Review: A Sun (2019)

 

100/100

I'm sure Americans have been used to the Asian trope of family. Don't worry, it's not stereotypical at all; in fact, we talk about it all the time. But do you know that it lies more than just annoyance towards parents? The boredom of having to share beds with your brother? In Asian families, nuance is a key role in driving our lives forward, and A Sun is rich in it, I might consider it the most universal Asian film on family, more diverse than any I've ever seen.

I've never been to Taiwan before, though I have seen Internet glances at it, and this film feels like a perfect representation of its natural beauty. In 4K resolution, the cinematography provides a stunning immersion into this little country in East Asia. However, there's more to what this film has in mind than just awesome cinematography. Don't get me wrong, everything will soon stem from the camera. But what this camera has to behold is way, way beyond nature. Writer, director, and cinematographer Chung Mong-hong is able to transcend the grounds of the film, into the sky, twixt the clouds, and touch the Sun. Or perhaps, one of the suns.

Because you see,  A Sun is a deliberate homonym of "A son". Indeed, the film revolves around Chen Jian-ho, a troubled teenager who gets arrested after an.... incident, which holy fuck was that brutal. But the problem is, it's not him: it's an accomplice of his and he was apparently standing beside him, unknowing of the situation. But before anything, his father disowns him, a known problem not only in Taiwan but all of Asia. From there on, the film explores family and humanity, the whole two hours feeling like slowly stitching a heart. It is a long and dreary process, but one with the time for realization, unity, and separation. Life is continuous regardless.

Chung Mong-hong is a very underrated filmmaker in Taiwan. Yes, I hear you Criterion snobs, Edward Yang's A Brighter Summer Day (1991) is a masterpiece. But as soon as the New Taiwanese Cinema died, it feels like we just forget that Taiwan still exists. As if Yang's the only left ashes in a dying country. Taiwan is a dying country, as the film shows, but Chung is here, waiting all the time. His previous films, as well as A Sun, flopped locally despite their international festival acclaim. Unsurprisingly, Chung is a kind of introverted person. The world is a blue place, too blue to be true, but it remains true.

That makes him the best director for a film like A Sun. Not just because he wrote the screenplay, but because he understands how society treats him, and how ultimately society deals with the heavy issues he tackles. His silences are solemn, his movements are meditative, and thus, the film is reflective. Like rainwater in the streets, mirroring the scorching Sun. The inciting incident is like a car crash, and the rest is the healing process. Amid, there may be other incidents, and more healing is needed. It may take years. A Sun doesn't provide you with reassurance or feel-good twists, but it shows you the fragility of injuries.

With performances by the ensemble, I feel as though connected to the family. And Chung provides the wire for this connection through various audiovisual methods. First, Lin Sheng-xiang's poetically soft score. If A Sun was a theatrical performance, it would've been met with tearful standing ovations, largely due to Lin's patience. Half of the film, I would say, has no score, but when Lin plays one in a scene, it doesn't feel sudden, it feels like a part of the story, as if nothing is changing. Characters flow through their flawed streams like a river, and Lin understands the weight. His basses are softer than any Michael Giacchino works, but they feel as intense as a Red Giant.

Second...? Not much. Because the film doesn't need a very meticulous details just so that we can feel the profoundness of the story. Chung has put the nuance, scope, weight, and emotions, all in one bundle, and Lin merely perfected it. This is the kind of film you can't really describe much. Does one understand or believe an ayahuasca story if they themselves have never drunk one? That's not to say A Sun is so hypnotic, it's still rigidly realistic. But there is a sense Chung provides that the characters are visualizing things as if given an awakening slowly, and slowly, and slowly. Until it hits you in the face. It constantly provides the characters with moral lessons, however, morals and lessons are hard to process. Will that moral or lesson be important at all in the end? Is hope even available nowadays?

One thing I like about such thought-provoking, nearing-niche films is that it knows when to cut a scene. It knows when to trim, and it only does at times where it's necessary. A Sun stays with its characters often for so long, you may wonder when the camera will pan, but you suddenly just don't. The whole film is a presentation. My father, who was a huge disliker of slowburn movies, found himself enjoying this. It is a mixtape of unfiltered poignancy. I felt a weird mix of transfixed and cuddly watching this, because I relate to this film oh-so-much, and as I continued watching, my whole heart pours for all the characters.

All of this is exactly how I feel with my family. Healing is a very hard process, and though you may recover from it, the scar is still there. And you may hate yourself when you see it. No offense to my family, just saying. But A Sun really gave me that much feeling. It is a complex, lush, and euphonically deep film. It doesn't care about being the best or something, because it doesn't have to. It is just touching and relevant, and though it may feel too arthouse, if you put your heart in Chung, he may just crush you with all his stored energy.

A Sun is available on Netflix.