Ji.hlava 2024 Interview: Tsai Ming-liang on Hand-Sculpted Cinema, Breaking the Industry Norms and New Films

The Taiwanese master of slow cinema, Tsai Ming-liang, received a Contribution to World Cinema award at the largest Czech documentary gathering, Ji.hlava International Documentary Film Festival. The director has spent decades crafting a distinctive cinematic language that challenges conventional storytelling. His films, celebrated for their meditative pace and evocative imagery, are often more akin to visual poetry than traditional narratives. Yet Tsai’s work transcends mere categorization, existing at the intersection of cinema, performance art, and gallery installations.

In the interview with Screen Anarchy, the director opens up about his connection to Xuanzang, the inspiration behind his Walker series, and the philosophy of "hand-sculpted cinema" that defines his approach. From the tactile authenticity of his minimalist productions to his evolving relationship with technology and unconventional scripts, Tsai Ming-liang reflects on the freedom of breaking away from industry norms.

Screen Anarchy: Why did you choose Xuanzang as the starting point for the Walker series?

Tsai Ming-liang: Xuanzang has always been a very important figure in my life. He’s someone from the past, but I feel deeply moved whenever I read his biography. The biography of Xuanzang left a lasting impression on me, especially his persistence and dedication. His decision to walk to India to retrieve Buddhist scriptures is unimaginable today; it’s almost impossible to conceive of someone doing that now. But within me, there’s always been a kind of “inner Xuanzang,” someone who embodies perseverance.

Back in 2011, I created a stage play, Only You, and I asked Lee Kang-sheng to play three roles in it: himself, my father, and Xuanzang. These three roles combined in him, and this play helped me to bring Xuanzang to life in a new way. These three characters have special meaning for me, representing parts of my life that feel intertwined — especially the monk, who embodies this profound sense of purpose and search for something elusive, much like my own journey in filmmaking. Seeing Lee Kang-sheng embody this movement on stage — walking slowly, in a way that almost defies the hurried world around him — was so powerful that I decided to capture it on film.

You've mentioned that Walker offered you a lot of creative freedom. Could you explain how your concept of "hand-sculpted cinema" shaped this series?

With Walker, I wanted to break free from the traditional concept of industrial filmmaking. Usually, in film, you have a big team, a script, regulations, and all kinds of restrictions. But in Walker, there’s none of that. I think Walker represents a kind of liberation for the viewer too. They’re no longer bound by a story or a conventional structure, and they don’t have to approach it as a traditional film. This freedom allows the audience to experience cinema without necessarily relying on plot.

In this series, I’m not using highly advanced filmmaking techniques or technology. In fact, I think the way films were made in the past, like in the old Hollywood days, was closer to “hand-sculpted” cinema, where sets were painted or built by hand, giving it a unique texture and feel. Nowadays, movies are heavily reliant on techniques and special effects that, I believe, detract from that authenticity. So, I try to use natural elements, natural light, and avoid excessive manipulation. This, for me, is the essence of “hand-sculpted” cinema.

How spontaneous is your filming process for Walker? Is it entirely improvised, or do you have some kind of plan?

It’s not completely spontaneous because we have to consider budget and time constraints. We usually travel to a location and have to finish shooting within four to six days, so there is a certain structure and planning involved. Before shooting, I spend time exploring the space, finding the right angles and images I want to capture. There’s no shot list, though, and the process remains open and flexible.

This simplicity isn’t solely due to budget limitations; it’s also intentional. I want my filmmaking to resemble sketching, to capture things as they are, without over-preparation. It’s about discovering beauty in the simplicity of the moment, much like Xuanzang’s journey, where every place he arrived was entirely new, and his encounters were genuine.

The Walker series appears to be closer to performance art than cinema. Was that intentional?

I wanted to break away from the fixed form of traditional filmmaking, where films are always bound to a particular type and structure. With Walker, I wanted to blur the line between cinema and performance art. Although the series may be more suited to a gallery, I hope that movie theaters can also accommodate such works in the future, embracing them as spaces that can hold a variety of forms and experiences.

It seems like many of your decisions are spontaneous. Can you share more about your creative process? Do you ever conduct research, or is it purely instinctual?

Yes, it was very spontaneous. When I saw that mural, I knew it had to be the ending for Stray Dogs. It’s often like that — just discovering something and knowing it belongs. This spontaneity comes not from a strict plan but rather from concepts and images that stay with me, that evolve in my mind. I often have several ideas developing at once, not as stories but more as themes or feelings.

For example, I currently have two ideas that keep returning to me. First, I want to revisit Taipei, the city where I began my career. I’ve moved away from the city center, and I feel like Taipei has transformed, or maybe it’s my perspective that’s changed with age. I feel drawn to capturing it again with fresh eyes, but it’s not something that requires a script — I just need to explore and see it anew through the camera.

The second idea revolves around my long-time actors, like Lee Kang-sheng and Yang Kuei-mei, whom I’ve worked with for many years. They’ve aged, and we don’t collaborate as frequently now because I produce fewer films. I feel a strong urge to document them as they are now, capturing their essence without a story or specific role. I want to simply observe their faces, their presence, perhaps allowing a new style or form to emerge in the process.

How does your creative process look like when you do not use conventional scripts?

Over the years, my approach to filmmaking has changed. I’ve started moving away from traditional concepts like scripts or overt performances. I want my films to feel like portraits, capturing expressions or moments without the need for a storyline or dramatization. I’m almost afraid of conventional storytelling and acting now; I find it too forced. I want to capture the person as they truly are, rather than constructing a character.

Would you rehearse with your actors in this type of project?

