cinema, historiography and identities in taiwan: hou hsiao-hsien's a city of sadness (2011)
TRANSCRIPT
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Published in Asian Cinema (Fall/Winter 2011), Vol.22, No.2: pp. 196–213.
Cinema, Historiography and Identities in Taiwan:
Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s A City of Sadness
Ming-Yeh T. Rawnsley
Introduction
In 1989, Hou Hsiao-Hsien‘s A City of Sadness (beiqing chengshi) won the
Golden Lion Award in Venice. As the first Taiwanese movie that received the
highest recognition by a major European film festival, A City of Sadness attracted
serious media attention on the island. Nevertheless Taiwan viewers‘ immediate
reaction towards the film was polarized. For example, Liao (1999: 85–114) was
bitterly disappointed that it did not seize the historical moment of democratization of
the 1980s and produce a more aggressive Taiwanese nationalist discourse. On the
other hand, Qi (2000: 331–332) argued that Hou‘s work has become a critical social
text and thus it has inspired multidimensional discourses. A City of Sadness sparked
a fierce cultural debate about Taiwan‘s past and its relationship with mainland China
that is paralleled only by the passionate deliberation triggered by nativist literature in
the 1970s.
Throughout the 1970s, nativist literature inspired a nationalistic spirit of raising
local cultural awareness, but it also called for ―a return to the island‘s Chinese
cultural roots.‖ (Yip, 2004: 27) The ambiguity of how the people on Taiwan as a
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whole should claim Chinese cultural heritage as their own has always been at the
heart of Taiwan‘s quest for self-definition, especially since the Kuomintang (KMT,
i.e. the Nationalists) took over Taiwan in 1945 and then lost the mainland to the
Communists in 1949. Prior to democratization, citizens of the Republic of China
(ROC) on Taiwan were prohibited to openly convey their cultural quandary and
identity anguish. Although nativist literature successfully encouraged their supporters
to focus on the here and now (i.e. Taiwan in the 1970s) instead of on the distant
notion of mainland China prior to 1949, it did not clarify the uncertainty of Taiwan‘s
position in relation to China due to political constraints. Therefore it is not surprising
that A City of Sadness, the first high-profile movie contemplating Taiwan‘s post-
Japanese colonial history after martial law was lifted in 1987, caused an emotional
division of opinion among the island‘s population. However the very fact that Hou
Hsiao-Hsien was able to produce A City of Sadness and stir a widespread debate on
Taiwan‘s identity issues was a sign of cultural, political and social democratization
in progress.
I shall explore in this article how Taiwan‘s historiography and identities are
represented in A City of Sadness from two dimensions: (1) the external historical
context of the film and its subject matter — the February 28th
Incident of 1947,
commonly known as 2/28, when a random accident on the street turned into a near-
revolution resulting in the killing of thousands of citizens in Taiwan by the
Nationalist army. I shall examine the background of 2/28 and its significance to
Taiwan‘s modern history, as well as the socio-political environment in the 1980s
which prompted the making of a film that confronted 2/28; and (2) internal textual
analysis which demonstrates how languages, narrative structure and Hou‘s authorial
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style are adopted in the film to recreate Taiwan‘s collective but hidden memory. This
will further illuminate why and how A City of Sadness has achieved an iconic status
in articulating Taiwan‘s contested identities and reflecting the development of
culture and democratization on the island.
Historical Context: the February 28th
Incident
Although the details of Taiwan‘s early history are not central to our discussion,
it is important to understand the connections between China and Taiwan in order to
appreciate the complexity of the cultural dilemmas and political predicaments faced
by the people on Taiwan, and in turn the significance and richness of A City of
Sadness. Research shows Taiwan‘s Aborigines are kin to the present-day Malay
people from Southeast Asia. For many centuries, the indigenous peoples on Taiwan
did not have much contact with China. However by the 13th Century, a significant
number of Chinese settlements appeared in Taiwan even though the Chinese
government did not formally record it (Copper, 2003: 30–32).
In the 16th Century, the Portuguese discovered Taiwan and named it Formosa,
meaning beautiful island. The Portuguese were followed by the Spanish and then the
Dutch. In 1662 the Dutch was defeated by a Chinese imperialist, Zheng Chenggong,
who was loyal to the Ming Dynasty, which was toppled by the Manchu armies who
founded the Qing Dynasty on mainland China. Zheng and his son established Taiwan
as a power base in the hope that one day they would oust the Qing and restore the
Ming. Yet in 1683, the Manchu forces overpowered Zheng and the island became
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part of the Qing. Taiwan was upgraded to be a province in its own right in 1875 but
was then ceded to Japan in 1895 when the Qing court lost the first Sino-Japanese
War (Long, 1991: 6–26). It is noteworthy, therefore, that the Chinese immigrants
who arrived in Taiwan prior to the end of Japanese colonization in 1945 are now
commonly referred to as ―Taiwanese‖ as opposed to ―mainlanders,‖ that is, the new
immigrants from mainland China after 1945.
