Edward Yang’s Yi Yi is a sprawling, intimate epic that, as the user beautifully articulates, makes us feel as though “since movies were invented, we have lived three times as long.” This film is a profound meditation on life, death, and the quiet complexities of human existence, resonating across generations despite having existed in the world longer than many of its viewers. It’s a testament to Yang’s masterful storytelling that a film about the seemingly mundane lives of a Taiwanese family can feel so universally profound and deeply personal.
The film’s brilliance lies in its exploration of the unseen, the unspoken, and the often-overlooked aspects of life. The riddle posed—what is it that humans can never see?—hangs in the air throughout the narrative, a subtle yet persistent challenge to the audience. It is little Yang-Yang, with his innocent yet profound observation, who ultimately provides the answer. His perspective, unburdened by adult cynicism, reveals a cruel truth: growing up is a process of constant loss, a gradual shedding of innocence and a realization that the more we strain to grasp what is hidden, the more it eludes us. This idea is central to the film’s emotional core, highlighting the bittersweet nature of existence where understanding often comes at the cost of youthful idealism.
Yang-Yang’s fascination with capturing the backs of people’s heads, showing them what they cannot see, is a powerful metaphor for the film itself. It’s an invitation to look beyond the surface, to consider the hidden lives and internal struggles that define us. The film suggests that true empathy comes from recognizing these unseen dimensions, from acknowledging the perspectives that remain invisible to us. This is where Yang’s genius truly shines: he uses the cinematic medium to expand our capacity for understanding, allowing us to witness the intricate dance of emotions and experiences that shape each character.
The narrative, bookended by a wedding and a funeral, underscores the fleeting nature of life while simultaneously emphasizing the profound weight of each passing day. The juxtaposition of these two pivotal life events highlights the cyclical rhythm of existence—birth, celebration, loss, and remembrance. Life feels so fleeting, yet the days themselves can feel interminably long, filled with small joys, quiet sorrows, and the constant ebb and flow of human connection. This temporal paradox is at the heart of Yi Yi, reminding us that every moment, no matter how ordinary, holds significance.
Edward Yang, much like Yang-Yang, becomes a cinematic guide, using three hours to show us “half” of a life. The other half, as the user wisely observes, is left for us to live, to experience, and to slowly, perhaps, understand. This open-endedness is not a narrative flaw but a deliberate artistic choice, inviting the audience to engage with the film’s themes on a deeply personal level. It suggests that the film is not a complete answer but a catalyst for self-reflection, a mirror reflecting our own journeys of discovery and loss.
The film’s characters, from the disillusioned father NJ to the introspective mother Min-Min, each grapple with their own existential questions. NJ’s quiet crisis, his yearning for a past love, and his struggle to find meaning in his present life, are rendered with a tender melancholy. Min-Min’s breakdown, her feeling of living a repetitive, meaningless existence, is a poignant portrayal of the pressures and expectations placed upon women in modern society. Their struggles are not dramatic or sensationalized; instead, they are presented with a quiet dignity, making them all the more relatable and heartbreaking.
Yi Yi is a film that rewards multiple viewings, each time revealing new nuances and deeper insights into the human condition. It is a celebration of the ordinary, a profound exploration of the complexities of family, and a gentle reminder that life, in all its messy, contradictory glory, is a journey of continuous learning and understanding. It is a film that encourages us to look closer, to listen more intently, and to embrace the beautiful, often painful, process of living. In its quiet wisdom, Yi Yi offers a timeless reflection on what it means to be human, to love, to lose, and to ultimately, to find our own answers in the unfolding tapestry of life.
