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SCFF 2026 LINKA LINKA: A Bilingual Review and Interview with Dir. Kangdrun

Mon, 20 Apr 2026 08:58:05 GMT

SCFF 2026 LINKA LINKA Review

My earliest few memories of Tibetan New Wave cinema, like many others, came through the films of Pema Tseden. In his visual rendering of Tibet, the landscape is almost always bound up with barrenness and desolation. In many of the Tibetan films I encountered afterwards, the region was likewise packaged (in good and bad ways) through a set of familiar signifiers: prayer flags fluttering across the plateau, the uniquely harsh climate of the Tibetan highland, dust-laden roads, along which herds of yaks and sheep idly drift by. The thanatology of reincarnated life, the eternal motion of Dharma and ceaseless paying back of Karma…

Yet in Kangdrun’s cinema, these visual conventions – those that have proven time and again effective in local and international markets and festivals – are conspicuously absent. They are immediately replaced by a Lhasa that is urbanism, a Lhasa that is globalism. As night falls, fashionable young men and women gather on an open-air dance floor swaying to EDMs, while in the near distance, the Potala Palace gradually lights up, one lamp after another. It is, without question, the single visual that most radically unsettled my prior perception of Tibetan cinema.

My initial impression of Linka Linka was that of an autobiographical work. In the story, the young Samgyi leaves Tibet to study inland, and returns to Lhasa as a filmmaker to make her own film – details that closely mirror Kangdrun’s own life trajectory. Yet such a straightforward correspondence risks collapsing into what literary criticism terms the “biographical fallacy”, the deadly misrecognition that a fictional work reflects the creator’s immediate lived experience. Kangdrun appears acutely aware of this danger and actively resists it. By introducing a film-within-the-film, she eradicates any simple dichotomy between cinematic narrative and lived reality.

Memory here is no longer a single-trip vehicle for return. It is a problematic catalyst activating the exothermic reaction between past and present. Late at night, after the party, a small car carries adult Samgyi and Lhamo into a tunnel – a brief journey “home” charged with double meaning. The vehicle becomes the carriage of memory, where they traverse memories spanning three summers, returning to a fragile refuge that endures beyond the exhaustion of adult life. Within this space, memory is subjected to cross-interrogation – evasions and fabrication intermingle with the desire for confession, stirring what is already an unstable archive. What further complicates matters is that throughout the scene, we are repeatedly reminded that Samgyi is in the process of making a film about Lhamo. If all of this is merely one segment within a film – or even worse, within a film inside the film – then, regardless of its reliability, to whom do these memories eventually belong?

On April 13, Linka Linka walked away with the top Firebird Award and Fipresci Prize at the Hong Kong International Film Festival.

Linka is a Tibetan word that can be loosely translated as a garden or park.

What are your memories of Linka?

In the summer, we spend our time in the linka – playing cards, dancing, throwing dice, singing and dancing Nangma Stod-gzhas (ནང་མ་སྟོད་གཞས།). Every August, there’s the Shoton Festival. It is a really special occasion in Lhasa: people eat yoghurt and gather in the Norbulingka to watch Tibetan opera. By that time, every patch of shade in the park is filled with people.

When I was a child, all my memories of summer were in the linka. I always have this very specific image – whenever I think of summer, I’m wearing my plaid primary school skirt, and I’m always in the linka. For me, it carries something of a childhood fairyland. At the same time, it reflects a very chill state of mind that feels distinctly Lhasa.

Sometimes I think Lhasa’s culture is a bit overly chill—almost to the point of making you lose motivation. If you go to a café in Beijing, people are either working on their laptops or discussing business. But in Lhasa, young people just sit there, doing nothing, passing an entire afternoon like that. It’s quite a common thing in Lhasa.

Do you think you’re a chill person?

I think there is definitely a very “chill” side to my nature. But every time I go to a film festival, I will always be surprised by how accomplished everyone is, and how incredibly hard they work. Those are moments when I start to feel that maybe I’m not working hard enough. So I keep telling myself: if everyone else is putting in that much effort, then maybe I should push myself a bit more, too. My editor once came to Lhasa for a month and said I was the most diligent person in the whole city.

In the film, Soso asks Samgyi how she would explain linka to friends from inland China, and Samgyi says it’s just a picnic. Soso hesitates over Samgyi’s answer.

I think linka also carries a kind of cultural tradition. It’s not simply a picnic. It’s a Tibetan word—you can’t really translate it. It points to a very local, deeply rooted way of living.

Even now, I’m the kind of person who, the moment I see a stretch of grass, just wants to lie down on it. When I was in university in Beijing, there was this huge, beautiful lawn behind our campus. I told my friends, “Let’s go lie on the grass.” But their reaction was like: “You’re not supposed to step on it. No trampling on the grass.”

Most of the dialogue in the film is in Tibetan, with occasional shifts into Mandarin. What was the intention behind this choice?

That’s simply the reality we live in. Sometimes, when I’m talking to elders, the moment the conversation turns to something more complex or abstract, I’m forced to invoke terms from Mandarin. Sometimes I wonder if, had I not gone inland for school, my Tibetan might have been stronger.

I remember when I was in graduate school, I used to sleep-talk a lot. My roommates told me that in the month after I came back from Lhasa, everything I said in my sleep was in Tibetan—naturally, they couldn’t understand a word. But gradually, my sleep-talking shifted into Mandarin.

At the same time, culture itself is fluid. On one level, it’s a way of life; on another, it’s something that evolves through constant movement. I want to embrace that sense of fluidity.

But embracing it doesn’t mean becoming assimilated or speaking only Mandarin. I’ve been to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, and I noticed that many Chinese people there speak fluent Mandarin, English, and even some Malay. That kind of ease in moving between languages—so long as you learn each one well—isn’t a bad thing at all.

I really like the Tibetan music in the film. Could you talk a bit about where it comes from?

The song Soso and Samgyi sing in the car near the beginning comes from a band I really love called Tianchu Band (གནམ་ལྕགས་རོལ་ཚོགས). When I was an undergraduate, I actually made a documentary about them. They were the first local band in Tibet, emerging in the late ’90s, around the time when rock music was booming across China. When we were growing up, Tibetan rock was hugely popular—it wasn’t even “indie,” really. It was everywhere in Tibet. You’d hear their songs playing in the streets; they were a household name.

The song featured in the film, “Life,” is my favourite track from their first album. It’s about time. Since the story itself deals so much with memory and growing up, I felt that using this song would really resonate. I can especially imagine that when this film is shown in Lhasa, everyone who’s had a similar upbringing to mine will be humming along.

Nowadays, younger people in Tibet have gravitated more toward hip-hop. That’s also why I chose a Tibetan hip-hop track for the ending credits.

How about the more traditional music?

There’s quite a bit of traditional music woven in in the linka scenes. For example, in the scene where Samgyi asks her father for the wallet, the song being sung is a form of Nangma Stod-gzhas . It’s different from Sgor-gzhas (སྒོར་གཞས།) : Sgor-gzhas is a more communal activity, with everyone dancing together in an open square, while Nangma Stod-gzhas takes place in wooded areas, with singing and instrumental accompaniment. The melodies are very refined, with both allegro and adagio variations, and the lyrics tend to be poetic, even a little melancholic.

When I was a child, every time I went to the linka, I would hear Nangma Stod-gzhas. Later, when I was studying in Beijing, every time I returned to Lhasa and passed by Longwang Pond, I could hear it faintly in the distance—and that’s how I knew summer had arrived.

As night falls, fashionable young men and women in Lhasa wear traditional Tibetan dress and sway freely to electronic music on an open-air dance floor, while in the distance, the lights of the Potala Palace gradually come on, one by one. Your film contains none of the familiar images of Tibetan cinema—prayer flags on the plateau, harsh polar-like conditions, dust-swept dirt roads, yaks and sheep moving across the landscape. It is, without question, the image that most radically overturns my prior understanding of Tibetan film.

Young people in Lhasa really love clubbing. When I take Han friends from inland China out to dance in Lhasa, they’re always shocked. They think Lhasa is incredibly trendy—sometimes even more fun than Beijing. That’s simply what my life is like.

In some so-called ethnic minority films, the central motif is often the clash between modernity and tradition, where tradition inevitably declines. But this film doesn’t specifically focus on that. I’m more drawn to hybrid contexts and different spaces because I myself grew up within a constantly shifting terrain. In that process, I’ve been shaped by Han culture, Western and European-American culture, Japanese and Korean culture, as well as Tibetan culture. The question of how one locates oneself, how one finds a path through such hybridity, is what I think young people today are actually confronting.

We actually go way harder and have way more fun partying in real life than what’s shown in the film. I now feel I didn’t even cast enough extras for that scene. If you ever have the chance to come to Lhasa, there’s a thing called Shengshan Linka in August, in a large forest. At night, everyone wears Tibetan traditional clothing and dances in the woods. I originally wanted to shoot it that way, but due to budget constraints, I ended up choosing the bar with a view of the Potala Palace—the same bar where I happened to meet that friend of mine in real life.

Maybe it was Buddha’s blessing—but at the exact moment when Soso pulls Samgyi in that scene, the lights behind the Potala Palace suddenly come on. That wasn’t planned. I remember the colourist saying, “That’s so damn crazy—you can even control when the Potala Palace lights up.” I told him I didn’t have that ability. It was simply the God of Cinema helping me along.

This is a film about memory. How do your views on memory and your views on cinema influence each other?

I think memory is, first of all, profoundly individual. Even though memory can create resonance or empathy between people who share similar experiences, it ultimately belongs to the self. Faced with the same event, each person’s memory will inevitably be different. We had a huge argument—you may remember me grabbing your hair, while I might remember that it started raining heavily after everything ended. And you might not remember the rain at all.

In a way, this is very similar to filmmaking. Cinema, too, expresses a singular personal experience, and in doing so, it inevitably reveals a particular way of seeing the world. I’m very drawn to this sense of cinematic “truth.” For example, in the Koker Trilogy, And Life Goes On (1994) feels almost like a documentary. But by the time you reach Through the Olive Trees (1997), you realise that a scene in And Life Goes On is actually the director shooting that very film. In that narrative, the director repeatedly asks for retakes, using repetition itself to insist that this is a film—so then what counts as real?

I find this question has influenced me a lot. What Abbas Kiarostami is exploring there is the so-called authenticity of cinema. What I’m trying to do is bring together the authenticity and the ambiguity of memory, and think through that relationship in my own work.

What are your plans next?

Two years ago, I made a short film called Orlo with Karma (2024). I’m now preparing to develop it into a feature film. It’s very different from Linka Linka. Linka Linka is more of a retrospective work about memory – the film language is relatively fixed, observational, and somewhat detached, almost “looking back” from a distance.

Orlo with Karma, on the other hand, is a story that takes place in the present. One day, I saw a girl in a Tibetan teahouse – she had a very strong sense of vitality, short hair, riding a bicycle through narrow alleyways. So I started building the story from that character.

我对藏地电影的最初印象来自万玛才旦导演。在他的镜头里，藏地风光总是伴随着贫瘠与荒芜。在之后接触到的藏地电影里，藏区总是（或好或坏地）被许多鲜明的藏族符号包装起来——轮回的生死观，高原上的经幡，恶劣的极地环境，黄沙飞扬的土路，牦牛与羊群。而在岗珍的电影里，这些早已建立的视觉传统——这些在本土或国际市场与影展屡试不爽的视觉传统——全部缺场。取而代之的是一个城市主义的拉萨，一个全球主义的拉萨。夜幕降临，拉萨的时髦青年男女在露天舞池随着电子舞曲尽情左右摇摆，背景不远处的布达拉宫一盏盏明灯亮起。这无疑是最颠覆我对藏区电影认知的一个画面。

《⼀个夜晚》给我的第⼀印象是⾃传性的——故事⾥⼩桑吉幼年进⼊内地求学，成年后作为⼀名电影学⽣回到拉萨拍摄电影，这些情节都与岗珍的⽣活经历⾼度相似。但同时我害怕这样简单的对⽐会陷⼊⽂学批判式的“传记谬误”——即，将虚构类创作误认为创作者⽣活的直接反映。在电影的结构上，岗珍引⼊电影中的电影，模糊电影故事和现实经验的简单⼆分。

在岗珍的电影里，记忆是一个很复杂的东西。除了在电影的故事结构上有意模糊化处理了电影/现实的分野，有一场戏让我印象深刻。在布达拉宫下的舞池派对后，成年桑吉与成年拉姆久别重逢。深夜，小轿车带着两人进入隧道——这是一场双重意义的“归家“的短途旅行——一个夜晚穿越过三个夏天的回忆，回到那个在筋疲力尽的成年生活后总能回返的安全港。在这里，记忆被交叉质询，谎言与掩饰混合着坦白的欲望，搅动着本就不可靠的记忆。让问题更复杂的是，整场戏里，观众不断被提醒，桑吉正在制作一部电影。如果这一切只是电影（与电影中的电影）其中的一个环节，那么无论可靠与否，它们又是属于谁的记忆呢？

林卡，藏语词汇，汉语译为园林。

《一个夜晚和三个夏天》的创作是怎样开始的？

很久之前，我在拍摄有关童年的一个故事的时候，在一个派对上遇到了我20多年没见的一个朋友，她就是童年故事中的一位原型人物，但是那个晚上我们一句话也没有说。我觉得很有意思，在那样的一个机缘巧合下，就以童年故事为基础，继续延展到我们这一代人特殊的成长历程，创作一个了跟她有关的故事，写成了一个短篇小说。

我们这一代，就是藏族的一批年轻人，在整个成长期都经历了一种候鸟式的生活。从小学毕业，然后去内地读初中读高中，每年只能在夏天回到拉萨。我记得我初中、高中跟朋友说的最多的一句话，就是我们下一个夏天再见——于是我对故乡的所有的记忆都是产生于很多碎片化的夏天。我特别想把这种感受放到作品当中，在电影里就是用一个夜晚和三个夏天的结构——一个夜晚指的是他们相见的那个夜晚，三个夏天是勾连着他们成长过程的三段碎片的夏天。

你对林卡的记忆是什么？

夏天的时候我们会在林卡里打牌，跳舞，玩骰子，唱朗玛堆谐。每年八月份有个雪顿节，在拉萨是一个特别的节日：所有人要吃酸奶，然后在罗布林卡里看藏戏。到那个时候，所有的树林里全是人。

我小时候对于夏天所有的记忆都是发生在林卡里的。我小时候有这种感觉，一说到夏天，我就是永远都穿着实验小学格子校裙，永远都在林卡里度过。林卡对我来说，有一种童年乐园的影子。同时我觉得它又是非常符合拉萨人非常松弛自在的精神状态。

有时候我觉得我们拉萨人的文化就是太松弛了，甚至有点不求上进。如果你在北京的咖啡厅，大家都是抱个电脑工作，或者谈谈事情。在拉萨的咖啡厅，年轻人可能就是坐着，啥也不干，无所事事地坐一个下午的非常多。

你觉得你松弛吗？

我觉得我的本性里还是有很松弛的那个部分。但是每次去电影节，我会觉得大家都很厉害，而且大家都特别特别地努力，这个时候，我就觉得其实我没有那么努力。于是我就会一直想，别人这么努力，那你也要努力一点。我的剪辑师刘新竹来了拉萨一个月，说我是拉萨最卷的那个人。

电影里索索问桑吉怎么向内地的朋友解释林卡，桑吉说林卡就是野餐。索索对桑吉的说法有些犹豫。

我觉得林卡还代表了一种文化传统。它不单单是野餐。林卡就是一个藏语的词，你没法对它做任何翻译。它就是一个非常本土的一种生活方式。

直到现在，我都是那种一看到草坪就想躺上去的人。在北京上本科的时候，我们学校后面有一个很大的草坪，很漂亮。我就跟我的朋友说，我们去草坪上躺着吧。他们反而会觉得，你不要随意踩踏草坪。

电影对白大部分时候使用藏语，偶尔又会有些汉语。这样的设计是出于什么目的？

这就是当下的现状。有时候跟一些长辈交流，一说到深奥的话题的时候，我不自地就会用到一些汉语。有些时候其我会有困扰，我会觉得假设我没有去过内地读书的话，我的藏语是不是可以更好。

我记得研究生的时候，我很喜欢说梦话。室友说，我每次放完假从拉萨回来的那一个月，我讲的梦话全是藏语，他们听不懂。然后慢慢地，我的梦话就会变成汉语。

但同时，文化本身是流动的。文化一是一种生活方式，它本身就是在流动中演变的。其实我也很希望拥抱这种流动吧。

但拥抱这种流动的过程当中，我不是说我要被全然汉化，或者变得只讲汉语。我去过新加坡和马来西亚，我发现那里的华人不仅会讲很流利的华语，还会讲英语，又会讲一点马来语。其实我觉得这种多种语言切换的环境，只要把每个都学好，也不是什么坏事。

我很喜欢电影里的藏语音乐。能讲讲这些音乐的来头吗？

电影开场不久，索索和桑吉在车上唱的这首歌来自我很喜欢的乐队，叫天杵乐队。我本科的时候拍过一个他们的纪录片，他们是我们西藏本土的第一个乐队，大概是90年代末期，就是中国摇滚乐很火的时期出来的。我们小时候非常喜欢藏语摇滚乐。那时候藏语摇滚乐甚至不能说独立，因为它很大众，大街小巷都会放天杵乐队的歌。他们在西藏是那种全民皆知的乐队。

电影里唱的那首《人生》，是他们第一张专辑里我最喜欢的一首歌，讲的是时间。因为这个故事本身是跟我们的记忆、跟我们的成长经历有关。我觉得如果用这首歌，当这部电影在拉萨放的话，跟我有过相似成长经历的所有人，都会跟着一起哼。

到现在，西藏的年轻人更喜欢嘻哈一点。这也是我为什么片尾曲选用了藏语嘻哈。

林卡的几场戏里，铺了很多林卡的音乐。比如说桑吉向爸爸要钱包的那场戏里，他们唱的那首歌其实是一种朗玛堆谐。它又和锅庄不太一样。锅庄是所有人一起在广场上跳舞，但是朗玛堆谐是在树林里，还要弹唱一些旋律。这些旋律很清雅，有快版和慢版，词也很优美、忧伤。

小时候每次去过林卡，我都会听到朗玛堆谐的声音。我上学时，每次从北京回拉萨，经过龙王潭后面的时候，远远的听到朗玛堆谐的声音，我就知道夏天来了。

夜幕降临，拉萨的时髦青年男女身穿藏装在露天舞池随着电子舞曲尽情左右摇摆，背景不远处的布达拉宫一盏盏明灯亮起。你的电影里面没有高原上的经幡，恶劣的极地环境，黄沙飞扬的土路，牦牛与羊群。这无疑是最颠覆我对藏区电影认知的一个画面。

拉萨的年轻人特别喜欢蹦迪。我带内地的汉族朋友在拉萨蹦迪，他们特别震惊。他们觉得拉萨特别潮，有人甚至说比北京好玩。这就是我的生活。

可能某些民族电影的母题，关注的是现代对于传统的冲击，传统的没落。但是我这部片子的主要话题不是这个。我更感兴趣的是混杂的语境和空间，因为我自己本身是在这样一个流动的土地里成长的。我在这个过程当中，受到了汉族文化或者是西方欧美文化、日韩文化，和藏文化的影响。在这种混杂的空间中，如何去寻找自己的身份，如何去寻找自己的路，我觉得这个是当下的年轻人在面临的问题。

我们现实里蹦迪其实比电影里蹦得更疯更尽兴，我现在觉得，拍摄时我用的群演还不够多。以后如果你有机会来拉萨的话，八月份有个圣山林卡，在一个大树林里，晚上所有人穿着藏装在树林里蹦迪。当时也想那样拍，可惜资金有限，最后选在了一个能看到布达拉宫的酒吧，就是我当时碰到现实生活中的朋友的那个酒吧。

可能佛祖保佑吧，电影里，当索索拉住桑吉的时候，布达拉宫后面的灯突然亮了。这其实是没有设计过的。我记得调色师说，你太厉害了，还能操控布达拉宫的灯。我说我说我没有这个本事，是电影之神帮助我的。

这是一部关于记忆的电影。你对记忆的看法和你对电影的看法是如何相互影响的？

我觉得记忆首先是非常个体的，虽然你可以通过记忆和跟你有相似记忆的人共鸣或者共情。但是其实记忆只属于你自己。我们面对同样一件事情，记住的东西一定是不一样的。我跟你吵了一大架，你可能记住的是我拉了你的头发，把你头发剪了；我可能记住的是那天结束之后下了一场大雨，但你可能完全忘了那天下过那场大雨。

这个其实跟拍电影特别像。我觉得电影也是这样的，它去表达一种独特的个人经验的时候，其实你也在表达一种独特的对于世界的看法。我特别喜欢这种电影真实。比如在阿巴斯的三部曲里，《生生流长》拍得特别像纪录片，但是直到《橄榄树下的情人》你会发现，《生生流长》里的一段对白实际上是《橄榄树下的情人》的导演正在拍这个电影。而且这个故事里的导演会NG很多次，他用这种反复NG的方式在跟你强调，这是一部电影，那什么才又是真实？我觉得这个对我影响挺大的。阿巴斯在那里探讨的是电影的所谓的真实性。我想结合记忆的这个真实性和模糊性在去探讨这个事情。

接下来有什么计划吗？

我之前有一个短片叫《甜茶馆女孩》。我现在筹备打算把它拍成长片。它跟《一个夜晚》不太一样。《一个夜晚》可能更多的是对于记忆的回望，它的电影语言是相对固定的、回望式的、观察式的、更客观的。但是《甜茶馆女孩》是一个发生在当下的故事。我有天在茶馆里看到一个女孩，她非常有生命力，留着短发，骑着单车穿梭在巷子里。我就基于这个人物去创作了这个故事。

Review: Palimpsest: the Story of a Name (dir. Mary Stephen)

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 09:44:54 GMT

Review: Palimpsest: the Story of a Name (dir. Mary Stephen)

The word Palimpsest is indicative of an eroded past; text that has been erased and rewritten

while still holding a remnant of what once was. That serves as the basis for Mary Stephen’s

documentary “Palimpsest: the Story of a Name”. Born in Hong Kong to a Chinese family, who

then migrated to Québec, her uncommon surname stands out, prompting the question: How did

she get it?

At the beginning of the film, an interview from 2001 is shown where Stephen claims to have

gone back to Hong Kong to discover the roots of her name, that of which she never knew up to

that point. Stephen’s film is that of a journey through her personal excavation; digging into her

family history to uncover said roots, drawing from a myriad of archival sources: home movies,

family photographs, birth certificates, undiscovered journals, etc. This material traverses the

vastness of her family’s past, from colonial Hong Kong to Canada and beyond, creating a

portrait of how history is shaped through the stories that are passed down and what we discover

outside of that.

In the context of the film, Stephen has already arrived at the discoveries presented here, way

before this was made; but it is through her process as a filmmaker — and more importantly, an

editor — that these discoveries truly come alive. The history passes through Stephen, then

through the medium of film, before it reaches us. For the audience, we are learning for the first

time. For Stephen, she is relearning what she had just discovered. At the centre of it all is

cinema, which is just one of many ways to preserve the souls of those who came before. The

masses will never get to see Stephen’s family archives, but through this film, we get to share a

piece of it.

The deeply personal nature of the film prompted me to look through some of the responses to

the film. I came across one that was particularly striking: a person whose mother passed on 10

years prior but left behind many diaries that they never dug into. Having seen this film, they

finally decided to do so. Perhaps it is through these shared acts that the film becomes a beacon

of sorts, connecting various people to go through the same process that Stephen did — one of

discovery, learning and relearning, which in a way is reminiscent of a palimpsest itself, rewritten

yet not unfamiliar.

This film will play at the 2026 Singapore Chinese Film Festival. For more info, please visit their

website scff.sg

SCFF 2026 Animated Shorts 动画短片集

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 09:22:54 GMT

SCFF 2026 Animated Shorts 动画短片集

Clouds of cotton pads, stars of shadows, leaves of paper and faces of scribbles, any world is possible when you can create it in the palm of your hand. Animation is magic for more than just children, it is also an escape for adults into a world they can control—or to navigate the one they can’t. With the immense success of recent Chinese animation films like Ne Zha 2 (2025), eyes are on China’s growingly innovative animation industry, which has been making its way into the hearts of global audiences. Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2026 brings to you a multi-dimensional lineup of animated shorts with something for everyone, on every plane.

三时一日 Till The Stars Rise (2025), directed by Yu Yu, is a beautiful mosaic of ephemerality. In a world where you only have three hours in a day, every second is that much more valuable, and you miss the stars. It makes you wonder if we ever had more than twenty-four, and what we’re missing now. Yu’s miniature world, intricately constructed with felt and other mundane materials, demonstrates such a masterclass in claymation that it feels like observing a live species; like when you see a long line of ants walking together and ponder how they see our world. Amidst this pretty package of dystopian existential futility, we get to see how different characters handle the ticking clock, and a glimpse of what the world looks like when no one is awake to see it.

Straying from the traditional norms of colourful and whimsical three-dimensional animation, 坐看流年轻度 He Looked Back for a Moment and Time Passed (2025) and 蓝色乌云 Beneath the Blue Cloud (2025) are unique additions to this lineup, both directed by Chen Qiang but each distinct. He Looked Back for a Moment and Time Passed follows a prisoner-cum-art-teacher in a labor reform camp in Northern Sichuan and the story of his wrongful imprisonment. Beneath the Blue Cloud is a morbid musical adventure in a mental hospital where the narrator, daydreaming, imagines a story of a girl he sees across the street, her history of abuse and her relationship with music.

Chen Qiang’s style of social and political commentary through rhythmic storytelling backed by music visually translates onto the screen as animation stripped down to its bones. Scribbled lines in an almost manic nature make up faces but also waves of movement and sound. However, raw does not mean simple. The art is raw, the makeup of lines gives you an image as if you were to close your eyes and envision the skeleton of the story, but the lack of background details forces you to focus on the words you’re hearing. Absence can be as powerful as presence, if not more. To that effect, the only colour used in Beneath the Blue Cloud , despite the name, is black. In He Looked Back for a Moment and Time Passed , the single addition of the colour red is a political statement.

Huang Hsiao Shan’s animation style for 风的前奏 Rocked by the Wind (2025) is one of a kind. I’m enthralled by mixed-media films, and this one takes it to another level. There are multiple art styles throughout the film, incredible textures, playing with layers and planes, and even live-action shots integrated with overlaid sketches. Dimensions look slightly different from scene to scene, sometimes the characters appear fully immersed in the world, while other times they look like cut-outs. The story is relatively simple, but the journey is a ride and a joy to watch.

铁臂猫黑别 Blacky the Metal Arm Cat (2025) is a whirlwind short set to be developed into a longer piece, and it’s already promising. The world-building is ambitious for the duration but a fascinating set-up nonetheless—Blacky is a black cat with a mechanical arm who’s a martial artist in a world where martial artists have become marginalised, and he sets out to avenge his slain master. For everyone who grew up on Cartoon Network, the animation style feels very nostalgic, reminiscent of old cartoons I watched as a kid, a phase that might be lost for children in the social media age. But animations like these make me hopeful that those cartoons could make a comeback.

文学家 The Litterateur (2025) is an interesting paradox. An animation about AI consciousness, featuring the use of AI art. Mia, an AI robot librarian, undergoes a spiral and sort of transmogrification when a child questions her about her own story, awakening a consciousness; a glitch in her system. It’s an ironic concept, contemporarily relevant and poses questions regarding the ethics of artificial intelligence, especially with regard to its use in creative mediums such as film and animation. While it is a heavily debated topic, artists like myself and many others feel the use of AI in art is not only a threat to the industry but also taints the meaning-making of a film. The Litterateur is thought-provoking and acts like a direct site of conflict of this conundrum.

Across these varying planes of vastly different worlds, this diverse lineup is the perfect way to get a foot through the door of the Chinese animation scene. Dive into new dimensions and check out these animated shorts at SCFF 2026! For more information, please visit https://www.scff.sg/ .

Film Review: Beyond Reconciliation: Living On in Life of Luosang 藏地的生命诗篇：《洛桑的家事》

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 07:36:30 GMT

Film Review: Beyond Reconciliation: Living On in Life of Luosang 藏地的生命诗篇：《洛桑的家事》

当矛盾已经生成，且看似无从化解，生活还要继续吗？伤痛并未消散，那些我们习惯依赖的判断方式，对与错、利与弊，在那样的处境之中，逐渐失去稳固。无论选择仇恨，还是选择原谅，都无法真正将伤口弥合。

由张国栋执导、芦苇编剧的电影《洛桑的家事》，让我陷入一个没有答案的问题之中。

影片的故事并不复杂，却始终没有将观众引向一个清晰的出口。它更像是将一段已经发生的现实轻轻摊开，让人看见它的重量与余波。事情已经发生，而人只能在这样的现实之中继续活着。高原的环境冷峻而直接，人也因此被放置在一种更接近本能的状态里。人与人之间的矛盾，没有被迅速裁断，也没有被情绪覆盖，而是在时间与日常之中，被慢慢带走，却从未真正消失。

这种表达，与影片所依托的环境密不可分。镜头之中，是海拔五千米以上的高原，是近乎触手可及的天空，是辽阔而寂静的自然景观；而在这片广袤之中，又有随处可见的，极为朴素的日常——劳作、迁徙，生活本身。这种并置，使影像既有视觉上的震撼，也保留了贴近土地的温度。让人顿生向往之情。

从创作的脉络来看，这样的表达也延续着编剧芦苇一贯的风格。从《霸王别姬》、《活着》到《图雅的婚事》，他始终在书写人如何在环境与命运之中被推动、被塑形。而在《洛桑的家事》中，这种书写被进一步收拢。宏大的时代背景被淡化，取而代之的，是更贴近身体与经验的部分：寒冷、劳作、怀孕、疼痛，是人如何在具体处境中做出回应。

这些经验无需解释，也难以被概括，它们直接构成了人物的选择方式。人在其中，并不是以“思考者”的姿态存在，而是以“承受者”与“行动者”的状态不断向前。

而在这些行动之中，是女性“坚强”的存在。她们不仅承受着生活的压力，在关键时刻，也主动做出决定，凭着果敢与坚韧，改变了局面的走向。

如果将这一点放在更大的语境之中来看，会显得尤为耐人寻味。在许多城市中，女性意识往往通过表达与讨论被不断强调，而在影片所呈现的少数民族地区，这种主体性并不依赖被说出。它生长于日常之中，体现在一次次具体的行动里。没有宣告，却清晰可见；没有标签，却真实有力。这种自然生成的力量，反而更加坚定。

从叙事层面看，影片中“野外生产、对抗狼群”的段落，无疑构成了情节上的高潮。那一刻所呈现出的野性与勇猛，让人直面人与自然之间最原始的关系。

然而，影片真正的情感落点，却被悄然安放在结尾——小女孩向上攀爬的那一组镜头之中。那不是一个用来解释一切的结局，而是一种开放的停留。在缓慢而艰难的动作之中，观众看见的，不只是一个个体的努力，更是一种仍然向上的意志。这种处理，使影片从具体的事件中抽离出来，转向关于生命、责任与希望的更深层思考。它没有给出答案，却留下了一种持续回响的重量。

或许，这正是《洛桑的家事》最动人的地方。它不试图修复现实，也不急于抚平情绪，而是让人看见，在那些无法被解决的时刻，生活依然在继续。

When conflict arises and seems impossible to resolve, does life simply go on? The pain remains, while the frameworks we rely on—right and wrong, gain and loss—begin to lose their clarity. Whether one chooses hatred or forgiveness, neither feels sufficient to repair what has already been broken.

Director’s Zhang Guodong’s Life of Luosang, written by Lu Wei, lingers in exactly this unresolved space.

The narrative is simple, yet the film resists offering any clear conclusion. Instead, it places us within a reality that cannot be undone. What has happened cannot be reversed, and people must go on living within its consequences. On the Tibetan plateau, where the environment is unforgiving, life is stripped to something more immediate. Conflicts are neither settled nor resolved; they are carried forward, gradually absorbed into time and the routines of daily life.

This sensibility is inseparable from the film’s setting. At over 5,000 meters, the landscape is vast and austere, yet life within it remains grounded in ordinary rhythms—labor, movement, survival. The film does not frame this as spectacle, but as a lived condition. What draws us in is not just the scale of the landscape, but the sense of encountering a different way of being, one shaped by necessity rather than abstraction.

In this respect, the film feels consistent with Lu Wei’s earlier work. From Farewell My Concubine to To Live and Tuya’s Marriage, his writing has long explored how individuals are shaped by forces beyond their control. Here, however, the scope narrows. The larger historical backdrop recedes, giving way to something more immediate and physical—cold, labor, pregnancy, pain. These are not symbols, but lived realities. The characters are not reflecting on their fate; they are responding to it.

Within this framework, the presence of women becomes especially striking. To describe them as “strong” feels insufficient. What defines them is not endurance alone, but action. They work, care, and sustain life; at crucial moments, they make decisions that matter. They do not engage in debates over right and wrong, yet they carry what is most necessary. Without asserting a position, they quietly shape the course of events.

Seen more broadly, this carries a particular resonance. In many urban contexts, female consciousness is often articulated through language and visibility. Here, it takes a different form. It is not declared, but lived—embedded in action rather than expression. It does not need to be named to be fully present.

The film contains moments of intense physical tension, yet its emotional center arrives quietly, in its closing image: a young girl climbing upward, step by step.

It is not a resolution, but an opening. In that slow, deliberate movement, what emerges is not closure, but persistence. The film shifts from a specific story to something more reflective—about life, responsibility, and the quiet insistence of moving forward.

There are no answers here, only a lingering weight. And perhaps that is where the film finds its strength. It does not attempt to repair what cannot be repaired, nor soften what has already happened. It simply shows that even without resolution, life goes on.

Film Review #198: No Other Choice

Mon, 13 Apr 2026 07:30:44 GMT

SFS Review - NO OTHER CHOICE (2025)

Lee Byung-Hun is the most dangerous man of 2025.

Fresh out of the dual-success from the final season of Squid Game and the most-watched film ever on Netflix - KPop Demon Hunters, Lee Byung-Hun headlines the latest film by none other than the Korean master-filmmaker Park Chan-Wook, No Other Choice . Premiered at the 2025 Venice Film Festival and then Toronto International Film Festival where Lee received a Special Tribute Award, Park’s newest movie is yet another instantly recognisable signature by the auteur. Both unexpected and expected at the same time, the unique style and genre-defying storytelling shows Park’s consistency as he churns out his first film in his sixties.

No Other Choice follows Man-Su (played by Lee Byung-Hun), a retrenched stalwart in the paper-making industry struggling to land a new job who decides to take the unthinkable path of eliminating his competitors, literally. Even for seasoned Park-cinephiles who think they understand the director inside-out, Park still has a way of getting us. Not to mention this was adapted from a novel - ‘The Ax’ by Donald Westlake - proving the filmmaker’s polished capabilities to inject originality no matter the material in his hands.

Two specific crafts stand out - cinematography and film editing. If any movie director ever runs dry on ideas of where to place the camera, go ask Park Chan-Wook. Your typical zooms, close-ups, long and wide shots aren’t absent in this film, but No Other Choice offers more than that. Stringing creative images together, the editing, though less apparent than the cinematography, also presents some innovative cuts at times. The Oscars shortlists have snubbed this film in the cinematography category, hopefully the editing will earn some well-deserved flowers, and perhaps both departments could shine elsewhere this awards season.

Lee Byung-Hun, not for one second looking like 55 years old (his actual age), still pulls off the clumsy middle-aged breadwinner character while retaining some degree of charm, exhibiting just enough insecurity and fear but wearing an outer layer of cold-blooded ruthlessness at the same time. The most impressive part of his performance, however, must be his physical comedy, perhaps surprising to some audiences. It is definitely fair to say Lee’s commitment to Man-Su is in equal measure the commitment of Man-Su to taking on his job competitors.

Apart from Lee, Son Ye-jin also steals some scenes in her commanding turn as Man-Su’s wife, Miri. Some of the film’s best comedic bits owe to Son’s sublime delivery, specifically when her character reacts to something Man-Su does or says. Deeper than the comedy is Miri’s resolve to her family, in particular her husband Man-Su. Some might say Miri’s arc is faded throughout most of the film but an attentive viewer could appreciate Son’s comparatively plain yet honest work as the wife and mother being the pillar of strength in the family.

At least another few compliments could be tossed at the film but the more detailed this review gets, the greater the risk of spoilers. For moviegoers who might not be as familiar with Park Chan-Wook’s films, do know that No Other Choice is not for everybody. That said, anyone who is a fan of Lee Byung-Hun, Son Ye-jin and/or Park Chan-Wook, do not hesitate to catch this film and have an absolute blast!

Catch it now exclusively at filmhouse while you can!

No Other Choice premiered in Singapore as part of the Singapore Korean Film Festival 2025. Shout-out to the tireless and wonderful team who put on the festival. Want to catch such free preview screenings? Join as an SFS member now!

Read my alternative film review for No Other Choice here.

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About the author: Jarrett is a devoted cinephile for over half of his life. Apart from movies, coffee keeps him awake and music keeps him alive. Having studied theatre and performed as an actor before, he's also a sucker for great performances.

Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #197: Poor Taxi 辽河的士

Mon, 13 Apr 2026 07:15:42 GMT

A Review of Poor Taxi 辽河的士 (2025)

Poor Taxi (辽河的士) , directed by independent filmmaker Zhuo Kailuo and executive produced by Geng Jun (Bel Ami) , is a Chinese tragicomedy that premiered at the Taipei Golden Horse Film Festival and later earned nominations for Best Original Screenplay and Best Original Film Song at the Golden Horse Awards.

The film centres on Tie Jun, an unlicensed tricycle driver scraping by on the margins. When he injures a pedestrian, Hai Cheng, in a road accident, he is drawn into an escalating compensation dispute. Tie Jun enlists the reluctant assistance of his neighbour, Qianjin, and together the three idiosyncratic, middle-aged men attempt to navigate their uneasy predicament.

Plot takes a backseat in Poor Taxi; rather, it unfolds as a loose yet incisive social commentary. It paints a bleak portrait of a modern world governed by transactional relationships, where survival often outweighs morality. Several striking moments underscore this theme: rival tricycle drivers fiercely wrestling over a passenger for profit; characters exchanging sexual services purely for money; and a recurring gag involving a dubious “miracle” drug dominating the market. Together, these vignettes form a pessimistic yet uncomfortably familiar depiction of a dog-eat-dog society, where exploitation becomes a necessary strategy for survival.

As the narrative progresses, the trio’s relationships unravel, and hidden truths begin to emerge. While the film only lightly leans into its more “twisty” elements, these moments elevate the otherwise meandering structure. Interactions with supporting characters further reinforce the film’s central idea: that every relationship is, at its core, transactional. Beneath this harsh reality, however, lies a quieter, more poignant undercurrent of emotional emptiness. Whether shaped by financial hardship, physical limitations, or social isolation, the characters are ultimately portrayed as lonely individuals striving for something better.

Despite the grim social commentary, the film maintains a somewhat lighthearted tone, often using humour to gently mock its characters and their predicaments. These comedic elements are the highlight of the film, keeping viewers engaged even when the narrative slows. I especially enjoyed the film’s use of whip pans, which sweep dynamically across the characters, infusing the scenes with a playful, kinetic energy.

That said, the film’s looseness also proves to be a weakness. Its lack of a strong dramatic structure and limited emotional depth make it difficult to fully invest in the narrative. Several plot threads are introduced but left underdeveloped, resulting in a film that feels thematically rich yet narratively incomplete.

The ending arrives as something of a surprise — enigmatic, surreal, but ultimately bleak. The final scene literally seems to evoke the idiom “the grass is always greener on the other side,” suggesting that the fantasy of an ideal, carefree life, of forgetting life’s burdens and simply dancing, remains just that: an illusion. It’s a rather ambiguous and unconventional conclusion, yet the film earns praise for daring to subvert expectations with an artistic flourish.

Overall, Poor Taxi offers a thought-provoking study of exploitation and survival in contemporary society, a timely theme that interrogates the human — and inhuman — tendencies in us all.

Poor Taxi is set to be screened at this year’s Singapore Chinese Film Festival.

For tickets and more details, visit https://www.scff.sg/

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About the author: Jayden is a youth filmmaker who enjoys immersing himself in the diversity of cinema across genres, cultures, and time periods. Through working on narrative short films and non-fiction videos, he hopes to further develop his craft in storytelling through the medium of film.

Film Review #196: I Think I’m Going to Die

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 07:44:09 GMT

A Review of I Think I’m Going to Die :
Stop-Motion Animation and Womanhood

Directed and produced by Tan Ning Xuan, Meghan Poh, and Audrey Yong, I Think I’m Going to Die is a mixed media stop motion film in which a young girl finds her body afflicted with a mysterious condition. Panicked, she races through different fantastical worlds, searching for a ‘real’ doctor to diagnose her worsening condition. In its 5-minute runtime, the film makes sure to pack both heart and technical mastery in every single second.

At first glance, it is immediately evident how technically advanced I Think I’m Going to Die is. Exploring coming-of-age struggles through magical realism is not a novel concept, but it is the film’s execution of this theme that truly stuns the viewer. During the post-screening Q&A, Audrey Yong shared that the short began as an experiment to cram as many stop-motion styles as possible into just five minutes. Each fantastical setting, with its unique tone and atmosphere, is matched to a corresponding medium. Felt, clay, and puppetry for an HDB flat, watercolour for the ocean, paper-cut light boxes for a mythical lair, coloured sand for a doctor’s examination room, and much more.

