Silent Lament of a Mourner | Yen and Ai-Lee 小雁與吳愛麗(2024) #FilmAnalysis 影片分析

It's not about reconciling with the mother, but rather with the self that can't let go, and ultimately finding the proper distance to get along with her.

In the first long shot, Yen rides a bicycle toward the screen, her silhouette gradually sharpening in the dimly lit alleyway. The "responsibility", "blame" and "resentment" are bearing down on her, growing heavier with every turn of the wheels. It's not until she finally reaches the front of the camera that her bloodstained face is suddenly laid bare, just like anguish long buried in the dark, unseen until the moment it can no longer be avoided.

This black-and-white film, in which a daughter kills her father for the sake of her mother, manages to tell its story without the usual East Asian-style moralizing. The deep bond between mother and daughter is steeped in both love and hatred, always complex and has never fully resolved. And though the film abandons color, the intensity of emotion between them never fades.

Where Light Falters in Monochrome

The uniqueness of black-and-white imagery lies in its removal of color as an emotional guide, directing the viewer's focus instead toward compositional tension and the interplay of light and shadow. In this film, the placement of light sources, the way shadows are projected, and the characters' positioning within these contrasts do more than enhance visual aesthetics — they silently convey the psychological states of characters.

• Indoor, the lighting of the home: divisions of space and emotional distance

The interior spaces are mostly shrouded in darkness, with the main light sources coming from windows, doors, or hallways. These external lights may outline objects, but they remain distant and faint — seems that it can‘t really illuminate characters, let alone warm their inner world.

The light, filtered through the carved window, casts fragmented and irregular shadows on the wall. The black and white enhances its sense of 'fracture', making the boundary between light and shadow sharper and more rigid. The broken patterns of light are more than just visual, they echo the emotional state of the mother and daughter — even though light can penetrate the window and enter the room, it arrives fractured, incomplete — the emotional barrier always exists. This carved window, with a sense of age, makes the light seem to carry the weight of past memories. Both mother and daughter are trapped there. Time flows, but their stalemate remains.

Windows often serve as the only source of natural light in the film, symbolizing the faint trace of warmth between the mother and daughter — a subtle glow that hovers at the edge of intimacy, perhaps even a remnant of hope that lingers in Yen's heart. This kind of "local lighting" also hints that the warmth of home exists only in memory, or in fantasy.

• The Dual Symbolism of Light

The earlier shot of the carved window mentioned above seems to be natural light from the outside, bringing the illusion of hope and guidance. However, when the same beam of light returns in a later scene, right after Yen awakens from a nightmare — it's revealed to be artificial, coming from a lamp her mother has turned on. This shift subtly transforms the symbolism of light: it's no longer a ‘redemption’ from the outside world, but a reflection of the family relationship and a return to reality. The initiative of "light" slips away from Yen. In this context, the light can be read as a form of attention from the mother, yet it carries an invisible constraint.

• A Flicker Beneath the Ordinary Life

At night, the lights from a street-side fried chicken stall become the only source of warmth, bringing Yen a brief moment of quiet relief, this is her first connection with the outside world after being released from prison.

Unlike the constant shadows and depression that linger around her elsewhere, this light illuminates her surroundings — the presence of her former classmate, rather than bringing them closer, it only emphasizes the distance between them. The light suggests a brief, limited contact with ordinary life — one that she can't fully step into. Her stillness beneath it reflects an inner struggle she doesn't voice.

Spatial Composition

• Spatial Politics of Visuality

In most film narratives, the center of the screen usually means dominance and importance, while corners or obscured areas often suggest marginalization and passive control. In the first half of the film, Yen's social status after prison is frequently conveyed through a visual strategy that places her at the edges. Yen is often positioned in various corners: the back corner of the bus, the corner of the rehabilitation institution, the edge of the fried chicken stall, and so on.

This spatial arrangement is not only reflected in the composition, but also extends into the dynamics of open and closed spaces. Comparatively, while the “confinement” in open spaces is physically less restricting, Yen's situation doesn't seem to have really improved — as the slightly wider environment highlights her sense of drifting, existing outside mainstream society.

Closed spaces become a concrete manifestation of societal control over her, while open spaces reflect her marginalization and detachment. Though she is technically free after being released from prison, she can't truly integrate or find a place to settle. Throughout the film, Yen remains in a 'subordinate position' in the spatial hierarchy, every space she occupies is not merely a place for her actions but a transparent box filled with limitations.

• Surrounded and Squeezed

Two parallel shelves create strikingly divergent lines, and the lens of the converging line composition naturally guides the viewer's gaze to Yen's mother (Ai-lee), this arrangement adds a strong sense of spatial depth and visual layering. It's the first morning after Yen left home following a serious argument with her mother. Framed tightly between the shelves, Ai-lee appears surrounded and oppressed by all kinds of goods around her, she seems overwhelmed, with nowhere to escape — just as she cried out during the quarrel: "Where could I even go? I have nowhere to go."

