The Wheel of Life

King Hu headlines but doesn’t dominate a roundly adventurous, exquisite reincarnation saga…

In 1970, four major Taiwanese directors collaborated for omnibus film Four Moods, which was loosely built around a theme much in the mould of such films popular in Europe (especially Italy and the UK) at the time. Even less known, however, is how 13 years later the same lineup of King Hu, Pai Ching-Jui and Lee Hsing — only without the previous project’s head Li Han-Siang — would do something of an unrelated follow-up in The Wheel of Life. While Four Moods was only mildly linked by its “moods”, The Wheel of Life essentially links everything except for moods for an altogether more ambitious and cooperative project. The basic idea for each section is to throw the leads into a relationship triangle of one sort or another that also connects to a reincarnation cycle with a mysterious dagger seeming to play a role. For the record, none of the characters actually have to be killed to end the stories and start their next cycle in the next part. But somebody — whether any one of them or all of them — will be killed every time.

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But the project’s biggest link is its three stars. Sylvia Peng Hsueh-Fen had merely 11 films to her name before retiring, with the only even slightly known part of her legacy in the West sadly being two supporting roles for nonsensical “Commando” movies starring Brigitte Lin. She was only listed as having 2 or 3 other lead parts, so chances are this movie (her second to last) featured the biggest role — roles — of her career. She’s joined by the (internationally) even lesser-known Chiang Hou-Jen and ever-reliable King Hu regular Shih Chun (Dragon Inn). None of the three had terribly high amounts of films and had barely any lead roles, and only Shih was fairly known outside of Taiwan, making this film something of a unique showcase for its trio. But could they pull off such a demanding feature?

Part One: The Ming Dynasty (1368-1644)

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Imperial Guard Commissioner (or in less flowery terms, secret police head) Lu Zhenyi (Shih Chun) is on the hunt for anti-Ming rebels but perhaps really sees them as means to rise further in the ranks. The most wanted leader of the various rebel forces is Feng Rui (Chiang Hou-Jen), whose father was a government censor known for integrity until being framed by Imperial Guards. After they also threatened the upright governor of Guangdong, to avoid disgrace he agreed to have his daughter Han Xuemei (Sylvia Peng) — highly desirable for beauty, refinement and martial arts skills — married to Lu. On one hand, Han was actually in love with Feng Rui, and both he and Han’s tough lady-in-waiting (who acts more as a bodyguard) don’t want her anywhere near Lu. Han has no love for Lu herself, but doesn’t want to defy her father and also sees love with someone who’s now her enemy by profession to be untenable. Can Han find a way out?

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This would be King Hu’s penultimate-or-something film (for not counting the not entirely decipherable and sometimes contradictory accounts of how much of 1990’s Swordsman he co-directed with five others) and his final project in his native Taiwan. By 1983, wuxia was already essentially dead in Hong Kong (Zu: Warriors from the Magic Mountain doesn’t count for being both an anomaly and kind of all-over-the-place) even if it would resurrect in the 90s; but Wheel of Life was yet another confirmation that wuxia could never be dead in a place where King Hu was alive.   

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The action, camera and editing are all incredibly dynamic and showed that as little as he got to work with the genre in the 80s, Hu still updated his style of wuxia for it just as he had for the 60s and 70s. During some battles there are almost dizzying amounts of angle changes and several characters fighting and flipping around a shot at once. The breathtaking natural scenery — no less so than on a few of his better known earlier films — that serves as background (and foreground) throughout the film gets similar treatment, with some of the most beautiful shots lasting only 2 seconds. All the while, the segment never seems rushed and amazingly manages to maintain Hu’s characteristic air of bewitching tranquillity spiked with violence.

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The characters do much the same in amusingly insurmountable ways. They don’t bother to stop meditating and reading; not even until they’re attacked but until the moment it’s time to counter those attacks (before going right back to meditating and reading). And despite seeming trapped, Han follows suit, giving a strategic threat to sacrifice herself with her legs crossed. That’s by no means to say that the characters are nonchalant, but they all approach their desperate struggle for supremacy/freedom/love with a prepared aura of fatalism denoting the main theme.    

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No petty distractions can interrupt a conversation or leisure activity for more than the few seconds it takes to deflect them here.

