This Article Full Text (PDF) Services Download to citation manager

Reel Images of Aging: A Review of Recent Feature-Length Films

University of Minnesota 258 Appleby Hall 128 Pleasant St. S.E. Minneapolis, MN 55455 E-mail: yahnk001{at}umn.edu

Family Dramas
The Shower, directed by Yang Zhang (China, 2000). An adult son returns home when he receives a message that erroneously suggests his father has died. He is the prodigal son, the one who left the old ways behind, moved to a new city with his wife, and prospered. He is the modern Chinese man—cell phone always at the ready. His father, who runs a traditional bathhouse (his clients are mostly old men), is well and happy walking the well-worn ruts of this humble life. But there is a complication: the prosperous brother has a developmentally disabled younger brother who is an unofficial mascot of the bathhouse. When these two points of plot collide, the film is transformed into a compelling story of family conflicts about filial piety, loyalty, community, caregiving, and redemption.

The elder son returns to a world that has become foreign to him. Imagine a cell phone in a traditional Chinese bathhouse! He is the reactor to all that surrounds him. His father and his developmentally disabled brother have an established routine. The two can read each other's minds. But the prodigal son is, to a great extent, our own eyes and ears as we enter this strange world. We take in the film through his consciousness. As that son begins to adapt and accept his new environment, we become more encouraged and hopeful that resolutions for this family's problems may be found. The son aligns his life within the constraints of filial piety. But then the film is true to the essentials of plot. Resolutions will occur; but happiness is a different story. Just when the son seems most committed to helping his father and younger brother, the old man suddenly dies. At first the son thinks his choice is clear: he places the younger brother in an institution—and yet returns the same day to retrieve him. Eventually they settle back into the routine of the bathhouse. But if life requires suffering, then it also requires us to adapt and adopt new roles. The son realizes that inevitably he must return home, resume his career, and sustain his relationship with his wife. His first step toward reconciliation is to tell his wife a secret he had kept from her—that his brother is developmentally disabled. When the bathhouse is closed (by an urban renewal project), the son is now ready to assume the filial responsibility that would make his father proud. He tells his brother, "Being together is the most important thing." Like Raymond and Charlie in Rain Man, the brothers have found a way into each other's hearts, and they will face the future together.

Yi Yi, directed by Edward Yang (Taiwan, 2000). This film begins with a wedding and ends with a funeral. Both scenes emphasize the uncertainty of a moment of passage: in the first case, the uncertainty on the faces of the bride and groom, and in the second case, the uncertainty of a father who has survived an emotional and psychological passage in his life. Between these two scenes is a contemporary family drama played out on numerous levels. The plot focuses on the parallel lives of a father and an adolescent daughter. The father gains an opportunity to revisit a former love affair; the daughter begins the tentative first steps of dating. In one of the best scenes in the film, the director cuts between the father spending time with a former lover and the daughter on her first date. The crosscutting of scenes reveals what the two generations share in common: the desire for acceptance, understanding, a need to be listened to, and a search for affection and intimacy.

The grandmother, who complains that she "feels old," asks to be taken home in the opening scene of the wedding. She suffers a stroke at home, and lapses into a coma. A nurse is scheduled to visit the old woman daily, but the doctor urges the family to talk to the grandmother in order to provide additional stimulation. At first the family plans to take turns at her bedside. But soon it becomes apparent that sitting next to someone who is lying unconscious in bed and engaging in a one-sided conversation is more difficult than it appears on the surface. The old woman cannot respond with any verbal cues, and her silence overwhelms the talker. One of her grandsons, the young man who was married in the opening scene, is the first to sit with her. At first he prattles on about his business successes (we know he is going bankrupt), but soon he is at a loss for words and realizes he really has nothing to say to her. He never returns. Her granddaughter is the next visitor. She feels self-recriminations because the old woman collapsed by the garbage bins outside their building. Was she taking out some of the garbage? No one knows. But the young woman feels guilty because it was her chore to remove garbage, and she cannot remember if she completed that task that day or not. She entreats her grandmother, "If you can forgive me, wake up." Then her daughter-in-law tries to talk to her. She recites the simple events of her daily life, but soon she lapses into silence too. Soon she realizes that her daily life is filled with meaningless errands, and this revelation leads to an emotional breakdown. She seeks spiritual guidance and spends time at a local temple in order to recuperate. The old woman's son is the next visitor. He shares his feelings—his confusion about his work, his role in the family, the instability at the heart of all of his enterprises. He tells the comatose woman, "It's like praying." All of these interactions are testimony to the impact of this disability on the family. While trying to attend to the burden of caregiving, the family members are confronted with their own insecurities, fears, guilt, and anxieties. Their visits to her bedside resemble visits to the confessional.

