“Tigertail” is a triumph. As in the best 

movies, its characters leap off the screen 

and will be remembered like old friends. The 

story in “Tigertail” is so fleshed out, so filled 

with emotion, that it feels like a memoir, not 

a fictional narrative. The film tells the life 

story of Pin-Jui, a Taiwanese immigrant to the 

US. It flashes between Pin-Jui’s elderly self, 

played excellently by Tzi Ma (“Arrival”) and 

his memories — chronicling his childhood, 

teenage years and how he left his life in Taiwan 

for the States.

Quiet moments, like older Pin Jui washing 

dishes and making tea, are filled with decades 

of formative memories. They run from sublime 

peace, like young Jui running along a river 

babbling through a rice field, to wrenching 

heartbreak, like teenage Jui leaving the 

love of his life. Tzi Ma is the anchor of it all, 

giving a piercing, yet painstakingly subtle, 

performance. He can convey a lifetime of 

emotions without uttering a word. 

In most other movies, Pin-Jui’s older self 

would be a background character, or even 

an antagonist. He’s cold, quiet and angry. 

There’s a particularly jarring moment when 

he screams at his young daughter Angela 

(Christine Ko, “Stumptown”) for crying after 

a botched piano performance. This distance 

and harshness continues as Angela grows up 

and worsens once his wife leaves him. Yet Pin-

Jui’s memories explain this mindset, showing 

his arranged marriage 

and choice to move to 

the States in search of 

opportunity, 
leaving 

his 
girlfriend 
and 

mother in Taiwan. 

For Pin-Jui and his 

wife, the American 

Dream was a rundown 

apartment 
complex 

in 1970s New York, 

where nobody spoke 

their 
language. 

Jui 
worked 
at 
a 

pharmacy day in and 

day out, ignoring his 

loneliness, 
isolation 

and culture shock. While he made money, it 

cost him his loved ones. The film shows his 

attempt to get them back. 

Is he too far gone? Can one go so far away 

from home that there is no going back?

Writer-director Alan Yang (“Master of 

None”) is a master of setting, and his eye for 

imagery frames Pin-Jui’s life with an almost 

mythic visual excellence. Be it a neon-tinted, 

Taiwanese nightclub or a crumbling house 

overgrown with tropical foliage, one sees Jui’s 

triumphs and losses reflected in every frame. 

This does not come across as inauthentic, as 

everyone gives their own memories hyperbolic 

weight. 

While Taiwanese culture and history are 

integral to the film, 

responding to a kind 

of 
representation 

needed 
in 
2020’s 

cinematic landscape, 

there’s a universality 

to 
his 
story 
that 

fits all walks of life. 

Hasn’t everyone left 

home at some time or 

another and regretted 

it? One will end the 

film in contemplation, 

perhaps even deciding 

to change one’s own 

life, taking that visit 

to Mom or calling that 

long lost friend. 

“Tigertail” 
is 
the 
type 
of 
authentic, 

piercing cinema that only comes around once 

in a while. There’s no conventionality, no 

over-sentimentalized, happy ending and no 

stereotypes. Just humanity, plain and simple. 

In a time when people are growing increasingly 

divided, movies like this serve as reminders 

that the silver screen is the great equalizer. No 

matter where we come from, we just want to 

find our way back home.

Tuesday, April 14, 2020 — 6
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

NETFLIX

ANDREW WARRICK

Daily Arts Writer

‘Tigertail’ brings the conventions of memoir to film

FILM REVIEW

John Prine was the best to ever do it, plain and 

simple. It’s the objective truth. When Johnny 

Cash, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, three 

giants in the American songwriting scene, 

all claim that someone is the best American 

songwriter of all time, you have no choice but 

to listen, and John Prine was that someone. In 

terms of commercial success, Prine pales in 

comparison to the aforementioned behemoths, 

but in terms of legacy and influence, he’s right 

up there with them, maybe even a tier above. 

Since 1971, he has had a steady outpouring of 

music, having released his most recent record, 

the outstanding Tree of Forgiveness, in 2018. His 

music has influenced artists ranging from Bon 

Iver and Kurt Vile to Kacey Musgraves and Jason 

Isbell, among countless others.

On Mar. 19, his wife Fiona announced she had 

been diagnosed with COVID-19. However, she 

assured fans that Prine had been quarantined 

in their house apart from her. On Mar. 26, she 

revealed Prine had been admitted to the hospital 

due to corona-like symptoms. He was later 

intubated and in critical condition as of Mar. 28. 

A few days ago, on Apr. 7, he died of complications 

related to COVID-19, at age 73. Prine was a 

fighter, having beaten both squamous cell cancer 

on the right side of his neck in 1993 and cancer in 

his left lung in 2013, returning to the tour circuit 

after only a few months of recovery. Given his age 

and compromised immune system, though, he 

just couldn’t get past coronavirus, despite taking 

extensive measures to protect himself.