During the Japanese colonial period, Taiwan had limited contact with mainland
China. Thus when the control of Taiwan was given to the ROC at the end of the
Second World War, the people on Taiwan faced major political, social, cultural and
economic adjustment. People on Taiwan, especially intellectuals, were looking
forward to more political autonomy after 51 years of colonial occupation. But they
were soon disappointed when the Nationalist government appointed people from the
mainland to almost all administrative and managerial posts in the provincial
government. Many of these newly appointed officials were seen by the islanders as
corrupt with inadequate local knowledge, while the islanders were viewed by the
Nationalist officials at the time as Japanese collaborators. Moreover, the differences
in languages and social customs made it difficult for the local Taiwanese and the new
mainland immigrants to communicate with each other. Consequently cultural and
social tension built up between the Taiwanese and mainlanders during the years
immediately after the Second World War. Political distrust was also intensifying
between Taiwanese elites and the Provincial Administration headed by Governor
Chen Yi.
Meanwhile in the late 1940s the Nationalist government was engaged in a
bitter civil war with the Communists on the mainland. The Chinese economy
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deteriorated rapidly and the post-war economic situation in Taiwan worsened each
day. An increasing number of illegal activities took place across the Taiwan Strait
and social disturbances, as a result of unemployment, food shortages, poverty, and
housing issues, became imminent.
One day in February 1947, two KMT policemen beat up a Taiwanese female
trader selling contraband cigarettes on the street. A passer-by intervened and was
shot. The news triggered a protest, more people got killed by the police the next day
and it quickly turned into a large-scale riot. While many local Taiwanese took this as
an opportunity to seek revenge on mainlanders, Governor Chen Yi issued martial law
and requested Nationalist troops to be sent over from mainland to suppress the
Incident. Consequently a generation of Taiwanese local elites were arrested and
killed. It was estimated that between 10,000 and 20,000 people died as a result of
2/28. Two years later, the Nationalist army lost the civil war to the Communists, the
KMT government was relocated to Taipei, and martial law was once again
proclaimed in Taiwan. The trauma of 2/28 haunted Taiwan‘s politics and society and
soured the relationship between the Taiwanese and mainlanders for several decades.
The Incident itself became a taboo subject until Chiang Kai-Shek‘s son and heir,
Chiang Ching-Kuo, finally decided to launch the democratization of Taiwan and
lifted martial law in 1987.1
Historical Context: the Making of A City of Sadness
Democratization, the process of transforming a political society from an
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authoritarian system to a democracy, does not occur suddenly. There were many
interconnected factors that encouraged Chiang Ching-Kuo‘s decision to reform
Taiwan‘s political system. To summarize, Chiang Kai-Shek passed away in 1975.
His vice president Yan Jia-Gan took over the presidency until Chiang Ching-Kuo
was elected president in 1978 by the National Assembly. Meanwhile in the 1970s
Taiwan experienced several external shocks that had widespread internal
repercussions including Taiwan‘s withdrawal from the U.N. in 1971 and the
normalization of relations between the U.S. and the People‘s Republic of China in
1979. By the end of the 1970s, there were only 21 countries which maintained
diplomatic ties with Taipei (Rawnsley, 2000: 16). As the ROC‘s claim to be the
legitimate government of all China was seriously undermined, the KMT‘s claim to
be the only legitimate party ruling the ROC was equally eroded in the eyes of its
citizenry. Moreover, double-digit economic growth in the 1960s transformed Taiwan
into an international economic powerhouse in the 1970s and brought with it a variety
of social problems associated with the processes of urbanization, modernization and
globalization. Street protests and social movements became increasingly common
until Chiang Ching-Kuo recognized that democratic reform would be in the political
self-interest of both the ROC and the KMT (Rawnsley and Rawnsley, 2001: 53–62).
Among Chiang Ching-Kuo‘s greatest achievements was the ―Taiwanization of
the ROC‖ by recruiting local elites into the KMT and government (Rawnsley and
Rawnsley, 2001: 63). In 1984, Chiang Ching-Kuo chose as his deputy a Taiwanese
politician, Lee Teng-Hui; in 1986, Chiang tacitly approved the organization of the
opposition political party before the law was amended; and in 1987, he lifted martial
law (Taylor, 2000: 405–420). When Chiang died in 1988, power was transferred to
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Lee, who continued to realize the political vision of his late mentor. These included
pushing forward constitutional reforms and holding Taiwan‘s first four free elections
— for the National Assembly in late 1991,2 the Legislative Yuan in 1992, a direct
election for the Governor of Taiwan in 1995,3 and the direct presidential election in
1996. Each election charted a new landmark for Taiwan‘s political democratization.4
A City of Sadness was conceived and produced within the context of rapid
socio-political democratization on the island. One specific incident which occurred
during the making of the film reminds us of how volatile Taiwan‘s political culture
still was at the time.
When A City of Sadness was short-listed by the selection panel of the 1989
Venice Film Festival, Hou was working on post-production in Japan. Normally any
films produced in Taiwan had to be approved by the Government Information Office
(GIO) before it could be sent abroad. However due to the tight schedule, the GIO
agreed to be lenient. The production company was allowed to send a copy of the film
to Venice before it cleared the formal procedures with the GIO. Yet newspapers in
Taiwan discovered that the GIO‘s initial reaction towards the inspection copy of A
City of Sadness was negative, which triggered much concern among critics. Hence
the GIO reconvened another committee to reexamine the film and it was approved
without any amendments. Social commentators were overjoyed (Qi, 2000: 321–322).