As hybrid animation rises, stop-motion animation increasingly struggles to compete with the slick polish of titles like Arcane and Kpop Demon Hunters , which blend 3D animation with 2D graphics. This is true even as stop-motion films such as ParaNorman and Isle of Dogs continue to earn critical acclaim while struggling to compete commercially. I Think I’m Going to Die confronts this tension head-on with unabashed maximalism, pushing the medium to its fullest, most cacophonic potential . The result is a celebration of stop-motion’s unique textural depth, of its unrivalled physicality and the visual complexity that can be coaxed from painstaking craft.

While the short’s technical aspects command attention, its thematic resonance give the riot of colour and texture its emotional weight. During the Q&A, Audrey Yong shared that I Think I’m Going to Die was always meant to be “a Girl’s Girl”. Female puberty is usually introduced in sombre conversation, she explained, particularly because the metamorphosis from ‘girl’ to ‘woman’ changes how others perceive you. It is a deeply social transition, and the film taps into the anxiety that comes with it to forge a connection with its female viewers. Hence, drawing from gendered beliefs ranging from 18th-century Victorian medical journals to Nepalese traditions, the film delivers a surreal exploration of this tumultuous, body horror-esque transitionary period.

This gendered angle explains the film’s escalating sense of anxiety, as well as the darker subtext that becomes apparent in its later sequences. At the start of I Think I’m Going to Die, the girl’s titular catastrophising comes across as hyperbolic, and audiences are meant to be at least slightly amused at her Alice in Wonderland-esque quest to find a ‘real doctor’. However, as the film progresses, what becomes genuinely frightening are the reactions of the ‘doctors’ themselves — the way they seem increasingly disgusted by her body, increasingly willing to deceive and exploit her. As the girl’s source of anxiety shifts from her body to the threat that these ‘doctors’ pose, the film’s whimsical atmosphere slides into much darker territory. Notably, between the talking fish and mythical birds, the most predatory ‘doctor’ comes in the form of a man. A man with a smile, who promises to help her.

Both technically and thematically, I Think I’m Going to Die feels much richer than one would expect possible in such a short piece of animation. It is a real joy to see such eclectic experimentation with stop-motion animation, and I am personally excited to see what its team will achieve next.

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About the author: Elena Goh is a postgraduate student based in Singapore. She is currently pursuing a Master’s in Creative Writing at the University of Cambridge, and her fiction and film reviews have been featured in Twin Flame Literary, The Writer's Block and the UCL Film & TV Society Journal. Her work explores the intersections of intergenerational memory, cultural identity, and Classical mythology.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

SYFF - In Conversation with Jake Low

Wed, 11 Mar 2026 04:34:55 GMT

SYFF - In Conversation with Jake Low

Surreal, weird, and gritty. These are words that come to my mind when I think of Jake Low’s short films. Low’s short films tackle ordinary Singaporean situations with a bizarre perspective.

At the time of this writing, Low has made two shorts: sighnight which premiered at Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF) 2024’s SEA Shorts Competition segment, and Manhole , which premiered at SGIFF 2025’s Singapore Panorama segment. I had the pleasure of speaking with Low, gaining insight into his creative process.

Jun Sen (JS): The premise of sighnight seems deeply personal. Was there something in your life that inspired the story?

Jake Low (JL): Yes, it was inspired by a dinnertime argument with my dad, where it seemed like a mental breakdown and a shouting match. It’s very common in a lot of Asian households where we don’t approach any problem head on. We just want to keep the peace.

JS: Ahh... that is definitely relatable. So what inspired your second short film, Manhole ?

JL: How Manhole came about was… I was showering and thinking “oh, I’m not doing enough for Palestine. I’m not donating enough”. Why am I not donating more when I could very well part ways with like, $10,000, you know? I just didn’t. Everyone has this limit of how much they want to help, and I tried to put that feeling into Manhole , but also maintain this weird sensibility that I like to have in all my films.

JS: Manhole seems to depict class stratification and competition, much like Parasite and The Platform . Were there any films that inspired you when you were writing it?

JL: I watched them before I made Manhole , so I’m sure, somehow, they were like approvals that these types of films could be made. And I guess Manhole just came very naturally from that - this whole ‘blue-collar versus white-collar worker’ kind of thing, and [the conflict] even within each group.

JS: I notice that both sighnight and Manhole have stop motion elements, including a sequence involving shadow puppetry in Manhole that resembles Wayang Kulit. What was your inspiration behind this, and what was the process of making it?

JL: The very basic answer is that I was trying to showcase this character’s life in the sewers, but to film it practically would have taken too much time and too much budget. I’ve always enjoyed mixed medium looks to any sort of video. Shaista was the one that actually came up with [the idea]. [She] was the assistant director and producer for Manhole . Shaista's suggestion made me recall a project I did with Subhas back in 2018. I had created these shadow puppet designs for his EP launch's stage visuals, and I realised that that style of shadow puppetry would work with Manhole 's concept.

So I used that experience and expanded on it. We drew the designs in the particular style that I did back in 2018, and then I sent it to a laser cutter to cut it out of 5mm wood. It added an element of eeriness to the entire sequence.

JS: To me, your short films are bizarre and surreal, and I mean that in the best way. What inspired you to approach your narratives in this style?

JL: Just not seeing a lot of it in local cinema... So far, I haven’t really seen any weird stuff. Also, I was inspired by The Lighthouse and a lot of Ari Aster’s work. It’s kind of weird surreal horror but also not really ghostly horror. It’s not jumpscares; it’s more atmospheric, like something’s off, you know?

JS: I noticed that you’ve directed and edited music videos [MVs] for some prominent local musicians. How is your process for MVs different or similar to that of your short films?

JL: Well, I think [for] MVs, you’re answering to the artist, and you’re answering to whatever the budget is. It’s a lot more stressful. With short films, especially the ones that I do, there’s no fixed budget. It’s really how much you’re willing to spend on it. The challenge is in finding the right team to execute this vision that you have. But I would say it’s a lot more freeing and it’s a lot more enjoyable to create something. Because with a short film, you can do [it] as original as you want. As for MVs you're sometimes limited by the music genre. Not always, but sometimes. Usually the artist and music label have the final say over the end product, even though you're the director. So it's quite different from making your own short film.

JS: You have worked with your partner and close friends across sighnight and Manhole . What is it like working with loved ones as collaborators?

JL: Oh, it’s so interesting. I would think of Shaista as the emcee - any hosting, you go to her. And maybe I would think of myself as someone you come to for fun visual stuff. But because of the lack of resources and because we wanted to keep it tight, I thought “Oh maybe Shaista can co-direct”. And then you realize that, “Oh, she actually CAN co-direct”.

She had a lot of creative input towards this project. And same with the rest [of our collaborators], you know? They don’t have these opportunities to display these talents on the daily because that’s not their full time job, but through these collaborations you realize that, “Oh, actually everyone is so, so good in this field”, and eventually you start to let go and you feel like, “Oh my god, these people are so talented”.

So you just gotta trust it, and eventually they pull through, and the whole product becomes bigger than yourself.

JS: You have mentioned in interviews that you take on many roles in making your short films to maintain complete creative control and consistency. How has this approach shifted as you gained more experience, and what approach do you hope to take on for future projects?

JL: I feel like I’ve sort of hit the limit of what I can do as a single individual already, because it’s just too physically tiring. I think the next thing that I have to work on as a director, which I’m still learning, is to find people that understand your vision and also can do things better than you, and then just trust them with that process. And when I allow other people to come into this process, it’s so interesting to hear or see what they do differently than what you were imagining, and somehow it’s always better, you know? It’s like…, I didn’t think it could be done that way, but it still works and I love it even better than my original idea. So yeah, that’s the next step I guess, to really find a nice team that I can work with and be open with.

JS: What do you hope the audience can take away from seeing sighnight and Manhole ?

JL: I think sighnight really is a tale for people watching it to think of their future children and just be kind and understanding, to know what it feels like to be controlled. It really is to break that cycle, you know? For Manhole, it’s to feel or to understand that sometimes the cost of going the easy route may be the same or more expensive than going the harder route; to really just solve things at the root.

That’s pretty much it man, like, I wouldn’t say my films are that deep, but I just want people to walk away with a certain vibe.

JS: You have 2 short films in your belt now. What’s your next project? Are you working on a feature film? What can our readers look forward to from you next?

JL: Wow, I think the next one is not going to be a feature film, but it’ll likely be something about a supernatural robbery. It’s going to be a story about desperate people doing desperate things to survive, but told through this supernatural lens.

JS: Am I going to have to brace for jumpscares?

JL: No, no, no. I don’t think my films are ever ‘jump scary’. It’s more of a certain vibe, maybe something’s off.

JS: Yeah, I got really worried watching sighnight just now. *laughs*. Is there any advice that you have for aspiring youth filmmakers out there?

JL: I would say, don’t be too worried about what your message is. Sometimes the best way to start is to just do cool sh*t, you know? So don’t be too hard on yourself and think, “oh, my films aren’t saying the deepest message in the world”. It doesn’t have to sometimes, it just has to be something that someone else can relate to. And always try to make something that you feel for.

I would say the best way to start is just do something about your personal experience plus something that you want to see on screen. So that’s where the cool element comes in. Maybe you’ve had a breakup, but oh, maybe I put a ghostly element to it, you know? You can do anything. *laughs*

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Jake Low’s shorts and creative process – especially with how he finds hidden talents in people – struck a chord with me. He truly embodies the “just do it” vibe, telling his personal stories, unafraid of his works being criticized.

Catch Jake’s work and other youth filmmakers at the Singapore Youth Film Festival, where filmic creativity comes in various shapes and forms!

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About the author: Jun Sen (@itsginsengbutton on Instagram) is an emerging multidisciplinary designer and video editor who loves all forms of meaningful cinema, especially films that depict mortality and the fragility of human life. Outside of work, he can be seen streaming films on the commute, catching films at the cinema, and hanging out with like-minded cinephiles. He is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Communication at University at Buffalo.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Learning to Breathe with Azina

Wed, 11 Mar 2026 03:55:45 GMT

Learning to Breathe with Azina:
Conversations on Nature and Womanhood

There has always been a certain sense of eeriness in walking past the trees by the roadside, each of them meticulously planted at equal distances from one another. Rules of conformity have seeped into their roots, reminding us that even nature can be moulded into discipline. Perhaps it is not too different for women, who have been raised to fit into different moulds, be it that of a daughter, wife, or mother, and who have all gotten used to the hushed chastising of what not to say, what not to do, and what not to be.

Attitudes towards both nature and women often mirror one another as both are expected to be tamed, beautiful, and controlled. Azina Binte Abdul Nizar’s short film, We Learn to Breathe in Distant Places , defies these expectations. Instead, it explores the tensions between the liberating respite nature offers and the suffocating confines of domestic life. The film was selected for this year’s Singapore Youth Film Festival, and was also part of Singapore International Film Festival’s Singapore Panorama last year.

As an emerging artist-filmmaker, Azina’s practice revolves around her growing interest in the intersections between womanhood, nature, and identity, shaped by both her personal experiences and broader reflections on the environments we inhabit. In this conversation, she reflects on her creative process and the evolving ideas that continue to shape her work.

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Phyllis: You studied film at Ngee Ann Polytechnic and are now about to graduate from NTU with a degree in English. How did moving from a film education to a literature-based discipline change the way you think about storytelling, structure, or character?

Azina: When you study film, much of the training is technical. Despite being exposed to different forms of cinema, the theoretical foundation isn’t always extensive enough to help you fully understand where your own interests lie as a writer and filmmaker.

Moving into literature felt like a way of deepening my research into the themes I was already drawn to. Seeing how different works across countries and time periods engage with similar questions has helped me better contextualise what I want to do with my own work. For example, when I’m engaged with African or South Asian Literature, I think about how these writers are able to talk about their specific and localised experiences in ways that resonate universally. Although I’m not directly influenced by it, I think their intentionality in their writing inspires me.

P: I was really struck by how We Learn to Breathe in Distant Places feels almost like a visual poem, particularly in its fragmented storytelling and careful attention to visual framing and sound. Could you share how the film first took shape for you? Was there a particular moment that made you realise this was something you needed to make?

A: With my previous works, I tried not to have linear narratives, and they were highly symbolic. After studying literature and encountering all these different works, I wanted to venture into something more narratively accessible to people, while also holding on to some part of myself within it.

I began thinking more about the idea of escaping and getting lost in the forest, so magical realism and mythicism were themes that first came to mind. I was also interested in engaging with the lived experiences of women and in how society stifles and restricts us, and I wanted to explore the kind of conversation I could have about all these aspects. That was how the film developed into what it became.

P: I saw that you mentioned in your interview with Catch.sg, that now you were thinking about whether it was ‘right to classify women in nature’ in your film and that you might have wanted to go beyond the nurturing aspect of nature and explore its grotesqueness. Looking back on it now, do you still relate to the film and the initial way you conceived it?

A: I definitely still relate to Distant Places , but for me, when I talked about how it would be interesting to explore the grotesque, I think it also comes from the idea of research. I don’t know how the story would have taken shape if I had done further research into how other writers engage with the grotesque or abject aspects of nature and femininity.

The film still stems from my personal experience as a woman and my desire to seek out nature to avoid engaging with society so actively. In nature, I do feel a sense of liberation, as opposed to an urban environment where everybody is enforcing all kinds of social conventions on me. That’s where the film came from, as I was trying to explore the natural environment as a site of escapism and magic.

P: Thinking about the opening sequence of your film, with Mahia’s (Gurdev Kaur Sharma) dance in the forest, really stayed with me, especially with how you framed the natural environment as more than just a backdrop. I think that, alongside your amazing cast, nature feels like such an important character in your film. How do you approach representing nature in Singapore, where the landscape is often highly curated or managed?

A: When I engage with nature, I don't want to treat it as something inherently natural in Singapore. We always have this narrative of the “Garden City,” and Singaporeans have a strong sense of pride about it. But as you mentioned, it’s very curated, and we don’t acknowledge it. For me, nature is a site of freedom and authenticity, allowing us to be ourselves without any constraints. But given how curated and urban Singapore is, the country's relationship with nature is so complex. I think that when I explore these themes of magical realism and escapism, I am consciously reflecting on how the city is so different from the natural environment, and I want to explore this further in my future work.

P: Was the idea of portraying your characters in harmony with nature something you approached intentionally?

A: Maybe when I made it, it wasn’t completely intentional.

While writing and working on the film, I began to see nature not as a space but as a being in its own right. I think we have this tendency to other nature or treat it as a site of horror, and that fear comes from the fact that nature is an untameable force, and it’s something that humans can’t fully comprehend. As someone who is drawn to dismantling humanist ideas, of recognising that humans aren’t everything and that we don’t necessarily have power, I think engaging with things that are irrational and untameable is something I’m interested in, because the irrational holds some sort of comfort and some form of truth.

P: The idea of nature being irrational and combining that with the female experience is quite powerful. Is the female experience irrational and untameable for you?

A: I think society enforces all these classifications of women and men, and these labels exist because we are so desperate to make sense of ourselves. But that can also make things worse, because we aren’t creatures who live in ways that can be neatly classified — we are so complex. When we reduce our entire lived experience to a single label, we are actually restricting our lives into a very small bubble, and because of that, it becomes even more confusing. We become desperate to identify: What exactly is femininity, and who dictates what it is? Clearly, the patriarchy dictates what womanhood is, but if we take that away, what does it actually mean to be a woman?

All these questions become even more convoluted because there is a label put on us, and I think that is precisely what I’m paralleling in my film when I think about womanhood and nature. It’s the fact that womanhood is such an incomprehensible thing.

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About the Author: Phyllis Chan is a writer-curator with an interest in the political margins of film and contemporary art. She was the co-curator of the Substation exhibition Between Lands: Migration as Transformation , as part of the Sub+ Youth Curators Programme. As a writer, she has contributed essays to Correspondence and NTU Film Society’s Exposure , with her work for the latter also featured in the Asian Film Archive’s Asian Cinema Digest .

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #195: The Bride!

Fri, 06 Mar 2026 06:11:06 GMT

Film Review #195: The Bride!

The Demands of Being Alive

At least, the simple succinct movie title with an exclamation mark tells us it’s about to be a banger.

Thank you Warner Bros and Singapore Film Society for the privilege of attending The Bride! premiere. It was a little girl’s dream come true.

BEFORE THE RESURRECTION

When I first heard about The Bride! I wondered: why is there another Frankenstein film? Is this connected to Guillermo del Toro’s version that came out in 2025?

I have never read Mary Shelley’s novel nor watched the earlier films. My only exposure to anything remotely similar was Frankenweenie (2012) , watched on DVD with my sister and my late golden retriever, Princess. [FRANKENWEENIE SPOILER IN THE NEXT SENTENCE] We cried when Sparky died and spent the whole afternoon treating Princess like royalty.

That was my introduction and probably only prior reference to Frankenstein.

So, I entered the cinema with limited knowledge. I avoided the trailer on purpose and only knew two things; Jessie Buckley was starring, and the film was directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal, the Oscar-nominated director of The Lost Daughter (2021). I also knew that the film revisits 1935’s Bride of Frankenstein .

What I was truly drawn to was the story being told through The Bride’s perspective. I’ve always had a soft spot for women directors, and the idea of seeing this classic horror concept reimagined through a woman’s lens, I was all in.

As I thought about how to review this, I found myself reaching for other reviews. It’s a bad habit of mine to read other people’s online discussions before fully forming my own, and this was no different. While browsing, I even came across a Reddit user suggesting Lady Gaga as The Bride. I couldn’t help but imagine how fascinating that casting choice might have been. But after watching the film, I can decidedly say that Buckley brings a raw and unpredictable energy that makes the character feel uniquely her own.

GOTHIC AND UNIVERSAL

Set in 1930s Chicago, the story begins when a murdered young woman (Jessie Buckley) is dug up and brought back to life by Frankenstein’s monster (Christian Bale), Dr. Euphronius (Annette Benning), and her assistant Greta (Jeannie Berlin). But she is not merely a romantic companion. She becomes The Bride and more…

This is a gothic noir with feminist bite. It is violent and sexual. Tongues are cut out. Organs are kept as souvenirs. Women are murdered. This is equally a revenge romance and a detective thriller. These moments underline the film’s main theme: women’s voices being literally and metaphorically taken away.

What makes The Bride! particularly compelling is that it seems less interested in the monster himself and more in the woman created beside him. Traditionally, versions of this story often ask what it means to create life. This version asks something more unsettling: what happens when that life demands agency of its own?

Watching it at Shaw Lido, the trippy panoramic cinema view made me extra conscious of the film’s details. Buckley’s unnameable smeared mascara ink-dark around her eyes and mouth, gives her a rebellious look contrary to typical beauty standards. In Nerdist's virtual interview with Maggie Gyllenhaal, she explained that the character came from noticing Elsa Lanchester’s Bride of Frankenstein (1935) , who only appears briefly and doesn’t speak, yet still makes a strong, defiant impression. She had originally imagined the story in the 1860s and ’70s, when people were speaking to the dead after the Civil War, and felt that same kind of strange, formidable energy fit her version of the character.

The Bride’s iconic saturated orange dress pops violently against the muted cityscape of the period setting, making her impossible to ignore. One particular dance sequence beneath a grand hotel chandelier felt strangely hypnotic, almost like choreography straight out of Netflix’s Wednesday .

This is no coincidence and credits are due. The film was shot on a Sony Venice 2 by Joker ’s (2019) Director of Photography, Lawrence Sher, with the costumes designed by Oscar-nominee Sandy Powell (Shakespeare in Love, 1998). These details contributed by them and the entire team that Gyllenhaal worked with build the very specific mood we see and feel connected to: dark, theatrical, gothic romance.

JESSIE BUCKLEY, THE WOMAN YOU ARE.

What I appreciated most was how messy the film allowed her to be. The Bride is not a typical polished symbol of empowerment. She is confused, furious, vulnerable, and sometimes frightening. That emotional unpredictability makes her feel human despite the film’s premise. It was beautiful seeing Buckley become a statement that other girls can model and protest their rights in the film.

Buckley, playing The Bride, was able to split into the different internal characters and monologue. The depiction of the ‘internal lady’ within her was the cherry on top in showing her growing fury and self acceptance.

At its core, The Bride! reimagines the tale not simply as a monster story, but as a study of loneliness. Frankenstein’s monster, is simple and kind, feels less like pure terror and more like a sad man clinging onto love. Meanwhile, The Bride awakens without memory but has a fierce and independent instinct. Around them, corrupt police and murdered women reveal a wider pattern of misogyny that the film refuses to ignore. The horror becomes a symbol: Whose voices are silenced, and who dares to reclaim them?

All I have left to say about the underlying message is, women deserve to be heard, respected, and believed. And while some may try to suppress and take advantage of them, there are also men who have a choice to listen, learn, and help create a world where no one has to abuse or feel superior, just to have a voice.

For audiences willing to dive into its beautiful, bold gothic world, the film offers a visually rich story about rage, identity, and the power of finally speaking up.

Perhaps that’s why the exclamation mark in the title works so well. The Bride! isn’t trying to scare you. Instead, it jolts us into thinking emphatically about sexual violence, abuse, manipulation, bodily autonomy and calling someones inappropriate behaviour out.

And for those watching in theaters, it’s worth staying till the end of the credits.

The film officially releases in Singapore theatres on March 5, 2026.

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About the Author: Shree is a bubbly, open-minded, kind-hearted gal who loves all things purple and green, the colours of fairies. She enjoys many kinds of films, but her preference is for films that explore universal issues. Through film, she hopes to learn more about the world and encourage conversations about meaningful issues. Shree's mostly off social media and believes in traditional ways of collecting and sharing memories through a junk journal. She cares deeply about the environment, and if you’ve ever spent time with her, there’s a good chance the receipt from that day is safely tucked inside one of her pages.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Interview with Giselle Lin on Children’s Day

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 11:17:20 GMT

Trust the Process: Giselle Lin on Children’s Day,

Shooting on 16 millimeter, and Teaching Film

Over the past few years, Giselle Lin has quietly accumulated a body of work that has garnered the attention of local and international audiences. Children’s Day (2025), her latest narrative short, premiered internationally at the 75th Berlinale Film Festival before returning home to screen at the Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF). The film was also part of this year’s Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF) programme, where she picked up the Youth Inspiration Award. Her previous documentary short I look into the mirror and repeat to myself (2023) won Best Singaporean Short Film at the SGIFF 2023.

Taken together, these milestones position her as one of the promising youth voices of the local film industry. Indeed, in a film ecosystem as small as Singapore’s, young filmmakers may be tempted to foreground careerism, seeking awards and recognition as a way to legitimise their artistic pursuit. But for Giselle Lin, film has never stopped being a sincere mode of personal expression. As I found out during my interview with her, reciting a list of her accolades and achievements does not paint even a fraction of her portrait as a filmmaker.

Initially, I planned for my interview to focus on her position as an accomplished young Singaporean filmmaker, a rarity in our industry: where she saw herself in the next few years, and how she would define this “new wave” of up-and-coming local film practitioners. As the interview unfolded, however, I understood that Giselle never looked at her body of work in the language of achievement and representation. In her own words: “I'm just making films, and they're just going places.”

Giselle exemplifies what it means to put trust in one’s storytelling instinct, collaborators, and passion for the medium. Her films are as personal as they come, but dodge the temptation to become confessional melodramas that tug forcefully at heartstrings. She exudes a pure and unadulterated love for filmmaking, which is what makes her work so refreshing.

Below is my interview with Giselle, where we focus on her film Children’s Day . It has been edited for clarity and brevity.

Interview

Yiheng: You’ve said in interviews for Children's Day that the film was made with the intention of preserving the sights and sounds of your childhood. Did making this film become a way of stepping outside of the memories that you portrayed in the film, or a way to treasure them?

Giselle: It was a mix of both. My sister and I wrote the film together. I started with the first draft before getting her help shaping the next iterations. Because it was my sister who was writing with me, we were drawing on experiences that were very rooted in memory. After a while, we kind of fell into a trap. I remember that while we were writing, the night before the shoot, I suggested a line for the mother during the scene in the bedroom. I just felt she had to say something. That’s where the line came from: “What’s it like to be eight? I forgot.”

And then my sister said something like, “But I don't think mummy would say that though.” And then it brought up a conversation of whether or not we're writing about our own parents… In the end, we realised it's filmmaking, so I think that helped us put some distance, you know.

Yiheng: Putting some distance… And you see that as a necessary process?

Giselle: Yeah, I think it's good. Personally, I don't really like to talk about my documentary ( Mirror ) anymore because I think some distance in film is good. And I think it's good that Children's Day is not entirely factual or autobiographical like Mirror. It's more emotionally autobiographical…

Yiheng : I definitely do feel that with Children's Day . From a production perspective, it wasn’t completely independently produced, right? Whereas for Mirror, it was mostly self-funded and made on your own. Did this switch have any impact on the technical or creative decisions you could make?

Giselle: For Mirror , when you're making a film with no grants or anything, it can happen as fast as you want it to be, because you are the one putting in the money, you are planning the schedule yourself. I made Mirror because I was very tired of waiting for Children's Day to be made.

In fact, I wasn't going to make a documentary. Initially, it wasn't on my mind until… I was doing a residency in Venice, and then I was talking to my friends who did the residency with me about how tired I was of waiting to make a proof-of-concept kind of short. Then they were like, “Oh, just go and shoot something.” Eventually, I was convinced, you know… I don't need a lot, I can just go and shoot. And the only camera I have shoots Super 8mm film, which is what I shot Mirror on. It's a medium that I really enjoy.

Yiheng: And you shot Children’s Day on 16mm. You decided to keep shooting on Kodak film. Does film add a certain texture or effect to your films that shooting digital couldn't achieve?

Giselle: Before I did Children's Day , I had no experience shooting on a gauge bigger than 8mm. 8mm film is actually tiny, you know. Super 8, specifically, is called that because it’s fast. You can just pop a cartridge in and shoot. It's very easy. But when you shoot 16mm, it comes in reels, so you have to have a film loader to use it. It was tougher, but I enjoyed it a lot. On the first day on set, I wasn't used to it, because there's no clear view of the footage being filmed. Only 10% of the light that enters a film camera is fed into the eyepiece. So what you see is not exactly what the final footage will look like.

At first, I tried to follow it, but eventually, I didn't see a point. I didn’t want to stand at the monitor anymore, so my sister, who was the script supervisor, took over for me. There was a lot of trust involved with my Director of Photography (DP) as well. Sometimes I couldn’t see what was going on, so I would ask him if the shot was good. And if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.

I just sat under the camera, between the tripod legs. I wasn't glued to a monitor, and I could focus on the blocking and the performances. It was very tactile, and I enjoyed it because I was interacting more with the actors. It sounds like I'm romanticising it, but I really like that I can’t second-guess myself with film. Filmmakers always get stuck asking if they shot enough of this scene, or they would wish that they had done another take… On film, you have limited opportunities to shoot, which, to me, isn’t a limitation. I see it as an opportunity to shoot on something super precious, so I would do my best for every take.

Yiheng: Despite the differences in the making of the film, Mirror and Children’s Day were thematically similar in terms of your childhood and how you grew up. Is this subject matter one of your preoccupations when you're making films?

Giselle: It's not only my preoccupation when I'm making films… It's just my preoccupation. Period. I think about my past a lot and I'm inherently quite a nostalgic person. I can capture things from my past really well.

Yiheng: Children’s Day premiered internationally at the 75th Berlinale Film Festival. Given the unique Singaporean context in which the film was set, how did you feel screening it to such a large international audience? Did you feel any pride in representing Singapore in this small way?

Giselle: I think the film covers a lot of themes that are quite universal, so the European audience could still find pieces of themselves in the film. But I don't like to think that way when I bring a film overseas because it's a lot of pressure. I don't think I represent Singapore. I'm proud to make films in a Singaporean context, but my films stem from my personal experience, so I don't want to speak for everybody. I don't think I can. And it's good because where I can’t, another filmmaker can cover that base.

Yiheng: To wrap up this interview, I want to talk more about your work outside of film. I read that you teach at Objectifs. Why teaching?

Giselle: In Objectifs, I teach holiday workshops for children. Recently, I also started teaching at Temasek Polytechnic. Both are filmmaking courses, but for Objectifs, the workshop is called “Young Youtubers”, you know… but it's basically filmmaking. I enjoy it a lot. I don't think I'm good at a lot of things, but when I'm teaching, I think I'm not bad.

For Temasek Polytechnic, teenagers scare me a bit. But then I thought it would be a good opportunity to see who might be the next filmmakers of Singapore. I remember in university, I had really life-changing interactions and experiences with my lecturers who taught me a lot about film. It wasn’t even necessarily in the classroom. Just talking to them and seeing how they see the world and what kind of films they like was enlightening. So I think if I can be that for a 17-year-old kid in Temasek, even for just a few weeks, it's great, you know?

Yiheng: Do you find it a challenge to balance teaching and filmmaking?

Giselle: I'm not a full-time staff member, so I don't need to commit to it full-time. I think in 2022, I had a full-time scriptwriting job and it completely drained me. I was so tired because I was writing from 10 to 6 every day, working on scripts I didn’t care about. I just didn’t want to write scripts anymore in my free time because I was writing scripts all day. So teaching is a better balance for me. I mean, it's still quite difficult to find time to write now, but I’ve been trying… I try.

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About the author: Yiheng dedicates a significant portion of his time staring at screens. On theatre, laptop, and television screens, he can be found watching films of any kind. On his phone screen, he wages a life-long battle with his Letterboxd watchlist, perpetually trying (and failing) to clear it.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #194: 100 Metres

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 10:39:52 GMT

Film Review #194: 100 Metres

Hope. Glory. Disappointment. Setback. Fatigue. Satisfaction. Frustration. Achievement. Along with every other feeling.

In those few seconds, the 100 metre dash becomes a microcosm of life itself.

In his sophomore animated feature film, Director Kenji Isaisawa brings 100 Metres , an adaptation of a manga with the same title, to moving life. The film follows Togashi, a boy who is naturally gifted at sprinting, from sixth grade all the way to adulthood. In his schooling years, he meets Komiya, who is full of determination but lacking technique. They forge a bond through their passion for running, and eventually become fierce rivals on the track.

While the majority of sports films revolve around themes of resilience and the power of indomitable human spirit, 100 Metres probes deeper into the ‘why’s. What exactly is it about ourselves that makes us want to push ourselves to the limits? There’s something innate about our humanity that drives us to obsession, staking everything on a 10-second sprint, both literally and metaphorically.

These philosophical musings are grounded in reality. In the sporting world, for instance the quadrennial FIFA World Cup competition for football, players often play through potentially career-ending injuries for a mere shot at glory. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to etch your name into history. “Give up your body because it’s just a collection of cells. Glory is forever,” the top runner in 100 Metres’ universe comments. Although most of us are not professional athletes, the same ideology rings true. In our Singapore society, hustle culture remains a predominant attitude, as we continuously seek the highest form of attainment, whether in wealth or stature. This brutal belief also exists in Komiya, as his determination to achieve success hints towards physical ruin.

But 100 Metres offers a counter - that glory can be rendered meaningless. “It’s lonely at the top” might be a common adage in the sporting world to mock those far beneath the victor, but it takes on a different quality in the film. The further and faster our characters run, the more isolating the journey becomes, as there is no one to run alongside them. Nevertheless, we witness the athletes in the film essentially destroy their bodies for a mere shot at glory.

*THE FOLLOWING TWO PARAGRAPHS CONTAIN MINOR SPOILERS.

PROCEED AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION, OR SKIP TO THE END.*

Komiya is consistently warned about his shoddy running form throughout the film. Having broken his leg once at a younger age, he struggles to reach his full potential over a fear of permanently damaging his leg. Yet, he continues the pursuit, suffering through, sacrificing his body wholly to break all the running records in Japan. It’s a painful process for the audience to witness, as we reconcile with this warped sense of purpose. Running becomes a joyless act that is only motivated by desire.

On the other hand, beyond ‘winning’, the film also tackles the opposite: the harsh reality of ‘coping with losing’. In his schooling years, Togashi is hailed as a prodigy, finding joy in the recognition that comes with winning. In high school, racing with his teammates allows him to find an appreciation for the sport again. However, these achievements come crashing down as Togashi ages. He loses his joy for running, and injuries have left him a mediocre runner on the decline. The struggles of the “gifted child syndrome” manifest into a greater struggle of purpose.

*SPOILER ENDS HERE*

100 Metres also utilises an unorthodox form of animation, with slower frame rates and a heavy emphasis on rotoscoping. Such techniques allow for the physicality of the characters to shine through, allowing the running sequences to feel visceral and emotive. There’s a long take in the middle of the film utilising the technique. As Togashi prepares for a race, the rain pours relentlessly, emphasising our main character’s emotional turmoil. It’s a mesmerising one take which manages to capture the beautiful complexity of running — an amalgamation of frustration and tenacity.

Although the film largely went under the radar, I’d argue it was one of the best animated films in both technical prowess and storytelling in 2025. It’s a shame it has been overlooked by award ceremonies, as 100 Metres moves beyond a typical sports drama to become an exploration of the human psyche, our ‘whys’, and the very essence of our being.

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About the author: Kyle is an aspiring creator and artist who is currently majoring in Communications. He’s always curious about different forms of art and is interested in unpacking the psychology and the intricate, vulnerable emotions behind creations. When he’s not in the cinema, he’s probably discovering a new album to listen to, reading, writing or obsessing over a random hyperfixation for the month.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

TIFF Festival Guide

Sat, 14 Feb 2026 00:58:11 GMT

#FilmFest Guide: TIFF 50

In early 2025, I fell down the rabbit hole of r/oscarrace. There was something electric about the discussions around the awards season that made me want to be a part of the conversation. And — as I was soon to find out — there's nowhere better to experience the excitement surrounding the buzziest films than TIFF.

What’s TIFF?

The Toronto International Film Festival is hosted by its titular city every September. Nicknamed “The People’s Festival”, it is widely viewed as the most accessible among the Big Five — Berlin, Cannes, Sundance, Toronto, and Venice. From catchphrases shouted during ads to high-energy midnight screenings, there is a definite culture around the festival. 2025 saw its 50th edition: TIFFTY.

Tickets Time

Tickets usually sell out in seconds by the time they reach the general public on Ticketmaster. This is because TIFF runs on a tiered system, with donors getting earlier access through a different platform. If you really want a ticket, scalpers abound on Ticketmaster and services like StubHub. The latter is riskier than official resales, though apps like goConfirm help to mitigate your chances of getting scammed. Note that Ticketmaster takes a cut from resale tickets, meaning resellers have to raise their asking price to avoid incurring a loss (presumably the case when I bought a Sirat resale priced ~CAD$10 (~S$9.20) higher than the original).

On the first night of public sales, I got a grand total of one (1) ticket to an indie animation flick called Space Cadet (which happens to be screening for free at the ArtScience Museum!). Two days later, I snatched up Ralph Fiennes’ The Choral and Ethan Hawke’s Blue Moon during a sporadic ticket drop.

But it wasn't until September 1st, three days from the start of the festival, when I secured the bulk of my wishlist during a massive ticket drop. As you can imagine, this process was an emotional rollercoaster. Despite reassurances from online veterans, I was dreading arriving in Toronto with half of my days empty.

Tip #1: Turn on notifications on online forums like r/TIFF and Discord groups to get real-time updates on random ticket drops.

Tickets originally reserved for guests are also known to drop on the day of a screening itself. But if you don't manage to nick a last-minute ticket, join the Rush Queue — a system where the first few in line are admitted up until 10 minutes into the show (though I managed to always be seated before the first scene). This got me into the season's hottest tickets, including Hamnet and It Was Just An Accident . The longest I queued for tickets was 3 hours, and the shortest was a measly 15 minutes. (Don't worry, strangers are usually just as happy as friends to hold your spot while nature calls — and the latter often become the former after hours in line together!) However, rush isn't a sure bet. A nighttime screening of Hamnet at a small hall let in zero people from rush, despite the queue starting early in the morning.

Anyone can join a rush queue for free. Individual rush tickets (which you're prompted to buy if you’re successfully offered a seat) went for a standard price of CAD$29 (~S$26.89), but you could also choose to make a one-time payment of CAD$80 (~S$74.36) for a Rush Pass. I recommend investing in a portable stool for long waiting times (a foldable one is best, since some venues have restrictions on baggage size).

In general, I think that rushing is a good way to catch additional films that may not have been on your initial radar, but that you wouldn't be too upset to miss.

Tip #2: If you're rushing for at least three films, buy a Rush Pass to make any subsequent entrances effectively free.

Star Sightings

If snapping selfies or copping signatures from your favorite star is your thing, TIFF organizes Fan Zones where you can line up outside theatres and catch celebrities before they enter screenings. These lines are ticketed but free on Ticketmaster. I personally prefer not to meet (or rather, interact with) my heroes, but even I was treated to the sight of Andrew Scott a meter away, chatting casually with a group of fans. Someone in the rush queue behind me for Left-Handed Girl ran off because there was a sighting of James McAvoy down the street.

Outside of Fan Zones, cast and crew typically show up for the first screening of a film at TIFF, especially if it is a world premiere. The festival releases a guestlist right before the first day, but there’s no guarantee on who will show up when. For example, Ralph Fiennes had a scheduling conflict for The Choral , while Hikari attended every screening of Rental Family. My favorite experience was seeing Alexandre Desplat alongside Guillermo Del Toro at the second showing of Frankenstein — I love the scores he pens for Wes Anderson flicks.

Food

If you're going for the full festival experience, you can probably go light on your food budget. I can count the number of times I ate at a restaurant on one hand. For grab-and-go, the hot food aisle at the Asian supermarket Bestco was a lifesaver. There's even a bubble tea shop downstairs! It's a short walk from the theatres, and new enough that it wasn't overwhelmed by locals. There are also concession stands at Scotiabank (which sells poutine) and a bar at Lightbox, Varda.

Tip #3: Bag checks happen at each venue — but they vary in strictness. Roy Thomson Hall is known to veto even water bottles.

Staying & Going

This was my first time in Canada, but I felt reasonably safe traveling solo, even when cabbing alone at 3am (for the Midnight Madness screening of Dust Bunny ). Prices are notoriously elevated during the festival period. Because I booked my accommodations only in mid-August, the only hotel that remained within budget was up in Thornhill, a full hour away from the theatres in downtown Toronto. Festival veterans have been known to book flights and lodgings a year in advance. Splurging on the likes of the Ritz-Carlton or Shangri-La even increases your chances of running into celebrities in the lobby.

Lixin’s Top 5

Disclaimer: These are, of course, personal takes. Some of these are Hollywood productions with big names attached, while others are indie gems I was shocked to discover featured newcomers to the craft.

#5: Primavera (dir. Damiano Michieletto)

This staunchly feminist film debut by an operatic stage director sets its stage in 18th-century Venice, where an orphaned convent girl forges a bond with her instructor Vivaldi (the baroque musician of “The Four Seasons” fame). Admittedly, I have a weakness for the historical genre (a taste you will see reflected elsewhere in this list), but this one stayed with me for such a long time that I dedicated a full review to it. Its unflinching portrait of classist and patriarchal historical Venice elevates the tender, shifting relationship between the two leads into something truly special.

Primavera was released in its native Italy on Christmas Day 2025, and is opening across Europe in 2026. As of the writing of this piece, no news about distribution in Singapore is available.

#4: Rental Family (dir. Hikari)

A bilingual drama featuring Academy Award winner Brendan Fraser as a gig actor in Japan who freelances at an eponymous rental family agency, it’s a crowd-pleaser that hits all the right notes. The titular unique odd-job setup brings a veneer of freshness to the tried-and-true formula of a sentimental drama. During the Q&A, director Hikari (of Beef fame) mentioned that Brendan Fraser learnt Japanese for the role — impressive!

Rental Family opened wide in Singapore on 22nd January 2026, after premiere screenings at SGIFF 2025.

#3: The Testament of Ann Lee (dir. Mona Fastvold)

Mona Fastvold, one half of the power couple that brought us The Brutalist , takes the director’s chair for this experimental biography of an 18th-century female leader (of a cult). It is difficult not to respect the efforts behind this ambitious epic brought to life by visuals straight out of an oil painting and rapturous, avant-garde musical numbers. Amanda Seyfried toils as the titular historical religious leader, whose relationship with her devoted younger brother provides the emotional heart of the film. It is disappointing that despite being distributor Searchlight’s main priority this year, this film failed to garner industry awards. Mona Fastvold and Lewis Pullman showed up at the post-screening Q&A, and they were both so lovely and soft-spoken.

As of this time, there is no local or streaming distribution information regarding The Testament of Ann Lee.

#2: A Poet (dir. Simón Mesa Soto)

I got in line for this on a whim, only to be utterly floored by this modern Colombian tragicomedy. A failed poet experiencing a midlife crisis discovers a talented student, but his attempts to mentor her may not lead to redemption. Funny, sad, and profound all at once, A Poet’s tonal shifts are immaculately executed. I was surprised at how relatable its depiction of the local arts scene was, with its hypocrisies, political pandering, and easily toppled pedestals. It is unbelievable that this is apparently the main lead’s first role, and the director’s sophomore feature film. Random strangers I spoke to on the last day of the festival agreed that this was one of the highlights of their festival.

Anticipate Pictures holds Singapore distribution rights for A Poet. No release dates are currently available.

#1: Train Dreams (dir. Clint Bentley)

The TIFF programmer introduced this film by emphasizing how lucky we were to be watching this on a big screen, and I cannot agree more (although it is definitely still worth watching on streaming). Every single frame, presented in a conspicuously square-ish 3:2, could be hung on a wall. Train Dreams is the beautifully poignant story of the long life of a 20th-century everyman logger. If its slow cinema-esque synopsis is making you hesitate, please take a chance on this one anyway: because I never imagined connecting so deeply to a film of its description either. Despite the tragedies which haunt the protagonist’s long life, it miraculously manages to be a tear-jerkingly life-affirming and environmentalist film.

