Imagine this: a distant father sits in the audience, observing his daughter play the piano on stage. Hundreds of spectators watch as the young girl’s fingertips create beautiful melodies. After an entertaining performance, she forgets her practised routine, staring at the piano in shock. Her father exchanges a glance with his wife and shakes his head. The daughter regains composure and manages to finish, but her father remains seated while the rest of the audience applauds.

Angela (Christine Ko) cries in the car on the way home. Her father, Pin-Jui (Tzi Ma), recalls advice from his grandmother: “Be strong. Never let anyone see you cry.” Angela wonders about her father’s seemingly arrogant and rude behaviour.

In ‘Tigertail’, directed by Alan Yang, we witness the life of a cheerful Taiwanese kid, Pin-Jui, taking an unfortunate turn as he moves to the US to make ends meet. By “unfortunate turn”, I don’t mean something overly dramatic. The spark that once defined his life fades in this foreign land. His on-paper wife, Zhenzhen (Kunjue Li), with whom he crossed oceans, becomes distant. The only common thread between them is the obligation to spend their lives together.

Pin-Jui embodies the struggles faced by many young individuals who sacrifice personal desires to make ends meet. He leaves Yuan (Yo-Hsing Fang), his beloved back in Huwei (tiger tail), to move to the US, ensuring his mother (Yang Kuei-mei) doesn’t have to compromise her safety working in a factory. Initially, he envisions an idyllic America with towering skyscrapers, luxurious cars, beaches, great movies and friendly American tourists. However, the reality hits when he arrives, settling into an apartment smaller than his room back home.

The woman accompanying him, his on-paper wife, gives him the cold shoulder as their interests diverge. This marks the beginning of Pin-Jui losing his childlike spirit and transforming into an emotionless man. The piano he initially bought is stashed away, the music player collects dust, and he abandons his love for dancing.

Managing a store in his routine life doesn’t grant him financial comfort either. The once enthusiastic young man finds himself caught between hopelessness and the struggle for survival, paying the price for a life-altering choice—leaving behind his mother and girlfriend.

Ambiguity takes hold, and the fatigue of a lack of excitement in life wearies them, leading to a life full of ‘What if?’ We make numerous choices daily—some significant, some life-altering—and the common thread among these choices is our own insecurity about them. Many of us reflect on our past decisions, harbouring a desire to undo certain choices. The resulting guilt and bitterness manifest in our interactions with others. Perhaps Angela’s father wasn’t cold to her; maybe he had weathered days when life itself seemed cold to him.

Within a seemingly cold person, or in the case of a parent, there once existed a warm glow extinguished in the pursuit of embracing adulthood. However, the child remains unaware as the parent never opens up, leaving a persistent gap. In such relationships, words go unspoken, and feelings remain unexpressed. The situation worsens when distant relationships evolve into resentment, a common occurrence in most Asian nations, where many parents struggle to emotionally connect with their children.

The director invests considerable effort in illustrating to the audience that in the quest for a livelihood, one must sacrifice a great deal, particularly if they hail from a poor family in a developing country. Emotions are conveyed not only through tense dialogues but also through the absence of words. When characters stand, overtaken by emotions, the close-up of their faces reveals their inner feelings. Dim lighting, slow piano music and unspoken words create a profound impact on the viewers.

In the opening scene, as Pin-Jui runs across the rice fields with a strong wind against him, he has a vision of his late father working alongside his mother. He shouts and rushes towards them, only to stumble and fall. Upon rising, all that remains is the field and the forceful wind against his body. Seeking solace, he turns to his grandmother, who advises him to bottle up his emotions and refrain from crying. This generational wisdom of concealing emotions and the notion that “crying is for the weak” deeply influences the characters, becoming ingrained in their personalities.

When memories of Yuan and home flood his mind, he keeps silent, not sharing anything with his wife. Their daughter, Angela, grows up witnessing the distant relationship between her parents and the painful silence at the dinner table. Amidst her parents’ quietude, she consistently attempts to find her voice—unsuccessfully each time—and places blame on herself for it.

If there’s a flaw in the movie, it lies in the characters’ depth and the film’s brevity. Although not hurried, the movie feels a tad short, given its compelling narrative. A longer version delving into the characters’ stories could have added more charm to the already captivating film.

A key lesson from the ninety-minute long ‘Tigertail’ is the enduring consequences of our choices. For Pin-Jui, a single decision led to a life of modest income and profound despair. Memories of his lost love, his mother’s refusal to join him in America, and a distant relationship with his wife and daughter left him emotionally numb.

As he ages and achieves the stable, affluent life he sought in America, lingering resentment towards life persists. Despite his contented existence in his dream country, the only time he smiles is when he receives a message from Yuan on Facebook in Taiwan. This realisation highlights the distinction between merely making a living and genuinely making a life.

Tigertail

Director: Alan Yang
Cast: Tzi Ma, Christine Ko, Kunjue Li

Year: 2020

Duration: 1 hour 31 minutes

Language: Taiwanese and Mandarin

Available on: Netflix