Near the end of the film, the granddaughter returns home to find the formerly comatose grandmother now sitting up and looking quite well. The young woman enters the room and expresses no surprise that her grandmother has awakened from her coma. The two have a quiet conversation that means everything to the granddaughter. "Now that you've forgiven me, I can sleep," she tells the old woman. She lays her head in her grandmother's lap, while her grandmother touches her hair lightly and smiles. In the next scene, the young woman awakens from sleep in her bedroom and hears subdued conversations coming from the grandmother's room. The old woman died that night. Suddenly we realize the scene between the two generations was the young woman's dream. Scenes like this remind us of how the magic of cinema can uplift us by juxtaposing fantasy and reality. The granddaughter's unconscious need for her grandmother's approval triggered her dream. At the same time, the old woman's commitment to her family—and in particular, to her granddaughter—suggests a spiritual presence that affirms the old woman's role in the family. Thus, the old woman's death frees the granddaughter from that accumulated guilt; likewise, it brings the family together at the celebration of her death and helps us realize that the family can become restored to wholeness.

The Straight Story, directed by David Lynch (United States, 1997). Lynch's film is a straightforward, mostly unsentimental look at one of the strangest episodes in Middle America in the 1990s—the story of Alvin Straight's journey on a lawnmower from Iowa to Wisconsin to visit his brother, who had suffered a stroke. The film is peopled with original characters, and it is refreshing to see the main character interact with them on the road. The first few minutes capture the idiosyncrasies of Midwestern small-town life. When Alvin drives out of town on his lawnmower (pulling a trailer behind it), several old men harangue him as he travels at five miles per hour; earlier, those same men resembled a Greek chorus in a classic play—bemoaning Alvin's stubbornness and foolhardiness. These old men seem to have given up on new possibilities; meanwhile, the old man in front of them has thought out of the box and adapted to his circumstances.

The film portrays old age as a time of continued seeking for closure, resolution, and insight. Old people are not finished growing as human beings, and this film portrays old age as more than regrets, aches and pains, and missed opportunities. Not since Harry and Tonto (1974) and Kotch (1971) has there been a road film with an old man as complex, unpredictable, and original as Alvin Straight. This old man meets a variety of characters on the road—a teenaged runaway, a group of bicyclers, and a kind family who invite him to pitch his tent in their yard when his tractor breaks down. As in any road film, the physical journey is complemented by an inward psychological journey. On the trip Alvin is put in touch with deep-seated unresolved feelings. He joins an old man for a drink and the two swap stories about the hard things they saw in battle in World War II. He admits that his relationship with his brother has been strained; they have not seen each other for 10 years. The film compels us to slow down, to match the walking pace of the riding lawnmower and to see the landscape from that perspective. When we slow down, we see more of the world. We can engage in the art of conversation. We can figure out how to resolve things. Alvin says early in the film, "I've got to make this trip on my own." He also could have said, "I've got to make this trip my own." He claims this experience for himself and thus is like the old Ulysses who gathers his old crew and sails off for a new adventure. His journey allows him to plumb his memories, draw out the unresolved hurts, and work toward healing.

A New Wrinkle on Life Review
After Life, directed by Hirokazu Koreeda (Japan, 1998). What happens when one dies? This film depicts the first station the dead person arrives at. In what appears to be an abandoned schoolhouse, the newly dead (many old, but some young and some middle-aged) sit across a table from a young person who notifies them, officially, that they are dead. The counselor then tells the dead person he or she has two days to choose one memory from his or her life that represented a time when they felt happy or fulfilled. Then at the end of the week the staff will film that memory. After viewing the film of their memory, the dead will move on to the next stage of existence and have that memory with them through eternity. But all other memories will be lost to that individual. There is much more to this film than this brief summary can suggest. Who are the counselors? How (or why) are they chosen for this task? Who is their sensei? Why can't one old man of 71 think of a memory? Why does a young man of 21 refuse to select a memory? What is the basis of the relationship between two counselors—a young man and a young woman? Why do the memories have to be filmed by the staff? What happens when the dead person views his or her filmed memory?

For gerontologists, the film is a treasure-trove of aging-related themes. The most significant theme is reminiscence and life review. Each of the dead is given an opportunity to review his or her life and find a measure of integration. The interviewers listen patiently, prompt the subject for more details and more insights, and fulfill the function of nonjudgmental listeners—all of their energy focused on helping the dead tell their stories and come to grips with the meaning of their lives. In some ways the interviewers elicit a transmission of values and legacies from their subjects. The young interviewers are cast as partners in an intergenerational relationship; in effect, the interviewers continue to learn from and interact with the old in meaningful ways. After all, the intent of the process is to help the dead to review their lives. Furthermore, the interviewers work with their subjects to film a key memory from their lives, and in doing so, they try hard to "get it right" so that the dead person can relive that memory accurately and fully (with the power of all of the senses). These interactions lead to fascinating moments of intimacy, compassion, and intergenerational perspective for a variety of characters.