Train Dreams is streaming on Netflix as of December 2025.

Enjoy the Experience!

I watched 18 films over 10 days at TIFF 50 — everything I wanted to catch (except one — a film for which I had No Other Choice but to wait for the Singapore release) and then some. Out of my favorite five, only two were on my watchlist from the start. All but one will likely never receive a wide release in Singapore.

It also raises the question of how the festival experience can shape one’s reception to films. When you're watching two or three films a day, they can start to blur into each other. I wonder if I might have rated No Other Choice and The Secret Agent differently if I'd seen them at TIFF instead of back home in Singapore.

I arrived in Toronto not knowing anyone from the city, but left with interesting conversations and even friends from rush queues and seat neighbors. The TIFF volunteers are also happy to take photos for you, which is how I have digital keepsakes too.

My experience at TIFF 50 was eye-opening, and it deepened my interest in film. I'm looking forward to attending more festivals in the future!

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About the author: Lixin is an incorrigible dreamer who will probably never stop imagining conversations between characters while commuting on the MRT. Outside of a corporate day job, her creative fiction can be found in various literary magazines.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #193: Following

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 18:52:18 GMT

“Why does she have so many pictures of herself?” – Piecing together Following (1998)

*SPOILER WARNING: THIS ESSAY SPOILS THE ENTIRE FILM. TURN BACK NOW IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE FILM!*

I watched Following , Christopher Nolan’s 1998 debut, for the first time last year. The film’s final plot twist, in which the true plans of the well-dressed burglar Cobb (played by Alex Haw) are revealed, struck me immediately as being a trifle overwrought. After I finished watching the film, I rushed to connect the dots in order to make sense of the ending. I tried to replay the film mentally from Cobb’s point of view and to rearrange the film’s non-linear narrative in a traditional linear form. I then re-watched a large number of scenes in order to check my “solution” for errors. I also enabled the subtitles, all the better to detect bits of dialogue and exposition that I might have missed during the first viewing.

My feelings were mixed as I put on the film again. I knew I wasn’t re-watching key scenes for reasons to do with cinematic appreciation. I simply wanted the satisfaction of knowing that I had successfully solved the film. In short, I found myself engaging with Following not as a film, but as a puzzle. I can’t say I was surprised by my reaction to the film. I do recall engaging with Memento, Inception, and Tenet in a similar fashion. It was quite bracing to realize that Following , a lean 70-minute crime film shot on a $6000 budget, could draw me in in the same way that Nolan’s more expensive films had done.

I have always thought of Christopher Nolan as the Christoper Priest (the late author of The Prestige , which Nolan adapted into a 2006 film) of films. To put it a little more strongly, I can’t help but wonder if Christopher Nolan has been emulating Christopher Priest throughout his whole career. Like the novels of Christopher Priest, some of Nolan’s films are set up as puzzles. This may explain the common observation that Nolan’s films are “cold,” an observation that I happen to agree with. But the puzzle-like quality of some of his films also explains their popularity. There is obviously a large mainstream audience for his puzzle-films, as evidenced by the large quantity of online commentary on how the dots laid out in his films should be connected.

How does Following rate as a puzzle? For me, some of the key pieces don’t seem to fit that well together. That’s a roundabout way of saying that I felt there were some parts of the film that felt implausible. But the pieces do more or less fit together if you take the film on its own terms, which involves assuming that the consequences of the actions taken by the characters are somewhat unavoidable. Interestingly, it seems to me that Following doesn’t want you to have to make such assumptions. Following strikes me as self-consciously logical and correct. In other words, it makes it a point to tell you – usually via exposition – that the moving parts of the plot do fit together in a logical manner. I found this to be a little grating, but I wasn’t surprised to see it. There is a lot of exposition in Nolan’s films. It’s hard to set up a puzzle or to lay down and engage with the rules of a game without exposition. Although I prefer showing to telling, on some occasions I have actually found Nolan’s use of exposition to be tolerable and effective. Sometimes, though, this storytelling quirk leaves the seams brutally exposed – as can be seen in The Dark Knight Rises (2012), but that is another essay waiting to be written.

These quibbles aside, I felt compelled to put the pieces of Following together immediately after my first viewing, even the ones that, in my view, didn’t fit very well. It helped that the film was only 70-minutes long. This meant that rewatching parts of it didn’t take a lot out of me. Also, the self-consciously logical character of Following made the task of re-watching certain scenes in order to check my solution to the puzzle a simple one. The dots and the connections between them are visible enough, particularly when the subtitles are turned on, for the determined viewer to spot, though this may be gratingly so in certain parts of the film for those of us who prefer more subtlety. Consider the following examples:

One crucial dimension of Cobb’s plan requires Bill (played by Jeremy Theobald) – who appears in the credits merely as “Young Man” – to develop a fascination with the Blonde (played by Lucy Russell) and to steal and store some of her personal effects. Cobb engineers this by breaking into the Blonde’s flat with Bill in tow. Bill does not know at this point in the film that Cobb and the Blonde are setting him up. Pictures of the Blonde have been strategically placed all over the flat, all the better for Bill to see them and develop an interest in the Blonde. The plan works. More specifically, the script tells us that it works. Bill says aloud twice during the break-in that he has noticed the pictures. “She’s got pictures of herself everywhere,” he says. “Why does she have so many pictures of herself?”. Cobb also draws Bill’s attention to the Blonde’s beauty several times during the break-in. “She’s a fox,” he says, as he rummages through her underwear. “She looks good.” “Look at her. She’s a babe.” “I think she’s a model. She’s certainly vain.” One cannot help but feel that these lines are as much for the audience as they are for the characters. “God, it’s perfect,” Cobb later tells the Blonde. “The photos worked.” But should they have worked? It is easy to join the dots on the film’s terms. Bill follows people around London. He is lonely and unemployed - an “unemployed 20-something who fancies himself a writer.” Cobb weaponizes his knowledge of these things by ensuring that there are many pictures of the Blonde in her apartment. Lonely Bill sees the pictures, starts to follow the Blonde, develops a romantic interest in her, and falls into Cobb’s trap. This feels too easy. But the thinness of Cobb’s manoeuvre is masked by the script’s insistence on its success.

The final twist at the end of the film reveals that Cobb is setting both Bill and the Blonde up. Cobb has been paid by a crime boss (the “Bald Guy”) who’s being blackmailed by the Blonde to murder her, and he intends to frame Bill for the crime. We learn, in an exposition-heavy scene near the end of the film, that Cobb has concealed his true intentions by telling the Blonde a different story. The Blonde thinks that Cobb is simply using Bill to throw the police off his scent. Cobb has told her that he found the body of a murdered old woman during one of his break-ins and that someone had seen him leaving the dead woman’s flat. The police have already brought him in for questioning, during which he told them that it was someone else at the flat. Cobb’s plan, as understood by the Blonde, is for Bill to be seen as this other person in order to free himself from suspicion. This requires that Bill should roughly look and behave like Cobb. To this end, Cobb, who burgles flats in a suit, inducts Bill into the life of a burglar – in effect, making Bill adopt his MO – and even persuades Bill to get a “new haircut” and a “new set of clothes.”

I was simultaneously thrown off and fascinated by this exposition-heavy scene. I was thrown off because I found it hard to believe that the Blonde would fall for such a tale. At the same time, I was struck by the self-consciousness of this scene. It is almost as if Christopher Nolan knows what the audience’s likely objections will be and wants to pre-empt them with a mini-FAQ. One objection would be that Bill, even with his new haircut and clothes, still doesn’t really look like Cobb. The Blonde asks Cobb if the person who saw him leave the dead woman’s flat managed to get a good look at him. “No,” he says. “Which is why I think this is going to work. All we need is someone of roughly the same appearance, roughly the same way of working, and we should be fine.” When the Blonde suggests that Cobb should simply tell the police that the woman was dead when he found her, he highlights several reasons why that wouldn’t be enough to free him from suspicion. And what if Bill’s got an alibi, she asks? “Well,” Cobb replies, “he’s a loner. He’s perfect. Even strangers that have seen him before aren’t going to recognize him because he’s had his hair cut.” I remember wondering for a moment if haircuts could really be so potent. Such lines are as much for the audience as they are for the characters. The film is making it a point to tell us that it is internally consistent and logical.

There is a scene in the first half of the film that seems a tad unnecessary when taken on its own, but which makes sense when one takes into consideration the film’s approach towards accounting for its moving parts. Bill, having heard from the Blonde that the Bald Guy has been blackmailing her with photos of a pornographic nature, has decided to break into the Bald Guy’s club to steal the photos. He phones Cobb for advice on self-defence. Cobb reels off a selection of weapons, one of which – a hammer – catches Bill’s attention. There is something perfunctory and utilitarian about this scene, which seems to serve the purpose of telling the audience to pay attention to the hammer. This weapon later plays a role in Bill’s downfall. Bill successfully steals the photos, as well as a large amount of cash, from the safe in the Bald Guy’s club. He also takes out one of the Bald Guy’s men with his hammer. Back at this flat, Bill realizes that the photos are harmless modelling pictures. Realizing that he’s been set up, he confronts the Blonde in another exposition-heavy scene. The Blonde calmly gives up the game (as she understands it): “The police think he [Cobb] did something, and he didn’t. So he needs a decoy, another likely suspect. Someone caught robbing a place using the same way he does it, his methods.” This scene spotlights Bill’s hammer and what he did with it very explicitly: “He came in. He went down. I didn’t hang around long enough to find out whether he could get up. It’s his blood on my hammer. How could you do this to me?”

After confronting the Blonde, Bill heads off to the police to tell them “the truth.” Cobb, meanwhile, murders the Blonde with Bill’s hammer. At the police station, a policeman tells Bill that “we don’t actually have any unsolved murders of old ladies” and ties him to the Blonde’s death, pointing to, among other things, a shoebox taken from under Bill’s bed that contains the Blonde’s personal effects and the blood-stained hammer used in the Blonde’s murder. “We also found a hammer with two types of blood on it,” he tells Bill. “One type I assume will match the bloke you put in hospital.”

I can’t say that the ending is watertight. Why did Bill leave his blood-stained hammer – an important piece of evidence – at the Blonde’s flat? Was Cobb simply being opportunistic when he used Bill’s hammer to murder the Blonde? Or had he been banking on the possibility all this time that Bill would take his weapon to the Blonde’s flat and leave it there? Following is a film that consciously tells its audience what is going on and how the pieces fit together, but this doesn’t mean that all the pieces of the puzzle really do fit snugly with each other. It is, though, an excellent introduction to Christopher Nolan’s storytelling quirks. It has the same expository, telling-rather-than-showing, and self-consciously logical qualities of his other films. Of course, in the case of Following , one should make allowances (perhaps a very generous amount) for the fact that it was a micro-budget film ($6000). Telling, after all, is far cheaper than shooting more scenes for the sake of showing.

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About the author: Benjamin Choo is a Senior Lecturer at the Singapore University of Social Sciences. He has been contributing to the SFS blog since 2024.

Film Review #192: Rental Family

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 18:38:59 GMT

Film Review #192: RENTAL FAMILY

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

On the outset, Rental Family is presented as a lovable, heartwarming comedy starring Brendan Fraser. Fraser plays Phillip, a struggling actor in Japan who takes on odd acting gigs, including being in toothpaste commercials and dressing up as a tree. He’s the token American, a hulking figure among the Japanese who takes up the roles that no one else seems to want. Yet despite it all, his earnestness to take on any job lands him a very peculiar one.

The rental family service, to outsiders, is a strange phenomena in Japan where hired actors provide stand-in services as family members or friends. The act is transactional - for the right fee, you can get a service: a performance for your social benefit. The roles they play might be false, but as Brendan Fraser shows through Philip, the emotions can be very real. Director Hikari shows that each interaction, while arranged in specific ways, is imbued with meaning and creates a memory for the people involved.

Philip’s position as a foreigner in Japan places him in demand. He’s the exotic gaijin who has lived in Japan for a number of years and can speak fluent Japanese. His gigs this time though, are those that go beyond his boundaries of comfort. Acting by nature is a profession of deceit, and one has to at times separate themselves from their character. Philip on the contrary, true to his affable self, finds the genuine connection with his clients as himself.

Though there are moments in which this reveals the effects of the loneliness epidemic, do not mistake this for a morose film. Rental Family is very much a heartwarming drama, that Fraser seems to have a lot of fun in. He seems comfortable in his element, speaking a mixture of both Japanese and English. This collision of cultures finds Fraser dressed up in a kimono, and getting involved in antics that are hilarious to watch. There are in fact more moments where you’ll find yourself chuckling away at the dynamics between Fraser and his co-stars, namely Shannon Gorman, who he has to play a father to. Their relationship marks the point in which Philip becomes truly invested in his role, and one where the professional line can easily be crossed. When he truly feels the joy in each interaction, it deals a blow to be told he cannot get emotionally attached.

In many unspoken ways, Rental Family also reveals so much about the intricacies within Japanese culture. The hidden formalities, cultural idiosyncrasies, and gender biases are like a puzzle to unravel if one isn't too familiar with their social conventions. There is a realisation that hits you when you see why these services are provided, and the value that they bring. The lines between what is real and what is a performance blurs, but what remains true are the underlying social stigmas.

Rental Family is now showing at Filmhouse .

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About the author: Ivan Chin is a film critic who hopes to spotlight not only East Asian films, but homegrown films and directors to a larger audience. He has a penchant for films from Hong Kong and Taiwan, but is constantly seeking to expand his film repertoire. He believes that film as an art form is essential to the human condition.

Film Review #191: Kaantha

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 18:27:00 GMT

Film Review #191: Kaantha

Kaantha begins with a jolt: a cold murder staged with such icy precision that it feels like a prelude to a full-blown crime thriller. Then, almost mischievously, the film abandons that momentum.

For the next hour, we are pulled into a dense web of clashing egos and bruised loyalties. Set in 1950s Madras, much of Kaantha unfolds within the confines of a film set. The story centres on the reunion of two men bound by a fractured past: TK Mahadevan (Dulquer Salmaan), now a rising star intoxicated by fame, and Ayya (Samuthirakani), a director whose authority once went unquestioned. Years earlier, the two had parted ways after creative differences derailed a project they began together. Now, circumstance forces them back into the same space, attempting to revive what was left unfinished. TKM returns as a star with power to assert. Ayya, outwardly restrained, finds his authority slipping.

Introduced into the mix is Kumari (Bhagyashri Bose), who finds herself wedged between the two and, by circumstance, is forced to take a side. Through her eyes, the long and complicated history between TKM and Ayya comes into focus; a bond defined by loyalty, rivalry and old wounds. This dynamic becomes the engine of the film’s first half, with the two men circling each other with admiration, resentment and unspoken threat. It's an audacious structural swerve that trusts the audience far more than most mainstream Tamil films dare to. At its core, the film is about the cost of ego becoming identity. This tension is most clearly expressed through its visual design.

Visually, the film is a knockout. The cinematography leans into contrast-heavy lighting and thick, atmospheric volumetrics. Flashbacks are rendered in textured monochrome with aspect ratios that quietly tighten, mimicking mid-century Indian cinema and blurring the line between nostalgia and confession. The mirror work in this film is particularly striking. Every reflection of all our lead characters feels like a different version of themselves - each one slightly warped, slightly performative, slightly afraid.

The writing is no less sharp. The dialogue is precise, and the characters aren’t pushed around by plot mechanics so much as by their own worldviews and insecurities. Their decisions feel messy, human, and constantly complicate the dynamics in ways that drive the story forward. Here, the film’s bold mid-section comes into focus: instead of deepening the murder mystery, Kaantha throws us into a tense character drama, a genre shift that demands patience from the viewer. Drama, by nature, is less sensational than a whodunnit, but the film manages to keep the tension simmering through ego clashes that feel inevitable. That slow build pays off when the narrative finally loops back to the murder we witnessed at the start as a tragic endpoint.

If there’s one element that feels slightly out of tune at times, it’s the score. The heavy modern percussion and bass lines sometimes clash with the film’s period setting and visual sophistication. A more textured, era-conscious soundscape might have grounded certain scenes more organically. That said, this isn’t a dismissal of the music itself. There are sincere attempts to infuse authenticity into the songs and the tracks are, on their own terms, competently crafted and likely to resonate with most modern audiences. This tendency to overreach isn’t limited to the music. For instance, the film occasionally drifts into an indulgent mode, lingering longer than needed, luxuriating in its own atmosphere. This is most evident in the second half, when Kaantha shifts into a whodunnit with the introduction of Inspector Devaraj (Rana Daggubatti), who turns the film set into a makeshift

police station. While Rana does what he can with the role and the mystery is compelling, it isn’t complex enough to sustain its length. However, given the choice between a film that plays it safe, succumbs to commercial mediocrity, and one that is bold and ambitious in its cinematic vision, I’ll take the latter any day.

Kaantha is far from perfect, but it is very much cinematically and emotionally alive. It trusts the audience to sit with ambiguity, and refuses to dilute its vision. Tamil cinema needs more films that swing this hard, even if they don’t always land cleanly. In the end, Kaantha leaves you with a stark reminder: ego is costly, power is corrosive and some truths are not black and white; they only sharpen when brought into the light.

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About the author: Chinmaya’s personality runs on cinema, from bingeing films to dissecting every frame. Posting reviews on Letterboxd and Instagram as TheFilmBoi, he’s happiest talking movies all day long. Engineer by trade, filmmaker by passion, he believes life’s better with a little Nolan mind-bend, and a story that keeps you guessing.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #190: Night King

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 17:22:54 GMT

Night King: When the Neon Lights of Old Hong Kong Glow Again

《夜王》：当老港片里的霓虹灯，再次亮起

I have actually never been to a nightclub.

Everything I imagined about that glittering world came from the old Hong Kong films I watched as a child — neon lights flickering in smoky rooms, women in sequined dresses, a gang boss surrounded by admirers, glasses clinking, laughter rising, pleasure and excess everywhere. It felt like a snapshot of an entire era.

So when Night King brings that space back to the big screen, what I felt was no longer legend or glamour, but something quieter — the sadness of a time that has already passed.

The neon lights are still there. But the era has moved on.

Director Jack Ng gained major attention after A Guilty Conscience broke box office records. Returning for the Lunar New Year season, he shifts from courtroom intensity to something lighter and more rooted in Hong Kong culture.

If you’ve seen Dayo Wong in The Last Dance , with his restrained and somber performance, or in A Guilty Conscience with his razor-sharp wit, then you’ll notice a completely different side of him in Night King . He is still funny. But here, the humor feels more like protection. From the very beginning, his character is clearly defined — he is nostalgic. The older something is, the more he treasures it. That single line helps us understand “Huan Ge”(欢哥). He is not a playboy. He is not someone playing emotional games. He stays clear-headed in a world filled with neon lights and alcohol, yet there is always a hint of quiet weariness beneath that calm.

In Q&A, Ng said that the moment he saw Sammi Cheng, he knew she was “V Jie”（V姐）, simply because of her presence. But Sammi does not turn the role into a stereotypical “club queen”. She brings warmth to the character. There is strength in her gaze, but also empathy. You can sense both vulnerability and authority in her performance — the sensitivity of someone who feels deeply, and the steadiness of someone who knows how to survive in a complicated world.

I also want to highlight Fish Liew. The first time I knew her was in Someone Like Me , where she played “Mui”(阿妹) — a woman born with cerebral palsy who insists on living independently and claiming control over her own intimacy and desire. The role was subtle, yet powerful. In Night King , her Mimi is very different. During research, the director met a former madam who stood out from the other hostesses — gentle, thoughtful, and very good at reading people. She always seemed to know what others truly needed. That kind of ability requires emotional intelligence, but also restraint. Mimi is shaped from that inspiration. And the affection Huan Ge holds for Mimi feels layered — mixed with gratitude, companionship, and perhaps even a quiet sense of guilt after sharing lonely years together. It is not dramatic. It is understated. And that is why it feels real.

From the poster alone, audiences might assume this is another flashy story about nightlife and indulgence. But after watching it, I see something else — a reflection on how people hold on to their dignity in complicated environments.

The nightclub is only the setting. What truly moves the film are the glances, the pauses, the careful choices in words, and the space between people. The pacing is not fast, but it never drags.

Night King feels like a late-night conversation — richly humorous, touched by smoke and alcohol, lit by fading neon. For a Chinese New Year release, it is surprisingly thoughtful, and definitely worth seeing in the cinema.

In the end, I cannot help but think about this: There are eras we never lived through, moments we never saw with our own eyes. Yet through film, we can still come close to them. Because cinema exists, time can be remembered. Emotions can move across generations. As long as the images remain, the years we never experienced will still find a way to belong to us.

我其实从来没有去过夜总会。

关于那个花花世界的全部想象，都来自小时候的老港片——霓虹灯下的暧昧光影，空气里弥漫的香烟雾气，穿着亮片裙的小姐，永远被众人围坐的大哥。觥筹交错，寻欢作乐，纸醉金迷，仿佛那是一整个时代的缩影。

而当《夜王》把这个空间重新带回大银幕时，我感受到的，却不再是传奇与浮华，而是一种时代退场后的落寞。

霓虹未灭，只是时代已经远去。

导演吴炜伦凭《毒舌大状》票房破亿而备受关注，这次回归贺岁档，用更轻松、更具香港的味道，进行了表达。

如果你看过黄子华在《破地狱》里的冷冽与压抑，看过他在《毒舌大状》里的锋芒毕露，那么《夜王》里的他，是完全不同的质地。他依旧有幽默，但那种幽默更像保护色。影片一开场，人设就非常清晰——他念旧。越旧，就越怀念。这句话几乎是理解“欢哥”这个人物的钥匙。他不是欢场浪子，更不是情感游戏的操盘者。他在灯红酒绿中保持清醒，却也在清醒中带着无奈。

导演吴炜伦在采访中说，选角时一看到郑秀文，就认定她是V姐。原因很简单——气场。她给了人物温度。她的眼神里既有控制力，也有理解力；既有女性的敏感与脆弱，也有身处江湖的坚定与果敢。

还想特别说廖子妤。第一次认识她，是在《像我这样的爱情》（Someone Like Me）里，她饰演“阿妹”，一位天生脑性麻痹、却坚持独立生活，渴望对自己的亲密与欲望拥有自主权的女性。而在《夜王》，她饰演的Mimi，是完全不同的气质。导演在做调研时，曾认识一位妈妈桑，不同于其他小姐，她温柔，细腻，极会读人脸色，知道人真正需要什么。那种能力，是情商，也是分寸。Mimi就是从这样的原型里生长出来的角色。电影中，欢哥对Mimi 的感情，让我觉得掺杂着一种陪伴孤独岁月之后的亏欠，真实而沉默。

观众可以在电影海报中看到影片有很多的“小姐”形象，在同一个空间里，产生了微妙而立体的张力。

很多观众未看片前，或许会从片名去推断，以为这是一个关于夜总会寻欢作乐的老套故事。但看完电影后的我，更愿意把它看作是一种关于人如何在复杂环境里保有尊严的观察。

夜总会只是场景，真正动人的，是人物之间的分寸、眼神、试探与退让。影片的节奏并不急促，但很紧凑。

《夜王》，像是一场始终带着幽默感的夜谈，裹挟着烟味、酒气与灯光余晖。在新年贺岁期间，值得进影院一看。

最后，还是想要感慨，那些我们未曾经历、未曾亲眼见证的时代，如今仍能通过影像去理解。因为有电影，让时间有了传承，让世代之间的情感得以延续。但只要影像还在，那些未曾经历的岁月，也终将与我们有关。

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About the author: Rachel Xia is a film director from China who’s been in love with art since childhood. Turning that passion into a career? Pure joy. But where she really has fun is with sharing films and the emotions they bring. She respects every creator’s voice—it's the mix of different perspectives that makes life colorful.

Night King will be screened in its original Cantonese dialogue at Golden Village Vivocity during the SFS Special Presentation: Dayo Wong Film Festival from 21 February to 1 March. SFS Members can enjoy $2 off tickets.

Film Review #189: Withered Blossoms

Sat, 31 Jan 2026 10:30:43 GMT

Film Review #189: Withered Blossoms

Withered Blossoms 花开花谢 (huā kāi huā xìe), a short film written and directed by Lionel Seah, invites its viewers to reflect on love, loss, and the passage of time from the get-go. The Mandarin title, literally translated as “flowers bloom and flowers wither”, evokes the life cycle of flowers, a metaphor that resonates throughout the film’s portrayal of the relationship between a young woman (Stella Ye) and her ageing grandmother (Rachel Young). In its intimate moments and subtle performances, Withered Blossoms draws attention to the impermanence of life and the fleeting nature of human connection, reminding us that in beauty, there is loss, and in loss, a fragile but deeper grace.

The film unfolds over the course of a single day shared between the protagonist and her grandmother, opening with the protagonist on the phone with her ex-partner Alex. The exchange is brief and awkward, and it is immediately apparent that this chapter of her life has ended. However, when she arrives at her grandmother’s house and helps her get ready to leave, she is asked about Alex, and lies, claiming they are still together. Beyond avoidance, this lie reflects for the first time in the film her understanding that her time with her grandmother is limited, as here, the truth would only serve to burden someone already nearing the end of her life.

Throughout the film, as we follow the pair from home to the park and back again, they engage in gentle yet meaningful conversation, allowing viewers to gradually grasp the depth of their relationship. In a scene that quietly marks a reversal of roles, the protagonist helps her grandmother to a shower, during which the grandmother remarks on the transience of time. It is here that the film most explicitly raises the idea of life fading away, not through dramatic emphasis, but the inevitability of time.

Following the bath, their conversation deepens further, giving new weight to the grandmother’s persistent questions about the protagonist’s personal life. We see them come to a shared emotional understanding that is very much rooted in care, vulnerability, and unspoken fears about what lies ahead. In an especially tender moment, the protagonist rests her head on her grandmother’s lap, a scene that parallels a similar exchange in Edward Yang’s Yi Yi . Indeed, Seah’s short film closely mirrors Yang’s observational, slice-of-life approach, sketching an intimate portrait of everyday life that leaves space for emotional truths to surface organically. The film finally concludes on a striking visual contrast that encapsulates these concerns, leaving viewers with a lingering meditation on love, separation, and the passage of time.

Ultimately, Withered Blossoms reminds us that our time in this world is temporary and uncertain, with death being the only certainty. Yet, death is not presented as solely devastating. To grieve someone, to be left behind with memories of love and care, is perhaps where loss becomes inseparable from beauty. In its final image, the film offers us a quiet reassurance. Even as we continue living and breathing, carrying on despite loss and suffering, our loved ones remain with us, watching over us as we move forward. Fragile and impermanent as it is, life persists. Still, somehow, moving.

Withered Blossoms will be screened at School of the Arts on 1 February as part of this year’s Singapore Youth Film Festival.

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About the author: Jing’s morning ritual includes refreshing Letterboxd and catching up with all the latest reviews. When not glued to the big screen, you can find them reading, discussing football (visca el barça), or living in perpetual fear of their ever-growing watchlist. Jing is always excited to meet and connect with fellow film lovers, and can be found on Instagram at @_j.img_ or on Letterboxd at jingsters.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #188: Bugonia

Wed, 28 Jan 2026 01:43:40 GMT

Film Review #188: Bugonia

It begins, as it ends, with the quiet hum of bees.

The title Bugonia refers to an ancient Greek belief that bees could spontaneously emerge from the rotting carcass of an ox; a ritualistic fantasy of death giving way to renewal. It’s an idea steeped in superstition and false hope, and a fitting premise for Yorgos Lanthimos’ latest film. Bugonia is filled with Lanthimos’ recognisable traits: strange, unsettling, and absurd, with a postmodern cynicism that quietly fills every frame. Yet it also stands out as one of his more narratively accessible works, with a clearer and more conventional structure; an accessibility that sharpens his exploration of control and paranoia.

Compared to Lanthimos' previous project, the deliberately fractured Kinds of Kindness, Bugonia feels almost inviting at first. The humour lands cleanly, the narrative logic is easier to follow, and the film initially presents itself with an unusual sense of clarity for a Lanthimos film. It follows two conspiracy-obsessed men, Teddy (Jesse Plemons) and his cousin Don (Aidan Delbis), who kidnap Michelle (Emma Stone), a pharmaceutical CEO they believe is an alien bent on destroying Earth. However, slowly and deliberately, the film tightens, replacing amusement with discomfort and clarity with dread.

Emma Stone and Jesse Plemons anchor the film as its central forces. Stone’s performance is finely calibrated. She feels controlled to the point of artificiality, as though every emotion has been rehearsed. Even as a captive, she exerts a quiet power. Plemons, on the other hand, uses his awkwardness as a weapon. His restrained delivery and deadpan humour carry a quiet threat that lingers long after he exits the frame. Together, their performances embody the recurring ideas of this film; that in modern systems, people don’t just live, they perform.

Visually, Bugonia is meticulously controlled. Even before a character opens their mouth, the space around them is already saying something. Characters are often framed at a distance with gorgeous wides, having their bodies dwarfed by architecture or swallowed by rigidly ordered spaces. Individuals are rendered less as emotional centres and more as components within a larger mechanism. This visual language mirrors the film’s thematic fixation on hierarchy and obedience. Like bees within a hive, these characters move with purpose but without agency, their individuality eroded by the systems they serve. The composition of these images are precise, and it is that precision that contributes to the unsettling atmosphere of the film.

Structurally, Bugonia is relentlessly cyclical. There is no true resolution, only repetition. The bees return as a governing metaphor: labour without reflection, obedience without awareness, repetition mistaken for purpose. The film shows that nothing is truly learned, only repeated. Paranoia grows again, power asserts itself, and violence changes form rather than disappearing. Any promise of rebirth is illusory. Perhaps we’re all chained to this futile, cyclical doom.

It begins, as it ends, with the quiet hum of bees.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #187: All About Lily Chou-Chou

Wed, 28 Jan 2026 01:16:28 GMT

The Lost Youth and Digital Loneliness of

All About Lily Chou-Chou

The film opens on a void – digital hieroglyphics spasming into Japanese characters glowing against a black backdrop. It introduces our enigmatic Lily Chou-chou: a fictional alt-pop singer channelling Björk’s electro-eclecticism and Faye Wong’s dreaminess, and her mythical force, the “Ether”. The image then flickers to the film’s most famous visual: Yuichi stands hunched over his analogue Discman, swallowed by verdant paddyfields.

These sprawling countrysides, repeatedly interrupted by the flickering forum posts of Lily’s online fangroup, “Lilyholic”, create a strange, yet oddly harmonic visual grammar. This hybridised cinematic space is where All About Lily Chou-chou resides: where connection and loneliness coexist, and freedom turns into imprisonment. Iwai’s refusal of these binaries renders the teenage experience a stubbornly liminal and desperate one, suspended between Japan’s Lost Decade and the uncertainty of a nascent digital world.

Teenagehood in Japan’s Lost Decade

Set in the late-1990s to early-2000s, Lily Chou-chou takes place in Japan’s “Lost Decade” – an era following the bursting of the country’s bubble economy in 1991. Amidst mass social turmoil, Japan’s youth bore the brunt of this collapse: with scarce employment opportunities and a “pressure cooker” education system, their disillusionment led to a rise in youth delinquency.

Iwai never makes explicit reference to this context, yet the tonal unease pervades. Televisions drone on in the background, reporting bus hijacking incidents. A customer of Yuichi’s mother’s hair salon sighs: “Kids these days are very scary.”

Liminality and hybridity

The social turmoil of the Lost Decade coincides with another era of flux: the turn of the century and the dawn of the internet. Iwai’s engagement with this transition not only gives Lily Chou-chou its trademark analogue aesthetic but symbolises the transitory void between childhood and adulthood.

Shot on a Sony HDW-F900 – a camera digital in medium, yet engineered to retain the traditional 35mm film look – infuses the film’s very look with a sense of transitionality. Further hybridising the dichotomy of the modern and the traditional is Iwai’s juxtaposition of the natural and digital world. The sprawling paddyfields of Japan are routinely extinguished by the black screens of the ‘Lilyholic’ chatroom, where messages flicker over the screen, before the paddies take over again. A similar hybridity occurs as the starkly contrasting classical arpeggios of Debussy and the grungy alt-rock of Lily Chou-chou are interplayed throughout the film, capturing the precarious digital transformation and its liminality in the film’s very soundscape.

Two narratives unfold simultaneously: one of the reticent Yuichi in the physical world, and one of his passionate online forum persona, Philia. Lukas Heller argues that this “establishes Yuichi in a state of in-betweenness – of being two people in two places at once”; even in their identity, these teenagers occupy a state of hybridity.

Through a shifting assemblage of media and a non-linear narrative, the film also mirrors the fragmented subjectivity of its teenage characters’ minds. While ostensibly overwrought, its visual language – jump cuts, Dutch angles, abrasive close-ups, handheld shots, and frames drenched in overexposure – is unexpectedly coherent in its capturing of uncertainty.

Together, the film’s hybridity and instability plunge its characters into a disorienting, liminal reality. It transforms teenagehood into an experience not to be deciphered, but felt in all its peculiarity.

Freedom and imprisonment

The teenagers seek refuge in what they call the “Ether”, a term used by fans of Lily Chou-chou to describe the freeing, transcendental substance found in her music. The singer is transformed into an almost divine being, and her music a spiritual sanctuary in what Yuichi calls the “Age of Grey”. Beyond functioning as a cautionary message on toxic fan culture – something that would become more pronounced in Japan in later years – this stages a deceptively simple polarity between the two states of being, hailing the Ether as the cure-all for their alienation.

While this polarity is rarely contested in interpretations, the Ether ultimately feels equally alienating. Within Lilyholic, Yuichi, under his username ‘Philia’, shares his closest friendship with an anonymous ‘Blue Cat’, exchanging intimate confessions conspicuously under the veil of the internet. Yet, this online refuge and community thus feels illusory: the forum posts are isolated on dark, empty screens, as if they are ultimately speaking into a void.

Watching the film, the hollow loneliness of the digital abyss felt more familiar than ever. Often coined “digital loneliness”, this phenomenon would resonate strongly with the youth of our screen-mediated world, where frequent internet communication likely intensifies, rather than assuages loneliness. Even in 2001, Iwai captured this feeling of being simultaneously connected and alone with a prescient complexity I have never seen represented in cinema before. Like the hybridisation of modernity and tradition, Iwai deconstructs the polarity of isolation and community, allowing teenagehood to occupy a liminal space between the two.

Outside these digital spaces, the characters become even lonelier. The dream-like, overexposure swiftly morphs from a sanctuary into a prison: the backlight hits characters, drawing a halo that visually isolates their figures from the rest of the frame, imprisoning them. Characters are often framed alone or positioned sparsely within the frame, such that intimacy is rarely ever an occurrence.

As the soaring arpeggios of Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1 and the freeing riffs of Lily Chou-chou’s rock take over the auditory landscape, physical loneliness takes on an almost ethereal quality – such scenes almost become an escape. Yet, the reality of their isolation simultaneously suffocates us.

Desperation and violence

Under a veneer of dreaminess, All About Lily Chou-chou also hides alarming violence in its narrative. The brutality the teenagers enact, both unto others and themselves, is the culmination of their desperation and loneliness, translating into broader societal implications.

The Ether, a presumed cure to alienation, seems instead to accompany many of these teenagers in their acts of violence. Tsuda, a schoolmate of Yuichi’s who is blackmailed into prostitution by Hoshino, with the help of an exploited and bullied Yuichi under him, is introduced to Lily Chou-chou’s music by Yuichi. Iwai intercuts shots of the three of them, all with headphones on and Lily’s music in the background. Their anonymous forum posts are overlain onto the screen – Yuichi confesses his desperation, “I wanted to die… But I couldn’t,” to which Hoshini responds, “I know the pain you feel,” talking him out of the act. Momentarily, catharsis and comfort seem tangible.

However, the irony remains: after all, these three characters have hurt each other. After Tsuda seemed momentarily free in the Ether, flying kites, the film cruelly cuts to a shot of her lifeless body, thrown off a cell tower. The teenagers’ momentary escape turns back into imprisonment. The Ether could not save them.

The climactic act of violence in the film takes place near the end: the online personas of Yuichi and Hoshino promise to meet at the Lily Chou-chou concert. All hopes subvert when Yuichi realises Blue Cat is Hoshino all along. After Hoshino tears Yuichi’s ticket, Yuichi snaps, fatally stabbing him once the concert ends. Any possibility of a digital connection consummated in reality is cruelly denied.

As Yuichi stands alone, engulfed in cold blue by an LED screen of Lily Chou-chou while her live music rumbles on inside the stadium, the Ether becomes the most imprisoning of all realities. The final denouement of the narrative brings together Yuichi’s two worlds and traps him in an in-between, where every attempt to seek connection and the Ether leaves him with nothing at all.

An unsettling mirror

Teenagehood for Iwai is a tightrope between childhood and adulthood, isolation and community, freedom and imprisonment – a state of endless liminality. In this void of adolescence, it seems the loneliest experiences occur when we are caught in between binaries. In an era where technology has become the very fabric of society, All About Lily Chou-chou’s haunting portrait of adolescence is perhaps more relevant now than ever. Yet, to the phenomenon of digital loneliness, the film presents no easy answer. It only holds up a mirror to our society, a cry of desperation captured in a film.

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About the author: Kaela lives two lives – in one, she is on a constant quest to make and consume art, and can be found writing, reading, photographing, playing music, and documenting the world around her. In her second life, she enjoys advocating for social and environmental justice, and hopes to combine the two to bring about a little more understanding in the world.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #186: Yi Yi

Sat, 17 Jan 2026 21:30:03 GMT

Seeing from a Distance: Modern Life through

Edward Yang’s Lens in Yi Yi

In Yi Yi (2000), Edward Yang’s three-hour-long multi-generational epic, we follow the middle-class Jian family as they navigate love, loss, and their search for identity in modern Taipei. Father NJ (Wu Nien-Jen) faces business troubles and a rekindled love; daughter Ting-Ting (Kelly Lee) copes with guilt and the joys and hurts of first love; and son Yang-Yang (Jonathan Chang) pursues life’s truths amidst relatable childhood struggles. Yang’s final masterpiece, so nostalgic and full of life, extensively explores urban ennui, where each character quietly grapples with their personal discontents. These everyday struggles are mirrored in Yang’s restrained and purposeful direction, allowing the film’s themes to unfold through its visual composition and Yang’s stylistic choices.

One of the most striking ways this comes through for me is Yang’s frequent use of off-centre compositions. Characters are often pushed to the side of the frame, surrounded by negative space or swallowed up by the city. We see them, at the edge of the screen, walking along the streets of Taipei or reflected in windows, faces blending with neon city lights and passing traffic. This visual displacement renders these characters small and seemingly insignificant against the vastness of the urban landscape, emphasizing the solitude and disconnection they carry within. It marks the quiet distance between the characters and their surroundings, from one another, and even from themselves.

This directorial choice, when employed in tandem with static and long-distance shots, further underscores the film’s focus on emotional isolation in modern urban life. By positioning characters away from the centre of the frame and allowing multiple actions to unfold simultaneously within a single, unmoving shot, Yang prompts viewers to observe the characters within their full environment, rather than designating a singular focal point. In doing so, the audience is encouraged to actively scan the image in order to glean the full context of the characters’ experiences, mirroring their own attempts and struggles to locate meaning within the complexity of their lives.

Yang’s use of this combination of techniques is especially evident in his depiction of NJ in the workplace, with a clear example occurring in the scene captured above. NJ is shot through glass doors, positioned in the foreground to the right of the frame, while his three coworkers converse together in the background on the left. This spatial division within the frame highlights his literal and figurative separation from his colleagues, visually emphasising his alienation and sense of insignificance within his professional environment and, as the film gradually reveals, within society at large. Through the repeated utilisation of such compositions, Yang’s direction consistently echoes Yi Yi ’s broader themes of loneliness, dissatisfaction, and a persistent longing for connection.

Another aspect of Yang’s direction that resonated with me personally is his use of frame-within-a-frame compositions, which subtly reinforces the film’s central themes of alienation and introspection. Characters are often precisely positioned within doorways, windows, mirrors, or even urban structures, creating layered frames that guide the viewer’s eyes while adding visual depth. These framed compositions create a sense of distance for the audience, positioning them as quiet observers, almost intruding upon intimate, everyday moments of these characters. This observational quality aligns with Yi Yi’s slice-of-life approach, allowing ordinary experiences to feel universal and relatable, while still hinting at the characters’ emotional solitude.

Notably, these frames do not merely organise space. They enclose the characters, isolating them from one another and from the world around them. These characters are visually confined within architectural boundaries, just as they are trapped and held back by their own internal struggles, suggesting a deeper emotional restraint that corresponds with their inability to fully articulate their feelings of guilt, regret, and desire. This is especially evident in scenes involving NJ and Ting-Ting, who are repeatedly framed through windows, mirrors, or doorways during moments of quiet reflection, underscoring their emotional distance from others even as they are physically present. The use of mirrors provides further nuance by introducing double images, drawing parallels with the film’s preoccupation with self-examination and inner conflict, and ultimately reinforcing the emotional isolation central to the essence of these characters.

Ultimately, while Yi Yi captures feelings of alienation and inner turmoil, so often emphasised through Yang’s direction, it is equally a film about connection, and about how we are often more alike than we realise. Rather than resolving this tension, Yang allows both states to coexist, embedding it into the very structure of the film. Yi Yi opens with a wedding and closes with a funeral, framing life as cyclical rather than linear, where love, heartbreak, solitude, marriage, new beginnings, and death exist side by side. Through this, Yang reminds us that life is inherently messy. We are all, in some ways, learning to live for the first time, and the film urges us through Mr Ota (Issey Ogata) to not fear these “first times”, even when the path forward feels lonely or uncertain.

