By Yun-hua Chen.
I was initially attracted to the concept of space, but space brought many limitations, which I actually like because they encourage exploring more possibilities.”
Composed of snippets that capture different hotel rooms inhabited by various “strangers”, Chicago-based Chinese director Zhengfan Yang is acutely sensitive to how spaces affect individuals and how individuals occupy their space. A cleaning lady tries to enjoy a moment of silence and solitude; the families of a newly wedded couple have a photoshoot; a young woman endures quarantine; two middle-aged men experience a police raid; a couple rehearses their statement for U.S. border control—each snippet unfolds a whole world of human emotions and struggles. Stranger is minimalistic yet clinically precise, at times with a note of dark humor, all the while being deeply philosophical and flowing from the real to the hyperreal and the surreal. It offers a microscopic look at human bodies in a non-place, serving as a metaphor for the inherent human condition of loneliness and rootlessness.
Film International talks with Yang Zhengfan about space, cinematic time, and what it means to be a stranger at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, where it won the Grand Prix in the Proxima Competition.
Why did you choose a hotel as the setting and theme of the movie? Most of your previous work has focused on places, and hotels are what Marc Augé calls non-places…
Yes, I started conceptualizing this idea of making a film painting space from a hotel room for a film around 2016, which was actually close to the theme of my previous films, also about the alienation between people. But it also happened to be the year after I moved to Chicago, and my experience of living between China and the U.S. from that time onwards may have reinforced this feeling of being an outsider. I was an outsider in the U.S., both in terms of the language and the culture, but when I went back to my home country once or twice a year, I realized that because China was changing almost every day, the feeling of being an outsider there was as pronounced as the feeling I had in the U.S.
When I was in Hong Kong in 2016, there was a murder case next door to a hotel room where an unemployed middle-aged homeless man killed a 16-year-old prostitute who wasn’t attending school. I didn’t know what had happened at the time but only realized it the next day when I watched the news and saw the police and reporters downstairs. The hotel room as a space holds many different stories, and as a non-place, it can release the story, revealing a certain kind of human predicament—alienation and isolation—that I find compelling. No matter what kind of stories I put in that space, it always circles back to the main idea I want to convey.
There are both actors and non-actors in the film. How did you direct them?
We used to work more with non-professional actors because, in the past, the camera was usually very far away, and you couldn’t see the people clearly; you only needed to see their movements and gestures, so they were all non-professional actors. But this time, because we were shooting in such a small space and the actors would be looked at closely, I wanted to have professional actors first—good professional actors. And also, the image of the actors themselves is important to us, so we had a mix of professional and non-professional actors.
The lengths of each segment are different. Is it decided organically?
I told the actors that the length should be according to their comfortable rhythm, but I might take out some content. For example, in the monologue scene in quarantine, I felt it was slightly too long, so I removed one or two parts and then asked the actress to try again with the reduced content; I emphasized not to change her original rhythm because I think rhythm is crucial. If the rhythm isn’t right, the atmosphere won’t come through.
The order of the fragments was actually decided at the script stage. The scene with the cleaning lady at the very beginning establishes that every scene takes place in the hotel, and the scene with the multiple windows serves as the finale. The movie progresses in a more absurd and deeper direction.
The quarantine scene requires the audience to understand and interpret the off-screen sounds. Is it difficult for many Western audiences to understand it?
The quarantine scene is actually my personal favorite, but many Western audiences didn’t see its deeper point. They probably just saw a story about a live broadcast related to the pandemic and quarantine. The off-screen sounds were designed during the script stage, actually.
A lot of the reflections, such as the glass doors and windows of the bathrooms, are very well shot, adding a lot more space…
I was initially attracted to the concept of space, but space brought many limitations, which I actually like because they encourage exploring more possibilities. Most hotel rooms are very small, which was the first challenge. Throughout the project development, the main question was: which scenes should have camera movement and which should not? Hotel room space doesn’t allow for complex maneuvering, so we faced the challenge of setting up tracks in such a small space to complete the movements I wanted.
The reflections in the bathroom were added on the spot. After the script was finalized, each actually shooting location sometimes changed aspects of the script. Once we found the quanrantine hotel room, we made changes accordingly. For example, initially, we hadn’t planned to push the camera truck forward to the bathroom, but after setting up the truck to the door, I asked if we could push it forward and then back out again. They had a try and said yes, but it took a very long time to try it out.