There’s not only a sizable amount of wuxia combat and acrobatics, but rather good characterisation and a whole lot of scheming and counter-scheming crammed into about 35 minutes (the allotted time for all three parts) without even losing Hu’s sense of pacing. Just in this segment the lead actress already had to show a decent degree of range, as some scenes require her to imperfectly suppress her feelings and play many games of deception not so much through words and expression as feigning wholly different attitudes. Her character is by no means a pushover, but she just as clearly doesn’t stand a fair chance against those who are after her (thereby separating her somewhat from classic Hu heroines). So she needs all the help she can get in addition to full deployment of her fighting skills, wit, charm, guile and suicide negotiation skills with no room for mistakes.     

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In a way, Hu flips the martial world upside down as per usual genre tropes and interpretations here. But the inversion is a lot more in perspective than form, hence feeling refreshingly different without actually feeling subversive or rejective of traditional values. The Ming Dynasty rather than the usual Qing are depicted as the cruel, conniving courtly barbarians thirsting solely for power (so much so that they even keep turning on and sacrificing each other — though that does delineate their decline). The especially wise and meditative characters who are outnumbered in (most) fights here are shown to be the villains while the sneaky guerrilla rebels and scheming women apparently faking their affections are heroes.

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Throughout his filmography, Hu had already shown a deep interest in Buddhism from every angle that would principally manifest in several different ways: aesthetically as in Legend of the Mountain; philosophically as in A Touch of Zen; and physically as seen from the frequent usage of temples/monuments/antiques right from Come Drink with Me. But this film was probably the most direct case of Hu using Buddhism religiously — not in any serious or deep fashion but simply as an exceptional short story, still making for a tantalising addition to his trademark genre oeuvre. As splendid and pithy of an opening as this segment is, for admirers of King Hu especially, it’s hard not to be left still craving more from it. The rather abrupt though not awkward ending is likely to bring wistful thoughts yet further to the surface.

But while Hu leaves an incredibly tough act to follow, one realises that doesn’t put the rest of the film at a huge disadvantage for the fact the others don’t try to follow it; they aim to make their own fully different marks in continuing the story.

Rating: ★★★★½

“His head is worth 50,000 taels of gold — just enough for my dowry!”

Part Two: The Republic of China

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A family peking opera troupe that had been going for decades and generations is now struggling to even continue feeding themselves with attendance at record lows, as the ROC’s early days see many wanting to leave the past behind. Their star singer Meng (Sylvia Peng, err, The Wheel of Life Part One) suggests they face the new reality and disband, while their manager Miao (Shih Chun) insists they push on as he promised her late father to keep it going and raised Meng as a little sister in it as per his request. Upon hearing of the group’s plight, their innkeeper informs Master Ma (Chiang Hou-Jen) — a prominent philanthropist of former imperial lineage who essentially runs the town — to which he agrees to sponsor a new performance. The show turns out to be a resounding success, with crowds getting bigger for each follow-up. But Ma may have more on his mind than philanthropy, patronising the arts or helping the desperate, as his eyes are totally transfixed upon the performances of their alluring star.

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It’s not long before Ma is pulling out all the stops from his wealth and charm to woo Meng, and she seems quite receptive. As much as Miao loves the big spike in business and popularity, he has plenty of reasons to be opposed to Ma’s courtship of Meng that soon comes to talk of marriage: #1 She’s now stretching the troupe’s tight schedule and curfew to be with him, disrupting their preparation and cohesion, #2 Meng is their main and perhaps irreplaceable star and hence earner, which would all immediately end with marriage (as this was Taiwan, in a custom that followed suit for actresses in the film industry including Peng!), #3 Meng’s also developed his feelings for her different from that of siblings, and #4 he just doesn’t like him. But Ma has his own approval problem from his domineering, elitist mum (Fuh Bih-Huei) who strongly dislikes the crowding and noise from the troupe’s “low-class” profession as well as their low-class star, and has already betrothed her son to another.

