Liebe wie Staub im Wind

The screen is totally black and after a few moments a very unclear spot seems to flicker in the middle; just a few more moments and the tiny white spot gets clear; the spot gets bigger: it's the end of a railroad tunnel, and a train is running through the mountains. The movie has just started.

Made in 1986, Dust in the Wind belongs to the first artistic decade of Hou Hsiao-Hsien. This was a period when the Taiwanese director was preoccupied by the story of his own generation: the youngsters from the sixties, coming to age while their country was coming to age. Teenagers leaving the countryside for the big cities, facing the challenges of an unknown environment, trying to understand the new realities and to adapt, while still reluctant. Youngsters behaving erratically, like dust in the wind, dreaming big, till confronted by time and fate: time to erode all illusions, fate to treat all dreams like dust in the wind.

Nothing remarkable happens in this movie. You can consider the plot as extremely boring, only this is not the point. Also some reviewers stressed out the unsentimental approach of the director in telling a story that after all implies sentiments. It's true, but again, this is not the point. Like in all films of Hou Hsiao-Hsien, the plot has the unique role to create a universe, and to leave room for meditation. The language of images is here essential, to operate on the subconscious level. Watching Dust in the Wind calls immediately in mind the world from the movies of De Sica, but the Taiwanese master gets subtly beyond. It's just amazing how this director takes the sordid (in good neorealist tradition), finds the perfect place for each actor, for each object, and processes everything in hypnotic long takes.

The influence of Ozu is also present in this movie (let away the same love for railroad scenes, think at the last scene, showing the ocean: it's the moment of stasis, the way all Ozu's works end; coming immediately after the dramatic outcome of the plot, it suggests that whatever happens is unimportant in the cosmic order of things; life will go on anyway). What differentiates Ozu and Hou is the way they treat the plot. If you watch any movie created by Ozu, you have the feeling that the Japanese master is seated near you, enjoying the events from the screen as much as you do. For Hou the story is like an executive summary, detailed just to the point where the images can exist on their own to play on the hypnotic register.

I found Dust in the Wind on youTube, in ten consecutive videos. I know that watching a movie by Hou Hsiao-Hsien on youTube can be painful, so I suggest you get a DVD copy, if possible. I watched it on youTube, and my Internet connection was getting slower every now and then. However it paid.

As far as I can tell, this is a series of melancholic vignettes which at the end amount to a melancholic (if not outright depressing) conclusion. Is this film supposed to express something about the fleeting nature of reality ("dust in the wind")? If so, I think there was no need for such a long story, because all the scenes had that same uncertain quality from the very beginning. There was no progress, no added depth; the film only kept adding misfortune upon misfortune and then it just ended. A City of Sadness has a very similar style and mood, but it uses it to explore and comment on society and its complexities, offering multiple perspectives and personalities on the way. I've seen some people compare this movie to Ozu and De Sica, but I think that's just focusing on the form and not the content. Whereas here Hsiao-Hsien remains distant and somewhat indifferent to its subject, Ozu is profoundly emotional and De Sica is greatly socially committed.

"Another wow factor, for those we are interested in the checkered history of Taiwan, is that Hou and his scribes diligently interleave all the minutiae into its trickling plot, almost every seemingly commonplace conversation has a succinct exposition that appertains to the past or present matters: a valediction with Wan's boss reveals his horrific backstory during the wartime as a soldier; the father-son chitchat the night before Wan's draft underlines the divergence between a father's hope for his children and the unfortunate reality; during Wan's military service in Kinmen county, when a fisherman's family from mainland China is marooned on the island, the two parties respective attitudes strikingly intimate their different political slants."

read my full review on my blog: cinema omnivore, thanks

Hsaio-hsien Hou based this quietly effective Taiwanese Bildungrsoman on co-scripter Nien-Jen Wu's own experiences. The film is heavily influenced on the one side from Japanese masters like Ozu (though Hou denies this) and from the Italian Neo-Realists whose films inspired Wu. It's the old story of the younger generation ('60s kids from a mining town) leaving the country to try their luck in the big city. A shy, but devoted couple seem to be making a go of it, but life, jobs, family and even military service take a toll on the relationship. It's well observed, especially in the rural sections, and charmingly acted, but the natural flow of events doesn't really stick with you. Hou has trouble balancing the plot strands and particularizing the relationships, asking for a response out of proportion to what we've seen. No doubt this is not a problem for Taiwanese audiences, but then Ozu & De Sica managed the trick, didn't they.

One of the earliest pleasures of silent cinema was the "phantom ride," where the audience floated along railway tracks, watching the world roll by. Hou begins Dust in the Wind with just such a journey, his camera gliding through a lush green valley. It's a gesture of trust, or perhaps a quiet bargain: this ride is buying our patience for a story about ordinary, cloud-capped lives. That kind of story is a hard sell without Ozu-level virtuosity (which, thankfully, Hou possesses). His characters, though, are grittier, more sweary, and less genteel than Ozu-san's.

We are ushered into this world, generally speaking, by the high hopes of our parents: hopes for their children to do well at school, to be happy, to succeed, to be extraordinary, and to find love. We mostly disappoint them. Our fates are, more often than not, to be "dust in the wind," as per the movie's title. Yet whatever happens, I'd like to think we retain some memory of hope's flavour, and of the occasional oasis-under-the-stars moment.

Wan is often seen studying, his head buried in books that promise a way out. But no matter how hard he stares, they fail to illuminate him. The path they suggest feels like a dead end. And love, too-what we hoped might rescue or complete us-can become the very dust that hides the rose, to borrow from Clyde Otis and Dinah Washington. The film does give us those brief moments of light, though, such as when friends gather to drink beer and say goodbye to one of their own, drafted into the military.

The story follows Wan and Huen, who grow up in a depressed mining town in the coastal hills. Unbelievably, this is Juifen, the same town that later became a photo-op deluxe for the Instagram set, thanks in part to Hou's City of Sadness. Wan and Huen are two halves of a Platonic whole, bonded from early childhood, and they stabilize one another as they navigate the trials of early adulthood, trying to build lives in Taipei. Love simply means being soothed by the other's presence. Wan and Huen, seated on opposite sides of the barred windows of a tailor's shop, move us not through grand gestures or declarations, but through their quiet, orbital return to each other.

At the end of the film, Wan's grandfather, in a symptom of dementia, repeats three times that sweet potatoes are harder to cultivate than ginseng. We know that quality of life has improved with each generation, but a kind of metronomic falling short of expectations persists. The repetition of the phrase captures this: the effort to grow something meaningful, and the recurring disappointment in the yield.

In this way, the film also refers to Taiwan itself-famously shaped like a sweet potato-struggling through the growing pains of Japanese occupation, followed by the heart-rending separation of destinies from the mainland.

Dust in the Wind can be bitter, but it never strays from relatability. Like the characters in the film, most people who track this down are looking, quietly and patiently, for solace in the cinema.