A Journey in Spring

To live next to a waterfall is to become so familiar with its constant roar that it’s only when parted from it that one really understands its majesty; and then, the silence is dizzying.

There was a beautiful waterfall in the place where she grew up, Siù-tuān (Yang Kuei-mei) recalls. She kept meaning to go back and visit it. Perhaps it was something she couldn’t reasonably afford to do –we see how arduous her working life is, gathering plastic bottles to sell to a recycling plant for just a small amount of money – but more likely it was something she just didn’t get around to, thinking that she would do it sometime in the future, until age and illness closed in around her and the future disappeared.

Peng Tzu-hui and Wang Ping-wen’s gently placed, soulful film, which won them a joint Best Director awards at San Sebastian in 2023 and is screening as part of Queer East 2025, opens with a 200 second shot of Siù-tuān’s husband, Khim-hok (King Jieh-wen) sitting quietly beside a tall waterfall. It’s a shot that we return to at the end, though the very last shot is of a painting of a waterfall; by this time, Siù-tuān is dead and all that Khim-hok has left is his memory of her.

One might not expect that to affect him deeply. After the film’s gentle start, it’s a shock when Khim-hok, talking to a shopkeeper in the nearby town, snaps “Don’t butt in, us men are talking!” On their way home, as she drags bags up the long flight of stone steps that leads to their mountainside house, she complains about the weather and he complains that she’s always complaining. Later she will protest at his prolonged failure to fix a pipe. Their sniping at each other goes on all day, but reveals the depth of their intimacy, their certainty of how far they can safely push one another. In the evening, they watch television together and there is a moment of silliness and joy which makes clear the love that has been there all along, for decade upon decade. The next morning, Siù-tuān does not wake up. Distraught, Khim-hok places her body in the freezer, under a soft pink blanket, where he can keep returning to look at her as he tries to process the situation.

What has it meant to the two of them, to share this lifetime? Plastic collection aside, lives have been lived in those mountains in much the same way for time immemorial, and yet Taiwanese society is changing now in ways previously unimagined. Sitting alone in the dark, Khim-hok remembers happy moments at his son’s wedding, and yet he doesn’t talk about his son now. The marriage didn’t last; the young man now has a male partner, and lives in the city. The estrangement connected to this is about more than simple prejudice; the whole structure of life as anticipated has collapsed, with no grandchildren to inherit, no daughter-in-law to provide care (though, tellingly, the son’s ex still offers some friendly advice). Khim-hok is on a journey without a map.

Jagged mountains like these attract rain. Cinematographers Yasuke Kato and Wai Kin Sou take full advantage of the moist air, creating scenes of sumptuous beauty. These are further advantaged by the directors’ fondness for wide shots and the gentle pacing, which gets us into the rhythm of the elderly couple’s life. At times the camera lingers on King’s face for several minutes at a time, and he never stops being interesting to look at; there is always a great deal going on behind his eyes. His subtly shifting expressions in these scenes are nicely complemented by the minimalist, melancholy score.

A graceful, mature film which takes on big ideas through small incidents and, in so doing, somehow captures the enormity of absence, A Journey In Spring is one of the most impressive contributions to date in the new Taiwanese cinema. It should not be missed.

Reviewed on: 04 May 2025