At the same time, Yi Yi remains attentive to the limits of individual perspective. Yang acknowledges that navigating life’s complexities can feel isolating, especially as it seems we only ever understand fragments and never complete truths. Yet, in suggesting that no one can see the whole picture alone, the film offers its viewers hope, articulated most clearly through Yang-Yang. Perhaps sometimes all we need in our lives is a Yang-Yang, someone who will take a picture of the back of our heads, show us what we cannot see, tell us what we do not know, and offer us the other half of the truth. Someone who will show us the world through another’s eyes, and fill in the gaps in our own sketches of the world. Yi Yi is a quiet meditation on empathy, and a gentle reminder that cinema, too, can bridge these gaps, helping us better understand not only one another and ourselves, but also the world we share.

The next screening of the film’s 25th anniversary 4K digital restoration will be held on 25 January at Oldham Theatre.

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About the author: Jing’s morning ritual includes refreshing Letterboxd and catching up with the latest reviews. With an intense and ever-growing passion for film, Jing believes deeply in the beauty and importance of the movie-going experience and hopes to spread the joy of cinema to a wider audience. When not watching films, Jing enjoys reading and watching football (visca el Barça!). Jing is always excited to meet and connect with fellow film lovers, and can be found on Instagram at: @_j.img_

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #185: Once We Were Us

Sat, 17 Jan 2026 21:09:35 GMT

Is the Person You Once Loved Still by Your Side?

那个曾经深爱的人还在你身边吗?

A reflection on Once We Were Us 观《Once We Were Us》有感

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

*本篇影评含雷，请斟酌阅读。*

After watching Once We Were Us , directed by Kim Do-young, the question that lingered in my mind was not, “What if …?” Instead, it was something far more grounded and unsettling: Have we learned how to love well, and just as importantly, how to part well?

I will not revisit the plot here. The film is a Korean adaptation of Us and Them , directed by Rene Liu Ruoying in 2018.

An Unconventional Sense of Time

Black and white, color, and what memory chooses to keep

Once We Were Us continues a visual strategy that is rare yet remarkably effective.

The past is rendered in color, while the present unfolds in black and white.

This choice runs against visual convention. Traditionally, black and white signifies the past, while color belongs to the present. Here, the logic is reversed. This approach closely mirrors the creative judgment in Us and Them. Both films reserve their richest emotional warmth for what has already been lost.

Only toward the end does the present return to color. This shift does not signal the rekindling of love. Rather, it feels like a moment of clarity, a quiet acceptance, an ability to finally face the present as it is.

A Father, Death, and a Letter

A moment beyond romance, yet deeply human

The father’s presence in the relationship between the two protagonists, culminating in his death and the letter revealed near the film’s end, became for me the most unavoidable emotional moment.

This is not a narrative twist, but a sudden weight of reality pressing in. At that point, the film moves beyond youthful love. It speaks through the voice of those who have lived longer, who understand love, regret, and the permanence of what cannot be undone. It is an attempt to pass on a quiet lesson, that one must learn how to continue living well, even after loss.

The Bus Scene

When restraint hurts more than tears

In an interview, actress Mun Ka-young spoke about the crying scene on the bus. The director gave her only one instruction: “Do what feels right.” She chose to hold back rather than cry beautifully. In public spaces, we instinctively restrain ourselves, and it is precisely this restraint that sharpens grief.

What moved me in that moment was not only the fracture of a romantic bond, but the solitude of a person bearing the weight of life alone in a city. It is a feeling that almost anyone living in an urban environment will recognize at some point.

Between 2018 and 2025

Two films, one lingering question

I remember that after Us and Them was released in 2018, Rene Liu Ruoying once summarized her understanding of relationships with a simple yet devastating line: “Fate is already kind if you do not fail the other person. Not failing an entire lifetime is nearly impossible.”

That line feels equally at home in Once We Were Us . It echoes my strongest feeling after watching the film. Neither story treats “what if we had not separated” as a romantic fantasy. Instead, the unanswered question is allowed to remain suspended in time. Both films strip away the illusion of destiny and the romanticization of regret. What remains is the slow, inevitable drifting apart under the pressure of time, space, and the structures of everyday life.

As the repeated line in the film suggests, “If only we had not…”This is not a question directed at the future, but a confirmation of the past. A recognition that the love was real, and that it has truly ended.

For me, placing these two films side by side across seven years is not about comparison. It is about seeing the same question revisited through different cultures and creative voices.

Not all love leads to a lasting outcome, but every love deserves to be taken seriously, understood, and gently laid to rest. Perhaps when we are finally able to look back at a relationship in this way, we have truly arrived at what comes after.

看完韩国导演金度英执导的《Once We Were Us》，在我脑海中反复提出的问题，其实并不是“如果当初我们……”而是一个更为现实的问题：我们有没有学会，好好地爱，也好好地分开。

在此，影片的故事梗概不再赘述。它改编自2018年刘若英执导的《后来的我们》。

一种“反常规”的时间表达

黑白与彩色，并不只是怀旧滤镜

影片《Once We Were Us》延续了一个并不常见、却非常有效的影像策略——回忆是彩色的，现实是黑白的。

这种处理在视觉逻辑上是“反常规”的：通常，黑白意味着过去，彩色意味着现在；而在这里，恰恰相反。这一点，与刘若英版本的《后来的我们》有着高度一致的创作判断。两部作品都把情感最饱满、最有温度的时刻，留给了“已经失去的时间”。直到影片最后，现实世界重新回到彩色。那并不是重燃爱情的象征，而更像是一种终于能够直视当下、接受现实之后的清明。

被时代与空间结构拉扯的爱情

属于韩国当代生活的浪漫细节

如果说《后来的我们》更多聚焦的是在城市中打拼的爱情如何被现实消磨，那么韩版《Once We Were Us》也明确地，把目光投向了一个问题：当两个人已经无法再一起走下去，我们有没有能力，好好告别。这里的“现实”，不仅仅是经济、职业或选择，更是一种被时代节奏与城市空间不断拉扯的生存状态。影片中关于情侣相处的诸多细节，非常自然地嵌入了当代韩国年轻人的生活方式，既不刻意，也不悬浮。

影片并不急于制造戏剧冲突，它反而用大量日常、平静、甚至略显克制的片段，让观众在角色上看见自己与伴侣的影子，从而反观现实。它不断提醒观众：两个人能否能够相伴终身，本身就是一件极其困难的事。若要在各自合适的时间，遇见合适的人，更难。

父亲、死亡，与一封信

那是爱情之外，却直击人心的时刻

父亲在男女主人公关系中的存在，直到他的去世，以及影片最后那封写给女主人公的信，成为我个人观影过程中最无法回避的泪点。这不是情节意义上的“反转”，而是一种突然袭来的现实重量。在那一刻，影片所谈论的，已不只是年轻人的爱情，而是长辈作为“过来人”所体会过的爱、遗憾与无法挽回的现实。他们也试图让晚辈明白一件事：要学会在失去之后，继续好好生活。

关于那场“巴士哭戏”

不哭得漂亮，反而更痛

此前在一篇访谈中，女演员文佳煐提到，那场巴士上的哭戏，导演只给了她一句指令：“做你觉得对的反应。”她选择收住情绪，而不是哭得漂亮。在公共空间里，我们往往会本能地克制自己，而正是这种克制，让悲伤变得更加锋利。

那一刻真正触动我的，不只是爱情的断裂，而是一个人在城市里，确实会有将所有独自承受过的痛苦迸发而出的那个时刻，孤独、无助、挫败与不被理解……那是一种，几乎每个生活在城市里的人，都能与之共振的情绪。

2018年与2025年的两部电影之间

我记得2018年《后来的我们》上映后，在一次导演访谈中，刘若英用一句极其朴素却残酷的话，总结了她对感情的理解：“缘分这事，能不负对方就好，想不负此生，真的很难。”这句话放在2025年《Once We Were Us》里，几乎可以直接作为注脚。也是让我在看完电影后特别深的体会。影片都没有把“如果当初我们没有分开”当成最终幻想，而是让那句悬而未决的提问，停留在时间之中。它减少了“命运感”与“遗憾的浪漫化”，转而让人物在时代节奏、城市空间与生活结构的挤压中，一步步走向分离。

正如影片中那句被反复引用的对白：“如果当时……”，这并不是对未来的追问，而是对过去的一次确认——确认那段感情真实存在过，也确实已经结束。

对我来说，七年的时间，两部电影，再放到一起观看，不是为了比较高下，更像是在不同年代、不同文化、不同创作者的视角中，看见同一个命题能够被反复触碰：不是所有爱都会有结果，但所有爱，都值得被认真对待、被理解、被安放。或许，当我们能够这样回看一段关系的时候，才是真的走到了“后来”。

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Once We Were Us opens in Golden Village and Shaw cinemas on 22 January 2026.

Commentary: Agnès Varda’s Lessons in Humility

Fri, 16 Jan 2026 04:52:24 GMT

Commentary: Agnès Varda’s Lessons in Humility

A Different Kind of Auteur

With the passing of the canonical French New Wave directors, retrospective readings of the movement have tended to sort its filmmakers into neat archetypes: Godard as the radical, Truffaut as the autobiographer, Demy as the romantic. Agnès Varda, however, seems to resist any categorisation.

Undoubtedly, she was an important part of the nascent French New Wave with her renowned Cleo from 5 to 7 (1962). Later in her life, however, her filmography sprawls restlessly across themes and mediums. She often tapped into her strong political conscience, releasing films like Vagabond (1985) that reflected her focus on feminist issues, or Black Panthers (1968), which documented the titular Civil Rights Movement group while she lived in the United States. Moreover, no other New Wave director has come close to Varda when it comes to documentary filmmaking, her preferred mode of storytelling in the later years of her life.

Despite the seeming impossibility of consolidation, I believe what unites her work is not thematic or stylistic consistency, but a shared ethos: humility. Through her post-2000s documentaries, Varda, in my view, redefines the auteur as a keen observer, rather than a definite authority.

The Filmmaker as Scavenger: The Gleaners and I (2000)

One of her most beloved documentaries, Gleaners is Varda’s rumination on the practice of gleaning in France, scavenging for things cast aside by society. She travels across the French countryside at first, before shifting to the streets of Paris, surveying the ways gleaning still exists today. From the urban poor who have to glean leftover crops for survival, to a Michelin 2-star chef who gleans ingredients for freshness, the film depicts the lasting vitality of a practice commonly associated with the past.

Through personal interviews with each of these groups, the film lets her subjects do all the talking, avoiding a sanctimonious or imposing tone. Even when interviewing a divorced father living in poverty, gleaning discarded potatoes just to survive, there is no swelling music, no strategic editing to build sympathy. There is only a simple prompt: “Tell me what happened to you.”

Indeed, Varda herself admits the impulse to impose a certain judgement on the poorest of these gleaners, saying that the “pitiful feeling” she felt spurred her on to make the film initially. However, she states that really getting to know these people stopped her from making any “statement”, realising that “[t]hey make the statement. They explain the subject better than anybody.[1]” Just like the subjects of her documentary, Varda is doing the act of gleaning glimpses into different people’s lives, inherently a humble and unobtrusive vocation.

In an even bolder departure from traditional documentaries, Varda often turns the camera on herself in Gleaners. Equipped with a camcorder, she explores the power of the handheld camera in gleaning unique images that wouldn’t have otherwise been possible. Varda plays a private game with trucks along a highway, pretending to trap them with her hand in front of the camera. She marvels at the newfound possibility of “filming one hand with the other”, revealing the “horror” of age within her wrinkling skin.

Here, too, Varda documents with a humility driven by curiosity. The camera is not used as an instrument of control, but as a companion to her own wandering attention, recording moments that are incidental or even flawed. In one scene, she accidentally leaves her camcorder on, lens cap swinging in frame. Instead of cutting it out, she pairs the moment with jazzy music, letting the moment linger longer than other filmmakers might.

By turning the lens on her own hand, her own filmmaking, Varda resists placing herself above what she films, becoming just another subject she gleans from. The title of the film in its original French is perhaps the most revealing of the fact, as “Les Gleaneurs et la glaneuse” literally translates to “The Gleaners and the female gleaner”. Understanding Varda’s interest in self-interrogation, we see that she identifies as the “female gleaner”, in equal rank to those she portrays in her film.

The Collective Life: The Beaches of Agnès (2008)

In the opening scene of Beaches , Varda’s instinct for self-inquisitiveness is put on obvious display, as she narrates: “I’m playing the role of a little old lady,[...] telling her life story.” While the film is hailed as Varda’s cine-autobiography, the opening lines already signal Varda’s distrust toward the genre. She believes that theatricality underpins self-portraiture. To Agnès, it is an act of performance, rather than a veritable depiction of unfiltered truth.

“For me it’s cinema, it’s a game”, she says. In a memorable sequence, an ostensibly young Varda is playing on the beach. However, after only a few seconds, the camera pans right to reveal the real Varda, as she admits to the camera that she herself isn’t too sure “what it means to recreate [her childhood] like this”, avoiding playing into the self-dramatisation of autobiographical tools like re-enactment (unlike Truffaut, whose film The 400 Blows sees a feature-length fiction loosely based on his unruly childhood). She even leaves in a behind-the-scenes snippet of her speaking to the child actor playing her, playfully undercutting traditional autobiographical techniques.

This sense of play extends to a striking sequence in Varda's reconstruction of an office of her production company, Cine-Tamaris, where she builds a man-made beach in the middle of a street. The sequence is openly artificial: sand strewn haphazardly, “office workers” sporting swimwear, and Agnès begging for an “interest-free loan” from a bank.

When rain begins to fall on the second day of filming, disrupting her plans entirely, Varda does not conceal the failure. Instead, much like the lens cap in Gleaners , she leaves the footage in, embracing the intrusion as part of the game. The rain reveals Varda’s refusal to sanitise or perfect; autobiography, for her, remains contingent, subject to chance and weather, much like her own life. What emerges is an unfettered joie de vivre that is central to Varda’s filmmaking approach, finding beauty in the unforeseen.

Having exposed the limits and artifice of self-portraiture, Varda resists centring herself for long. She quickly turns her camera on others to illuminate key aspects of her own life. These people may not have been the most important, but exist nonetheless in her life in some capacity: a tour of her childhood home becomes an interview with the house’s now-tenant, a serial collector of miniature Swiss trains.

A recollection of her start as a photographer turns into an “In Memoriam” for many of her subjects who have passed on. Even crew members who were involved in the making of Beaches are shown throughout the entire film, particularly in a sequence at the beginning where they help Agnès construct an assemblage of huge mirrors on a beach, signalling metaphorically that Agnès’ reflection on her life is only accomplished through the help of others.

She shows how autobiography is a convincing genre of documentary filmmaking that can be elevated not through self-indulgence, but through humility and connection with others.

The Camera in Varda’s Hands

Perhaps one of the more subtle ways in which the French New Wave has influenced cinematic culture is in directing how we think about experimentation and non-traditional filmmaking. At least personally, the word “experimentation” conjures images of rupture: jump cuts, confrontational politics, and artists bent on redefining film itself. This understanding is shaped largely by the movement’s loudest figures, whose innovations announced themselves as acts of rebellion against a cinema with which they were discontent.

Agnès Varda offers a quieter alternative. Her filmmaking is experimental, both Gleaners and Beaches being non-traditional documentary projects. But she does not seek to overhaul cinematic language. Instead, her unique style emerges from a desire to represent life as she encounters it: playful, contingent, and shared with others. The camera in her hands is not a weapon or a megaphone, but a means of looking — one guided by curiosity rather than certainty.

This curiosity is inseparable from humility. The lasting influence of her narrative work is important to her legacy, but her documentaries reveal her core as an artist. She desmystifies the artistic process from an act of creation to an act of modesty. And then, it doesn’t hurt to throw in a little playfulness, a little love. She shows us that nobody is incapable of creating, if they would just sit back and observe without judgement.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

[1] Anderson, M. (2001). The modest gesture of the filmmaker: an interview with Agnes Varda. Cineaste , 26(4), 24-27. https://excocinema.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/agnes_verda_interview.pdf

[2] https://www.interviewmagazine.com/film/the-life-and-times-of-international-treasure-agnes-varda

Film Review #184: The Secret Agent

Thu, 15 Jan 2026 16:38:55 GMT

Covert Operations, the Liberation of Truth and

the Need to Remember – The Universal Rebellion

 Seen in The Secret Agent

Disclaimer: This commentary contains spoilers for The Secret Agent.

Code words. Secrecy. Fractured memories. As I watched Kleber Mendonça Filho’s The Secret Agent , I picked up a recurring and universal struggle – the fight to remember the truth under oppressive regimes. The Secret Agent is a righteously angry film that confronts the perils of dissent under authoritarian governments, while exposing the oppression political dissidents face when speaking truth to power.

Set against the backdrop of the Fifth Brazilian Republic in the 1970s, The Secret Agent depicts a society where freedom of expression is heavily censored, and acts of rebellion carry lethal consequences. The Secret Agent is rooted in historical fiction inspired by Brazil’s military dictatorship, and the film’s disjointed narrative reflects the chaos and messiness of that period.

Some people say that The Secret Agent is a mess, but that is precisely the point. The Secret Agent features numerous symbolism and narrative elements, which serve as a metatextual narrative about how the Fifth Brazilian Republic distorts the truth regarding the disappearance of political dissidents and their legacies from existence. Kleber Mendonça Filho channels this brutal reality with a bizarre introduction to a non-chronological narrative at the midpoint of the film.

The film seemed to follow Armando’s (Wagner Moura) journey linearly, as he navigates a Recife plagued by political violence. However, the film abruptly cuts to a secondary plot set in the present day – two young female researchers digging for the truth behind his disappearance, buried deep in dated newspaper articles and obscure cassette recordings. These researchers do not know what Recife look and feel like in the 1970s, and their search for Marcelo leads them to a hospital where his son, Fernando (also played by Wagner Moura) works as a doctor in the present day. As a consequence of his memories becoming distorted by the military dictatorship, Fernando tragically does not remember his father.

The truth about Armando is that he is an ordinary professor forced into extraordinary circumstances. He is not a corrupt political dissident as he is made out to be by the government: he became the titular Secret Agent because he insists on his research on electric cars being publicly funded, going against the interests of Henrique Ghirotti (Luciano Chirolli), a corrupt businessman who holds key roles in a private corporation and a government institution that funds academic research in Brazilian universities. Henrique orders Armando’s death, sending hitmen in his way, setting the events of The Secret Agent into motion. Armando has to adopt the false identity of Marcelo, live with a group of political refugees under Dona Sebastiana (Tânia Maria), separate himself from living with Fernando for his safety, and work with Elza (Maria Fernanda Cândido) to flee Recife.

Fernando’s fractured memory of his father is the central tragedy of The Secret Agent – where oppressive powers violently steal the memories of political dissidents from their loved ones, leaving deep intergenerational scars. Many Brazilian political dissidents who died during the military dictatorship were kidnapped and killed, and their death certificates took decades to reach their loved ones, robbing them of the chance to even grieve properly. This disconnect between how the present-day citizens and historical dissidents experience Recife also is reflected in the aesthetics of how Kleber Mendonça Filho depicts the past and present – the warm, saturated colour grading and filmic texture of the 70s is contrasted with the look of a cold and clinical documentary shot on digital cameras in the present day, depicting a modern Recife that has lost its touch with its history.

In The Secret Agent , historical facts also become distorted by myths. In a bid to evade censorship during the military dictatorship, journalists would invent the urban legend of the “Hairy Leg”, or the Perna Cabeluda, to report state-sponsored violence against the LGBTQ+ community. The film briefly transitions from its political thriller into the horror genre to pay tribute to this urban myth – depicting the Perna Cabeluda as a washed-up leg from a shark’s mouth, who arrives on a beach to attack cruising men at night.

The Secret Agent is a tribute to the preservation of truth in the midst of political turmoil, and that universal tragedy can be seen in many countries under authoritarian rule, even in the present day. If not for these historians, who will choose to remember the prisoners of the Holocaust? Who will choose to remember the brave protestors who chose defiance in the deadly 1989 Tiananmen massacre?

When authenticity is squashed by the crushing weight of gargantuan authoritarian regimes, The Secret Agent is one among many rebellious films that remind us of the promise that the truth will always prevail, and that documenting and preserving the truth is important for posterity, so that every Fernando out there will remember their father and how they came to be.

The Secret Agent arrives in local theatres, courtesy of Anticipate Pictures, in February 2026.

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Film Review #183: Taste of Cherry

Wed, 31 Dec 2025 16:23:18 GMT

Feeling Death: Review of

Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry (1997)

As Badii (Homayoun Ershadi) drives along winding dirt roads in Tehran that never seem to end, with chaotic scenes of people and machines flashing by the window beside him, he is framed in a profile mid-shot that accentuates his steely gaze – one fixed unwaveringly on the path ahead. Badii’s visual fixation parallels the figurative one forming the premise of Abbas Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry (1997): a middle-aged man is determined to commit suicide, and searches for someone who will aid him. In its 96-minute golden-brown haze, Taste of Cherry is an exploration of primal and socio-ethical responses to suicide – from fear, bewilderment, and disdain, to empathy and peace.

For a film fuelled by its protagonist’s desire to die, it is remarkably quiet and almost meditative. Ultimately, Kiarostami eschews depictions of death portrayed as a wild, thrashing beast. Instead, recognising film’s limitations in truly representing complex human realities, he opts for a poeticisation of this human condition which establishes fidelity through emotional impact over the visual literal.

Initially, our understanding of Badii’s mission is uncertain and, indeed, confuses the men he approaches too; a labourer, thinking Badii’s monetary offer is in exchange for sex, threatens to attack him. Even when he explains his offer to a horrified young Kurdish soldier (played by Afshin Khorshid Bakhtari), Badii’s demeanour subverts what we might expect of someone suicidal – he is logical, composed, and patient. In this particular scene, Badii is elevated – framed from a slightly lower angle, while the foreground is a wide, open desert scenery. The soldier is minimised – filmed from a higher angle – and his uneasy eyeline is cut by the top of the halfway-wound-down car window; the two compositions in this scene alone highlight the contrast between a sense of freedom and power in Badii, and claustrophobic smallness in the soldier, despite Badii being in a car and the soldier being in the cast dessert. The choice of framing in their shot-reverse-shot interaction thus mirrors Badii’s confidence and the soldier’s anxiety, subverting our expectations of their dynamic.

Similarly, Badii’s plan is surprisingly thought-out. He has already dug a grave for himself below a cherry tree, and plans to attempt suicide in the grave that night; all he asks of the soldier is to check on him in the morning – if he is alive, to help him out of the grave, and if he is dead, to bury him.

The film’s emotional arc relies on Badii’s startling confidence; its dialogue is subtle and its actions sparse, but it builds convincingly to an anxiety-ridden climax when (spoiler!) Badii finally finds an old man who will help with the suicide. The plan now in motion, Badii suddenly looks around, eyes wide and disbelieving, at a world he realises he might never see again. His fearful anxiety in the face of mortality is made especially palpable for viewers when, after helping a couple take a picture, Badii abruptly swings his car around to look for the old man at his taxidermy workshop. There, we have to endure an agonising 40-second long-take of Badii pacing back and forth, wringing his hands as he waits for the old man, before we find out what he needs to tell him: “When you come in the morning, bring two stones and throw them at me. I might just be asleep and still alive. [...] Shake my shoulders too. I might still be alive.” This emotionally climatic sequence is a marked difference from the aforementioned calmness with which Badii laid out the suicide plan; it is the first time Badii’s confidence falters, the first time he truly entertains the thought that he might survive the night, the first time we feel his fear of dying despite his desire to – a deeply nuanced emotional journey elucidated through careful pacing, writing, and mise-en-scène.

Kiarostami’s subversive emotional arc and characterisation are combined with a co-opting of viewers into its protagonists’ emotional state. Its chronology is constructed with few time-jumps and many long-takes – at one point, we watch for four minutes as Badii watches dirt excavated at a construction site, the ever-shifting texture of its flow distorting his shadow, the thickening dust enveloping his image. The metaphor is visual and beautiful: Badii has been silently consumed by things in life – small like dirt and dust, but, at great volume, powerful enough to obscure the shape of one’s self. The metaphor might be aural too, if we hear the subversive silence of Badii’s suicidal struggle compensated for by the deafening grinding of machinery and falling rocks; the construction site gnashes its teeth in Badii’s place. Kiarostami thus capitalises on filmic techniques – long takes, visual and aural metaphors – to offer viewers the experience of an emotionally complex tangle with suicidal feelings, as opposed to merely viewing a conventionally sensational depiction of the struggle. Again, I go back to how Kiarostami acknowledges the filmic medium’s limitations in literally depicting the human condition, opting instead to present the poetic.

A further testament to Taste of Cherry’s self-consciousness is found in the bizarre self-reflexivity of its ending. A flash of lightning, and, lying in his grave, Badii’s eyes close; in the darkness, a soundscape transition from thunderstorm to birdsong and a fade-in on grainy handheld footage of soldiers marching. Then, Badii walking up a hill to pass a cigarette to Kiarostami himself, who is in the middle of shooting what appears to be Taste of Cherry. At once a vulnerable display of the filmic medium in action and a break in fictional reality that seems to liberate our protagonist from his tormented fictional self, Kiarostami’s closing scene reflects Taste of Cherry’s underlying anxiety: a negotiation of the relationship between the sheer weight of life, death, emotions – the human condition – and the limitations of cinema.

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About the author: Stephanie is a writer and artist passionate about elevating traditionally untold stories through film, visual art, and theatre. She founded Poster Room, an arts collective dedicated to creating community spaces centred around film from Singapore and Southeast Asia. Alongside her work, she is currently reading a double major in English Literature and Art History at Nanyang Technological University.

Film Review #182: Yi Yi

Wed, 31 Dec 2025 15:59:34 GMT

Film Review #182: YI YI

If there was one Taiwanese film that perfectly captured the essence of people just getting through life, Yi Yi would be it. Edward Yang’s final film released in 2000 captures the familial strife that repeats itself across generations. Staying true to his signature, Yi Yi is a family drama that balances witty humour with equal moments of hard hitting emotional scenes.

The film opens with a wedding, and as we see a banner 喜喜 (double happiness) being raised as a decoration, Yang Yang stands about watching, a little lost but also curious. His naivete and innocence is a stark contrast to everyone else - adults who have weathered their own storms in love and in life, and have the stories to tell. Yang Yang, whose biggest problem in his young life so far is being bullied by the older girls, munches on a burger in a McDonalds while his father N.J., played by the legendary screenwriter Wu Nien-jen, broods, either ruminating over his company or his first love. Yang draws this stark contrast of young new eyes present in the moment, and his older father, barely present.

Yang’s earlier films such as Taipei Story (1985) or A Brighter Summer Day (1991) touched on how Taiwan was fast becoming an urbanised country with western influence seeping in. Yi Yi however, is more like A Confucian Confusion (1994), which explored the intricacies of human interactions in a fast evolving society. Old flames resurface and disrupt the sense of normalcy that people are used to. Everyone is looking for connections - that spark of emotional intimacy that might fill some void in their lives. Yang has a sense of nostalgia too, in small moments throughout the film. In one scene, two former lovers and a pair on their first date both hold hands when crossing a road, while being in a totally different land, and a generation apart.

When the matriarch of the family falls into a coma, the rest of the family try to rally around her. They each take turns speaking to her, hoping that she’ll hear them and wake up. It almost feels like a confessional at times. Ting-Ting, who is blossoming into a young woman, experiences both the joys of friendship and the heartbreak of a relationship. Her grandma, whom she affectionately calls popo , is her pillar of emotional support when she can’t turn to her parents. When even her parents struggle with coping in their own lives, popo is the person who might be able to dispel all her troubles.

Yi Yi is a timeless story, even though we might be living in a different era, with much more advanced technology and evolving social norms. What films like Yi Yi espouse are very human notions of the social fragmentation that we’ve always struggled with, that have perhaps only gotten worse in today’s modern world. Yang shows that there are always two sides, even if we tend to focus on the chaotic.

Sometimes we all need a little help, even through a picture of the back of our heads, to reveal the good that we can’t see.

Yi Yi will be showing at Oldham Theatre on 26 January 2026.

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Film Review #181: Sentimental Value

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 08:21:46 GMT

The Music of Memory: Form, Intimacy, and Musicality in Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value

Can a broken structure still be a home?

As with Joachim Trier’s previous works, Sentimental Value is, at its core, a profound and at times comedic exploration of the human condition, a story nestled deeply within the walls of the Borg family home. Absent father and renowned filmmaker Gustav Borg (Stellan Skarsgård) returns to the lives of his daughters, Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas), after the death of their mother. Despite the lack of any genuine relationship with her, Gustav reveals to Nora that he has a script written for her, in which he wants her to play the leading role. Nora rejects this offer, and her part is passed on to young Hollywood star Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning). Unexpectedly, this paves the way for the two sisters to confront their fractured relationship with their father, with Kemp unintentionally swept up in the turmoil of this dysfunctional family.

Trier renders the family’s emotional intricacies with an intimate and tender honesty, expounding on themes of love, grief, history, generational trauma, and the healing power of art. In tracing these emotional textures, he opens a pathway to the film’s deeper musicality, which guides not only the viewer’s experience, but also the creative harmony behind the camera.

A polyphonic experience

In the writing room with fellow director and screenwriter Eskil Vogt, with whom Sentimental Value marks their sixth theatrical collaboration, Trier tends to approach scenes as if the film were an album . This approach is perhaps most apparent in their previous feature, The Worst Person in the World , which is divided explicitly into 14 parts: a prologue, 12 chapters, and an epilogue. Each scene functions like an individual song, focusing on specific moments and relationships in protagonist Julie’s life (also played by Renate Reinsve), together painting a complete picture of Julie’s journey through love, adulthood, and self-discovery.

While Trier departs from this formal structure in Sentimental Value , he turns to the use of segmented blackouts as a key element of the film’s narrative style. Through this technique, scenes upon scenes accumulate to reveal the histories of the house and its occupants. This musicality in the film’s movement between characters and time creates what Trier himself describes as a polyphonic experience, one in which fragmentation paradoxically guides the viewer towards a deeper sense of continuity and intimacy than a more narrowly subjective, single-character perspective would offer.

At the same time, Trier has characterised this film as his attempt to go acoustic , stripping down the cinematic apparatus such that the camera dissolves into the scene, thereby creating a sense of direct, unmediated intimacy with the actors. The film’s elliptical and fragmented first half, with a series of abrupt cut-to-blacks, therefore serves as a deliberate counterpoint, momentarily shifting into a more objective mode through Gustav’s movie footage and essayistic detours on the house’s memories (listen to Joachim Trier reflect more on this here ). In doing so, a productive contrast between the distance of memory and the closeness of the present is preserved, allowing the film to approach its characters with an unfiltered closeness while still retaining the larger polyphonic perspective that gives their shared histories and inherited traumas its resonance.

Building on this, the film’s musicality in its form also extends into its soundtrack. Trier and Vogt use music to introduce tonal shifts, from Terry Callier’s tender, breathy soulfulness to the bright, gliding pulse of the ‘80s synthpop of Roxy Music and New Order, adding layers and textures to the film’s musical and emotional landscape. As editor Olivier Bugge Coutté notes on the making of Sentimental Value , a record collection almost resembles “rings in a tree trunk”, and here the soundtrack reveals the eras that have shaped the lives of those passing through the house. This further builds on the film’s rhythm, guiding the viewer through its temporal jumps and emotional modulations, overall contributing to the rich narrative flow that links its fragmented parts.

Musicality in the craft

This musicality seeps into the way Trier works behind the camera. Beyond the almost musical-like rehearsals he conducts with his actors, designed to work through the script, shape new moments, and help the actors inhabit their characters before filming begins, Trier relies on what actor and long-time collaborator Anders Danielsen Lie has coined “ jazz takes ”. Borrowing from the freedom and responsiveness of jazz, these looser, improvisational versions of a scene allow the actors to see where things go, following whatever feels most authentic or emotionally true in the moment.

In Sentimental Value , this unfolds in a crucial scene between the two sisters. After Agnes finally convinces Nora to read the screenplay written by Gustav, the pair have an intimate conversation by the bed. The sequence drifts into an unscripted ending in which Agnes climbs onto the bed, hugs Nora, and tells her she loves her, a line which Nora returns with some difficulty. These takes enable the actors to continually search within themselves for a deeper emotional honesty, a sincerity that carries through their performances and gives Trier’s work its distinct, lived-in, and heartfelt warmth.

Cannock Chase and beyond

The musicality running throughout Sentimental Value , represented in its masterful weaving of different times, memories, and emotional registers, forms the core of its narrative power. These fragments, layered with care, provide viewers with a nuanced understanding of the family’s past and the lines of inherited emotions and trauma that bind Gustav, Nora, and Agnes together in the present. Trier’s direction is both beautiful and precise: the camera lingers where it needs to, the performances by the cast are stellar, and the film closes with “Cannock Chase”, another well-chosen final song that perfectly captures the essence of the film, much like “Waters of March” in The Worst Person in the World .

The film leaves us not with a tidy resolution, but a gesture towards the possibility of love and reconciliation through filmmaking, no less, which is perhaps the only way Gustav is capable of communicating with his children. The complexity of trauma and forgiveness, and of breaking cycles of hurt and neglect, are rendered with a rawness and tenderness ever-present in characters that are flawed, but above all, human. The house, a witness to the family’s fractures and a keeper of their memories, may be built poorly, its cracks widening over time. But a broken structure can still be a home, and in the cracks, undoubtedly, there is love, fragile and imperfect, and there is light.

Anticipate Pictures will bring “Sentimental Value” to local theatres from Thursday, January 1.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #180: Amoeba

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 07:57:52 GMT

SGIFF Film Review - Amoeba (2025)

One of the sold-out titles at this year’s Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF) was local film Amoeba , directorial feature debut of Tan Siyou.

World-premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) earlier in September, Tan’s film centres on a quartet of teenage girls in an all-girls secondary, forming a triad gang at led by new student Choo Xin Yu (played by Ranice Tay), as an act of rebellion against the repressive, authoritarian school setting.

Returning to Singapore after earning several accolades and nominations including the coveted FIPRESCI Prize and a Best New Director nomination at the Golden Horse Awards, as well as Best Youth Film at the Asia Pacific Screen Awards, the anticipation for Amoeba was high, and thanks also to Anticipate Pictures’ distribution, this film was met with overwhelming reception on its home-turf.

Rarely do I wish a film was longer, but for Amoeba , at its audience-friendly length of 98 minutes, I left the movie wanting more.

Having studied in an all-boys secondary school, I found myself surprised by how much I resonated with the journey of these girls. For a fictitious school, its school song in the film felt like a tune I’d known all my life; the disciplining, the uniform, the (sometimes) unimaginable expectations from both the institution and the parents, all seemed so familiar. Of course, one would expect a Singaporean filmmaker to be capable of portraying life in Singapore accurately, but Tan’s attention to detail and world-building was specifically worthy of compliments.

The main quartet, and in particular, Tay’s Choo, was some of the best characterisation efforts I’ve seen in film this year. The average filmography of the four actresses is fairly humble, although this was likely all the more fitting for the story. Their chemistry was off the charts; watching them come-of-age in this movie, Tan’s sensitivity pierced through the screen so sharply it was no wonder she’d gotten the awards recognition thus far.

Probably the finest touch to Amoeba was casting veteran Taiwanese actor Jack Kao as the crowd-pleasing Uncle Phoon. Kao’s charisma was undeniable yet did not diminish the girls’ own spark in the film. To watch Kao’s Phoon is to acknowledge that his naturally “gangster” demeanour was one of the keys to the girls’ bond and growth, and suffice to disregard the urge to trace the origins of his character - questions that normally would have popped up in my mind when I think about acting, like “what does he sound like normally?” or “how did he land this role?” etc., all didn’t matter.

This film offers much for us to reflect, but perhaps the most poignant thing to think about is its R21 rating. Teenagers who are in the depths of their puberty, their adolescence, their maturity, desperately need empathetic, patient guidance. This film has the power to do that.

Amoeba is set to release commercially in Singapore in March 2026.

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Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #179: Resurrection

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 02:42:03 GMT

Film Review #179: RESURRECTION

Bi Gan's ode to cinematic history is a lavish affair, with stagecraft and his signature long takes drawing the audience into each scene. Resurrection excels at technical mastery: the light and shadows work together to mesmerise, the moments of catharsis come in ebbs and flows, pulsing with the rhythm of each dream. Like the metaphorical piece of wax that slowly melts into oblivion, we play witness as Bi Gan narrates his vision: the death of cinema.

The premise of Resurrection draws parallels to the art of storytelling, where the ability to dream has been sacrificed for longevity. The only thing that is still able to dream is the Deliriant - an inhumane creature with rotten skin, who bears the gift of flowers for Miss Shu (played by Shu Qi). Cinema in comparison to other art forms has been around for a tiny blip in history, and is now already heralded as a dying practice. Bi Gan’s lamentation that the act of storytelling is dying holds some truth in it, but in his bid to be the storyteller, embodies the struggle as well. Film, like other art mediums, can be left to interpretation, and perhaps, the epiphany is hidden in the many folds of the Deliriant’s dreams.

Resurrection pays homage to many genres, including film noir, German expressionism, and period pieces. The Deliriant dreams of four stories, thematically connected by a common thread: sensory experiences The cinematic experience is unfortunately limited to only sight and sound, and yet, the audience is given enough moments of frisson, when we are shaken to our very core. The smoke and mirrors of cinema embrace us with its illusion, when both reality and fiction blend. The question is: can we convince ourselves of this fantasy that we’re invited to partake in?

I think Resurrection highlights Bi Gan’s pessimism toward the state of cinema. He starts off with the celebration of its beginnings - short silent films which were an experiment and exhibition of the medium - then proceeds with the gothic theatrics of German Expressionism which were prominent during the era of Nosferatu (1922) and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919), making it obvious to us that he has an attraction to nostalgia for the earlier years. Amidst the pain of facing a ‘dying’ art, his passion for film making clearly shines through.

Despite leaning into an abstract nature and more philosophical ponderings, I still think that this film absolutely deserves to be seen in the cinema. It’s a behemoth of cinematography that demands the big screen. Each era the film reflects in its fragmented dream is a contained story, yet, it all comes together to give us a cinematic journey that reminds us of why we fell in love with the medium in the first place.

Watch Resurrection in Shaw cinemas now.

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JFF 2025: An Interview with Director Kazuhiro Soda (The Cats of Gokogu Shrine)

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 03:54:53 GMT

JAPANESE FILM FESTIVAL 2025
Intentional and Instinctual: An Interview with Director Kazuhiro Soda

It was a cold Berlin morning in February 2024. I had just watched Director Kazuhiro’s The Cats of Gokogu Shrine , which had its World Premiere at the Zoo Palast Theater. I reached out and was pleasantly surprised by a warm invite to interview him about his latest work. I was intrigued partly by his decision to document cats from Ushimado, but I also wanted to find out more about his unique philosophy in directing documentaries. The interview lasted less than an hour, but it provided fascinating insight to his works, and had a long-lasting impression on me about the film and director even today - a core reason that I chose to programme the film for this year's Japanese Film Festival 2025.

Director Kazuhiro lived in New York for almost 27 years, but during the pandemic, decided to return to Ushimado, Japan, where there are a lot of street cats. Sometimes, he found them injured, and naturally, he wanted to help them.

Director Kazuhiro stayed in Gokogu for a few days, said to be one of the last few public spaces in modern Japan, and the shrine itself being one of the last spaces that anyone, including cats, can visit. The significance of this grew on him, inspiring him to roll his camera and record footage of this space. This was done over the course of a year. He considered turning it into a film, but did not have the concrete idea till later.

An animal activist in the area assisted Director Kazuhiro in looking after the injured cats. In return, Director Kazuhiro’s wife Kiyoko (who is also the producer of the film), wanted to help the activist with TNR (Trap - Neuter- Release) efforts in the nearby Shinto shrine. This act itself was the unplanned genesis of the documentary.

Cats are free to roam around the area of worship; the interaction between the cats and the humans in this particular setting exposed to the filmmakers a bigger picture about human temperament. The documentary became the tenth work in Kazuhiro’s oeuvre of observational documentary.

Observational documentary is a documentary movement championed by Director Kazuhiro that follows a set of 10 rules:

No research
No meetings with the subject
No scripts
Roll the camera yourself
Shoot for as long as possible
Cover small areas deeply
Do not set up a theme or goal before editing
No narration, super-imposed titles, or music
Use long takes
Pay for the production yourself

Director Kazuhiro, always looks for new discoveries; it starts with reviewing the footage, and a motivation emerges from this process. In the editing stage, he reviews the footage multiple times to make sense of the images, usually editing the most interesting and cinematic scenes first.

Director Kazuhiro’s book translated to english titled Why I Make Documentaries.

Next, the second and third ‘best’ scenes are edited by keeping in mind what interested him the most, and stitched together in one sequence. He then watches the first cut together with Producer Kiyoko to figure out what works, proceeding to make multiple iterations. In this way, a documentary is born out of intuition and intentional selection after the fact of filming. To him, there is a clear structure for the way he formats scenes. He makes his intent clear through the work, but leaves enough space for audience interpretation and engagement.

While it may seem counterintuitive that ‘observational’ to Director Kazuhiro means maintaining a distance from the subject and work, he devised the method after working on documentary television series.

While working as a television documentary director in New York, he became very skeptical about the way documentaries were being made. Historically, documentaries were produced with political agenda, but Director Kazuhiro was more invested in broadening the diverse possibilities of a documentary. He was more interested in audiences forming their own interpretations of his work, akin to how one encounters an art work for the first time.

