Ang Lee: A
Never-Ending Dream
"In 1978,
as I applied to study film at the University of Illinois, my father vehemently
objected. He quoted me a statistic: ‘Every year, 50,000 performers compete for
200 available roles on Broadway.’ Against his advice, I boarded a flight to the
U.S. This strained our relationship. In the two decades following, we exchanged
less than a hundred phrases in conversation.
Some years later, when I graduated film school, I came to comprehend my father’s concern. It was nearly unheard of for a Chinese newcomer to make it in the American film industry. Beginning in 1983, I struggled through six years of agonizing, hopeless uncertainty. Much of the time, I was helping film crews with their equipment or working as editor’s assistant, among other miscellaneous duties. My most painful experience involved shopping a screenplay at more than thirty different production companies, and being met with harsh rejection each time.
That year, I turned 30. There’s an old Chinese saying: ‘At 30, one stands firm.’ Yet, I couldn’t even support myself. What could I do? Keep waiting, or give up my movie-making dream? My wife gave me invaluable support.
My wife was my college classmate. She was a biology major, and after graduation, went to work for a small pharmaceutical research lab. Her income was terribly modest. At the time, we already had our elder son, Haan, to raise. To appease my own feelings of guilt, I took on all housework – cooking, cleaning, taking care of our son – in addition to reading, reviewing films and writing scripts. Every evening after preparing dinner, I would sit on the front steps with Haan, telling him stories as we waited for his mother – the heroic huntress – to come home with our sustenance (income).
This kind of life felt rather undignified for a man. At one point, my in-laws gave their daughter (my wife) a sum of money, intended as start-up capital for me to open a Chinese restaurant – hoping that a business would help support my family. But my wife refused the money. When I found out about this exchange, I stayed up several nights and finally decided: This dream of mine is not meant to be. I must face reality.
Afterward (and with a heavy heart), I enrolled in a computer course at a nearby community college. At a time when employment trumped all other considerations, it seemed that only a knowledge of computers could quickly make me employable. For the days that followed, I descended into malaise. My wife, noticing my unusual demeanor, discovered a schedule of classes tucked in my bag. She made no comment that night.
The next morning, right before she got in her car to head off to work, my wife turned back and – standing there on our front steps – said, ‘Ang, don’t forget your dream.’
And that dream of mine – drowned by demands of reality – came back to life. As my wife drove off, I took the class schedule out of my bag and slowly, deliberately tore it to pieces. And tossed it in the trash.
Sometime after, I obtained funding for my screenplay, and began to shoot my own films. And after that, a few of my films started to win international awards. Recalling earlier times, my wife confessed, ‘I’ve always believed that you only need one gift. Your gift is making films. There are so many people studying computers already, they don’t need an Ang Lee to do that. If you want that golden statue, you have to commit to the dream.’
And today, I’ve finally won that golden statue. I think my own perseverance and my wife’s immeasurable sacrifice have finally met their reward. And I am now more assured than ever before: I must continue making films.
You see, I have this never-ending dream."
(Following Ang Lee’s second Best Directing win at the Academy Awards last night, this beautiful essay resurfaced. Here is my translation of Ang Lee’s words, written in 2006 (post-Oscar win). Please credit the translation to Irene Shih (and to this blog), thank you!)
Some years later, when I graduated film school, I came to comprehend my father’s concern. It was nearly unheard of for a Chinese newcomer to make it in the American film industry. Beginning in 1983, I struggled through six years of agonizing, hopeless uncertainty. Much of the time, I was helping film crews with their equipment or working as editor’s assistant, among other miscellaneous duties. My most painful experience involved shopping a screenplay at more than thirty different production companies, and being met with harsh rejection each time.
That year, I turned 30. There’s an old Chinese saying: ‘At 30, one stands firm.’ Yet, I couldn’t even support myself. What could I do? Keep waiting, or give up my movie-making dream? My wife gave me invaluable support.
My wife was my college classmate. She was a biology major, and after graduation, went to work for a small pharmaceutical research lab. Her income was terribly modest. At the time, we already had our elder son, Haan, to raise. To appease my own feelings of guilt, I took on all housework – cooking, cleaning, taking care of our son – in addition to reading, reviewing films and writing scripts. Every evening after preparing dinner, I would sit on the front steps with Haan, telling him stories as we waited for his mother – the heroic huntress – to come home with our sustenance (income).