One old woman has a fond memory of wearing a red dress and dancing for her older brother. She even remembers the song she was singing as she danced. This old woman is the essence of serenity and spiritual insight. Another old woman is severely demented; she spends her time gathering stones, weeds, and dried flowers. At first the staff ponders how they will help her find a memory; but then they realize that she has already experienced the integration they are charged with helping her find. A third elderly character is a man who seems incapable of selecting a memory. To help him, the staff provides 71 videotapes—one for each year of his life—so that he can review his life (literally) and perhaps find a memory.

The relationship between this old man and his interviewer (who appears to be a young man of 21) is the central relationship in the film. Gradually viewers learn that their two lives are intertwined. The interviewer is actually five chronological years older than the old man—but his physical appearance in the world of the afterlife matches his physical appearance at the year of his death. By working together, the interviewer realizes that the woman in the videotapes—the old man's wife—was once his fiancée. Of course, the young man died during World War II before he could marry her. Out of respect for the old man's need to find a memory, the interviewer does not disclose his secret. But before long the old man guesses it. Both men are reserved, introspective, and not given to expressions of warmth or affection. Through their interaction the two men comes to term with the emotional gaps in their lives, select an appropriate memory, and affirm the deep commitments they felt (one to a spouse, the other to the staff he worked with as an interviewer). The film offers fresh perspectives on intergeneration, intimacy in old age, and the need to search for meaning in one's life.

Intergeneration and Regeneration
The King of Masks, directed by Lu Tian Ming (China, 1996). An old man, known as "the king of masks," is a street performer in a remote Chinese village in the 1930s. He has an uncanny talent of changing masks so quickly that one mask seems to pop out from under the former mask. Audiences love his skilled performances. Like a magician, he seems to cover the mask changes by distracting the audience with hand and arm movements. Accompanied only by his pet monkey, General, he journeys from town to town on the river. Despite his age, he is active, engaged in his art, and apparently a serene and satisfied elder. But he knows that he will not be able to pass on his craft to another generation. One night another performer, a leading actor in the opera—whose most famous role is the "living Bodhisattva"—encounters the old man practicing his art. The young opera star, Master Liang, plays the part of a female deity—kuan yin, the compassionate Buddha. At tea later, the opera star invites him to join his troupe. But the old man declines: "I'm a loner—used to my solitary ways." The young man urges him to find a male heir so that the art of the king of masks will not die.

Encouraged by the opera star, the old man buys an 8-year-old boy from his father. Street urchins are everywhere because of the overwhelming poverty of the era. When the old man hears the boy address him as "Grandpa," he is moved, and later—when he learns the boy has been abused—the emotional bonds between the two deepen. We learn that the king of masks once had a son. After his wife left them, the old man raised the boy by himself, but the child died at the age of 10. He would have been 31 if he had lived. Clearly the child would have been an expert in the art of performing changing masks by that age. At first all goes well with his new "heir." The old man even introduces his "grandson" and heir to the opera star, the living Bodhisattva. But then comes the plot twist—the boy is revealed to be a girl. Initially the old man rejects her, and then reluctantly takes her on as an employee and requires her to address him as "boss." He calls her "little doggie"—not exactly a term of endearment.

The film follows the formula of melodrama: the characters overcome great odds, their love for each other is tested, and eventually they survive and come to love each other fully. Inevitably, the two are separated by fate and circumstance, and eventually the little girl saves the old man by vividly demonstrating her love for him by dramatically acting out the role of the living Bodhisattva, whose compassion led her to descend into the depths of hell to spare the life of her father. In Buddhist tradition, the loving daughter rises from the depths on a lotus throne—a living Buddha of compassion. In this film, the fruits of the girl's compassion lead to a restoration of their relationship. The old man takes her to his heart, asks her to call him "grandpa" again, and teaches her his art—in violation of everything he has come to believe in this male-dominated culture. The last two shots of the film show them together in the frame—a perfect intergenerational metaphor.

Central Station, written and directed by Walter Salles (Brazil, 1998). The film begins in the dreary urban landscape of Central Station, the railway station in Rio de Janeiro—overcrowded, with oppressive poverty, life cheapened by the strict rules of law applied by armed guards who patrol the station. In this context a retired schoolteacher, Dora, supplements her meager pension by writing letters for illiterate people who pass through the station. Within the first few minutes of the film, the director captures our imagination by this recreation of space and character. The old woman is mean-spirited, self-centered, and pockets the money given to her instead of paying for the postage. She can always blame the inconsistent national mail service. Dora lives in a prison-like blockhouse apartment building and seems to have only one close friend, another former schoolteacher.

