Despite its “legendary songstress” billing and colorful poster of a woman singing into a microphone, La Paloma (傳奇女伶高菊花) is not a story of stardom. Instead, it unfolds as a tragic, heart-rending account of a promising young life derailed by the White Terror.
Since childhood, Shih Chao-ling (施昭伶) often had to go looking for her mother, who was likely passed out drunk somewhere, and bring her home and care for her. She was never told about the trauma that shaped the life of her mother — the late songstress Paicu Yatauyungana, better known as Kao Chu-hua (高菊花).
The film includes interviews with a nearly 80-year-old Paicu at her home in the Tsou village of Tapangu in 2009, where she appears gracefully in full stage glamour — leopard-print jacket, fur hat, heavy makeup — and speaks frankly about her life.
Photo courtesy of Wild Fire Music
“The things I’ve been through, you couldn’t bear to hear them,” she says, later wistfully singing the Spanish classic La Paloma in another scene: “Cucurucucu, dove, don’t cry anymore.” Her weathered voice remains powerful and resonant and tinged with sorrow.
But the plot is driven by Shih’s journey to learn about her mother’s past. She’s shown reading aloud her detailed diaries, going through declassified government archives with her son, her candid musings and emotional realizations showing a poignant gradual understanding. The film is particularly effective in this approach, intercut with scenes of Paicu’s younger brother reading passages and filling in gaps in the narrative.
The eldest daughter of Indigenous Tsou educator and politician Uyongu Yatauyungana, Paicu was once described in the press as a “lucky woman.” At 19, she had been offered a scholarship to study medicine in the US for 15 years, with the goal of returning to Taiwan to improve public health in Indigenous communities.
Photo courtesy of Wild Fire Music
She was studying English at a cram school when Uyongu was arrested in 1952. He had run afoul of the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) after resisting government troops during the 228 Incident, a 1947 anti-government uprising that was violently suppressed. He had also briefly advocated Indigenous autonomy, and was executed in 1954 under the standard White Terror charge of sedition.
For Paicu, this led to the collapse of the world she had known. Forced to take care of her 10 siblings, she turned to performing, developing a repertoire of English, Spanish and French songs such as Banana Boat Song and Cachito, and adopting the stage name Panana.
But as the daughter of a political criminal, Paicu remained under close surveillance, and was often summoned for questioning. After performances, she was at times blackmailed into sleeping with foreign officials, or into seducing communist captives to persuade them to defect. She faded from the spotlight after her siblings came of age.
Photo courtesy of Wild Fire Music
While researching Polish-Taiwanese relations, Lin Wei-yun (林蔚昀) discovered evidence of such dealings with captured Polish sailors. She breaks down in the film as she recalls the shock of the discovery and the dilemma that followed: how could she approach the family and ask whether she could include it in her book?
Having won the audience choice award in last week’s Taiwan International Documentary Festival, the film is produced by Wild Fire Music (野火樂集), which also released an album of songs and poems by Uyongu, who taught his daughter music. Producer Hsiung Ju-hsien (熊儒賢) reportedly met Panana, by then largely forgotten by the public, while conducting field research in Tapangu in 2005.
The film’s layered approach, weaving together different voices and timelines, works well for such heavy material, especially with Shih’s perspective showing how trauma affects future generations. It is still surprising and heartbreaking to see how many White Terror stories have yet to be uncovered, with family members not even knowing anything. At a lean 72 minutes, the film carries ample historical context and emotional weight without feeling overburdened.
However, the film’s strongest moments are the scenes of Paicu Yatauyungana herself, calmly recounting what happened to her with poise. Instead of seeking transitional justice, all she wants is that her father was never killed, she says. It is fortunate that these interviews were captured before her death.
“At a time when I could be executed at any moment, I struggled desperately to survive,” she says. “I didn’t want to die.”
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