The Canadian Chinese co-production Banr, written, directed and starring Eric Xia-Hou, made its world premiere at the 2025 Slamdance Film Festival in its new home of Los Angeles, where it also had the designation of being the only narrative feature from Asia selected this year.
The heartfelt drama follows the fractured collapse of a 40-year marriage between a strong-willed husband named Zhang Jianjun (Sui Li) and his loving wife, Liu Ximei (Baoquing Li), who suffers from Alzheimer’s. Told through a series of fragmented memories, the camera watches as Zhang leaves a collection of videos behind for his wife in the event that he can no longer take care of her. Throughout these videos, we see how Zhang and Liu not only take care of each other but manage to still navigate the ups and downs of life, grief and loss as they both succumb to the medical issues that come with age. However, when the couple’s daughter, Zhang Yun Yun (Xia-Hou), suggests that her mother should be placed into a nursing home as her condition begins to worsen, her father has a hard time confronting the truth.
Here, Deadline talks to Xia-Hou about almost casting Jackie Chan, her personal connection to the material and the fun creative challenges of making Banr.
DEADLINE: When did you begin working on the script for Banr? How did this idea come to you?
ERICA XIA-HOU: When I started writing the script, I had just finished filming Fox Hunt, and the pandemic lockdowns kept me stuck at home. It felt like being trapped—not just in my apartment but within myself. The enemy was invisible, something you couldn’t see or touch, yet it controlled every part of your life. It felt like being alive but powerless, unable to direct your own actions.
That sense of helplessness and loss of control reminded me of Alzheimer’s disease. It’s a condition where people lose their memories, their sense of identity, and ultimately, their control over themselves. The parallels were striking. Both experiences are about losing pieces of yourself to something you can’t fight or escape. That’s what inspired me to explore this topic in Banr.
DEADLINE: Do you have a personal connection to the subject matter?
XIA-HOU: Yes, I do. My grandmother passed away during the pandemic. She had been in a nursing home for over 10 years, suffering from severe memory loss. She couldn’t remember anything—not even whether she had eaten. But every time she saw my dad’s face, she would always recognize him and say, “My son.” That always struck me as powerful. It showed me that even when the disease had taken almost everything from her—her memories, her sense of time, her independence—it couldn’t take away her love. I believe that love is connected to memory. It’s like an anchor that stays even when everything else fades away. That idea became a central theme in Banr.
I’ve always been fascinated by memory. Watching Christopher Nolan’s Memento had a huge impact on me. It showed me how memories are stored in ways that are subjective and unreliable, and that opens up so many creative possibilities in storytelling and editing. That’s why I chose to use a nonlinear narrative in Banr. It allowed me to explore how memory shapes our experiences and identities. I also did a lot of research on memory, reading books and watching documentaries, which deepened my understanding of how fragile and complex it is. All of this inspired me to approach the story in a way that felt both personal and universal.
Erica Xia-Hou
DEADLINE: What does this title mean?
XIA-HOU:“Lao Bànr” is an affectionate term in Chinese culture used to describe a long-term spouse, usually someone you’ve been married to for many years. It carries deep emotional and intimate connotations, representing a “long-time companion” or “lifelong partner.” In English, it’s somewhat similar to terms like “soulmate” or “better half,” but it places a stronger emphasis on shared experiences and growing old together. In Chinese culture, elderly couples often use “Lao Bànr” to express the value of their years of marriage. However, when they’re upset or arguing, they tend to drop this affectionate term and call each other by name instead. For example, in the film, when the wife is angry, she shouts, “Zhang Jianjun, I want my freedom! I want to go out! You’ve restricted my freedom!” This shift in how she addresses him shows her emotional distance and frustration.
I decided to remove the word “Lao” (meaning “old”) from the title, keeping just “Bànr” to focus on the idea of companionship. In the film, it’s not just about the husband and wife—the pet dog is also a companion, just like the daughter is. Every character, in their own way, is longing for love and companionship. I wanted to highlight this universal desire, showing how we all seek connection, no matter our age or role in life.
DEADLINE: This story has non-linear elements to it. Was that structure part of the script from the beginning?
XIA-HOU: Yes, the nonlinear narrative was something I planned from the very beginning, but it wasn’t written that way in the script. When writing the script, I followed a chronological order to help the non-professional actors and crew understand the story clearly. However, during the editing process, I completely rearranged the scenes based on the characters’ emotions. I wanted the audience to feel the characters’ emotional journeys rather than just follow a straightforward timeline. For example, whenever a character feels lonely, I cut to another character experiencing the same emotion—even the dog. This connects their emotional worlds, showing that they all share the same longing for love and companionship.