He felt documentaries should not have narration or music, and research should not be conducted on the intended subject of the documentary. He discovered the works of Frederick Wiseman, specifically Domestic Violenc e, which left a profound impression on him. During the interview, he joked about how he had to organise a personal Frederick Wiseman festival to discover the full Wiseman filmography since the 1960s. As Wiseman’s films were only available in the public library, he used to frequent the libraries to watch the documentaries in various formats such as film, VHS. He studied Wiseman’s films carefully; paying attention to the duration of a single shot or a scene, and how a shot and scene was constructed. This was an essential education for Director Kazuhiro. Director Kazuhiro’s own first film Campaign, was heavily influenced in many ways by Wiseman’s films: The filmmaker is invisible and you do not witness them in the film.

In his earlier works, it was easy to be invisible as he was dealing with politicians who were great at acting and receiving instructions to ignore the camera. But in his sophomore feature, Mental , the subjects in his documentary were ordinary members of the public, who acknowledged his presence during the filming process, and he could no longer be invisible.

Thankfully, the scenes where his presence was acknowledged were the best scenes; the subjects he directed would mention fascinating accounts while acknowledging him. These scenes initially felt like they were not supposed to be in the film, but he realised their beauty when he went back to his editing room to review them. It made him reconsider his approach to observational filmmaking. ‘Observational’ is not entirely about being invisible, but looking and listening carefully and perhaps even becoming a participant in depicting the world with him in it.

He even featured his wife, Producer Kiyoko, in his documentaries, blurring the lines between objective subjects and personal lives. Starting from his documentary Peace , he was not worried about remaining invisible and this is also evident in The Cats of Gokogu Shrine . He enjoyed involving himself in his documentaries moving on.

Today, his films are very different from Wisemen’s. Even his Ten Commandments evolved as he started involving himself in the shoots.

His favourite scene from The Cats of Gokogu Shrine was the first scene, where the cat featured is being taken care of by the filmmakers. Chada the cat was rescued along with his brother from a neighbouring town within Ushimado, by Okamura-san, who is also featured in the documentary.

When I asked him about the difficulties during the filming process for a documentary that seems deceivingly tranquil and peaceful, Director Kazuhiro admitted that he was dealing with a very delicate issue. The cats are the subject of a bifurcate divide in Ushimado, as there are both cat lovers and those who find them to be a nuisance. This sometimes led to intense conflicts between these two groups, and it was important to not deny anyone’s views in the documentary. This is apparent in the documentary, and he was concerned at the time of the interview that releasing the film may be met with anger from the locals.

Curious about this divide, I asked Director Kazuhiro about the historical significance of cats within the context of Japanese culture. He mentioned that in Japanese culture, cats have been very intimate and familiar creatures. Many farmers had pet cats in households as a deterrent against mice, letting them roam free, lending to the numbers of stray cats today. Now, there is a shift in how cats are viewed; either domesticated or seen as a nuisance. His personal experience of growing up with stray cats and dogs in his childhood was also a key reason he was naturally drawn to this subject.

As we wrap the interview, Director Kazuhiro shares with me a hope for the future. His message to aspiring filmmakers is that documentaries can be a wonderful way to open up your mind and to learn something new or unexpected. It is an art of coincidence. As humans, we have a tendency to fear unpredictability and prefer familiarity, predetermining certain conditions in making a film. He asks young filmmakers to have the courage to explore outside of your comfort zone and embrace what we cannot control. Take a gamble and see what happens. Even though he had no idea what type of film he was making, in the end, it felt like a film about the cycle of life.

At the end of the documentary, there are dedications made to those who were featured in the film. Some cats passed on after the filming, and injured cats generally do not receive as much medical attention as they need. Director Kazuhiro poses a question to his audiences - If stray cats are not allowed to live in harmony with us, then who is allowed to be part of the society?

This documentary calls out to cat lovers in Singapore and also offers a window into personal interactions which are universal and relatable. I hope audiences of the Japanese Film Festival have the chance to experience the documentary, and it is my pleasure to be able to present this documentary more than a year after meeting Director Kazuhiro.

We are also delighted to be collaborating with Cat Welfare Society as a portion of the ticket sales (30%) will be donated to them. We hope such collaborations among film festivals and local animal welfare societies would further Director Kazuhiro and Producer Kiyoko’s kindness to animals, across countries. Such is the power of film.

Tickets for The Cats of Gokogu Shrine are available here: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails#/movie/2342

For more information of Japanese Film Festival 2025, visit jff.sg

About the Author: Deepag is highly interested in adding films with innovative voices and historical significance to his Letterboxd watchlist in the hopes of catching them someday. He also serves as the programmer of Japanese Film Festival and previously as a program executive at The Projector.

Film Review #178: Black Magic Horror Double Bill (in Chinese)

Tue, 12 Aug 2025 16:10:24 GMT

香港邪典电影《红鬼仔》《蜈蚣咒》影评
Black Magic Horror Double Bill (Chinese Review)

《红鬼仔》与《蜈蚣咒》作为香港日光公司制作并发行的仅有的两部B级恐怖电影能够一齐修复并在新加坡由新加坡电影协会放映，一刀未剪，令人惊喜。两部电影皆以南洋降头术为题材，在剥削电影中开辟出一条具有东南亚特色的风格路线。

《红鬼仔》讲述了一队香港电视制作人为赢取噱头，在马六甲冒险开棺南洋巫师后中天蝎降的故事。电影后半段皆在婆罗洲实地取景，为我们较为真实地实展现了原住民伊班人在长屋中的生活日常与风俗。可惜冲突的设计常带有被内化的西方殖民主义视角——例如女佣被冤枉为天蝎降的罪魁祸首，屋长下令以活人献祭，香港人出手相助，救出女佣后与屋长正面对峙，长篇大论演讲何为文明与正义。于是在《红鬼仔》中，矛盾被扭曲为民族天性的启蒙与愚昧，而其解决，必然是观念的先进凌驾于落后。

藏传佛教和南洋降头仪式都本应有奇诡的视觉图像，丰富的象征体系和严格的仪轨操作。《红鬼仔》无疑缺乏应有的研究与设计，在降头仪式和佛教驱魔场景的视觉呈现上稍显欠缺，而《蜈蚣咒》相比之下更胜一筹。《蜈蚣咒》中，白家祖上因在南洋犯下通奸和灭人全族的弥天大罪被南洋降头师替天行道下蜈蚣降报复。在长达半小时的斗法与主角将被蜈蚣降杀害的交叉蒙太奇的悬念中，自然神力的威胁和亦正亦邪的法术决斗颇有金庸的意味，也有中国后来的仙侠片的影子，让观众大开眼界。

虽然两部电影的故事同样由复仇驱动，《红鬼仔》最后仍然回到了家庭，身为爷爷的巫师与邪灵同归于尽，为孙女解除了天蝎降，结局落脚在了家族责任与牺牲的道德实地上，因而《红鬼仔》的叙述更加朴实；《蜈蚣咒》却转而抛出了更为尖锐且更具悲剧性的问题：父辈的罪孽是否要由子辈承担？父辈的罪孽又为何要由子辈承担？《蜈蚣咒》中的宿命论基调浓缩在这样一个令人扼腕同时又惹人发笑的情节中：一夜，贩卖蜈蚣药的江湖郎中蜈蚣王卖完了所有蜈蚣药，回到家中却被蜈蚣降招来的蜈蚣咬得遍体鳞伤，而药箱中的药早已一瓶不剩了。

在身体恐怖奇观的营造上，《红鬼仔》和《蜈蚣咒》各有千秋，不流于俗套，都能让邪典片爱好者一饱眼福。《红鬼仔》中丛林中的中邪者被无形的力量飞速拖拽，高速的贴地跟随镜头让人身心双重眩晕；剪辑室中制片人被胶卷缠身捆绑，手掌被急速旋转的剪辑盘慢慢磨成肉碎；难以从身上抖落的蝎子；滴落的血液诡异地生长，冒泡……这些征兆着感知之外的不祥，唤起我们对意志之外仍然可能存在的更加强大的意志的恐惧。《蜈蚣咒》为我们展现了一种更为直观的恐怖图景：成千上万只蜈蚣扭曲着爬入密闭的空间；伤口析出脓液，皮肤崩溃腐烂，更多的蜈蚣从伤口的孔洞里钻出，这是一种对异质之物入侵并被占领的恐惧。

The uncut restorations of Centipede Horror and Red Spell Spells Red will be shown at Golden Village Suntec City as part of SFS Special Presentation on 1-2 August and 5-6 September 2025. The 5 September includes a post-screening sharing on Southeast Asian Black Magic representation in film by NTU Assistant Professor Yeo Min Hui.

SFS Members are entitled to discounts to the screenings. Sign up for SFS membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

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作者简介：一只在电影，文学，与哲学领域的杂食动物。

About the author: An omnivore in film, literature and philosophy.

Film Review #177: SFS Restored Horror Double Bill

Tue, 12 Aug 2025 15:51:02 GMT

SFS Restored Double Bill: HK Black Magic

*THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS.*

The rise of digital film restoration work has brought into the spotlight many films that would have otherwise been lost to time. Most prominent amongst many of these niche circles are sleazy, gory, B-horror films from all over the world. Singapore Film Society has brought in two restored Hong Kong midnight movies to local audiences: Red Spell Spells Red (1983), and Centipede Horror (1982).

CENTIPEDE HORROR (1982)

The first of the two Nikko F ilms productions presented here, which were made during the rise of Hong Kong productions taking place in “more exotic locales”. It’s a stomach-churning, almost nauseating beginning to the company's legacy, in all the best ways possible.

Directed by Keith Li, the film is about a vengeful sorcerer in Singapore who curses the descendants of an old villager who committed a grave atrocity against the village in the past. Its structural and narrative machinations are all familiar — with even the middle act sometimes getting a little sluggish — but the moment the third act kicks in everything escalates to heights I was pleasantly surprised to see.

The film has many sequences of various monks and sorcerers battling one another remotely in glorious fashion, and just when you think that it could not get any crazier, the film rips off its leash and lets loose, resulting in truly unhinged cinematic madness — I cannot remember the last time I saw a film climax with two sorcerers fighting each other remotely using centipedes and chicken skeletons respectively. There is also an impressive showcase of commitment here, where lead actress Margaret Lee vomits out real centipedes. It made for probably the most visceral moment of the entire film, which I’m still thinking about long after having seen the film. It is full blown bonkers B-horror that is endlessly charming and truly disgusting.

RED SPELL SPELLS RED (1983)

In response to the success of Centipede Horror , Nikko Films made this film, which revolves around a sensationalist documentary film crew who awaken a black magic legend that inflicts a curse upon one of the members, causing further destruction. The film’s Category III status promises a good serving of sex and violence, which the film does offer - though it ultimately feels more bark than bite.

The opening minutes of the film are possessed with a kind of manic energy that sucks you in, but it loses the momentum very quickly and the presence of said energy gets more and more sporadic, with the overall narrative meandering. That's not to say that the film falls off completely from that point onward; there are still plenty of shocks and squirm-inducing moments that make this a memorable night at the movies, namely a scene late into the film involving celluloid asphyxiation and another involving the consumption of a live chicken – which are probably the only other time that the film is repossessed by that very energy that was packed into the opening.

The film's usage of indigenous culture also comes across as exploitative and misrepresentative, sometimes almost to the extent of feeling like it's presenting caricatures of the people instead of who they truly are. It leaves a bitter taste despite the fun moments that the film has, which permeates the entire film. It is also ironic that it directly parallels the very documentary crew that the film is focused on.

It definitely felt like the film’s draw factor of shock was not enough to sustain the entire film, and ended up delivering less than what was promised. Nonetheless, when it’s at a high, it’s a memorable high that still makes the night at the movies worth it.

It feels great to be constantly finding an aged trashy gem everyday in the current cinematic climate, and this double bill is a delightful addition to the never-ending shelves of re-discovery.

SFS Members are entitled to discounts to the screenings. Sign up for SFS membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

The restored films are also available on Blu-ray from the label Error_4444.

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About the author: Amadeus is a filmmaker who has loved cinema as far back as he could remember. Most of his time is spent in theatres, otherwise he is writing about the films playing in them.

Commentary: A Decade with Anthony Chen

Tue, 08 Jul 2025 09:31:31 GMT

Commentary: A Decade with Anthony Chen

Anthony Chen interviewed by the Infocomm Media Development Authority (IMDA) for the documentary “ Singapore Films: To the World and Back ”

to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the Singapore Film Commission.
(Credit: screengrab from IMDA’s YouTube)

As a feature film director, Anthony Chen turned 10 in 2023.

2023, a surprisingly productive year for Chen, saw two feature films premiering across the world - The Breaking Ice ( 燃冬 ) and Drift . The former is Chen's first Mainland Chinese film and the latter is his first English-language film. Chen's resume lists four full-length narrative features currently, his debut Ilo Ilo ( 爸妈不在家 ) was released exactly a decade prior, in 2013, and his second feature, Wet Season ( 热带雨 ), six years later.

Speaking at the post-screening Q&A for the second screening of Drift at the 2023 Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF), on 10 Dec, Chen attributed the productive year to "all the pent-up energy over the COVID years". He also shared that he has “numerous ideas and projects lined up”.

Chen (right) at the post-screening Q&A for “Drift” on 10 Dec 2023, at the
Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF)
(Photo taken by Jarrett Yang)

In chronological order of release in Singapore, Drift is Chen’s latest film, and also the first which he did not write the screenplay. Despite this, watching Drift gave me the impression as though it was adapted and written by Chen himself ( Drift is based on the novel 'A Marker to Measure Drift' by Alexander Maksik).

The immediate time following the screening and Q&A had me thinking about Chen’s filmography. All four features of his clearly share thematic similarities, but it took me a while to finally deduce what, for me, is the one common subject across all four of Chen’s features - solace. Solace fits Chen’s films perfectly because there is no solution, or resolution, in those stories. If anything, his films barely have any clear or major conflicts to overcome by the protagonists.

Solace is a timeless theme and there can never be a moment when the world has exhausted all stories to explore it. For Chen to sustain his career and ensure his films will always have a sizable audience who is genuinely curious to wander around in his cinematic universe, how he continues to develop this theme in his subsequent works can determine his artistic progress as a filmmaker.

Although this piece does not seek to rank Chen’s four features, it is nonetheless imperative to state that Chen’s best work to date is perhaps still his debut feature Ilo Ilo . His second feature Wet Season , emotional as it was, felt undercooked, though not significantly, as compared to his debut.

The central characters in Ilo Ilo were probably the closest to an average Singaporean family and thus might have connected with viewers more easily. In addition, the film was situated in a specific setting in Singapore's history (i.e. the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis), as well as being the recipient of numerous accolades across the world, such as the Camera d’Or at the 2013 Cannes Film Festival, and four Golden Horse Awards including Best Narrative Feature at the 2013 ceremony. Hence, one could say Ilo Ilo had some advantages in its appeal to a wider audience.

Still of Haoran Liu (left), Dongyu Zhou and Chuxiao Qu (right) in “The Breaking Ice”
Credit: Canopy Pictures and Huace Pictures

However, Chen's 2023 films have shown evident signs of increased maturity in his craft. Take The Breaking Ice for example, where the three leads played compelling and captivating characters that I enjoyed getting to know, and would gladly see in another film, television series, or even read in a novel. In this regard, I look forward to Chen’s original characters in his future films, but I also expect to see more complex characters from more diverse backgrounds. A male protagonist might be something fresh to anticipate, hopefully in the near future.

Still of Cynthia Erivo as Jacqueline in “Drift”
Credit: Paradise City Films, Heretic and Fortyninesixty

In Drift , Chen succeeded in eliciting Jacqueline’s (Cynthia Erivo) pain. The film, however, does not take the typical path of seeking the viewer’s sympathy or exploiting the themes of displacement, refuge or trauma. On one hand, Chen stuck to his familiar character-study method of telling Jacqueline’s story and the film worked to some degree because of that; on the other hand, I’m curious how Chen would have fared making a documentary feature on a real-life “Jacqueline” instead. The film is also undeniably boosted by Erivo’s excellent yet harrowing performance.

While Chen was fairly effective in shedding light on stories of those like Jacqueline, Drift didn't feel much of a deviation from his other works which he also wrote the screenplay. By and large, Drift is a considerably successful attempt by Chen at stepping out of his (most) comfortable zone. Of course, he can, and should, take larger creative risks in his subsequent projects.

Trying to predict Chen's future as a filmmaker isn't exactly easy or difficult. For one, it has been made known that he will reunite with Yeo Yann Yann and Koh Jia Ler to finish filming his "growing up" trilogy (the first two films being Ilo Ilo and Wet Season ). However, what other stories are lined up for Chen remain to be seen. That said, unless it is explicitly stated by him, similar explorations of solace can be expected, though Chen did casually share at the above-mentioned post-screening Q&A of Drift , that he told his agent to source comedies for him to direct.

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Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #176: Living & Remembering

Mon, 09 Jun 2025 02:59:40 GMT

Love is… Resilient:
An Interview with Agnes Goh, Writer of
Living & Remembering

Late last year, Singapore-based Youtube channel, Our Grandfather Story (OGS), ran an open call for pitches from young Singaporean filmmakers for their upcoming “Love Is…” original film series. For Agnes Goh, the result of 3 days of shoot and an 8-month gestation period is a 20-minute short film based on her personal story of love and grief after losing her dad - Living & Remembering . In our conversation, Agnes discusses her inspirations behind the film, filmmaking as a way of processing grief, and the challenges she faced in her filmmaking debut.

CL: You dedicate this film to your late father and as a tribute to all fathers. Was there anything about your relationship with him, in particular, that inspired the script for Living & Remembering?

AG: I am haunted by the things that I did not get to do with my dad when he was alive. I think we often procrastinate when it comes to things we might want to do with our families with the coordinating of different schedules. In my case, there was this Royal Caribbean cruise that my dad was interested in going to that we had been talking about for close to two years. When we finally booked the tickets in December 2023 and were ready to set sail in March 2024, my dad’s cancer relapsed. And his condition just kept deteriorating after.

CL: Since your dad’s passing had been so recent, was this a hard story for you to tell?

AG: I was initially quite emotionally overwhelmed. A few of my friends actually lost their dads around the same time. They reached out to me and I started hearing about their stories with their dads as well. So this also reinforced the desire for me to tell a story about fathers in general. But when OGS had an open call last year about love, it felt like the universe was giving me a sign and an opportunity to finally tell my story and make it into a film. But I would have wanted to make this film happen regardless of the open call.

CL: Since your father was a taxi driver just like the character in the film, your work relies on some autobiographical elements, with other parts dramatised. While preparing for the film, did you get to rediscover things about your dad or your relationship with him?

AG: I was quite close to my dad and I’m lucky that I got to spend more time with him after he started driving night shifts. I have heard many of his stories - like how he had to learn English on his own and how much he struggled growing up. As I was preparing to shoot the film and wanted to rent a taxi, my godfather passed me the phone number of my dad’s taxi hirer. He was this uncle I had heard about from my dad but never met. He recounted memories he had of how my dad was one of the best drivers he has worked with. The car would always be returned with a full tank of petrol and my dad would pay more than the rental fees if he made more money on a good day.

The uncle also said that whenever my dad talked about me, he would light up.. And when I heard that, it broke me. I had been reflecting on the things I didn’t do well: Was I a good enough daughter? So this gave me consolation.

CL: It must have been tough but meaningful to revisit such memories. Would you say that Living & Remembering became a part of how you processed grief?

AG: It did help a bit with healing but the truth about grieving is that it can last a lifetime and people experience it differently. We will all lose our parents someday, and for me, I lost my dad early but it should be something we channel into positively when we live on. To have to deal with the grief of losing my dad shows that I have had the blessing of being loved by him. It’s bittersweet.

CL: Bittersweet is definitely an apt way to describe it. How was it juggling your roles as a producer, writer and actress?

AG: I knew for sure, from the beginning, that I wanted a co-writer and a director who could offer me their perspectives. I didn’t want to overly self-indulge in my own story. It was a very collaborative relationship with Daniel Yam (the director) who really respected my story. He kept communication open and wanted to honour my story. My co-writer is quite poetic with his words so he helped me to tie up loose ends and patch things up after I had the main structure down. My co-producers helped me to settle all issues on set so I could focus on acting. They were fully onboard and I am so grateful for that. After we wrapped, I went back to post-production mode, from working with the editor to thinking about how best to promote the film.

CL: That sounds so demanding and stressful. It was a non-stop grind for you.

AG: Yes, prior to filming, I was leading the production and already wearing so many different hats. I lost so much hair. These eight months felt really long. I think it was also due to my lack of filmmaking experience so this was a warm-up for me to make more films. There are many other stories I would love to tell, beyond just an actor.

Agnes’ Living & Remembering is a relatable, modern family drama which pays tribute to the resilience among our fathers’ generation. Watch the film here .

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About the author: Chloe recently graduated from the Chinese University of Hong Kong majoring in Chinese Studies. Unlike many other cinephiles, Chloe’s first cinemagoing experience initially left her traumatised at the age of 5; she never thought that she would grow to enjoy movies. She strongly believes that the best movies should be experienced alone.

Film Review #175: The Wild Robot (Extended Review)

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 10:24:58 GMT

Film Review #175: THE WILD ROBOT

The Triumph of the Last DreamWorks Animated Film
(The Extended Review)

The Wild Robot (2024) o ught to be DreamWorks Animation’s (DWA) renewal of its longstanding cinematic legacy. It ought to be a triumph of technical and creative achievement. And taken in isolation, it is exactly that - a new staple piece from one of the penultimate bastions of animation excellence, a studio known for continuously reinventing itself and telling bold, unique and increasingly risky stories in ways we can’t expect its Mouse-themed competitor to attempt.

However, instead of a triumph, this film is a beautiful but tragic march to the gallows for the once-revered studio; a last will and testament slipped quietly to loving relatives before its beheading at sundown; the final meal of a legend of animated cinema. This is the last DreamWorks Animation feature film.

“That can’t be right!” I hear you say. “There are so many DreamWorks films coming out in the next few years! Have they all been cancelled? Didn’t they announce Shrek 5 a while ago?”

Well yes, those films are being made. But they aren’t being made at DreamWorks.

The tragedy of the DWA’s effective decommissioning was its silence. It was engineered to raise as little noise as possible, executed progressively but consistently over the past decade. The leadership of DWA has been moving the studio away from developing films in-house, choosing instead to rely increasingly on external studios to make their movies. This began by engaging studios to assist in the production and animation of films that had already been conceived, written, designed and partially animated by in-house artists. It eventually evolved to entire films designed and created outside of DWA, with in-house artists serving merely as consultants to the main operation overseas.

This change was appealing to the studio’s ownership because it effectively transitioned the studio’s business model to leasing their library of existing IPs. Executives could therefore profit from the work made by DWA artists in the past, repackaging them for other studios to rent instead of taking risks on developing IPs of their own. From their perspective, the movies still get made, audiences still see them, and nobody knows the difference.

Admittedly, the harbingers of doom for DWA appeared long before the unexpected announcement of The Wild Robot in September 2023. At that time, the Animation industry was experiencing severe contractions after a rapid over-expansion during the COVID pandemic. With live-action productions ground suddenly to a halt, the animation world became fully remote, supplying Hollywood with a desperately-needed supply of new entertainment in the middle of a deadly industry drought.

But once pandemic protocols were unshackled, the contributions made by animators were swept aside, with every major studio announcing significant reductions in manpower. Netflix, who funneled hundreds of millions of dollars into its brand-new animation division during the pandemic, was now dramatically downsized, shelving dozens of mid-production and in-development projects, and laying off hundreds of workers.

The news was no better at DWA, who abandoned its long-standing commitment to developing a mixture of original films alongside sequels for existing IPs. Reacting to a slew of underperforming original DreamWorks films, the studio cancelled all future plans to develop them, pivoting instead to exclusively greenlighting sequels for the foreseeable future. Shortly after this, they announced the significant restructuring of their business.

It is therefore in the context of a post-COVID hurricane of compounding calamities that a small ray of light appeared in September 2023 when plans for The Wild Robot were unveiled. In the midst of DreamWorks shelving all plans for future original films, a new IP appeared, admittedly adapted from a successful children’s book series, but a non-sequel nonetheless. With the threat of retrenchment looming over the heads of the studios most longstanding and loyal employees, a DreamWorks icon returned – director Chris Sanders. Known for developing such films as Disney’s Aladdin (1992), Mulan (1998), and as the creator of Lilo and Stitch (2002), Sanders had since ditched the House of Mouse to become a leading voice at DreamWorks, helming films that were spun off into successful franchises, such as the iconic How To Train Your Dragon series and The Croods.

The film’s announcement flew in the face of the current trend, but rather than a possible sign of things to come, it was delivered with its own death warrant attached. Together with this almost too-good-to-be-true announcement came the news - this was the last film DWA would develop entirely in-house.

Before I go any further, I feel it is necessary to reiterate the severity of DWA’s decision to move away from making films as their primary business model. Studios like Netflix began by leasing titles from other studios, and eventually developed a capacity large enough to develop titles in-house. What DWA is doing is essentially the opposite, prioritising financial profitability and stability over the core purpose of the company. I consider this to be a new height of brazenness on display by Hollywood’s bankers. It is one thing to squeeze a company’s margins in the pursuit of maximum profit, but it is something else altogether to completely overhaul a company’s existence to pursue a shiny new form of profit.

That brings me back to how The Wild Robot ought to have been a triumphant moment for DWA. A studio that has fought consistently to redefine itself and entertain new generations with ever-changing tools and technology, re-teaming with a legendary Animation director to deliver a film evocative of such classics as Bambi (1942), Wall-E (2008), and The Iron Giant (1999). And yet, this utterly beautiful film was marked with tragedy from the very beginning.

Strangely, this troubled origin finds itself echoed throughout the film’s narrative. Brightbill is an orphan goose who finds himself adopted by Roz, a misplaced home assistant robot unwittingly responsible for the death of Brightbill’s family. Taking on the responsibility of raising and preparing the gosling for his impending winter migration, Roz finds her programming perpetually at odds with the forces of nature.

Brightbill, as it turns out, was born the runt of the litter, and was never expected to survive in the unforgiving wilderness. As their migration draws near, a wise, older goose takes him aside and informs him that:

“The accident that killed your family, saved you.”

Delivered in glorious baritone by the great Bill Nighy, those words serve to colour the otherwise-triumphant scene with a potent dose of melancholy, as the young Brightbill is hit with the magnitude of Roz’s parental achievement. As Nighy puts it more succinctly, “funny how life works.” The deaths of his family members, for which he once resented Roz, paved the way for his survival.

What follows is a sight to behold. A scene of geese taking flight in vast numbers, embarking on their winter migration alone is worth the price of theatre admission, aided in no small part by a resounding score from Kris Bowers, who commands a delightfully tear-jerking orchestral palette capable of soaring to heights rivalling that of DWA’s Head of Film Music and regular composer, Hans Zimmer. The film’s sonic quality and visual splendor are reasons to see it in the best environment you can.

I can’t speculate as to what effect the impending closure of DWA had on the story team of The Wild Robot, but the fact remains that both Brightbill and this film were marked with tragedy at birth, and both have risen from tragic roots to soar on their own wings. The film succeeds in delivering an utterly premium level of family entertainment, utilising the latest advancements in 3D Non-Photorealistic Rendering (NPR) techniques to mimic the organic qualities of traditional brushstrokes, oil paint and gouache techniques. Popularised by the success of Into The Spider-Verse (2018), these techniques have since revolutionized the Animated medium, bringing it full circle since the inception of CG Animation some 3 decades ago. Digital artists no longer chase photorealistic perfection, and are once again transfixed with the art of the pre-digital age.

In many ways, The Wild Robot was an unexpected hurrah, a final moment of shining herodom in an industry that seems to be slinking slowly but surely into the night, leaving in its wake a market that constantly surpasses its own limits of family-friendly oversaturation. As it stands, this film captures DreamWorks at the height of its powers, before its reign was cut short by profit-fetishizing fiends.

Every animated film is a bit like a twinkling star in the night sky, they take so much time to produce that the forces that set them in motion might have long fizzled out before the public ever lays eyes on them. For those of us who grew up with the animation of the 90’s-early 2000’s, this film will feel instantly familiar - bearing many of the same sensibilities as some of our childhood favourites. In many ways, it feels like a mini-revival of the quality of that era, scratching an itch that many of us have not been able to fully satisfy for some time. Comforting, entertaining, and quietly contemplative, The Wild Robot is a tragic but ultimately triumphant conclusion to what has been a tumultuous but truly historic era of DreamWorks Animation, and is worth the watch for anybody who harbours nostalgia for the animated movies of our childhood.

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About the author: Mark’s earliest memories revolve around the television set where, unbeknownst to him, he was beginning a lifelong obsession with Cinema. Hooked on the thrill of watching time and space warped before his eyes, he is committed to showing up at the movies, in whatever form it may be.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #174: The Ugly Stepsister

Tue, 20 May 2025 05:07:22 GMT

Film Review #174: THE UGLY STEPSISTER
PRETTY HURTS

Still Credit: Shaw Organisation

Inspired by the Grimm Brother’s grisly version of ‘ Cinderella ’ , Emilie Blichfeldt sets her feature directorial debut in the 19th century, within the Nordic kingdom of Swedlandia. When Prince Julian invites all eligible maidens to his royal ball, Elvira (Lea Myren), the “ugly” stepsister of gorgeous blonde-haired Agnes (Thea Sofie Loch Næss), undergoes a series of extreme procedures to morph herself into the lover of the prince’s dreams.

While the plot does not deviate too much from what we already know of the classic fairy tale, The Ugly Stepsister shifts the sympathetic spotlight from Cinderella (a.k.a. Agnes) to Elvira. Elvira first starts off as a bright-eyed teenager - an awkward ugly duckling in braces - and soon transforms into a suitor who is ruthless and determined to risk it all to catch the prince’s attention. With the female characters egging her on, Elvira falls into a rabbit hole of historically-accurate, bloody cosmetic and reconstructive procedures while also being tossed into finishing school.

Still Credit: Shaw Organisation

“Beauty is pain” - Dr. Esthétique

Director Blichfeldt fills in the backstories of the characters in a way that defies fairy tale archetypes. Prince Julian, for instance, is not quite the standard charming and romantic hero, but a much more layered personality that you'll find yourself clocking on your watch. In this regard, the characters possess a level of depth that ends up being much more enjoyable for adults who have graduated from fairytales. Blichfeldt also uses the Cinderella character of Agnes to shatter the modern ideals of romance. At heart, no one in the film is simply black-and-white.

Stylistically, the film playfully presents a campy 1970s aesthetic backed up by a haunting score that relies heavily on retro synths. The Ugly Stepsister draws a violent juxtaposition between Elvira’s rosy fantasy and the gothic body horror that builds relentlessly to the end while still sprinkling pockets of humour throughout its 110 minute runtime.

“There is only one Cinderella, we can't all be her." - Emilie Blichfeldt

Still Credit: Shaw Organisation

What is there to Blichfeldt’s modern take on a classic tale given that we already know how Cinderella ends? Still quite a lot, I would say. For one, Elvira’s obsession with her outer appearance will hit close to home for anyone who has ever felt uncomfortable and inadequate in their own skin. The film’s messaging of how the endeavour for bodily perfection can eat one up inside, literally, and turn destructive may be the most receptive to “young girls” who are above 21 (as per IMDA’s rating). With Blichfeldt herself admitting that the target audience of her film is young, female cinephiles, I would highly encourage this demographic to catch it on the big screen, including those who may not usually subscribe to horror, like myself. That said, The Ugly Stepsister remains worth a watch for all. It sparks the critical conversation of the standards we set for ourselves and others, of not just beauty but social status, in our capitalist society.

As Beyonce says, perfection is a disease of a nation, or in the case of The Ugly Stepsister , a whole kingdom.

SFS members can redeem tickets to the exclusive preview screening of The Ugly Stepsister (27 May) for free while tickets last through the private Peatix page sent to their emails. Join us as a member here .

The Ugly Stepsister opens in Shaw Theatres on 29 May.

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Film Review #173: Papa

Thu, 01 May 2025 04:34:20 GMT

Film Review #173: Papa (爸爸)

Philip Yung’s tearjerker Papa (2024) is heavily based on Hong Kong’s tragic 2010 Heung Wo Street Murder case. Nin, played by Sean Lau, is a Cha Chaan Teng (Hong Kong-style diner) owner and dad of two. When his son, Ming, kills his mother, Yin (Jo Koo), and younger sister, Grace, Nin struggles to keep what is left of his family together. By situating Nin as both the victim and the parent of the perpetrator, the film sheds a sympathetic light on the freak event, and in the process, humanising the incident, reminding us that the murders were more than a shocking newspaper headline.

Slicing between timelines, the disorienting non-linear narrative mimics disorganised puzzle pieces within Nin’s cognitive memory. Yung explains his decision to shoot in 4:3 aspect ratio as wanting to simulate a home video viewing experience. This makes the audience feel like intrusive voyeurs peering into Nin’s intimate recollections, made nostalgic by an ethereal, misty filter.

Sean Lau delivers an exceptionally moving performance of how a middle aged man who loses half his family overnight deals with grief. Jo Koo, too, paints a convincing depiction of an almost picture-perfect wife and loving mother as recalled from Nin’s memories. The well-cast child actors portraying the Yuen family siblings complete the film’s line-up; the siblings harbour a ubiquitous feud that every brother-sister pair will be able to relate to.

The film feels all the more harrowing when we realise that what happened to Nin, the average middle class man, could have happened to any Hong Konger where cha chaan tengs line the city. When it happened in 2010, the parricidal murders were a tragedy that not a single person could foresee. In the actual case, the son, then an introverted 15 year-old, had shown “no overt signs of any illness” prior to the killings except for periodic occasions where he channeled his outbursts of anger into vandalising the corridor outside his flat. It was even more shocking when the news broke out that the murders happened in Tsuen Wan, the more tranquil side of Hong Kong.

What Yung tries to do with Papa is not to find explanations as to why Ming committed the murders; members of the audience expecting plot development in this regard will be sorely disappointed. The way the film revisits Nin’s past through his memories, as well as his present, may not culminate in relief for audiences expecting a similar pacing as Yung’s thrillers that he is better known for. Through the film, in a languid unhurried non-chronology, Nin slowly unveils his relationships he once had with each family member: Yin, Grace, Ming and even Carnation (the family cat). At the same time, he attends the court hearing of his son and navigates reconciling with the sole family member left. A multitude of layers to Nin’s vulnerability emerges as he is torn between his different identities of being a son, dad to a murderer and a widower. All this happens while the film gyrates slowly as it playbacks Nin’s milestones in life — from meeting Yin to the completion of his nuclear family. Although Papa lacks a traditional climax, I was kept occupied by Nin’s far-from-linear grieving process.

There are two specific details that really stand out, etched in my memory post-viewing. The first is the effort put into ensuring that the characters are dressed in realistically dated outfits that truly transport us back in time to the early 2000s and back to the day the brutal murders occurred. The second detail of note is Koo’s extremely well-spoken Hakka (at least from the ears of an outsider). Although reviews have been divisive, I stand my ground by saying that the film was, in its entirety, close to perfect in its execution.

My only issue with the film is its overall length. The consistently slow pacing helped draw me further into the film as I was awarded more time to meditate on how even the most mundane aspects of life have changed for the father of two. However, the film meanders for its final few beats. Past the one and a half hour runtime is when emotional exhaustion sets in for most of the audience; it felt as if the last few scenes made marginal contribution to both the plot and character building as we were already provided with a distinct outline of the Yuen family and their dynamics. I think it would have been more impactful if those final few scenes shortened the film to 90 minutes instead of 130.

Despite that, I find myself thinking about the film constantly after leaving the theatre. For me, Lau’s portrayal of Nin’s heartbreak is so poignant that such sadness, once felt, is unable to be exorcised through tears. Papa is the sort of film that lingers and steeps in your mind even after the credits roll. The film is also reflective of the mental state of the city’s residents: the mental health crisis that looms over its high-pressure society is often swept under the rug. It remains rare, in contemporary Hong Kong cinema, for a film to daringly take its time to explore the human psyche at such a granular level. For two hours, it extricates us from our hectic life, allowing us a glimpse into the complexities of a devastating event—among many other murder cases that happen annually—that marred Hong Kong. While Papa is admittedly not for everyone, I believe this will be a film that many will revisit from time to time.

Papa is returning to Golden Village’s big screen exclusively in Cantonese for their Hong Kong Film Awards: Winners Special Movie Showcase from 9 - 12 May 2025.

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SCFF 2025 Film Review: POETRIES FROM THE BOOKSTORES: SEASON 3

Thu, 01 May 2025 03:11:02 GMT

“More than a bookstore, it’s a story.”
An Interview with Director HOU Chi-Jan on Poetries From the Bookstores: Season 3
by Alex Wu

Director HOU Chi-Jan returns to Singapore for the premiere of Poetries From the Bookstores: Season 3 at the 2025 Singapore Chinese Film Festival. For over a decade, his documentary series has recorded the evolving landscape of independent bookstores across Taiwan, tracing not just the fate of bookshelves, but the people, generations, and cultures behind them.

An interview with the Director

After filming independent bookstores for over ten years, what keeps you returning to this subject?

HOU Chi-Jan: In Taiwan, with the rise of the internet and globalization, bookstores have been vanishing. Physical book sales are dropping, and many stores are closing down. To me, physical books hold a very special status, it’s something I can touch, smell, and hold. That’s irreplaceable. I want to document this era through the lens of bookstores, to preserve not just what is being lost, but also what is still alive.

What do you hope to share to the audience through this work?

HOU Chi-Jan: I’ve come to realize I’m not just filming bookstores. I’m filming ways of life. Every bookstore reflects the worldview of its owner, and by extension, a piece of our cultural memory. I hope the audience feels that this is more than a space. It’s a story about time, values, and community.

Was there anything during filming that left a deep impression on you?

HOU Chi-Jan: We’ve visited over a hundred bookstores since season one. Each one is different. What I find most touching are the subtle human interactions. Because we don’t set up a structure or script to follow, but adapt to each store’s atmosphere and owner’s preferences. That’s how we capture the soul of each space naturally.

(Same as the author, the director also graduated from NCCU)

Is there a particular bookstore that stood out to you?

HOU Chi-Jan: There’s one I still think about often, Song Ling Bookstore in Taipei. It’s a place I frequented in my youth. After a fire damaged it, the owner chose to stay and preserve the site. One wall is now covered in scorched, half-burnt books. It’s haunting, but also beautiful. Those books, half-destroyed, tell a story of survival.

What do you hope viewers will take away from this season?

HOU Chi-Jan: I think about it like this that in the digital age, old things can have new meanings. For example, vinyl records are back on the market. People want to feel, to hold, to collect. I believe film is the same. We’re capturing something that might fade, but also something that might return in a new way.

You also write screenplays and direct feature films and music videos. Which medium do you enjoy most?

HOU Chi-Jan: I still enjoy directing films the most. Cinema offers a unique perspective. It’s direct, it’s immersive, it’s open. A thousand people can interpret the same story in a thousand ways. That’s the charm of it. I love seeing how the audience responds to the same scene differently.

Any advice for young filmmakers today?

HOU Chi-Jan: Practice, that’s the key to it. The tools are very accessible now like phones, cameras, editing software. But standing out is harder than ever. So try to film things around you and tell the story only you can tell. That’s what will make your work resonate with the audience.

Any upcoming projects you can share?

HOU Chi-Jan: I’m working on a few historical drama projects at the moment. They’re still in early stages, but I’m excited to dive into stories that reflect broader societal change.

Poetries From the Bookstores: Season 3 reminds us that bookstores are more than retail spaces. They are reflections of belief, memory, and resilience. Don’t miss the chance to experience this poetic journey on screen—only at the Singapore Chinese Film Festival. For the full schedule and tickets, visit www.scff.sg .

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About the author: Alex Wu is a storyteller and a master’s student in the Global Communication and Innovation Technology (GCIT) program at National Chengchi University (NCCU). With a passion for bridging cultures and media, Alex is deeply engaged in cross-cultural communication—both through academic research and hands-on work with the Singapore Film Society. He uses storytelling to explore the intersection of technology, media, and global narratives, with a body of work spanning writing, audiovisual content, and creative media. At the heart of it all, Alex tells stories that highlight meaningful connections across languages and cultures—rooted in Taiwan, and always eyeing the world.

Connect with Alex: https://www.linkedin.com/in/alex--wu/

SCFF 2025 Film Review: DAUGHTER'S DAUGHTER

Sat, 26 Apr 2025 10:01:10 GMT

“It Was Supposed to Be a Comedy!”

An Interview with Golden Horse Winner Huang Xi on Daughter’s Daughter
by Alex Wu

After earning nominations across international film festivals and winning the Golden Horse Award for Best Original Screenplay, director and writer Huang Xi returns to Singapore this April for the 2025 Singapore Chinese Film Festival (SCFF).

His film Daughter’s Daughter holds an important role as the opening film of this year’s festival, kick-starting a vibrant showcase of Chinese-language features, shorts, and documentaries. Running from April 25 to May 4, the festival invites audiences to discover diverse voices in contemporary cinema. Tickets are available at www.scff.sg .

An interview with the Director

“It was actually a comedy when I was crafting the script,” Huang laughs. Despite its emotional weight, the film wasn’t initially intended to be a tearjerker. In this interview, he looks back at how the story took shape, the characters’ motivations, and how audiences have responded to the film’s quiet honesty.

How has your time in Singapore affected you creatively?

Huang Xi: I studied there during sixth to seventh grades. Even now, I’m still struck by how diverse the city is. And yes, I still remember how to order kopi . It feels like no time has passed.

What first sparked the idea for Daughter’s Daughter ?

