Invisible Nation & A Chip Odyssey: Reviews of two bestselling films in Taiwan
Plus, book club details
Dear all,
We’re really sorry about being absent for so long. To be completely honest, we’ve gone through a rough patch. Meanwhile, we've had ideas about what to write, but whenever we face the page, we’ve had major writer’s block. The news cycle has left us feeling powerless and confused, on the border of despair. What is there to say? We have no hot takes, no clear-eyed vision for the future. The starvation in Gaza, the masked men abducting immigrants in the United States, the innocents left to die in immigration prisons in Florida, El Salvador, the corruption, the dehumanization of immigrants, the cruelty of Big Powers…it’s all pretty unbearable, and we have to fight to remain open to hope rather being desensitized.
And of course, who are we to feel hopeless? People in less privileged positions than us continue to fight because they have no choice. Our own problems feel very minor. We’ve been feeling ashamed about not being in the U.S. to protest, canvas, and protect our undocumented friends. Meanwhile, we’ve had a major recall campaign in Taiwan. (More on that in a second.) Over here, Taiwanese friends from all different sectors have told us about the negative impact of tariffs; asked us why the U.S. has forsaken European alliances; and on the whole grasp the psychopathy of Trump and cowardice of Americans who’ve bent the knee to him. It’s perfectly obvious to people here that, as the U.S. isolates itself from the world, abdicating all responsibility, the more China will take what it views as theirs.
For the first time since we’ve come to Taiwan, it seems that the “American skeptics” within Taiwan—these people often reside in the pro-China camp—have the upper hand. Look, see how fascist the U.S. is? And you want to depend on them for support? These people tend to be irritating because they argue in bad faith—they have no coherent core belief beyond being anti-American. Were they actually driven to condemn every government that, say, fails to redistribute wealth, treat immigrants with dignity, or reduce reliance on prisons, we’d be on board with them. But usually, they’re just interested in finding evidence of American failure, so that China comes out on top. Talking to these skeptics leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
Yet these days, it feels like it would be dishonest to defend the U.S. Now that the U.S. disappears its own immigrants—people with no criminal records, people with young children at home, people who contribute to society in the most essential ways, people who’ve lived in the U.S. for many decades—we’ve less moral ground to stand on, and have lost heart in arguing with American skeptics.
Meanwhile, we just had a big recall election in Taiwan, where 24 legislators, all KMT, faced recall. All of them survived. None of the media that we consumed, nor the people with whom we spoke, gave us any indication that all of the legislators would survive the recall. In part, our dismay stemmed from the thought: are we so out of touch? Are things so polarized that our entire media consumption can’t even get us close to some sort of electoral reality?
As always, the best analysis comes from Nathan Batto, a political scientist at Academia Sinica who writes the blog Frozen Garlic. He argues that any simple narrative is wrong—among them the idea that the recall itself was a polarizing force. We agree 100% with his argument that at the end of the day, the recall process was again a testament to the resilience of Taiwanese democracy:
I want to make one final point about the recall process. In the runup to voting, I was asked several times whether the recall had polarized Taiwan’s society. I pushed back against this argument as strongly as I could. I do not believe the recalls fostered polarization and division.
In May 2024, events in the legislature were so extreme that many people felt the need to go out into the street to protest. Throughout the rest of the year, events in the legislature fueled these feelings of angst, anger, despair, fear, disgust, and betrayal. All that passion had to go somewhere. What did not happen is as important as what did. Taiwan did not experience widespread political violence, riots in the street, or police crackdowns to maintain order. The recalls funneled all that energy into a legal process within the system. Volunteers spent countless hours learning the minutiae of the petition process, training themselves to talk to voters, sitting outside collecting signatures, checking petitions for errors, compiling them into the right format to submit to electoral commissions, and then working to convince voters to vote yes in the recall election. It all amounted to an enormous expenditure of time and energy. At the end of the process, people voted. The results did not come back the way the volunteers had hoped, but there was an objective result that the volunteers could not argue with. They didn’t fail because of some hidden conspiracy; they simply didn’t convince enough voters with their arguments. Democracy provided a constructive outlet to absorb and diffuse all that passion.
