The 2003 film “Goodbye, Dragon Inn” opened in a cinema in Taipei that was screening King Hu’s 1967 film “Dragon Inn.” It will be the last movie shown in the cinema and is a fitting choice, as Hu’s Wuxia film marked a significant milestone in Taiwanese and world cinema. But this choice, celebrating a high point in Taiwanese filmmaking, also stands in stark contrast to the theater’s current condition, where it stands in the inclement weather, largely vacant and timeworn. 

Inside, only a few individuals haunt the cinema. Director Tsai Ming-Liang’s interpretation of mundanity, where words hold little value, drives the film’s plot as these isolated bodies wander and occasionally cross paths. In the main plotline, a ticket woman (Chen Shiang-Chyi) with a bad leg limps to deliver a shou bao, or longevity bun, to her co-worker (Lee Kang-sheng). Driven by the small act of kindness, she embarks across backrooms, hallways and other porous spaces, step by step. 

And although there are other occupants, some of whom are familiar, they are ultimately passive figures in the film. The kineticism in “Goodbye, Dragon Inn” comes from the movie’s setting and the ironies and singularities that Tsai cleverly mines out of it. The great contradiction of the moviegoing experience is that the occupants are isolated — whether it be in their seats, silence or darkness — while, at the same time, subject to the same sights and sounds of the film. 

The beauty of movies — and art in general — is, then, that these same sights and sounds can elicit vastly different emotions and thoughts. Tsai captures these complexities in a way that isn’t heady by personifying “Dragon Inn” as a character itself, whose omnipresent role throughout the film is constantly evolving. For the ticket lady, it becomes a source of motivation. For another moviegoer, it is a reminder of his past. All of this happens under the same roof, in different spaces and at different times. 

As much as Tsai’s observations are about film and physical space, there are also greater, more human details to be found. In his filmography, Tsai’s running theme is urban isolation and the search for connection. In one of the plotlines, a man playing musical chairs around the auditorium is revealed to be one of a handful of men looking for a gay encounter. There is strange amusement to the awkward shuffling and staging of bodies as these men silently sit or pass one another. But also, this scene is a greater reflection on how these men’s sexuality, and it’s an expression of intimacy driven to the unlit corners of the theater. 

Take a scene where restroom etiquette is humorously set aside as two men use urinals right next to each other despite the row being empty. Tsai’s avoidance of dialogue works to great effect as their shifting eyes and tense bodies speak for themselves. The antsiness is palpable, leaving the audience waiting for someone to cut the silence, and in the end, no man dares to. 

And on the note of the lack of dialogue, one of “Goodbye, Dragon Inn’s” chief achievements, the encapsulation of the moviegoing experience, is indebted to the prevailing silence. All that is left in the film’s soundscape are ambient analog sounds: gentle rain, the hum of the projector, echoed footsteps and audio from “Dragon Inn.” Factor in the setting of empty and damp liminal spaces, and the result is an ineffable union of sadness, serenity and eeriness. 

These feelings of nostalgia and melancholy, for the impermanence of time and a bygone era of movies, course throughout the film’s brisk 82 minutes and resonate long after. The casting of Chun Shih and Miao Tien, stars of “Dragon Inn,” celebrates what once existed, while the lack of finality in the ending signifies the ushering of cinema’s future, however uncertain. Perhaps, to come to terms with the impossible feeling of nostalgia, where everything in the past seems better than the present, all one can do is appreciate their memories.

 

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