It’s hard to accept that he’s gone, especially 

considering the circumstances, but it’s clear that 

he will not be forgotten. It may be cliche to say 

this, but his spirit will live on through his music. 

John Prine was the first artist that really stuck 

with me. And when I say stuck with me, I mean 

that he grabbed me and never let go. 

I remember the very first time I heard a John 

Prine song. I was in middle school, frenzied to 

find something to replace the tired old songs that, 

thanks to the disc jockeys at the local classic rock 

station, spewed endlessly from the radio in my 

parents’ kitchen. It’s not that I hated these songs, 

but I had heard them all thousands of times. I 

needed something fresh, so every night before I 

went to sleep, I would spend hours creating and 

wading through Pandora stations, waiting for 

something to grab my ear. After one especially 

late night, I finally found exactly what I was 

looking for. I had never heard anything like it 

before, but I knew that it was just what I needed.

It was a live version of “Illegal Smile” from 

Prine’s self-titled debut album, recorded in 1988 

at The Coach House in San Juan Capistrano, 

Calif. It was love at first listen. It was everything 

I had hoped for. It’s a silly song about smiling 

at things that aren’t funny, aided perfectly by a 

gently looping acoustic guitar. Prine’s charisma 

is immediately apparent as he banters back and 

forth with audience members and adlibs phrases 

like “Well done / Song of a gun / Hot dog bun / 

Attilla the Hun / My Sister … is a nun!” It’s hard 

not to be spellbound by “Illegal Smile.” It has 

everything that makes John Prine the best to 

ever do it, from the simple but not dumb lyrics to 

his friendly, familiar croak. It’s sharp, funny and 

empathetic, even if its lyrics don’t always make 

sense. It was the perfect introduction to John 

Prine.

Though it was impossible for Prine to become 

acquainted with all his fans — although I’m sure 

he would have liked to — he had the unique ability 

to touch each and every person who listened to 

his records. He simply understood people and did 

what he could to help them. Everyone has their 

own favorite John Prine song and few have the 

same favorite John Prine song because his songs 

covered every state of the human condition. Take 

1978’s “Fish and Whistle,” for example. Prine 

ponders why we choose the paths we go down 

in life and the mistakes that go along with those 

choices. “Father forgive us for what we must do 

/ You forgive us, we’ll forgive you / We’ll forgive 

each other until we both turn blue / Then we’ll 

whistle and go fishing in Heaven,” he sings on 

each chorus that rests between descriptions of 

undesirable scenarios. Prine carefully examines 

situations like working a job only to quit because 

you’re afraid of bees and are only being paid 50 

cents an hour, or joining the army and repairing 

heavy machinery only to use your time off to go 

out drinking. Prine knew that everyone regrets 

some of the things they’ve done in the past, but 

that these things are the only way a person can 

grow and become who they really are. And in 

the end, everyone will end up in the same place, 

regardless of what they’ve done. This song, and 

all of Prine’s songs for that matter, are why he 

resonates with so many people.

At times, Prine was even defiant. On “Your 

Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore” 

off his 1971 self-titled debut, he protested the 

senseless killing and false valor that comes with 

war. He sets it all up in a way that only he could: 

humorously, with great care and sensitivity. In 

the opening verse he sings, “While digesting 

Reader’s Digest / In the back of the dirty book 

store / A plastic flag with gum on the back / Fell 

out on the floor,” going on to describe the feeling of 

superiority and pride that comes with displaying 

your patriotism for everyone to witness, even 

going as far as to stick these little plastic flags all 

over his car and his wife. However, he denounces 

this overt patriotism in the chorus as he softly 

lampoons, “But your flag decal won’t get you into 

heaven anymore / They’re already overcrowded 

from your dirty little war / Now Jesus don’t like 

killin’, no matter what the reason’s for.” The song 

provides scathing commentary on the suffering 

that blind patriotism can cause and demonstrates 

Prine’s astonishing ability to tackle difficult 

subjects with grace and poise while also making 

sure that each word he sings drives his point 

deeper and deeper into his listeners.

John Prine found himself at home making 

songs to fit a variety of moods, but he was often 

at his best when he was making heartbreakingly 

warm and saccharinely sad music, a tone he 

employed in much of his late music. His final 

record, The Tree of Forgiveness, is filled with 

this type of music. The most notable example, 

however, is the record’s closing track “When I 

Get to Heaven.” The song is largely a spoken-

word list of the all things he’s going to do once 

he gets to heaven, only breaking form during the 

chorus as he erupts, “And then I’m gonna get a 

cocktail: vodka and ginger ale / Yeah, I’m gonna 

smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long / I’m 

gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl / 

‘Cause this old man is goin’ to town.” Prine knew 

his time was bound to come and decided to use 

this song to make sure that something as sad as 

his death would be thought of as a happy thing, a 

way for him to do all of the things that he couldn’t 

do while he was alive. 

ARTIST TRIBUTE
Rest easy, John Prine: you were the best to ever do it

JIM WILSON
Daily Arts Writer

Read more online at 

michigandaily.com

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