This is a short segment of “Yi Yi” that could be overlooked or forgotten easily. I could imagine that if Edward Yang brought his nearly 3 hour epic to a Hollywood studio, they’d immediately identify these scenes as ones that could be cut or shortened.

But Yang is working not just on a story, but also a rhythm. He wants the audience to feel his characters processing and adjusting, slowly noticing things that change their perceptions, not reaching rash conclusions based on flashes of images or information.

So the segment just opens with clouds, the things that connect one city to another as we fly fast distances. As Tolstoy said, he all live under the same big sky, and here Yang is connection people and places with the slow drift of puffy clouds.

We first see Ting-Ting, walking morosely towards the apartment. Lily bounces past, giving her a giddy “hi!” Ting-Ting says nothing, just keeping her head down. When she finally peers back, she sees Fatty arrive on his bicycle. Lily puts an arm on his back and rides pillion with him, laughing as they go.

There’s something indescribably painful about seeing someone you have feelings for together with another lover. And this is probably the first time Ting-Ting has ever felt this unique sense of loss. This is one of the most effective uses of Yang’s restrained camera. We just watch them ride off, he gives Ting-Ting the dignity of not having that pain observed up close.

Then Ting-Ting unlocks the front door to the apartment. NJ is there, his bags around him, looking disoriented. He asks if she’s seen his cup, he can’t find it.

So Ting-Ting does what comes reflexively, she helps out. She goes to the kitchen and looks through cabinets for this cup, one she never asked him to describe. It’s entirely possible that she has no idea what she’s looking for, because that’s what dutiful children do.

She comes back out to the living room and her father is passed out on the floor.

Before anyone, including the film audience, has time to panic, we see NJ in bed, Ting-Ting giving him some kind of medication and water. She stands over him as he goes back to sleep, probably wanting to cry on her father’s shoulder even if she can’t bring herself to tell him why. She looks so adult in this long shot, taken from outside of the apartment, through the windows reflecting city life.

Next, we see NJ awake the next morning in bed, drinking some water, apparently back to normal. He goes into the living room and stares out the window. Someone is humming in the background, perhaps the nurse taking care of the grandmother.

Very few films take the time to show characters deep in thought. We never hear what NJ is contemplating, but we can guess it has something to do with the loss of both Sherry and Ota. His fantasy of a transformed life has been pulled away — in the case of Sherry, due to his own slow indecision.

He wanders into Yang-Yang’s room, sees the camera hanging from a hook, then opens a pack of photographs on his desk. There are 23 pictures of the back of people’s heads, constituting a major creative project for an eight year old boy.

The find serves two purposes — it opens a door into Yang-Yang’s art, the way that he’s working through his problem with not being able to know and understand other people. But it is also a reminder to NJ that while he’s been so wrapped up in his romantic daydreams about Sherry, he’s been missing out on his son’s life.

Yang-Yang has been away from us for too long as well. That’s ok, the rest of the film is his.