Batto is absolutely right here; as always, what was most impressive about the recall process were the actions of the volunteers, who stood on roadsides gathering signatures, as well as the creativity and the art that was produced in the movement. During the final stages leading up to the recall vote, the slogan “My small, mountainous country” became a rallying cry for the pro-recall group, an invocation of Nylon Cheng, who himself was quoting Pablo Neruda. The slogan inspired the production of a wave of beautiful banners and stickers, such as this one:
Invisible Nation & A Chip Odyssey: Bestselling Films in Taiwan
Two recent documentaries have made a splash in Taiwan’s cinemas. Vanessa Hope’s Invisible Nation drew strong crowds and, as of today, earned over NT$36 million, becoming the third-highest-grossing documentary in Taiwan’s box-office history. Meanwhile, Hsiao Chu-chen’s (蕭菊貞) A Chip Odyssey, the country’s first feature-length look at its world-leading semiconductor industry, has generated significant buzz since its June 2025 premiere.
Both films are patriotic. Both position Taiwan as a resilient underdog that triumphs against the odds, despite its marginalization on the world stage. Both films make the case for Taiwan being a place worth protecting, worth fighting for, worth defending.
But side by side, these two films offer a fascinating study in contrast. The heroes of Invisible Nation are almost all women; in the latter, they are men. In Invisible Nation, it is the power of people involved in social movements—and, ultimately, democracy—that saves Taiwan, elevates its place in the world, and gives it a soul. In the latter, the lifting of martial law barely earns a second of screen time; instead, it is wise technocrats of the 1960s and 1970s, with the “wisdom and the guts” to bet on the semiconductor industry, who rescue Taiwan and secure its global standing. Invisible Nation depicts China as the primary antagonist, with foreboding music whenever Xi Jinping appears; A Chip Odyssey is conspicuously silent on China, casting a skeptical eye instead on the United States.
Whose story is “right?” Both. Each tells a true story. Together, they show Taiwan holds such a powerful yet vulnerable position. Taiwan is among the freest countries in the world, and a Chinese invasion would be disastrous for a shared human project of political freedom. Meanwhile, Taiwan produces about 60% of the world’s foundry chips, and about 90–95% of the most advanced semiconductors, making it indispensable in today’s U.S.–China tech rivalry.
But Taiwanese people are divided about the future—essentially, about which overlords they should trust. One could say that the two movies contrast a green (Democratic Progressive Party) v. blue (Kuomintang Party) narrative, but that would be too simplistic. Many green people love A Chip Odyssey—though blue people would be less likely to come out and see Invisible Nation, because it depicts the Democratic Progressive Party’s politicians in a positive light. (At the screening we attended, we heard the people behind us, clearly Blue, say, “This film must have been funded by the DPP, right?” No—it wasn’t. And as Jenna Cody aptly notes in her blog, the film treats former president Ma Ying-jeou of the KMT quite kindly.)
Invisible Nation tells a story of the people’s will—especially the power of youth, women, and democratic leaders. It follows three major throughlines. First, Taiwan has had to fight, often with little help, to be recognized by the world. Second, women leaders have played a crucial role in its social and political transformation—and have earned broad public support. Third, against all odds, Taiwan is winning. So far, it remains de facto independent.
One of the inspiring figures in Invisible Nation is Wu Pei-yi, now a key legislator for the DPP. We first see her as a young woman, full of idealism, describing how she discovered her political voice. In high school, she was astonished to learn that Taiwan was not officially described as a “country.” “I never thought I’d join a political party, let alone become its spokesperson. When I was a freshman, I hated going to school,” she said. “I paid no attention to the president, the legislature, or any political figure. I was living in my own bubble.”
That year, former U.S. President Bill Clinton visited Taiwan to give a speech. “I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I remember him saying Taiwan and China don’t have country-to-country relations. I was completely taken back,” she said, recalling her shock. “I didn’t have a clear understanding of Taiwan’s political status but in my simple adolescent mind, Taiwan was clearly a country! If a former US president says Taiwan is not a country, then are we a country or not? I was so perplexed.”
