September 19, 2021
Red Dust – Taiwan,
1990
Yim Ho’s 1990 film Red Dust is about a young woman named Shen Shao-Hua (Brigitte Lin) whose father locks her in the attic for a number of years. Exactly how long her imprisonment is, we’re not told, but it is long enough for her to attempt suicide, as well as adopt some of the mannerisms of a pack rat upon gaining her freedom. I mention this right away because it automatically casts her as either traumatized or eccentric, and since the movie does not explore the latter, I’ll go with the former. Prior to her imprisonment, which only ends after the death of her father, she appears to have had a boyfriend - it is he we see trying to scale the Shen family gate and screaming for Shao-Hua to be released in the opening scene – and she seems to have had a best friend named Yeuh-Feng (Maggie Cheung), though they curiously avoid the subject of her psychological abuse almost completely. Perhaps this is because neither the director nor the screenwriter, Sanmao (a.k.a. Echo Chen Ping), truly knows what to do with it. It is as if they hope we simply forget about it. After all, they clearly did.
Flash forward a few years – again, exactly how many is
not clear – and Shao-Hua is living in a dinky apartment and making a living as
a writer of romance novels, one of which the film needlessly shows us several
moments from. One day a man named Chang Neng-Tsai (Chin Han) shows up outside
her door requesting an audience with her and proclaiming himself to be one of
her fans. Now, I have no doubt that both men and women read the kinds of novels
Shao-Hua writes, but I seriously doubt people like Neng-Tsai are her target
audience. The man is no longer a romantic teenager, and his job certainly does
not really allow him much time to devote to reading anything other than
official reports. And before you start thinking he’s the same person we see
trying to break her out in the opening scene, which would have made a great
deal of sense, that character reappears briefly as a happily married man with a
baby on the way. Therefore, what’s needed is a simple scene, just a quick glance
of Neng-Tsai sitting in a chair reading one of her stories. Alas, we don’t even
get that.
What we get instead is a mixture of espionage and
romance, with neither one receiving the focus it requires. We’re asked to
simply accept that the couple is in love, something I would have had an easier
time doing had Shao-Hua not put a thick scarf over their heads during a
supposedly romantic moment dancing and Neng-Tsai not started exchanging
flirtatious glances with Yeuh-Feng and holding hands with both of them as they
stroll through a park. The film does a better job of depicting the danger and
violence that existed during the years of Japanese occupation. In a powerful
moment, we witness Shao-Hua leave her father’s home and encounter a parade of
Japanese soldiers making their way through the city. The image is striking. She’d
traded one prison for another.
There’s a lot at stake for these two characters, and yet
the film takes detours that dampen its emotional impact. Scenes involving Shao-Hua
and Yeuh-Feng are often treated as respites from the chaos, and as such
distract rather than entertain. There’s also the little matter of Neng-Tsai’s
separation from Shao-Hua. Although perfectly realistic under such circumstances
and setting up a horrific scene of retribution, his absence takes away much of
the film’s power, sending Shao-Hua into the nervous, bumbling arms of a
character who it is hard to believe she’d ever give the time of day to – not
even out of necessity. Meanwhile, all we’re told about Neng-Tsai – despite the
fact the he narrates the film – is that he has become a man without a future.
There’s an old adage about sending audiences home happy
with an exciting finale, the implication being that an audience will forget the
disappointment they felt earlier if the ending packs a wallop. It is this
sentiment that has given us the now standard climactic action scene, and it is
clear from reviews of substandard films that ended well that for some people
that is enough. Suffice to say, Red Dust
has one of these endings. In fact, its final chapter convincingly portrays what
it must have been like for people whose only hopes of escaping persecution
seemed to be boarding the final ship out of China in the last day of Chang
Kai-shek’s rule. And yet the film cannot even get this moment right, for in the
madness that erupts we are asked to believe that someone as experienced as
Neng-Tsai would believe that a ticket for one would actually work for two, and
so as the two lovers etch closer to their destination, there is little suspense
as to what will eventually transpire.
Red Dust was
obviously an inspiration for Ang Lee’s Lust,
Caution, and when it focuses on Neng-Tsai and the impact his decisions have
on his and Shao-Hua’s future, it can be quite powerful. In fact, what is really
wrong with the film is its perspective. Simply put, it is shown through the
wrong eyes, for while Shao-Hua’s story has elements of tragedy, she is the less
intriguing character. Yes, she’s put through the proverbial ringer, but her
drama is frequently undercut by light-hearted conversations and elements of
comedy. It is Neng-Tsai whose cold, broken stare drives the film. This is a man
fully aware that his actions will inevitably result in the loss of the one
thing that keeps him going, and yet carry on, he does, marching into a poisonous
web of his own design. It’s fascinating, and yet our view of his fate is
obscured by the film’s insistence on holding Shao-Hua up as some kind of national
hero. And here is perhaps the film’s most fatal flaw. As portrayed in Red Dust, especially in its final scene,
she is a rather mediocre writer. (on DVD and Blu-ray in Asia)
2 and a half stars
*Red Dust is in
Mandarin with occasionally erroneous English subtitles.
*The film won eight awards at the 1990 Golden Horse Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress, and Best Supporting Actress.
Yim Ho’s 1990 film Red Dust is about a young woman named Shen Shao-Hua (Brigitte Lin) whose father locks her in the attic for a number of years. Exactly how long her imprisonment is, we’re not told, but it is long enough for her to attempt suicide, as well as adopt some of the mannerisms of a pack rat upon gaining her freedom. I mention this right away because it automatically casts her as either traumatized or eccentric, and since the movie does not explore the latter, I’ll go with the former. Prior to her imprisonment, which only ends after the death of her father, she appears to have had a boyfriend - it is he we see trying to scale the Shen family gate and screaming for Shao-Hua to be released in the opening scene – and she seems to have had a best friend named Yeuh-Feng (Maggie Cheung), though they curiously avoid the subject of her psychological abuse almost completely. Perhaps this is because neither the director nor the screenwriter, Sanmao (a.k.a. Echo Chen Ping), truly knows what to do with it. It is as if they hope we simply forget about it. After all, they clearly did.
*The film won eight awards at the 1990 Golden Horse Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress, and Best Supporting Actress.
