Cinema Without Borders: Mongrel—Of human bondage
Mongrel is a film that is not for the faint-hearted. Not that it is an actioner that wallows in unbearable, excessive violence or a horror flick that scares its audiences to death. The brutal and horrid elements are of the metaphorical kind, and deep-seated at that, in this Taiwan-Singapore-France co-production, about Vietnamese, Filipino, Indonesian and Thai workers in the interiors of Taiwan. Co-directed by Chiang Wei Liang and You Qiao Lin, it had its world premiere at Quinzaine des Cineastes, and makes for a rough and tough viewing. Moreso for its crawling pace that often feels stagnant, like the lives it is about.
Right from the first scene, which I thought was a distressing obverse of the alluring opening shot of Lost in Translation, Mongrel shows the miserable, bleak lives of its indigent characters in verite mode, with all the unpalatable details spread over more than two hours of its duration. However, despite being a disquieting story, there’s also something inherently humane and uplifting about it.
Much of the positivity emanates from the protagonist Oom. In the clutches of Boss (Hong Yu-Hong), who has helped him, and others migrate to and work in Taiwan, Oom is called upon to do the dirty jobs that he can’t say no to. Even as guilt for the misdemeanours hangs heavy, Oom’s salvation lies in the selflessness with which he works as a caregiver at the home of a sick old woman Mei (Lu Yi-ching) and her mentally challenged son Hui (Kuo Shu-wei, who is afflicted with cerebral palsy for real).
While Mei asks Oom to euthanize Hui, he keeps tending to all his needs. Whether he is washing Hui, giving him his meals or helping to gratify his baser, intimate needs, Oom is a picture of stoicism, patience and compassion. Will he sin by helping him let go of life or will he help in relieving him of his miseries? Caught in the eternal moral conundrum, it is Wanlop Rungkumjad’s (who plays Oom) inscrutable face and calm and collected presence that stays in the mind’s eye long after the film is over. He is trapped, vulnerable and lacking in human dignity just like those he looks after.
Oom’s fellow undocumented workers, who he must keep in check, are also in a similar abject state as Oom, dehumanised in the factories where they work and invisibilized in the shabby dormitories that they share with hundreds of others. They are taken advantage of for their work but not paid by the boss. They have even surrendered their passports and are denied proper meals. Each one of them is replaceable, be it in illness or death with the workspace like a revolving door, for every exit there is someone around to make an entry. All they can do against the blatant exploitation is resist and rebel and demand their due wages, but the unrest also appears to achieve little.
Mongrel shows the mechanics of illegal immigration—how the passage is managed surreptitiously in the garb of tourism. But more than that it shines a light on what happens afterwards. Be it the black and grey palette, the dystopic milieu, the tough mountainous topography, the eternally wet and wintry, cold and rainy weather or the constricted spaces—the home, factory, dormitory or healthcare facility—all are marked by the persistence of gloom and doom, the hallmark of the lives of the migrant workers. Michael Capron’s camera heightens the sense of suffocation and claustrophobia.
Desperation and desolation creep up even in a place of succour like the church. As a character in the film puts it, it might be a place where people find remedies for diseases but what is truly needed is for the souls to be healed of their sins so that hope can bloom in the hopelessness of daily struggles for survival. Mongrel leaves one with a sombre, sobering, ambiguous feeling—of rare grace amid utter despair.