INTERVIEW with Eason Gong
Qin Youshan and Qin Fang each stood at a crossroads in life. On the day of their chance encounter, it was as if father and son had been transported back to a place they once knew so well. Gazing at the fleet of dilapidated boats, they were reminded of their own glorious past—only to realize that, because of love, they had anchored their entire lives to this very spot. The cruel jest fate played on Qin Youshan seemed to have become Qin Fang's own farewell ceremony. Walking to the end of the pier, gazing at the egrets resting in the distant wetlands, the line from the poem inevitably surfaced in his mind: "A flight of egrets rises to the azure sky." Perhaps growth and farewell are always destined to arrive hand in hand with fate.
11/4/20267 min read
Can you tell us about your latest film project and the process you went through in bringing it to life?
This is a story about parting and memory. It began with my longing for my late father. When we were together, there were always unspoken things between father and son. Born in the 1950s, he lived through the early years of our country’s economic growth. It was an era full of passion and drive. Some people travelled far to chase opportunities, while others chose to stay, all for love. Life is full of impossible choices, and regret is always part of them. In the end, fate played a heavy joke on him at the close of his life.
What inspired you to become a filmmaker and pursue a career in the film industry?
Cinema opens doors to different lives. It is more than just a job. It is an antenna for looking back at the past and reaching toward the future. It can bring humanity’s most intense emotions to life, rendered fully and powerfully, even stirring the soul. As adults, isn’t the moment our hearts are moved the most beautiful thing of all?
What challenges did you encounter during the filmmaking process and how did you overcome them?
At the very beginning of developing the story, I worried that the father-and-son dynamic alone might not hold up the narrative structure I wanted. I kept searching for a third presence — something that could interact with them indirectly, and slowly draw the two closer together.
I built shifts between space and time into the story. The shaving scene is a moment where the father guides his son through an experience of life; in a way, it is also a quiet signal he passes on to him. When they arrive at this “abandoned safe space”, we find that the derelict ship and the empty factory hall within it become that perfect third character.
Standing on the ship, the father shouts out “I have a dream”. It sounds like a lament for his era. Then he says, “I don’t want to die this spring having achieved nothing.” Perhaps that is the best epitaph he could leave for his whole life.
What was the most memorable moment for you during the production of your film?
It’s the final shot at the wetland dock. We got there at 4:30 a.m. The two characters faced the mist with their backs to the camera. Right after the line “It’s time to go. We should say goodbye,” a flock of egrets flew off. It felt like an unspoken conversation with them — pure magic.
Can you share any interesting anecdotes or behind-the-scenes stories from the making of your film?
It’s still that scene with the egrets. At first, we weren’t sure whether the wetland dock was supervised, so the producer’s safest call was to get there extra early. We had always planned to shoot this farewell scene in the morning mist, since early light is so unpredictable. We even prepared a Plan B: rain would also fit the father and son’s final mood perfectly. As it turned out, fortune was on our side; we had a clear sky that morning.
We knew egrets are usually active between 4 a.m. and 7 a.m., but we had no idea if a large flock would show up. Right after Qin Youshan and Qin Fang walked along the long dock, flocks of egrets began to gather. We seized the moment and filmed them first. It was another wonderful stroke of luck.
How do you approach storytelling in your films? What themes or messages do you try to convey?
I don’t favour long monologues in my storytelling. Space, performance and emotion together form the best structure. I use shifts of setting to unfold the historical context. Within these different spaces, the characters may seem to carry simple expressions on the surface. What matters more is the blank space that opens up after each transition.
Who is this space for? For the son? For the era? Or for the father himself? These questions become clues for the audience to interpret, revealed gently through dialogue and emotion.
At its heart, the theme I want to share is to cherish the present. You may regret the choices you once made, yet you still have to stand by the choices you make. It is like flipping a coin: most of us only ever see one side, while only the buyer gets to see both.
What is your preferred genre of filmmaking and why? Are there any specific directors or filmmakers who have influenced your work?
I don’t have a strict preference for any single genre, yet I am especially drawn to intimate family stories that dig deep beneath the surface. As a Pisces, I’m naturally sensitive to emotion and romantic undercurrents.
There are many directors I admire: Bergman, Bresson, Polanski and Fellini. Among contemporary filmmakers, I look up to Hirokazu Kore‑eda, Christopher Nolan, and our Chinese director Gu You.
How do you select your cast and crew for your film projects? What qualities do you look for in collaborators?
When choosing cast and crew, fame is not my priority. What matters most is whether they can grasp the restrained emotion within the story and embrace this understated way of storytelling.
For actors, I avoid big, over-the-top performances. I hope they can hold emotion in silence and small gestures, know how to leave space, and refrain from over-dramatising. At the heart of this film lies the unspoken bond between father and son, so the actors must be able to sense that hidden tension.