Into her life comes Josué, the 10-year-old son of a woman who first met Dora when she dictated a letter for the woman's estranged husband, Jesus, an alcoholic who had abandoned his family. When the mother is killed in a bus accident outside the station, Dora and Josué's paths cross again. Eventually, Dora is tempted to take advantage of his desperate situation by selling the boy to the head of Central Station security; he promises that a rich family will adopt the boy. But when her friend helps her imagine the worst that can happen to the boy, Dora suffers through a dark night of the soul and decides to rescue the boy.

Now the film becomes a fascinating road picture as our two picaresque heroes escape Rio and slowly come to terms with each other. The breakthrough occurs when Dora reminisces about her own father. He was an alcoholic, and he left her mother and his children when she was a little girl. The camera tracks in on Josué, sitting next to Dora, as we observe his response. He seems to know intuitively that he must stay with this woman. Soon they become partners in Josué's search for his father. They move farther away from the crowded cities and towns along the coast and move instead into the uncrowded and expansive interior of the country. But as the scenes unfold, it becomes clear that their physical journey is a metaphor for the more significant psychological and spiritual journey facing Dora in her old age. The stages of Dora's journey demonstrate her movement toward integration. Each failure on her part also propels her forward. A rebuffed emotional relationship stirs a reawakening of her femininity; a visit to a rural shrine gives Dora an opportunity to help the boy memorialize his mother's death; and when Dora delivers the boy to his father's house in a remote area outside of a small town, she acknowledges her emotional commitment to Josué by referring to him as "a good boy." But the owner of the house reports that Jesus, the father, does not live there anymore. He moved to the new settlements. That night they are overwhelmed by pilgrims at a religious festival in the nearby town, and after harsh words from Dora, they become separated. Here in the darkest night of the year (the solstice), when the pilgrims celebrate the return of the light (new life), Dora experiences at once the darkest night of her soul as well as a spiritual reawakening. That climactic change is complemented by a startling role reversal when Josué finds her passed out and stays with her—and acts the role of her protector. Now it is Josué who takes the lead, and eventually the two make their way toward an inevitable resolution of Josué's search.

At first the film is about a boy's search for his own roots; but that plot is settled in an ironic way in the last few scenes. Josué finds a family—but not the one he expected. A more significant theme for gerontologists is Dora's need to resolve long-repressed emotional pain. The soul of the film is the acting of Fernanda Montenegro. She is a gifted actress whose face is lined with experience and all the nuances of gesture and expression. The last shot of the film is a close-up of her face as she forges ahead in her old age—smiling broadly and crying intensely as she balances the pain of her losses with the joys of her interaction with Josué. She overcomes her past just as she helps the boy overcome his past.

Être et Avoir (To Be and To Have), directed by Nicolas Philibert (France, 2002). This documentary begins with a shot of cows in a snowstorm to establish the locale of rural France and the rhythm of life in this place, a metaphor for the patience and steadfastness required of those who teach the children in this town. The film tells the story of an elementary school teacher's interactions with his children. Most of the scenes take place in the schoolroom. The teacher's gentle, soothing voice is the hallmark of this film. It was a joy to observe his control of the classroom—his eyes darting here and there to take in the scenes around him, and his nonverbal gestures conveying so much more than words can say. He brings discipline to the classroom, but he also brings listening, sharing, discovering, and loving to these students. In a compelling scene Lopez talks on camera briefly about how he became a teacher 35 years ago and how his parents supported and affirmed his decision to follow that career. He has taught for 20 years at this school. He may retire in less than 2 years—and that leads to another joyous scene in the schoolroom with the children asking him questions about his plans for retirement. One asks, "Will you still live above the school?"

And the students! There is Jojo, every attention deficit pouring from his being; Julien, one of the older children, slow at math, who works hard on the family farm and receives less-than-gentle discipline from his mother when doing his sums; Olivier, another of the older children, whose father is sick with cancer and may die; and Nathalie, profoundly shy and facing the difficult prospect of moving on to the middle school and becoming the target of teasing for her plainness and her slowness. Another key scene is the visit of the new children who will be attending school in the fall. The teacher does all he can to make the children comfortable, and many of the older children in his class pitch in and try to help as well. From this scene it is obvious that the teacher has created a miniature society in this environment and taught his students how to be more open and affirming to others. The last key scene is the one that ends the film. It's the last day of school, and we see the children leaving. Before they depart, each child kisses the teacher on both cheeks, a traditional French gesture. When all have left, the camera holds on Georges Lopez, and he almost breaks down. The camera does not lie. As another teacher writing this review, I can relate to that feeling of accomplishment and yet heartbreak when the semester ends and the students depart. They are all moving on to new places and new adventures while the teacher is left behind. And yet—there is that feeling of satisfaction—the feeling that you may have made a difference in someone else's life. Youth and age intersect, and what each gives to the other makes all the difference.

This Article Full Text (PDF) Services Download to citation manager