A tapestry of walkers has traced Tsai Ming-Liang’s oeuvre. The director’s favorite actor Lee Kang-sheng’s uniquely slow body rhythm and the women characters portrayed by Yang Kuei-mei, Lu Yi-ching, and Chen Shiang-chyi traverse and linger in diverse landscapes, breaking free from a conventional sense of time.1 In 2013, when Stray Dogs (2013) won the Grand Jury Prize at the 70th Venice International Film Festival, Tsai expressed his intention to retire, lamenting how commercial films violate artistic principles. Meanwhile, Tsai’s Only You (2011), a series of three monodramas featuring his regular cast, served as inspiration for Tsai’s non-narrative Walker series. Since 2012, ten installments featuring Lee Kang-sheng strolling in various corners of the world have been released: No Form (2012), Walker (2012), Diamond Sutra (2012), Sleepwalk (2012), Walking on Water (2013), Journey to the West (2014), No No Sleep (2015), Sand (2018), Where (2022), and Abiding Nowhere (2024). In the series, Lee assumes the role of Tsai’s paint brush, meticulously conveying Tsai’s emotions and perspectives on the places they traverse. Unlike Tsai’s previous narrative films, which portray protagonists on foot as daily movements, the Walker series documents walking as a state of being, a practice. Lee’s movements, existing between extreme slowness and near stillness, embody Tsai’s enduring rebellion as a filmmaker discontented with mainstream cinematic norms, and are an integral part of the decades-long dialogue between Tsai and himself. Ten years after the Venice Film Festival, in an interview during the Golden Horse Awards nomination of Where (2022), the ninth installment of the Walker series, Tsai vowed to continue filming the series, expressing a keen interest in seeing how Lee’s journey as an actor and his physical condition would continue to evolve together.
Interestingly, despite being a frequent subject of film analysis, Tsai expressed reluctance toward such research and its presumptions before the following interview. To him, everything feels natural, an intrinsic part of himself: “you capture what you are.” The following interview, primarily adapted and translated from a recorded online conversation on January 4, 2024, aims not to dissect Tsai’s works but to lead readers through a natural, conversational journey. Through Tsai’s own words, readers are invited into the mind of a filmmaker who spends his life with his own works, one step after another, embodying a form of art-walking that transcends mere creation and becomes a bodily practice.
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Ellen Y. Chang: Before getting into your Walker series, I’d like to start with the idea of walking. What role does walking play in your daily life?
Tsai Ming-Liang: I don’t walk much. My producer chauffeurs me around. I prefer light movements. I’m not into outdoor activities, either, unless I’m travelling. Lately, I’ve found myself racking up steps especially in cities like Paris, where I have to walk for at least 20 minutes between places or to visit the museums. However, I enjoy watching people walk, and I particularly like filming them. When I was preparing for Vive l’amour (1994), I was fixated on capturing Yang Kuei-mei’s stride on screen. She plays the role of a real estate agent, constantly walking around to meet clients and strolling around at night. I quite like that in my own films. I’m drawn to scenes where characters, for example, Vittoria in Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Eclipse (1962), are always on foot. I find the sensation of walking captivating and delightful. Personally, walking is always about getting somewhere. If I have to, I’ll walk, but I prefer taking a car.
EYC: I recall one of your live streams followed you riding a bus and strolling to the Walker exhibition at the Zhuangwei Dune Visitor Center, Taiwan.
TML: For me, walking isn’t something extraordinary. I film people walking simply because I enjoy capturing long takes. When I head to the farmer’s market, I usually ride a scooter—it’s part of my daily routine. I prefer familiar places and don’t venture far. At most, I would take a stroll around the market.