No, I don’t rehearse. I prefer finding a space, connecting with the actors, and communicating the idea. Then, we just shoot. My approach isn’t about repeating takes or doing multiple rehearsals; it’s about capturing a natural moment. Typically, I only need one or two takes. For example, in Your Face, each close-up took around thirty minutes, and it was usually done in one or two takes. There’s no need for excessive repetition — it’s about letting them be themselves in front of the camera.

You have done works for cinema, galleries and museums. Does your approach differ when you’re creating works for galleries compared to cinema?

Not really. I approach both spaces in a similar way, choosing the same type of images and sounds. I hope the boundaries between museums and cinemas continue to blur, allowing for more creative freedom in visual storytelling. I see myself as an image creator rather than a storyteller. I believe cinema isn’t limited to narratives but should embrace a broader artistic expression. In a way, I hope the role of the filmmaker can be elevated to that of an artist, where they create images with endless possibilities beyond the confines of traditional plots.

I hope movie directors can one day be seen closer to artists. I think that in cinema, the thoughts of the filmmaker should carry more influence. I sometimes joke, but seriously as well, that perhaps a film could be shown without a title, and only the director’s name would be enough. Audiences would come just to see the vision of that director, like people going to a museum specifically to see Van Gogh’s paintings. They aren’t there for any particular piece but for the artist himself.

How many people were usually on set on your projects?

For Stray Dogs, a larger team of 40-50 people was needed due to the scale of production in Taiwan. Your Face had only around five or six people. And for Days, there were usually between two to five people on set — often, it was just me and one other person.

For my works like Days, Your Face, and Stray Dogs, each had a different crew and process. For Stray Dogs, I used a long-time collaborator, Liao Ching-Sung, who is very experienced. For Days, I worked with a young sound engineer, Chang Chung-Yuan, who was under 30 at the time. And for Your Face, it was yet another sound engineer. I enjoy collaborating with various people. Sometimes I need a larger team; sometimes, just a few people. Sometimes it’s just me and a camera, like with A Conversation with God.

That short film was just me, with Lee Kang-sheng helping me get around on his scooter while I held the camera. The sound and images were all captured directly on that single camera. I don’t differentiate much between shooting for a gallery piece and a traditional film. It’s just me and the camera, regardless of whether I have a team of forty or only two people.

Given that you approach both gallery installations and films in the same way, do you feel limited by the smaller crew?

I consider what each project requires. Sometimes I need a particular person, like a stylist for specific looks or props, but other times, I just use what’s available. If budget constraints allow it, I might decide not to bring in certain specialists. My approach is hands-on — I’m involved in every aspect, from design to editing. If there’s no cinematographer available, I shoot it myself. Even details like the timing of subtitles appearing on screen are carefully planned by me. It’s far from an industrial process.

When creating a project for a gallery, do you ever feel pressured by their expectations?

Sometimes, yes. For example, when I worked with the Pompidou Centre, I felt a need to meet certain standards because of their reputation. I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I tailored my approach a bit to align with their expectations. Even so, I’ve never felt restricted by these institutions; they usually give me full creative freedom. It may be my own cultural background that makes me feel I should meet certain standards.

You mentioned your hesitancy toward new technology and the idea of VR. Is there a reason for this reluctance?

I’ve always been a bit passive about new technology. With VR, people approached me, offering funding to create something in that format. I collaborated with a telecom company on a VR project, but it felt detached from cinema. VR has a kind of videogame-like quality that isn’t suited to my approach. I still prefer the immersive experience of watching a film on a screen. VR requires a lot of specific equipment to view, so it doesn’t feel as accessible or personal as film.

Do you play video games yourself?

I play very simple games, like Tetris. Nothing complex, though. I’ve never really been drawn to video games.

At Locarno, you expressed some skepticism about technology. Why do you feel that way?

I don’t think we need so much technology in our lives. For instance, I don’t need a robot to clean my house; I find it more fulfilling to do it myself. When they changed my door lock to a digital password lock, I was nervous — what if I got locked out? I also don’t believe AI can create real art; it’s just following commands from a programmer. True art has to come from a person, from individual expression.

You’ve become known as an auteur of slow cinema, and your work has often been labeled as such. How do you feel about this categorization?

I accept the label — it’s true that my films are slow, and I don’t mind if people call it that. But to me, “slow cinema” is only one aspect of my work. My films go beyond just being “slow.” I’m also very invested in the visual style, the composition of shots, and capturing the essence of the subject. Slow cinema is simply a framework people use to categorize my work, but it doesn’t define me entirely. I make films the way I like, at my own pace, and if that pace is slow, so be it. For me, what matters is that each frame feels authentic and complete, not fragmented.

Has your background in theater influenced your approach to filmmaking?

Theater has had a significant impact on my work, especially my understanding of time. In theater, time is continuous; it can’t be manipulated the way it often is in film. There’s no “cut,” no way to compress or extend moments artificially. This sense of real time is something I bring into my films. I like to show time as it really is, without interruption, which is why my shots are often long and unbroken. In my films, I want the audience to feel the passage of time and experience each moment as fully as possible, much like they would watching a play.

Theater also taught me to see performance differently. I don’t want my actors to “perform” in the traditional sense; I want them to exist naturally in front of the camera. This is why I avoid rehearsals and staged emotions, preferring a more raw, spontaneous presence. It’s not about storytelling or scripted emotions — it’s about capturing an authentic moment. In this way, theater gave me the foundation to explore slowness, minimalism, and a sense of being present with the subject on screen.

Some films now stretch to extensive runtime, up to six, eight, or even ten hours. As an auteur in slow cinema, what’s your opinion on this trend?

I don’t mind, though I’d likely watch it in sections. For example, Wang Bing’s documentaries are very long, but I watch them into parts. I think for extremely long films, viewing in segments can be more digestible.

Cover photo by Andrea Špak, Ji.hlava IFDF