Breaking Barriers: Jinyang Li on Storytelling, Identity, and Female Relational Ambivalence

Jinyang Li is a dedicated filmmaker and storyteller, passionate about capturing the intricacies of human experience through the art of cinema. Jinyang’s journey in filmmaking has been a fulfilling adventure, with every project offering new challenges and invaluable growth opportunities. Through film, Jinyang navigates the delicate boundary between reality and fantasy, striving to craft immersive and thought-provoking experiences for audiences.

In 2023, Jinyang wrote, directed, and edited Back to the Lake, a short film that has garnered international acclaim, with official selections at the 2024 Toronto International Women Film Festival, London Women Film Festival, and Milan Indie Film Festival. The film won Best Short Film, Best Experimental Film, and Best Student Film at the 2024 Art Giraffe International Film Festival. Additionally, Jinyang was honored as Best Female Director at the 2024 Berlin Short Film Awards and received recognition for Best Film Color and Best Poster Design at the Milan Indie Film Festival, where she also earned an Honorable Mention as Best First-Time Director.

Jinyang is also honored to have received the prestigious Betty-Thomas Award in both 2023 and 2024. Other notable works include Burgeoning (2022) and Have a Picnic (2021), where Jinyang served as both writer and director, showcasing her commitment to crafting stories that resonate deeply with viewers.

Could you share insights into your artistic journey and how it initially took shape?

I had little connection with art for the first 22 years of my life. While I sporadically attended interest-based classes, those were more for personal hobbies or to give adults something to boast about in social settings. Growing up within the framework of China’s exam-oriented education system, I was ingrained with the belief that I wasn’t “allowed” to enjoy art for its own sake, and that loving art was impractical. I remember asking my parents and teachers in high school if I could pursue a screenwriting major, and they rejected the idea almost instantly. At the time, I lacked the personality and conviction to sustain such a dream. My desire to pursue art never had the space to grow enough to challenge the authority of my parents and the collective expectations imposed by society.

However, once I entered college and was no longer driven by external goals, I was forced to confront myself. My mental state began to collapse almost immediately. It was then that I realized what I had done to myself in trying to fit into the mold others expected of me. If I were to describe my pain in terms of life goals, it felt like an intense rift between my soul and body. To this day, I still don’t fully understand why not pursuing art caused such a heavy burden on my spirit, perhaps it’s something that was destined.

There was one clear path to ending my suffering. Lacking the courage to leave this world, I picked up a pen to confront my past. Eventually, I embraced my suppressed pursuit: storytelling. As for why I chose film as the medium, I’m not entirely sure. An artistic answer would be that film feels like a gateway to another world for me. The practical explanation is that when I finally decided to start creating, it was already late in the game; I didn’t have time to learn other forms, and I seemed to have a bit more inspiration when it came to storytelling. So, I started with screenwriting. Once I began writing scripts, I wanted to see them come to life on screen.

What key influences—whether people, experiences, or artistic movements—have shaped your growth as a filmmaker?

The emotional connections I share with people around me, especially women.

Are there recurring themes or messages in your storytelling? What compels you to revisit them?

Recently, I’ve been exploring the concept of female relational ambivalence, which refers to “female same-sex hatred.” While the phrase might remind you of internalized misogyny, its essence is far more complex, encompassing a deeply entangled love-hate dynamic. It refers to the tension, competition, admiration, and resentment that can arise within intimate female relationships, shaped by societal structures and internalized expectations.

In my two most recent projects, the protagonists are two girls who are each other’s best friends, yet their relationship oscillates between deep love and searing resentment. The male characters in these stories serve more as symbolic backdrops, representing how the external societal structure rules operate.

Under the theme of female relational ambivalence, these two women use each other as The Other to establish their own identities. However, the subjectivity born from their bond is fragile and precarious because the foundational logic of societal order is inherently designed for men. The presence of patriarchy continually intrudes upon their connection, eroding the fragile unity they’ve built. I see the resulting conflict as a nameless anger over the loss of a mirrored self, a resentment born not out of rivalry for male attention, but from an inability to bridge the gap between them in a way that feels valid and unthreatened.

Some might interpret this dynamic as the opposite of lesbian love, like the relationship in Mulholland Drive. But what I strive to portray is closer to the relationship between Lila and Lenu in The Neapolitan Novels. As the second sex, women lack a clearly defined social pathway to reach their authentic selves. In such circumstances, the other woman, someone who grows alongside us and shares a deeply intertwined bond, becomes a mirror and a path for self-discovery.

We are reflections of each other, offering glimpses of an alternate timeline where our lives could have taken a different turn. We love each other deeply, and through that love and connection, we come to know ourselves. At its core, the conflicts in all of my stories stem from the shattering of this mirrored Other in the process of self-exploration.

How has your creative style and directorial approach developed over time?

I began writing scripts five years ago, and in the beginning, my work leaned towards extreme dramatic situations that are rare in everyday life, like murder. Back then, my goal was to “grab the audience’s attention” by crafting cool and compelling stories. For me at the time, this approach was also easier to execute.

However, I’ve always considered “a slice of life” style as my ultimate creative goal. But achieving that requires a certain level of life experience, which I lacked in my earlier years. After entering film school, through the intense process of shooting short films and as I’ve grown older, I gradually allowed more authentic and vulnerable emotions to seep into my stories.