Lee Kang-sheng inspires my Walker series. In 2011, I staged a play at the Experimental Theater of the National Theater and Concert Hall in Taipei. I directed Lee to walk slowly across the stage, expressing effort and time. Lee’s unique physical condition, due to chronic neck pain, gives his slow gait a distinct quality. He really must exert effort with strength—one foot touches the ground, then the other foot lifts. With one foot supporting his full body weight at a time, it creates a kind of trap in his body. The deliberate pace and tension in his movements captivated me. It looked great in the theater. Watching him walk for seventeen minutes, time seemed to stand still. Lighting and music were both completely quiet, allowing him to walk in silence. It was this captivating visual that inspired me to create a film centering on his walking.
Figures 3 & 4. In Wandering (2021), Ivy Yin watches the projection of No Form (2012) and Walker (2012) at the Walker exhibition. Courtesy of Homegreen Films.
EYC: You’ve described Lee Kang-sheng as slow by a couple of beats rather than just manpanpai (half a beat slower). You mentioned finding it challenging to accept Lee’s slowness due to your quick temper and habituation with fast-paced filmmaking. It’s intriguing that your own films, especially the Walker series, have since embraced a slower pace. How did this transition evolve?
TML: Lee Kang-sheng moves slowly, naturally, while I tend to be more impatient. However, there are many facets to a person, so I also have moments of haste or procrastination. When working, I prioritize efficiency and typically take the lead, which might come across as impatient to some. That’s my habit. This pragmatic side of me is evident in how I solve problems, often leading the way during tasks like location scouting, where even my art directors may not fully understand my actions but follow along nonetheless.
When it comes to art, my approach shifts. Like a surgeon’s professional calmness, I maintain composure behind the camera. Unlike many directors who cut as soon as their actors finish their lines and complete their performance for the scene, I prefer to wait longer to see if there’s anything else to capture. This requires slowing down, waiting for the right moment. So, it’s not surprising that my work is a bit slower than others because I aim for that slow and extended effect. This inclination may also stem from influential directors like Ingmar Bergman and Henri Cartier-Bresson. Their films are slower paced with longer takes and do not rely heavily on editing. Despite my fast-paced personality, I appreciate the deliberate unfolding of scenes and can create a similar effect in my work.
EYC: You’ve noted that filming at a slower pace feels natural, particularly because you enjoy the waiting involved. Do you feel that labeling your work as “cinema of slowness” fully captures the rhythm you intend to convey? Are there other descriptors that might better encapsulate your creative process or the essence of your work?
TML: Defining my work as “fast” or “slow” may not be entirely accurate. A long take doesn’t necessarily imply slowness; often, a lot of things are happening within it. Rather than focusing on speed, I prefer to diverge from filmmaking conventions that I’m not as fond of to craft my own mode of expression. It might not align with typical viewing habits, where audiences expect clear guidance through plots and performances. Viewing my films solely through the lens of speed feels superficial.
EYC: My initial encounter with the Walker series was at MOMA PS1’s performance dome in New York, during a screening of Journey to the West (2014). The projection was massive. I was lying on the floor, anticipating a slow encounter. However, during the screening, the sensation of slowness seemed elusive. I was uncertain whether it was an illusion or your intentional departure from traditional pacing. As you mentioned earlier, when Lee Kang-sheng walked on stage, time seemed to halt—an experience that transcended mere speed and offered a unique viewing experience.
TML: The Walker series surely offers a distinct viewing experience akin to contemplating a painting, a static artwork. Speed becomes irrelevant, allowing for aesthetic appreciation without the constraints of narrative progression. It’s up to you how long you want to look at it. My filmmaking approach mirrors this mindset. To me, making the Walker series is like painting. Every time I see a beautiful scene, some beautiful lighting, I invite Lee Kang-sheng to take a stroll. I perceive the world through his walk. For audiences familiar with art galleries, this viewing style may feel liberating, free from the usual concerns of speed. Don’t be troubled by speed; just don’t think about it. It really doesn’t matter that much whether you like a movie or not. Simply approach my films without preconceptions. It’s much like entering an art gallery: all you know is that you’ll see a lot of paintings. Some paintings make you pause for a couple of seconds, some for minutes, and some you just walk past it—it’s that simple.
