With the title, Mom Thinks I’m Crazy To Marry A Japanese Guy, it’s easy to write off this film as just another over-the-top, cutesy Taiwanese sap fest with a cross-cultural romantic twist. Those elements are all present, and the scenes are way too magical, but what makes the film work is that the main storyline between the two leads is very much rooted in reality, with believable characters, interactions and dialogue that will strike a chord with anyone who has attempted either long-distance or Internet dating.
It’s a true story after all, first made public through a Facebook fan page of the same name detailing the love story between Ihan (Jian Man-shu, 簡嫚書) and Mogi (Nakano Yuta), who met by chance through Facebook. The tale was later made into a book, upon which the movie is based.
Director Yachida Akihisa makes the wise decision in limiting the over-the-top shenanigans to the minor characters. Actually, it almost appears that outside of the leading couple and their friends, everyone is crazy, from Ihan’s loud-mouthed mother who is constantly bickering with her mahjong buddies to the Japanese dude who randomly shoots a rubber band gun at Mogi in a bar before offering him love advice. They are probably supposed to provide comic relief, but these types of characters are, by now, just tired stereotypes of Taiwanese cinema.
Photo courtesy of atmovies.com
Interestingly, both concepts featured in the movie title (the idea of marrying a Japanese and the tyrant mother who opposes the decision) don’t make too much of a difference in the film. The cultural barriers part is minimized by the fact that Ihan is proficient in Mogi’s language as a Japanese major in college and a self-professed lover of all things Japanese. One could see it as a missed opportunity to explore cultural differences between Taiwan and Japan — but hey, you have to stick with the script if it’s a true story. And even though Ihan’s mother vehemently opposes their relationship, Ihan is such an optimistic and headstrong character that there’s no stopping her. As a result, the expected “conflict” is virtually nonexistent.
Instead, the conflict revolves around misunderstandings through social media posts and online chatting, which the film presents in a very nuanced and realistic way, as the two characters continue to guess the underlying meanings behind what they see on screen because they can’t see each other in person.
Much of the plot is cleverly (albeit too cutely) presented through Facebook photos, videos, comments and messaging. The director even shows Mogi pausing in the middle of typing a sentence, wondering if he should finish his thought. There’s even a scene where they’re still communicating via Facebook while sitting next to each other. Don’t lie, you’ve probably done that too.
The awkward world of online communication is made more apparent especially because Mogi is no prince charming. He’s quiet and reserved, the type of guy who requires a bit of initiative from the woman if anything is to happen. While Ihan is the more outgoing one, she’s also unsure of their budding virtual attraction and what it all means. This creates a lot of tension that carries over to when they meet in person, such as their extremely clumsy first farewell. Afterward, they are shown wondering if they should have said more. It’s these moments that the audience can relate to, and this film would have been a complete dud if it depicted some grandiose, theatrical romance.
Somehow, this formula manages to keep the audience engaged to the point of tuning out the sappiness. Not bad for a film that tells an ordinary story with few twists and turns.
July 1 to July 7 Huang Ching-an (黃慶安) couldn’t help but notice Imelita Masongsong during a company party in the Philippines. With paler skin and more East Asian features, she did not look like the other locals. On top of his job duties, Huang had another mission in the country, given by his mother: to track down his cousin, who was deployed to the Philippines by the Japanese during World War II and never returned. Although it had been more than three decades, the family was still hoping to find him. Perhaps Imelita could provide some clues. Huang never found the cousin;
Once again, we are listening to the government talk about bringing in foreign workers to help local manufacturing. Speaking at an investment summit in Washington DC, the Minister of Economic Affairs, J.W. Kuo (郭智輝), said that the nation must attract about 400,000 to 500,000 skilled foreign workers for high end manufacturing by 2040 to offset the falling population. That’s roughly 15 years from now. Using the lower number, Taiwan would have to import over 25,000 foreigners a year for these positions to reach that goal. The government has no idea what this sounds like to outsiders and to foreigners already living here.
Lines on a map once meant little to India’s Tibetan herders of the high Himalayas, expertly guiding their goats through even the harshest winters to pastures on age-old seasonal routes. That stopped in 2020, after troops from nuclear-armed rivals India and China clashed in bitter hand-to-hand combat in the contested high-altitude border lands of Ladakh. Swaths of grazing lands became demilitarized “buffer zones” to keep rival forces apart. For 57-year-old herder Morup Namgyal, like thousands of other semi-nomadic goat and yak herders from the Changpa pastoralist people, it meant traditional lands were closed off. “The Indian army stops us from going there,” Namgyal said,
A tourist plaque outside the Chenghuang Temple (都城隍廟) lists it as one of the “Top 100 Religious Scenes in Taiwan.” It is easy to see why when you step inside the Main Hall to be confronted with what amounts to an imperial stamp of approval — a dragon-framed, golden protection board gifted to the temple by the Guangxu Emperor that reads, “Protected by Guardians.” Some say the plaque was given to the temple after local prayers to the City God (城隍爺) miraculously ended a drought. Another version of events tells of how the emperor’s son was lost at sea and rescued