Among the most stirring moments in this film are personal moments—of Taiwanese people learning that they belong to a country that cannot even call itself by its own name. “There are few countries who have no way to choose our destiny or direction,” says Wu Pei-yi. “We have to change our name to speak with other countries.” Wu spoke of her own awakening during the Sunflower movement in 2014. Students took over Taiwan’s legislature and half a million people took to the streets.
Similarly, Freddy Lim, formerly a heavy metal star, then a legislator, and now Taiwan’s envoy to Finland, spoke about his path to politics. He shared that his grandma had raised him until he was six or seven, speaking to him in Taiwanese. “But once I entered school, teachers prohibited us from speaking Taiwanese. They told us Taiwanese culture was trashy. They taught us to dislike the stories of the land we grew up on—to dislike what was handed down to us from generations before us. These are stories from our parents, our grandparents, and our ancestors,” he says. “Things are different for young people today. They think, ‘If I’m not Taiwanese, where would I be from? Of course we’re Taiwanese!’ They know they’re not part of Japan or China.”
Though Invisible Nation has been referred to as “that movie about Tsai”—perhaps because the poster features her and the director Hope gained rare access to her—it’s much more than that. One of the film’s most powerful elements is its lineup of women in politics. Besides Wu Pei-yi, the film has compelling interviews with Vice President Hsiao Bi-khim, Chen Chu (former political prisoner and mayor of Kaohsiung), Cheng Li-chun (former Minister of Culture), Maysing Yang (former ambassador-at-large), and Chi Cheng, who won the Olympic gold medal in 1968.
What have Taiwanese people thought of Invisible Nation? Many told me they already knew the story—yet they still found themselves crying. This made me curious. “Do you cry because you know the story and it’s finally being told?” I’d ask. They’d reply yes, but also something more. “You realize everything you’ve gone through, and you can even say you were there,” one woman said, recalling being on the streets for the Sunflower Movement and later celebrating same-sex marriage laws. “Even though I knew everything in the film, I’d want younger people to see the film, so they know what we went through.”
We traded scenes that brought tears to our eyes. One occurs within the first ten minutes: Olympic gold medalist and tae kwon do champion Huai-hsuan Huang stands on the podium at the 2014 Games, weeping as a strange flag on white background—concocted by China and the International Olympic Committee—rises above her. One brilliant aspect of this footage is its ambiguity: is she crying from joy at winning, or because the odd flag has been imposed on her and has no relation to her life or identity?
Today, China has succeeded in pressuring the IOC to call Taiwan “Chinese Taipei” and remove Taiwan’s national flag. Like most international organizations, the IOC has folded to China’s bullying. “We are the sole IOC member banned from using our own country’s name,” says Chi Cheng, the Taiwanese winner of the 1968 Olympics who recalls the days when athletes competed under the name Taiwan. “We are the only member of the Olympics who cannot sing our national anthem or fly our flag.”
Another poignant scene shows a younger Hsiao Bi-khim, in 2019, greeting a jubilant crowd after the legalization of same-sex marriage. People are ecstatic—glowing, beaming, ebullient. Two older men, both wearing rainbow bands, hug each other through tears. During Hope’s interview, Hsiao reflected on how far they had come, remembering how she was the first legislator to propose hearings on same-sex marriage in 2006. Fourteen years later, as tens of thousands of Taiwanese people wave rainbow flags, someone calls out to her: “Thank you, Representative! You’ve been with us. You never gave up.”
And yet another scene full of pathos: in 2012, thousands of voters, draped in yellow ponchos, sob and weep in the rain as a young Tsai Ing-wen speaks. She’s just lost the presidential election, and yet she speaks with self-possession and firmness. “I want to tell everyone: we have to stay strong, we must stay strong, we must stay stronger than anyone else,” she says. “The power that we have united is a power that cannot being ignored. This power cannot scatter and cannot vanish. You must not drown in worry and despair. Taiwan cannot lose dissenting voices.” At the word “dissent,” there’s a palpable change; people start to cheer. Four years later, she’d win. As she tells Hope, that day she won was the “most emotional day in my life.”
