THE STORY – He sacrificed himself for love, taking the blame for a crime she committed. Unable to repay him for the sacrifice he made, she leaves to start a new life. Many years later, the former lovers meet again, but their estranged yet intertwined daily lives gradually unveil their tragic past. While one of them seeks redemption, the other yearns for release. In a painful and final farewell, they awaken from their wandering for one last heart-wrenching embrace.
THE CAST – Xin Zhilei, Zhang Songwen & Feng Shaofeng
THE TEAM – Cai Shangjun (Director/Writer) & Han Nianjin (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 131 Minutes
After winning the Silver Lion at Venice in 2011 for “People Mountain People Sea,” Cai Shangjun has returned to the festival with “The Sun Rises On Us All,” a film that ultimately fails to live up to his legacy. Expectations were high for a director known for morally complex storytelling and humanistic insight, yet this new work feels uneven, heavy-handed, and at times frustratingly slow. While the film contains moments of genuine emotional resonance, these are sporadic and can’t fully redeem a narrative that struggles under its own ambition.
The story centers on Meiyun (Xin Zhilei) and Baoshu (Zhang Songwen), whose lives remain intertwined by past mistakes and moral debts. Baoshu went to prison for a crime Meiyun committed, sacrificing his freedom for love, yet she abandons him to pursue a new life. Years later, they cross paths again, and their reunion gradually reveals unresolved guilt, lingering resentment, and a desperate search for redemption. At its most affecting moments, the story evokes the emotional and moral depth of classics like “A Brighter Summer Day,” particularly in scenes that explore the tension between sacrifice and justice. However, the scenes are unevenly spaced, and the film often struggles to sustain narrative momentum.
Xin Zhilei delivers a performance of remarkable precision and intensity. She balances restraint with bursts of explosive emotion, commanding the screen in a way that few contemporary actors achieve. Zhang Songwen complements her with a quiet, haunted presence, embodying a character whose moral and emotional weight anchors the film. Their final encounter at the bus station is both devastating and cathartic, capturing the moral and emotional core of the story in a single, wrenching sequence. Yet for all the power of the performances, much of the film around them fails to provide adequate support.
Cai’s attention to ordinary Chinese life – be it square dancing, mahjong, buying watermelons, or livestreaming online – adds authenticity and a humanistic texture that contrasts with the heightened moral drama at the story’s center. These glimpses of everyday life are compelling, yet they’re often interrupted by long stretches of slow exposition or scenes that feel designed primarily to elicit tears rather than advance the narrative. The result is a film that oscillates between intimate realism and overbearing moral melodrama, leaving the viewer unsure of how to fully engage.
Co-written with Cai’s wife Han Nianjin, the screenplay attempts to explore moral ambiguity, psychological depth, and societal commentary but often drifts into excess. Subplots meander, secondary characters lack dimension, and certain storylines feel unresolved or unnecessary. Handheld cinematography combined with flat lighting sometimes robs the film of visual energy, making conversations between the leads feel static despite their emotional intensity. When the theater audience burst into laughter at a moment of loud snoring, it was a reminder that even subtle attempts at drama can misfire in a film that demands patient attention.
The second half of the film offers stronger narrative and emotional payoffs. Tension builds as Baoshu and Meiyun confront the long shadows of their past choices and Xin Zhilei’s performance shines brightest in these scenes. The film’s treatment of guilt, love, and sacrifice becomes more compelling, culminating in the climactic bus-station farewell, a scene that’s both shocking and redemptive. Yet even here, highs are uneven, and moments of narrative drift, heavy exposition, and occasional reliance on shock value undermine the film’s impact. For a director who has previously earned Venice’s Silver Lion, the inconsistencies are glaring and disappointing.
Thematically, the film grapples with complex moral and psychological questions. It explores the consequences of self-sacrifice, the impossibility of perfect redemption, and the tension between personal desire and moral obligation. Social commentary is present in the depiction of livestreaming culture, social media pressures, and the quiet rhythms of urban life, yet these elements often feel secondary, almost incidental, compared to the central melodrama. At times, the film feels like it’s trying to do too much: to be a character study, a social critique, and a moral fable all at once. The result is a work that’s ambitious but diffuse, with certain narrative and thematic threads left underdeveloped.
The ambition is undeniable. Shangjun seeks to craft a morally complex portrait of contemporary Chinese life, blending subtlety, shock, and occasional morbidity. Yet the film spreads itself too thin, losing narrative control and focus. While it succeeds in touching the heart in key sequences, the audience is often left navigating heavy-handed or slow stretches that dilute the impact of the strongest moments. Comparison to contemporary works like “Past Lives” is inevitable, and in this context, “The Sun Rises On Us All” struggles to assert itself.
“The Sun Rises On Us All” is, above all, a film of contrasts. Its emotional core and the compelling performances of Xin Zhilei and Zhang Songwen are undeniable, and moments of genuine power shine through. Yet uneven pacing, heavy-handed melodrama, and occasional narrative drift prevent the story from fully resonating. For a Silver Lion-winning director’s return to Venice, the result is disappointing, with the film falling short of the promise suggested by Cai Shangjun’s earlier work.