It was later revealed, nevertheless, that the inspection copy of the film deleted
the sequence showing police brutality during the arrest of intellectuals in the
mountains. The news alarmed the public, but neither the GIO nor the KMT accepted
responsibility. After many confusing accounts reported by the media, the official
version of the story was that the production company requested the distributor to cut
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the scene in question before A City of Sadness was examined by the GIO. In other
words, it was self-censorship that caused the mysterious disappearance of the
sequence (Qi, 2000: 322).5
Routines and norms of democratic cultural practice need to be learned in the
same way that new democratic governments need to learn and adapt to democratic
politics after a prolonged period of authoritarian rule. The controversy over the
undesired editing of A City of Sadness ignited an intensive debate about film
censorship in Taiwan. In fact, the GIO continued to relax its regulations over film
censorship throughout the 1980s until it was replaced by a ratings system. However
the controversy over A City of Sadness has demonstrated that self-censorship did not
stop simply because martial law was lifted or formal censorship was abolished.
Liberalization of mind and culture needs to be supported by political reform. But it
also requires time for a society to have faith in the new democratic system and be
self-liberated from old habits and familiar norms that might have mobilized the very
process of democratization in the first place.
From Personal to National: Reading A City of Sadness
In her study of Aborigines in Taiwan, Brown (2004: 2) has contended that
―culture and ancestry are not what ultimately unite an ethnic group or a nation.
Rather, identity is formed and solidified on the basis of common social experience,
including economic and political experience.‖ This is extremely significant. When
we realize that an identity formed on the basis of common social, economic and
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political experiences is as authentic and real as an identity based on ancestry and
culture, we begin to see Taiwan‘s troubled history in a new light. The importance of
narrating this history as a journey of self-exploration and self-discovery is also
heightened.
Brown (2004: 2) has identified that Taiwanese culture is ―an amalgamation of
Aborigine and Han contributions,‖ and I shall add, merged with influences from
Europe, Japan, Chinese Nationalist and America. Hence Brown (2004: 2) urges
researchers to
untangle the social grounding of identities from the meanings claimed for
those identities in the political sphere. We must also reveal where the
claimed meanings run roughshod over the very personal, experienced-based
meanings of individual members of identity groups.
This is exactly what Hou Hsiao-Hsien has done. A City of Sadness is the first film in
which Hou and his collaborators carried out extensive historical research during pre-
production. The team did not just collect stories and check historical facts. More
importantly they grasped ―the overall structure of feelings‖ and reconstructed the
emotions and atmosphere of that time (Yeh and Davis, 2005: 166). By representing
the political reality of the late 1940s indirectly, A City of Sadness deals with the past,
but is not trapped by the past and is able to achieve a sense of objectiveness and
authenticity. In this way, it allows audiences of different generations and
backgrounds to connect with the characters, yet at the same time to make
sympathetic, profound and open readings of the film. This is how Hou Hsiao-Hsien
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has transformed the private and the personal into the national.
1. Narrative Structure and Male Characters
A City of Sadness is a fictional family saga set against the historical backdrop
of 2/28. The film chronicles the lives of a Taiwanese family between the Japanese
withdrawal from Taiwan in 1945 and the Nationalist government‘s move to Taipei in
1949. The film opens with a credit sequence-shot of total darkness. The only
background sound is the voice of Japanese Emperor announcing unconditional
surrender in a radio broadcast. The setting is then faintly illuminated by a couple of
candles. We witness an anxious local family busy preparing for the imminent birth of
a child in the middle of a power-cut. When the electricity is restored, the father-to-be
tries to fix the light and then leaves the room. Hence the light that continues to shake
slightly becomes the main focus of the scene while outside the camera shot we hear
the sound of a crying baby after the painful screams of the expectant mother. An
inserted text then reveals that Lin Wen-Heung‘s mistress gives birth to a son whom
they name Kong-Ming, meaning ―light.‖6 The mise-en-scène is extremely rich in
meanings and metaphors. The parallel is Taiwan‘s liberation from the colonial rule
by Japan which gives people on the island a real sense of optimism, though also
uncertainty. For example, as Kong-Ming is Wen-Heung‘s illegitimate son, his legal
status may become an issue in the future. If we take the birth of Kong-Ming as a
metaphor, identity has been a thorny issue for the people on Taiwan since 1945,
while at the same time Taiwan‘s collective identity has also become problematic for
the international community since the Nationalists were defeated by the Chinese
Communists in 1949.
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Although none of the family members are directly involved in politics, the four
sons of the Lin family are persecuted for different reasons during these turbulent
years. The eldest son, Wen-Heung, is a local business owner with gangster
background. He finds his livelihood constantly undermined by ambiguous
government policies and subject to interference by politically connected Shanghai
gangsters. In the end, his business is closed down and he becomes an alcoholic
before he gets killed by Shanghai gangsters.
We do not see the second brother, Wen-Sun, at all. He is a diligent physician
and is missing in action in the Philippines. We are reminded of his existence by the
fact that his wife insists on cleaning his clinic everyday in the hope that he will return
one day and everything will be back to normal.
The third brother, Wen-Leung, was originally a shell-shocked victim as a result
of the Japanese campaign in Shanghai during the war. When he recovers from
hospital treatment, he joins the family business but gets involved with Shanghai
gangsters. After a dispute with his business partners, Wen-Leung is arrested by the
police and physically tortured. When his eldest brother secures his release from
prison after bribing mainland officers through well-connected Shanghai gangsters,
Wen-Leung is already permanently brain-damaged.
