Yi Yi (2000), the culminating masterpiece by Taiwanese auteur Edward Yang, intertwines the joys and sorrows of life through the lens of a middle-class Taipei family. Spanning from a wedding to a funeral, this 173-minute opus illuminates life’s profound rhythms with extraordinary insight.

Similar to Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander (1982), Yi Yi opens with a grand celebration, setting the stage for a complex web of relationships. The wedding of A-Di (Chen Xisheng) and Xiao-Yan (Xiao Shushen) takes place at Taipei’s iconic Grand Hotel. Tension arises when A-Di’s former lover, Yunyun (Zeng Xinyi), makes a dramatic entrance, claiming she should have been the bride. After a brief but intense confrontation, A-Di’s sister, Min-Min (Elaine Jin), intervenes, persuading Yunyun to leave. N.J. (Wu Nianzhen), A-Di’s brother-in-law, silently observes the disruption, detached with his son, Yang-Yang (Jonathan Chang), amid the wedding’s chaos. N.J. harbors a personal secret—he unexpectedly crosses paths with his first love, Sherry (Ke Suyun), leading to an emotional confrontation about their past. Among the displeased attendees is Grandma (Tang Ruyun), A-Di’s mother, who excuses herself early from the wedding, citing a sudden physical discomfort. She is escorted home by Ting-Ting (Kelly Lee), N.J.’s daughter, who becomes intrigued by the secret rendezvous between her neighbor Lili (Adrian Lin) and Lili’s boyfriend, Pangzi (Yupang Chang). As the wedding scene unfolds, Yang orchestrates the introductions of his characters with remarkable precision, allowing each to establish their place in the constellation as the narrative breathes.

A highly condensed life epic, Yi Yi is teeming with events that span the entirety of the film. In every frame, whether at the forefront or lingering in the background, the screen is alive with constant movement; there’s always something to discover. The film’s composer, Peng Kaili, incorporates multiple classical music themes into the movie, occasionally employing variations. Accompanied by these soothing melodies, the story progresses steadily, as each family member experiences new events, makes new decisions, and undergoes subtle changes within themselves.

Grandma lies motionless in a coma, her body a silent presence, disconnected from the world outside. Min-Min suggests that each family member take turns speaking to her, clinging to the hope that their words might aid in her recovery. Yet, as the days stretch on, Min-Min struggles to find words herself, suffocated by a shrinking world and a faltering marriage. Her despair mirrors that of Zhou Yufen in Edward Yang’s Terrorizers (1986), a writer whose creative spark dwindles after decades of confinement within marriage. Overwhelmed with emotion, Min-Min collapses into tears, casting aside her worldly attachments and seeking solace in a Buddhist temple.

Ting-Ting’s guilt over Grandma’s coma haunts her, yet it doesn’t stop her from venturing into the realm of love. Lili’s romantic life is anything but stable, as she turns her and Pangzi’s relationship into an open one without his consent, deeply traumatizing him. Seizing this opportunity, Ting-Ting draws closer to Pangzi, but their connection proves shallow. Like many youthful love stories, Ting-Ting’s quest for love ends in heartbreak as Pangzi returns to Lili. In a quiet night scene, we find Ting-Ting walking the streets alone. True to the austere spirit of New Cinema, this scene is devoid of tears or sentimental music, yet Ting-Ting’s frustration visibly fills the frame. Pangzi’s tragic fate unravels mostly off-screen. After discovering Lili’s affair with her English teacher (Chen Lihua), Pangzi takes the teacher’s life. The film conveys this violence subtly through a brief news report. Just as the camera often maintains a distance from the characters, a barrier persists between the audience and the unfolding drama.

Much like Yang’s A Confucian Confusion (1994), Yi Yi weaves its narrative around coincidences that push characters into each other’s lives, exposing their true selves beneath the veil of societal norms and moral constraints. The film’s sound design mirrors this intrusion, with sounds from subsequent scenes seeping into the present, subtly connecting characters and themes, sometimes with a touch of satire. A prime example occurs when Lili inadvertently stumbles upon her mother’s intimate moment with her English teacher. Her desperate scream turns into a baby’s cry, leading us to A-Di’s newborn son wailing in front of the camera. This playful editing technique brings to mind a similar moment in Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (1935), where a charwoman’s scream is revealed to be the whistle of the Flying Scotsman train. In this moment, Yang makes it clear that Lili is not the character he invites us to sympathize with.