The nonlinear structure also reflects the way memory works—fragmented and unreliable. When the characters look directly at the camera through POV shots, it’s as if they are confronting their own reflections or memories. I imagined the wife looking at a version of herself from her past, though that version might be an illusion because our memories are subjective and often distorted. This was inspired by the idea of breaking the fourth wall in theater, allowing the audience to interact with the film just as the characters interact with their own memories.I also chose to leave out scenes that explained too much because memory is often incomplete and disjointed. For example, the wife might sense that her husband has died, but she can’t remember when or how. This creates a sense of confusion and loss, which reflects the experience of Alzheimer’s.
The nonlinear approach also allowed me to use imperfect moments. If I shot three takes of a scene and the first take had a small mistake but felt more genuine, I’d choose that one over a perfectly delivered take. I also included moments before “Action” or after “Cut” because that’s when the actors were their most natural selves. This added to the raw, emotional realism I wanted to capture. Ultimately, the nonlinear structure wasn’t just a stylistic choice—it was meant to immerse the audience in the emotional world of the characters, helping them feel the same confusion, longing, and fragmented reality experienced by someone living with Alzheimer’s.
DEADLINE: The non-linear framing also emphasizes the way that trauma can become woven into someone’s day-to-day life, especially through Jianjun having to take care of his wife in a way he never has before. And the daughter, Yun Yun, has trauma from having to deal with both her parents, I would imagine. Can you talk about creating these things?
XIA-HOU: In Asian culture, placing an elderly family member in a nursing home is often seen as abandoning them. This cultural expectation of caregiving can be both a burden and an act of love, and it creates complex emotional dynamics within a family. The actor who plays the husband in Banr brought his own experiences into the role. In real life, he took care of his mother, who had Alzheimer’s, for over a decade before she passed away. He shared intimate details about how he and his wife managed her care, the exhaustion they felt, and the emotional toll it took on their marriage. His perspective shaped Jianjun’s character, especially the feelings of loneliness, duty, and love intertwined with caregiving.
The film’s production designer also had a deeply personal connection to the story. His father had Alzheimer’s, and his younger brother became the primary caregiver for over ten years. Their father’s unusual historical experiences caused him to be awake all night, creating a constant cycle of sleeplessness and anxiety for the family. The brother went from being overweight to extremely thin, worn down by the daily demands of caregiving. His life became about survival, living each day just to get through it. Yet, even within this exhaustion, there was love. It showed me that pain and love often coexist, especially in caregiving.
My own experiences also influenced the story. My grandmother suffers from memory loss, and my family faced a difficult decision about whether to place her in a nursing home. This led to long arguments between my parents, and I found myself pulled into the emotional struggle. That personal conflict helped me understand Yunyun’s character better—the sense of responsibility, guilt, and emotional exhaustion she feels while navigating her own life. I drew on all of these real-life experiences to create the film’s emotional landscape. I wanted to show how trauma isn’t just about dramatic events but also about the quiet, daily struggles that shape who we are. I used a non-linear structure to weave these moments together, reflecting how memory and trauma don’t follow a straight line. Instead, they are layered and fragmented, constantly influencing the present. While many scenes are based on real experiences, I also applied artistic interpretation to highlight the emotional truth behind them. It was important to me to portray the complexity of caregiving—not just as a burden but as an expression of love and connection, even when it feels overwhelming.
Sui Li and Baoquing Li in BANR
DEADLINE: Though the film deals with sad subject matter, there are some heartfelt and humorous moments. Can you talk about why it was important for you to represent levity in this story?
XIA-HOU: I believe that people with Alzheimer’s are still people—they need love, understanding, and even laughter, just like everyone else. Life doesn’t stop being funny just because things are difficult. Including humor wasn’t something I planned; it was about showing real life as it is. I remember my English teacher sharing a story about her father-in-law who had Alzheimer’s. He and his wife were married for over 40 years and loved each other deeply. But after he developed the disease, he became playful, almost childlike. He would hide things he found interesting around the house, like playing hide-and-seek. One time, he hid their wedding rings. His wife was worried sick but couldn’t scold him because he didn’t understand what he had done. They had worn those rings for decades, and now they were just gone. Getting mad wouldn’t bring them back.