Perhaps it’s the passage of time—seeing youthful versions of these leaders—that moves even those who already know the story. Filmed over many years, Vanessa Hope first visited Taiwan in 1996, capturing rare footage of the raucous, joyful celebrations during its first presidential elections. As the people in the film have aged, their stories have deepened. Wu Pei-yi, for example, came out so she could openly mourn the death of her partner. Tsai is no longer president; her famous qualities of discretion and prudence—even her critics acknowledge them—are missed. Hsiao Bi-khim rose to the vice presidency and is now among Taiwan’s most charismatic leaders.
A sense of time seeps through the film, reminding us that what now seem like solid achievements were once fragile. It took true believers who had toughness and faith to see it all through. Invisible Nation beautifully conveys the weight of time, the sacrifices incurred to make urgent social change.
I’m struck by how many local friends say they want “young Taiwanese” people to see the film. You might expect them to say, for instance, that Americans or Chinese people ought to see it to understand Taiwan. But perhaps they’ve suffered the world’s indifference long enough to know they can’t control what anyone outside Taiwan does or doesn’t do. What they can do is make sure youth here understand their country. As one friend my age told me, “I already know all the information in the film, but I went back a second time with my 19-year-old niece because she needs to understand Taiwan’s situation in the world.”
In Mandarin, the film’s title—看不見的國家—feels stronger, more unapologetic, and more evocative. Perhaps this is because, in English—unless you study anticolonial movements—your eye might skip right over the word “nation.” It’s easy to take for granted that the idea of belonging to a tribe of nations, recognized by other countries, with diplomatic relations.
But in Taiwan, the word “nation” is loaded. Use it with a stranger here to refer to Taiwan, and you might spark a bond—or they might think you’re testing them, even picking a fight. More, in English, “invisible” can carry a positive connotation—it’s a superpower. The title, however, doesn’t use the Mandarin equivalent, instead choosing a simpler phrase. It feels like this: A Sovereign Country That Is Not Seen. A pithy few lines from Tsai Ing-wen within the first ten minutes makes the meaning plain: “Taiwan is not a big place. We have just 24 million people. But today we are the freest country in the region. And China does not want the world to hear our story.”
*
A Chip Odyssey follows a group of young engineers sent to the United States to learn the latest in semiconductor technology. They came back not only with new technical skills but also with a clear vision of how Taiwan could carve out—and eventually rule—the global electronics supply chain. The film tells the origin story of Taiwan’s semiconductor industry: how an idea discussed in a small breakfast shop grew into a world-leading enterprise.
A Chip Odyssey captures the sense of crisis that gripped young people during the 1970s, as the island confronted a convergence of global and regional shocks. The decade’s oil crisis exposed Taiwan’s acute dependence on imported energy, raising fears of economic stagnation and threatening the petrochemical base on which its booming plastics industry depended. At the same time, the country’s diplomatic position eroded rapidly: the loss of its United Nations seat in 1971, the severing of ties with the United States in 1979, and the steady withdrawal of recognition by other nations marked a new phase of geopolitical isolation. For many Taiwanese college graduates of this generation, these events crystallized a sense of urgency and purpose.
Almost every figure in Chip Odyssey was animated by a deep sense of patriotism—a conviction that their work in science and engineering could, in some small way, “save the country” at a time of existential uncertainty. Some of the most moving moments in the film come when we see these men—all in their seventies who went onto successful and lucrative careers—break down in tears when they think about the precarious situation and the mission that they felt tasked with.
