As a filmmaker from Taiwan, perhaps the most fascinating—and telling—aspect of this work is how politics interferes with queer cinema. This is not only a domestic issue; it reflects the broader dynamics of the entire Chinese speaking community.
Here at home, the power to determine which projects receive annual production funding rests in the hands of seven senior industry veterans. And even though Taiwan is the most progressive country in Asia regarding LGBTQ+ rights, the films that get made still overwhelmingly reflect mainstream political narratives. Queer stories, when told, must shimmer with hope and light. Otherwise, they’re reduced to “brotherly affection” — lingering glances labeled as platonic — crafted to fit the media’s obsession with general-audience ratings and box office returns. Queer desire, in this context, is entirely castrated.
When you zoom out and look at the political entanglements between Taiwan and China, this isn’t just about queer cinema. Any topic banned in China finds its only viable path in Taiwan through the aforementioned subsidy system. But look closer — this is a dead end.
You might argue that we’ve seen suppressed yet direct depictions of sexuality in the works of Tsai Ming-liang, or that Ang Lee laid the foundation for queer storytelling in this region. But I’m sorry to say: every independent artist fighting for space in queer cinema has had to carve out their own way of surviving. Forget pleasing politics — no one has the time to care about you now anyway.
This environment has only pushed me to more actively explore desire, class, and social consciousness — and in doing so, I’ve begun to explore myself. Before I speak of cinema disobedience, let me share just one piece of advice with whoever’s reading this bitter confession from an Asian gay man:
Be friends with those who like you.
That’s my only stance toward creation.
There’s no need to weep your way into pleasing everyone. Want everything? You’ll end up with nothing.