Yi Yi: Edward Yang’s Analects

Intro

Released in the year 2000, Yi Yi was the final film directed by influential New Taiwanese Cinema figurehead Edward Yang before his passing in 2007.

It can be said that in Yi Yi Yang’s subject matter is life itself. The film is broad in its breadth, with a large cast and a great many plot lines. In a sense it resembles a series of analects: small lessons in philosophy which Yang extrapolates via narrative. In this way there are themes, yet the film’s conclusion provides us not something to know, but instead serves as a reminder of how little we do know.

This is the result of a conscious approach on the part of Yang. As his career in film progressed his storytelling tended more and more toward a certain abstraction of theme. In a 2000 interview with The Cineaste, Yang explains that he was responding in his work to the largely propagandistic Taiwanese cinema of decades past (Sklar, pp. 6). Yang sought to avoid at all costs forcing upon the audience moralizations, and his resulting opus is incredibly simple and yet so totally enigmatic.

A One and a Two

The English title for Yi Yi is A One and a Two. This translation actually quite closely approximates the meaning of the title in Chinese. As French film journalist Claude-Marie Trémois explains, “Yi’ in Chinese means ‘one’, and is written with a simple horizontal bar. ‘“Yi Yi” then, written as two bars one above the other, should mean ‘‘two’’. But ideograms, as the name suggests, elude definite meaning (pp. 205)…” Although Yi Yi directly translates as “one by one’’, it retains the additional meaning “two’’. This double entendre provides insight as to the core themes of the film. The meaning “one by one”, can suggest that one is isolated from the other, that one is truly alone. It can also mean “one after another”, calling to mind the cyclical nature of life. “Two’’, as represented by two ones, suggests that one is intimately tied to the other as to form the whole: A One and a Two.

Destruction and Creation Anew Through the Act of Sex

Yi Yi opens on a wedding: the marriage of A-Di to Xiao Yan. The setting is mundane: we are introduced to the characters of the film, all tied to one another by way of carnal relations. NJ is the film’s main character, he is married to A-Di’s sister Min-Min. NJ and Min-Min maintain a stable relationship, yet appear to lack passion for one another. Together they have two children: Ting-Ting and Yang-Yang.

It is not long before the drama underlying this otherwise unassuming scenario is revealed to us. A-Di’s ex-lover Yun-Yun appears at the banquet. It would seem Yun-Yun and A-Di were once to be married, but that he had gone on to impregnate Xiao Yan, and thereby been made to marry the latter. Yun-Yun cries to A-Di’s grandmother, apologizing: she should have been the one to marry A-Di. In Yi Yi, Yang shows a certain reverence for the act of sex: it is bestowed great power, both to create and destroy.

Though we know little about him, Fatty is likely the most troubled character in Yi Yi. His nickname, which to Ting-Ting appears paradoxical (Fatty is actually quite skinny) is perhaps a reference to the Latin phrase “amor fati”: roughly translated as “love of one’s fate”. Fatty is a lover: he appears to value nothing else in life beyond his relationship with Ting-Ting’s close friend Lili. If anything, just as his nickname contradicts his physical appearance, Fatty actually represents the opposite of “amor fati”. He despises life and what it has wrought him.

Little Yang-Yang watches a presentation at school about the inception of life on earth. Clouds gather on the projection screen. At this moment, a classmate of his walks into the auditorium. He catches a glimpse up her skirt. He is infatuated. Lightning flashes across the screen and thunder erupts as the narrator describes the moment that life first came to be. This scene has a near-biblical tone. It stands out in a film for the most part so mundane. The act of creation is cataclysmic.

The sequence that perhaps best illustrates this theme comes halfway through the film. Ting-Ting’s friend Lili learns that her mother is sleeping with her English teacher. Naturally she takes this poorly, and an argument ensues. In the very next scene we are transported to a nursery: A-Di’s newborn baby cries centre-frame. We see that there is genuine meaning in the creation of new life: A-Di is moved to tears at the sight of his newborn baby… Yet there is a cost. In the very next scene he is harassed by Yun-Yun at his baby shower. A fight erupts, and Xiao Yan’s father scolds A-Di, calling him a low life. Absolutely livid, Xiao Yan spends the night elsewhere. A-Di returns home, and attempts to kill himself. Or does he?

