‘Goodbye, Dragon Inn’ and the loss of cinematic magic
The tastes, means, and methods by which audiences consume cinema are in a constant state of evolution, but even though it’s been more than 20 years since it released, co-writer and director Tsai Ming-liang’s longing Goodbye, Dragon Inn remains as pertinent and relevant as ever.
In the two decades following the Taiwanese drama’s unveiling, the industry has undergone several more sweeping shifts. The advent of social media and the dawn of streaming has combined to shorten attention spans and increase the desire for instant gratification, rendering the singular experience of watching a movie on the big screen much less of a pressing concern than ever before.
Through the lens of a genre-hopping 81-minute feature that pivots from drama and comedy into supernatural territory and back again, Ming-liang captures the essence of how modernity has encroached upon the necessity of the cinema as a social, cultural, and personal hub for people from all walks of life.
Using 1967 wuxia favourite Dragon Inn at the backdrop, the narrative focuses on an old and rundown Taipei theatre preparing to close its doors for the final time. Nostalgia is a key focus, not only for the way the characters appreciate the film that inspired the film but also the way Goodbye, Dragon Inn as a whole casts its gaze on the decreasing importance of the cinema experience at large.
A physically-impaired woman, an offbeat projectionist, a Japanese tourist, and the spectral apparition of actors from the movie being shown are all drawn together by the very same thing. Much like the sense of community fostered by the theatrical experience, Goodbye, Dragon Inn draws its patrons from far, wide, and occasionally the spirit realm to unite them in the one thing they love equally.
As the filmmaker explained to the BFI, it inadvertently became a much more timely and important film the longer the initial idea was floating around in his mind. “All the cinemas in that style were closing down, and this was one of the last ones left,” he said of its central location. “I had no idea what I was going to make, but I took it for a year. I didn’t run it, I just rented it. Then, of course, I forgot all about it. It was my producer who reminded me in the last month that I had it, and he asked what I wanted to do with it.”
His short-term lease had almost expired by the time Goodbye, Dragon Inn even began filming, which unintentionally became symbolic of what the movie itself wanted to say. “It’s a film that deals with memories,” Ming-liang offered, adding another metatextual layer to the story, setting, and iconography as a result. “The memories of that cinema became the memories of cinema.”
The never-ending battle between past and present, tradition and modernism, and the gradual decline from packed houses to empty auditoriums are at the heart of Goodbye, Dragon Inn, which speaks to an entire generation of filmgoers who fondly recall – and desperately miss – the days when there was nothing better than catching a movie and sharing laughs, tears, and joy with the rest of the crowd.
A lament for an age that’s slipping away, the final extended shot of the completely empty cinema is one that will continue to create pangs of longing for anyone who rues the way the experience is being continually robbed of its magic, making Goodbye, Dragon Inn as powerful now as it’s ever been. If anything, it’s only going to get more emotional when it’s revisited in the years to come.