The theme of urban alienation has proven fertile ground for filmmakers as disparate as Martin Scorsese (Taxi Driver) and Chantal Akerman (Jeanne Dielman). They say you're never more alone than when in a crowd, and the protagonist of cinematographer Hsiang Chienn's directorial debut finds herself set emotionally adrift among the huddled masses of Taipei's throng.
45-year-old Ling-tzu (Shiang-chyi Chen) is having a rough old time, to say the least. Her husband is working abroad in China and refuses to answer her phone calls, as does her dead-eyed teenage daughter. She finds herself diagnosed with early on-set menopause. To top it all off she's just been made redundant from her sewing job in a factory that resembles a barely legitimate sweat shop. And then there's that bloody front door of her apartment, which has a nasty habit of jamming. Even the wallpaper seems to mock her, one troublesome corner peeling despite her best efforts to tape it up.
While visiting her elderly mother in-law in hospital, Ling-tzu becomes enthralled with the male patient across the room, his eyes bandaged, the power of speech eluding him. Feeling pity, she begins to nurse him, but her care takes on a sensual approach, her hands spending a little too much time on his chest. Unable to express himself, we're unsure whether he feels comforted or violated; his groans are ambiguous. When the bandages come off, Ling-tzu retreats back into her shell, terrified of his reaction.
