Days is a sublime, suave film, swollen with melancholy and murmurs: with falling rain, aerators, distant cars and lovers. In competition at the 70e edition of the Berlinale this year, the feature film by Taiwanese filmmaker Tsai Ming-liang marks his return to fiction (seven years later stray dogs and the announcement of a retreat to which he fortunately did not stick). At the end of a deployment that seems to hold back time, the film crosses the path of two men: one with a body steeped in pain (in the guise of the filmmaker’s favorite actor, Lee Kang-sheng), linking baths and extreme acupuncture sessions, the other with an agile body, peeling vegetables with dexterity. These bodies, placed in parallel during the first half of the film, join the bed, interweaving breaths and elements, and offer themselves the relief of the gestures that heal. It is of a rustling delicacy, a film where almost nothing is pronounced, but where all the movements and the surrounding sounds come to make room for two solitudes which had to be found. It takes patience, also in the cinema, for this to work.
DAYS of Tsai Ming-liang on Arte.tv, until October 29.