Four Springs' transcends being just a family story; it's also a deeply personal journey for its creator. This 'small' film steers clear of grand national narratives, focusing instead on the intimate life of a family and the status of the parents. Its primary intent is to pay homage to parenthood, but its genuine nature resonates with a broader audience. After all, we are all someone's child, transforming it into a 'big' movie.
In the film's latter half, the scenes increasingly depict the parents moving apart, almost like a drawing coming to life. This brings to mind Lung Ying-tai's words: 'I gradually understood that the bonds of father, daughter, and mother imply a destiny that follows his retreating figure into the distance. You stand at one end of the path, watching him disappear around the bend. And with his receding back, he silently tells you: there is no need to chase.'
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
The film 'Four Springs' masterfully uses spatial awareness and the aesthetic of distance to craft its narrative. A memorable moment unfolds in the theater: the audience erupts in sustained laughter during a scene where the parents climb a mountain. This moment highlights director Lu Qingyi’s exceptional skill in selecting poignant scenes from over 250 hours of footage. The scene feels almost like a candid, behind-the-scenes glimpse, yet it deeply captures the family's harmony.
My initial surprise at the director's discerning eye evolved into a deeper understanding upon realizing the impending misfortune in the story. It reminded me of Lu Xun's words, 'Tragedy destroys the valuable things in life for people to see.' This perspective became even clearer when the director followed happy travel photos with a scene of my sister in a hospital bed — a jarring, yet responsible choice for the audience.
Lu Qingyi, as a witness and creator, had to repeatedly confront the unbearable weight of life during editing. He skillfully navigated through an ocean of images to find the narrative thread. I noticed that the illness was subtly hinted at much earlier, in a phone conversation between the father and sister. First-time viewers, caught in the happiness of the moment, might miss this foreshadowing — a testament to the director's narrative mastery, which becomes even more poignant upon reflection.
'Illness and death' weave quietly through 'Four Springs' as unobtrusive threads. From grave-sweeping scenes across four years to the mother's concern for her husband's health, the director's restraint in portraying grief turns it into a subtle backdrop for the film. This restraint elevates the narrative, transforming it into a simple yet profound life attitude. The parents tending plants at their daughter's grave, even singing and dancing, presents a life and death-perspective that transcends pain, leaving the audience in awe.
A line from Edward Yang's 'A Day on the Beach' resonates deeply with me: 'We've read countless books and passed so many exams in our youth, yet why has no one taught us to face life's most critical challenges?' Similarly, 'Four Springs' presents its own profound questions: How do we confront death? How do we accept the aging process? And ultimately, how do we live?
Lu Qingyi's evolving consciousness as a photographer is evident in his gradual retreat behind the camera. This conscious distancing doesn't diminish his role in family life; instead, it endows him with a gentler, more perceptive gaze, allowing him to uncover beauty in the everyday. The wintersweet plant, a gift received by the father in the first spring, reappears in the fourth, illustrating the kind of omnipresent detail that astounds me. The transition in the film from the parents' faces to the fireworks is a layered tapestry of love, praise, and even a touch of the divine.
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