A Foggy Tale is set during the period of White Terror—a nearly four-decade era of martial law, political repression, and authoritarian rule by the Nationalist Party (Kuomintang, or KMT) under Chiang Kai-shek—and, for most of its runtime, Chen Yu-hsun films those oppressive years as though they were distant memories recalled decades later. The result is a mostly detached and unsentimental tale told with the observational restraint of a documentary. Through the eyes of a young Taiwanese girl named Yue (Caitlin Fang), Yu-hsun captures the ordinary lives of citizens living during the White Terror. By keeping a child at the center, Yu-hsun refuses to sugarcoat her proximity to physical harm and dangers posed by predatory men and the police officers. After arriving in Taipei from Chiayi, Yue is abducted by a child trafficker, and when she angrily accuses a cop of killing her brother, another officer kicks her and violently beats her. Yet when Yue blames the police for her brother's death, she isn't accusing a single individual so much as the entire repressive system.
A Foggy Tale opens with Yue and her brother, Yun (Tseng Jing-hua), discussing what they hope to become in the future. From there, Yu-hsun cuts to one year later and takes us to the moment when the news of Yun's execution by firing squad arrives at Yue's residence. The implication is clear: under oppressive rule, dreams, ambitions, and futures are abruptly cut short by a regressive, close-minded system. There are other sentimental touches, like Yue finding a brother-from-another-mother in Chao Kung-tao (Will Or) and reuniting with her elder sister, Hsu (9m88), who was given up for adoption years earlier. Yet Yu-hsun never exploits these moments for melodramatic effect. He remains curiously level-headed throughout. Scenes that might have turned cloying or excessively brutal in the hands of a lesser filmmaker are presented in a matter-of-fact manner.
When Yue is taken to a room at Paradise Funeral Home to identify her brother's body, what stands out in the foreground is the employee's casual lack of empathy in the face of her discomfort. Even then, Yu-hsun shows little interest in launching direct attacks against any particular person. Cruelty is not sensationalized, and acts of kindness arrive without sentimental fanfare. Such a style of filmmaking often results in impersonal work, yet there is something about A Foggy Tale that prevents you from dismissing Yu-hsun's efforts. He casually introduces elements like a Robin Hood-style figure or Kung-tao making a deal to murder someone in ways that initially leave you taken aback. Is Yu-hsun assembling different varieties of vignettes to depict a particular moment in history? Does the key to the puzzle lie in the titular tale that Hsu tells her sister?
That "foggy tale" is a powerful, poetic story that stands firmly on its own, independent of any plot, political, or social context. It concerns the friendship between a cloud, Shui, and a river, Mi, with the latter longing to become like the former. Mi, however, eventually turns into fog, and when he asks a white cloud to inform Shui about his condition, the cloud replies that Shui has long since vacated his place by turning into rain and falling into the Pacific. When Mi asks whether Shui will ever return, the cloud answers: "No. He has accomplished his mission." What mission, you ask? "To become part of the scenery somewhere, at some point. We're all just part of the scenery. Or what do you think we are?" The cloud smiles and drifts away, leaving Mi devastated by the realization that he could never become a cloud. Yet no matter how sad he feels, he remains a fog, and when the time comes, he simply disperses. "In the end, he couldn't become the part of the scenery he wanted to be," Hsu concludes.
How should one interpret this story? You can read it as a universal tale about unfulfilled dreams or as a reflection on the desires of those who lost their lives during the White Terror while dreaming of freedom and happiness. Is it right to say that Yu-hsun is using the events of A Foggy Tale as part of some scenery? Maybe. Maybe not. What remains certain, however, is that Yu-hsun suddenly becomes deeply personal and poetic during Hsu's narration, elevating the sequence through evocative music and beautiful black-and-white images. The gates of sentimentality swing fully open, and waves of warmth begin to emanate from the screen and envelop the viewer. Yu-hsun sustains these emotions well into the film's modern-day setting in the early 2000s. After maintaining such restraint for so long, it feels as though he can no longer hold himself back from openly expressing his emotions. I would be lying if I said I wasn't moved at all. At the same time, I couldn't help wondering how much more powerful the movie might have been had Yu-hsun pursued a bold fusion of lyricism and artistic ambition. A Foggy Tale may not be as inventive and exhilarating as, say, Kleber Mendonça Filho's mind-blowing The Secret Agent, yet it remains, in its own quiet way, a minor wonder. It's sweet, sincere, and ultimately leaves you with a lingering sense of warmth.
Final Score - [6.5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
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Publisher at Midgard Times