There’s a great scene where the window view from the hotel room at the airport turns into a window view of an airplane taking off…
That was planned during the scripting process. When I showed it to the producer, she said we needed to budget for it. I emphasized its importance, and we made it happen.
It’s interesting to see how Shengze Zhu and you work together, rotating the roles of director and producer in each project. How do you maintain your individual creativity?
Each project is quite independent; we don’t try to influence each other’s projects, but there is definitely a subtle influence. Our tastes in movies are quite similar, so there isn’t a need to consciously influence each other.
How were the stories collected?
Apart from the beginning and the end, which are about form and space, the earliest scene I decided on was the police search. This has happened many times before, including to activists and two Tibetan lamas in Beijing; I know that they were searched by policemen in their hotel rooms. I want the film to blur the identities of the people being checked because it doesn’t matter who they are; what matters is the process of being searched.
The wedding scene initially consisted of two scenes that were merged into one. The airport hotel scene reflects my life in two countries, and friends who try to go to the United States to give birth. Many Westerners find it hard to believe that a pregnant woman entering U.S. Customs is allowed to truthfully say she wants to give birth there, but it is the truth.
The police search scene reminds me of Terrestrial Verses, which also uses fixed-camera composition, where the law enforcement people are faceless figures who can’t be seen…
Yes, I’ve heard of that film. For this scene, I was sure from the beginning that the camera couldn’t move; it had to be fixed, and the police couldn’t show their faces. The only consideration was whether they should walk by in front of the camera or be out of the picture entirely. Given the small space, if the police are completely out of the picture, the actors’ line of sight would not be right. Having a bit of localized blocking when they sweep in front of the picture is also good, as this brings a sense of suppression to the screen.
I believe it’s a powerful technique to shoot without showing faces, as this prevents the characters from becoming too humanized—they appear more like machines. I explained to the actors in that scene that their characters were essentially machines, and they felt it too. They didn’t enjoy their roles, and I told them that was exactly the point.
For complex stories, I rely on sound to enrich the narrative because my framing is intentionally limited. Sound brings in a richness that visual framing alone cannot achieve.”
Is there a big difference between making a documentary and a fictional film in terms of production and mood for you?
Yes, there is a big difference. I’ve made two documentaries and one hybrid film before, which didn’t need a crew, actors, or complex equipment. This is the first time we really needed to set up a crew, contact actors, and direct the actors’ acting. Previous films were usually big vistas, not requiring delicate expressions or performances, but this time was totally different. We spent a lot of time finding actors, and in the end, the actors added significant value. It was a very fast shoot, just 20 days.
The last scene, in fact, we wanted to shoot it in Beijing, in a five-star hotel presidential suite, but in the end of 2022, the last wave of the pandemic was particularly bad.
At that time, we were in Jiangsu and had to disband the crew a day earlier due to lockdowns. Our budget was very limited, and we couldn’t afford the time and financial cost of waiting. One morning, we were told to pack up within ten minutes to leave, or we wouldn’t be able to go. We used two cars to take the crew to the train station and airport. I felt that I could conclude the scene with the isolation segment but still wanted something more personal. The last segment was actually shot in a typical motel in the U.S., which could represent any modern space, not just the U.S.
The title is “Stranger” in English and the Chinese version of the title also carries different connotations. How did you decide on the titles?
Initially, the title was “The Stranger,” inspired by Camus’s novel, but a British friend found it a bit odd. After several discussions, he excitedly emailed me one day suggesting we drop “The” and simply use “Stranger.” This way, it could function both as an adjective and a noun.
One of my favorite lines in the film is, “We think we’re Sisyphus, but we’re actually the rock.” Can you elaborate on this?
That line reflects a deeply personal sentiment. The key situation that we all face is that freedom remains elusive no matter where you are. This concept is crucial to me. I always feel like a stranger, which I actually enjoy. I don’t need to feel “at home” anywhere; I don’t have that need.
That’s why I recorded the Cantonese monologue in that scene myself. As a Cantonese, it’s very personal. The actor in that scene is not a professional actor; he’s also a director. We were in Chicago and couldn’t find an actor, so I asked him to do the scene. He didn’t have to say anything, just perform the actions, and I took care of the rest. In that scene, I wanted to convey my true feelings, including my life after moving to Chicago and the experience of living in both countries. There’s no sense of belonging and I also don’t need that. This might seem like a cold and detached condition to many, but it is a good condition for me. After I left China, I am a stranger there and could see things from a broader perspective; living in the U.S., I noticed that many of my American friends couldn’t view their country from an outside perspective. I value the outsider’s state because it offers new possibilities. You can reflect on your surroundings beyond the original framework, which is a state of constant change.