The youngest brother, Wen-Ching, is a deaf-mute photographer. He
communicates through photographs, pens and paper. Throughout the film, he is
mostly an innocent observer although he is sometimes forced to be a participant. The
audience often witness events through the eyes of Wen-Ching and the narrator of the
film, young nurse Hinomi who later becomes Wen-Ching‘s wife.
Wen-Ching‘s characterization has embodied Hou‘s three most distinguished
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authorial styles: firstly, Hou‘s auto/biographical approach. Research shows that the
character Wen-Ching is based on at least two real people. One is Hou Hsiao-Hsien‘s
friend, Cheng Tin-Shi, ―who had become deaf after falling from a tree at the age of
eight and communicated with people through written notes.‖ (Reynaud, 2002: 34)
The other is Hou Cong-Hui, ‗with whom Hou Hsiao-Hsien discussed the events of
February–March 1947‘ and ―whose recollections forma key strand in the narrative of
clan, city, and nation.‖ (Yeh and Davis, 2005: 147)
Secondly, Hou Hsiao-Hsien likes to incorporate observers in his films as
protagonists, ―who see but do not judge. By witnessing, these observers initiate their
rite of passage, and by not judging they develop empathy and sensitivity.‖ (Yeh and
Davis, 2005: 161) It is often argued that Wen-Ching‘s ―inability to speak symbolizes
the Taiwanese as silence by their oppression.‖ (Harrison, 2004–2005: 14) While
critics such as Mizou and Liang (1991) are deeply offended by Hou‘s choice of Wen-
Ching to recount Taiwanese history, I shall argue that by making the main
protagonist a deaf-mute photographer, Hou Hsiao-Hsien turns Wen-Ching into an
intense and perceptive witness of his surroundings and of his time. For the audience,
Wen-Ching‘s account of events does not only convey a more rounded and reflective
impression of the past, but also represents in more depth the intricacy and
problematic process of history writing.
This is inter-related to Hou‘s third distinctive authorial characteristic: ―a form
of empathetic observation, of respecting the object.‖ (Yeh and Davis, 2005: 161)
Hou Hsiao-Hsien admitted that he tries to adopt ―a generosity of viewpoint‖ and to
allow ―certain real situations to naturally unfold themselves.‖ (Yeh and Davis, 2005:
157–158) By transplanting this viewpoint into film, Hou uses his detached long
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take–long shot aesthetics7 to represent the observer‘s reservation and repression. As
Yeh and Davis (2005: 161) have pointed out, ―Hou‘s work […] allows the observer
to see, without getting involved and offsetting the equilibrium, ‗the law of nature‘.‖
Nevertheless Wen-Ching does become involved. He is arrested by the police
because he befriends Hinoe, Hinomi‘s brother, and his intellectual and socialist
associates. While some of his cellmates are sentenced to death, Wen-Ching is lucky
to be released. After Wen-Ching gets out of prison, he visits Hinoe and his friends in
the mountains where they hide after the events of 2/28. Wen-Ching helps deliver the
final words of one of his executed cellmates: ―In life, away from the motherland. In
dead, back to the motherland. Both life and death are decreed by fate.‖8 Wen-Ching
tells Hinoe that he is determined to stay with them in the mountains because he
wants to live for their dead friends. Upon seeing what he has witnessed, Wen-Ching
feels he can no longer live the same passive life as before. However after a fierce
argument, Hinoe convinces Wen-Ching to go home. Wen-Ching later relates their
conversation to Hinomi and informs her that Hinoe is married. Yet Hinoe asked
Wen-Ching to tell his family: ―Imagine me dead. My life belongs to the motherland.‖
In this sequence, ―motherland‖ is mentioned several times even though its
meaning is left undefined. Its only imagery association is a long shot–long take of the
rural community in the mountains where three men are farming the land with a cow.
The scene has an undeniable nativist sensibility, but it also addresses Taiwan‘s
ethnoscape as being mixed and culturally ambivalent because we simply do not
know who these men are: Aborigines? Taiwanese? Hinoe‘s sympathetic friends from
mainland China?
When Wen-Ching and Hinomi get married, they support Hinoe and his rural
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community by secretly sending them money. Unfortunately Hinoe and his friends in
the mountains are finally caught by the police. Not long after their arrest, the police
take Wen-Ching away for questioning and nobody sees him ever again.
2. Family, Civilization and Female Roles
While the patriarchal force is seen to drive forward the storylines, the vast
female cast is the real anchor of the film although many of them are background
characters. There are three important female roles worthy of our attention. The first is
a category including several domestic women who do not have names in the film: the
first brother‘s wife and their daughter Ah-Shue, the first brother‘s mistress, the
second brother‘s wife, and the third brother‘s wife. These women stand for family,
endurance and everyday existence. Their collectivity offers stability and symbolizes
civilization. For example, as previously mentioned, the second brother is missing in
action during the war. However his presence is felt because his wife keeps as her
daily routine to clean and tidy his clinic in preparation for his eventual return.
Although the disused clinic accentuates a sense of loss (the loss of a husband, a
father, a brother and a son due to Japanese colonialism) while at the same time it
sends out a signal that life goes on and normality can resume.
