Grief is rarely just about loss. It is shaped by ritual, expectation, and the unspoken rules that determine who is allowed to mourn- and how. In DUA JI, Taiwanese filmmaker Yu-Han Tsai transforms a rural funeral into a quiet confrontation with patriarchy, inheritance, and the burdens placed on daughters.
Premiering at the SXSW Film Festival, the short follows A-Hsien, the eldest daughter, as she navigates her mother’s funeral rites — ceremonies steeped in tradition and male-centered hierarchy. Inspired by Tsai’s own family history and her experience witnessing her grandmother’s Taoist funeral, the film interrogates the tension between honouring custom and questioning the system it upholds.
Anchored by a powerful performance from legendary Taiwanese actress Kuei-Mei Yang, DUA JI becomes both an intimate portrait of mourning and a broader reflection on gender, cultural legacy, and quiet resistance.
Ahead of its world premiere, we spoke with YuHan Tsai about memory, ritual, and the emotional cost of carrying tradition.
The film is rooted in a very specific moment, a funeral. It opens up broader questions about gender, duty and tradition. What compelled you to tell this story through that setting?
I grew up in Taiwan — not in a major metropolitan area, but in a more rural city where many families still hold very traditional values. Both sides of my family come from that background, particularly my mother’s side, where the belief in prioritising sons is deeply ingrained. The idea of the son as the centre of the family was always present.
At the time, I didn’t consciously see it as a major issue. But as a child, I was always observing. As I grew older — especially in my teenage years — I became increasingly aware of it. I don’t know exactly what triggered that awareness. I was at boarding school, somewhat removed from home, yet these questions were always in my mind. As an adult, I began having more open conversations with my mother about her feelings and experiences within that structure.
The real turning point came at my grandmother’s funeral — my mother’s mother. I had attended funerals before, but this time I was 28 and had my own perspective. I remember standing there and suddenly becoming acutely aware of the subtle rituals — the gestures and instructions directed towards the son, the quiet assumptions about hierarchy. The family is loving, and we care deeply for one another, but there are these small, almost invisible moments that can make the daughters feel like outsiders, even in their own mother’s mourning. I saw it most clearly in my mother.
That experience stayed with me. Later, after I returned to New York, there was one night when the feeling resurfaced very strongly. Being away from Taiwan gave me a certain clarity. I felt compelled to write, and that was when the first draft began to take shape.
“She keeps herself occupied… suppressing her own emotions in order to fulfil her role. Culturally… women are often encouraged to be restrained, to be polite, to hold back their opinions or feelings…”
The protagonist is stuck between her grief of her mother, but also this resentment towards the system she’s expected to uphold. How did you approach writing a character whose emotional conflict is largely internal and restrained?
That was a very deliberate decision, because she is the eldest sister. In Taiwanese, dàjiě literally means “big sister”, and that role carries a great deal of cultural weight. When I was writing the script, I spoke to friends and reflected on my own experiences, and I realised that in many Taiwanese families the eldest daughter often assumes a quiet sense of responsibility. She is expected to care for the younger siblings, to be dependable, to step in when needed. Many of my friends who are eldest sisters describe feeling almost like a second mother within their own families.
At funerals especially, that sense of duty becomes even more pronounced. The process is long and incredibly busy. There are rituals to follow, preparations to make — like folding the lotus flowers we see in the film — and a constant stream of relatives and friends arriving to pay their respects. You are greeting people, organising, hosting. In some ways, it can even resemble a family gathering. The busyness is almost distracting; for much of the time, you do not feel the full weight of grief. The sadness tends to surface only in brief, private moments, when you are alone or something unexpectedly triggers you.
I felt that as the eldest sister, she would naturally place herself in charge — or at least believe that she should be. She keeps herself occupied, greeting guests and managing responsibilities, suppressing her own emotions in order to fulfil her role. Culturally, from my experience, women are often encouraged to be restrained, to be polite, to hold back their opinions or feelings, even when they have strong ones. Sometimes I appreciate that aspect of our culture; at other times, it can feel limiting.
That is why I wanted her to be the eldest sister. It makes her final moment — when she is finally able to sit with her own feelings — all the more impactful. It is the first time she allows herself to stop carrying everyone else.
There is a quote of you saying that the film asks whether women should choose to bid farewell or resist the system entirely. Do you want the film to offer an answer to that? Or was uncertainty the point?
For me, it comes down to uncertainty. I don’t think tradition is something you can simply choose to change. These rituals are tied to religion and to a very long cultural history. If you challenge them, it can feel as though you are questioning something sacred. There is a sense of guilt in that — as if you are disrupting something that does not belong solely to you.
Realistically, these systems are difficult to alter unless you are fully within them and able to reshape them over time — perhaps even beginning with your own funeral, your own family traditions. It isn’t something that shifts overnight.
But making this film felt like a starting point. If we cannot immediately change the system, perhaps we can at least begin by acknowledging how it feels to live within it. It is often difficult to truly understand someone else’s emotional experience, especially when it is shaped by subtle, cultural expectations.