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To my knowledge, Pai Ching-Jui was primarily known for directing a number of 70s romances starring Charlie Chin, Brigitte Lin, and occasionally both of them including his only feature I checked out, 1976’s Autumn Love Song. His style seemed openly commercial and unassuming but not lacking inspiration in its execution. While the first part’s visual appeal was no surprise, against probable expectations, the period detail and costuming (if not the natural scenery) is even more exquisite here, perhaps reflective of how it highlights people striving to maintain traditions in danger of dying while Hu’s segment highlighted an empire that was actually in the process of killing itself. For this we get a fascinating look inside of a Peking opera troupe, from how it attempts to go about life to how they apply makeup and props.   

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In the meantime, Pai’s part presents an interesting core theme of the blurring between art and the artist, and what are supposed to just be performances and their performers. If that sounds familiar thematically, it’s indeed not unlike Farewell My Concubine a decade later; but this piece presents such themes only in straight terms (no pun intended) and takes place amidst a relatively normal social backdrop (not that anything isn’t relatively normal to the Cultural Revolution). So if you ever wondered how an infatuated Peking opera singer would act while drunk in the street, this is the place to find out. The segment’s lesser shortcomings lay in the same place as its strengths for that, as one gets the feeling it had neither the time nor the desire to make a more serious exploration of such themes.

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The director’s apparently characteristic melodrama similarly goes both ways, with Ma’s ma’s browbeating of her son so of its time and place (“All my prayers, all my offerings, wasted! How could I have a son like you!”) and entertainingly theatrical for that — ironically, for the only character not involved in theatre. Also, the buildup to what’s going to happen at the end starts getting [unintentionally] amusingly obvious, with some serious “knock on wood” dialogue about a certain family heirloom. It still makes good use of limited space in developing its characters and a more general sense of camaraderie, thereby adding a degree of complexity in the natural tensions.

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The viewer isn’t brought to just think of Miao as a bad old jealous killjoy, as his is a rather legitimate perspective against a lustful or at least opportunistic outsider poised to break them up from a 20 day vs 20-year relationship. But Meng makes her own decisions, right? And the bottom line for Ma is he indeed helped them out when they really needed it, no? But never disobey your mother! Hence what started as such a wonderfully cordial situation leaves no way out without turning more than one person extremely indignant (not necessarily to the point of violence or anything, however).

Rating: ★★★½

“So tonight I raised my voice at you a bit. It’s hard not to when you’re a Peking opera singer.”

Part III: Modern-day Taiwan

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A Taipei modern dance troupe makes a trip to a fishing village to perform some free shows to expand their audience and horizons — though some of them worry if rural audiences from an island filled with temples and shrines will warm up to them. One of the dancers, Manfen (Sylvia Peng), befriends local temple performer Qiusheng (Chiang Hou-Jen) who dances to a very different kind of beat: as a conjurer of spirits who inflicts extreme voodoo-like self-harm to placate them much to Manfen’s shock and concern. Nevertheless, the two find a special kind of bond, with Manfen offering to show Qiusheng around in the city which he’s never been to.   

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Unfortunately, Qiusheng’s brother (not Shih Chun again!) happens to be the temple Priest who has strong influence in the community — to the point that a mob threatens Manfen’s troupe against setting a stage on temple grounds without the Priest’s permission. The Priest receives them no more warmly, warning, “The gods will strike down those who offend them!” which includes anyone who’d dare do so with modern dance. While Qiusheng serves as a medium for the spirits, he also ends up trying to be a “medium” between the conservative community and their cosmopolitan guests. But the Priest is especially protective or perhaps even possessive of his younger brother; so hearing of his intentions to see the world in Taipei and that much worse yet to do so with “a strange woman” (for which one can’t tell whether he’s specifically referring to Manfen or to women altogether) has him sanctimoniously simmering.       

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Lee Hsing — who just passed away in August 2021 — is the one director here I know of no features from at all; yet what I see here indicates he had a keen aesthetic and sociological sense. The opening supernatural play is the most eye-catching moment made to grab the viewer at the start, but Part Three does best with contrasting the two very different sides of Taiwan. While Manfen’s troupe and the place they come from stand for modernity (or sometimes perhaps insensitivity) and the Priest’s camp comes to represent something of an extreme amongst the traditional side, Qiusheng is interestingly shown to be fully consciously trapped between those two worlds. He openly admits to not really believing in the spirits religiously (as in feeling they have sway over the world or a role in its creation), but still feels a connection and even obligation to them. That extends to adamantly defending his brother and more or less the entire town’s ingrained beliefs.