The act of normality is not only a strategy of survival, but also a form of
resistance: resisting being beaten by grief and trauma. Whatever tragedy occurs in A
City of Sadness, women are always calm and busy cooking, working on household
chores, and keeping things in an orderly manner. By leading a normal pace of life,
these women in the film appear dignified and resilient even when they experience
inner sadness. For example, after we learn of Wen-Ching‘s off-screen arrest and
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eventual disappearance through Hinomi‘s narration in her letter to Ah-Shue, we see
on screen yet another family gathering at dinner table. The brain-damaged Wen-
Leung sits next to Grandpa Lin and both eat as normal. The brother of Wen-Hueng‘s
mistress comes in and out of the room holding a rice bowl and eating casually.
Meanwhile domestic women are busy serving food and looking after children. As
Hou Hsiao-Hsien says, ―a woman accepts what is happening outside — silently. Yet
this is how woman becomes the really strong persistent force in the Chinese family.‖
(Reynaud, 2002: 70)
Moreover, the trivial activities performed by the female roles add another
important function to the film: ―[T]hey furnish an appearance of everyday life,
adding small but significant details‖ that enhance an appeal to the day-to-day reality
of that time (Hallam and Marshment, 2000: 16). In other words, the authentic
atmosphere of emotions and feelings in A City of Sadness is grounded in the
existence of these domestic women.
Secondly, the importance of Hinomi and Hinoe‘s Japanese girlfriend, Shisuko,
should not be overlooked. The presence of Shisuko adds to the film‘s multilayered
structure of emotions and multidimensional viewpoints: when there is China in the
film, Japan is not forgotten; when there is the national and the political, there is also
the intimate and the personal; and when there is cruelty and damage caused by
colonialism (for example, the disappearance of Wen-Sun and the hospitalization of
Wen-Leung), there is also peace and refinement brought by the Japanese, such as
poetry, intellectuality, flower arranging and classical music (Assayas et al., 2000:
55).
The first time Shisuko‘s name is mentioned, Hinoe introduces several friends
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to Wen-Ching. Everyone seems excited by Taiwan‘s return to China, although there
is also a hint of apprehension when a journalist raises his doubt about Chen Yi.
While others are talking, Wen-Ching and Hinoe exchange news about Shisuko via
written notes. We learn that Shisuko and her elderly father, Mr Ogawa, are waiting
for repatriation to Japan. Mr Ogawa has become frail and is losing his mind. He
refuses to return to Japan and, against official advice, insists on travelling south to
visit an old friend who had already died for several years. The exciting chatter about
current affairs on screen is gradually replaced by a melancholic sound of music. We
then see sorrowful Shisuko and Mr Ogawa standing on an empty platform silently.
Another time when we see Shisuko, she comes to the hospital where Hinomi
works and presents the latter with three personal items: a samurai sword and a scroll
of calligraphy that belonged to Shisuko‘s dead brother, as well as Shisuko‘s favourite
kimono. From their conversation we get a hint that there could be an unfulfilled
romance between Shisuko and Hinoe. Shisuko would like to give Hinoe the samurai
sword and calligraphy written by her brother as Hinoe knew him well. In the
meantime Shisuko gives her kimono to Hinomi as memento for she hopes that their
friendship may last forever. As Nationalist China assumes control over Taiwan,
Japan has become the political enemy of its former colony, and yet when the two
girlfriends find it hard to say good-bye, we realize that as human beings, the private
and the personal often transcends the national and the political. Through the
depiction of Shisuko, we learn that while countless Chinese and Taiwanese are
victimized by Japanese aggression, there are ordinary Japanese settlers in Taiwan
who are victims too.
The final role that I would like to address in detail is Hinomi, Wen-Ching‘s
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female counterpart. Hou Hsiao-Hsien says that the character of Hinomi allows him
―to create an ambiguity in the narrative structure‖ and to tell a story that is ―told from
the point of view of a woman, who reports the events while expressing her emotions
— a point of view that is both objective and subjective.‖ (Reynaud, 2002: 69) Indeed
the characterization of Hinomi is full of contrast and evocative paradox. For
example, when Hinomi first appears, she is carried in a sedan chair along a mountain
road. Her voice-over suggests that the scene we witness is her private thoughts of
what happened to her earlier before she writes it in her diary. In this scene, she keeps
the date in a Japanese fashion, but her mood is one of delight as Taiwan is liberated
from Japan and she is embarking on a new journey in her life to work as a nurse.
The meeting between Hinomi and Wen-Ching proves an ingenious device for
structuring and narrating the stories before and after 2/28. Through Hinomi‘s writing
and her exchanges with Wen-Ching, the audience receives an intimate, independent
and female viewpoint that has been largely ignored by both Taiwan history and
Taiwan cinema. Her written words become an integral part of the film that conveys
dreams, thoughts, passions and memories in a measured way. It also relays a distant
perspective that abolishes barriers of verbal languages between the characters in the
film.