A-Di is depicted as a vulgar and frivolous character, often indulging in self-praise and making empty promises. Through the highs and lows of his financial and family circumstances, A-Di’s feelings fluctuate dramatically. He represents the prime target of mockery within the family. Despite his self-proclaimed wealth, a series of miscalculations lead to his eventual financial downfall. Meanwhile, Yunyun relentlessly invades A-Di’s life, even disrupting his son’s full moon celebration, almost driving Xiao-Yan away from him. Devastated by his financial and familial hardships, A-Di opts for a tragic path. Though his suicide scene is brief, his soliloquy lingers, offering a poignant glimpse into his despair and evoking immediate sympathy from the audience. Ultimately, Yi Yi remains a strongly compassionate work, at least in its treatment of the family members. A-Di eventually survives his plight, with all of his crises miraculously resolved; right away, he restores his former sense of levity.

At the beginning of the film, Yang-Yang finds himself in constant conflict with the girls. On one occasion, they seize him and toss his shoe away. Another time, Yang-Yang responds by popping a balloon, reducing them to tears. Yet, after a series of such clashes, the tension between them dissipates in an unexpected moment of sexual enlightenment. This revelation takes place in the school’s audiovisual classroom, where a meteorology video plays in the background. The enclosed space strips away all external identities—teacher, class leader, classmate—leaving only a boy and a girl, isolated in their shared world. The dim lighting confines our perception, trapping us in Yang-Yang’s mind, allowing us to see and feel only what he experiences. Yang-Yang encounters the novelty and marvel of sexuality for the very first time, his newfound awareness materializes as a thunderstorm. At this precise moment, the otherwise mundane narration of the science video takes on a new, charged layer of meaning. In this enchanting scene, the secret connection between nature, sexuality, and the genesis of life is unveiled before us. What strikes us is both primal and raw—a profound astonishment. The impact of this scene is nothing short of solemn, marking a transcendentally cinematic moment when the narrative potential of visuals and sound reaches its peak.

Fueled by his innocent curiosity, Yang-Yang discovers a deep passion for photography. Unshaken by the Dean’s relentless opposition (Liu Liangzuo), Yang-Yang continues to capture images from unique angles, making an artistic choice to reveal to others what they cannot see. However, for 17 years following its release, Yi Yi remained largely unseen in Taiwan. Edward Yang’s dissatisfaction with the local film environment led him to deliberately exclude Taiwan from the film’s initial release. It wasn’t until July 28, 2017, a decade after Yang’s passing, that the film finally received its first official screening in Taiwan. Throughout the film, Yang-Yang’s journey is entwined with the theme of growing up, and his reflections on aging in the film’s conclusion strongly echo those of Zazie in Louis Malle’s Zazie dans le Métro (1960). After witnessing the hypocrisy and chaos of the adult world, the young Zazie declares that she has already grown older.

The Dean is yet another wholly negative character in the film. Acting as a typical school bully, he forms an alliance with a group of girls to torment Yang-Yang constantly. However, Yang-Yang’s wit and innocence consistently foil his efforts, leading to his complete humiliation in front of his classmates. Perhaps the Dean’s most grievous offense is his ridicule of Yang-Yang’s photographic works, openly dismissing them as “avant-garde art”. One might detect in his posture on art a sly caricature of those cultural commentators who confuse dismissiveness with sophistication. Edward Yang’s contempt for this character couldn’t be clearer.

The middle-aged N.J. carries himself with a perpetually stoic expression, harboring a deep dissatisfaction with his current life. Frequently, he seeks refuge in music, retreating behind headphones to shut out the world around him. Employed at a software company in Taipei, N.J. is tasked with negotiating with a Japanese game producer, Mr. Ota (Issey Ogata), in pursuit of a potential collaboration. Ota, with his refined elegance and exceptional insight, brings a philosophical perspective to their meeting, discussing the connection between video games and human nature. In comparison, N.J.’s colleagues come across as both shortsighted and hypocritical. Mr. Ota’s storyline assumes the introspective aspect of the film, conveying Edward Yang’s general contemplation of Taiwanese society.

