The River (1997)

Perhaps the most harrowing of Tsai Ming-Liang's meditations on urban isolation and communication breakdown, The River is a reliably demanding exponent of the Taiwanese filmmaker's cinema. Set in Taipei like his other movies (save for parts of What Time Is It There?) and starring Tsai's regular troupe of players, the movie trains the director's unblinking gaze on the breakdown of the nuclear family. The River initially follows the misadventures of a poker-faced layabout, Xiao-Kang (Tsai alter ego Lee Kang-Sheng), but it eventually branches off to two other characters, a middle-aged man and woman (Miao Tien and Lu Hsiao-Ling). It's a testament to Tsai's ability to represent disconnectedness that it's not until well into the picture that we realize the three are a family, sharing the same dilapidated apartment in Taipei. The elliptical narrative focuses on the ailing Xiao-Kang and his quest for relief, but it's clear that his illness is a stand-in for a host of problems: family dysfunction, sexual confusion, urban anomie, and spiritual ache. Amplifying the sense of dislocation and dread is Tsai's rigorous mise-en-scène, which is occasionally (and thankfully) leavened by flashes of absurdist humor. Nearly wordless and always exacting, The River may be more punishing than Tsai's other works. Those who choose to stick with this admittedly difficult film, however, will be rewarded with a compelling variation on the Taiwanese auteur's obsessions and a conclusion that suggests the possibility of better days amid the wreckage of the present. ~ Elbert Ventura, All Movie Guide