23rd edition of SDAFF showcases Asian American and International Cinema

The San Diego Asian Film Festival (SDAFF) is an annual premier film showcase of Asian American and international cinema in San Diego. Founded in 2000, it presents films from classics of fundamental Asian filmmakers to prospective independent works. This year, the 23rd edition of SDAFF will show over 100 films from November 3-12, 2022, in the Museum of Photographic Arts, San Diego Natural History Museum, UCSD Price Center Theatre, and Ultrastar Mission Valley. In addition to the regular film screenings, a number of special events, including pre-screening and post-screening receptions, were also held. 

REMEMBER ME

A film about memory and identity. Director Hung Chun-Hsiu is a Taiwanese documentary film director. His films are realistic in style, focusing on the deterioration of Taiwan’s ecology and the dynamic relationship between different communities under drastic historical changes. Through the careers of the main characters, three secondary characters and a string of vignettes are linked: starting with the owner of Jinmen Photo Agency, Li Kwok Ming, who is a Jinmen Islander; the Hakka soldier left behind; and the Sichuan girl married over. The camera in this film connects people from various cultural backgrounds and communities, as well as the past, present, and future. It is like a capsule, compressing time, while at the same time capturing the moment and making it eternal. Those who have passed from Taiwan island, stayed on Jinmen island, and migrated from the mainland are all, to some extent, non-mainstream, marginalized communities. Their backgrounds are a complex blend of political positions, but each individual’s experience stands for stories about life itself. They reflect an era of tremendous transformation: the radical political stance of Taiwan gradually dissipated, revealing the collision of more diverse values. Debating over ideology and retrospecting the traumatic history of war has always been regarded as a solemn and heavy matter, but the “absolute opposition” gesture has begun to dissolve when the barren military auditorium is now a goat-roaming paradise. 

GAGA

Laha Mebow is a Taiwanese Atayal film director. Her films expand beyond the environment in which she grew up, with the rustic and natural tones of the indigenous people accompanied by a tenacious vitality. Her films focus on the warmth of family love and the faith in traditional customs. GAGA begins with a snow-capped mountain view and bubbling stream, with human figures scattered among the vast, snowy landscape. It ends with a warm interior scene, with the boy huddled near a fire. He keeps throwing firewood into the flames as they pulsate with life. The beginning and end of the film set the tone for the entire piece: the complex symbiotic relationship between man and nature. This is a family that respects nature, fumbles in transformation, and struggles through hardship. They show alienation, deception, and division; However they also show more hospitality, amicability, modesty, diligence, courage and resilience. The constant introduction of new elements, from people to political parties, religious ideologies, and foreign cultures, injects new energy into this ancient and stable community. The family’s upbringing became a microcosm of the times: they experienced the death of the older generation, which represents the gradual decline of traditional values, and the birth of new life, innovative values and hope; they witnessed and later engaged in political elections—the confront of revolutionary political mindset and bureaucracy, endured economic breakdown, and encountered the intermingling of diverse cultures. Perhaps it does not have a perfect ending, but it reflects real life. The family established new perceptions of kinship and love, and pursued a balance between the foreign and the domestic, the traditional and the modern. It allows us to pause and wonder what the genuine, authentic touch is in life that we should cherish. 

A CONFUCIAN CONFUSION

Edward Yang was one of the leading film-makers of the Taiwanese New Wave and Taiwanese cinema. His films, often set in the urban landscape of modern society, focus on the impact of social change on the middle class in Taiwan, exploring the complex symbiotic paradox of elements including modernity and tradition, commerce and art, money and love. 

Before the film begins, a passage from the Analects of Confucius, Zilu, is quoted, meaning that when the society is prosperous, let them become rich, and when they are rich, educate them. Some researchers say that Confucius’ emphasis on education implies his concern for the impoverished spirit of people after their affluence of economy. But how to educate, and to what extent? This is a question raised by Edward Yang in the film. 

Director Bo is one of the practitioners of education, and he wants to create a common world through theater. If the world is common, people’s tastes will be common, and so will the box office. What happens when people’s tastes are the same? Will the individual survive? Will authenticity and individuality survive? This becomes a further question. 

A Confucian Confusion tells a complicated story that proceeds through the struggling lives of 12 people. Mary is the owner of a cultural communications company. Her sister is a celebrity host who produces and hosts warm, light-hearted emotional programmes. Her brother-in-law used to be a best-selling novelist, but is now trapped in despair of humanity. Her friend Kiki is an elegant, dignified assistant, her husband Xiaoming is an honest civil servant. Wang Xiaoming’s father, also a former civil servant, has been jailed for corruption and divorced his mother. Mary’s fiancé, Chin, is the son of a wealthy businessman, and Chin’s henchman, Larry, is a scheming man who devotes himself to manipulate relationships between women. 