One of the most poetic sequences in A City of Sadness is where Hinoe
discusses politics with his friends and where Wen-Ching and Hinomi are both
present. Their conversation plants in the audience‘s mind a social context to what
will become 2/28 later in the film. But at that particular moment of innocent
gathering with friends, Wen-Ching and Hinomi sit across the table away from each
other silently. Half way through the meal, Hinomi suggests Wen-Ching to put on a
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record, and Wen-Ching obliges. As the music begins to play, Hinoe and his friends‘
passionate discussion gradually fades into the background. Hinomi finds a notepad
and tells Wen-Ching about the music he just put on: ―It‘s a folk tune, Lorelei, based
on a German legend.‖
The graceful melody of Lorelei fills the entire screen. Wen-Ching is spellbound
by the story and in return, he tells Hinomi how he lost hearing when he was eight. In
flashback we see a courtyard that is used as a classroom for little boys. There is also
an actress dressed in Peking opera costumes singing on a makeshift stage. A couple
of little boys take turns to imitate the operatic gestures they see until the
schoolmaster walks in. The music of Lorelei fades out and is replaced by the singing
of Peking opera. This offers another contrast between Japan (German folk tune) and
China (Peking opera), between the past (little boys in a school) and the present
(Wen-Ching and Hinomi listening to music), and between memory and imagination
(it is hard to tell whether the flashback is Hinomi‘s imagination of what happened to
Wen-Ching or Wen-Ching‘s own memories of his childhood). The two
consciousnesses break limitation of verbal communications and gradually blend into
one.
Furthermore, Hinomi‘s demure disposition is sometimes interpreted as Hou‘s
exclusion of women from participating in history and another sign of Taiwanese
people‘s passivity in taking control of their own fate (Mizou and Liang, 1991).
Nevertheless upon closer analysis of Hinomi‘s character, she is much more
proactive, independent and determined than the first impression gives. In addition to
the fact that A City of Sadness is a Taiwanese historiography woven through
Hinomi‘s active writing and narrating, two examples have further demonstrated her
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courageous quality:
Firstly, immediately after 2/28, Hinomi accompanies her injured brother home.
Their parents decide, for everyone‘s safety, to send Hinoe away into hiding and to
forbid Hinomi from having more contact with the Lin family. But as soon as she
receives a letter from Ah-Shue saying that Wen-Ching has been released from prison,
Hinomi goes to visit the Lins against her own family‘s wish. It is not surprising that
Wen-Ching‘s eldest brother, Wen-Heung, has to shame Wen-Ching for not
proposing to Hinomi after her visit. Wen-Heung says to his brother: ―When a girl
visits us, with no regard for her self-respect, it‘s very clear what‘s up. Can‘t you see?
What are you waiting for?‖ This has shown Hinomi‘s quiet determination in steering
the course of her own destiny. Therefore shortly after Wen-Heung‘s tragic death,
Wen-Ching follows his brother‘s advice and marries Hinomi.
Secondly, the final section of the film is told through a series of silent images
accompanied occasionally by the soulful theme tune of A City of Sadness as non-
diegetic9 background music and the soothing voice of Hinomi‘s narration in two
pieces of writing: one diary entry and one letter to Ah-Shue. These are dramatic
events, and yet Hinomi‘s presence on screen and her voice-over remain poised and
full of self-dignity. We learn that since the wedding, Hinomi has given birth to a
baby boy, Ah-Chieh. Although like most families at the time they live under an
oppressive political and economic atmosphere, Hinomi says that she feels content as
long as she has Wen-Ching and Ah-Chieh around her. They continue to make
financial donations to Hinoe in the mountains and feel reassured whenever someone
from Hinoe‘s community is able to come and collect money from them because this
is the only way they know that Hinoe and his friends are safe and well.
20
Hinomi‘s diary entry ends here. What follows are several scenes without
narration. We see that one evening, Wen-Ching receives a notification that Hinoe has
been arrested, and both Wen-Ching and Hinomi appear devastated. We then witness
a sequence showing the police making arrests in the mountains; Wen-Ching, Hinomi
and Ah-Chieh on a platform with two small suitcases watching a train leaving; and
Wen-Ching dressed up, combing his hair carefully, and taking a family portrait for
himself, Hinomi and Ah-Chieh. We hear a camera clicks and the frame freezes to
form a photograph.
Afterwards we hear Hinomi‘s voice-over once again and it is narrated as her
letter to Ah-Shue. Hinomi discloses the news that Wen-Ching has been arrested. Her
letter reads:
We thought of running away, but there was nowhere to go. I‘m writing so
long afterwards because only now do I feel calmer. The photograph was
taken three days before Wen-Ching‘s arrest. When they came he was taking
someone‘s portrait. He insisted on finishing the job before they led him
away. I‘ve searched and enquired everywhere in Taipei but I‘ve no news.
Ah-Chieh is teething. He has a lovely smile and he has your uncle‘s eyes.
Please come and see us soon. It‘s getting colder in Chiu-Fen. The autumn
blossom is out. The hills are all white. It‘s like snow.
This is a letter written by a woman with tremendous self-control. Her passion
is displayed through her stillness, and her strength is manifested in her courage to
lead a normal life as much as the external circumstances allow her to, which is a
21
form of silent resistance to oppression. The contrast between her description of the
scenery here and her description of the scenery when she first appears in the movie
reveals the change of space and time and reflects her internal journey. Hinomi‘s
writing has invited the audience ―into a cinematic space, not to understand,
connecting cause and effect, but to experience.‖ It is ―an aesthetic of deliberation‖
that privileges ―aura, ambiance, and mood, leaving temporal markers as mere
footnotes.‖ (Yeh and Davis, 2005: 134) This is why the history and identity revealed
in A City of Sadness feels authentic but ambivalent, reserved and yet powerful.