Huang Xi: The script had been in development for quite a while. We were preparing to begin production just before the pandemic, and then everything came to a stop. For a while, I thought the project might not survive. But the unexpected pause gave us time to reflect. The cast and team became close collaborators, and I had the chance to rework the screenplay with more clarity and care.

The film feels deeply personal. Were there aspects of your own life that helped shape the story?

Huang Xi: Definitely. Like many people, I’ve seen how generational expectations can create friction in Asian families. Around the time I started working on the film, my friends and I were reaching an age where questions of parenthood, IVF, surrogacy, were all coming up. I joked about what it would be like if I were Zuer (one of the main protagonists). I knew my parents would have a hard time. They’re even more dramatic than I am! But in the end, I believe that kind of love still finds a way.

Family relationships can be complicated, especially across generations. How did you approach portraying those dynamics?

Huang Xi: The most difficult part was managing the emotional tone. This isn’t just a family story, it touches on friendship, partnership, and care. Thankfully, my cast was incredible. We never needed more than four takes. Many of the most moving scenes were improvised. The performances felt real and intimate in a way that didn’t need much dialogue.

How did you feel directing and writing this film comparing your previous works? Anything similar or different?

Huang Xi: I felt more connected to this one. From development to production, it felt like a deeply collaborative process. We built it together with the production team. And with actors like Sylvia Chang, Karena Lam, and Eugenie Liu, so much of the emotions just happened in the moment. Some scenes were perfect in a single take. The tension and warmth between them brought the film to life.

Have you noticed any differences in how audiences abroad and in Asia respond to the film?

Huang Xi: Overall, audiences have understood the relationship between Ai and Zuer in a very intuitive way. That part seems universal. But cultural context does shape how people interpret what’s shown or not shown. In Toronto, for example, someone asked why there wasn’t a direct scene of Ai confronting Zuer’s sexuality. For me, that was something implied, something you can feel without saying. But I love how different cultures interpret the same scene.

What do you hope audiences take away from Daughter’s Daughter ?

Huang Xi: Love. That’s the heart of it. Love that’s awkward and quiet and not always spoken. Ai is complicated. She struggles, but she does everything out of love. She confesses to Emma, accepts Zuer and her partner, and eventually chooses to raise the child. I think that kind of love exists in many families. It doesn’t always look perfect, but it’s there.

What’s next for you or for the film?

Huang Xi: I’m working on another comedy. It’s still in the early stages, so we’ll see. Hopefully people will laugh this time.

As Daughter’s Daughter continues to resonate with audiences in Singapore and beyond, its tender exploration of family, identity, and acceptance reminds us how cinema can bridge generational and cultural divides.

Don’t miss your chance to catch this and other powerful selections at the 2025 Singapore Chinese Film Festival. For full listings and tickets, please visit www.scff.sg .

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Connect with Alex: https://www.linkedin.com/in/alex--wu/

SCFF 2025 Film Review: INTIMATE ENCOUNTER

Sat, 26 Apr 2025 09:48:37 GMT

Intimate Encounter
A Review by Heng Wei Li

In the years following COVID-19, a small movement in cinema across the world was keen to explore the world-wide pandemic, and how it affected and changed our lives. Intimate Encounter by veteran Taiwanese director Chang Tso-Chi follows in this new tradition, though the pandemic serves less as a central focus point and more of a time and place that emphasizes the film’s themes.

Set just past the peak of the pandemic, we follow Ah Xun (played by Cheng Hsun Lin), who has just returned back to Taiwan after an extended time away. Living with his grandfather in a simple flat, he finds himself getting in touch with old friends, new neighbours, and the ever-marching passing of time.

There is a meticulously planned spirit of mundanity to Intimate Encounters in the way it presents Xun’s character, his interactions with everyone around him, and vice versa. As per the title, Chang Tso-Chi builds the film primarily on intimate encounters between its characters. He zeroes in on the small-talk, the chit-chat — letting us learn more about their lives with Xun as the main anchor for the majority of the scenes. This focus on the characters’ conversations help in a big way to introduce new characters and backstory relatively bluntly, yet the sheer intimacy of the scene is able to assuage most of the whiplash that might bring.

Indeed, the film is introspective in nature, highlighting this feeling of being complacent in the current pace of your life without much reason to strive for more. Coming back to Taiwan in the midst of a global pandemic, having left prior due to a family tragedy, Ah Xun is left isolated and yearning in spirit. The camera follows behind him as he travels, as though we are walking right behind him, and we carry along as he has his conversations and lives his life, each experience is another insight into his character, clearing through this fog of mundanity the pandemic placed in all of us.

While there are some plot decisions that I’m not convinced about, especially in scenes where the intimate encounters (which are central to the storytelling) are presented in more abstract ways, Intimate Encounters remains a low-key yet ultimately hopeful piece. Time will continue to move on, the crippling apathy caused by the pandemic and quarantine will slowly fade away, and all we can do is to make sure that we are ready to push forward.

INTIMATE ENCOUNTER is screening at Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2025. For more information and tickets, visit: scff.sg

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About the author: Wei Li Heng is an avid lover of uncovering and writing about obscure and underseen Asian cinema. He hopes to discover local cinematic gems and share them to a wider audience.

SCFF 2025 Film Review: SHE SAT THERE LIKE ALL ORDINARY ONES

Wed, 23 Apr 2025 14:47:07 GMT

SCFF Film Review: She Sat There Like All Ordinary Ones
A Review by Heng Wei Li

“All motion is relative. As long as someone is moving faster, you are lagging behind.”

This is one of the opening lines to She Sat There Like All Ordinary Ones, the feature debut for filmmaker Qu Youjia. It is the start of the senior year, and we are introduced to Zhuang, an easy-going student who finds himself caught in his own worry-free attitude. In an incident revolving around a starter gun, he comes across Meng, a classmate whose thoughts of her own immediate future are as in flux – just like Zhuang’s. As these two heavily contrasting personalities intertwine, we see how they slowly rub off and affect one another, as they are pushed towards the end of this particular chapter in their lives.

As a coming of age, end-of-adolescence story, Qu Youjia approaches this film with an expressionistic glint to his storytelling style. It is clear that he is fully confident in the film form, his usage of match cuts, sharp rack focuses and carefully staged long takes portray a cinematic environment that is grounded, yet briefly showcases some flights of fancy and some wandering thoughts.

Building off of this general sensation, the main leads, Zhang Taiwen as Zhuang and Jijun Miao as Meng, work well in all their scenes together. Zhuang’s carefree nature and Meng’s closed-off, cold-shoulder temperament create a dynamic and constantly bubbling chemistry. However, one thing that She Sat There Like All Ordinary Ones does really well is in building the environment that these two characters are molded from and live in. During the moments when the film focuses on only Zhang or Meng, we see how their daily lives and the people around them affect the way they see the world, further fueling their disagreements.

But what is this movie trying to say? Certainly more than just an encouragement to have your life planned out during your school years. It’s an exploration and validation of the sense of unease that permeates during that specific point of time in one’s life, the ending of a significant chapter and the start of another. Zhuang and Meng “come of age” in their own ways during this specific year, and the movie is both sentimental of what they will lose, and excited for what is in store for them.

She Sat There Like All Ordinary Ones is charming, sympathetic, and most importantly, hopeful. If you’re looking to reminisce on those times when you felt yourself just beginning to understand the gravity of the rest of your life, then this is certainly a movie to catch.

SHE SAT THERE LIKE ALL ORDINARY ONES is screening at Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2025. For more information and tickets, visit: scff.sg

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About the author: Wei Li Heng is an avid lover of uncovering and writing about obscure and underseen Asian cinema. He hopes to discover local cinematic gems and share them to a wider audience.

SCFF 2025 Film Review: BEL AMI

Mon, 21 Apr 2025 04:56:11 GMT

SCFF Film Review: BEL AMI
Freedom and Love, in Shades Beyond Black and White

Hegang, a small city in Northeast China, is the hometown of filmmaker Geng Jun. For over two decades, Geng has captured its spirit through a lens tinted with the dry humor native to China’s northeast.

Now, he returns with his boldest work yet: BEL AMI , a Chinese queer cinema. Sharing its title with Maupassant’s classic novel, ‘BEL AMI’ is, in Geng’s words, a “high-five between literature and film.” We are lucky to witness his tender exploration of queer romance.

In a snowbound border town, middle-aged Zhang Zhiyong finally decides to come out. Cautious and awkward, he drifts through the city in search of companionship, until a chance encounter with Xu Gang. Meanwhile, lesbian couple Liu Ying and Abu, under pressure from their families, attempts to borrow sperm to start a family — but control, trust, and vulnerability threaten to unravel their fragile arrangement.

BEL AMI garnered eight nominations at the 61st Golden Horse Awards, ultimately taking home four major prizes: Best Actor (Xue Baohe), Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Audience Choice Award for Best Film.

Behind these honours lies a fearless creative journey. I had the chance to interview director Geng Jun virtually and learned lots about the behind the scenes and his philosophies for filmmaking.

Conceived during the pandemic,a time Geng described as “the end of the world” BEL AMI reflects a deep yearning for freedom and connection.

Filming a queer love story among middle-aged men posed challenges, but Geng’s cast embraced it wholeheartedly. Through careful research and emotional commitment, they moved from initial uncertainty to fearless authenticity. A key nude love scene between the two leads was shot in just two hours, capturing a raw emotional intensity that exceeded expectations.

Visually, BEL AMI is strikingly composed. Most of the film is shot in black and white, with only a few final scenes blooming into colour. Geng chose this approach to sharpen the focus on the characters’ emotional landscapes, stripping away distractions to reveal raw, unfiltered feelings. Cinematographer and production designer Wang Weihua meticulously scouted locations, photographed scenes, drafted storyboards, and used a RED monochrome camera to maximize the expressive power of black-and-white photography. The transition to colour at the end, during a lesbian wedding photoshoot, serves as both a literal and symbolic burst of hope, underscoring Geng’s belief in love’s enduring vibrancy, even against a monochrome world.

The film’s soundtrack is equally deliberate. Geng includes the iconic 1990s Chinese pop song ‘A Big Tree’, a track that symbolises resilience and steadfast love; in a forest of countless trees, the true beloved is the only one that matters.

Dialogue, too, is crafted with precision. In scripting BEL AMI , Geng strove for a style that is concise yet profound, every line rich with meaning and humour. He even tailored the lines to fit each actor’s unique temperament, creating moments where the contrast between character and speech adds a touch of absurdist comedy to the film’s emotional depth.

BEL AMI marks a new chapter in Geng Jun’s filmmaking career. Through humour, tenderness, and a fearless embrace of complexity, he illuminates the radiant colours of love and freedom—hidden even in the coldest winter landscapes.

Wrapping up the interview, Geng Jun, who has yet to visit Singapore, said he looks forward to one day trading the freezing winters of Northeast China for Singapore’s tropical heat and vibrant spirit.

BEL AMI is screening at Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2025. For more information and tickets, visit: scff.sg

自由与爱，黑白的《漂亮朋友》里有缤纷色彩

鹤岗，中国东北黑龙江省的一座城市。

耿军，这位“鹤岗籍导演”，二十年来持续用镜头记录这片土地。代表作包括《锤子镰刀都休息》、《轻松+愉快》和《东北虎》等。东北人骨子里的幽默基因，也成为他作品中不可或缺的底色。

这一次，他带来了被誉为“华语同志电影天花板与地板”的新作——《漂亮朋友》。影片与莫泊桑的小说《漂亮朋友》同名，正如耿军所言，这是一次“文学与电影的隔空击掌”。

幸运的是，我们在当下，见证了这样一场关于同性爱情的诙谐表达。

《漂亮朋友》讲述了边陲小城降起了雪，张志勇人到中年，决意出柜，谨小慎微寻寻觅觅，终和被年轻理发师男友分手的徐刚萍水相逢；与此同时，女同志情侣刘颖与阿布为了满足家庭期待，向理发师借精形婚求子。但在控制与被控制、信任与试探之间，原本简单的交易也险些走向失控。

影片获得2024金马奖八项提名，最终获得最佳男主角、最佳摄影、最佳剪辑，以及观众票选最佳影片四项大奖。如此多的殊荣背后，到底有哪些幕后故事呢？我们有幸对导演耿军进行了采访。

导演介绍说，本片的创作源于疫情期间，那种如世界末日般的压抑与束缚，反而更加激发了他创作爱情电影、表达自由与爱渴望的冲动。

让一群中年大老爷们儿拍恋爱戏，本来就是有难度的，更何况是尝试创作同性恋题材的内容。但令人惊喜的是，在耿军萌生念头后，几乎无需劝说，所有演员便达成了默契。在随后的创作过程中，演员们针对身边真实的同性情感故事进行了细致研究，从最初表演时的不自信，到最终全情投入，完全自如。其中有一场是两位男主角赤条条的情欲戏，大家起初还有些忐忑，可没想到仅用两小时，就完成了拍摄，呈现出的情感浓度甚至超出了导演和摄影师的预期。

影片的摄影风格鲜明，大部分都是黑白摄影，仅片尾少部分为彩色。导演说，他们希望通过黑白摄影，让二人世界中细微的情感与情绪的变化更为聚焦。作为摄影的王维华，同时兼任美术指导，在拍摄前期的勘景过程中，拍了大量的场景照片，绘制分镜，影片打下了坚实基础，并选用了RED黑白摄影机进行拍摄，充分展现了黑白影像的魅力。片尾彩色部分的出现，是两位女同拍摄婚纱照与婚礼的戏，则诠释了导演对爱情与未来生活的美好憧憬与想象。黑白与彩色的转换，不只是视觉上的变化，也是情绪与主题递进的隐喻。

谈到影片中音乐的使用，同样承载着导演的深意。比如，导演提到了一首90年代在中国广为流行的一首歌曲《好大一棵树》，不仅象征坚韧和依靠，也寓意着情人眼中，纵使有森林千重，唯独那一棵才是真爱。

不得不提的是影片中台词的创作。耿军在剧本创作时，力求言简意赅、句句到位。没有半句多余，每一句都耐人寻味。例如：

“爱到深处是互相为奴吗？爱到深处是互相给自由。

自由的对面是什么？自由的对面是自由。”

“来，来，来情欲的怀抱，这里最实在；

来，来啊，来自由的怀抱，这里最温柔。”

“来吧，一起创造人生污点吧。”

这些台词，既有哲理，又充满幽默感，成为影片中的经典桥段。令人称道的是，导演是完全基于对演员性格、气质，为角色量身打造的。他认为，通过让角色形象与语言表达形成强烈反差，能够让影片的喜剧感更加浓烈。

《漂亮朋友》，是耿军导演个人创作生涯的一次新突破。他在东北小城的冰雪之中，以喜剧的方式书写了爱、自由，让我们看到了生命中存在的缤纷色彩。

在采访的最后，耿军笑言，虽然从未到过新加坡，但他很期待可以在东北最寒冷的季节中，来到这里，感受热带的炙热与蓬勃的活力。

《漂亮朋友》将在“2025年新加坡华语电影节（Singapore Chinese Film Festival）”放映，更多信息请访问官方网站： scff.sg 。

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Film Review #172: KNEECAP

Wed, 09 Apr 2025 01:11:12 GMT

Film Review #172: KNEECAP
Protecting One's Mother Tongue as an Uncompromising Act of Patriotism

The BAFTA-winning and Oscar-shortlisted international feature film from Ireland is one of 2024's best films about music. In a prolific year for musicals and musical biopics, films like the sensational crowd-pleaser Wicked and awards darling A Complete Unknown have been dominating social media, not to mention the recently released Better Man which is gaining traction too. It is therefore regrettable that a cool and important film like Kneecap has gone relatively under the radar since its Sundance 2024 premiere where it won the Audience "NEXT" Award.

Still from Kneecap . Credits: Sony Pictures Classics and BFI

Centering on an actual Irish hip-hop trio of the same name, Kneecap follows Liam and Naoise, two reckless but passionate and talented rappers, who form an unlikely bond with uninspired teacher JJ who is equally devoted to music himself. Set against the backdrop of a society relegating the native Irish language, the trio lead a movement with their original music to save their mother tongue.

Directed and co-written by Rich Peppiatt, Kneecap marks the filmmaker's feature debut. This film’s premise may turn some away for appearing as “too niche". Yet, to watch Kneecap is to recognize and acknowledge the universal lesson that the only way to overcome the discomfort of facing the unknown or unfamiliar is to confront and maybe even embrace it.

Still from Kneecap. Credits: Sony Pictures Classics and BFI

"No one is anyone until they are."

In my view, this must be how Peppiatt felt when he was making his first short film, and then again his first full-length feature film, as with any filmmaker just starting out. As for us audiences, it is no different. Every time we watch a new film, we learn something new about the world. What about in life? Every time we accomplish something new, do we then realize we could actually do it. Kneecap could be a "niche" Irish indie film, but it is every bit relevant and an essential watch.

Singapore has had its fair share of turbulent history with language policies. In our nation's formative years post-independence, mother tongues and dialects were severely restricted and the detrimental effects can still be felt today. Local artists lament the grave hurt inflicted upon mother tongues and dialects in Singapore over the decades, and many produce critical works of art that show their discontent, with one recent example being 2023's A Year of No Significance by Kelvin Tong. Of course, one could take some comfort in knowing that mother tongues are accorded increasing importance in our education system now, and dialects are finally (albeit gradually) heard and spoken in mainstream media from time to time.

"Every word of Irish spoken is a bullet fired for Irish freedom."

Patriotism may have state-prescribed ways of expression. However, each individual's relationship with their homeland is ultimately unique. A key attribute of any civilization is its language(s). This film is fearless in portraying the limits to which some would go just to safeguard something that is part of who they are.

Still from Kneecap . Credits: Sony Pictures Classics and BFI

Kneecap is an achievement on multiple fronts. To energize and entertain the viewer with its snappy storytelling and electrifying music is one; to effectively introduce the music of Kneecap (the hip-hop trio) to the rest of the world is another. But above all, to tell the world an important story about the Irish identity and the Irish people, and at the same time, to challenge the viewers to reflect on the suppressed parts of themselves, is probably what truly makes this film remarkable.

Catch the Singapore Premiere and exclusive screening of Kneecap for SFS Showcase #43 on 12 April, Saturday: https://theprojector.sg/films-and-events/kneecap/

SFS Members can claim their free ticket through this password-protected page: https://sfs-kneecap-pw.peatix.com/

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About the author: About the author: Jarrett is a devoted cinephile for over half of his life. Apart from movies, coffee keeps him awake and music keeps him alive. Having studied theatre and performed as an actor before, he's also a sucker for great performances.

Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #171: LATEX LABYRINTH

Wed, 09 Apr 2025 00:56:27 GMT

Fraught Lines: Latex Labyrinth with Jeff Yong

Latex Labyrinth provokes the placid presence of Rubber’s exploitation in 1940s Malaya by unearthing its violent colonial history that permeates through generations, into saplings of the now.

Completely dialogue-less, the film cleverly portrays the carvings of a country’s intergenerational wounds through staccato movements enacted by a suggestive ensemble of a rubber tapper family.

Recalling a specter from the past, the droning camera finds its way through the thick of the plantation to arrive at our first character, a father who looks over to his wife and son threading along a disparate path that never meets. This invisible plane of resistance is mirrored across a different dynamic later.

The film uses the fluid language of the body to embolden a vessel in holding, transferring and naming the trauma of the Emergency across generations.

Like a machine, his physique enacts the ritual of rubber tapping, propulsing and retracting the knife with rigor, as if under a spell.

As she pulls the knife close, the same cuts that scathe the rubber bark seem to incise through her chest too, suggesting the inextricable glue that bonds the tappers to their latex.

Through intercuts, the pulsations that drive the mother’s kinetic rhythms seem to inherit the son, who gracefully carries her cadence and gait.

While the storyline remains cloudy throughout, it is precisely in this forest of ambiguity that we may fill the unimaginably crude gaps that pervaded the war-stricken workers of a generation that mostly remains a recollection today.

I caught up with Jeff, who conceptualized and lensed the film, to unravel his process of this fiercely personal piece.

Hao: The film’s treatment is unique in the way that archival elements are interposed with movement, and even song to structure this story. I’m curious, has this style always been your intent from the pre-production?

Jeff: ⁠ The intent to use archival footage came in during the script development stage as the history became significant to the subject matter through our research. Initially, the idea was to respond to the Lab’s theme of ‘Past, Present, Future’ by placing the dancer across time and place, inside the forest and in the city. After the director, Wei Yinn, and I did further research, it started to emphasize more of the plantation’s historical context during the 1940s in Malaysia.

Hao: Hints and symbols of transnational violence are peppered throughout the film. Was there a particular time period that the film is based on?

Jeff: We were looking at the tail end of the 1940s after the war had ended and the Malayan Emergency began. This period was also the time when my grandparents were working in the plantations.

Naturally, the history of my family revolved around and always traces back to rubber tapping.

Hao: What drew you to unearth the oft-hidden layers that inform our present understanding of the history of these plantations, beyond the textbook?

Jeff: When I moved to Singapore, I felt lost in the maze of a strange new city. Looking back, I recall the journey that my ancestors took from their hometown to find work in a strange new Malaya then.

I wanted to return to this land to perhaps seek the strength needed to confront my past.

Ultimately, I hope to move on from my intergenerational experience, by photographing this piece of history that has stayed with my family for so long.

Hao: What’s something that viewers may not be aware of going into the subject matter of rubber tapping?

Jeff: Even though it happened in Malaysia, I feel that this topic of ancestral hardship during the Emergency left a collective memory that the two countries share.

Interestingly, as we drift further from the events in time, the present generation grows more distant from this fact.

For the land, it was actually on the cusp of change while we were shooting. We were told in the coming weeks and months, the land was going to be cleared to make way for a recreational facility.

In the film, you see the marks, the bare land. I think we got lucky to capture the last moments before its history is rewritten into a completely different future.

Hao: For me, the strongest moment in this work lies in the gaze that the mother tapper and soldiers shared for a brief moment, before breaking away, instead of building on their encounter. What significance did this moment entail for you?

Jeff: During the Emergency, the Colonial Forces established Chinese Villages. In a way, they controlled the contact between villages and the Malayan Communist Party hiding in the forest. The only way for the Party to communicate with the Chinese was through the rubber tappers, making them unofficial messengers.

The invisible line separating the two represented the dilemmas the tappers faced, worrying about their lives for making contact with the Communist Party.

During that period, my grandfather had encountered the Army asking him for help. When my family found out he was helping out in the shadows, they convinced him to stop for fear of imminent Colonial repercussions.

Latex Labyrinth was produced in association with Scape’s MOV:MENT Lab 2024 and premiered this January at The Projector.

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About the author: Zheng Hao is an emerging media arts practitioner whose evolving practice explores the fringes that bisect the human and nonhuman worlds.

His interest lies in making visible policies that tame, dictate and restrain the livelihoods of natural spaces, challenging notions that define what constitutes ‘wilderness’ in Singapore.

His works are often informed by site-specific responses, working across video, photography and performance to elucidate the invisible voices nestled within the nonhuman world.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #170: PIERCE

Wed, 02 Apr 2025 06:45:49 GMT

Pierce (2024)
Unravelling The Methodical Webs of A Master Manipulator

Pierce is a surgical examination into the twisted theatre of the dysfunctioned mind and the limitless nature to spin casual lies into full-fledged truths.

In Director Nelicia Low’s feature-length debut, she marries two seemingly disconnected anecdotes from her past to form a rich tapestry heralding her cinematic voice – one that is bound to stay for the foreseeable future.

Mirroring mechanics of professional fencing’s pin-sharp precision is the film’s scripting process. Having been jabbed and prodded from all possible angles, the resulting labour of love is one that doesn’t afford itself any missteps.

There is a particularly enthralling two-part dinner scene that comes to mind, as it also doubles up as a pseudo-courtroom scene. In the first part, gossip does what gossip does best, and a benign comment about our protagonist Zijie’s fencing fuels frenzied theories on the highly-publicized freak fencing case, which took its inspiration from a real-life mass murder case which left four killed in Taiwan.

A horrified Zijie helplessly listens as rumours surrounding his kin brother fly too close to the truth. Thankfully, his mother swoops in to dispel those rumors.

A few scenes later, we return to the same table, now with Zihan, Zijie’s brother, among the attendees. With the man now present in the flesh, the family questions relentlessly. Zihan effortlessly catches the bullets and improvises his newfound character to a shocking degree as his younger brother watches on with a mix of bewilderment and terror.

What really drew me in was the film’s formally precise presentation in the staging of the two scenes. By taking no prisoners, the following scene commands an indelible callback which draws all attention to the merciless way in which Zihan was able to subvert truth in real-time without a hint of flinching. Watching him work is not unlike watching a skilled craftsman, a time-tested professional liar.

Despite its clinically precise structure, Pierce has a lot of heart going for it. The dissolution of the image that Zijie had held so dear for so long since his brother’s absence was heartbreaking to witness in real time.

On that note, the young lead actor here plays out this portrait of betrayal in a refreshingly mature and grounded performance.

I recall during the Q&A, Director Low shared this film took nearly five years to produce, having undergone several rewrites and delays. The final work we see today is a sheer testament to the astoundingly tight and dense scripting, brought to life by a well rounded cast who embody their characters unflinchingly.

By allowing her personal experiences with her neurodivergent brother to shape and converge with her prior stint as a national fencer, Low weaves a universally resonant tale that lands especially among viewers who strive daily for function, in spite of the dysfunction that permeates their familial lives.

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About the author: Zheng Hao is an emerging media arts practitioner whose evolving practice explores the fringes that bisect the human and nonhuman worlds.

His interest lies in making visible policies that tame, dictate and restrain the livelihoods of natural spaces, challenging notions that define what constitutes ‘wilderness’ in Singapore.

His works are often informed by site-specific responses, working across video, photography and performance to elucidate the invisible voices nestled within the nonhuman world.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #169: THE WILD ROBOT

Thu, 20 Mar 2025 04:50:33 GMT

The Wild Robot (2024)
A Sight to Behold

In a tumultuous Animation industry, The Wild Robot (2024) stands tall as a resounding triumph demonstrating what big studio filmmaking can achieve when grounded by a deeply personal story.

Director Chris Sanders brought his decades of experience in animated filmmaking to the table when he set out to adapt Peter Brown’s endearing series of children’s novels. Sanders is no stranger to being at the helm of mammoth film productions, both in Animation and Live-action, having forged a singular legacy as the visionary behind such Animation hallmarks as Lilo and Stitch (2002) and How To Train Your Dragon (2010), not to mention his contributions to classics like Disney’s Aladdin (1992), Mulan (1998) and The Lion King (1994).

Utilising the latest advancements in 3D Non-Photorealistic Rendering (NPR), the animators at DreamWorks Animation (DWA) were able to mimic the organic qualities of traditional brushstrokes, oil paint and gouache techniques. Known more colloquially as “Hybrid Animation”, these technological revolutions have been pioneered in such titles as Into The Spider-Verse (2018), and Arcane (2021-2024), and have raised the bar for what audiences expect when they tune in to animated media.

In that respect, The Wild Robot does nothing but excel. The unmistakable artistry of traditional painting is presented with new challenges as the animators unshackle the camera and drive it into the space, spinning and twisting around immaculate digital foliage and energetic wildlife.

For those who pine for the renaissance artistry of the original Disney animated classics, those disciplines have been restored to their place in the Animated medium of today, albeit with a new level of complexity. 3-Dimensional locations are constructed by hand, down to every bespoke blade of grass, out of textured brushstrokes evocative of acrylics and watercolour. These environments are not only beholden to the standards of traditional media, but must now hold up to the scrutiny of a dynamic, moving camera. These are not simply flat paintings placed in a 3D environment, instead they are meticulously designed to look good from every conceivable angle, allowing the movie to partake in more than its fair share of long, continuous shots.

But this film is not merely eye candy for the interested observer – Sanders infuses his adaptation of Peter Brown’s original material with layers of thematic richness deserving of a full-length feature film, grounding it in the experiences and emotions of a parent coming to grips with love that exceeds one’s own comprehension.

The film centres around Roz, a misplaced home assistant robot who finds her programming perpetually at odds with the forces of nature on the island she’s stranded on. The film explores her journey as she unwittingly adopts the duty of raising Brightbill, an unusually small orphan goose. Along the way, she finds herself growing beyond the parameters of her manufacturer’s intentions, and developing deep, emotional bonds with the animals on the island.

Rather than a straightforward hero’s journey, Sanders takes us through what feels like an emotional vignette, a series of memories that carry the patina of many weathered years, strung together to give us some sense of the colossal commitment of raising a child while coming to terms with your own identity.

And keeping with breaking convention, the film breaks from established “safe” territory by routinely confronting questions of mortality and fate. No scene better demonstrates this than the climatic Winter migration, where Brightbill is taken aside by a wise, older goose and informed that he was born the runt of the litter, and was never expected to survive in the unforgiving wilderness. His being orphaned, and subsequent adoption by Roz, is what gave him the chance to embark on migration at all.

“The accident that killed your family, saved you.”

Delivered in glorious baritone by the great Bill Nighy, those words colour the otherwise-triumphant scene with a potent dose of melancholy, as the young Brightbill is hit with the magnitude of his ill-fated destiny and Roz’s parental achievement. As Nighy puts it more succinctly, “funny how life works.”

What follows is a sight to behold. The scene reaches a crescendo as geese across the forest take flight in vast numbers, the eyewatering images elevated by a mighty, resounding score from Kris Bowers, who commands a delightfully tear-jerking orchestral palette soaring to heights rivalling that of DWA’s veteran composer and Head of Film Music - Hans Zimmer. The film’s sonic quality and visual splendor are certainly reasons to see it in the most immersive environment you can.

For those of us who grew up with the Animation of the 90’s-early 2000’s, this film will feel instantly familiar - bearing many of the same sensibilities as some of our childhood favourites. In many ways, it feels like a callback to the freedom and quality of that era, scratching an itch that many of us have not quite been able to fully satisfy for some time. Delightful, comforting, entertaining, and contemplative, The Wild Robot is worth the watch.

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About the author: About the author: Mark’s earliest memories revolve around the television set where, unbeknownst to him, he was beginning a lifelong obsession with Cinema. Hooked on the thrill of watching time and space warped before his eyes, he is committed to showing up at the movies, in whatever form it may be.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

The Embodied Image (Part 2)

Mon, 17 Mar 2025 03:41:20 GMT

THE EMBODIED IMAGE (Part 2)

Interview with Zen Teh and SueKi Yee, the artists behind ‘Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth

After these displays of interdisciplinary creativity, one might still wonder - what is it like for the artists and filmmakers involved? Having had the opportunity to interview Zen and SueKi, the brilliant minds behind the exhibition, I would like to share her personal perspectives and experiences of these collaborations.

Before Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth, what were your experiences of interdisciplinary art? Has your impression changed after this project?

SueKi : I've always been interested in interdisciplinary art, as an artist as well as a spectator/audience. I find collaborating with artists from other disciplines really inspiring because it's a process of merging perspectives and approaches. Collaboration is not easy because we are always dealing partially with the unfamiliar, but it's also exactly because of that that new ideas can emerge. I've collaborated often with visual artists especially with sculptural work, musicians, actors, make-up artists, and photographers and filmmakers. This was my first time being involved in creating an immersive exhibition and I've had to learn a lot of new skills which is fun!

Zen : Before this project, I have been exploring interdisciplinary art and collaboration with friends from different disciplines (arts including dance and other types of visual art; design, earth and biological sciences). In 2024, my MA research thesis investigated the processes and cognition behind interdisciplinary collaboration in art and science. Hence, working across disciplines has been a long-term interest. More than an interest, I think interdisciplinary art is necessary, especially in providing a more holistic understanding of global issues such as environmental concerns or impacts of urbanisation, these issues are always multi-faceted. The different disciplines (art or not) provide different lenses to view the world, with their disciplines’ specificity helping us go more in-depth in exploring certain aspects of the world's phenomenon.

In our project, Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth, I explored the impacts of urbanisation through the themes of light and darkness with SueKi. This is my second time working with a dancer/dance choreographer, so I'm still relatively new in collaborating with this discipline. I learnt a lot from and with SueKi, especially in how our body is a vessel of knowledge, in terms of bodily intuition and response to emotions and memories. My work is usually not so emotional and more detached (more like how a researcher writes about their research in an objective manner, but mine is in a visual form), so working with SueKi helped open up more emotive and bodily dimensions to our project.

What was your common ground, coming into Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth? Did you perhaps discuss how you envisioned the project together?

In what ways has working with each other influenced both of your individual art practice?

SueKi : I think immersive exhibitions can be a bit like performance in that both are creating a world outside of reality. I am intrigued by Zen's approach to creating exhibitions that are quite sensitive in details and require observation and engagement from the audience. This has informed my way of creating my performance for the exhibition as well as conducting the movement workshop within the space of the exhibition, especially in considering how movement and the body can exist and interact with a space so carefully designed to invoke emotions and reflections of the spectator.

Zen : As an installation art artist with a photography background (I graduated from a photography major at ADM, NTU) my art practice has been centered on observing environmental phenomenon and communicating them through my artworks. I seek to share with others what I observed and felt in a scenario/space into immersive experiences in order to invite them to consider pressing or often overlooked issues. The impact of light and darkness on our bodies, the way we relate and draw connection/disconnection to a space, as well as the larger implications of such phenomenon may be elusive. As human beings, we are so skilled at adapting to our environment that environmental changes or some may say degradation may not be noticed easily.

Working with SueKi helped me open up to the exploration of light and darkness and its complexities. SueKi was amazing at interpreting emotive responses into bodily experiences - i.e. through movement and her understanding of how her movement with my visual forms can bring out these qualities.

Working on a project together, how do you approach fusing the vastly different thought processes related to your mediums of expertise?

SueKi : Don’t think our thought processes are very different here. I guess for me I'm entering into an unfamiliar zone (of immersive exhibitions) so I'm learning as I go. But Zen's approach is conceptual and process-based and so is mine. So I find it relatively easy to work with her. Maybe someone would propose an idea or pose a question that the other hasn't considered, and then we would go together from there.

Zen : We trusted each other and relied on each other's expertise in different aspects of the project.

We work collaboratively in almost all stages of the project - from the conceptualisation to the installation on-site. While I took care of most of the logistical and design technicalities with my assistant (Renuka) and Pine Atelier Design consultant, SueKi compiled the soundscape for the exhibition using the voice recordings of the participants from the walking workshop in the different cities. We discussed the main themes before she edited the tracks, her way of selecting relevant and impactful segments to put together really helped bring life to the installation. As visitors listen to the selection of voice recordings in specific sections of the installation, they may imagine the spaces which inspired the design of the installation (e.g. dark and narrow alleyways in Bangkok), through their own personal memories. The voices of the participants also added a sense of humanity within the installation which may feel cold and void of emotions without the soundtracks. Installing the works in the space together also aided our understanding of each other's artistic process and challenges.

Do you share a space? How do you coordinate your schedules?

SueKi : During the research and set-up of the exhibition I stayed at Zen's place (because I'm otherwise based in Berlin). I think for us it was clear that during this period of time, our focus was mainly on the project and we didn't have too many other commitments. So we would start and end work together. (Essentially like how dance productions would usually work for me too). There were maybe two days where I stepped out of setting up the exhibition to work on the movement research.

Zen : I think SueKi has answered this.

What was your common ground, coming into Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth? Did you perhaps discuss how you envisioned the project together?

SueKi : I believe we both work closely with the body, albeit with different entry points. For Zen, I've come to realize how she uses embodied experiences as a focal point in her immersive exhibitions, which makes sense because all senses of the body are involved in order for it to become "immersive".

As a choreographer and a dancer, the body and movement are always my starting point for understanding other aspects of life and art. Especially in improvisation, tuning into the body and "listening" to all these impulses that come from how the body is reacting to or interacting with the surroundings is essential. In a sense I would say both of our practices add to each other's. We had a lot of discussions and sketches to make sure we were on the same page.

Zen : Our common ground was the understanding and belief in embodied experiences and reflexivity in generating knowledge. This has informed all stages of our project and how we have individually worked through our art forms, to express and weld our artistic expressions into a common space - the exhibition.

Is there an increasing trend towards interdisciplinary art making? What role do you see interdisciplinary connections playing in society at large?

SueKi : I'm not sure if "trend" is the right word. I would also consider traditional art forms, and how many of them actually integrate many mediums together without labelling what it is. It is only later that the division or categorization in the arts became clearer and clearer. And perhaps now we're curious about how these artistic disciplines can come together again, how we can find new methods, and of course technology, technique, and ideas are continually evolving in each discipline so there will always be new ways of creation. I think it's important because interdisciplinary approaches can be more inclusive in terms of audience. The work becomes accessible when there are multiple dimensions of information from which you can draw. Having conversations and exchanges among various disciplines of art can only be an advantage to art as a whole - it is not that you need to include all mediums together at all times, but it certainly helps to "see" the bigger picture and play with more possibilities, and make a choice from there.

Zen : I think it is more like a natural progression than a trend. As mentioned in our earlier response, global issues such as environmental crises are multi-faceted. So we have no choice but to come together if we are dedicated to deepening our understanding and awareness. Hence for a project like ours which explores urban phenomenology, it is a necessity to seek different types of knowledge and disciplinary lenses, and more importantly, to engage everyone to reflect on them so that we can collectively think about what is truly a sustainable development and the kind of life/world we want to live in.

We have no choice but to come together if we are dedicated to deepening our understanding and awareness.

sustainable

End.

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About the author: Interested in philosophy, history, and sociology, Xinyi is an aspiring artist and filmmaker who weaves historical tidbits into her writing. A Hwa Chong Institution's Art Elective Program graduate, she won the 2024 Youth Film Program and participated in the Objectifs Young Photographer's Mentorship Program. Drawn to narratives that challenge convention, Xinyi explores queer identities and underrepresented histories, aiming to shed light on oft-overlooked perspectives through her work.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

The Embodied Image (Part 1)

Mon, 17 Mar 2025 03:33:12 GMT

THE EMBODIED IMAGE (Part 1)

This Singapore Art Week, artists have explored a multitude of interdisciplinary approaches to filmmaking

As soon as you’re past the familiar gates of the Objectifs Lower Gallery, you are teleported into a foreign landscape.

You enter a small, dimly lit room and brush past the veiled curtains forming a misty wall. The only artificial neon lights in view light your way through the room to an uncannily lifelike island that appears to be airlifted straight out of a plant conservatory. Despite being lit by mere LED strips, the spider plants and ferns bristle with life, perfectly nursed - and you can’t help but shiver at the thought of this vague human presence. Strangers from afar mutter unheard but familiar words, their faltering echoes aligning with the vacillating lights just right.

As an agoraphobic panic creeps up your chest, about to wrestle the consciousness out of you - snap! - you suddenly realise that you’re not trapped in outer space - you’ve just arrived at Phenomenology of Light and Rhythms of the Earth , a multidisciplinary exhibition by visual artist Zen Teh and dancer-choreographer SueKi Yee .

Zen and SueKi met by chance in Berlin, Germany, during Zen’s residency at Künstlerhaus Bethanien - initially a participant in Zen’s walking workshop held in Berlin, SueKi is now a long-term collaborator of Zen. Together, their synergy has left an unmistakable mark on their convening practices - Zen’s visual exploration into human activity in natural environments, and SueKi’s work as a choreographer and dancer. For them, interdisciplinary connections have become a common thread, guiding their workshops across Berlin, Phnom Penh, Singapore, and Bangkok as they seek to unearth perspectives we have yet to discover.

In POLAROTE , Zen and SueKi delve deeper into merging image and time-based medium with their pre-existing project, inviting an animator working remotely to add to the installation. Beneath layers of translucent curtains, animated strobes light up a dim space. As the light rays are suspended in space, filtering through the feathered curtains, they leave behind a hallucinogenic cast of artificiality and constructedness.

We are reminded, once again, that film is no more than moving light.

Two iPads are set next to real ferns and spider plants in the installation - upon closer examination, they flash with disparate photo-montages. At one moment, we see light rays shining through the treetops of an unidentifiable forest. At the next, vines creeping up a tightly-cropped concrete wall.

Soon, I come to learn that these photos are by-products of participatory workshops, which Zen and SueKi have held across each city they visit. During these public events, participants without any prior knowledge of their oeuvre are given prompts relating to light and urban space in each city, which they react to freely through photography and audio responses. Spanning three sites in every city - anywhere from Singapore’s Fort Canning to Bangkok’s Mekong River, their input is compiled and cumulatively assembled to form a comprehensive collage.

Hidden from plain sight in front of the iPads are motion and light sensors, responding to the varying visual imagery presented, and altering the temperature and intensity of the LED lights in the room instantaneously. As a result, we not only experience the film organically, but the visual matter completely shrouds our perception, altering our lived experiences entirely.

Singapore as a city is so… bright.

Where to find dark spaces in Singapore?

I don’t know where…

I actively avoid the dark.

Undoubtedly, Zen and SueKi’s collaborative work are evidence of the interdisciplinary potential of filmmaking. In Singapore, an increasing number of artists are working across their fields of expertise to bridge movement-images with an array of artistic mediums.

At the 9th edition of Light to Night, an ‘annual visual arts festival’ jointly organised by National Gallery Singapore and Singapore Art Week, time-based mediums coalesce with architectural delight. Known for its public light projections termed ‘Art Skins on Monuments’, the festival spotlights different visual artists each year, inviting them to craft titular time-based work that precisely match the arcs and curves of national monuments.

This year, National Gallery Singapore’s Rotunda Library and Archive’s dome ceiling transforms into a three-week home for Kapilan Naidu’s Kālacakra (A Clock For Progress) , an interactive installation tracking real-time data input from participants to mould a revolving collage of generated artworks spanning the dome ceiling.

