‘Yen and Ai-Lee’ review: Healing arrives quietly, if at all | IFFK 2025

There is a quiet tenderness running through Tom Lin Shu-yu’s Taiwanese film ‘Yen and Ai-Lee’, even though it deals with abuse, guilt and emotional damage. The relief it offers does not come from resolution or redemption, but from recognition — the feeling that these characters are finally being seen without judgment. Screening in the international competition section at IFFK 2025, the film finds its power in that gentleness.

The story follows Yen, played by Kimi Hsia, a woman recently released from prison after killing her abusive father. Returning home is not a fresh start so much as a return to unfinished business. Her mother, played by Yang Keui-mei, is now involved with another man whose behaviour mirrors the past. The film does not underline the irony. It simply lets it exist, trusting the audience to understand how cycles of violence rarely end neatly.

Tom Lin structures the film around stillness. Daily routines, small movements and long pauses dominate the first half. Yen drifts through her days, attempting to rebuild a life that feels fragile and undefined. The slowness is not meant to frustrate but to ground the film in Yen’s internal state. Healing has not started yet; she is only learning how to exist again.

The introduction of Ai-Lee (or Allie) shifts the film’s emotional register. Rather than presenting her as an alter ego or a fantasy, the film treats Ai-Lee as a possibility — a version of Yen unburdened by constant fear. The two identities feel closely linked, suggesting not division but aspiration. This is where the film begins to offer relief, subtle and controlled. Not because pain disappears, but because Yen allows herself to imagine something beyond it.

Shot in black and white, the film avoids visual excess. The frames are composed with restraint, often holding on faces longer than expected. Information is rationed. Instead of explaining motivations, the film lets behaviour speak. This creates a quiet tension early on, which gradually softens as the characters reveal themselves. The absence of colour lends the film a calm clarity rather than coldness.

Kimi Hsia gives a deeply internal performance. Yen’s emotions surface in brief, unguarded moments, then retreat again. When she finally allows herself to break, the scene feels natural rather than performative. Yang Keui-mei brings similar restraint to the mother’s role. Her affection is expressed through worry, repetition and stubborn care rather than overt warmth. The film understands that love, especially in damaged households, is often awkward and incomplete.

What ‘Yen and Ai-Lee’ ultimately offers is a sense of relief without pretending that wounds can be neatly closed. The film does not promise change or reconciliation. Instead, it allows its characters a brief emotional release — the space to acknowledge what they have been carrying, without being pushed towards solutions.