The whole film exudes the loneliness and falsity of life in the world. Characters express their views: the easiest way to escape responsibility in life is to pretend to be like everyone else; being wronged is the price Chinese people pay for being well-liked; sweet words are sometimes no different from drugs, and one needs such for self-deceiving comfort. 

Who can really be true? Yang returned to traditional cultural education to find the answer—he put the question back on Confucius. The book A Confucian Confusion, written by the brother-in-law, talks about how Confucius suddenly returned to a world where his edification was prevalent and everyone welcomed him and came to him for advice. But he discovers that everyone believes that his amicable way of dealing with people is a pretense instead of genuine emotions. He had no way to defend himself. His individual strength seems pathetic and insignificant in the face of such an overwhelmingly materialistic society. In our culture, to be unpopular is to risk rejection, discrimination, and even elimination. But conformity also suggests hypocrisy. We come to believe that everyone is putting on a façade at all times, concealing their deep, hidden secrets. Each needs to put on masks to appeal to others, while disguising circuitous purposes with sincere words.

Yang also examines the educational role of modern popular culture. He argues that pop culture’s fabricated warmth cannot cure human loneliness, as it is itself manufactured and packaged in a way that even its creators may not believe. While it is true that human beings need mutual warmth and comfort, it is not feasible nor immoral through deception and pretense. In a society where materialism is of the utmost importance, Yang observed with distress that cultural beliefs and moral values are wrapped in a dazzling veneer of money, but are rotten on the inside. 

The film ends with Kiki’s awakening. Kiki finally understands what she needs, how she should know herself and how she should keep her ego. If the ego still exists, then even if everyone else misunderstands it, at least you will be left to believe in yourself. When Yang exposes the truth about contemporary society, we can feel his solitude and helplessness. His view of the world is grim and gloomy. But there is nothing wrong with being gloomy. Optimism without pessimism as an undercurrent is not true optimism; living after seeing the truth of life is living an authentic life. 

THE FISH TALE 

The opening statement of the narrative of The Fish Tale echoes this: “A girl or a boy, it doesn’t matter.” This line explains almost the entire film. Of course, the biographical film depicting the first half of the life of Japanese marine biologist Sakana-kun instead casts young actress Non to play the biological male, downplaying the role of sexuality. In fact, The Fish Tale is attempting to cross more than just the sexual barrier in order to convey the message that “normal” is generally and unnecessarily overrated. 

Mibou grew up wildly obsessed with everything in the world of the sea. She likes to stay at the aquarium until closing time; she eats octopus for three meals a day; she knows fish, shellfish, and shrimp by heart; and her home is full of paintings depicting sea creatures. As Mibou grows up, her wish is to become an ichthyologist, but apart from her profound knowledge of fish, she has poor academic performance, physical incoordination, a lack of general knowledge of daily life, and no interest in anything other than fish. Mibou grows up with the warmth of her mother’s care, but she also encounters school violence and the cruel pressures of social employment to make a living. The Fish Tale modifies reality by resenting it in a romantic and fantastic way. And only in this somewhat childish, magical world can Mibou manage to survive. It extremely amplifies Mibou’s “abnormality.” She seems to know nothing about the world outside of fish and is thus bent on delving into the knowledge of the ocean world. The film secretly puts a glimpse of harsh reality in various corners.You will find, for example, that her parents have unknowingly separated; her mother speaks hesitantly in many scenes; her parents disagree with her about casually going to a strange uncle’s house; or her parents have a big fight over her late at night. These scenes, which remind the audience that reality is still “normal,” are deliberately reduced in length, as if they are not important. Mibou’s “abnormality” is magnified: she works carelessly without worrying about livelihood; she dares to challenge the delinquents; she dares to follow strangers back home. The dangers and bitterness of the mediocre adult world are insignificant in comparison to her passion and love. The subversive approach of The Fish Tale, including subverting gender, reality, and fantasy, echoes Mibou’s subversive life. Though her life is not successful from a realistic and utilitarian point of view, she embraces her gains. The movie does not glorify the inescapable defects in life, but instead quietly observes how she sticks to a goal that others consider insignificant and gets her joy from it.

  The Fish Tale can be considered another, more joyful version of director Shuichi Okita’s previous film, A Story of Yonosuke. He magnifies in both works the passion and persistent strength that the main character possesses, and they both equally attract a group of supportive and warming companions. What exactly is “normal”? Does it have to be normal to live a happy life? Almost no one in this movie is “normal,” but they are all warm and amiable. No one has to live according to secular criteria, and escaping from social norms may free them toward a self-complacent and reassuring life. It is difficult to completely ignore and break away from the rhythm of society, but it is enough to make the audience discover the warmth that comes from the pure pursuit of dreams. 

Chloe Sun is an Arts and Culture Writer for The Triton