My teacher told me that they eventually learned to look at things differently. Her mother-in-law felt exhausted sometimes, but she realized that her husband was still there—just in a different way. Those moments became special memories, even if they were bittersweet. This showed me that humor and love often go hand in hand, even in difficult situations. In the film, there are moments of humor that come directly from real life. For example, the toy fish scene: the elderly woman keeps feeding the toy fish because she forgets she’s already done it. Eventually, the fish “dies” from overfeeding. It’s funny, but it’s also meaningful because goldfish are said to have short memories—just like her. In many Asian families, people keep goldfish because they symbolize good luck and wealth, but here, it becomes a toy that reflects her playful, childlike nature.
Another moment is when the toilet paper roll falls, and the elderly woman gets upset, saying she’d rather hold it in than use the restroom. It’s a funny moment, but it’s also very real. These little fragments of everyday life show the humor and humanity in her situation. I didn’t try to force humor into the story; I just wanted to capture the reality of life, which is always a mix of joy and sorrow. Alzheimer’s may take away memories, but it doesn’t take away someone’s humanity. Showing these moments of levity was my way of honoring that.
DEADLINE: At what point did you decide to write, direct, as well as, star as an actor in it?
XIA-HOU: It was really about character transformation—not just for the story but for myself. I felt like I was shifting from being a child to becoming a parent, having to take responsibility for everything. If I were just the director, focusing only on the creative process, it would have been much easier. But with this film, I had to wear multiple hats—writer, director, actor, and even producer. Before directing this film, I had years of experience in filmmaking, especially in creative roles like screenwriting, acting, and editing. So, the creative process wasn’t the hard part. In fact, directing actually gave me more freedom to express what I wanted. The real challenge was on the production side—especially since this is a low-budget independent film, and I also had to handle promotion and distribution. Those are the areas I’m least familiar with. It’s like trying to do my own makeup—technically possible, but frustrating and way outside my comfort zone.
On set, I didn’t have an assistant director or a second unit director, so I had to manage everything myself. I was constantly shifting between directing, acting, and coordinating the crew. It was exhausting but also rewarding. I realized that if I didn’t do it, no one else would. In a way, it was like growing up—learning to take on responsibility and make things happen, no matter how challenging it was. Looking back, I wish I could have focused solely on the creative side, but being involved in every aspect also allowed me to shape the film exactly how I envisioned it. It was definitely a balancing act, but it taught me a lot about perseverance and resourcefulness.
DEADLINE: What was the most challenging aspect about bringing this script and the film to life?
XIA-HOU:To be honest, the filming and creative process went incredibly smoothly, and I genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. I spent 9 months writing the script and another few months on pre-production. Since I was also the producer, I personally reached out and assembled every member of the crew. I knew exactly what I wanted, and the team worked well together. The real challenge came when we were forced to stop filming. After a month of shooting, we had to shut down and disband the crew because of strict lockdowns. All nursing homes and hospitals were completely closed off—no one could enter or leave—which meant we lost all of our shooting locations. We had no choice but to put everything on hold.
Three months later, I managed to reassemble the original crew and relocate the production to another city, where we filmed for another month. For a low-budget independent film, this was a huge challenge. Disbanding and then rebuilding a crew is risky—many projects never recover from disruptions like that. People move on, schedules conflict, and you risk losing momentum.I was lucky that everyone was still passionate about the project and willing to come back, but it required a lot of persistence and coordination. Looking back, that pause actually gave me time to reflect on the story and refine certain scenes, but at the time, it felt like everything was falling apart. It was a test of patience and perseverance more than anything else.
DEADLINE: There’s a scene where Jianjun and Ximei are watching Titanic. That got me curious. Were there any movies that you watched that had an influence on Banr?
XIA-HOU: Yes, definitely. Two directors who had a huge influence on me are Wong Kar-wai and Christopher Nolan. Wong Kar-wai creates what I call “emotional films.” His movies aren’t just about telling a story—they’re about conveying feelings. He makes the audience feel the emotions of his characters in a way that goes beyond traditional narrative techniques. His films often explore love, but it’s usually a love that’s unfulfilled, missed, or incomplete. That emotional complexity inspired me to explore similar themes in Banr, especially the idea of love lingering even when memories fade. Christopher Nolan’s work with memory and dreams also deeply impacted me. I remember watching Memento for the first time and being completely drawn in by its fragmented narrative. It’s a brilliant exploration of memory’s subjectivity and unreliability. I’ve watched it countless times, and no one has managed to replicate its impact. It showed me how powerful non-linear storytelling can be, which inspired the structure of Banr.
