One wonders what the title As the Water Flows truly means – at least until the film’s final moments, when its philosophy finally surfaces. Water moves forward, never looking back, yet somehow it reflects everything it passes. Life, Bian Zhuo seems to say, is much the same: a continuous current defined by the memories we choose to revisit, even as time pulls us onward.

In his tender, remarkably composed family drama, Bian Zhuo tells a story about reconciliation and how aging alters one’s perspective. It’s a tale of how time reshapes our understanding of love and regret. And while films are always open to interpretation, I find solace in that freedom – the ability to see a story in my own way, to let it flow through my experiences as much as through the director’s vision.

After his wife’s sudden death, Shu Wen, an aging father and grandfather, drifts through his days in despair. A few months later, he feels ready to be “in love” again, only to find his daughters firmly opposed. Their disagreement opens a crack in the family’s surface harmony, exposing long-ignored feelings and unspoken resentments. Shu Wen, who has spent much of his life being emotionally unavailable, begins to observe the people around him with new eyes.

What makes Shu Wen’s journey particularly poignant is his growing determination to reconnect the fractured threads of his family. As he spends more time with his daughters and grandchildren, he becomes the fragile connection between three generations – each carrying its own kind of trauma. For the grandchildren, it’s the restless confusion of youth; for the daughters, the exhaustion of responsibility; for Shu Wen, the ache of regret and aging. In trying to heal his own loneliness, he also begins to confront – and gently soothe – the pain each of them carries.

Bian Zhuo treats his characters with understated honesty. I loved how the film moves at the pace of real life, letting emotions grow. The father, the daughters, and grandchildren are all trying, in their own imperfect ways, to find meaning in togetherness.

The acting is superbly natural, so much so that it often feels as though we are eavesdropping on a real family. The three generations at the centre of the story form a fascinating triad. Their dynamic feels lived-in: they argue, they tease, they share meals that end in mild bickering; however, beneath it all lies the inescapable truth of kinship.

Music is used sparingly – almost absently – so that natural sounds take precedence: the soft rhythm of moving water, the distant chatter of birds, the sigh of wind through trees. Indoors, the sound design is almost oppressive; the walls seem to close in. It’s as if the house itself reflects Shu Wen’s emotional confinement. But outside – especially in the scenes with the Shu’s wife – the world opens up.

As the Water Flows is not a philosophical film in the traditional sense, it is reflective. I feel like the wisdom of the film lies in observation. It suggests that healing is found in listening, forgiving, and continuing to flow forward despite the inevitable losses that shape us. Bian Zhuo has created a film of grace, one that finds poetry in ordinary lives. It’s a reminder that cinema need not shout to move us; sometimes, it only needs to whisper to flow gently, like water, through the spaces of the heart.

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Written by Maggie Gogler

Featured image courtesy of Alula Film Festival

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