstract, I'm afraid, but one could say the same about Peter Chan's vision for Perhaps Love. I do agree with you on several counts, however. Transnationalism is definitely up close and personal in the film, and the celebrity of Takeshi Kaneshiro, Jackie Cheung, and Zhou Xun is of no less significance. Of the three, Zhou Xun is the weakest, playing yet another variation of the ice queen who melts, only she does it with such little panache and immediacy that I'm tempted to call her the most overrated actress in China. Kaneshiro fares better, though it doesn't hurt that puppy-dog stares and boyish charm are like sixth and seventh senses to him. Cheung is a bit of an overactor, but boy, does he have some singing chops: when he opens that mouth, it lends the film some much-needed gravitas and operatic weight.

The ironies are none too subtle: in real life, Cheung is pop music personified -- slick packaging but light on artsy aspirations. In Perhaps Love, he's a movie director with all the creative license in the world and yet still, he's undone by something that's far more manufactured than pop culture: pop love. I guess in the world of Peter Chan, love means never having to say, well, anything in particular. Except perhaps that it's wise to try it all, and see what ends up sticking.

Chi

Published: Thursday, February 9, 2006