The Fallibility of Perspective

Several times in Yi Yi, crucial information is omitted, and the truth of events hidden or distorted. In actuality, it is unclear whether A-Di tried to kill himself, or whether it was merely an accident.

In another scene Yang-Yang practices holding his breath; he wants to be in the water with the girl he loves. In a subsequent scene, he drops into the pool at his school fully clothed. No one is around, and it quickly becomes clear that Yang-Yang cannot swim. At this moment, Yang cuts away. We fear for the worst as the audience. In a later scene Yang-Yang comes home dripping wet, as though nothing had happened. Perhaps his love interest saved him? He does come home grinning after all.

And what about Ting-Ting? Her grandmother wakes from the coma she’d been in since the beginning of the film, and the two spend a final moment together before her death. We know, however, that Ting-Ting hasn’t been sleeping well; in this sequence she wakes up in her own bed, despite the fact that she had fallen asleep on her grandmother’s lap. It’s unlikely the frail old lady could have carried her to bed. Was that final moment merely a dream then? We are left to guess.

In Yi Yi the full scope of others’ realities is withheld from us. As is the case in actuality, the truth is a flimsy article.

The Impossibility of True Connection

In Yi Yi, windows with their reflectivity often obscure as much as they grant vision into the lives of others. Herein to is alluded one of the greater tragedies of existence. That is to say, how can one truly understand another given that it is impossible to directly access the other’s perspective? We are given only the power to reflect those experiences of theirs as we observe them against our own as we experience them, all the while having little awareness of how they perceive us by this same process. It is with a great sadness that Yang extrapolates upon this theme. Characters study their own reflections, and consistently talk past each other. What glimpses they get into the lives of others they get from afar, through windows or from atop buildings looking down; so much is obscured.

On their doctor’s recommendation, the film’s characters take turns talking to grandma while she is comatose. It becomes apparent they do so only to gather their own thoughts, or gratify themselves. In one sequence, Min-Min realizes that she’s been telling her mother the same things every day. She breaks down in tears and tells NJ that she cannot think of anything new to say; nothing ever changes in her life. The mundanity of her existence is proof to her that she has accomplished nothing. NJ misses the point completely, and offers that he could have a nurse come in to talk to grandma about the weather and news, that way the she will hear something new every day.

Even at his young age, Yang-Yang has become aware of this problem of connection. He asks his dad how one can know what the other sees if one cannot see what the other does. Yang-Yang also supposes that we can only know half the truth, as we can only see what is in front of us, and not what is behind. In response, NJ offers that this is why we need the camera.

The Power of the Camera

Here Edward Yang proposes a possible purpose for film. It is a tool through which we can in some sense see what another sees.

Yang-Yang uses his camera to take photos of the backs of people’s heads (that which they cannot see), and the mosquitoes in the hallway outside their apartment which others insist are not there. In this way we can literally see what the other sees. This, however, is only part of the magic. Through sharing of images, one may also feel what another feels.

In Yi Yi, the mundanity of every frame calls to one’s own life experiences. Here we connect with the characters via what Roland Barthes calls the punctum of the image. When Barthes speaks of the punctum, he is referring to those parts of the image which invoke meaning without making direct use of symbols. The punctum transpierces the viewer, forcing an emotive reading of the image at hand. Though Barthes conceptualized his theory of the punctum with reference to photography, it is just as easily applied here: not in the least because Yang’s frames retain a certain photographic quality.

The punctum may be the way in which sunlight cascades through windows, spilling over from one room to the next. It might be that cluttered, but cozy living room, or that cute mini transport truck, the sort you only see in Asia. The punctum is different for each viewer, and perhaps these images are of no particular significance to you. Nevertheless, Yang’s frames appear to be designed to evoke sensation. His moving images feel photographic: textured, flawed and often still. They are lifelike, palpable.

