P. Sni­adec­ki, who lived in China for a long time and trav­elled all over the coun­try by train, con­densed the results of these ethno­graph­ic excur­sions into a mul­ti­far­i­ous and col­or­ful film. The entire cosmos of this part of the world can be found in the trou­bles, sto­ries, hopes, and expec­ta­tions of people from all walks of life moving amidst heavy lug­gage, small chil­dren, strict rail­way con­duc­tors and chick­ens flying around. Out­side is the vast, expan­sive for­eign coun­try. (Vien­nale)

“Sni­adec­ki offers a for­mal­ly con­trolled look at the range of class­es, the implied changes wrought by China’s eco­nom­ic boom, and the inter­ac­tions par­tic­u­lar to train travel. Refresh­ing­ly, Sni­adec­ki allows the film — or rather, some pas­sen­gers — to engage in pol­i­tics, from the rights of minori­ties to eco­nom­ic pres­sures. While cere­bral in intent and plan­ning, the pic doesn’t feel overly strait­jack­et­ed by theory and offers unex­pect­ed moments of amuse­ment.” (Jay Weiss­berg, Variety)

“The train’s roar is a con­stant, inter­rupt­ed by some amaz­ing mono­logues and con­ver­sa­tions: a young woman, work weary, musing about how nice it would be to do noth­ing than eat and sleep all day; a con­ver­sa­tion about the par­tic­u­lars of Muslim life in the outer provinces, and a young boy’s daz­zling­ly nihilis­tic parody of a train conductor’s set­ting-off speech.” (filmmakermagazine.com)