Polvo en el viento

Hsaio-hsien Hou based this quietly effective Taiwanese Bildungrsoman on co-scripter Nien-Jen Wu's own experiences. The film is heavily influenced on the one side from Japanese masters like Ozu (though Hou denies this) and from the Italian Neo-Realists whose films inspired Wu. It's the old story of the younger generation ('60s kids from a mining town) leaving the country to try their luck in the big city. A shy, but devoted couple seem to be making a go of it, but life, jobs, family and even military service take a toll on the relationship. It's well observed, especially in the rural sections, and charmingly acted, but the natural flow of events doesn't really stick with you. Hou has trouble balancing the plot strands and particularizing the relationships, asking for a response out of proportion to what we've seen. No doubt this is not a problem for Taiwanese audiences, but then Ozu & De Sica managed the trick, didn't they.

Dust in the Wind is a remarkable film, and one which will, no doubt, reward multiple viewings. Like most of the films of Hou Hsiao Hsien, viewers will be divided into two, sharply opposed camps.

The main characters in the film are two high-school students. The first is Wan, who - seeing his village as a dead-end career-wise, decides to leave their home town to go to Taipei to find work, intending to complete his education via night-school. His girlfriend Huen also leaves for Taipei after graduation. The other personages are family members, employers, friends and co-workers.

The story presented consists of a number of vignettes in typical Hou fashion, with stationary camera and naturalistic performances. Glimpses are given of their occupations, their moments together and their times apart. Though varying from the very funny to the emotionally raw, they have a cumulative effect, resonating with a reality that is not idealised, and is yet still filled with moments of sublime grace, somehow existing with situations of despair, misery, boredom and loss. There is little music, only a solitary guitar used to punctuate scenes, almost like a musical interlude, often combined with stunning scenery.

Apart from the immediate plot, something can also be glimpsed of the attitudes of the rural, native Taiwanese towards the city and the higher classes, as well as to the vicissitudes of life in general. On a whole the film seems imbued with the melancholy, fatalistic philosophy indicated by its title.

A worthy member of Hou's inimitable body of films, 'Dust in the Wind' was touching and memorable, though with an absence of schmaltz. It is a film I hope to revisit soon. As for recommendations, I'm not sure that it will be everyone's 'cup of tea'. Some will find many of its aspects, in particular its detachedness, quite alienating. Certainly those already familiar with Hou, or fans of Taiwanese cinema in general, will want to see it. Those who like Ozu, Bresson or Tarkovsky may find it worthwhile also. There is the same naturalistic feel, understated acting and long takes. But it is also very much the work of an original auteur who is honing his craft and producing unique, personal films.

As far as I can tell, this is a series of melancholic vignettes which at the end amount to a melancholic (if not outright depressing) conclusion. Is this film supposed to express something about the fleeting nature of reality ("dust in the wind")? If so, I think there was no need for such a long story, because all the scenes had that same uncertain quality from the very beginning. There was no progress, no added depth; the film only kept adding misfortune upon misfortune and then it just ended. A City of Sadness has a very similar style and mood, but it uses it to explore and comment on society and its complexities, offering multiple perspectives and personalities on the way. I've seen some people compare this movie to Ozu and De Sica, but I think that's just focusing on the form and not the content. Whereas here Hsiao-Hsien remains distant and somewhat indifferent to its subject, Ozu is profoundly emotional and De Sica is greatly socially committed.

One of the earliest pleasures of silent cinema was the "phantom ride," where the audience floated along railway tracks, watching the world roll by. Hou begins Dust in the Wind with just such a journey, his camera gliding through a lush green valley. It's a gesture of trust, or perhaps a quiet bargain: this ride is buying our patience for a story about ordinary, cloud-capped lives. That kind of story is a hard sell without Ozu-level virtuosity (which, thankfully, Hou possesses). His characters, though, are grittier, more sweary, and less genteel than Ozu-san's.

We are ushered into this world, generally speaking, by the high hopes of our parents: hopes for their children to do well at school, to be happy, to succeed, to be extraordinary, and to find love. We mostly disappoint them. Our fates are, more often than not, to be "dust in the wind," as per the movie's title. Yet whatever happens, I'd like to think we retain some memory of hope's flavour, and of the occasional oasis-under-the-stars moment.

Wan is often seen studying, his head buried in books that promise a way out. But no matter how hard he stares, they fail to illuminate him. The path they suggest feels like a dead end. And love, too-what we hoped might rescue or complete us-can become the very dust that hides the rose, to borrow from Clyde Otis and Dinah Washington. The film does give us those brief moments of light, though, such as when friends gather to drink beer and say goodbye to one of their own, drafted into the military.

The story follows Wan and Huen, who grow up in a depressed mining town in the coastal hills. Unbelievably, this is Juifen, the same town that later became a photo-op deluxe for the Instagram set, thanks in part to Hou's City of Sadness. Wan and Huen are two halves of a Platonic whole, bonded from early childhood, and they stabilize one another as they navigate the trials of early adulthood, trying to build lives in Taipei. Love simply means being soothed by the other's presence. Wan and Huen, seated on opposite sides of the barred windows of a tailor's shop, move us not through grand gestures or declarations, but through their quiet, orbital return to each other.

At the end of the film, Wan's grandfather, in a symptom of dementia, repeats three times that sweet potatoes are harder to cultivate than ginseng. We know that quality of life has improved with each generation, but a kind of metronomic falling short of expectations persists. The repetition of the phrase captures this: the effort to grow something meaningful, and the recurring disappointment in the yield.

In this way, the film also refers to Taiwan itself-famously shaped like a sweet potato-struggling through the growing pains of Japanese occupation, followed by the heart-rending separation of destinies from the mainland.

Dust in the Wind can be bitter, but it never strays from relatability. Like the characters in the film, most people who track this down are looking, quietly and patiently, for solace in the cinema.

When it comes to writing about a specific film I stutter, I'm lost. But don't misunderstand me, I know enough of movies to say this is a work of art that will prevail thorough time as the greatest novels do. I believe Hou is up there with Tarkovsky, Bresson, Ozu, Pasolini, Dreyer, Sokurov, Fellini, Herzog, Paradjanov and others. I mention them so as to locate a few of you readers who may have heard little of Hou.

I think its better not to talk about the movie itself, one shall see it with new eyes. It is something new, this time cinema works for reality to transform it to beauty, that's the real meaning of art. It may seem simple at times, and yes it is, for time at present seems always simple, but it also accumulates the most complex structure of time. One can feel how the banality of everyday slowly fixates itself in eternity, one can see the inevitable, the beauty in the every small detail. Hou justifies life in a century that has lost itself and that sees only its own shadow. Humanity in its true form, going around like lost and innocent children, and there's no evil. And every second in Hou's work makes life more beautiful.

I've talked to a few people who have seen his movies, I can't guarantee the same experience, but what I've seen is there if you can see it in yourself.