Desires and Expectations in Edward Yang's A Confucian Confusion and Mahjong

      Note: This feature was initially published in 2023 during Film at Lincoln Center’s Edward Yang retrospective. A Confucian Confusion and Mahjong are currently available in The Criterion Collection.

      What distinguishes the delicate boundary between desire and expectations? Is it something tangible? Is it something that can be captured on film?

      Film at Lincoln Center’s new retrospective suggests that if any of these questions have answers, they may be found in Edward Yang's cinema. Transitioning from “A Rational Mind”––the title of their 2011 retrospective on Yang’s work––to “Desire/Expectations” recontextualizes these inquiries to be more fluid, less definitive. A rational mind might provide a clear affirmative or negative response; however, a slash indicates that desire and expectations can exist in the same space concurrently.

      “A rational mind” can also be perceived as an accusation a character in Yang’s films might direct at another, particularly in A Confucian Confusion (1994), a workplace comedy that explores a "culture company" in 1990s Taipei, revealing the contradictions inherent in Confucian teachings. The film simultaneously critiques Confucian-influenced, consumer-oriented environments––such as Taipei in the 1990s––challenging traditional molds of values and expectations. This theme is not merely subtextual; dogmas and quotes appear onscreen as the scenes unfold off-stage. The exchanges among contemporary characters resonate and create tension with the text, crafting a sense of a world out of sync, edging towards something yet to be discovered by its characters.

      A Confucian Confusion literally juxtaposes wants within its narrative structure. Molly (Shu-Chun Ni) leads an arts PR firm funded by her oblivious boyfriend, Akeem (Bosen Wang). Her principal client is Birdy (Ye-Ming Wang), a playwright turned hack who distorts images of Confucian wisdom into self-serving, commercial creations. Meanwhile, Molly’s sister (Li-Mei Chen) hosts a successful talk show, despite being married to an anxious author (Hung Hung), who has written a book titled A Confucian Confusion and may or may not be a reincarnation of Confucius. Qiqi (Shiang-chyi Chen) is Molly’s assistant and “friend”––as much as their class differences allow––engaged to Ming, a logical (rational?) government bureaucrat who resides with his parents. Larry (Danny Deng) manages Molly’s business and advises Akeem, creating a dynamic between the estranged couple. The film’s catalyst is Molly’s dismissal of Feng, an office assistant who then navigates her way through Larry, Ming, and Birdy in pursuit of fame as an actress. A variety of supporting characters (Ming’s restaurant-owning parents, various morally ambiguous government workers, Birdy’s infatuated rehearsal assistant) enhance the film’s complex ensemble. As anticipated, desires between characters intertwine, shifting in timing and reasons.

      While the satire and showbiz-fueled tones evoke similarities to contemporary films like Robert Altman’s The Player (1992) and Woody Allen’s Bullets Over Broadway (1994), the fluctuating emotions emerging from the clash of desire (for others) and expectation (of happiness) resonate with themes explored by Tsai Ming-liang in Vive l’amour (1994). In Tsai’s works, the humor in A Confucian Confusion arises at odd moments, often highlighting the tension between absurd living and the bleakness inherent in that existence. The film’s atmosphere embodies confusion rather than outrage, a result of a deliberately convoluted plot. Yang cultivated this confusion, reflecting his growing anxiety over Taiwan’s development (and stagnation) around 1994 as a place for life and art. Advertisements for Western goods and celebrities populate the backgrounds of the characters’ lives, who drift through existence with as little self-awareness as the viewers have narrative clarity. One character’s late comment, “We can meet for coffee at Friday’s, or something,” serves both as an emotional and intellectual fracture; it illustrates a world where the potential for connection meets the chaos of capitalism at a Taipei Friday’s.

      A traditional interpretation of A Confucian Confusion might spotlight the taxi-side “Road to Damascus” moment as the film's thematic anchor. The existentialist writer pursues Qiqi’s taxi, convinced of his love for her. After collapsing at the rear of the cab––as the bewildered driver questions how a vehicle can strike someone from behind––the writer launches into an elaborate, philosophy-infused monologue directed at Qiqi, the previous object of his affection. Haunted by his early successful novels while his recent, more serious works remain unread, he seemingly discovers an optimistic clarity: “Isn’t life more enjoyable if we uncover something new each day?” After reflecting on the potential impact of his own suicide, he hesitates, stating, “the best way to