It is still true that one cannot directly access the other’s perspective. However, if one has awareness enough of what informs his or her own perspective, and is able to commit that to film, it may yet be the closest he or she can come to a true connection with the other. Film pairs the sensual stimuli that attract us with those narratives we tell ourselves about our lives. Yang makes use of this pairing gloriously as to communicate his view and feelings on life.

Life as Genre

Fatty is obsessed with movies. He suggests that life, like cinema, is a mixture of sad and happy things; it is a mixture of drama and comedy. Is life, comedy, drama, romance, or all the above? We seem to be driven as human beings toward formulating a holistic understanding of life: to define a singular meaning for it. Such a feat is likely impossible. In our pursuit of purpose we employ devices by which to understand the world. One of these is genre. As other devices, genre gives us the sense that we understand. If we rely too heavily on these devices, however, they will fail us, as they do Fatty. When his relationship with Lili falls apart, Fatty becomes convinced that his life is a tragedy, and goes on to commit an atrocious crime. Genre and devices like it can provide us little more than half-truths. The real truth is somewhere beyond our understanding. This is somehow the most terribly comforting thought: that we should never know what our own lives are truly about.

Classical Philosophy for the Modern Person

NJ gets the chance to spend some time with an ex-lover of his in Tokyo. As the pair explore the city together, we are treated to the first handheld shots of the film, a full 1 hour and 45 minutes into its runtime. This is the closest Yang ever comes to eliciting genre in Yi Yi. The pair travel the city, reminiscing like characters in a Woody Allen film. The foreign setting, the editing and camerawork give the sequence a dreamlike quality. This is the delusion of genre, or of forcing meaning onto life. Their meeting ends and nothing changes: having re-experienced the past they had both longed to resurrect, NJ and Shelly return to their separate lives without regret.

Ting-Ting had struggled to get her plant to bloom. Her teacher explains that trying too hard to satisfy the plant’s needs may yield undesirable results. The plant must experience the stresses of survival before it can flower. Ting-Ting cannot remember whether she had taken out the garbage on the day of her grandma’s stroke. She believes she may thus have been the reason the old woman made the trip downstairs which left her in a coma. This had caused Ting-Ting many sleepless nights. Be it that that final moment with her grandmother was real or merely a dream, Ting-Ting forgives herself. When she finally falls asleep, her plant blossoms.

Comparing himself to A-Di’s newborn, Yang-Yang says he feels old. To any adult this seems a ridiculous proposition. In truth, however, Yang-Yang does know far more than the newborn, just as we know far more than Yang-Yang. In this, the young boy finds a possible purpose for his life: that he should one day learn enough as to be able to teach others. He will make them wise as he has been made wise by those who knew more than he.

So what is Yi Yi actually about?

One by one the characters of the film have on their own terms realizations which reflect those of the classical Chinese philosophers Confucius and Lao Tzu. Ting-Ting realizes as the Taoists did that she cannot control the flow of life, and must instead give herself to its current. Yang-Yang realizes as Confucius did that knowledge comes with experience and that he should thus respect and learn from his elders, as one day to take their place in the great cycle of life. NJ and Min-Min put the philosophies of the Taoists and Confucians together, and learn to content themselves with their respective places in life. These philosophies refuse life a particular meaning; instead they provide us guidelines on how to pass this transitory stage harmoniously and constructively.

Confucius famously admitted that little of what he taught was new. Many storytellers echo this sentiment; there is little to say about life that hasn’t already been said. Stories more often than not serve to remind us that we share certain truths.

There is little new about Yi Yi. Yet it is because of this, and not in spite of it, that it is a revelatory experience.

Sources

Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida. Translated by Richard Howard, Hill and Wang, 1981.

Sklar, Robert. “The Engineer of Modern Perplexity: An Interview with Edward Yang.” Cinéaste, Vol. 26, No. 1 (2000), pp. 6–8. JSTOR Digital Library, URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/41689311.

Trémois, Claude-Marie. “Yi Yi d’Edward Yang.” Esprit, No. 268, October 2000, pp. 205–208, JSTOR Digital Library, URL: www.jstor.org/stable/24279071.