This constricted visual experience evokes the years of domestic violence she had endured. The way she lowers her head to restock the shelves seems like a habitual act — as if quietly gathering the fragments of her life. The convergence of the shots makes her seem particularly small, mirroring her past position in this family.

• The Absence of Characters

As the story shifts to the evening of the first day when Yen argued and left home, the empty table on the left starkly symbolizes absence. The unbalanced composition and empty space are often used to reflect people's emotional voids, here, it's not only hinting at Yen's departure, but also echoing the emptiness in the heart of Ai-lee. This void stems from the death of her husband, the imprisonment of her daughter, a failed marriage, and an uncertain future. A profound loneliness surrounds her.

In the next subtle shot, Wei, the illegitimate child abandoned by his biological mother, sits alone on the right side of the gate, waiting his mother to return. The empty space on his left symbolizes his mother's absence, which also resonating with Ai-lee's own emotional void. Then, Ai-lee walks out of the room and lights a cigarette — standing precisely in the vacant spot that once belonged to Wei's mother. From this moment, the emotional misalignment between them begins to stitch together the cracks in their hearts.

Wei's inner void comes from the pain of being abandoned by his mother, while Ai-lee's void is rooted in the emotional alienation between her and the world, plus between her and her family. Silent resonance, two lonely souls colliding in the same space, perhaps unable to fully intertwine, yet capable of offering each other light and hope.

Mirror Designs

• The Classroom and Hair Salon

The scene design of the acting class makes Yen's presence feel 'indistinct'. She hides herself and uses her mother's name to blend in. As "bystanders", the audience catches an "unintentional" glimpse of her through the mirror behind the teacher. In this shot, she is both present and yet seemingly just a projection of someone else. The protagonist doesn't directly participate in the eye contact, but appears in the background as a reflection, this visual treatment gives the impression that Yen is drifting at the edge of reality — her body is in the classroom, but her identity and psychological state hang suspended in a gray area.

A similar sense of floating and blurred identity manifests in her rejection of a job application at the hair salon. Yen longs for a normal, ordinary life but is turned away by reality. The smiling faces of customers in the mirror become an illusion that doesn't belong to her.

• Convex Mirror

Yen drives with her father's illegitimate son, Wei, entering through the upper mirror and exiting through the lower one, with the same motion reflected twice, creating a clever flowing visual trick. The two convex mirrors at the intersection are stacked vertically, their vertical arrangement is like the genetic inheritance of father and son. If the entering mirror represents the biological father and his original family, then leaving mirror hints the illegitimate one. This combination symbolize an unconventional familial bond. While Yen can physically "drive through" the physical space, psychologically, she can't truly connect with the blood responsiblity that she is forced to bear.

Convex mirrors are not only tools to monitor blind spots; they are also used to observe "dangerous corners". In this context, they assume the metaphorical functions of space, time, and fate. Wei is a visible stain in the family line, his existence quietly watched and judged. This intentionally composed shot uses the mirror's reflection to reinforce the 'privacy under observation.'

Female Writing and Traumatic Memory

For me personally, the best part of The film Yen and Ai-Lee is its avoidance of traditional, dramatized conflict to portray family relationships. Instead of the typical "confrontation - reconciliation" structure, the film communicates through silence, presenting a more ambiguous and unspeakable connection. Female writing is not only a narrative expression but also a unique way of viewing, often subjective and fragmented, focusing on physical memory, emotional trauma, as well as individual experiences that are not fully expressed by history and mainstream narratives. In the film, Yen gaze upon herself in the mirror and the silent yet heavy emotional tug-of-war with her mother all serve as representations of trauma memory. This kind of writing finds a visual outlet for the pains that are difficult to articulate.

• Self

Yen always looks at herself in the mirror. What is she thinking? The mirror seems to have become a medium for her dialogue with herself, helping her explore and continually define her identity. She is trying to understand who she is and who she can be, critically examining the traumas of her past, while also seeking an image that can bear her emotional burden.

• Silent Lament of a Mourner

The climax of the film is the moment when Yen's inner trauma is finally released. Through the design of the costume of "Filial Daughter Bai Qin(孝女白琴)" that she happens to receive in the acting class, the film cleverly combines her inner turmoil with the form of performance. Instead of playing the role of the traditional filial daughter, Yen engages in an angry and painful conversation with her father. This "performance" becomes both a review of the past and the beginning of Yen's self-healing, as she starts to face and accept the trauma that was once unspeakable.

Yen walks side by side with her mother Ai-Lee, their footsteps echoing a silent understanding — intimate yet solitary, in the vastness of the night. As the end credits roll, the bass clarinet in the ending song rises like Yen's stifled sobs, threading through the darkness, where sorrow and solace quietly intertwine in the melody.

"Ai-Lee."  — Sometime, the simple act of saying a name holds more love than words ever could.

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