Before entering the Rotunda, visitors are asked to scan a QR code, redirecting them to a web application . After responding to three questions, every visitor is assigned an image specific to their responses. Effects of mechanisation and computing are made ever more apparent - each collage features uniquely spliced segments calculated from the participant’s responses.

Which concepts hold the most meaning for you?

In which moment do you find the greatest meaning?

Where do you feel most inspired?

With each puzzle piece uniquely generated, participants are forced to look up at the revolving clock on the dome ceiling to find their assigned piece, as it is updated in real-time. In this work, cinema’s natural encouragement of collaboration is heightened further. Involving every passing participant in the sequencing of the final product, film invades the entire collective space of its viewers. By incorporating the elements of chance and the unexpected, no two moments are the same in this artwork. While one would traditionally expect the narrative of a film to have a beginning, middle, and end, the use of live updating disrupts this concept altogether - weaving together an incomplete narrative laden with suspense, aptly descriptive of Singapore’s uncertain national development.

Revolving images recalling national art identities are pieced together to form a randomised assemblage, projected from the sides of the dome.

Interdisciplinary approaches to film, from the frontier of technology, allow us to imagine the future trajectory of filmmaking and film-watching in our increasingly digitised world. On the flip side, others dive deep into the history of interdisciplinary filmmaking, closely scrutinising its origins and pioneers. Accordingly, they also remind us of the physicality of filmmaking in the past such is its ‘crafty’ character.

At Altered States: Experiments in Moving Image , interdisciplinary connections adopt a more concrete form as exhibiting artists closely scrutinise the potential connections between film and science. From decomposed film, to radioactive decay, to adhering washi tapes on films, artists across this exhibition at the ArtScience Museum each take deep strides towards advancing experimental filmmaking.

Circular aspect ratios seem to be a common thread at both museums - the black pupil at the peak of the dome ceiling, once representative of a void ad infinitum, is now inversed to be a window to the past. Inspired by optographic images of the early 20th century, Sapphire Goss’ Revenants: Optographic Animation is an amalgam of hand-scratched film presented in circular aspect ratio. Reminiscent of the pupil, the hallucinogenic video montage seemingly transports viewers into an alternate reality. As though seeing life through another person’s eyes, viewers are transported through a surreal, dreamlike dimension, as light rays reverberate across the screen.

Implying both life and death, Goss’ hauntingly metamorphic work inspires a sense of memento mori.

Once I treaded past the dark curtains barring each exhibit, I was met with a wall of ceramic plates, each presenting a uniquely foreign landscape, imbued with organic texture, geometric patterns, and liminal spaces. Moving up close, the protrusions and cavities grow apparent, hypnotising the viewer in their novelties. On the opposite wall, a projector lights up a large screen, its flashy, mesmerising variations undulating relentlessly. Tesselations of hexagonal shapes appear to gradually morph into naturalistic landscapes in the blink of an eye, the inverted colours of the flashing images distracting the viewer from these reifications.

Rectangular ceramic pieces made by the artist in collaboration with Pinch Ceramics Studio are displayed on the wall opposite the film. Their stillness invokes a sense of serenity amidst the flashing chaos of the film.

Reminding us of film’s interdisciplinary potential, this exhibition invigorates us with a new spirit to create and synergise the disparate and unconnected.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #168: DIDI

Mon, 17 Mar 2025 03:05:01 GMT

Film Review #168: DÌDI (弟弟)

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Post as: viviffy

Date: July 28, 2008, 5:23 PM

Last night, I almost dutch ovened myself, and my farts smell like flowers :)

If you grew up in the 90’s, Didi (2024) would’ve done quite a good job at encapsulating most of your experience as a blooming adolescent. Relics like MySpace, friendship bracelets, Motorola flip phones, bobbleheads, and cassette tapes have turned into fragments of the past within less than a decade.

Directed, written, and produced by Sean Wang, Didi is a semi-autobiographical dramedy that manages to carefully dissect several issues, whilst maintaining its main overarching theme of being a coming-of-age film. Chris Wang, played by Izaac Wang, is a Taiwanese-American 13-year-old boy who, like any other teenager, is navigating the hardships of just growing up . Similar to films such as the Oscar-winning Everything Everywhere All At Once (2022) by Daniel Scheinert and Daniel Kwan, and Minari (2020) by Lee Isaac Chung, it shines light on the trials and tribulations of what being a first-generation immigrant in a foreign country is like.

Chris is in the sheer awkward, “act-cool”, cringey , yet angsty phase that we all went through as a developing teenager. Struggling to tie down our self-identity, we would often imitate or mimic the attitudes of those we deemed cooler , such as our older siblings or older friends. Although we will not admit it upfront, we acknowledge that it was all a horrible attempt.

With that being said, Didi also has its moments where it just hits you like a truck . Maybe it was the way I understood the struggle Chris faces when trying to forge new friendships; maybe it was the way I deeply resonated with the tough-love relationship with his older sister; or maybe, it was the way it made me regret ever raising my voice at my parents who only wanted the best for me. It all just hits too close to home.

[MILD SPOILERS AHEAD. I BREAK DOWN HOW THE LIGHTING REFLECTS THEIR RELATIONSHIP. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!]

The car scene was a hard watch , not because it felt overly cliche or cheesy, but because it struck a chord in my heart—and it was all thanks to the rawness and tenderness that could perfectly, yet unsettlingly, describe a child and mother’s love for each other. The scene presented both characters’ perspectives in such a way that I could understand their emotions without fully siding with either one. Chris gets frustrated at his mother for not supporting him, while his mother criticises him for not caring about how others would negatively view him.

Sam Davis, the Director of Photography, does an excellent job at setting an appropriate lighting and colour tone, playing a vital role in highlighting moments of revelation or catharsis throughout the film.

The void between them here signals a growing divide, aptly reflecting their relationship for most of the movie. Despite the close physical proximity and traditional Asian understanding that “blood runs thicker than water”, the harsh shadow cast on the right-side of Chris’ face signifies that he’s finding it difficult to communicate with his mother, almost as if there’s an emotional barrier that he cannot penetrate.

While Asian parenting places heavy emphasis on values such as obedience, filial piety, and authority, Chris unintentionally overturns those said values. The warm yellow, orange, and brown tones are used to not only represent resentment and hostility, but also comfort. Families tend to see the “ugly” side of us more, especially when it comes to misunderstandings and conflicts. Deep down, they know a more raw version of us which our friends and colleagues may not see, and to me, that is the beauty of it all. With family, they offer both the tough and tender moments, creating a dynamic that cannot be easily forged.

Didi truly made me reflect on my personal relationship with my mother. The regret that comes with raising your voice at her, or going behind her back — it never fails to haunt me down the road. Sometimes, it's too late to take back the words or actions that caused the pain. After reaching a certain age, it became clear that the concerns and worries my mother has for me, stem from a place of pure love and care.

Maybe one day, when the time is right, I too will indulge in a burger and fries meal with my mother.

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About the author: A horror film junkie with journalistic grit.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #167: MOTHER!

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 12:36:00 GMT

Film Review #167: Mother!

To say this film shook me would be putting it far too gently — it left me emotionally mortified. I will have to give it to director Darren Aronofsky for bravely pushing cinematic and philosophical boundaries with Mother! (if I could self-insert– a masterpiece of literary art ). Despite the major uproar the film has caused, often being quoted as “one of the most divisive films”, it is one of the only few (psychological) horror films that continues to unravel in my mind until this day. It definitely does not evoke the same tense feeling you felt watching Hereditary (2018) or Midsommar (2019), but you would leave the theatre either disoriented, with your mind scattered all over the place, or wanting to puke from the sheer brutality.

Some film critics argue that this movie would not be able to stand alone as a plot-driven movie if you were not well-versed in environmentalism or biblical literalism — and that you would be very confused upon first watch. While I am not well-versed in either of those two, I still found this movie a very thought-provoking watch. Mother! after all, is an arthouse film. Yes, I did struggle to wrap my head around the underlying themes of surrealist cinema and magical realism, but I found myself enjoying and appreciating it way more after understanding the hidden motifs that Aronofsky meticulously plotted throughout the movie.

Mother! is a biblical allegory, but my favourite interpretation of the film (which has been confirmed by Aronofsky himself) is how humans are Mother Nature’s biggest threats–also referencing climate change. Mother (played by Jennifer Lawrence) symbolises Mother Nature, while she and Man (played by Javier Bardem) reside in a house representing planet Earth. They welcome waves of guests who show up unannounced until it hits a breaking point. The humans begin vandalising and destroying their house, showing their utter disregard and ignorance towards Mother’s and Man’s warm hospitality. The film underscores the overarching concept of reincarnation, just like how Mother Nature or God can create life, they too can take it.

Matthew Libatique, the Director of Photography, draws viewers into the film through cinematography, executed with subtle genius. If you felt like you were sucked into the whole pandemonium that Mother experienced, it was likely due to the amount of centred-frame single shots, which constantly adjusted to either shoot her from the back, or the front. The immersive experience is enhanced even more since they are also shot at eye-level in a hand-held fashion.

Viewers are almost “deceived”, as the initial cool and earthy tones of the film seem to establish a peaceful and serene atmosphere, before steeply transitioning to more rich and soul-stirring hues of red, brown, and orange.

Halfway into the film, I was left almost gasping for air from the impending sense of helplessness I felt from Lawrence’s remarkable performance. I loved how you could clearly observe her manic state of mind as she slowly, yet inevitably descends into a boiling resentment towards everyone around her.

All in all, I loved this movie. It leaves you confused for all the necessary reasons. Aronofsky did an excellent job at dissecting profound issues in a fashion that only he can emulate; so much so that the baby surf scene continues to plague my mind at 9:27 in the morning when I am eating breakfast.

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About the author: A horror film junkie with journalistic grit.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Different Language, Same Tongue: A Conversation with Lim Yen and her film Exits / Entrances

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 03:15:26 GMT

Different Language, Same Tongue:
A Conversation with Lim Yen and her film Exits / Entrances
(SYFF)

Some words are spoken differently in different worlds, yet understood by the same tongue.

It is perhaps this realisation of a common humanity that allowed the main character, played by film editor Lim Yen, to so eloquently seep into the vulnerable spaces that the homestay owners held for the filmmaker.

Exits / Entrances is a film laden with doors that move viewers through portals of Yucatán’s sleepy coastal town. Yen, too, steps into uncharted territory, marking a new chapter in her career with a unique documentarian look into the interiority of their culture through an outsider’s eyes.

A sparse eleven minutes is sufficient to immerse us in Yen’s intimate and heartfelt pockets of interactions, particularly with a family whose openness surprises not just us, but the filmmaker too.

The film premiered in the Singapore Youth Film Festival 2024 and bagged home a Special Mention Award with three other nominations for Editing, Directing, and Best Short.

I caught up with Yen to unravel her process in the making of this film.

Hao: This film was made in participation with Playlab Films, under the mentorship of Apitchatpong Weerasethakul. You've mentioned that the lab offered a fundamentally different approach than traditional filmmaking labs, could you elaborate more on how this difference shaped the outcome of your film?

Yen: First off, the lab mantra was how not to make a film. You're here with Apitchatpong, a renowned filmmaker, but he's telling you how you cannot do this traditionally.

What drew me in was his intention to experience life as a person first, connect with people, and see what transpires from there. I connected with it because I wanted to grow as a person and find out more about myself and what inspires me.

And because I've been editing professionally for close to 10 years, by stepping out of this into making films, I feel I want to see life through a more authentic lens.

It isn’t really about doing the work anymore, but more about sensing what life has for me and seeing what I can make of it.

Hao: In your film, there is a conscious effort to capture the lived realities of the Yucatán's livelihoods without the 'hand of God' which fictional narratives often employ. By playing as yourself in the piece, it also refuses traditional documentarian conventions. How did you arrive at this way of shooting?

Yen: Perhaps I wanted to memorise these moments as best as I could without making them feel uncomfortable. And this was something I struggled with because the moment I took out my camera they started to be shy. So then I tried to see, how about we'll both be in it together so it's less awkward for them?

I never really wanted to be in the film. I suppose I was directing them in the conversations that we were having like this could go this way, whereas this could go that way.

And this was done very casually because we were having a conversation together while we were in their home, just drinking and having fun. I was recording everything, hoping I could use these in some way and figure it out later.

They are akin to pieces of memories that I collect, such that I will collect all that I can and then figure out the puzzle later.

Hao: Your film embodies an undeniable imprint of authenticity, which is perhaps achieved by its stripped-back, naturalistic approach. How important is it for you as a filmmaker to embody that sensitivity to be honest, whether across your editing career or when you approach your way of making?

Yen: Personally, I enjoy films that feature non-actors. One subgenre I particularly love is Mumblecore.

If I were to go into narrative filmmaking, that would be the method I would employ because I like to throw actors into a situation without a script and see what they can make out of it.

With works that I edit also, I try to look for the most naturalistic performances. Sometimes I like to pick the parts where they look like they are not acting at all. If they are just being themselves or being what the character is supposed to be, I like to use those parts as much as possible.

Hao: Architecture and lived spaces comprise a significant screentime in Exits / Entrances . In what ways do these spaces inform the relationship between the city and its citizens?

Yen: I was going with this idea of having frames within a frame. I came across half-constructed houses with people residing and even having fun, entering and exiting.

Entering these spaces made me feel like I was intruding into their safe space but they are also so welcoming in that fact. They just go on, finding things that work within their means and then continue living.

This mantra was something I found so eye-opening and refreshing to have experienced there.

Hao: Are there any parting words you would like to leave the readers, perhaps about the making of your film?

Yen: In filmmaking, there doesn't have to be so many rules to it.

I think the moment you let your guard down and not let these rules take over you, you can be much more creative in making art that inspires you. As I tell myself this, I'm also trying to inculcate this belief more often in my daily practice.

By allowing the rhythm of lived life to take precedence over a preordained arc, Exits / Entrances transcends the heightened realities of constructed narratives to present a grounded love letter to the residents of Yucatán in Mexico.

[MARCH 2025] A HAPPY UPDATE: Exits / Entrances” also earned the Honorary Mention at Cine Pobre Film Fest 2024. The film also screened in Vancouver on March 6 as part of Vivo Media Arts: Novel Narratives programmes.

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About the author: Zheng Hao is an emerging media arts practitioner whose evolving practice explores the fringes that bisect the human and nonhuman worlds.

His interest lies in making visible policies that tame, dictate and restrain the livelihoods of natural spaces, challenging notions that define what constitutes ‘wilderness’ in Singapore.

His works are often informed by site-specific responses, working across video, photography and performance to elucidate the invisible voices nestled within the nonhuman world.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Somewhere Beyond the Rainbow: From Southeast Asia to Hollywood

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 02:41:31 GMT

Somewhere Beyond the Rainbow:

From Southeast Asia to Hollywood—why black and white is the Golden Age

When one thinks of film, among the first things that come up might be colour. Film is a visual medium and colour is a striking element appreciated by hardcore cinephiles and casual audiences alike, cultivating the aesthetic of a cinematic landscape in its mise en scene, or visual composition. From the ever-beloved saturation of technicolour classic The Wizard of Oz (1939) to its modern counterpart Wicked (2024), colour in film has gone through many stages of evolution, yet its earliest form on the silver screen is largely overlooked and underappreciated. Black and white is a form of colour within its absence, and the black and white era made its place in the Golden Age of Cinema up until the late 1960s .

Above: The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Below: Wicked (2024)

The Golden Age was a period of innovation, marked by advancements in sound and colour techniques. However, black and white remained the medium of choice for everyday film production and films of cost-conscious producers like Roger Corman’s early work in the 1950s . Many things distinguish black and white film, apart from its timeless visual aesthetic. For one, the desaturation refocuses the viewer’s attention to other elements of the image, allowing the subject to be centric , and giving a frame depth or contrast in a way that elicits nostalgia or poignance. The medium and colour, or lack thereof, also allowed for greater technical freedom and creativity for filmmakers. As observed in a conversation with filmmaker Jonathan Miller ( Alice In Wonderland ), the very act of creating black and white film transmutes our colourised reality. With this canvas, filmmakers could reinterpret their surroundings and the world within their viewfinder.

Unfortunately, after the introduction of colour techniques and the advent of colour television as a day-to-day medium, producers’ and audiences’ demands shifted to colour production as the new standard, wiping out black-and-white cinematography. The people yearn for colour. In modern media, the same sentiment reigns; our fluorescent screens literally oversaturated with the constant stream of content. Typically, young people nowadays share the conviction that black and white films seem old, boring, or pretentious. Some relate the noir aesthetic to being arthouse, but contemporary black and white cinema seeks to prove they can be very accessible stories. However, with little demand for these films, the market continues to reject this format and distributors hesitate to purchase these films. Many of the few recent black and white films produced have remained unsold due to the presumption of limited appeal, like Fremont (2023) starring Jeremy Allen White; denied on the distribution front solely due to “ the black and white problem ”. This is an example of the unfounded prejudice towards colouring in cinema amongst the contemporary viewership market, but if more people gave it a try, they just might like it. Call it old fashioned, but black and white films evoke technicolor emotion. They made their mark as the Golden Age for good reason.

Hollywood’s rise to a cinematic powerhouse, earning itself the benchmark of the Golden Age of Hollywood, was jump-started by the Great Depression. The period saw a huge influx of films produced, bringing in a steady stream of creative narrative voices and directions. Some iconic ones, like Casablanca (1942) by Michael Curtiz, Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) and 12 Angry Men (1957) by Sidney Lumet. During this period also emerged the pioneers that revolutionised modern cinema as we know it, from the “Master of Suspense” Alfred Hitchcock to Ernst Lubitsch who earned his namesake of the “Lubitsch Touch”.

Above: Casablanca (1942)
Below: The Shop Around The Corner (1942)

One of my personal favourites is Lubitsch’s The Shop Around The Corner (1942), which has held a spot on my Letterboxd top 4 favourites ( @viciejade ) list for a long time. The Shop Around The Corner , which later inspired the popular romcom You’ve Got Mail (1998), is a complex but sugar-filled enemies-to-lovers trope—two employees at a gift shop bicker endlessly but unknowingly fall in love with each other through the post as they send each other anonymous pen pal letters. The depth of the cinematography within that high contrast black and white mise en scene overlaid on the characteristic transatlantic accent and sophisticated manner of speech; the filmmaking adds a touch of gentleness to the romance. It’s a sweeping love, but it envelopes the emotions of those who witness it, something unique to the flair of the time.

While the Golden Age of Hollywood is arguably underappreciated, inarguably overlooked is our own Golden Age, in Southeast Asia. The periods overlap, being from the late 1940s to the early 1970s in Singapore. While our country was budding, the film scene was blossoming , reigned by two major film empires, Cathay Organisation and Shaw Brothers, producing hundreds of films largely in the Malay language. Singaporean/Southeast Asian cinema was pioneered most famously by silver screen legend P. Ramlee, who was an actor, filmmaker and musician. His body of work across genres includes films like Penarak Becha (1955) where a common trishaw driver falls in love with a wealthy heiress, Antara Dua Darjat (1960) where similarly a rich woman develops affections for a poor but talented pianist. His films tackle the prevalent class struggle, confronting the idiosyncrasies of Singaporean life as a common man, and offer both entertainment and biting commentary of the time that retains its value to this day.

Above: Penarak Becha (1955)

Below: Antara Dua Darjat (1960)

Somewhere beyond the rainbow of fluorescent screens is an oasis of black and white, a time capsule, a break from our times. On today’s screens, given the abundance of resources to make the most splendidly vibrant films, contemporary filmmakers sparsely reach for the less accessible and more expensive black and white film stock, save for a few gems like the heavily relevant Pleasantville (1988) and more recently Oppenheimer (2023). Monochromatic cinema has been widely overlooked on the cinematic colour spectrum, leading to a harrowing lack of preservation and only the odd restoration. Some such restorations are done in-house and screened at our very own Asian Film Archive , where there are regular screenings of restored films from Southeast Asia and beyond. If you’d like the rare chance to catch a P. Ramlee film on the big screen, Wisma Geylang Serai is also organising a series of screenings of some P. Ramlee classics from 10th to 27th March !

With more interest and support, more can be done to bring these films and this colour-genre back to life. There is little that is inaccessible if you seek it out—keep an eye out for black and white gems at local screenings, on your preferred streaming services or other sources like YouTube and Internet Archive, and add a little colour to your viewing horizon.

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About the author: Victoria Khine is a fresh graduate from Film and Literary Arts at School of the Arts, Singapore. She loves watching and making films, and she writes from the heart.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Betwixt and Between: Liminality and recurrence in postcolonial Singapore (SYFF)

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 02:11:43 GMT

Betwixt and Between:

Liminality and recurrence in postcolonial Singapore
(SYFF)

For a country constantly under construction – be it in physical buildings, national identities, or cultural values – liminality is an all too familiar concept for Singapore; The demolition of old buildings is akin to our abandonment of outdated tradition. Our ritual cycles of breaking apart and moulding the new are embodied in the 8 NYFA-award winning films featured in “Betwixt and Between”, screened at Nightflix Somerset on 5 October, 2024.

“Can I stay with you, mama?”

In Adam directed by Shoki Lin , a small mistake burgeons into an act of rebellion. The titular character, a young boy named Adam, literally swings across two diametrically opposed states, never truly settling down or finding his place.

In Adam’s view, the quotidian HDB corridors transform into a playground, where he can express himself through play, a behaviour otherwise restricted in his home. Everyday objects become a gateway of escapism; a can of milk powder transmutates into the wheel of a Land Rover – a way for Adam to detach from the mental confines of his strict household.

Crucially, spatial tensions underline his discomfort around parental figures. His family home almost squeezes him out of frame. Moments of fighting and shouting are interspersed with stretches of quiet reflection in the shower, the sound of dripping water a melancholic rhythm that engulfs Adam’s world.

Adam’s tense discomfort is evident no matter where he goes, even in the comfort of his neighbour, whom he calls “Mama”. His presence feels foreign, even detached in “Mama”’s apartment — the silence between them as she cuts watermelon for him is a metaphor for the invisible barrier dividing them, as he feels detached even in the arms of his found family.

Like many troubled youths, Adam seeks solace in the in-between: navigating the experiences of familial punishment, assuming adult responsibilities, and the feeling of being a stranger in your own home. Having been a castaway his whole life, he seeks to escape from the liminal, yet inevitably returns to it time and time again when in need of solace. From his favourite pastime being playing with his toy car in the HDB corridor, to the shedding of old identities in the hair salon with “Mama”, to racing through the void deck, these truly Singaporean sites function as a safe space for experimentation for Adam, as he wades through uncertain familial ties.

“What does it mean to be born? We all die anyway.”

In contrast, Sexy Sushi , directed by Calleen Koh and Amanda Teo , takes a surreal, absurdly satirical approach to liminality, transporting us into a pastel dreamscape, chronicling the fictional lives of sushi ingredients. In a universe where the relationship between consumer and consumed are inversed, sushi ingredients slowly gain sentience, exploring the meaning of life itself.

A film that reflects the modern consumerist culture, Sexy Sushi depicts conveyor belts conveniently and endlessly rotating a whole buffet of food, whose stories before and after that moment of consumption are just as conveniently forgotten. What began as a bombastic, retro music video soon descends into existential horror. Flashy neon signs are no longer a symbol of the bustling underworld but consume the entire universe itself. In a flurry, we are swept to what the film depicts as the origin of life - rice paddies in Japan, as the characters question if the whole purpose of their life is just for the sake of consumption.

“I can’t eat anymore.”

If food is a humorous metaphor in Sexy Sushi, The Sea Between Us , directed by Yuga J Vardhan uses food as a more solemn reminder of cultural disparities. At the dinner table with her Indian host family, a young Chinese girl’s complaints about the food served is met with uncomfortable silence and frustration.

As two girls navigate the uncertainty of their home and future during a COVID-19 lockdown, their unstable domestic lives run parallel to the uncertain state of the world. Wading through the unknown becomes a bridge for them to connect with their host family as they seek to navigate the future hand in hand.

While times and people are constantly changing, the film is a reminder that we share more similarities with one another than we may realise.

“It was like I went back in time… Stopped where I left.”

What does it mean to be ‘Singaporean’? Is it dining at hawker centers, speaking Singlish, waving the national flag, or a title on an identity card?

In I wanna be where you are , directed by Jovontae Simon Kusuma , the concept of national belonging is stripped down to its rawest components. A melancholic tune plays as we drift through moments in time. Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie plays softly in the background as reversed video loops suspend us in the space-time continuum. Interviewing migrants in Singapore of all occupations and backgrounds, the documentary wrestles with their complex emotions surrounding national identity. Though everyone seems to express their thoughts differently – some through anger, others through humour – in different languages, even, their innermost thoughts overwhelmingly overlap one another’s, marking their shared vulnerability.

The story is expertly conveyed through isolated shots that repeat in a ping-pong loop, with a stark white border further framing each shot, enclosing the subjects. This technique strips them of their contextual surroundings, enhancing the sense of displacement and emphasising the out-of-place feeling experienced by the immigrant subjects.

“‘Are you looking forward to anything in your life?’ ‘Eating this McSpicy.’”

Picture this: A deserted playground. Sounds of construction. Traffic lights shuttle between red, orange, green, then red again. On an evening walk, two friends share a melancholy conversation, an existentialist reflection on memory and life.

With its whimsical, cynical fantasies of escaping Singapore, You Idiot , directed by Kris Ong is a treat for anyone in a liminal headspace. It paints an eerily familiar feeling for the modern Singaporean, who juggles faraway dreams and unrealistic ambitions with pragmatic everyday life. For the two friends, life in Singapore has become an endless, meaningless rush, with everyone always having somewhere to be, something to do — life feels packed to the brim, yet fleeting. In their yearning for meaning, the pair of friends brisk-walk through their neighborhood in twilight, traveling through deserted sidewalks and seemingly abandoned houses.

In their search for meaning, the friends assemble a band, learning to play ‘Becoming Bossa Nova’. The lyrics of the song ‘I’ve never once stopped’ mirror their personal struggles.

“I took a picture.”

SMRT Piece , directed by Charlotte Hong , takes us on an unexpected joyride as we encroach upon a casual, unstaged conversation between two friends taking place in a car. Unlike a traditional documentary, the film is arranged in an almost disparate manner, begging the viewers to play a game of connect-the-dots.

Vlogs, sketchbook spreads, and static shots are thoughtfully juxtaposed against each other, sometimes even forming a triptych – the spontaneity and fleetingness of the visual arrangements incurring notions of travel, movement, and flux.

Soon, we come to learn that the narrator is an artist who sketches live, often on modes of public transport - buses and MRT trains, describing the varied reactions of the people whom she has drawn, or has watched her draw. A tender, somber reflection on the patterns of everyday life, this film makes one question their own habits whenever occupying these transitional spaces.

“So how. Should I turn back?”

SIN-SFO , directed by Leon Cheo , puts a direction to loss, transforming an abstract concept into vividly physical reality. We follow a Singaporean-American couple on their apprehensive journey as they seek to renounce their Singaporean citizenship.

Letting go of one’s past identity is hard, especially if it’s one that’s been reinforced your whole life. In the film, anxiety of destroying one’s past identity is repeatedly emphasised, with the main characters forgetting to bring things, setting cooling off periods, and stressing over the cashier’s check — echoing one’s inability to predict the uncertain in liminal spaces.

[Spoiler Warning for this short film in the following paragraph. Skip it if you’d like to watch the film first!]

But it all builds up to nothing. At the cold, clinical, and unfeeling immigration office, the process feels almost too quick to bear, as the couple is escorted through administrative office after office before their ‘Singaporean’ identity is terminated in one swift signature. Although they now call themselves ‘American’ citizens, their identity remains in flux, creating a uniquely challenging paradox to navigate.

In Dirty Laundry , directed by Kyaw Shoon Le Yee , underwear becomes a metaphor for breaking free from gender norms. In the main character’s traditional Burmese household, female undergarments are considered sinful and must be kept hidden from public view. While hanging and washing clothes, she is repeatedly reprimanded for ‘wrongfully’ airing her undergarments alongside other garments, and this deepens her sense of injustice. As traditions are reinforced through the scoldings of her conservative parents, she begins to question the ritualisation of tradition, and the rite of passage to adulthood she is experiencing herself.

Clothing serves as a vital form of self-expression for the main character, marking the boundary between her inner self and the outside world. Forced by her conservative father to dress modestly and conceal her more provocative outfits in public, she struggles to balance her desire to escape outdated family traditions with her longing for personal expression and modernity — we watch as she fervently wipes off a night of eyeliner and lipstick in a public toilet, with an intensity suitable for the dilemma she is grappling with.

Her personal battles with this lifelong struggle runs parallel to the film’s use of cliffhanger and foreshadowing, where viewers are led into a space where everything becomes unexpected as we follow her journey.

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Betwixt and Between is a rich tapestry of stories that showcases the tension of navigating identity, cultural expectations, and the liminal spaces between them. These films, each in their unique ways, invite us to reflect on the cyclical nature of life in Singapore, where rituals are our way of coping with the process of becoming. I invite you to envision these narratives with the characters, experiencing their journey of self-discovery and transformation.

Learn more about the featured filmmakers and watch their works here:

Shoki Lin

Calleen Koh

Yuga J Vardhan

Jovontae Simon Kusuma

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #166: Unlearning, Relearning (SYFF)

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 01:39:03 GMT

Finding the Intersection between Queerness and Religion:
Unlearning, Relearning (SYFF)

It's always special when you watch a film that cuts right to your heart. That was an experience I had with Unlearning, Relearning (2023), a selection from the inaugural Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF). The short documentary interviews three queer individuals who speak about their experiences growing up in christian environments. Centering around the intersection between religion and queerness, watching it for the first time really hit home. I had the pleasure of speaking to the film's director, Wayne Lim, about the process of making the film and what it meant to him.

The birth of the film began during an exchange semester in Austin, Texas. There, Wayne attended a class named, 'Death and Documentary'. "We all had to make documentaries centered on death in whatever way we wanted to interpret the word," he explained. But that was just the external prompt. "At the same time, I had been trying to figure out my identity and my beliefs for quite a while, so I thought it was a good opportunity to use a project to try and find some answers by talking to people around me who were also questioning their beliefs." That was the internal prompt, which clearly comes through during the film.

With that, work began on the film. Wayne put out a call to his friends, looking to talk to people who grew up religious, but didn't believe in it anymore, people who strayed from religion after feeling strongly compelled by it, or even people who were just confused, but still kept religion somewhere in the back of their minds. The initially explored range was broader than simply the Christian faith. "I actually didn't limit it to any religion or any belief at first. But as I cut it together with the time constraints and limits that I had, I arrived at this more focused tension between the Christian faith and queerness."

I was raised to never really consider an intersection between queerness and religion to be a possibility; they always had to be at war with each other in some way or another. Watching this shattered that belief and built up one that was more hopeful, which is akin to the film's very title. I asked Wayne how he found that very core of the film.

"It started with just me having been lost when it came to religion for quite a while, and therefore asking many ‘why’ questions. Why do people walk away from religion? And how do people who walk away from religion reconcile this – do they still fear the afterlife? And if their fears stem from a sense of a certain consequence from what their religion teaches, then why isn't that fear enough to bring them back to their religion? That obviously stemmed from a bit of my own experience and my own questions."

The last sentence brought up the powerful way the film tapped into the interpersonal experience of queer individuals everywhere who were raised or had spent much time in a religious environment. The questions posed rang true to myself, which deepened my connection to the film.

All of this leads to a frustrating truth: the possibility for conversation surrounding this subject is, unfortunately, suppressed. During the making of the film, Wayne had concerns that the film would not even make it to a Singaporean audience, with even a potential ban looming over the film's local fate.

Fortunately, the Short Circuit Film Festival came back that year, allowing the film to receive a local platform, but of course there were complications that came along. "Just one day before the screening, I saw the R21 rating." The surreal experience of seeing the film receive the severest age rating could not leave him. "But by the time we got to SYFF, it had really settled in for me. When the film screened at the Objectifs FreshTake! programme, I told the audience, 'Yes, it's about this intersection, but I think I did it in the least confrontational way I could have. I literally drew caterpillars!' It is sad, I guess, but it's something that I was sort of resigned to, like I knew it would happen."

During the interview, Wayne said something that has only begun to stand out to me as I write this. "Filmmaking can be a research method; I could throw a research question to the people around me to try and get my answers through their experiences as well. At that point in time, I still couldn't fully articulate my beliefs and what I felt my identity was. But synthesising these voices created an end product that still somehow included my own assertions, just with me being the filmmaker who pieced all of them together."

As this article is being written, I'm beginning to realise that a similar effect is happening to me right now. Through the voice of Wayne, and the three subjects of his documentary, I am now able to express a part of myself that I cannot exactly put to words. That is one of the most meaningful revelations for the both of us, through the film and this piece on it, that there is a power to reach out to people; to express ourselves, through the voices of others. It brings us all together, which is something that Unlearning, Relearning has definitely done.

The film can be found on Wayne's website: www.waynelimtl.com

Find Wayne on Instagram: @waaaaayne_

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About the author: Amadeus is a filmmaker who has loved cinema as far back as he could remember. Most of his time is spent in theatres, otherwise he is writing about the films playing in them.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #165: WORLDS APART

Sat, 22 Feb 2025 04:33:43 GMT

Worlds Apart , Yet Never Apart

—A Review of Worlds Apart (2024)

影片《异国日记》观后感

The passing of her parents forces Asa Takumi (Ikoi Hayase), fresh out of junior high school, into the home of her aunt, Makio Kodai (Yui Aragaki), a shy 35-year-old novelist. Two women, both alone but unprepared, now find themselves bound by circumstance, learning to navigate a life together.

Based on the manga series “Ikoku Nikki” by Tomoko Yamashita, Worlds Apart even in its title speaks not only of the divide between the living and the dead, but also of the quiet distances that exist between people, including those who share the same roof. In its unhurried storytelling, the film traces the emotional landscapes of women at different stages of life—growth and transformation, solitude and companionship, farewells and rebirth.

Asa, standing at the fragile threshold of adolescence, is acutely perceptive yet deeply uncertain. She fears loss but craves belonging. She longs for independence but yearns for understanding. A shift in a friend’s demeanor can unsettle her, a passing remark from an elder can weigh on her mind, and even the subtlest change in scent can evoke a sense of unease.

But growth is not exclusive to youth. Adulthood, too, is filled with uncertainties. Makio, a woman who has built her life around solitude, finds herself suddenly responsible for a teenager. She struggles with closeness, hesitant and awkward in the face of Asa’s unspoken needs. She is not the nurturing figure society might expect, nor is she someone who has fully made peace with her own past. And yet, through small moments, reluctant conversations, and the quiet support of friends, she gradually learns to embrace a different kind of tenderness.

Director Natsuki Seta inherits the legacy of Japan’s "quiet cinema", a tradition woven through the works of Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story , Hirokazu Kore-eda's Still Walking , and Shunji Iwai’s Love Letter . She does not rely on conventional narrative arcs or dramatic peaks Instead, she allows emotion to emerge through subtle, deliberate details. This perspective makes the storytelling feel personal and familiar—as if these characters could be people we have known, or perhaps even reflections of ourselves.

Yui Aragaki’s portrayal of Makio is an exercise in quiet depth. She appears distant, even cold, but her silences carry weight, her glances hint at an emotional landscape she struggles to articulate. Meanwhile, Ikoi Hayase’s Asa is the embodiment of adolescent vulnerability and quiet defiance. Their relationship doesn’t unfold through fierce confrontations but rather through quiet, unspoken shifts. Every glance, every change in tone, and even the fleeting illusions reveal the undercurrents of their emotions—subtle, yet deeply felt.

It not only made me think about cinematography, editing choices, or storytelling techniques, but also drew me back into my own memories—of friendships that faded, of family ties that evolved over time, of moments left unspoken between loved ones. Perhaps this is what the director intended: invite audiences, especially women, to recognise a part of themselves in the story

Most of us, at some point, have felt the quiet ache of distance—whether from family, from friends, or from the world itself. But in that space of separation, some emotions take root, some connections quietly mend, and some wounds, over time, cease to hurt. And maybe, in the end, that is enough.

父母意外离世，让初中毕业的田汲朝（早濑憩饰）来到自己的阿姨，职业小说家的高代槙生（新垣结衣饰）家中，从此，两个孤独的毫无心理准备的女性需要一起生活。

改编自山下知子的同名漫画的电影《异国日记》，“Worlds Apart”，分割的不只是生者与逝者，也是人与人之间存在的亲疏关系。在平淡的叙事中，让我看到了女性在不同人生阶段的情感轨迹——成长与蜕变、孤独与陪伴、告别与重生。

青春期的Asa，脆弱又敏感。害怕失去，又渴望归属；想要独立，又希望被理解。

会因朋友的冷淡而患得患失，会因长辈的话深受触动，甚至连气味变化，都能察觉出某种情绪的异样。

但成长，并非只属于青春期。成年人的世界更复杂，充满迷茫与未解之问。Makio，一个习惯独处，害怕亲密关系的女人。她不擅长表达关心，面对Asa，她更多的是逃避和迟疑。她甚至连自己的人生都未必理清。但在相处中，以及朋友的帮助下，她也逐渐学会接纳另一种温柔。

濑田夏树的导演风格，继承了很多日本影片的“生活流”美学。不像许多影片那样依赖戏剧冲突，而是从女性视角，通过细节塑造角色情感，给人一种更为贴近真实的感觉。在如同呼吸般流淌的日常里，情感的变化都藏在了微妙的细节中。偶尔的不合拍，也构成了最真实的情感连接。

Makio看似冷漠，实则隐忍，眼神中藏着许多未曾言说的情绪。而Asa则完美展现了少女的敏感与勇敢。两人并未以激烈的冲突展现关系变化，她们内心的起伏在每一个眼神、语气，和时而会产生的幻觉中，自然流露。

这部电影带给我的是一种温柔的触动，让我想起小津安二郎的《东京物语》，是枝裕和的《步履不停》，以及岩井俊二的《情书》。也是因为这样的节奏，给了我更多思考空间。思考的不仅仅是这电影的拍摄剪辑技巧与故事讲述方式，而是让我不自觉地回想起自己的青春期与朋友之间的友情，代际之间的相处与生活点滴。我想，这或许是导演希望给到观众，特别是女性观众的体验，由此产生共情。

其实，我们中的很多人都曾感受过与世界，与亲人的分离，但总有一些情愫，在不经意间生长，治愈伤痕，获得力量，终将释然。

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Worlds Apart had its Singapore Premiere at SFS Showcase #41 on 15 February 2025. The second screening is open to public as an SFS Special Presentation, in collaboration with The Projector.

Get your tickets here: https://theprojector.sg/films-and-events/worlds-apart/

SFS Members are entitled to a discount code. Join our membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Film Review #164: HER STORY

Sat, 15 Feb 2025 03:41:51 GMT

Her Story (2024): The new revolution of China's female narrative

What defines a woman in our society? Is it her age, status, or role in this world? What does it mean to be female? While feminist narratives and directors are increasingly making their mark in Western cinema with empowering stories like Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird (2017) and Theodore Melfi’s Hidden Figures (2016), as well as Coralie Fargeat’s sensational The Substance (2024), female-centered narratives in Chinese cinema are only just beginning to emerge. Dubbed China's version of Barbie (2024), Her Story sees rising female director Shao Yihui deliver a refreshing take on portraying female empowerment on screen.

Released in November 2024 in China, Her Story has resonated with a growing wave of female cinema-goers, fueling the ongoing awakening of feminist consciousness in Chinese society. Following Jia Ling’s directorial debut, YOLO , earlier in 2024, the demand for female-driven stories reached new heights. Original scripts like Yin Lichuan’s Like a Rolling Stone (2024) further added to the momentum, enriching China’s traditionally more limited but increasingly vibrant collection of feminist films, joining earlier works like Teng Congcong’s Send Me to the Clouds (2019), or even Zhang Yimou’s Raise the Red Lantern (1991).

At its core, Her Story revolves around Tie Mei (铁梅, which translates literally into “iron plum”, played by Golden Rooster Award winner Song Jia), a headstrong and independent single mother, and her daughter, Moli (茉莉, “jasmine”, portrayed by eleven-year-old Zeng Mumei). As they settle into their new home in Shanghai, they befriend their young neighbor Xiao Ye (小叶, “little leaf”, played by the charismatic Elaine Zhong). Together, these three women navigate life, relationships, and societal expectations in a poignant exploration of what it means to be female in modern China.

Despite its simple premise, the film managed to rapidly climb the Chinese box-office to become the biggest blockbuster of December, driven by fierce support from female audiences who championed its themes across Chinese social media. This overwhelming reception speaks to the film’s role as a resonant mouthpiece for the voices of Chinese women seeking to challenge and redefine societal norms.

From the outset, Her Story defies stereotypes. Tie Mei shatters the conventional portrayal of single mothers in Chinese cinema, where such characters are often depicted as struggling and sacrificial. Instead, Tie Mei is financially independent and successfully balances a demanding career with raising her nine-year-old daughter to be confident, virtuous, and self-assured. Her strength, determination, and decisiveness present audiences with a woman who thrives not in spite of her circumstances but because of her own unwavering resolve.

Such fresh representation is not just present in Tie Mei but in all of the film’s female protagonists. In a scene where Moli, trying out a drum set for the first time, asks how girls are supposed to drum, Xiao Ye responds with a simple but powerful line: “Girls drum however you drum” (你怎么打女孩就怎么打). This welcoming sentiment of accepting girls as they are without imposed standards carries throughout the film as our protagonists confront and dismantle the many illogical struggles females face every day.