The deal is decisively driven by Big Boss Huang (Luo Bei-an), recognized for his influence and particular advocacy for women’s rights. Huang only makes one brief appearance in the film, during which he remains observable from a distance. Seated leisurely and surrounded by a group of attractive young ladies, he is almost reminiscent of an emperor from ancient Chinese dynasties. Yi Yi never aggressively asserts its ideas onto the audience; rather, it gently whispers its message when you are thoroughly mesmerized by its ingenious storytelling: principled stances might simply be veils for basic desires!

N.J. and Ota share a common love for music, which quickly leads to a strong friendship. N.J. soon realizes that Ota represents an alternate version of himself leading a different and in many ways better life. N.J.’s newfound insight motivates him to open up to Ota, ultimately leading him to acknowledge his true self. One late night, N.J. dials Sherry’s number, and they subsequently meet in Tokyo. Through their conversation, Yang gradually reveals N.J.’s past. Many years in the past, N.J. compromised with life, pursuing studies in Electrical Engineering despite his lack of interest—a decision that strikingly mirrors Edward Yang’s own academic background—and marrying someone he didn’t truly love. Just like several other characters in the film, N.J. carries traces of Edward Yang’s previous works–he is based on Jia-Sen from That Day, on the Beach (1983).

As N.J. and Sherry wander the streets of Tokyo, their love rekindles memories from their youth. In a bold departure from conventional storytelling, Yang avoids flashbacks to depict their younger selves. Instead, he employs parallel editing to connect their story with Pangzi and Ting-Ting’s first date. This clever interplay of sequences merges the two couples, with Pangzi and Ting-Ting seamlessly embodying N.J. and Sherry. The film then flows deftly between the two scenes, bound together by dialogues, transcending the boundaries of time and space, and unlocking the emotions that N.J. has suppressed for decades. This stands as one of the most emotionally impactful moments in Yi Yi.

Yi Yi avoids the clichés of typical Hollywood romance, sparing the audience any passionate love scenes between N.J. and Sherry, with their emotional reunion bound by moral propriety, a restraint that recalls the poignant, unfulfilled longing in Spring in a Small Town (1948). The next morning, Sherry leaves without a word, and N.J. is left to reflect on a life he can no longer reclaim. In a moment of introspection, N.J. remarks, “Even if I was given a second chance, I wouldn’t need it.” Through this, Edward Yang seems to suggest that life is filled with inevitable regrets, and that maturity lies in learning to live with them. As the film concludes, it becomes clear that Yang-Yang is not the only one who has grown older.

Grandma’s passing reunites the family for one final time, with her funeral marking the film’s concluding scene. Yi Yi transcends N.J.’s personal journey, offering a collective portrait of the diverse experiences that shape each family member. Conceived over a period of fifteen years, the film culminates in a narrative tapestry that resonates as an all-inclusive life encyclopedia, chronicling the myriad stages from birth to life’s final moments. Across its 173-minute runtime, I found myself completely immersed in the serene, sophisticated, and profoundly humanistic world masterfully crafted by Edward Yang. As the credits rolled, an overwhelming sensation washed over me—one that felt like having personally journeyed through the entirety of life itself.

Yi Yi belongs to a rare breed of films that truly grasp the mystery of capturing the intricate intersection of time, memory, and family dynamics—not through dramatic confrontations or tearful reconciliations, but through the quiet accumulation of small, often overlooked moments. Classic examples include Yasujirō Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953) and Hou Hsiao-hsien’s A Summer at Grandpa’s (1984). More recent works, such as Richard Linklater’s Boyhood (2014) and Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Still Walking (2008), continue this tradition. These movies delve into the subtle, often hidden emotional currents running through family life, employing a restrained storytelling approach that reveals existential truths through moments of emotional clarity. Like Yi Yi, they prioritize internal emotional exploration over conventional narrative, showing how the mundane moments of everyday life can hold vast emotional resonance when viewed in hindsight.

Edward Yang may have left us, but his farewell gift, Yi Yi, continues to extend our lives.