With the Walker series, I found myself captivated by Lee’s deliberate slowness. I wanted to film this beautiful expression to share it with others. As I delved deeper, I began to contrast it with the speed of the world around us, which varies in different places. This exploration led me to envision using this form of expression to offer audiences a new cinematic experience unlike mainstream films that are often limited in variations, offering only a fixed format of narratives, music, dialogues—all sorts of things driving it forward.
As I immersed myself in the Walker series, I found that my works started to speak to me, sparking a dialogue within. I began to question how my filmmaking approach resonated with me. I grew disenchanted with conventional narrative films. As I age and watch numerous genres of films and performances, I feel numb towards blockbuster works, which I deem a waste of resources. This has led me to ponder the potential of cinemas. What experiences could they offer audiences? This should be re-evaluated in the contemporary context. The relationship between cinemas and creators is reciprocal. Cinemas reflect, shape, and restrict creators, and vice versa. Through the Walker series, I aim to open this concept and push boundaries.
This morning, I found myself reflecting on my filmmaking style: slow, repetitive, and without much content. In filmmaking, we are told to tell a clear story or else people wouldn’t understand. However, in a generation saturated with a plethora of movies and all sorts of thrills, I crave genuine astonishment. Cinemas must adapt to offer diversity and free creators from constraints like time limits, narrative conventions, or specific modes of storytelling that must satisfy the audience, jury, and critics. Is it possible that watching a movie can evoke the same contemplative experience as visiting an art gallery—allowing space for relaxation and contemplation? Artistic creation should possess this capability. Despite a decade of filming the Walker series, there are still times when I feel confused. What am I doing? Am I making something meaningful? For example, my latest film, Abiding Nowhere (2024), the tenth installment of the Walker series, echoes themes from my earlier works.
I also contemplate whether the audience would resent me for potentially wasting their time: “why create ten installments instead of just one?” Some might find it tedious, but I also ponder if there’s a rebellious edge to this endeavor. The Walker series has screened at various film festivals, and though I’m not always present, I receive feedback. Certain viewers, weary of conventional narrative films, perceive my work as stripped of everything, and, in turn, find it intriguing. It offers their minds a break, so it really depends on your perspective.
EYC: It’s certainly about appreciating the experience of watching without the pressure of following a plot. Each small movement is savored carefully and deliberately, embracing the presence. Personally, I enjoy it, but I must acknowledge that the context matters. Having to view the series in diverse settings like film festivals, art galleries, or even the Zhuangwei Dune Visitor Center adds to the experience. I’m unsure how I’d feel watching the series in a commercial movie theater, where expectations and mindsets might differ.
Figures 6A & 6B. Pamphlet for Tsai Ming-Liang’s Walker exhibition at the Zhuangwei Dune Visit Center. Courtesy of Homegreen Films.
TML: I especially like showing the Walker series in commercial movie theaters. They have excellent facilities!
EYC: Absolutely! When it comes to equipment, that’s a whole other discussion. As you said, when you stumble upon a beautiful scene and want to capture it, much like painting, you would have Lee Kang-sheng walk through it and film the entire process. Are these scenes all chosen randomly?
TML: I go everywhere for inspiration. Through shooting the Walker series, one thing has become clear: you capture what you are. For example, when I’m in Washington D.C. or Paris, I would avoid clichés like the Eiffel Tower or things that everyone is familiar with. So, what do I shoot? I capture what’s familiar to me, like the 13th arrondissement where I always stay when I’m in Paris. Knowing the shops, the underground, the metro, everything is clear to me. I shoot what I see daily, finding beautiful scenes in the mundane. When in unfamiliar places, I look around randomly and then make decisions. I always scout meticulously for scenes I like. For the Walker series, does the walker convey anything meaningful through his walk? For example, in Journey to the West (2014), there’s a stairway passage in an old district. I visited it twice alone before bringing my cinematographer. It’s a route children take after school. The scene is captured beautifully, with excellent lighting in the evening, evoking the essence of Marseilles. I don’t know much about Marseilles. I felt just like a tourist during my time there. Shooting Marseilles felt akin to capturing its sunlight as I always followed the sunlight during location scouting. Scenes like the bright summer light on the streets are imbued with a distinct atmosphere shaped by the circumstances.
