“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
ATLANTIC
Tigertail
Netflix
Now Streaming