Featuring pop idol Ella Chen (陳嘉樺) as a betel nut beauty (檳榔西施) falling for a younger man, The Missing Piece (缺角一族) is fortunately more than the usual soap opera schlock. For his second feature, veteran TV director Chiang Fong-hung (江豐宏) produces a romantic, light-hearted comedy which balances the youthful love story with a look into the characters’ self-seeking quests. The movie boasts a finely tuned cast, comprising veteran thespian Tsai Chen-nan (蔡振南), young talent Austin Lin (林柏宏) and Chen.
At the center of the lively drama is Daofeng (Lin), a bashful college student who breaks from his humdrum city life and plans to hitchhike to a tropical town called Sunshine Village.
Along his trek, Daofeng meets Shasha (Chen), a jovial betel nut girl who wears flamboyant costumes in her transparent booth surrounded by vast, sun-baked grassland.
Photo courtesy of Three Giant Production
Another daily commuter is Uncle Tin Can (Tsai), who lives alone in a big house by the sea and spends his time recycling abandoned things. Uncle Tin Can and Daofeng become friends. Yet another encounter brings Daofeng to local villager Auntie Haichu (played by Lin Mei-chao, 林美照), who likes to eat her lunchbox in front of a tall chimney of a defunct sugar factory.
Daofeng’s new friends make him feel right at home. But the more he comes to know them, the more he realizes that underneath their blithe appearances, they are hurt and lost inside, longing for reconciliation with themselves and others. Meanwhile, Daofeng’s affection toward Shasha gradually grows.
Despite a fair amount of narrative untidiness, Chiang’s second feature is a feel-good movie that strikes a chord with the audience through universal themes of love, regret and reconciliation. Known for his life-long collaboration with film maestro Tsai Ming-liang (蔡明亮), cinematographer Liao Pen-jung (廖本榕) injects buoyant exuberance. Bathed in vibrant hues, even the roadside betel-nut stand brings to mind a quaint cottage from a fairy tale.
Chiang’s decades-long career as a TV drama director gives him a keen eye for choosing the right actor for the role. Lin and Chen complement each other well as a couple with contrasting personalities. But the most noticeable performance is delivered by Tsai who effortlessly brings to life the many facets of his character, swinging from idiosyncrasy to graciousness.
In recent weeks the Trump Administration has been demanding that Taiwan transfer half of its chip manufacturing to the US. In an interview with NewsNation, US Secretary of Commerce Howard Lutnick said that the US would need 50 percent of domestic chip production to protect Taiwan. He stated, discussing Taiwan’s chip production: “My argument to them was, well, if you have 95 percent, how am I gonna get it to protect you? You’re going to put it on a plane? You’re going to put it on a boat?” The stench of the Trump Administration’s mafia-style notions of “protection” was strong
Every now and then, it’s nice to just point somewhere on a map and head out with no plan. In Taiwan, where convenience reigns, food options are plentiful and people are generally friendly and helpful, this type of trip is that much easier to pull off. One day last November, a spur-of-the-moment day hike in the hills of Chiayi County turned into a surprisingly memorable experience that impressed on me once again how fortunate we all are to call this island home. The scenery I walked through that day — a mix of forest and farms reaching up into the clouds
With one week left until election day, the drama is high in the race for the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) chair. The race is still potentially wide open between the three frontrunners. The most accurate poll is done by Apollo Survey & Research Co (艾普羅民調公司), which was conducted a week and a half ago with two-thirds of the respondents party members, who are the only ones eligible to vote. For details on the candidates, check the Oct. 4 edition of this column, “A look at the KMT chair candidates” on page 12. The popular frontrunner was 56-year-old Cheng Li-wun (鄭麗文)
“Eighteen years ago, people didn’t even know the name of this ingredient,” says 58-year-old Gil Sa-hyeon, holding up a cluster of dried brownish stems. “Now it’s everywhere.” His shop, Joseon Yakcho, sits in the heart of Seoul’s Yangnyeongsi Market, South Korea’s largest traditional medicinal herb market, its streets lined with shops displaying buckets of herbs such as licorice root and cinnamon bark that spill on to the pavements, filling the air with their distinct, earthy aroma. The ingredient Gil is referring to is hovenia dulcis, known in Korean as heotgae — the oriental raisin tree that’s become the cornerstone of South Korea’s
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