Set within the Chinese diaspora massage parlors, restaurants, and construction sites of Flushing, Queens, “Blue Sun Palace” is a deeply empathetic directorial debut from writer-director Constance Tsang. The film centers on three migrants—Didi (Haipeng Xu), Amy (Wu Ke-xi), and Cheung (Lee Kang-sheng)—as they juggle their grueling work, their shared sense of community in the face of crushing isolation, and the never-ceasing tug of the families they left behind. A tragedy on Lunar New Year sets in motion a transformation that alters all three irrevocably, further pushing them to seek a place of permanence in an increasingly transient world.
Bathed in the gauzy haze of cinematographer Norm Li’s camera, Tsang films her actors in extended long takes that allow them to bring the characters richly to life and invite the viewer to experience living through the same sensorial tactility. A truly beguiling film, “Blue Sun Palace” is the kind of directorial debut that announces the emergence of a major talent.
Inspired in part by the death of her father when she was a teenager, the making of the film was itself a transformative process for Tsang, who shared in her director’s statement that as she wrote the film, she “began to think about the decisions we make after we lose someone we love. In particular relationships we engage in and who we seek to comfort ourselves even though they might not be right for us.”
A recent M.F.A. graduate from Columbia University, Tsang’s short films have screened at The Metrograph, Palm Springs Shortsfest, Outfest, Brooklyn Film Festival, Los Angeles Asian Pacific Film Festival, and Melbourne Queer Film Festival. “Blue Sun Palace” made its world premiere at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, where it played as part of Critics’ Week.
RogerEbert.com spoke to Tsang about how legendary Taiwanese actor Lee Kang-sheng agreed to star in her feature film debut, choreographing the film’s many long takes, food as a love language, and filmmaking as a way of processing grief.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length.
Lee Kang-sheng is a titan of Taiwanese cinema. Did you have him in mind as you wrote this character of Cheung?
I was absolutely and definitely a fan of his. But when I started to write this character, it was based on a couple of family friends of ours. And when the script was completed, I sent it to a couple of actors, but Lee Kang-sheng was always at the top of our list. Something happened in the universe where I was able to connect with him. A producer friend I had known from film school had just worked on another film he was in, and she was like, “Just DM him. He’s really active on his Instagram.” He said that’s the best way to connect with him. And so I did, and we sent the script over to him. We met for a quick conversation, and he agreed. This legend agreed to be in my first film.
Then you have these two amazing actresses playing Amy and Didi. In the first opening thirty minutes, there’s such beautiful camaraderie between these women at the spa. How did you go about casting them and the other women who work at the spa?
In terms of casting, Amy was the first one for me. I had seen Wu Ke-xi’s work before and loved her in “Nina Wu.” I thought she was so strong. There is such charisma and strength to her performance in that movie that I just felt like she would know this character well. I watched her in interviews and other films she’s been in, and I got a sense that she might be able to relate to this character. What I wanted for the role of Didi, played by Haipeng Xu, was someone who emitted light and happiness. But also could embody a character that would stay with us even after she’s gone from the film. So I was looking for someone to be very absorbing. When I watched her casting tape for this film, she spoke very freely from her heart. I think that’s what attracted me, particularly to these two characters.
I think, even when rounding out the other women who work in the spa, a lot of how I decide to cast in the end is looking at how these actors can relate to the characters emotionally and understand better than I do. I want that to be a part of the collaborative process. As long as I think they have the seed of the character, I want them to bring so much more to this role than I had written. I think that’s where the dynamics of these four women were created, through that collaboration. I wanted them to have a sense of safety in each other. I wanted them to be each other’s support systems and have this warmth within each other, and how they care about one another when the world doesn’t. That was very important to me.
Obviously, you have these very long scenes that are unbroken, or at least appear unbroken. You have to trust your actors to nail it when you’re leaving a camera on them for five, six minutes at a time. Did you do any rehearsal beforehand? How do you prep? I’m interested in both how you prep with the actors for a scene that long, and how you prep with the cinematographer for a scene that runs that long.
So with the actors, we went through all the scenes two weeks before we shot the film. And it was not just for the acting and performance itself. It was a language thing, because, you know, Mandarin is not my first language. I do not read and write in Chinese, so I needed their help making it sound real. That was the first part of the process. In doing so, we went over the scenes with the actors and figured out the necessary dialogue and the emotional beats required for them. They understood very well what I needed from the scene, what I wanted from the scene, and from there we went into rehearsing on set. During our rehearsals, we essentially would play out the scenes before we shot, just kind of mechanically, nothing emotive, and we would shoot one take that was as I had written it. But then, because they understood the emotional beats, they improved. Then, when they were improving, we would find blocking for the actors.
