
1986 · Edward Yang
An uncompromising look into urban life from the eyes of a voyeuristic photographer, a rebellious teenager, and a married couple teetering on the edge of adultery.
dir. Edward Yang · 1986
The coldest and most modern film of the Taiwan New Cinema — Edward Yang's Taipei rendered as a lattice of strangers whose lives intersect through a prank phone call, a photograph, and an ambitious wife's unhappiness. A novelist stalled on her book, a doctor blind to his marriage's decay, a delinquent girl the police call the White Chick, a rich kid who photographs her obsessively: Yang braids them with an engineer's precision (he had been a computer engineer in Seattle before cinema reclaimed him), letting chance do the work melodrama usually does. Made between Taipei Story and A Brighter Summer Day, it distills his great subject — the city as a machine that manufactures loneliness — into widescreen compositions of glass, concrete, and gas storage tanks, beautiful and pitiless at once. Its multi-strand structure anticipated two decades of network narratives, and its famously ambiguous final movement still provokes arguments about what, exactly, we watched. The image that lingers: a wall-sized photographic portrait, assembled from taped-together enlargements, breathing in the wind from an open window.
Lines of influence