This kind of life felt rather undignified for a man. At one point, my in-laws gave their daughter (my wife) a sum of money, intended as start-up capital for me to open a Chinese restaurant – hoping that a business would help support my family. But my wife refused the money. When I found out about this exchange, I stayed up several nights and finally decided: This dream of mine is not meant to be. I must face reality.
Afterward (and with a heavy heart), I enrolled in a computer course at a nearby community college. At a time when employment trumped all other considerations, it seemed that only a knowledge of computers could quickly make me employable. For the days that followed, I descended into malaise. My wife, noticing my unusual demeanor, discovered a schedule of classes tucked in my bag. She made no comment that night.
The next morning, right before she got in her car to head off to work, my wife turned back and – standing there on our front steps – said, ‘Ang, don’t forget your dream.’
And that dream of mine – drowned by demands of reality – came back to life. As my wife drove off, I took the class schedule out of my bag and slowly, deliberately tore it to pieces. And tossed it in the trash.
Sometime after, I obtained funding for my screenplay, and began to shoot my own films. And after that, a few of my films started to win international awards. Recalling earlier times, my wife confessed, ‘I’ve always believed that you only need one gift. Your gift is making films. There are so many people studying computers already, they don’t need an Ang Lee to do that. If you want that golden statue, you have to commit to the dream.’
And today, I’ve finally won that golden statue. I think my own perseverance and my wife’s immeasurable sacrifice have finally met their reward. And I am now more assured than ever before: I must continue making films.
You see, I have this never-ending dream."
(Following Ang Lee’s second Best Directing win at the Academy Awards last night, this beautiful essay resurfaced. Here is my translation of Ang Lee’s words, written in 2006 (post-Oscar win). Please credit the translation to Irene Shih (and to this blog), thank you!)
It’s impossible to do more than earn a comfortable living
unless you also love what you do. Love sparks real creation. The absence of
love evokes mimicry, at best. There’s a reason that our passion for what we do
effortlessly inspires other people. It can’t be helped – we understand passion
across any divide. The language of joy requires no translation.
I love words. I love the space between words, the cracks
in a sentence. I love that a well-crafted story isn’t craft at all, but truth
that keeps breathing long after a writer’s pen has left the page. Long after a
speaker stops speaking. This moment is home, for me. Can you tell?
I respect art. I believe there is art in almost every
industry, but that art only comes from individuals who feel an intrinsic joy
for their work. When I encourage my friends to consider careers outside of
science and engineering, outside law and finance, I am not devaluing these
industries. Rather, I am valuing their happiness. I am valuing their capacity
to Make
Good Art.
Of course, that’s a heavy statement to make. I won’t deny
that it contains value judgment. Passion over money. Joy over security. Who am
I to decide which brings greater happiness? Who died and made me King of Your
Autonomy?
I’m not really in a position to evaluate anyone’s life
but my own. And believe me you, my life is an embarrassment of false starts and
wrong turns. No one needs to defend their life or their choices to me. But I
wish we would revisit our choices and defend them to ourselves. And, should we
find our defense weak, I wish we would reconsider. Whether you do this or not
comes at no immediate gain or loss to me, but I bet it will to you. And, in the
aggregate, probably to our world.
Joy keeps us going. No commitment in life is ever easy.
No experience in life ever matches our prediction. Only our unbridled,
intrinsic joy for the work can keep us going, can allow us to create something
new and invaluable in a world that desperately hates change. You can’t fight
the good fight if you don’t put your foot down. You won’t put your foot down if
you don’t truly care.
“It’s never too late to start something new.” Here’s my
amendment to that platitude: It’s never too late to meet a new opportunity, but
it is often too late to seize it. Following one’s dream is an ability. It’s a
muscle waiting to be trained. The grand hope is that we can ignore this muscle
through our youth and middle age, and come back to it in our twilight years.
Yet, very few people who spend their lives deferring dreams wind up realizing
any of them. The ones who in their old age pick up new tricks tend to be people
who have always done something they loved – in ways big and small. Because they
stretched that muscle, that agility stayed with them through old age. There is
an implied relationship between us and our dreams. They request our attention.
Our
passions need to be considered, fed and fought for. In ways big or small, but
never not at all. Otherwise they wilt and abandon us.
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