EYC: You’ve always aimed to transform spaces like art galleries and cinemas into more inclusive environments for people to enjoy and further cultivate habits. What did you feel when your Walker series was shown in a tourist center? Were you concerned or did you have any particular expectations?
TML: It’s simply a place for display, a space where my works can be seen. That’s really it. I don’t have specific expectations. It’s just a natural process. Some people would engage with the work, while others wouldn’t. The display would undoubtedly have an impact on those interested and willing to engage with the works, prompting them to generate their own thoughts. However, some visitors, particularly older individuals, would remain disinterested regardless. This lack of interest in images and aesthetics is a societal issue, contrasting with the appreciation seen in places like Paris or Rome. In Europe or the United States, elders are often wonderful audiences. Bringing art to Taiwan or Asia, where these things are unrelated to many, I believe, is a form of cultivation.
EYC: Film festival audiences in Seattle tend to be older, too. In Taiwan, the audiences are mostly comprised of young cinephiles and students, creating a very different dynamic. Speaking of audiences, as a director, you’ve always had a loyal following of cinephiles who religiously seek out your films. However, with the Walker series and perhaps your collaborations with different artists, you’ve attracted a somewhat different audience. Is there a noticeable difference in interacting with this audience compared to your usual moviegoers?
TML: My focus is on creating my works and occasionally interacting with the audience. Most attendees are younger viewers, regardless of whether they’re my fans or not. Analyzing every aspect of their presence isn’t necessary; they are here, and that’s what matters.
EYC: You mentioned earlier that you often film in familiar places, such as those you frequent or grew up in. Does this approach extend to your use of music in the Walker series, whose soundtracks feature many old classics?
TML: I always try to avoid falling into the stereotypical patterns. It’s never been my filmmaking style, even more so when it comes to filming the Walker series. Rather than opting for a traditional soundtrack, I use what I’m accustomed to, incorporating songs that resonate with me, including those old songs. My creations stem from within, truly reflective of myself. The same applies to my stage plays; I use songs that I’ve experienced. There’s no need to search for them. They are already within me, and I express myself using them. That’s my way of expression, my way of creating works—it’s just how I am, quite normal, I think.
EYC: While there isn’t a conventional soundtrack, you notably included the sound of a Taiwan-made rice cooker. This sound holds nostalgic significance for overseas Taiwanese, brimming with socio-cultural meaning. I’m intrigued by your decision to have Lee Kang-sheng interact with the rice cooker in Diamond Sutra (2012).
TML: The inspiration for that scene originated from architect Yu-Han Michael Lin, who invited me to exhibit my works as part of his project, “Architect/Geographer—Le Foyer de Taiwan,” for the 2012 Venice Architecture Biennale Pre-exhibition. He’s a Taiwanese architect based in Germany, and his exhibition focused on Taiwanese architecture, particularly Taiwanese homes. So, I added the rice cooker on the wall of his exhibition space. I often incorporate rice cookers in my films. The rice cooker holds significant cultural resonance for Taiwanese, Chinese, and Asian communities. During filming, I depicted the entire process of cooking, from pressing the button to cook until it’s finished, which took about twenty minutes while Lee Kang-sheng naturally interacted with the space. The sound is captured as he walks past the rice cooker.
EYC: I adore that scene. Following the sound of a rice cooker is very comforting both visually and audibly. There’s a strong emotional attachment to that sound, fostering a sense of familiarity that makes it a unique presence in our hearts.
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Endnotes
- All Chinese names follow the Chinese convention with family name preceding the given name except when they are commonly referred to in the Western name order, such as Yu-Han Michael Lin.
Ellen Y. Chang