And what was the task? Chip Odyssey tells the story of the RCA Mission, one of the central episodes in the birth of Taiwan’s semiconductor industry. In 1976, Taiwan sent a team of about forty engineers to work at RCA in the United States under the guise of a technology transfer partnership. These engineers were all “the elite among the elite”—some had received PhDs from elite schools in the United States and had returned to Taiwan. Their official task was to learn semiconductor manufacturing techniques; in practice, it was to absorb, document, and bring home every possible detail of the production process—from circuit design to clean-room protocols to accounting practices—so that Taiwan could replicate the technology domestically. It was, at its core, an exercise in strategic imitation, a bid to leapfrog years of costly research and development and position Taiwan’s nascent electronics industry on the global stage. It was essentially industrial espionage, and the film flirts with this fact but never outright names it. Several recalled with amusement how their American counterparts half-jokingly warned that the Taiwanese would soon be “eating their lunch”—a prediction that, within a few decades, proved entirely correct as Taiwan’s semiconductor industry began to outpace its former tutor.
Chip Odyssey tells this story with clarity, interviewing all the key members of the first group of engineers involved in the RCA mission—including its sole female participant, who was sent to master American accounting practices for the chip industry. The film captures not just the technical achievement but the human grit behind it: the long hours in unfamiliar laboratories, the pressure to memorize every detail, the jovial camaraderie among teammates far from home. Perhaps one of the most evocative parts of the film was seeing the lasting bonds that this mission created among the men involved in it. There are numerous scenes of the men, now all in their seventies, still gathering and spending time with each other.
Equally poignant are the moments when these young engineers recall encountering the United States for the first time. For those who have visited Taiwan in recent years, seeing its high-rises and enviable metro system, it may be hard to imagine the sheer scale of the economic gap between Taiwan and the U.S. in the 1970s. One engineer broke down in tears as he remembered the shock of that first visit: neat suburban houses with manicured lawns, kitchens with gleaming refrigerators, and supermarkets overflowing with goods. He spoke of small humiliations of their meager per diems—how they could not afford a meal at McDonald’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken, which to them seemed the height of modern indulgence. “One day we would catch up,” he had vowed to himself. “We were determined to accomplish our mission, to show we could match them.”
This part of the movie is also peppered with moments of levity. For those of us in our forties, this was a time capsule of seeing our parents encounter the United States for the first time. Their wide-eyed amazement at the place. Michelle, for instance, cheered when the screen flashed photos of Cedar Point, the Ohio amusement park she had gone with her family. Another engineer remembered the thrill of getting his driver’s license, and how, over Thanksgiving break, he and friends set off from Ohio on a whirlwind road trip to Huntsville and then to New Orleans—driving for hours on end without a break, simply chasing the open road. These moments, at once ordinary and extraordinary, capture the wonder, disorientation, and freedom of seeing America through immigrant eyes.
The second half of the film follows the return of young engineers to Taiwan, where they lay the foundations of the island’s semiconductor industry. In these fragile early years, they navigate constant uncertainty, surviving on fleeting market opportunities. The Cold War frame is never far from view. Taiwan’s first IC chip, we learn, was a controller for a hot-air balloon meant to drift over the Taiwan Strait and scatter propaganda leaflets across the PRC. (In the 1970s and 1980s, such balloon campaigns were a staple of Taipei–Beijing psychological warfare, fusing technological improvisation with the theater of political messaging.) Another scene reveals that the first commercial order for Taiwanese ICs came from Hong Kong watchmakers; yet another shows how the sudden deregulation of the U.S. telephone market triggered a surge in chip demand—a crucial lifeline for Taiwan’s fledgling producers. Together, these moments remind us that Taiwan’s entry into the semiconductor age was shaped not only by commercial ambition but by a wider geopolitical order, punctuated by chance events and unforeseen openings.
In the second half of the film, the film makes the argument that this episode of industrial espionage was only the prologue to a larger historical arc. The real turning point, the film suggests came when Taiwanese engineers and business leaders took the pilfered designs and techniques and refashioned them to fit their own circumstances. They adapted methods to local conditions, drew on existing networks of small manufacturers, and experimented relentlessly, often working in ways that diverged sharply from their foreign models. Over time, these improvisations gave rise to an industry with its own character—rooted in Taiwan’s social fabric and responsive to the island’s particular constraints and opportunities.