3. Languages and Soundscape
On top of the intricate designs of structures, characterization and visual images,
Hou Hsiao-Hsien inserts another layer of text that is equally compelling — languages
and soundscape — which further enriches the complexity and meanings of A City of
Sadness. I shall focus on three elements to demonstrate how Hou creates an aural
world that reflects Taiwan‘s identities as multiple, fluid, and politically problematic.
The first element is the languages used in the defining moment of the film, i.e.
the sequence depicting the events of 2/28. Hou avoided retelling the Incident directly
through one linear viewpoint or timeline, but to allow the tension, confusion and
events develop in front of our eyes. We first hear Chen Yi‘s Mandarin announcement
imposed against a rural skyline informing the public of an accident occurred on the
night of February 27.10
Meanwhile we see on screen a group of doctors and nurses
gathering to listen to the radio. Wen-Ching and Hinoe are at the hospital waiting for
Hinomi. When Hinomi appears, Chen Yi‘s broadcast gradually fades out. Later when
we hear Hinomi‘s narration in Taiwanese as she writes in her diary, we get a private
22
account of the story that differs from the official version announced earlier. Hinomi
notes the reported fighting in Taipei between Taiwanese and mainlanders. She also
records her worry about Wen-Ching and Hinoe‘s trip to Taipei.
Next we see a static scene of chaos in the hospital dealing with the injured.
Chen Yi‘s Mandarin speech cuts in to inform the public government measure to
handle the unrest. As we see the medical staff stay in the office to listen to the radio,
Wen-Ching walks in to the hospital hall and sits on the doorstep. He looks confused
and tries to scribble something just before Hinomi finds him. She takes over his
notepad and writes him a question. Wen-Ching manages to write her a reply and then
passes out.
The next day, over an empty landscape, we hear Chen Yi‘s third broadcast that
reinstates martial law. Hinomi pays Wen-Ching a visit at his studio. Through their
exchanges we receive another piece of the jigsaw about what happened to Wen-
Ching and Hinoe during their trip to Taipei. A flashback shows us a train stopping in
the middle of nowhere. A group of hoodlums chase after someone with weapons.
There is shouting and screaming. Hinoe stands in the field looking disgusted by what
is happening around him. Two hoodlums with sticks in their hands get onto the train.
They cruise the corridor and spot Wen-Ching, who sits nervously, and they ask him
in Taiwanese: ―Where are you from?‖ Wen-Ching stands up slowly, takes off his hat
and mutters hesitantly in broken Taiwanese: ―I am Taiwanese.‖ Unconvinced, they
ask the same question in Japanese: ―Where are you from?‖ Since Wen-Ching can
neither hear/understand nor answer the question, the hoodlums are just about to beat
him up when Hinoe arrives in the nick of the time to stop it.
Hou Hsiao-Hsien does not directly imply in the above sequence who is in the
23
right or wrong, but he portrays the fear, confusion and danger spreading throughout
the island at that time. Many mainlanders became victims of street violence during
the riot, but the Taiwanese paid a harsh price in the aftermath. We can also analyze
the languages used in this sequence to understand how Hou Hsiao-Hsien expresses
different cultural identities and political convictions. Chen Yi‘s accented Mandarin is
identified as the oppressor‘s language. The locals mainly speak Taiwanese, but
Taiwanese can be the language of aggressors too. For example, the shouting and
cursing outside the hospital is conducted in Taiwanese. The two hoodlums who
almost beat up Wen-Ching on the train also speak Taiwanese and force Wen-Ching
to articulate his identity in a language that he is not able to use. The two hoodlums
also ask Wen-Ching the same question in Japanese. I will argue that the use of the
Japanese language, apart from the Japanese Emperor‘s announcement at the
beginning of the film, is less political than cultural. It symbolizes a shared life
experience for the Taiwanese and becomes part of the cultural identities of that
particular generation. While many mainlanders are able to speak Taiwanese if they
come from Fujian Province or some have learned to speak local languages while they
live in Taiwan, most of them are unable to understand Japanese as they did not live
through the Japanese rule.
The second element entails three songs: (1) a Mandarin song, The Song of the
Exiles; (2) a Japanese song, Song of the Carriage Sapporo; and (3) a Taiwanese
song, Drifting. In an early part of the film, Hinoe and his intellectual friends have a
social gathering in a restaurant where they swap funny anecdotes about
misunderstandings between Taiwanese and mainlanders. Although Hinoe admits that
he does not trust Chen Yi, he and his associates all feel hopeful about the future of
24
Taiwan as the island has finally returned to the motherland. Hence when they hear
from outside the restaurant some strangers singing The Song of the Exiles in
Mandarin, they decide to join in. The act of singing in Mandarin expresses their
desire to connect with their imagined motherland and mainland compatriots.
However their dream of autonomy is soon dashed. After 2/28, we see Wen-
Ching locked up in prison sitting by a jail door. The guard calls out two young men,
who stand up and gather their things quietly. At this moment a Japanese song, Song
of the Carriage Sapporo, sung by a male chorus fades in, which was very popular in
Taiwan during the 1940s that tells the mood of someone who watches friends leave
by a carriage knowing that they will never meet again (Assayas et al, 2000: 60–61).
When the song stops, we hear two gun shots from outside the frame. The song does
not only suggest that these Taiwanese intellectuals are aware of the death penalty
awaiting them, but also reveal their bitter disappointment in the nation building
under the KMT. In contrast with the Mandarin song playfully sung earlier in the film,
the Japanese song sung here before their death seems particularly poignant. By
singing farewell in a language to which the oppressor cannot make a claim, the
disillusioned elites display their ultimate defiance and invisible resistance.