What was important was that I would come to the set prepared in all the ways I could. But there’s so much happening, and for the actors to be on set for the first time in this way changes how we act with each other and the camera. So they were able to take the scene, block it as it is, and I would have my DP, Norm Li, sit with me and watch what they were doing, and from there, shift and move. And we were like, “Okay, this works for this setup. How does that placement work to amplify this emotional beat?” So it was very much a dance for all of us.
You mentioned earlier that the script was inspired by family friends; how much research in terms of talking with people and observing did you do? Then, how did you incorporate that into your writing?
A lot of the research had to do with the massage parlor workers. That was, first and foremost, something that I wanted to be very mindful of. We reached out to a couple of counselors, who work within these organizations that help women who are in these situations… who are in situations where they are trafficked, specifically into sex work. They were able to help me so much with the characters, their day-to-day lives, and the kinds of cases their clients would be in. From there, we would send questions over to their clients, who remained anonymous. I had a dialogue with them back and forth to make sure that whatever we’re representing in this film felt truthful. That was the bulk of my research. The other characters and the grief of it all were very much taken from my own experiences, as well as watching my parents’ journey and their community of friends. So all that felt very lived in and almost was a memory for me.
There’s a significance to most of the big moments happening on Lunar New Year. Can you talk a bit about when you decided that those celebrations would be the two anchors for the characters’ transformations?
The word that you’re using feels so right: transformation. The Lunar New Year always symbolizes a rebirth and a way to propel yourself into a new year, free, without burden, with all the goals you have in mind. Everything feels so sure, and there is so much possibility. That was why I decided to anchor it in those two specific moments, where the celebration would be so hopeful, and then, when you contrast it with what happens, it creates this tension and the sadness that permeates the film. So I did it in a way that enhanced the emotionality of the characters.
I love that you repeat some of these scenes with different layers of emotions. So you have Didi and Cheung eating their spicy chicken, and it is so hopeful and beautiful and happy. And then you repeat that scene with Amy and Cheung and it occupies a totally different emotional space for both of them. Food can be a loving, emotional language, but then food can also bring out a lot of trauma.
For me, food is a major way that my family shows love. Growing up, regardless of my parents’ financial situation, there was always food on the table. They would say, “I love you,” and that was always through food. So, to me, that is something very integral to how I understand love.
In the moments where it becomes traumatic, for example, for Amy in the film, there is so much left unsaid in the act of eating. The way that characters hold on to their emotions is so beautiful. So the food, in that way, is used as a prop, but they’re doing something that is meant to be a show of care. For example, Cheung puts food on Amy’s plate, right? But she rejects it. And all of that adds to her psychological behavior; how she chooses when to stop eating, when she decides to tell him it’s enough, what her boundary is, what is crossing her boundary with the food. That scene, for me, was very charged in that way. It was a situation meant to show care, but she feels something completely distant from that act.
Making this film was also a transformation for you. What was it like for you to experience all these emotions while creating this art and emerge as a different version of yourself?
The other day I had another interview, because I’m in France, doing the release here. I had a very lovely, intelligent journalist ask me about the female gaze and, like, what a female film is, and why we as female directors decide to put ourselves in these places of vulnerability and write stories that are so personal to us. And I had to think about that for a moment, because I was like, “Wow. This is right. Why am I making a movie that is so close to me?” I feel like that’s the only way I know how to get it out because I don’t know how to say it in day-to-day life. When I was making this film, I literally could not talk about how I was dealing with the death of my father, or how I was dealing with losing a long-term partner in a relationship. All that felt so hard to talk about, but making this movie gave me a voice. And I understand that this process is very different for everyone, and people don’t need to make movies that are this close to them. But for me, it just felt like I could breathe after this.
Are there any women who’ve made films that have either inspired you on your journey to becoming a filmmaker, or that you just think are really cool and you want more people to know about?
I love Céline Sciamma. I think her work is breathtaking, and the way she films women is unlike anything I’ve seen before. So she’s always been someone who’s on my mind. I think the work of Agnès Varda speaks to me. I love essay films, so “The Gleaners and I” is a film that I really, really love, because I feel so close to her, and the way that she’s able to talk about something so topical, but also related to her own experience. It’s amazing to see how films can feel so personal and also so grand at the same time. The great Chantal Akerman changed my life and how I understood how time can work, what it means to show a woman’s work, and the quietness that women can have on screen, yet still have such a strong presence.