I was also blown away by Inception. Funny enough, I had written a script about dreams before I saw that movie, but after watching it, I lost the motivation to continue. Nolan not only explored every idea I had about dreams but went even deeper, exploring layers I hadn’t even considered. It was like seeing all my thoughts fully realized on screen. It made me realize that a master storyteller can take an idea and elevate it to a level you never imagined. While Banr is very much its own story, these influences shaped how I approached memory, emotion, and narrative structure. I wanted to create a film that didn’t just tell a story but made the audience feel the characters’ experiences in a deeply emotional and sometimes fragmented way—just like how memories work in real life.
DEADLINE: How did you go about casting these actors playing the elderly parents?
XIA-HOU: I originally considered casting Jackie Chan for the father’s role because we were collaborating on another film project at the time. But then I heard about this elderly gentleman through my mother, who is friends with him. She told me about his incredible life experiences—he served in the military, fought in wars, and took care of his mother, who had Alzheimer’s, for over a decade. He even suffered a heart attack himself. His life story mirrored the character’s journey in the film, and his passion for life left a deep impression on me. We met, had a long conversation, and I felt an instant connection. It was clear to me that he could bring a deep emotional truth to the role. For the role of the elderly woman, I discovered her through a short video she did for a public service announcement about Alzheimer’s awareness. It was a silent, two-minute performance, but her eyes captured so much emotion. She conveyed the confusion and vulnerability associated with Alzheimer’s in such a genuine way. Plus, she looks a lot like my own mother, which made her even more perfect for the role.
I chose non-professional actors because I wanted their reactions to be as authentic as possible. Real emotions can’t be faked, and I believed their life experiences would bring depth to their performances. This also meant I needed to guide them closely on set. I stood right next to the camera and directed them throughout each scene. We would film three takes in a row without stopping, which allowed them to react naturally to the emotions I was prompting in the moment. At first, the elderly woman had a habit of looking directly into the camera when delivering her lines, even if her husband was standing beside her. This was because she was used to filming short-form videos like TikToks. It took some time and coaching to help her adjust to acting in a more narrative, cinematic style. But once she understood the flow, she delivered beautifully raw and emotional moments. In the end, working with non-professional actors required patience and creativity, but it also brought a level of honesty and realism to the film that I couldn’t have achieved with seasoned actors. Their life experiences became a part of the story, making the characters feel real and relatable.
DEADLINE: Your film is the only Asian feature film to be screened at Slamdance this year. How are you feeling in this moment of having finished the film and getting ready to take it out into the world?
XIA-HOU: I feel incredibly honored and excited to have my film as the only Asian narrative feature at Slamdance this year. It’s a very personal project for me, and seeing it recognized on an international platform is both humbling and rewarding. Completing the film was an emotional journey, and now that it’s ready to meet the world, I feel a mix of pride, anticipation, and gratitude. I’m especially excited to bring a story about contemporary Chinese family life to a global audience. I hope it resonates with people regardless of their background because the emotions—love, loss, and longing—are universal. I’m also proud to represent Asian cinema at Slamdance, a festival known for celebrating unique voices and independent storytelling. It’s a wonderful opportunity to share a different perspective and contribute to the diversity of narratives on the international stage.
I’m looking forward to hearing how audiences connect with the story and the characters. More than anything, I hope it sparks conversations about memory, love, and the complexities of family relationships.
DEADLINE: What do you hope audiences get out of this?
XIA-HOU: I hope audiences walk away feeling the power of love and the importance of memory. In the film, love is what keeps people connected, even when memories fade. I’m fascinated by the sense of loneliness that exists in modern society. Sometimes, you can be surrounded by loved ones—your partner, your family—and still feel profoundly alone. In Banr, the elderly couple is together every day, but the wife’s memory loss creates a deep sense of loneliness and insecurity. She keeps wanting to go home, looking for her husband, and waiting for her daughter after school, even though they’re all right there with her. The husband feels just as lonely because the person he loves no longer remembers him.
Everyone seeks emotional connection. No matter how isolated we feel or how much we forget, we still long to be loved and remembered. There’s a line in the film where the husband says, “I would rather suffer than forget.” That’s why he records videos—to help his wife remember him and to hold on to their shared memories. I was inspired by the animated film Coco, which says, “To be forgotten is to truly die.” That line stayed with me. In a way, Banr explores the same idea—that love is what keeps our memories alive. That’s why I chose the slogan, “Love is the only answer.” I hope the film resonates with audiences, helping them reflect on their own relationships and the memories they share with loved ones. More than anything, I want people to leave the theater feeling connected, not just to the story but to the people they care about in their own lives.
The Slamdance Film Festival will continue its virtual edition until March 7th, and BANR is still available for paid streaming here.