That, to me, is the power of cinema. Film allows us to translate emotions that are otherwise hard to articulate. Through storytelling, you can give form to something that might otherwise remain unspoken.
What was the casting process like and where did you find these incredible actors?
We were incredibly lucky. When I wrote the script, I already knew the lead role would be very difficult to cast. It is such a demanding part — she carries so much internally, and the performance requires restraint as well as emotional depth. I could imagine how challenging it would be to find the right actor.
We prepared a pitch deck and sent the script to various agents, knowing that it was ambitious to aim high. Kuei-Mei Yang was always one of our top choices — she is truly a legend in Taiwanese cinema, and internationally as well. It felt almost impossible to imagine that she might say yes.
When we heard that she was interested, and quite early on in the process too, I felt an enormous sense of relief. It meant everything. If she had not been available, I honestly don’t know how we would have approached casting the rest of the film, or even how I would have moved forward with making it. Her involvement gave the project a foundation and a confidence that carried us through the rest of the process.
“It felt charged, almost overwhelming, and I remember thinking that I wanted to build a film around that feeling.“
Did you take any inspiration from any other films or any other directors when it came to creating this film?
wouldn’t say I was consciously drawing from any one filmmaker, but I’ve always loved cinema and deeply admire many directors. I’m especially drawn to character-driven films — the kind that focus on emotional nuance rather than spectacle. I’ve always admired filmmakers like Ang Lee and Michael Haneke, among many others whose work has stayed with me over the years.
That said, when I was creating this film, my primary focus wasn’t on influence. More than anything, I wanted to make something that felt authentic and emotionally honest. The intention was simply to tell the story truthfully, in a way that honoured the characters and their inner lives.
The rural Taiwanese landscape feels inseparable from the story’s tension. How did place and landscape influence the tone and rhythm of this film?
For me, location is always a character in my films. I’ve shot projects in different places, including China, and I’ve come to see setting as something that carries its own emotional weight. It gives the film a particular spirit — an atmosphere that shapes how the story unfolds.
In this case, one of the earliest images that inspired me was the fire ritual — everyone gathered around the flames, calling out the name of the deceased. That moment stayed with me. It felt charged, almost overwhelming, and I remember thinking that I wanted to build a film around that feeling.
I didn’t consciously decide, “I’m going to set this at a funeral.” It was more that the themes I wanted to explore — grief, tradition, duty — felt most natural within that space. The rituals, the visual textures, the atmosphere of a funeral all allowed the emotional tensions to surface organically. In another setting, I’m not sure the story would have felt as authentic.
The world premiere of this short is at SXSW festival. What does it mean to share such a personal story with a global audience?
It is slightly frightening, because I don’t want the film to be received as an attack or as something judgemental. For me, it’s about sharing emotions and allowing the audience to sit with those feelings. It isn’t intended to provoke harsh reactions or to condemn anyone.
Of course, once the film is out in the world, you can’t control how people interpret it. That uncertainty is scary. But my hope is simply that audiences will connect with the character — that they will feel her experience rather than judge it.
It’s always daunting to hear people’s responses, but the film is ready to stand on its own now, and so are we.
What have some people’s reactions been like so far? Have you seen anything?
The response so far has been very positive. What I’ve found especially interesting is how many women have connected with the film. A lot of them have told me they recognised something of themselves in it — even if the cultural context is very different. That has meant a great deal to me.
At the same time, some viewers have said they were struck by how far removed the rituals and traditions feel from their own experiences, which has sparked a different kind of curiosity and reflection. I find that just as meaningful.
Overall, I’ve received a wide range of thoughtful feedback, and I’m genuinely happy with how the film has been received. It’s been really encouraging.
I also watched your film The Tour and I find that your work focuses on women navigating moments of inner transformation. How does this film build on these themes and what kind of stories are you hoping to explore next?
That’s a really interesting question. When I make a film, I don’t consciously set out to focus on these “transformation moments.” But over the years, as I’ve worked on other projects, I’ve noticed a pattern: I naturally gravitate towards stories that explore women at pivotal points in their lives. It wasn’t something I planned; it just emerged over time.
Looking back over ten years of filmmaking, I can see that certain perspectives or angles repeatedly draw me in — the aspects of women’s experiences that I want to explore, which then inspire a story. With DUA JI and The Tour, that focus came very naturally, without overthinking. It’s only afterwards that I realise, “Ah, yes — this is the angle I keep returning to.”
It’s funny, because I’m now developing a feature script, and I can see this pattern again. That story revolves around three women, spanning different generations in Taiwan. One has connections in the US, while the other two are her relatives. It’s a dramedy, light and fun in tone, but it also allows for deep, meaningful conversations between the three women, each navigating very different circumstances in life.
One thought on “Exploring Grief, Gender, and Tradition: Yu-Han Tsai on Her New Film “Dua-Ji””