One of the greatest pleasures, or perhaps essential rituals, at the Taipei Golden Horse Film Festival (TGHFF) is exploring its consistently strong shorts program, particularly the documentary section. They usually struggle to reach wider audiences outside of the festival circuit, making this showcase a rare opportunity.

This year, among a blossom of Taiwanese short films, one stands out from Mainland China, which comes across bold and unsettling: The Long Departure. Co-directed by Jiang Xuan-nian and Ji Hang, the film draws directly from their lived experience. It opens with a painfully familiar expectation: Hang’s parents insist she have a child before turning 35. In return, she would receive what might be called a “lesbian pass,” their tacit permission to date women freely. Not fully aware of what the journey would demand of her, Hang agreed, travelling with her mother and her partner, Nian, to Cambodia for an IVF procedure

The Long Departure reveals explicitly what modern “Chineseness” is. At first, Hang’s parents perceive the fact that she likes women as their failure in parenting. Gradually, they come to terms with it, yet seek consolation in a compromise: that she bear a child, both as her own companion and as a fulfilment of familial and social duty. What begins as a suggestion soon hardens into a promise, and then into an obligation. The child must be born. Here, modern Chineseness is distilled, where negotiations between generations often calcify into inevitability.

The film wraps typical Chinese motherhood clips into a gentle opening, soothing the audience with a soft start. Hang’s mother browses a sperm bank with her and even accompanies her throughout the IVF process, how tender, how loving. Yet that tenderness soon curdles: the child is one Hang never wanted. The mother dotes on Hang, offering constant care and words of encouragement, but beneath that devotion lies a singular goal: the creation of a successful zygote. It sent chills down my spine while watching it. You can’t even argue that the mother doesn’t love Hang. She offers everything a mother could – patience, presence, nutritious meals – everything but respect. This is perhaps the most chilling side of Chineseness – love that appears immaculate on the surface. They are good to you, even when it’s not what you desire, and because it’s offered, gratitude becomes your duty. It is the very imprint of Confucian ethics.

“Is Hang lucky?” This question has been stuck in my mind ever since I finished watching the film. Compared with many queer individuals in China, having such a transactional option might seem better than having none at all. At least it offers her a chance to “be herself,” to no longer live in hiding. Yet she is far from free. There’s always something to surrender. To gain freedom in sexual orientation, she must give up freedom in reproduction.

Her parents do love her, but love is not equivalent to acceptance. They seldom attempt to change her, only to rewrite the story in which her difference could still make sense to them. “It’s fine if my daughter likes girls,” her father says, “I’ll just think of her as a divorced woman.” It makes no logical sense, but that’s how he convinces himself, and in doing so, he learns to accept her.

When they first meet Nian, there’s no objection, but neither is there a blessing. Instead, they define invisible boundaries: inside the house, Hang and Nian may be lovers; once they step outside, they must become “good friends,” so as not to invite gossip from neighbours. It’s hard to tell whether this comes from a fear of losing face or a genuine wish to protect their children from the cruelty of public judgment.

Of course, they try to favour their “daughter-in-law.” They’re pleased that Nian is so “feminine,” believing she might teach Hang how to dress more like a woman – sadly, they fail to see Nian’s real charm, the person beyond the gendered image they find comfort in.

Overall, The Long Departure dissects the modern Chinese family – one defined by love that is tender and suffocating, almost toxic. It renders the tension between care and control, showing how love, in its purity, can still imprison. It’s a kind of love so ordinary, yet so binding, that every Mainland viewer can see a piece of their own family in it. It speaks to the trauma we all recognise – that unspoken inheritance of love bound by duty. Nian and Hang deliver it with startling vividness, giving shape to a pain that rarely finds words. This form of “Chineseness” is profoundly contemporary and in need of being seen and discussed. For that, The Long Departure feels not only brave but necessary.

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Written by Jane Wei

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