At the Hong Kong International Film Festival, Taiwanese director Shen Ko-Shang presented his feature debut “Deep Quiet Room,” an adaptation of Lin Hsiu-ho’s novel that probes family violence, grief, and the invisible legacies passed between generations. Shen spoke about the long road from documentary research to narrative cinema, his collaboration with key cast and crew, and where he sees Taiwanese cinema heading today.
Shen’s journey toward “Deep Quiet Room” began more than a decade ago, long before cameras rolled.
“Originally I was preparing a documentary about family violence and how it affects children as they grow up,” he recalls. “I did extensive fieldwork with many cases, taking notes on their psychology and the patterns in these families. But I realized it would be very difficult to present this material directly. Then I encountered Lin Hsiu-ho’s novel and felt it offered a way to approach the same subject, but through a husband’s point of view and through the texture of sorrow.”
That recognition turned years of research into the foundation of his debut narrative feature.
“All the fieldwork remained inside the project,” he explains. “It fed the writing, the characters, and especially the father figure and the women in this family. The novel gave me structure and perspective, while my real cases gave it weight.”
Trauma, secrets, and pregnancy sit at the center of “Deep Quiet Room,” as Ming slowly uncovers the hidden past of his wife Yi-Ting and the shadow cast by her father. Shen was conscious of how easily these elements could turn into pure melodrama.
“For me the story is not just about shocking events,” he says. “It is about how sorrow continues, how it extends. Pregnancy can be hope and fear at the same time. Family secrets are both protection and poison. We tried to balance these elements scene by scene, always asking if we were following the emotional truth instead of just pushing for intensity.”
To keep the narrative grounded, Shen anchored the entire story in Ming’s experience. The film opens after Yi-Ting’s death and follows Ming as he prepares the funeral, cares for his father in law, and pieces together the past.
“Ming returns home and suddenly his whole world collapses,” Shen says. “From that moment, he is searching. He looks for hints in memories from their courtship, from pregnancy, from small details in the house. Structurally, I wanted the audience to discover the truth only as quickly as he could. So we built it like a puzzle, where each recollection and each new piece of information changes his understanding.”
Part of that puzzle is a book Yi-Ting has compiled, as well as fragments of gossip and remarks heard around the funeral. Through these, Ming gradually realizes how deeply his father-in-law has shaped the women in the family, perhaps through violence and control that were never fully spoken about.
“Ming believes in being a good husband and a good son,” Shen notes. “He is straightforward, maybe too simple, and that is why he misses the fine signals from his wife. That limitation is his tragedy but also what makes him human.”
Casting that emotional anchor was crucial. Shen turned to Joseph Chang for Ming and Ariel Lin for Yi-Ting.
“I needed someone for Ming who feels pure and direct, a man who truly believes in love and in his role as protector,” Shen explains. “Joseph Chang has that quality. When he read the script, he immediately agreed. He saw that from the first scene to the last, he is present, and he was very excited to explore such a demanding part. During preparation we spoke almost every day, going into the details of each beat and how his understanding shifts.”
Yi-Ting, played by Ariel Lin, sits at the eye of the storm. Her presence is felt even when she is not on screen.
“Ariel is really the core,” Shen says. “But at first she was hesitant. She told me she was afraid of the story, especially because she herself had a young child and was expecting another. The script touches on losing a baby and on deep psychological pain. She wanted to know how to enter and exit such a state safely.”
To support her, Shen leaned directly on his earlier research.
“She asked to learn about the real cases behind my work,” he continues. “So I created something like a diary for her. For every scene she plays, I wrote down the emotional state of the character the fear, love, anger, hope. Where does this scene sit in her inner timeline, what has already happened to her, what is she hiding. These notes became a guide for her to go into the character and come back out again. It gave her a sense of security.”
Another key presence is Yi-Ting’s father, portrayed by veteran actor Chin Shih-chieh, whose performance adds a chilling yet recognizable layer to the story.
“From my fieldwork I noticed that many abusive father figures are actually very respected in society,” Shen says. “They build their own empire, their own castle. Outside, they are charming and successful. Inside the home, they control everything. I wanted someone who could embody that contradiction.”
Chin Shih-chieh was Shen’s first choice, but not an easy one to convince.
“I sent him the script and he immediately refused,” Shen recalls. “He said he hated this kind of man and did not want to play him. So I asked for a face to face meeting. I talked for an hour about my research, about the women I met, about why I had to make this project. Only after several meetings did he say, ‘If I take this role, it is not because I like the character, but because I understand the message you want to convey.’ That commitment is what he brought to the screen. He gives the father an outward elegance and an inner terror without ever turning him into a cartoon.”
The visual language of “Deep Quiet Room” is equally considered. Working with cinematographer Chen Ta-Pu, Shen crafts an intimate, breathing atmosphere that moves between past and present, and between different domestic spaces.
“The story constantly shifts in time,” he explains. “Many projects mark the past with obvious color changes or strong visual effects. I did not want that. I wanted the audience to read time from the acting, from small details in the faces and bodies. So we kept the palette very close between past and present, and trusted the performances.”
Space itself becomes symbolic.
“Most of the story happens in ordinary places homes, a car, a hospital,” Shen says. “But we tried to treat them like allegories. The father’s house is like a giant tree. It is impressive, even beautiful, but it casts a huge shadow. People try to run away from it, yet they cannot escape that shade. The daughter’s home is by the sea, searching for light and distance, and even in the car rides we used tunnels and bridges to show how the characters pass through darkness and light.”
Chen Ta-Pu and Shen chose to shoot entirely with a handheld camera and to imagine the lens as a silent witness.
“We treated the camera like a soul or an angel staying close to the characters,” Shen says. “It does not judge. It just observes. Because it is handheld, you can feel that the camera is breathing with them. That slight movement and closeness make the story feel almost like a documentary at times, even though everything is carefully planned.”
Asked about the current landscape of Taiwanese cinema, Shen sees both danger and opportunity.
“In mainstream Taiwanese cinema right now, there is a clear focus on box office,” he notes. “People chase certain benchmarks, and that pushes topics toward what feels immediately relatable and entertaining. Current issues, familiar comedy, certain romance formulas. At the same time, there are still directors making more intimate stories, and many of us are looking to international collaboration like we did on this project, with post production work abroad and partners from different countries. That gives us a bit more oxygen.”
For Shen’s generation, the legacy of the New Taiwan Cinema remains a powerful reference point.
“We grew up watching Hou Hsiao-hsien, Edward Yang, Tsai Ming-liang,” he says. “They taught us to believe in cinema as an art form. Younger directors sometimes react against that and want to treat cinema more purely as a commercial product. I do not think one path cancels the other, but the tension is real. A work like ‘Deep Quiet Room’ probably has to survive between those two poles.”
With his debut feature now complete and moving through festivals, Shen is already looking ahead. His next ideas continue to circle around people under quiet but extreme pressure.
“I am developing a story about someone who becomes bedridden after illness,” he reveals. “The central question is not just how that person suffers, but how everyone around them restructures their life, what hidden conflicts come to the surface. Again it is about crises in ordinary families. I am also considering a smaller scale project focusing on a single location and very few characters, to push even further into emotional detail. Whatever comes next, I think I will stay close to these themes.”
With “Deep Quiet Room,” Shen Ko-Shang has delivered a debut that draws on years of research and a deep sensitivity to the textures of everyday cruelty and care.