When Wen-Ching is released from prison, he visits one of the inmates‘ family.
As the widow cries, non-diegetic music fades in and the screen cuts to Wen-Ching‘s
family home where Grandpa Lin and his folk musician friends are singing a
Taiwanese tune, Drifting. The non-diegetic music turns diegetic. The mournful
sound and lyrics originally referred to the sorrow of Taiwanese wives when their
husbands were drafted to war by the Japanese and never returned home. But the same
song sung here becomes an accusation towards the KMT brutality as Taiwanese
25
women continue to grieve over lost husbands when the new regime kills innocent
men in order to consolidate power (Assayas et al, 2000: 56).
Finally, if silence can be regarded as language, then I shall argue that Hou
Hsiao-Hsien has also masterfully used the language of silence in A City of Sadness.
There are a lot of silent long shots of landscape between sequences and this is the
third element to which I would like to pay attention.
Hou‘s long take–long shot aesthetics adds integrity to A City of Sadness and
binds together the narrative structure, the characterizations and mise-en-scène. The
language of silent landscape facilitates and sustains Hou‘s multidimensional and
detached viewpoints, and is echoed throughout the film. For example, as previously
discussed, Chen Yi‘s voice is broadcast against the background of a silent skyline;
after the eldest brother Wen-Heung‘s funeral, the camera leads us to stare at rural
scenery in silence before the wedding scene fades in; and in both Hinomi‘s first and
final voice-over, the description of the landscape features prominently. Hou Hsiao-
Hsien‘s active gaze on Taiwanese countryside evokes a strong sense of place.
Therefore while Chi (2007: 71) comments on the film‘s authenticity in landscape,
Harrison (2004–2005:14) also argues that ―it is this sense of place which functions as
a witness to violence and suffering. In a sense of place is the remembrance of history,
and with it the capacity to judge and forgive.‖
Conclusion
The achievement of A City of Sadness is in its cultural representation of an
26
emerging concept of a Taiwan nation and in its attempt to articulate a tangled and
contested history. It is the way that Hou depicts the silent form of resistance that
lends A City of Sadness an inner strength and tolerance despite the bitter subject of
2/28 and personal tragedies the Lin family suffers. Life continues and Taiwan moves
on. History, however painful, should be acknowledged by people but people should
not be consumed and confined by past events. The process of democratization allows
Hou Hsiao-Hsien and the people on Taiwan to embark on a journey of self-
discovery. The way the radical dispute provoked by A City of Sadness has gradually
reached a modified and less emotive consensus since the early 1990s — albeit a
consensus on what the film has achieved and how it may be interpreted, not
necessarily a consensus on what Taiwan‘s national identity should be — is also a
testimony of the strength of Taiwan‘s burgeoning democratic culture.
Endnotes:
1 For more detailed account on 2/28, see Kerr (1966); Lai, Myers and Wei (1991);
2/28 Research Committee of the Executive Yuan (1994); and Rawnsley and
Rawnsley (November/December 2001: 77–106).
2 The duties of the National Assembly were to amend Constitutions and to elect the
president and vice president. As part of the constitutional reforms, the National
Assembly permanently abolished itself by ratifying an amendment to the constitution
passed by the Legislative Yuan, Taiwan`s law-making body, in 2005.
3 When the ROC claimed to be the legitimate government of all China, there were
27
several layers of administration imposed on Taiwan including the central government
(headed by the President of the ROC and responsible for national affairs) and the
provincial government (headed by the Governor of Taiwan overseeing the
administrations of Taiwan Province). However in reality there was a lot of overlap
between ―national affairs‖ and that of ―Taiwan Province.‖ As part of the
constitutional reforms, the provincial layer of administration was abolished in 1999.
4 For more details about these elections, see Copper (1998).
5 The sequence was restored when A City of Sadness was formally released in
theaters in Taiwan and overseas.
6 The Romanization of characters‘ names is based on the English subtitles provided
by the video released in the UK by Artificial Eye. Unless stated otherwise, all the
English dialogues and intertitles quoted in this paper are based on the same video
version of the film.
7 In cinema, a long shot is typically taken by a wide-angle lens to show the whole
object (for example, the entire building, human figure, landscape, and so on). The
purpose of using a long shot is normally to place the object in relation to its
surroundings. A long take is ―a single piece of unedited film, which may or may not
constitute an entire sequence.‖ (Henderson, 1992: 315) The combination of long
shot–long take becomes one of Hou Hsiao-Hsien‘s favourite techniques to achieve
his desired narrative effect.
8 The will of the deceased quoted here is based on a genuine historical document.
9 Diegetic music features as an integral part of the film, and non-diegetic music has
been added externally to the film (Gow, 2010: 171).
28
10
Chen Yi‘s radio broadcast in the film follows the text of his actual broadcasts in
1947.
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Author’s Biography
Dr Ming-Yeh T. Rawnsley is Research Fellow, Institute of Communications Studies,
University of Leeds (UK). She has published widely in English and in Chinese on
media representation of culture and identities in Greater China. She is currently
completing a monograph on Culture and Democratization in Taiwan: Cinema,
Theatre and Social Change (London, Routledge, forthcoming).