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On the surface this is more or less a reverse of Part II: Shih doesn’t want his brother rather than his adopted sister getting too close to another from the opposite sex this time, and for religious rather than romantic reasons. This story, however, is quite different in setting, mood and genre, more in tune with the modern youth dramas ruling Taiwan at the time (even if wacky action and exploitation films were the vast majority set for export, with the New Wave also just gaining traction). But this one also feels different from its genre mould, as the potential lead couple faces far more unorthodox obstacles than the usual personal problems, parents, poverty or politics threatening youth romance (in how many romantic dramas have you heard the girl give the ultimatum, “It’s me or the spirit rites!”?)

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There’s a telling yet technically incidental scene where the camera follows Manfen and Qiusheng walking through temples with the camera following them via a high-angle tracking shot, as Manfen is strongly urging Qiusheng to forget about tradition, superstition and freeing spirits to enjoy free-spirited modernity. But the classical aura of the very scenery she’s walking through with him — more effectively than every defence Qiusheng voices — elucidates the infeasibility of leaving all he knows for someone viewing his ways with just as much bewilderment. That’s the case even if she gives him a different kind of special, unknown feeling than the spirits do (but still turns out to be able to scar him all over — just not so visibly).

Despite the modern setting, Part Three manages to be just about as visually sumptuous in its own way (an element all three directors remarkably maintained). But this segment feels like the most smoothly complete of the three.

Rating: ★★★★

“Please take this as a token of apology.”

“Do you think the gods want your money?!?”

I’ve always taken a special liking to omnibus films. But all said, The Wheel of Life is one of the most novelly engaging I’ve seen for how firmly it stays rooted in its concept, culture and casting while still offering an eclectic lot of historical action-fantasy, meta-melodrama and youth social drama. But as commendably ambitious, fascinating and different as this project is overall, in the end it’s a hard sell that it attained or was even reaching for any particularly deep, meaningful or provocative statements about the spiritual/philosophical beliefs it bases itself upon. The reincarnation and cyclical themes are purely explored through an arts and entertainment template, because several questions and dubious takeaways arise once one ponders the film’s ultimate messages and ideas.

For starters, apparently, if you die at someone else’s hand under acrimonious circumstances or your life is very negatively affected by their actions, it severely increases the chances that you’ll all be reborn into the same town, circle or even family. Likewise, the vast majority of humanity never really improves their karma (nor become any better of people or change their values, nor learn from their mistakes). Furthermore, only people who had strong romantic feelings for each other (no matter how much or little they actually got a chance to fulfil them) are likely to vaguely remember each other from past lifetimes. Frankly, it would be more convenient to be able to remember those who may want to kill you or otherwise end up getting you killed multiple times than those you just had a crush on or trysts with, as there can always be a second chance in a lifetime to find others who don’t kill you. But life isn’t fair. And the next life probably won’t be fair either!

So the bottom line advice for The Wheel of Life is simple: don’t think too hard. Any such efforts will probably provoke confusion, disbelief or mild amusement over anything else. That doesn’t make it dense, as it’s actually quite clever — even bordering brilliant — from a strictly creative and conceptual perspective. So just enjoy it for what it uniquely provides: a multi-genre, multi-period epic featuring one of King Hu’s last chances to shine and Sylvia Peng’s golden hour (and forty-five minutes) altogether. It all adds up to the envy of most other contemporary Taiwan/Hong Kong omnibus productions (and there were a lot) in its dharmic cohesion.

The Wheel of Life is available to stream for free globally on TaiwanPlus until 31st December.

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Side notes

In most other industries, the headliner of a project like this would do the final rather than the opening act. But that was completely out of the question for this one, as I believe there was only one time King Hu ever worked with a contemporary setting (1981’s The Juvenizer) and two where he even went past the feudal era.

Something loosely to the effect of this movie was done at least once before in Taiwan: the 1972 Jimmy Wang Yu vehicle The Gallant, which basically featured him beating people up then getting killed to come back and beat more people up through 3 stories in 3 eras. But that movie didn’t make any effort (or sense, for that matter) in trying to link its stories together, as it had other things on its mind.