Four stars. Rated PG, no particular reason
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 4.15.20
Reprimands intended to be helpful, but delivered with too much irritation, can have devastating consequences.
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| Try as she might, Angela (Christine Ko) can't begin to connect with herfather, Pin-Jui (Tzi Ma), who has spent decades burying his emotions so far, that they may be irretrievable. |
Writer/director Alan Yang’s Tigertail — a Netflix original — is a quietly heartbreaking depiction of how emotional isolation can be transmitted from parent to child, to the ongoing detriment of both. Tang’s approach is methodical and unhurried; even at an economical 91 minutes, his film can feel slow (particularly during the initial half hour).
But the payoff is worth the investment; the final few minutes are surprisingly powerful. There may not be a dry eye in the house.
Yang’s script traces key events in the life of his protagonist, Pin-Jui, during three time streams: young childhood, early adulthood and post-retirement. The latter phase is played by the magnificent Tzi Ma, whose finely shaded portrayal of withdrawn stoicism is conveyed mostly through sad eyes and a slumped frame (even, seemingly, when he stands erect). They depict silent resignation; this is a man who has completely abandoned any effort to find joy in life.
Given that he seems to have built a comfortably middle-class life, how could this possibly be? What could have happened?
We initially meet Pin-Jui as a little boy in Taiwan (played by Zhi-Hao Yang) — at the time, still under Chinese communist rule — living with his grandparents and helping work their vast rice fields. His father is dead; his mother is elsewhere in a nearby city, struggling to find work, in order to reunite with her only child. The boy misses her, and occasionally hallucinates seeing his parents in the distance, working the same rice field.
Harsh reality brings tears to his eyes, which his grandmother (Li Li Pang) curtly dismisses:
“Crying never solves anything. Be strong. Never let anyone see you cry.”
And there it is: the seed from which bitter fruit will spring, decades later.
But not immediately. The middle time stream finds Pin-Jui (now played by Hong-Chi Lee) toiling alongside his mother, Minghua (Yang Kuei-mei), in a sugar factory. The work is hard — and dangerous — but they lead an acceptable, if meager existence. And Pin-Jui has been lucky enough to re-connect with childhood friend Yuan (Yo-Hsing Fang); the two are deeply in love.
Pin-Jui seems wholly disconnected from the retiree he’s destined to become; this young man is enthusiastic, playful and mischievous. He loves music and dancing: particularly to a vibrant LP by Yao Su Yong & The Telstars Combo (whose music was banned by the Taiwanese government for awhile). He and Yuan obviously are destined for each other.
And yet … Pin-Jui also yearns for a better life in what he has long believed is the country of opportunity: the United States, where he can work hard and make enough money to support his mother in well-deserved comfort. This dream comes to the attention of the factory owner, who proposes a bargain: He’ll fund the trip if Pin-Jui marries his daughter, Zhenzhen (Kunjue Li).
(This is apt to raise eyebrows; the old guy apparently just wants to get rid of his daughter, which is pretty damn harsh.)
Li’s Zhenzhen is meek, reserved and submissive: the complete contrast of Yuan. But Pin-Jui feels responsible for his mother, and so he agrees to the bargain, hardening his heart against the pain of leaving Yuan behind.
The bitter fruit is beginning to sprout.
We assume that Zhenzhen’s father has arranged some sort of living and working connections, but the harsh reality is New York City’s squalor at its worst.
These twin narratives — childhood, and freshly married — emerge as flashbacks while the retired Pin-Jui helplessly, hopelessly wrestles with the mess his life has become. Worse yet, his hardened reserve prevents any demonstrative bond with his own adult daughter, Angela (Christine Ko), clearly struggling to cope with her own life. She desperately craves solace — suggestions, solutions — from a father who has closed himself off for so long, that he cannot even carry on a conversation.
In part, their schism is amplified by the yawning cultural divide; she’s stubbornly “new American,” while he’s just as resolutely “old Taiwanese.”
Yang isn’t afraid to hold on protracted, awkward silences, during these portions of his film; he knows that Ma is expressive enough — even when mute — to convey the desired emotional complexity. We can’t really dislike Pin-Jui, because it’s not a case of deliberate cruelty; he simply hasn’t a clue how to relate to his daughter.
Watching the two of them, sitting across from each other, is sheer agony. Ko’s eyes flicker expectantly; Angela waits — hoping — for an opening, any opening, that could lead to an actual exchange.
Cindera Che is a feisty breath of fresh air as Peijing, an older and similarly transplanted Taiwanese woman who becomes Zhenzhen’s one true friend. Fiona Fu is eloquent as the older, modern-day Zhenzhen, who has found a way to make peace with Pin-Jui’s limitations. And the radiant Joan Chen pops up as … actually, that would be telling.
The story’s emotional intensity is augmented throughout by Yang and music supervisor Zach Cowie’s beguiling placement of pop tunes and instrumental underscore. I particularly like the softly mournful, eight-note ostinato that conveys the change of seasons, and passing of years, as twentysomething Pin-Jui logs exhausting, back-breaking hours at the small grocery store where he has been fortunate (?) to find work.
Yang has a similarly gifted eye for composition; cinematographer Nigel Bluck’s final shot, cleverly framed — which concludes the film — is sheer genius.
And it’s fascinating to note that this sharply perceptive script also is an accomplished feature directing debut by an Emmy Award-winning writer and producer known solely, up to this point, for TV sitcoms such as Parks and Recreation, The Good Place and Master of None.
To a degree, we can credit that to the strength of Yang’s reliance on biographical detail; he borrowed from his own father’s life. Learning — from this film’s press notes — that Yang and his crew shot scenes in the same Taiwanese sugar factory where his father and grandmother toiled for years, to send him to America, adds even more emotional weight to an already poignant story.
It will be easy for impatient viewers to scoff contemptuously and dismiss this as a film where “nothing much happens.” And, in fairness, this drama is built from extremely subtle nuances.
But they are, nonetheless, quite rewarding.
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