“Fascinating and slightly provocative.”

If you were to believe that everyone is destined to find their soulmate (a concept that is equally embraced or reviled, depending on your perspective), you would be likely to come across them when you least expect it, since this is part of the unpredictable nature of love and everything it represents. At a glance, you would not expect to find such a subject at the foundation of Border, the fascinating and slightly provocative introduction to Ah Biao, who makes his debut as a writer and director with this offbeat parable about love and its many peculiarities. The film is set in an unnamed town somewhere in rural China, and follows Luo Jia, a mild-mannered man who spends his days working deep in the mine shafts. Like every other man in the town, Luo Jia has grown up to believe that it is not masculine to show emotion, and instead lives his life in a state of complete neutrality in fear of going against the grain and drawing attention to himself. This changes when he meets Su Qing, an enigmatic young woman who represents a very different way of life. The two gradually fall in love, revealing new sides of each other and eventually realizing that there is much more than the humdrum existence that they have been led to believe is normal. A very effective film that may seem small on the surface but has some bold ideas embedded within it, Border is a fascinating work, and one that rewards those who are willing to be patient with its more abstract ideas.

Art has always had a contentious relationship with identity, with gender in particular being frequently in focus, and often the source of some polarizing accounts of what it means to function in contemporary society at any given point. Border takes an allegorical approach, situating the viewer in the middle of a near-isolated town. Every man in town has been conditioned to be as emotionless as possible, believing that the more stone-faced one is, the further they are likely to go in a society where any feelings, whether good or bad, are cited as inappropriate for half the population. From this, Ah Biao crafts a fascinating examination of masculinity, taking aim at the expectations placed on men by society, particularly the idea that to be taken seriously, one must remain stoic, fully in control, and emotionally impenetrable. The story explores the challenges that come when two people born into such a society try to communicate, not realizing that a culture that teaches the suppression of vulnerability is also stripping them of the opportunity to experience many of life’s most important moments as they are meant to be felt. Border is a film that looks at the emotional and social obstacles that divide the two protagonists and their attempts to forge meaningful connections, however possible, their actions speaking more than words could ever express.

These themes are only the start of what makes Border so intriguing. If we look beneath the surface, it’s possible to find an even richer set of ideas that push the film forward. The slightly abstract (and almost fantastical) approach to the interactions between characters creates an intentional aloofness at first, but slowly unspools to reveal the more complicated emotions that sit at the heart of the narrative. We soon learn that the apparent stoicism that guides the film actually conceals something deeper and more profound, particularly in the development of these people as more than just thinly crafted archetypes. The impeccable work being done by Zheyan Li and Feng Qi anchors the film, which relies heavily on their ability to effectively communicate some of these unconventional ideas without ever seeming less than authentic. Despite being a character study, the film intentionally creates distance between the audience and the protagonists, which would be frustrating in any other context, but makes perfect sense in this film; it not only establishes the clear atmosphere from which the film builds its core ideas, but also encourages the viewer to take on the position of an active observer. We peer into the lives of these characters as they fall in love on their own terms, while also handling various other obstacles that emerge in the process. Everything contained in Border can essentially be condensed into a film about human connection, and how, even in the most dire circumstances, the desire to form a bond with another person remains unbreakable.

It may be natural to assume that Border would be a relentlessly twee subversion of romantic comedy tropes, based on its premise and themes, until we actually step into the film and realize that everything is played earnestly and without trivializing its difficult ideas. The film is driven primarily by its dense and chilling atmosphere, reflecting the feeling of deep isolation and entrapment that draws these characters together, as if they are the only two people capable of seeing the world for what it truly is. The location itself becomes a character in its own way – with imposing buildings that seem to carry on forever, each one telling a story, one can look at this film as a statement on the crippling nature of isolation in the modern world. The visual component reflects the somber tone of the story, each composition a perfect combination of muted colors and idiosyncratic framing. This situates us close enough to the characters that it feels intimate, but also slightly too far for us to fully embrace them, almost as if the rigid framing is designed to amplify the idea that these people are trapped within their environments. Border is a film based around the idea of keeping the audience at a distance, since not only is this present in the aesthetic choices, but also in other areas: the minimal dialogue forces the actors to focus on movement and expressions to convey certain ideas, and the deliberately off-kilter pacing can sometimes be challenging to embrace. However, it eventually becomes quite hypnotic, with a magnetic quality drawing the viewer inward and taking us on an intimidating psychological journey alongside these characters.

Border is certainly a unique film, quite unlike anything we’ve come across lately. Some aspects evoke certain directors (the cold, stoic atmosphere combined with the clear social commentary echoes the likes of Aki Kaurismäki and Roy Andersson, with even a few moments of unexpected miserabilist humour making it seem like they are partial inspirations). There is also more than enough to indicate that Ah Biao is someone we should observe closely going forward. The film manages to be both poetic and deeply unsettling (often in tandem), a contradiction that begins to encompass the unconventional nature of this story. The intentional irony here is that Border is a film about the visceral desire to connect that deliberately keeps the audience at a distance, which may mean that it can be difficult to embrace at first, but also gives its more observational perspective greater flexibility, allowing certain elements to remain ambiguous. There are several moments where the composed, stone-faced exterior briefly cracks, allowing the strong, meaningful emotions beneath the surface to become visible, and it is in these scenes that it leaves the strongest impression. What starts as a disconcerting exploration of masculinity eventually becomes a moving statement on the challenges that come with expressing emotions, especially in a society that has conditioned us to act and think in one particular way. Border takes time to reveal its aims, but through atmosphere, visual language and strong performances, achieves a beguiling quality that reveals it as one of the year’s most peculiar and captivating works.