Review of 'Breaking Ice': a restless trio comes together

Leaving something behind does not necessarily imply a sense of direction. That active limbo permeates writer-director Anthony Chen's appealingly liquid “The Breaking Ice,” about a trio of disaffected Chinese twenty-somethings who brave their cold northern environments by forming a quick, meaningful connection over an alcohol-fueled weekend.

From the delicate impermanence of snow to the alluring solidity of a frozen river, water becomes a well-mined metaphor in Chen's modestly restless drama, set in a border region of China next to North Korea that has no an established identity. (And yes, as you may have speculated, limits are another active metaphor in the film.)

In the wintry foothills of Yanji, tour guide Nana (Zhou Dongyu) leads busloads of cheerful Chinese travelers on day trips to the area's traditional Korean villages, where costumed inhabitants perform ritual dances. Between cheerful rants and herding tourists, Nana has a disturbing countenance: she likes her silent cigarette breaks when she's not sarcastically dismissing the cautious advances of her kind and handsome friend Xiao (Qu Chuxiao), an employee at the restaurant where her groups eat. lunch.

A brief glimpse of Nana's performative charm and private toughness catches the attention of reclusive Haofeng (Liu Haoran), a Shanghai bank associate who is in town for a wedding, which may be an excuse for a more drastic decision. (He routinely ignores phone calls from a persistent mental health counselor.) Seeing a chance to get out of his head, he joins Nana's tour. Afterwards, she becomes intrigued by this sweater-wearing, bespectacled figure who remains a needy stray, and invites him to party with her and Xiao on her days off. Nana's cramped, cluttered apartment becomes the place where everyone crashes, and two characters achieve a nervous, clumsy relationship.

This “Jules and Jim”-style time bond, which includes out-of-town motorcycle excursions, impromptu challenges (like the Godard reference), and lots of clubbing, certainly seems exhilarating in the way fresh abandonment can be. coined. And when a frisson of jealousy is expected to disrupt this unity (conditioned as we are by a lifetime of these tales), Chen avoids it, suggesting that his characters are more interested in the heady rush of cohesion than in the emotional dangers. of the collision.

And yet Chen, a Singaporean who has made a theme of unexpected connections between those outside their comfort zone (“Wet Season,” last year’s “Drift”), maintains the vulnerabilities of his characters as lost as a background. Their attempts at freedom are invariably colored (beyond Yu Jing-pin's lithe cinematography) by an intangible, gently swirling sadness, like a frost that each of them can see but knows will dissipate as they continue to move forward. the next. Kin Leonn's score, reminiscent of the early days of ambient indie soundtracks, is equally two-faced as an aural companion: swoon and melancholy in equal measure.

The payoff is a film that, more than anything, wanders lyrically between states of being while avoiding the need to explain itself. The experiment works for the most part. You'd be surprised how nice it is to get just a little bit of someone's past (via a clever visual effect or a couple of cryptic sentences) without it feeling like something we'll have to figure out for the sake of a tidy narrative.

It's refreshing to watch a film whose flow communicates how to experience it, which can also be said for Zhou's captivating turn as a young woman committed to being elusive as a protection against what being still and reflective might bring. His co-stars also do a good job, but something about Zhou's vibrant performance seems closer to what Chen is going for in “Breaking Ice,” about the anxieties of a young generation, alternating between the exhilarating restlessness of running water and those moments. in which one feels cold. and hard.