Stolen childhoods, where some wounds never mend—only to be borne silently for life.
In Shu Qi’s directorial debut, she unveils an intimate portrait of a young girl growing up in a dysfunctional and abusive family during the late 1980s in Taiwan, longing to escape.
Long celebrated for her outstanding acting career, Girl marks Shu Qi’s first step behind the camera as writer-director. Best known for Millennium Mambo (2001) and Three Times (2005), this year represents an incredible achievement for her. Not only did she star in Bi Gan’s Resurrection (2025), which recently premiered at Cannes and won the Jury Special Prize, but her directorial debut Girl has just premiered in competition at the 82nd Venice International Film Festival. Knowing that two years ago, when she served as a jury member at Venice, was also when she finished the script for Girl, makes this accomplishment all the more exceptional.
The film takes us back to 1988 Taipei, a unique period in time when the city was still rapidly developing. As Shu Qi recalled during the press conference, the city would be in a mist of grey air because of the pollution, and it felt like one could not take a break. The story opens with Hsiao Lee (Bai Xiao-Ying) and her younger sister (Lai Yu-Fei) on their way home after school. The sun sets on the little sister while Hsiao Lee stays in the shadow, a glimpse into the different lives of the two girls. We’d understand why they are so unwilling to get home, as we’d come to meet their parents. Their father, Chiang, is an auto mechanic who’d always come home wasted, barely making it up the stairs. He claims to be the man of the house, yet threatens his family with violent abuse, snapping at any moment. You can’t help but be alarmed by what the father had done for Hsiao Lee to sleep in a zip-up closet every night, constantly imagining being suffocated by his father through the fabric. Though most of Chiang’s abuses are targeted at his wife, he would probably be more abusive to the girls if it weren't for his complete disregard for them. Their mother, Chuan (played by singer 9m88), is only better in comparison, working at a beauty salon, yet constantly passing down the violence to Hsiao Lee, while leaving the younger one be.
At school, Hsiao Lee often passes out from hunger in the morning and ends up in the infirmary. It is usually up to the nurse to ask another classmate to buy breakfast for her. Back home, her mother punishes her by delaying dinner, forcing her to kneel while holding a bucket of water on her head. She doesn’t hesitate to hurl the coldest, most hurtful words a parent could possibly say to their child. In this suffocating atmosphere, a new student, Li-li (Audrey Lin), who has just returned from the States, joins the class. She is the polar opposite of Hsiao Lee’s personality—outgoing, independent, and even somewhat of a bad girl. Her arrival feels like a breath of fresh air and freedom. She sees through Hsiao Lee, but never breaks her fragile bubble by saying it. At school, she carelessly swaps her nutritious food with Hsiao Lee, pretending she doesn’t want to eat it, quietly taking care of her.
Some surreal moments briefly pull us out of reality—sometimes only to plunge us deeper into the abyss. It is af if we are quietly drowning at sea, yet gasping for every chance at the fresh air of kindness in Hsiao Lee’s life. All of this builds toward a deeply emotional confrontation near the end, as if all the humidity in the clouds and air had become unbearable—until the rain finally has to pour.
Nothing in Hsiao Lee’s life is just. Though the movie may lead to an illusion of a coming-of-age story, unlike the other uplifting stories of the genre, Hsiao Lee’s life felt impossible to escape. As if a part of her will forever be frozen by the abuses and traumas she’s endured, no matter how far away she flies. Though we understand that her mother, too, has suffered deep verbal, physical, and sexual violence from her husband, some scenes are truly hard to watch. To see that abuse pass down to Hsiao Lee only breaks your heart even more. If only you could reach through the screen and take her to a haven far, far away.
The film did an unnervingly good job of planting fear in its audience. It feels as if we are living inside Hsiao Lee’s skin. The sound design intentionally ties ordinary noises to fear itself. We tense up at the sound of her father’s motorcycle or the jingle of his keys. Even the zipper of Hsiao Lee’s plastic closet, meant to shield her, seems to pull us deeper into the danger of the household. We are constantly afraid of how her mother might react to her choices. Even when Hsiao Lee forgets for a moment, we still dread that her parents might devise an even more humiliating or horrific punishment. Watching the film, your head is noisy, filled with alerts and whispers to our girl—yet it is, paradoxically, a very quiet film. No wonder: our protagonist prefers silence to risking the unwanted attention her voice might stir. Who knows what one wrong tone may cause…
For a theme as difficult as generational trauma and bitter cruelty, the film is wrapped in a painfully poetic grace—most potently through its melancholic cinematography, which deserves its own recognition. With refined observation, detail, and finesse, it draws the audience under its skin. Turquoise tones clash against warm oranges, casting a visual filter of heat and unease. Subtle details are carefully woven into the frame: a splash of red light at home, for instance, foreshadows the danger embodied by the father.
We see just how hard it is to be a woman in such a suffocating environment—and even harder to be a girl. While this film is a story on screen, it is based on the experiences of real people who actually grew up in such circumstances. The young actress delivered a formidable performance as Hsiao Lee; it truly pains the viewer to see her eyes swallowed by deep sorrow, lacking the glimmer of light only found in children’s eyes. 9m88, who played her mother, also delivered a deeply emotional performance, portraying a woman trapped in her own suffering from her husband’s abuse. She is a profoundly flawed mother, unable to stand up to her husband, and instead directs the suffering toward her daughter.
It’s not hard to notice director Hou Hsiao-hsien’s influence on Shu Qi, not only from their years of collaboration, but also because he was the one who encouraged her to pick up the camera, after all. The pacing of the film could be picked up in some parts, but it hardly takes away from the experience. Girl still marks an incredibly solid debut for Shu Qi. Here’s to hoping the success will give her the confidence needed in her capacity as a writer-director, because one can’t help but look forward to what she has planned next.
Nühai (Girl) premiered in competition at the Venice International Film Festival on September 4th, 2025. General release dates are yet to be announced.
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