EEL reviewed by Duru Usanmaz

Set on the humid coast of Taiwan, EEL draws its audience into a world that speaks more through images than words. Chu Chun-Teng’s film creates a quiet world that seems to float between land and water, between reality and memory. It tells its story not with dialogue, but with silence, light, and the slow passing of time, asking the audience to feel rather than to understand. Because the characters speak so little, their inner lives become even more visible.

Main male character Liang is a figure unable to distance himself from the past and forget his father. His silence carries the weight of grief and guilt. The life he shares with his grandmother is simple; full of small routines and quiet care. It brings a rare sense of warmth and humanity to the film. Halfway through, a mysterious woman appears, adding a dreamlike layer to the story. Her absence feels as meaningful as her presence. Their connection isn’t romantic but shaped by loneliness. Two people meeting in silence, finding brief moments of understanding and comfort.

The film’s images speak where words do not. Chu’s camera moves like water, slow and patient. Long takes, soft natural light, and still frames draw the viewer into each space. Sometimes light itself becomes emotion; reflections and faint shadows say what the characters cannot. The colours stay muted, earth, mist, and grey tones that hold both calm and sorrow. This visual calmness deepens the viewer’s experience of the film’s emotional turbulence.

Characters are often confined to a small corner of the frame almost lost within their surroundings. This distant way of looking makes the film’s loneliness feel even stronger. Nature often takes over, the sky, the water, the open space around the characters feels bigger than them, almost swallowing them whole. The camera doesn’t chase after them; it watches from afar. That distance reflects their isolation and the way they seem trapped inside their own thoughts. It’s as if the camera is just a quiet witness.It doesn’t interfere, it simply watches.

EEL is not an easy film. Its generally preferred slow pace, long silences, and deliberate simplicity demands patience. However, this slowness forms the essence of the film the director strives for: while nothing seems to be happening on the surface, inside, there is a constant cycle of resolution, remembrance, and acceptance. In the end, what remains is more of a feeling than a story. Like the imprint of waves on the shore, it leaves a faint sadness. Chu Chun-Teng’s EEL leaves a simple yet profound meditation on loss, memory, and the human relationship with silence.