There’s a Shostakovich No. 2 waltz that runs through the whole movie…
Yes, that music is actually used on many occasions in China, including weddings. They wanted to play classical music for the wedding and probably thought that a waltz would be good for dancing. I also like that music and Shostakovich, including his own experience as a composer, which fascinates me. His experience, as documented in his book, feels quite similar to the feeling in China. When I started thinking about the music for the entire movie, I quickly decided to use this piece. The more challenging part was obtaining the rights, which cost a lot of money and took many contacts to find the right place to purchase the rights.
I’m curious about your understanding of time in film, as these long takes seem to create a world of their own. Could you elaborate?
In this film, a room becomes its own world. It’s important for me to present the space in its entirety and to capture the character’s time within it. Using editing to split the scene would make the space feel less confined, giving an impression of infinity, which in turn affects the perception of time. Yet, a long take frames the space and time, making it emotionally more oppressive and visually closed. This film required a scene-by-scene approach due to the specificity of the space, but there are many ways to handle time in film; editing, like in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, is crucial.
In any case, time is a perception, not something easily understood or thought about. It’s an experience conveyed through film, sometimes achieved through editing. For example, a road movie can’t rely solely on long shots to convey time; editing enhances the sense of time and its passage. The treatment of time depends largely on the space, with different spaces offering varied perceptions of time.
Given your experience working in both China and the United States, do you find significant differences in different worlds of independent cinema?
There isn’t much difference. Even for this film, with a full crew and cast, we used methods akin to independent film production, especially those films that have not received approval from the censors in mainland China. Our film was backed by private funding in China without requiring us to go through the censorship process, which we accepted. Most investors want the film to be officially approved by censors, which we can’t accommodate. We knew from the start that our film wouldn’t pass censorship, so we didn’t seek Chinese funding extensively.
To a certain extent, independent film in mainland China over the past decade or two is defined by whether it goes through censorship, not by production scale. This film is, by definition, an independent film. We hope Chinese audiences can see it, but if it can’t be shown in cinemas through normal channels, that’s beyond my control. If people want to see it, they’ll likely find a way, possibly through piracy.
Nowadays, audiences often overlook the importance of sound in film, especially how sound conveys space, but sound has an especially important role in your film…
In daily life, we primarily perceive the world visually, not auditorily. In film, sound can achieve so much, especially in a limited space like this one. The space outside the camera frame and beyond the hotel room adds layers to the film. For complex stories, I rely on sound to enrich the narrative because my framing is intentionally limited. Sound brings in a richness that visual framing alone cannot achieve.
Many Western audiences seem to prefer the first few segments, such as the wedding. Was that what you expected?
The first segment is quite straightforward for me. It serves as an introduction, establishing the space. The filming is relatively simple, and the story is about the day-to-day work of the cleaning ladies in the hotel. It’s designed to ease the audience into the world of the film.
I actually expected that many viewers would appreciate the wedding segment. They might find it interesting because the camera, when travelling to the back of the characters, reveals what is hidden behind. With the camera begins to move, it is easier for the audience to engage with the narrative. The sequence I mentioned involves two key transitions: first, the camera shifts from a static position to movement; second, the story moves from a more realistic narrative to a less realistic one. The turning point is marked by the plane taking off, after which the story becomes increasingly unrealistic.
The final monologue scene is grounded in reality, but the monologue itself adds a particularly subjective layer. I didn’t intend for the entire film to be told in a realistic tone—it had to incorporate elements of absurdity, even when dealing with realistic stories.
Many of the scenes we shot were already leaning towards the absurd, more so than the quarantine scene, which had the feel of Kusturica’s Underground—where you don’t know how long you’ve been down there, but the world outside has already changed. During filming, there were moments when we’d receive notice just two or three hours in advance that we had to leave. The filming process, which began in late November 2022, coincided with a sudden nationwide outbreak of Covid-19. The situation deteriorated rapidly, and after the crew returned to Beijing, many members were infected, leading to our quarantine again. We were in Zhuhai, Guangdong Province, at the time, waiting to see if we could travel to Beijing to complete the scene. But then, everyone had fallen ill, some quite seriously, so it became impossible to finish the last scene in China. Ultimately, we decided to shoot that scene in the United States, continuing with the concept of the hotel room and extending it to a different geographical location.
Yun-hua Chen is an independent film scholar and critic and associate editor of Film International Online.