The film "Youth in the City," which premiered on September 21, continues the mainstream realist tone dominating September's cinemas, focusing on two brothers from Malaysia who lack citizenship.

Poster for "Youth in the City"

The name "City" itself is steeped in irony and absurdity. This place was once a major gathering area for the lower-middle-class Chinese community in Kuala Lumpur, but it has now transformed into a hub for foreign laborers. The film unveils layers of a tragic and helpless existence surrounding illegal workers like Abang and Adi.

Played by Wu Kang-jen, the elder brother, Abang, is mute by birth. He works tirelessly and doesn’t complain, simply wishing for a stable life. His first scene shows him working under the table at a market, where he faces wage theft by his boss but remains submissive, swallowing his grievances.

Wu Kang-jen as Abang

His younger brother Adi is a rebellious youth who refuses to bow to fate. He sells fake documents, determined to escape this loathsome place with his brother. However, the harsh living conditions faced by many around Adi, who also lack identification, constantly remind them of the difficult circumstances they endure.

Chen Ze-yao as Adi

Due to their status, the two brothers tread carefully. They cannot access ordinary citizens' benefits, cannot obtain a mobile SIM card, cannot open a bank account, and must rely on walking and buses for transportation. Through the perspective of social worker Jia-en, who is eager to help them, we learn more about their situation—Abang’s birth certificate was destroyed in a fire, and to reissue it, his parents would need to verify it, but they perished in the same fire, creating a vicious cycle.

The younger brother's situation reflects a more common scenario—under Malaysian law, children born out of wedlock inherit their mother's nationality. Many Malaysian men father children with foreign women without registering their marriages, potentially leaving these children unable to become legal citizens throughout their lives, destined to scrape by with odd jobs.

Lin Xuan-yu as Jia-en

However, there are glimmers of light in their lives. Several women add touches of brightness to the film's dark tone. Besides Jia-en, who abandons a comfortable life to help vulnerable groups, the girl admired by the elder brother has heartfelt moments with him despite preparing to immigrate with her family. There’s also the transgender character Money, who, despite facing her own hardships, cares for the brothers like a mother, providing them with a semblance of "home" alongside other elderly members of the transgender community. Even the younger brother's female employer, who is preparing to return home to marry, shows hints of genuine affection during their farewell, blending sincerity with playful banter.

The bond between the brothers is one of the most touching aspects of the film. They have a ritualistic way of eating—breaking eggs by knocking them against each other's heads. In the film's first half, this unique gesture illustrates their intimate connection and shared resilience in the face of adversity. Their final farewell in prison also features this memorable act of breaking an egg with their heads for the "last time." As viewers, we associate this gesture with the harsh reality that the marginalized characters are forced to confront; the eggshell symbolizes their fragile lives and dreams, and using their heads to break it parallels their futile battle against fate, echoing the earlier scene of a falling victim meeting a bloody end.

Stills from "Youth in the City"

The unexpected death of Jia-en turns the story on its head. This becomes a point of contention about whether the film falls into the trap of being "forced" or "melodramatic." While this may not be the most sophisticated narrative technique, it indeed thrusts the entire story into a grimmer reality. The film moves away from the traditional narrative that praises endurance, optimism, and resilience in the face of hardship, opting instead for a direct and sharp indictment.

The true highlight of the film lies in Wu Kang-jen, the deserving recipient of the Golden Horse Best Actor award. Whether through his drastic physical transformation to fit the role, the use of sign language, or the profound and layered explosion of silent emotions, Wu’s performance is vibrant and precise, serving as a textbook example.

As a character with almost no spoken lines, Abang’s muteness and deafness are not only indicative of his difficult circumstances but also serve as a symbolic representation of voicelessness. In the first half, Wu presents Abang as a character who is entrenched in adversity yet carries kindness and love in his heart. It is not until the end of his life, during a scene in prison where he converses with a master, that we witness his emotional breakdown—from numbness at first to an explosion of feelings while facing the master, revealing Abang’s deep-seated despair and anger in its fullest form.

He has always aspired to be a good person, even enduring hardship without voicing his own needs. However, in that moment, all his expressions become about himself. He cannot understand why he cannot speak like others, why no one loves him, or why he cannot live a fulfilling life. He does not know what he has done wrong to deserve all this suffering. This lifelong "silent" good man finally struggles to stammer a few words amidst the chaos of his emotions—it is his first time "voicing" his feelings, and the repeated phrases resonate as—"I, want, to die!"

Sign language is not merely a series of gestures; it encompasses strength, intensity, and facial expressions. Wu’s sign language is infused with sentiment and nuance. In that moment, even without subtitles, the audience can feel how this character brutally opens up his heart, pouring out his sorrow.

Wu Kang-jen’s outstanding performance

From the actor’s gaunt cheeks and the preceding scenes, it’s apparent that the elder brother has been barely eating in prison. In the end, a brother who is utterly despairing and wishes for death finally raises his bowl when a guard says, "I know you’re not a bad person."

"Being a good person" is a principle he has always taught his younger brother. This commitment has brought him no benefits in his life until this moment, yet in his final moments, such a phrase underscores his dignity as a human being.

The film serves as a window into another distant yet tangible world. According to relevant statistics, as of 2022, the number of illegal workers in Malaysia is estimated to be around 1.2 to 3.5 million. These faceless individuals are typically reduced to cold statistics in common narratives. However, the film penetrates through high-angle shots, diving into the lives of those as small as ants, observing them from their level, gradually approaching to document their faces, to bring to light those who are hidden and to give voice to those who cannot speak.