To tell this story, the film turns its attention to the rise of Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Company (TSMC), which would eventually define Taiwan’s place in the global economy. Again, the rise of TSMC is framed as a story of visionary Taiwanese entrepreneurs risk-taking against conventional wisdom. Nobody in the semiconductor industry considered foundry work interesting; it was seen as pure client service, stripped of the originality and prestige of design. The highest status came from controlling the entire chain, from conception to production. What no one anticipated was that the foundry model itself would become a world-dominating paradigm. Chip Odyssey repeatedly emphasizes that it was these different moments of leaps of faith that transformed not only a company but an entire nation’s economic trajectory.
We assume that the filmmakers were unable to secure an interview with Morris Chang, TSMC’s legendary founder, and his absence is palpable. But the film does a good job by getting his story either through public speeches he gave or second-hand from people who worked with him. It shows the painstaking struggles to build factories, secure contracts, and convince skeptical clients that a small island with no track record in high-tech manufacturing could deliver. The father of Albert’s closest childhood friend, N. S. Tsai, (蔡能賢) an early TSMC executive who led key R&D and manufacturing initiatives, wryly recalled that in the company’s early days, many of its top engineers wanted to leave. They complained that there was “no original design” being done. TSMC didn’t develop its own chips but instead manufactured designs for other companies—a pure “foundry” model that was almost unheard of in the semiconductor industry. At a time when prestige and profit were thought to lie in proprietary chip design, contract manufacturing seemed like a low-margin, low-prestige gig. “Nobody in the early days expected TSMC to do well,” he said candidly. “We didn’t even think we were going to do well.” It took the invention of iPhone, in 2007, for TSMC to gain world status. And even then, Tsai admits, TSMC was riding the coattails of Apple—TSMC became the no. 1 foundry because it was producing for Apple.
At times, the film tosses a bone to the laborers on whose backs these factories were built. One emotionally rich sequence follows a group of women on the factory line. A woman recalls growing up in a home across from the plant, her life tracing a path from poverty to the middle class. The film closes with a nod to a traditional Hakka village, displaced to make way for a new fabrication plant.
But such moments are brief. For the most part, this is a story about technocratic elites and entrepreneurs making brilliant bets that paid off—not about “the people.” And when these elite industrialists talk about the laborers who worked for them, they adopt paternalist praise for the “hard-working” Taiwanese, who keep their machines running for 24 hours a day. One of the members of the original RCA mission—who went on to become a major tech figure—says that if a machine broke down at midnight, a technician would magically appear and have it running again by 2 or 3 AM. Unlike in the U.S., he says, where a lab tech would stroll in at 9, have their coffee, and then fix it. It was apparently beyond him to understand that this might say more about labor conditions than national character. Nor was there any mention that in Taiwan, RCA is synonymous with a landmark industrial pollution and environmental health lawsuits, where more than 80,000 workers were exposed to cancer-causing chemicals.
*
In both films, the most affecting moments come when they show young people driven to make sacrifices for their country. Yet we couldn’t help but feel the difference in the way that the two films talked about Taiwan. Invisible Nation is clearly shaped by the “Taiwanese” national narrative; A Chip Odyssey much less so. None of the latter’s subjects speak on film about “Taiwan” as a sovereign nation. Very few supported or support the Democratic Progressive Party. (Full disclosure—we know this from Albert’s childhood; their families aren’t shy at all about it.) A Chip Odyssey reflects a hard-nosed idea: “It’s the silicon shield, our chips industry, that protect us—not democracy. Does the world really care about democracy?”
And to be fair, there’s truth to that cynicism about world power politics. The U.S. backed Taiwan when it was a brutal dictatorship; its decision to abandon Taiwan and switch recognition to China also had nothing to do with democracy. Today, Taiwan has become one of the world’s model democracies—and yet country after country, corporation after corporation folds to China’s power, paying no heed to Taiwan’s moral accomplishments in respecting individual rights, LGBTQ dignity, free assembly, gender parity in politics, universal healthcare, and fair elections.
Still, Invisible Nation does show what great power politics looks like. Taiwan is excluded from the United Nations, World Health Organization, Interpol, and countless others. Former Vice President Chen Chien-jen recalls that during the SARS crisis in 2003, Taiwan reached out to the World Health Organization for help—but received no reply. Years later, even after leading the world in saving lives during the pandemic, the WHO still excludes Taiwan.
