Parts of Tigertail, a new drama from Parks and Recreation director Alan Yang, seriously reminded me of the Apu trilogy, that bastion of world cinema and pretentious referential point for film nerds such as myself. Much like those films, it presents various stages in the life of a man often by contextualizing them through his relationships to the significant women of that life: his grandmother, mother, first love, wife, and daughter specifically -and how each of them impacted his identity, worldview, and choices in crucial ways. But we don’t see these relationships entirely sequentially, the film rather grazes through time from the vantage point of the present; and the point of view of a man whose severe emotional hollowness masks deep regrets and heavy failings.
Long before it came to Netflix, I first heard of Tigertail through Lulu Wang championing it on Twitter. The endorsement from the director of The Farewell, one of my favourite movies last year, not only sold the movie but gave credibility to its social significance. And indeed Tigertail might not have come to fruition if not for the floodgate The Farewell opened for Asian-American cinema exploring topics related to the Asian diaspora. Like that earlier film, it’s concerned with the divide in customs and lifestyles between Eastern and Western culture, focuses on the difficulties of immigrant life, and is told largely in a non-English language. And like that film it is eye-opening and heartening.
Tigertail is the story of Pin-Jui, his early life in Taiwan, eventual immigration to the United States, and how circumstances and choices from both those spheres have turned him into a sad, distant, and lonesome old man. This present incarnation is played by The Farewell’s Tzi Ma in a rare leading role for the veteran character actor, and he brings a multitude of subtle consideration to the part; a very resonant image of a man who has forgotten how to communicate or empathize with other people -in particular his adult daughter Angela (Christine Ko). He seems an entirely different person from the enthusiastic, charming, and romantic youth played by Hong Chi-Lee, who would dance with his childhood sweetheart Yuan (Yo-Hsing Fang) to American music at a nightclub and look after his impoverished mother (Yang Kuei-mei) as they work together at a factory in Huwei. Yet we first meet him as a child living on his grandparents’ rice farm where his rambunctious world is first disturbed and he is taught to repress his emotions.
Thus the tapestry of Pin-Jui’s life unfolds as a series of compromises informed by the values and self-imposed obligations he is conditioned to adopt. It’s not unlike George Bailey having to frequently adjust his dreams due to a series of badly timed inconveniences. Pin-Jui does not spirit his beloved away to America with him -he settles for marrying his bosses daughter Zhenzhen (Kunjue Li) so that they can afford to immigrate. Once in New York he tries to move his mother, but she grows too stubborn and fearful of the process. Rather than have a happy family, he instills in his children a set of standards impossible to meet for his affection. And as we see all of this play out we understand better the despondent man who seems like a stranger to his own daughter. But even as he himself tells the story, the film remains objective, and in fact often siphons his character through Angela or Yuan or Zhenzhen. We’re given clear insight into how these relationships fell apart that can’t simply be excused by the harshness of the immigrant experience or bad luck. I’m especially in admiration of how much agency Yang gives Zhenzhen, initially just another disappointing obstacle for Pin-Jui; how isolating it is for her in America when she doesn’t work, knows no other Taiwanese immigrants, and has to live with Pin-Jui’s obvious dissatisfaction with their marriage, stony and cold where he ought to be supportive and loving. The scenes of their early life together have a tangible melancholy and intentional lack of chemistry that both Chi-Lee and Li excel at.
Yang’s filmmaking in this, though certainly unpolished, isn’t without merit. He’s very fond of connecting the dots through an almost showy use of match cuts, parallel edits, and transition devices that perhaps hint at his greater comfort in comedy; but his direction is at its best when it is subdued. He’s a good director of actors and can get a lot out of minimal expressions and performance cues. What may perhaps help is the personal nature of the story, which is loosely inspired by the life of his own father. There’s a lot of emotion in this movie, even if little of it is so openly expressed. And through it all, touches of the sombre reality of life for minority immigrants pop up and colour the movie. Pin-Jui’s unsatisfying job and long hours, the absence of white friends in their lives, the added pressure on the whole family to succeed -these details are characterized with the kind of unquestioning banal sense of normalcy that can only come from a filmmaker who has experienced that life firsthand.
Tigertail is a movie about regret, about mistakes and about dwelling in them. Pin-Jui would have been better off had he learned not to simmer in the plans that went awry, but rather to move on, adapt, and make the best of things as they were. At the same time though, it’s hard not to sympathize with him, his lost dreams, and the abandoned relationship that really was just super lovely and boisterous. But as much as the movie is about a disappointing and listless life, it’s also about how to learn to reconnect, how to reconcile all those regrets and begin again. Tigertail is a very specific story, but it is sharing some universal lessons.
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