Yi Yi: Years Pass through Frame by Frame

There's a famous painting: the sun above the sea, sunlight sprinkling across the ocean, with a few people on the beach looking towards the sun. Do you think it's sunrise or sunset? It is said that those who see a sunrise are full of vitality and optimism, while those who see a sunset are considered to be sinking in twilight and pessimism. One day someone asked me whether I saw the sunrise or the sunset. Even though I knew the symbolism, I didn't want to hide anything. I said I saw the sunset, and he said I have aged. It was on that day I watched "Yi Yi (A One and a Two)," and though I was initially indifferent, I found myself sitting there, covering my face and crying as the end credits rolled. It felt as long as a lifetime and yet as short as three hours. I remembered a line from the film: "The invention of cinema has tripled our lifespans." This movie made me live from ten to sixty years old, experiencing the cycle of life from the death of a grandmother to the birth of an uncle's child.

When I was ten, I was Yang-Yang.

I had a knowledgeable father, a neurotic mother, a gentle sister, and a grandmother who always told me to "be obedient." I was always bullied by girls and disliked the "little wives" at school. One day, I heard a quarrel from next door. The next day, I saw that auntie at the elevator and wanted to turn to look at her. Dad said, "Yang-Yang, you can't look at people like that. It's impolite, and they might get angry." I said, "But I want to know what's upsetting her. I can't see from behind." I told Dad, "You see things I don't, and I see things you don't. How do I know what you're looking at?" So Dad taught me photography. I took pictures of people's backs because they couldn't see themselves. I shared the world I saw with my eyes with adults, but they didn't understand or believe me, so I captured it. Later, I realized the "little wives" weren't so bad. Grandma died, and I apologized to her. Just like that, taking photos, I turned twenty.

At twenty, I was Ting-Ting.

I had a loving father, a brother always bullied by girls, and a graceful grandmother. I was friends with Lily next door and liked her boyfriend, Fatty. I couldn't tell anyone these things, but keeping them inside was painful, so I confided in Grandma. I didn't understand why Uncle A-Di didn't marry Aunt Yun-Yun. I asked Dad, "If Uncle A-Di isn't bad, then Aunt Xiao-Yan must be the problem, right?" I thought love was about good and bad, right and wrong. Good people should have love, and bad people shouldn't. I started dating Fatty, but they got back together. I felt it was unfair. I hadn't done anything wrong, so why didn't Fatty like me? Later, after many events, Fatty killed someone involved with Lily's mother for her. My love also vanished in his roar, and Grandma died. Suddenly, I understood a lot about love. Just like that, thinking, I turned thirty.

At thirty, I was the Uncle.

I had an honest brother-in-law, a caring sister, a fierce wife, and an understanding ex-girlfriend, Yun-Yun. I believed in fortune-telling and thought about making money every day, but always felt frustrated. I thought I was eloquent, but when talking to Mom, I couldn't say anything. I was afraid of my wife and didn't know if I stayed for the baby or love. When the baby turned one month old, Yun-Yun visited, and my wife was upset, leading to a quarrel. I didn't know what to do and hated my cowardice. I returned home distraught that day, and the next day, my wife found me collapsed in the bathroom. For a moment, I wanted to die. Later, my mother died, and my business improved. Just like that, muddling through, I turned forty.

At forty, I was Min-Min or NJ.

I had a dull husband, a studious daughter, a self-absorbed son, a hopeless brother, and a close coworker, Nancy. Everything seemed not too bad. One day, Mom fell into a coma, and I had to talk to her every day, breaking down as I realized how little I had. I felt like I had lived for nothing. I cried, lost in the meaninglessness of life. What was I living for all this time? Nancy suggested I stay in the mountains for a while. When I returned, I said there was nothing special there. Later, still confused, I turned sixty.

I had a wife I barely communicated with, a cute daughter, a son much like me, an unsuccessful brother-in-law, and a longtime friend and coworker. Deep down, I still held onto someone, my first love, A-Rui. Often feeling out of place, I despised the deception in business and the vulgarity of money, yet I was deeply involved. Meeting Ota, I felt I had found a true friend. We talked about music, art, and life, sharing our hearts. I met A-Rui again, remembering our past. I never truly loved anyone else, only her. But I refused her, feeling there was no need to relive it. The past was the past, unreturnable. Struggling through, I turned sixty.

At sixty, I was Grandma.

I never spoke a word, but I always knew. I knew their confusion, fragility, joy, and happiness. I knew what to do but chose not to speak, not to interfere. Like a plant, overcare robs the ability to evolve. They would understand, just as I did because they would all reach their sixties, but I was about to die.

Perhaps you're now the past Yang-Yang, the present Ting-Ting, the future Uncle, Min-Min, NJ. Regardless, in the end, you're Grandma, starting as the Uncle's son. You alone form a world.

After the movie, I passionately explained why I saw the sunset, saying that the long darkness after sunset always leads to dawn, always holding hope. This morning, while running, I saw a breakfast shop at the corner, serving seven types of buns: flower rolls, steamed buns, siew mai, sour vegetable buns, meat buns, cabbage buns, and dumplings. I thought I could buy a different type each day for seven days, and with four shops, that's twenty-eight days, nearly a month. So I could tell Grandma, every day is different for me.