Chip Odyssey tells the story that the silicon industry alone has protected Taiwan from invasion, and that government foresight alongside smart long-term investment paid off. That’s not untrue—and as our current world order shows us, good government is important. But for some reason the film feels incomplete. When “the people” appear in Chip Odyssey, they are cast as obedient laborers. Their mission was to save Taiwan, but what (and whose) Taiwan were they saving? The film doesn’t say.
The silences in each film point us to the political choices of the filmmakers. In this, both take their lead from their own subjects. The Taiwanese subjects in Invisible Nation refrain from criticizing the U.S. role in Taiwan; conversely, the Taiwanese engineers, magnates, and accountant interviewed in A Chip Odyssey refrain from criticizing China. A Chip Odyssey ends with the TSMC president C. C. Wei visiting the White House in March 2025 to announce a $100 billion plan to build new factories in the United States. The whole feel of this visit is meant to be ominous—can we trust the U.S.?
Contrast this with Invisible Nation, which describes China’s aggression, calling a spade a spade. In 1995, Chinese missiles landed in international waters close to Taiwan’s strait, and China openly admitted it was trying to intimidate people into voting against independence. Xi Jinping declares he will not renounce the use of force. “We have a history of not understanding totalitarian regimes until it’s too late,” one scholar says. A clip shows Xi announcing the lifting of term limits so he can rule indefinitely. “China has been moving towards totalitarianism. It’s time to sit up and really grasp this.”
This isn’t to say Invisible Nation is silent on the United States. In fact, it’s prescient about how “Trump 2.0” has left Taiwan more precarious and vulnerable. William Stanton, former director of the American Institute of Taiwan, talks about how, after the first phone call between Trump and Tsai during “Trump 1.0,” a 93-year-old Henry Kissinger flew to China to meet Xi Jinping. Stanton’s disgust is clear: “We sold out Taiwan, which shares our values, ideals, and geostrategic interests,” he says. Kissinger, was “a man who never visited Taiwan. At one point he was asked whether he would go, and he said, ‘Well, I’d have to ask my Chinese friends.’”
Stanton adds, “Years later, Trump was asked whether he’d have another phone call, and he said, ‘Well, I have to ask my friend Xi Jinping.’ It’s sad how little the leadership of the United States has learned.”
These ambitious films compress over seventy years of history into a single narrative that runs right up to the present. Perhaps one day, when more people know about Taiwan, documentaries won’t bear the burden of explaining so much. These films tell complex stories with warmth and care.
We recommend both films highly.
Book Club: Patricia Engel’s Veins of the Ocean
We loved talking to you all about Family Lexicon! Our next book club is Friday, August 29th 7 PM EST / Saturday, August 30th 7 AM Taiwan time, for which we’ll read Patricia Engel’s Veins of the Ocean. On Friday, September 26th, 7 PM EST / Saturday, Sept. 27th 7 AM Taiwan time, we’ll read Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo. And then, on Friday, October 24th 7 PM EST / Saturday, October 25th 7 AM Taiwan time, we’ll return to Natalia Ginzburg and read Road to the City. After, we’ll be reading Miranda July’s All Fours, Budi Darma’s People from Bloomington, Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and Percival Everett’s James. The book club is open to all paying subscribers. Thanks to our book club for their suggestions!
just came across your write-up, thank you for your words... and despite me not actually being Taiwanese it discribes so well what I still feel when watching it for the probably 50th time, it was 8 years of my live here and every time I watch it I relive all those moments, all the people I got to meet, all the knowledge shared... and then I see, hear and feel the audience and their reaction amd it's such a reward, even more so when there is time for Q&A after screenings or people come and talk to me afterwards outside... I really hope our film and my images in it reach the hearts and minds of people here and abroad (like at the many many festivals it already screened...) and it is a little pay back from my to the place I call home now...
Always a great read. Now I just gotta find a screener for A Chip Odyssey...