Alan Yang's Poignant & Personal 'Tigertail' Is A Thoughtful Immigration Story [Review]

Acclaimed TV writer-director, Alan Yang (“Parks and Recreation“), won an Emmy Award in 2016 for co-penning the heartfelt episode of “Master of None,” “Parents,” an episode that opened with a hilarious two-pronged comedy bit touching upon issues of generational guilt within many Asian American families. “Tigertail,” Yang’s feature debut, continues exploring these themes through an approach that’s caught somewhere in between an intimate art-house project and a classic literary novel. Beginning in Taiwan in the 1950s, Yang’s film tells a fictionalized version of his father’s story of coming to America, dreaming of a better life in the pursuit of happiness.

The opening voiceover informs the audience that Pin-Jui—the surrogate character for Yang’s paternal figure (played by Hong-Chi Lee, in the past, and acting veteran, Tzi Ma, in the present)—never met his own father, having passed away when he was a baby, forcing his mother to re-enter the workforce. Pin-Jui is taken in by his grandparents and raised in their rice fields. Living in a small shack without luxury, he hides in a cabinet when the Nationalist Party comes around for inspections, the government workers chastising his grandmother for not speaking Mandarin. These historic details are never lingered on but are a key element of the textual framework.

Working in a sugar factory by day (the film actually being shot in the same location where Yang’s father and grandmother worked) and dancing to records with his sweetheart, Yuan (Yo-Hsing Fang), by night, Pin-Jui pines for a life in the U.S., even having learned how to dance from watching American movies. While his supervisor, the factory foreman, wishes to arrange a meeting, and perhaps a marriage, between his daughter, Zhenzhen (Kunjue Li) and Pin-Jui, an arrangement that would provide him a means for Pin-Jui to start a new life across the Pacific.

Yang’s film cuts back and forth between the young and the old Pin-Ju, who, in present-day, finds himself alone and in mourning, greatly concerned over his daughter Angela’s (Christine Ko) financial well-being, openly trepidatious of Angela’s fiancée (he’s carrying some baggage in that department). Pin-Ju no longer seems able to communicate with Angela (he struggles to communicate with everyone, really), projecting his own past mistakes onto her after becoming crestfallen with life’s disappointing outcome.

Shot in two distinct styles, the first half of “Tigertail” primarily takes place in period Taiwan. As the film moves closer towards the present, increasing its jumping back and forth in time, so too does the audience’s understanding of what Yang is attempting to capture through the narrative contrast. Structural intention starts to catch up with the thematic juxtaposition, and that’s when the movie’s slow-crawl vision really starts to sing. Storytelling foils become clear as day when the storylines begin to converge, as the reasoning behind aesthetic choices further reveals their intended impact.

Deft attention has been paid to production design elements, the period storyline poignantly capturing the hard truths of upbringing, alongside the intoxicating swirl of youthful naivete—those times when you can still afford to pretend things are going to get better, while you’re quietly ashamed of how life is unfolding; you’ve made nothing of yourself, yet, you somehow feel immortal, still. By contrast, Tzi Ma’s beautifully somber performance embodies the consequences of sacrificing what we care about in service of those we care about. He has almost no lines until the second half of the film, a choice that works wonders. The majority of the modern-day scenes are set indoors, enclosed in domestic settings with an endless array of cabinets and an infinity of counter space. Wide windows and shadow-lit interiors are shot with glossy screen textures, washing away all color of the past, which features for more exterior locations, soft, vibrant shades of green and red bleeding through the grainy imagery.

While Yang borrows a few obvious aesthetic choices from other filmmakers, overall, as a debut work, he’s incredibly disciplined in his artistic indulgences and has very strong visual instincts. There is some heavy-handed dialogue, here and there, as well as a couple of scenes with some clunky exposition—and the over-reliance of novel-like narration often comes off as a crutch—but the raw humanity brought out by the back half of the narrative almost outweighs the on the nose weightiness of the dramaturgy, playing so earnestly by the end of the picture that you want to forgive most of the flaws.

 “Tigertail” is an important and powerful immigration story for our troubled times, a thoughtful examination of the emotional boxes we’re prone to build for ourselves, and our offspring, exploring the fallout of not communicating with family when you fear being perceived as a failure. The American dream may be a vision of happiness one can never catch, but maybe that’s because many of us are simply chasing the wrong word. Perhaps how we share that pursuit with those around us is what leads to happiness. [B/B+]