While working on my last short film, Back to the Lake, I encountered an overwhelming sense of pain as I confronted my real past. That’s when I realized that creating extreme dramatic situations was sometimes a way for me to avoid addressing wounds I couldn’t articulate. Subtle, deeply personal details can often feel too raw and real for me to face directly. For a creator like me, I’ve learned that being brutally honest with myself and unafraid to explore those vulnerabilities is more essential than mastering technical skills.

In what ways have failure and experimentation contributed to your evolution as an artist?

As I mentioned earlier, my background in China’s exam-oriented education system has had a profound impact on me. Initially, this mindset created many constraints in my creative process because I was always searching for the “correct” answer. Over time, as I let go of the need to score a perfect grade, I began to see how some aspects of that mindset could still be useful.

During film school, each project felt like a periodic evaluation, a final test of my current abilities as a writer and director, but one without a standard answer key. I commit myself fully to creating the best work I’m capable of at that moment, and I believe the failures or experiments that arise from that effort are the most valuable.

When I push myself to the limit, the pain that comes from reaching the edge of my abilities, like the tearing of muscles after intense exertion, can be excruciating, but it also generates new strength.

Among your works, is there one that holds special significance for you? What makes it particularly meaningful?

One of my short films was originally titled Burgeoning, but while organizing my portfolio recently, I renamed it Burgeoning: Falling Upward. This story is a reflection on the growing pains I experienced between the ages of 13 and 15. It tells the story of a girl from a family on the verge of divorce, navigating through change and ultimately finding growth.

I completed the short film in April 2022, but the story’s outline was written as early as 2019. Back then, I struggled with the script but couldn’t pinpoint why I felt stuck. At the time, I wanted to explore the relationship between family dynamics and personal growth. In my view, Apryl, the girl in the story, was overly sheltered during her upbringing, leaving her with a kind of untested innocence. The impending collapse of her family paradoxically provided her with the space to gain new, essential nutrients for growth.

This film marked the beginning of my journey in incorporating my personal voice into my work. It took three years to bring this story to life, and when I finally finished shooting it, I understood why I had been blocked before. A semi-autobiographical story requires an objective perspective, which demands a certain emotional distance. It wasn’t until three years later, after moving to another country and allowing the story to simmer, that I was able to revisit it with clarity.

When I moved to the U.S. in 2021, I began to question whether I should incorporate the pandemic into my work. Ultimately, I decided against it for a similar reason, because everything was happening too quickly to process. At that time, there was only space for emotional release, and for me, that alone wasn’t enough to construct a compelling story. Only with sufficient time or physical distance to develop a perspective can I create something deeply personal and meaningful—the kind of work I truly want to make.

When crafting a film, how do you navigate the balance between creative spontaneity and structured storytelling?

For the first and second drafts of a script, I let spontaneity take the lead. I write whatever comes to mind, allowing the ideas to flow freely. Starting with the third draft, I begin to use structure to refine and polish the script. Before I even write the first word, I let the story run in the background of my mind, like an app quietly processing. By the time I sit down to write, I usually enter a state of intense creative flow, where ideas and inspiration pour out effortlessly. I deeply value this phase because it’s the part of the creative process I enjoy the most.

To make the most of this state, I try to complete as much preparation as possible beforehand, including research and groundwork. (This is also why I procrastinate!) My ideal workflow is to build a solid framework before I start writing so that when I finally do, I can dive in uninterrupted, allowing my thoughts to expand freely.

Once the initial drafts are done, the rational part of me steps in to evaluate the work through the lens of structure. At this stage, the script usually has significant issues, and structure becomes the lifeboat in a vast and chaotic ocean. It gives me something to hold onto as I decide what to add or cut. Since structural frameworks are universal tools distilled from countless stories, I sometimes experiment with variations in pacing or beats.

Even during structured revisions, moments of experimentation remain spontaneous. I often know instinctively that I want to make a certain change, but if someone asks me why at the time, I wouldn’t be able to explain it. Oddly enough, it is months later, when the film is shot and nearing post-production, that I start to understand the reasoning behind those creative choices. This retrospective process of connecting the dots is both strange and fascinating.

Looking ahead, what directions do you envision for your work, and what new creative territories are you eager to explore?

In terms of screenwriting, I feel it’s about time to start working on my first feature-length script. I already have an idea slowly taking shape in my mind. It’s inspired by my personal experiences in 2018 when I volunteered in Sri Lanka as part of an international program. While I’d prefer to keep the details to myself for now to allow space for deeper exploration, I can share that the story draws from the encounters I had during that time. Sri Lanka is a beautiful country, but with its recent economic collapse, I’ve lost touch with the local friends I met there and don’t know how they’re doing. Hearing about the country’s struggles recently brought back a flood of memories and reflections, sparking the desire to tell this story.

Looking ahead, I’m excited to explore the realm of AI filmmaking. With the proliferation of digital photography and online platforms, many creators have broken free from traditional filmmaking constraints. However, filmmaking remains a highly labor-intensive process, and under the current production model, it seems impossible to make a film without a crew. To me, this feels limiting.

If it were possible to disrupt this reliance on human resources and make filmmaking as independently achievable as writing, I believe I could create more experimental, conceptual works on a smaller scale. AI holds significant potential in this area, and I’m excited to explore how it could enable a more personal, flexible approach to storytelling.