For my creative team, trust and sensitivity come first. My cinematographer, sound designer and production designer are not merely carrying out a plan. They read the story alongside me, feel the atmosphere of each space, and bring their own delicate observations to the work. I want collaborators who listen well, are comfortable with uncertainty, and can catch those rare, serendipitous moments — like the flock of egrets we encountered at the wetland.
Solid technical skills are important, but what I value more is a shared belief: often, less is more.
How important do you think film festivals are for independent filmmakers, and what has been your experience with film festivals so far?
I believe film festivals are essential for independent filmmakers. Unlike commercial distribution, we work with limited budgets and have few channels to reach a wide audience. Festivals offer a rare platform where these quiet, personal stories can find viewers willing to slow down and feel them deeply.
A film festival is more than just a screening opportunity; it is a community of creators. Here I can meet fellow filmmakers, exchange ideas, and receive feedback from audiences and peers who understand independent storytelling. For a film like mine, built on silence and subtle emotions, this kind of attentive understanding is incredibly precious.
My own experience feels like sending out a letter. You never know who will read it and connect with it. It touches me deeply when people pick up on those layers beneath the surface: the regrets of that generation, the unspoken gap between father and son, and that fleeting moment with the egrets. It makes me realise that these memories which feel so personal to me are, in truth, universal human emotions.
Can you tell us about any awards or recognition your films have received and how they have impacted your career?
This film is still touring festivals and hasn’t won awards so far. Still, heartfelt recognition gives me confidence to stick to my quiet style. It connects me with like‑minded collaborators and encourages me to keep telling these intimate stories.
How do you handle feedback and criticism of your films? How do you use it to improve your craft?
I welcome feedback and criticism. I respect viewers who don’t connect with my quiet style, but I carefully consider notes that reveal real weaknesses. I won’t change my core vision, yet criticism helps me fix blind spots and grow more precise in future storytelling.
What do you enjoy most about the process of filmmaking? Is there anything you find particularly challenging?
My favourite part is those serendipitous moments, like the egrets, when everything aligns naturally. The biggest challenge is editing — having to cut lovely shots that don’t serve the story. It takes courage to let go and stay restrained.
How do you approach the distribution of your films? What strategies do you employ to reach a wider audience?
As an independent filmmaker, I do not have the resources for large-scale commercial distribution. My main path starts with the festival circuit. Film festivals are not only a place to seek recognition, but also the first gateway to connect with audiences, programmers and small distributors who focus on arthouse and independent works.
I also value targeted, slow-burn communication. This story about memory, father-son bonds and regret is not made for fast, viral promotion. I hope to reach viewers who are open to quiet, reflective cinema. We share behind-the-scenes stories, the inspiration behind the film and our serendipitous moments like the egret scene, to let people understand its tone before they watch it.
We will also explore niche screening formats: offline salon screenings, university screenings and independent art-house theatre runs. Online, we look for arthouse streaming platforms and film communities that cater to thoughtful audiences.
For me, “a wider audience” does not mean reaching everyone. It means finding the right audience — people who can sit with the silences and feel the emotion hidden in the story. That is the audience I hope to meet.
What advice do you have for aspiring filmmakers who are just starting their journey in the film industry?
My first advice is to hold on to what truly moves you. Make films about the things you have lived, the feelings you carry, the people and memories that haunt you. Don’t rush to copy popular styles or chase trends just because you think they are easier to get noticed. Authenticity is irreplaceable.
Second, learn to be patient and embrace uncertainty. Independent filmmaking is rarely smooth. You may face limited budgets, long waits, and unexpected accidents on set. Some accidents can become your best scenes, like the egrets we met. Not every problem needs to be fought; sometimes you just need to watch and listen.
Third, respect silence and restraint. You don’t have to fill every moment with dialogue or dramatic conflict. Learn to trust space, light and small gestures. And learn to listen to your collaborators — good cinema is never made by one person alone.
Lastly, keep watching, keep observing life. The best stories are not all written in scripts. They are hidden in ordinary days, in unspoken conversations and quiet goodbyes. Stay sensitive to the world around you
Finally, can you share with us your future plans and upcoming projects as a filmmaker?
Right now, I’m still letting this film travel through festivals. I want to keep listening to audiences and absorbing all the feelings and reflections it brings.
For my next project, I still want to stay close to family, memory and the quiet weight of time. I don’t plan to rush into a grand, complicated story. I hope to keep exploring those unspoken relationships, the choices people carry through their lives, and the regrets we learn to live with.
I will keep working with collaborators who share the same sensibility, who believe in restraint and the power of silence. I want to keep using space as an important character in the story, to let the environment carry emotion just like I did in this film.
I don’t have a fixed timeline. I take filmmaking slowly. I hope the next story can also come from something genuine, something I truly feel. I just want to keep observing, waiting and listening, and capture those rare, serendipitous moments again.
