Review: Tigertail — the secret history of the Asian Dad
虎尾 “tiger tail”, what an evocative name. In Chinese puns, the tiger tail refers to an innocuous thing that can be the catalyst to unimaginable havoc when disturbed, it is a thing that is impossible to hold. In Alan Yang’s directorial debut, “Tigertail” refers a place and time that is impossible to return to that sits at the heart of a story of loss and salvation.
Tigertail is the latest film in the recent wave of Asian diaspora cinema, and tells a simple story of an immigrant family from the perspective of a Taiwanese man. There aren’t any missed connection or misunderstandings that lead to intrigue, just a poor boy’s desire to make a better life for himself, and the life-altering decisions he made to reach that goal. Without any twists of fate, the narrative is grounded solidly in the unglamorous reality behind the family history of so many immigrant families that started new lives in America. On social media, I’ve already noticed many Asian Americans sharing family pictures and stories about their parents’ similar experiences.
Alan Yang is a name I was already familiar with from his outstanding work on Master of None, particularly the “Parents” episode that featured the most authentic Asian dad I’ve seen on American television. Tigertail is the story of an Asian dad, from boyhood to middle age, spanning two countries and five decades. We’ve seen plenty of Asian Dad memes that poke fun at his stern countenance and insatiable demand for excellence, but how many have wondered how he became so angry, and how he lost his capacity for joy?
Perhaps the film is a bit too focused on explaining how Pin-Jui transforms from a dancing, singing, smiling young man to a haunted shell of his former self. Tigertail sometimes feels like “The History of Pin-Jui” as we move from one key vignettes to the next, dancing with Yuan, shaking hands with his boss, shouting at Angela in the car etc. Conversations between Pin-Jui and the characters in his life all delivered on-the-nose exposition about his poverty and yearning, but this is far more effectively conveyed by the achingly beautiful cinematography and soundtrack.
Tigertail is at its best when the soundtrack’s stirring, string-filled score wash over you as you feast your eyes on the saturated hues and lingering closeups that take clear cues from Hong Kong film legend Wong Kar-wai. Pin-Jui’s first love, played with sweet sensuality by Yo-Hsing Fang, makes us all fall for her as the young lovers dance to vintage Taiwanese pop in the dim light. Tzi Ma, in a masterful and subdued performance, conveys years of suppressed emotions that writhes beneath his stoicism. The cramped apartment Pin-Jui shares with Zhenzhen is portrayed in lurid swaths of primary colors and deep shadows, an unending, unchanging dream he can’t wake from.
It’s important to note that Pin-Jui is far from idealized, Alan Yang’s screenplay does not use his pain to justify the pain he caused in the lives of others. In particular, it casts a critical light on the misogyny in Pin-Jui and Zhenzhen’s father that led to Pin-Jui and Zhenzhen’s loveless marriage of opportunity, which was decided upon without Zhezhen even being present. I would have loved to see Zhenzhen’s character to have been given more development, as much of it occurrs off-screen, and fails to build up to the powerful scene when she calls him “broken” and walks out on their marriage.
When we, the children of immigrant parents look at all the hardship they have experienced, and all the trauma they have endured and dealt to others, the question of “why?” rises, unbidden. I asked my father this question once, and it brought him to tears.
The truth is, leaving your entire life behind to cross an ocean and go to a new country is a leap of faith that leaves many bruised and broken. They couldn’t have known how much of the sacrifices will seem meaningless later, how much suffering ends up senseless, how much regret they will feel when they look back on the toils of their youth. And perhaps the most painful thing for them is imagine what might have been.
I can’t stress how important it is for immigrant stories like Tigertail to be told, for more people to learn about the choices immigrants make, and the journeys they make over land and sea and through time to get to where they are now. It means so much to see them not as decorative side characters with cliche, underdeveloped storylines, but the focus of a sleek, beautiful production that honors and celebrates them. This enriches American cinema in a way that I used to not dream to be possible, and it gives me hope.
Stray thoughts:
- Tigertail is a sumptuous visual feast, many of the images, particularly the lush green field and the red starter apartment in the Bronx will linger in my mind for a long time
- Joan Chen, screen goddess that she is, delivered her lines with such sweet restraint, taking care to evoke young Yuan in her bashful resignation and sunny disposition. Tzi Ma also astonished me with the way he channeled young Pin-Jui, his sullen face was brought completely to life with dancing eyebrows, his body suddenly lighter in his movements
- Angela’s disastrous piano recital made me so sad, not only because I’ve also been through it, but also because of the metaphor that life is a stage and you can’t fix your broken song