In one restaurant scene, Moli casually reminds Xiao Ye of her upcoming menstrual cycle in front of her male bandmates. When Xiao Ye tells her such topics shouldn’t be discussed publicly, Moli boldly points out a truth that many of us seem to have overlooked––that menstruation is a natural process experienced by half the world’s population and that it should not be a source of shame. Watching this scene felt like uncovering a long-buried part of my own womanhood. Menstrual taboo has been so deeply ingrained in women’s lives that Moli’s candid perspective feels like a much-needed wake-up call, exposing the societal attitudes that have long enforced this silence.

This is just one of the many instances where Her Story critiques and deconstructs the deeply ingrained norms we have come to accept. Through its characters, the film reflects the rise of a new generation of empowered women unafraid to question the status quo and calls for a broader feminist awakening in contemporary society.

What sets Her Story apart is its nuanced depiction of women as complex individuals; it moves beyond the repetitive stereotypes of women in films and starts presenting them as just people . Our protagonists are not perfect; they are flawed and often criticised in the film. As a single parent balancing her career and motherhood, Tie Mei also has her own desires for romantic connection. Xiao Ye, seemingly an alcoholic with a dependency on male validation, is actually battling past traumas from her childhood. And Moli, who spends the duration of the film looking for a hobby, ultimately finds freedom in simply being herself.

Her Story asserts that female characters in films, and by extension women in real life, do not and should not revolve around men. The film’s multidimensional representation of women critiques the traditional media portrayal of female archetypes in Chinese cinema where, typically, female characters are constrained to rigid stereotypes—the damsel in distress, the sexy sidekick, the love interest, or the gold digger—with no character development or individual narratives beyond serving as a plot device for male leads.

In this female-led narrative, the script is boldly flipped, shifting men from the spotlight into the shadows. Male characters in Her Story do not have names; instead, their roles are reduced to labels like "ex-husband," "drummer," or simply just their surnames like Xiao Hu, reflecting how superficial portrayals typically reserved for women feel when reversed.

Despite the rise of more progressive productions featuring ‘strong female characters’ in response to growing calls for female-empowered films, these characters are often depicted as women adopting traditionally masculine traits and rejecting their femininity to embody strength through ruthlessness and aggression. While this diversification is a step forward, such portrayals still confine females to specific definitions that inadvertently reinforce the notion that femininity must be abandoned for success.

Some critics have accused the film of villainising men, but this interpretation misses the mark. Instead, Her Story seeks to cultivate space for a balanced dialogue between both genders. In the film, the ex-husband struggles with the pressures of being a stay-at-home dad in a society that expects men to be breadwinners, leading to him eventually initiating the divorce with Tie Mei. Similar to the Kens in Barbie (2024), the film suggests that both genders face pressure under the patriarchal system to fit into rigid moulds: men to succeed professionally, and women to excel domestically. Shao skillfully makes use of male characters like the ex-husband to bridge the gap between conflicting standpoints and invite men into the feminist discussion.

As the writer and director of Her Story , Shao demonstrates masterful storytelling by using humour and metaphors to make complex societal themes accessible. In one memorable montage, everyday household sounds are likened to natural phenomena—the sizzle of a fried egg becomes a storm, vacuuming becomes a tornado, and porridge bubbling like lava. It is in these creative forms of storytelling that Shao pulls audiences closer to the film.

At its core, Her Story is a feminist film that presents female hardship with light-hearted optimism, making it more accessible in environments like China, where such themes are less openly discussed. By using comedy, the film is able to resonate with a wider audience, sparking meaningful discussions among both men and women of all ages. While films like Like a Rolling Stone (2024) explore female awakening, Her Story takes it a step further, offering a much-needed narrative on how women can navigate and challenge the world after their rebirth. With humour, depth, and heart, Her Story contends that the time has come to rewrite the rules of the game and embrace a new era of female empowerment.

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About the author: As a sociology major with a background in arts management, Belle is passionate about analysing social issues through film, exploring the intersection of society, culture, and storytelling. When she’s not immersed in films, songs, or books, she can be found either thinking or writing about her next creative endeavour.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #163: THE ORDINARINESS OF GRIEF - AN ANALYSIS OF CLOSE (2022)

Wed, 05 Feb 2025 07:28:28 GMT

The Ordinariness of Grief
An Analysis of Close (2022)

What is this force that stays from day to day, this fraughtness, no stranger to us; this quiet, torturous ordinariness, this caged absence - this grief? As I write, the inadequacies of language become increasingly glaring, almost mocking. For how do we put into words, in speech, and in writing an emotion so deep, so insanely difficult? There is a limit to semantic utterances when we grieve. We need more, another lexicon, another medium that can comfort.

Enter the moving image, its sounds and sites.

We watch and listen to the camera as it projects life’s vicissitudes on screen. The camera empathises, gives us a reality that defies parsing, language that is enough. We see ourselves, listen to our griefs as the reel rolls, articulating a sentence that we can finally understand in moving images, sound, and silence. With or without words. Cinema harbours a fascination and obsession with grief. And I am painfully grateful that it so seeks to capture the secret, innermost pains of the human heart.

***

I recently watched Close (2022, Dir. Lukas Dhont), a coming-of-age film, that tells the story of two thirteen year old boys, Leo (Eden Dambrine) and Rémi (Gustav De Waele), who share an especial friendship, at once intimate, intense, and tender. Ensconced in the safe, warm world of each other’s company, the two boys spend their afternoons running around the flower farm owned by Leo’s parents, and nights sleeping next to each other on Rémi’s bed.

Rémi and Leo, on Rémi’s bed. (Image Credit: IMDb )

Rémi and Leo running around the flower farm. (Image Credit: IMDb )

But bliss is usually brief, and the world, as always, gets in the way. Leo and Rémi find themselves in a new school, surrounded by new friends. Their closeness is interrupted, scrutinised by their teenage peers who express a curiosity about their sexuality. Leo gets uncomfortable, defensive, and explains that he and Rémi only “close” like brothers. Rémi however is unperturbed by the questions and comments, and continues to hang around Leo.

Social pressure mounts. The days pass with Leo becoming increasingly aloof. No longer are sleepovers at Rémi’s a given; no longer do they hang out together in school. So stark is the change in their relationship that it leaves Rémi grieved and hurt, the ever-widening distance between them the elephant in the room. Unable to say the words - and perhaps there are none - the tension culminates in two brawls. Punches, a few jabs in the ribs. Because that is how boys fight. Leo knows the reason for Rémi’s anguish but chooses to let sleeping dogs lie. No words are left spoken, the fights ending in unresolved silence.

One day, Rémi fails to turn up for a school excursion. Though mildly concerned, Leo does not pursue the matter and goes ahead with the trip. When the students arrive back at school, there is news that Rémi has passed away. Things fall apart for Leo and Rémi’s family, leaving Rémi’s parents searching for answers, and Leo in the terrible wake of an answer he only knows to be too true - that Rémi ended his life when he left.

All that remains now is grief, and the days ahead.

***

Life after Rémi is unremarkable. The days pass without event. An ordinariness settles, the daily rhythm of life predictable, same; a routine that gains a sort of sanctity for Leo.

School. Ice hockey. Picking flowers. Sleep. And again.

The film bears down on the everyday-ness with a montage of repetitive scenes. Same activities. Different days. Fall turns to winter turns to spring turns to summer. Work and rest. Sport and leisure. Routine covers over the cracks, reminds those Rémi left behind that life, and whatever that remains of it, goes on. As sure as the day sinks into night, as sure as the seasons change.

Leo does not talk about Rémi, as though Rémi never happened. As he skates in the rink, slams into walls, the blades of his hockey skates slicing the ice - the sheer repetitiveness of his training sessions - we wonder if he has moved on, gotten over Rémi. When he sleeps over at a classmate’s house, we wonder if Leo is at the cusp of a new affection. But then, nothing.

A brief visit from Sophie (Émilie Dequenne), Rémi’s mother at the ice hockey rink, and a meal at Rémi’s house threaten to interrupt the routine that both families have seemingly established for themselves. We expect there to be confessions, some conversation about how each family has been coping. But there is little. Leo and Sophie do not talk, words at the brink of utterance, eventually swallowed. Peter (Kevin Janssens), Rémi’s father, breaks down at the dinner table. And then, all is silent.

Routine, a balm for the living, for those left behind, must be maintained, the slightest upsetting of its predictability quickly averted. The film preserves this thin, flimsy maintenance through its cyclical, cadenced sequence of shots:

School. Ice hockey. Picking flowers. Sleep. And again.

Such safety shielding everyone from the confrontations of Rémi’s death. Such ordinariness covering over the pangs of grief, not yet laid bare in the open. So much grieving in ordinariness. So much ordinariness in grief.

And yet, so much pain from the depths of the punished heart, on the tip of the tongue, on the verge of spilling onto the fabric of the quotidian.

All this grief, its weight, cannot assume a lightness of being for long. The seams of ordinariness snap - in the form of a broken bone. During one of his ice hockey sessions, Leo falls and fractures his arm. The routine is again disrupted, this time like a long-held breath, at last exhaled.

The film reaches its apogee in this scene, a catharsis that is at once liberating and heart wrenching, so emotionally-charged that it forces us to stand back, hold our breaths, not out of excitement, but respect, and compassion for Leo, for his pain, and for our own private woundedness.

As the doctor treats Leo’s arm, Leo begins to weep, finally, for the first time. A gentle explosion, its flares falling, warm with a love that is only possible with regret and guilt. The camera maintains a stillness that refrains from capturing his vulnerability with the tightness of an extreme close up, but from a distance that is intimate and sensitive, giving Leo enough time - for he cries for a long time - and space to nurse his fractured heart, his pain, bone deep.

This is a long take, the boy in the middle of the frame sitting against the window, his arm bent awkwardly as he weeps for Rémi, weeps away the hours after Rémi, for a tragedy that would mark his adolescence, that has irrevocably and prematurely thrust upon him the long penumbra of adulthood. The doctor, well-intentioned but unknowing, soothes Leo, tells him that broken bones are a nasty, painful thing. Leo does not respond but continues to cry, his tears forming a wordless sentence. And we listen to his sobs filling the room, heavy with sadness. The sound and taste of grief - salt, between broken breaths.

Outside the window, it is just another ordinary afternoon, bright and green. Inside the doctor’s office, a boy mourns his loss and love of an irreplaceable friend, a kinship that touched, for a moment, the sweetness of eternity. Inside, a boy emerges from the silence of his grief, grows up, ready to confront it, first by breaking his routine, the band aid of ordinariness.

Leo crying at the doctor’s office. Screenshot taken from YouTube

He turns up one day, unexpectedly, at the hospital Sophie works at. She is cradling a baby, as she does everyday as a nurse in the neonatal ward. The distance between them separated cinematically by the walls of the ward, fraught, awkward, though not without a hint of surprise and gratitude on Sophie’s part. Both woman and boy are aware of how unspoken words now contour their relationship, both anticipating answers and questions from each other.

Sophie tells Leo to wait for her as she ends her work day. They get into her car where Leo finally reveals the reason for Rémi’s suicide - that it was because of him. She chases him out of the car, and Leo, understanding her rage, leaves at once and runs towards the forest. Shortly after, she runs after him. Leo, initially assuming that she would hit him, holds up a stick sobbing in self-defense. But Sophie opens her arms and cradles him, the two of them embracing in their brokenness, Rémi’s death and life finally acknowledged, in a long, sad hug, where words are sparse and unsaid. Sophie and Leo, their relationship forever changed by the violent passing of son and friend, their lives now transformed by Leo’s confession, only because of the deliberate fracturing of their routines. They are now closer than ever, sutured by their understanding of Rémi’s absence, his memory; by the shadow of their mutual loss, their shared love for Rémi, and for each other.

Sophie and Leo hugging. (Image Credit: IMDb )

***

It would seem like the film concerns itself mainly with Leo’s coming into his own, his rite of passage through the jaws of Rémi’s death. To my mind however, Close is a meditation on grief and sentimentality carefully and graciously muted by the cinematography and sounds of normalcy; its repetitive, continuous cuts revealing the brittleness of routine, the unbearable process of trying to move on in the aftermath of devastation, and how close one can be to crumbling under the weight of great loss and great love - until the veil of ordinariness is lifted.

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About the author: Yiwei is a Senior Lecturer at the College of Interdisciplinary and Experiential Learning, Singapore University of Social Sciences.

Film Review #162:THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

Mon, 03 Feb 2025 11:13:16 GMT

Film Review: The Silence of the Lambs

The Silence of the Lambs (1991) is widely considered one of the greatest films ever made, having garnered numerous accolades and widespread acclaim. The film follows FBI trainee Clarice Starling who must hunt down serial killer “Buffalo Bill”, doing so with the help of an equally dangerous murderer, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

From the opening moments, the film defines Starling as a determined, independent, and tenacious protagonist. Throughout the film, we examine her struggle to prove herself in the male-dominated field of federal investigation, highlighting her journey within a patriarchal system shaped by the male gaze, where she is continually underestimated, harassed, and judged by the men around her. Yet, Starling’s confidence shines through as she navigates these challenges, embodying an understated yet relentless strength as she grapples with the pressure of tracking a terrifying serial killer.

The Silence of the Lambs seamlessly blends elements of crime drama, psychological thriller, and murder mystery, anchored by a deeply compelling character study. At first glance, Starling and Lecter may seem like conventional archetypes —the determined FBI investigator and the imprisoned serial killer— but their dynamic is far more intricate, evolving into an unnerving yet engrossing battle of intellect and will.

In defiance of his notorious past, Lecter’s first appearance presents him as eerily composed and sophisticated, creating a fascinating duality between his life as a highly intelligent psychiatrist and a monstrous criminal. Though Lecter is the one behind bars, he arguably has the higher ground, toying with Starling’s vulnerabilities. Starling, on the other hand, seeks his insight into the murder case and must navigate the treacherous terrain of their interactions to enter the mind of the killer she’s tracking down. It is riveting to watch their encounters unfold, a dance of evolving power dynamics between a mastermind who enjoys the thrill of manipulation and a woman unafraid to challenge him. Led by the exceptional performances of Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, their portrayals add depth to the characters, making their exchanges both tense and captivating as Starling and Lecter prove utterly compelling in their objectives, motivations, and personalities.

Beyond its sharp writing and complex characters, The Silence of the Lambs is a masterclass in visual storytelling. The film employs clever editing techniques, such as smash cuts and parallel editing, to heighten suspense and surprise. Moreover, director Jonathan Demme’s signature use of dramatic close-ups places characters in the centre of the frame, where Starling’s eye-line is always slightly off-centre while those addressing her stare directly into the camera. This technique immerses viewers in Starling’s perspective while smartly emphasising the film’s themes of scrutiny, power, and vulnerability. Finally, complementing the visuals is composer Howard Shore’s uncanny score, shifting between moments of simmering tension and striking crescendos. Together, these stylistic choices effectively enhance the film’s unsettling atmosphere and piercing intensity.

The Silence of the Lambs is a timeless masterpiece, intertwining psychological depth with gripping storytelling. It deftly merges genre conventions to deliver a thrilling experience, all while remaining rooted in the personal journey of its protagonist, paired with one of cinema’s most compelling antagonists. This is a film that excels on all levels of filmmaking, earning its place in cinematic history as a work of enduring brilliance.

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About the author: Jayden is a film student from Temasek Polytechnic who enjoys immersing himself in the diversity of cinema. Through working on narrative short films and non-fiction projects, he continues to develop his craft in storytelling within the medium of film.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #161: JOKER: FOLIE À DEUX

Mon, 27 Jan 2025 23:59:34 GMT

Joker: Folie à Deux Review

This review contains spoilers. Read at your own risk!

Joker: Folie à Deux (2024) has become largely polarising and incredibly critiqued as of its release. Todd Philips' sequel to his hugely acclaimed film Joker (2019) has failed to meet almost everyone's expectations across the board – fans of the DC comics, fans of musicals and fans of Todd Phillips himself. In fact, it’s been rated one of the worst superhero movie of all time by Cinemascore , even lower on the totem pole of film failures than the devastatingly rated Batman & Robin (1997), Morbius (2022) and the memed-to-death Madame Web (2024). However, this barrage of hate has overshadowed the few of us that actually do like the movie and its innovative take on exploring the already well established IP of the DC comics.

As an avid fan of movies, musicals, movie musicals, courtroom dramas and hate-watching bad films, I have a largely unpopular take: J oker: Folie à Deux is not that bad. In fact, the premise of the movie as per Todd Phillips’ intention to strip the larger than life Joker character to reveal his vulnerabilities as a broken, abused man is deeply interesting and takes on an inquisitive perspective that is not traditionally explored in movies of alpha, machismo characters.

The film follows Arthur Fleck, aka The Joker, held in a psychiatric institution as he awaits his upcoming trial for the series of murders he committed at the end of the first movie. Arthur is pulled apart by his two choices; plead insanity for his legal defence ala arguing he has dissociative identity disorder, or play into the Joker image he has created and be charged as such, destined for a life in prison. This choice is reflective of the philosophical crux of the movie; save himself by admitting that he is just another normal broken man – no better than any other neglected citizen in Gotham – or play into the martyr narrative his followers crave, and enjoy the love and adoration that comes along with it, albeit in jail.

There is undoubtedly a lot to be said about what the movie is lacking, especially having been criticised to pieces by critics worldwide.

While the movie did start strong, with a charming animation short by Sylvain Chomet that sets the tone for the film, the attempt to make it a movie musical, though an intriguing concept, did little to advance the plot. In traditional musicals, characters burst into song when mere words can no longer explore the depth of emotions they feel. In Joker: Folie à Deux songs are instead used as stand ins for dialogue, lacking the ingenious brevity and resulting in elongated lilting whispered duets that go on for way too long. Listening to Joaquin Phoenix and Lady Gaga (who plays this world’s version of Harley Quinn) speak-sing in hushed whispers was uninspiring and lacked the explosive character development that songs are meant to offer in musicals.

As a huge fan of legal dramas, this movie’s courtroom scenes were also a tough watch. The obvious lack of legal speak, the disregard of regular courtroom decorum and the almost comically unrealistic depiction of lawyers (I was one more eye roll away from crying out “hearsay” myself) made the ‘courtroom drama’ aspect of the film superficial. These scenes were so disarranged and wildly implausible that it took me out of the movie.

So, what redeems this movie?

Joker: Folie à Deux dives deeper into the psyche of a confident and chaotic alpha male type, a unique angle that is lacking in many other pop-culture iterations of likable anti-establishment heros that subvert social norms, akin to the crude Tyler Durden in Fight Club (1999) or the meta dark humour of Deadpool. Instead of a confident leading man, we’re faced with Joker’s dichotomy; a man gripped with paralysing psychological trauma who yearns to play the suave hero his fans will love but is unable to stifle his deep seated pain to successfully do so.

This movie peers into the hidden underbelly of traditional iterations of the Joker. The character of the Joker has been adapted before by exceptionally talented actors, Heath Ledger in The Dark Night (2008) and Jack Nicholson in Batman (1989) just to name a few. However, Phillips’ approach and construction of his Arthur Fleck is one that explores Joker’s history of pain and abuse front and centre, rather than as an accessory for the eventual violent and chaotic confidence that is the character’s iconic traits. Consistently abused by his maniac mother, Arthur has an innate need for acceptance but is plagued with self-loathing and entrenched in his state of depression. This portrayal of him as a painfully repressed, stagnant character in a state of arrested development crumbles the facade of the driven and active persona of traditional Joker portrayals, as Phillips’ forces us to confront Arthur’s painfully human yearning for acceptance –a broken man that is easily manipulated and imprisoned by his own insecurities.

Rather than this being a betrayal of the essence of the Joker character, this is a beautiful exploration into traditional leading villain archetypes; a contrasting perspective to what we have seen in classic anti-hero fiction like Travis Bickle in Taxidriver (1976). Though Arthur Fleck resolves to live up to the exaggerated Joker persona to attain the admiration he so covets, he is unable to hide his human fallacies through an apathetic facade and this not only crumbles the fleeting support from Lee and his henchmen, but his failure to live up to the promise is what eventually leads to his demise at the end of the film.

Phillips takes a courageous attempt to craft a story around what happens after the lights go out; when the show is done and the theatrical, egotistical narrative is challenged. How does the broken down clown sit in the aftermath of the party with no one left to entertain but his harshest critic, himself? Phillips explores human vulnerability, turning the cocky antihero narrative on its head to present a more gripping reality of a failed comedian, almost in the vein of Scorsese's depiction of a deeply flawed and delusional Rupert Pupkin in King of Comedy (1983).

The more dependent we are on facades of grandeur to run from our vulnerabilities, the more we sink into the deep rooted pain we have failed to address. Though the execution of Joker: Folie à Deux was lacking, the creative inquisition to deconstruct the raw and rudimentary dimensions of larger-than-life characters is where Phillips’ vision shines through. Beyond the viral hate and fan endorsement of the film, it offers much introspection and thought to its audiences by dissecting matters of identity, mental health and the social circumstances that trap people in them.

The film made me recall Jan Matejko’s stunning 1862 painting “ Stańczyk ”, named after the subject of the artwork. The piece shows an intimate scene of the famous Polish court jester experiencing an existential crisis at a critical point of political turmoil in his country. It shows the juxtaposition of a man meant to make others laugh, trapped in his own grief and isolated from the party behind him, which parallels much of Arthur’s journey in Joker: Folie à Deux (2024).

Arthur’s deeply depressive and dark mental state is similarly in the foreground of the film. We are privy to his mental turmoil and watch him fail to meet the expectations put upon him due to his own debilitating existential crisis. The pomp and grandeur are stripped away for our protagonist, and in turn the audience, to reveal the man under it all.

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About the author: Perpetually curious about film, art, and thought.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #160: ALL WE IMAGINE AS LIGHT

Mon, 27 Jan 2025 07:49:59 GMT

All We Imagine as Light Review

(Some spoilers included!)

Illuminating the vulnerable intimacy of yearning in a society that shames.

All We Imagine As Light (2024) by Payal Kapadia has burst onto the international film industry in a largely unprecedented manner, highlighting not just the Indian filmmaker’s own filmography but also actualising the path of exposure for South-Asian films and talents on a global scale.

It has made history in a magnitude of ways; it is the first Indian film to win the Grand Prix at Cannes and the first to be nominated for a Palm D’Or in over three decades. It has also attained two Golden Globe nominations and its success seems only to be building momentum as we await on the precipice of the film's eventual legacy. I mention the awards run not to equate the measure of the film’s success to the amount of accolades it accumulates but rather to highlight its poignant role in history. This movie has earned international recognition for the Indian independent cinema industry, a sector of south-asian filmmaking that is historically underrated and far overshadowed by the more celebrated and prestigious Bollywood.

All We Imagine As Light is a work of art. The beautifully gripping movie follows the lives of two women working as nurses in the bustle of Mumbai, one of the world's most populated cities. Prabha, a married woman who has lost touch with her immigrant husband away in Germany, shares a room with Anu, a young and vibrant personality engaged in a passionate relationship with a man who comes from a different religious background, a fact that results in their relationship being highly contentious in the conservative social climate of the city. When Prabha’s friend Parvathy, the elderly cook at the hospital, is forced out of her residence in Mumbai and has to relocate to her hometown of Ratnagiri, Prabha and Anu follow along to the seemingly unassuming sleepy village to help Parvathy move.

The film explores the deep need for intimacy that the women harbour, with one having to stifle her yearning while another celebrates it, albeit in secrecy and with a shadow of unease. The backdrop of the film, the relentless concrete jungle of Mumbai, perfectly juxtaposes the deeply human aspects of Anu, Prabha, and Parvathy. The city is hard, relentless and crudely pragmatic, running on millions of occupants daily, thereby inadvertently emphasising the women’s insignificance in the larger picture. However, it is the strength of the women’s friendships and their near familial dependence on each other that negates the apparent frivolity of their lives. This is heightened when the women travel to the slow and serene Ratnagiri and eventually make strides in addressing the reality of their fallacies.

Kani Kusruti plays Prabha with an astonishing level of depth and nuance, reflecting the deep-seated aching simmering underneath a layer of gentle stoicism. Just in the way Prabha sits alone in the silent introspective moments of the movie, we are hinted towards the world of pain that she has lived through and suppressed before we come to meet her as a character in the film. The first glimpse we get of her raw need for intimacy is when she receives an unexpected gift from her husband, a rice cooker from Germany. As she curls around that rice cooker, the first point of connection she has received from her partner in a long time, Prabha recognises her own vulnerability as she embraces the cold metallic machine, grasping at any remnant hints of warmth or affection she can detect. Any traces of a husband so far gone, he is a whisper of a memory.

This paralysingly raw depiction of wanting is juxtaposed with the vibrant and forceful passion that Anu engages in with her boyfriend Shiaz as they travel around Mumbai looking for privacy to practice intimacy in any convenient corner of the city. Their youthful joy and the thrill of young romance are threatened by the very age-old question that has haunted the youth of India for generations, ‘What will people say?’ Anu and Shiaz’s interreligious relationship hidden from their communities creates a looming threat that hangs over their heads, sullying their tender moments and fondness for each other.

As an avid fan of romance and how it is depicted in films and books, I would like to highlight probably the best scene of physical intimacy ever shown in a South-Asian film. As Anu and Shiaz take the next step in their relationship and become physically intimate, we get wholly beautiful and mesmerising scenes of them as they take this path together. Filmmaker Payal Kapadia and her cinematographer Ranabir Das create this portrayal of intimacy that highlights the deep reverence and trust that Anu and Shiaz have in each other. There is a clear emphasis on the scenes being portrayed through a strong female gaze. The camera approaches Anu and Shiaz in the throes of passion with respect and affection, mirroring the very crux that is the premise of their whole relationship, that their wanting and need for affection is true and surpasses superficially constructed social boundaries. It is heartening to see such a rich, respectful and unrestricted account of physical intimacy in a South-Asian film, and one that is especially driven by the female narrative.

Mumbai itself becomes a character in the film. The city that rewinds at night, brutal in its efficient and persistent forward march, has no regard for who it has to step over to get ahead. There are no soft spaces for vulnerability in the harsh artificial lights of the city so it falls on the characters to carve it out for themselves, which we see through the gorgeous representation of female friendships in the film.

On the other hand, moments of emotional connection between men and women are tethering on the edge of taboo, something to be highly conscious of lest it result in a shamed encounter or social ostracisation. Payal Kapadia has brought us into the lives of these women, we feel constricted and trapped as they do and we breathe in the lush, luxurious rich air of the ocean breeze as the characters open themselves up to us at the end, allowing us in on the intimate moments between friends and lovers.

If it isn’t obvious by now, I am a huge fan of this movie, of Payal Kapadia, and of the underrated South-Asian indie cinema industry. I eagerly await her upcoming films and can promise that I’ll be there, sitting front row, ready to see and be seen by her filmography.

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About the author: Perpetually curious about film, art, and thought.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #159: PAPER PLANES, DON'T ALWAYS SOAR (SYFF)

Mon, 27 Jan 2025 03:30:24 GMT

Paper Planes, Don't Always Soar (SYFF)

Paper Planes, Don’t Always Soar is a short film inspired by a true aviation disaster story.

Diyana Amir, the director and scriptwriter, recalls the tragic moment when news broke–her father was involved in a plane crash. Despite only being three years old when it happened, she retains vivid memories of her mother and grandparents’ apprehension as they watched the news intently, crowds of people trailing them in public, but more importantly, her absent father.

While her grandparents were over at their house to take care of Diyana and her little brother, her mother was in a complete state of distress–frantically making calls to try and gather what little information there was about the crash, and in the midst of all the discord, Diyana remembers watching the television, and seeing her father appear on-screen, covered in burns.

Diyana was finally glad that he was at home–but was he really at home?

Paper Planes, Don’t Always Soar uncovers and sheds light on the struggles and emotional turmoil a family goes through when someone is diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), a mental health disorder that is triggered by witnessing or experiencing a traumatic event.

Diyana describes the film as a “ study of invasive and interpersonal trauma ” and how humans actually cope with it. Through this intricately crafted narrative, she hopes to empower others to find their own voices as she once was left almost silenced.

The film begins to unfold when Andri, the father, arrives home, and Shana, his 10-year-old daughter, puts her hand out, waiting for him to reciprocate her salam* . However, as Andri lowered his gaze to look at his daughter, he could only stare emptily–before their moment was briefly interrupted by Dana, Andri’s wife, who explained to Shana that “ Papa needed some rest” and brushed her aside.

Throughout the film, we were able to observe the shattering effects of Andri’s PTSD on the entire family. Environmental conditions like the rain and the kindling of a stove’s flame sent Andri spiralling into tormenting flashbacks of the incident again. It was especially tough on Shana, being such a young girl who just craved the love and attention from her parents, who were not engaged in the present. This inevitably forces her to grow up faster than she should, hindering her from living the childhood that she deserves.

The final scene with the three silhouettes strikes me the most. After Shana trails off into the woods to look for her father, Dana is left with no choice but to chase after her. They both eventually come to a halt after chancing upon Andri, who was found sitting near the edge of the bank, embracing the tranquillity of the lake. Three of their silhouettes slowly came into frame to paint a picture that while the three of them were together as a family, they were not together as a family. It leaves viewers like me wondering if there was ever a deeper meaning behind it.

When I asked Diyana about the thought process behind the impactful scene, she answered, “When I first started writing this script, I wanted to depict how the recovering process of PTSD is always a question mark–like an open-ended book. You never know how or when you are going to recover. There were a lot of times when I wondered if my dad would ever be okay or whether my family would be this strong again. I also wanted people going through trauma to know that it is okay to not know how you are going to recover from it.”

*Salam is a traditional hand gesture commonly done within the Muslim community to show respect to one’s elders. It usually involves kissing the elder’s hand.

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About the author: A horror film junkie with journalistic grit.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #158: BIRTHMARKS (SYFF)

Wed, 22 Jan 2025 01:14:40 GMT

Creative Expression of the Intimate:

How up-and-coming creatives Katriel Sim and Jordon Gan expose their own vulnerabilities in pursuit of painfully relatable art that speaks deeply to the audience through their short documentary Birthmarks.

Birthmarks (2024) by Katriel Sim and Jordon Gan follows a seemingly banal family in Singapore. The cinema verite style short documentary spotlights filmmaker Jordan’s own family as they answer a series of questions pertaining to their family dynamics and how they eventually come together as flawed individuals, all in the hopes of addressing the pertinent question at the core of every familial connection; Is a parent’s love truly unconditional?

Cleverly intercutting scenes of the family seldom together, majorly as solitary talking heads, allows us to follow Jordan, his elder sister and his parents as we study the Gan family during tense family meals and thick pungent awkward pauses. They have a deep bond of familial love for each other, but like so many others, it simmers under the constraints of failed expectations, generational trauma and earnest though misguided miscommunication. Through the remarkable non-linear editing, the audience watches how the camera acts as the bridge between the family members as they finally communicate freely, no longer restricted by the reality of facing one another.

As Katriel expertly poses seemingly unassuming questions about love, duty and expectations, Jordon’s family finally address each other’s questions, creating a coherent conversation through an amalgamation of individualised monologues. The Gan family find comfort in the reassuring impartiality of a camera lens and thus Katriel astutely fit the puzzle pieces of conversations between father and son, mother and daughter together through her inquisitive questions.

The ‘characters’ in the documentary are painfully relatable, the harsh stoic patriarch, the warm pliant mom in pursuit of stability in a fragmented family and the hurt yet earnest children who yearn to hear their parent’s truth and be heard in return. Birthmarks presents a surprisingly unbiased view that humanises every perspective in the family, a true testament to the maturity and tact with which the young filmmakers handled this subject matter.

Katriel and Jordon are exemplary filmmakers who displayed true artistic courage in their pursuit of creating a story around flawed family dynamics and the love-pain relationship that ensues from such, a reality that so many of us in the audience deeply admire to have represented. I gleaned more insight into their filmmaking process with the following interview.

These are excerpts (edited for length) from our conversation.

How did it feel opening up your home and family life to be the subject of this documentary? How did you convince your family to take on this project too?

Jordon :

It was very uncomfortable, more so than I had expected when I committed to the doc. The crew was made up of my own classmates so it was very jarring to have all my deepest private matters dredged up for all my peers and university lecturers to see.

It took some convincing for my family to be down with getting involved too, my dad and my mother were down but I think my elder sister was interested because she saw this as an opportunity as a platform to expound her feelings and thoughts about the family, to express herself in a way that was never available before.

I don’t really think we knew what we were getting into when we started the project but going through this experience has been such an unexpected bridge for my family, like everyone’s perspectives have been merged like never before.

The film astutely positions different conversations together to create a conversation around one narrative. How did you prep these astute and inquisitive questions for the Gan family to make this editing possible?

Katriel: I had originally planned some questions around the ideas of family love and expectations, how they respond to each other when these expectations had failed. But more important was making connections in the process of questioning. I handled the entire questions process myself so I was aware of the direction of thought of each family member. The opportunity to bring them onto the same track required me to be quick on my feet and angle questions for them so that in a weird roundabout way, I was able to get them to answer Jordon’s question or Joy’s question and get an answer from Mrs.Gan from a throwaway comment by Mr.Gan. I redirected questions to everyone based on answers and opinions from other family members.

The challenging part was posing really deep personal questions to the adults of the household, especially since some people can naturally open up more than others to being vulnerable so I think my genuine intrigue in understanding their story helped them open up.

It’s quite interesting that this doc had two filmmakers at the helm. How was the process of collaboration, especially when the subject matter is so personal to one of you?

Jordon:

It was exactly what we needed for this kind of film. I was both the filmmaker and the subject so at times what I felt was best for the film was exactly what I did not want to have to do as the subject. I had to keep being reminded that what was beneficial for the truth of the film needed to happen (by Katriel) even though for me it was hugely uncomfortable and nowhere near where I wanted to venture.

Katriel:

The collaborative element with Jordon was essential exactly because the film was so emotionally vulnerable for him. It was about being realistic in what we could explore and tying the emotionality of the film to what we needed to get done, how deep I could probe him and his family members to get to the underbelly of their relationship. It was on me to encourage him to ‘push deeper’ but also be there to manage the necessities of the film, the crew and work with Jordon and his family.

It’s interesting as an outsider looking in because that is exactly the perspective that the audience has watching this movie too so I was the kind of stand-in for what the audience was eventually going to see. I was able to be as swift and efficient for the film because I was personally removed from the emotionality.

The film addresses complex personal issues and their nuances in a mature manner. How do you think your age, benefitted/ contributed to making this film?

Katriel:

Tiktok was really helpful for me to approach this film. I would frequently look up research videos that discussed parenting styles and this acted as my coping mechanism too, kind of like getting therapy from Tiktok. That community of information helped me learn a lot about parenting and being a child. It helped me see things in varied perspectives and I was able to bring that to this film.

Our generation is more open to talking about personal issues, maybe it’s a form of trauma bonding that's the norm now but this makes us feel more comfortable in addressing issues that older gens may have told us to brush under the carpet.

Jordan:

Our age played a big part of shaping the film. We really wanted to prioritize the gritty raw truth rather than a polished, more sophisticated take. Even if being so open could cause my sister and I to come off as ’juvenile’ or ‘immature’, I think that as 20-year-olds, we don’t need to put on a front and present ourselves as what we aren’t. In the process of cutting the film together, we tried our best to present the crude reality as we saw it, ‘immaturity’ and all.

What do you hope audiences take away from this movie?

Jordon:

Well, I don’t hope for one condensed takeaway that everyone walks away with, rather I hope that this movie gives people trapped in different situations what they need to feel seen. For example, an eldest daughter who watches this film might feel overwhelmed with rage, another child may feel overwhelmed with compassion, parents may feel heard and seen and represented in a really true way. What makes this movie authentic is the amalgamation of different perspectives so I hope that whoever watches this movie walks away feeling whatever they need to.

I want to highlight how everyone is still just learning how to get through life, even our elder generations and though we can all disagree, that doesn't mean anyone's perspective should be vilified, especially within our families. I believe we know ourselves from how we know others, so I’d just hope the audience questions how they can know themselves from knowing their closest relationships better.

Katriel:

When it comes to any family, it’s very interesting that most of us live in the same house, share a lot of our time and most of our experiences but we perceive these shared moments so vastly differently. A lot of differing perspectives arise in families, especially as people feel angry, hurt or even guilty with each other. I hope this film allows them to feel validated in their emotions, that though we should strive to understand each other’s points of view, our own emotions are just as valid and what we choose to do to face them is crucial.

How we move on is important and we should feel comfortable with what we need to do to process our pain in our own way.

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About the author: Perpetually curious about film, art, and thought.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

In Conversation With Hein Htut (SYFF)

Sun, 19 Jan 2025 01:00:48 GMT

SYFF: In Conversation With Hein Htut

It’s shocking how little we know about some of the people we are surrounded by.

In Singapore’s multicultural society, there is a considerable population of Burmese people and yet when I am asked about my race, my response is often met with, “Where’s that?”. There ought to be more understanding of people that share the same place you call home, and film is a great place to start; to hear voices and stories from different walks of life. Film festivals are an amalgamation of stories and cultures, an opportunity to pick out a new lens through which you may otherwise never get the chance to see—and the Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF) is a space to watch.

If this is your introduction to Burmese filmmakers, local Burmese cinematographer Hein Htut is a standout

in 2024’s SYFF for his work in Trilingual Education Programme (2024). The film is set in a near-future Singapore where dialect has been formally reintroduced to Chinese schools. Kun is an English-educated teacher who transfers to a Chinese school and has to prove his dialect proficiency at the risk of losing his job as the sole provider of his family. I had the opportunity to speak to Hein Htut and get his insights into how culture plays into his artmaking.

Victoria: What was your experience like working on Trilingual Education Programme?

Hein Htut: It was a really good time. The director (Andre Chong) is a good friend of mine, and when I heard about this project I was very keen and excited to embark on it together and create this world with him.

V: I’ve noticed that culture is a prominent theme in the stories you tell. How has your culture and your Burmese identity impacted the way you tell stories?

H: My family lived in Yangon, Myanmar until about 2008, when we migrated to Singapore due to my dad’s job and because the country wasn’t very stable. I was about 11 then. I think as a Burmese person living in Singapore or any immigrant here really, there’s always going to be this identity crisis. The longer you live here, the more you have this dilemma of, “Am I Singaporean or am I Burmese?” That played a major role in my life and my cultural identity and it’s one thing that I wanted to show about the diaspora of the people that are intertwined in this unsureness of their cultural identity in a foreign country that they’ve made home.

V: What sparked your interest in film and why is film your medium of choice in telling these stories?

H: It started with small projects that I’ve been doing since I was a kid, like creating video projects during secondary school and finding it exciting to use Windows Media Player to edit short films. When I went to Film, Sound & Video at Ngee Ann Polytechnic, I got more exposure to films and the different kinds of cinema out there. I fell in love with it. I think everyone starts out trying or wanting to be a director, but then I realised that down the line, that’s not really what I wanted to do. I've always leaned more towards the director of photography role; I like the idea of assisting the director in bringing his vision to life. Pho Tha (2023) was my one and only directing shtick.

While he leans towards the role of cinematographer, Hein Htut’s directorial work has also been celebrated in 2023’s National Youth Film Awards (NYFA) when he won the Best Director award for Pho Tha (2023). Pho Tha is a story we both share, a story of losing a grandfather back in Myanmar at the height of the ongoing Burmese civil war and being unable to bid farewell.

V: I would love to hear a bit about your experience working on Pho Tha , your inspirations and what went on behind the scenes.

H: Pho Tha actually started off as a school assignment, to be honest with you. We were meant to do a short-film adaptation of a literary piece. I’m not a director by trade, but I felt like if I were going to direct a film, it would be a story about something personal to me and what I’ve been through, that I believe someone like yourself would be able to relate to. Initially, I tried to look for Burmese poets to adapt but I ran into a lot of technical issues particularly with reaching the poets. I realised there was a real danger of the poets being persecuted due to the coup. I did reach out to a few poets to ask for their permission and identities for their work to be adapted, but they said it was too risky for their safety. By chance, I stumbled upon “(because I am a daughter) of diaspora”, a poem by Eunice Andrada. The words from the poem really stuck out to me and stayed with me for a while. Again, the concept of diaspora and this dilemma of cultural identity particularly with the ongoing coup, the poem resonated with me and inspired me to birth Pho Tha , building a story around my grandfather’s passing.

For me, watching Pho Tha was the first time I learnt the feeling of being represented on a screen and hearing a story that resonated so closely with my own experience. As a fellow Burmese film student, I have always studied and understood the significance of representation, but it was not until I saw Pho Tha that I understood the feeling myself. I hope I too will someday be able to emulate this feeling in others as a filmmaker.

Thanks to the wonderful conversation with Hein Htut and watching the two films, I was reminded of the importance of representation on a screen from voices that are seldom heard. Singapore Youth Film Festival is the destination for the upcoming generation of names you may see on the big screen, and a cornucopia of stories told by voices in different languages and of different cultures. Get a head start there!

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Author's bio: Victoria Khine is a fresh graduate from Film and Literary Arts at School of the Arts, Singapore. She loves watching and making films, and she writes from the heart.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #157: DUNE: PART TWO

Wed, 15 Jan 2025 23:37:35 GMT

Review - DUNE: PART TWO

Contains spoilers

A critically acclaimed film with a star-studded cast, and even more impressively, a 92% score on Rotten Tomatoes, it is no question that Dune: Part Two is a monumental film. Dune: Part Two is the second adaptation in Denis Villeneuve’s Dune Trilogy that in my opinion, easily exceeds the first. With a more ambitious plotline, the film had me instantly hooked from the first sequence and had an unyielding grasp on my attention for its entire nearly three-hour-long runtime.

Dune is a science-fiction franchise set on the desert planet Arrakis. Part Two follows Paul Atreides as he grapples with the fall of his House Atreides, a result of a political war as seen in Dune (2021). With him and his mother, Lady Jessica, being the sole survivors of the attack, he is thrown into hiding on Arrakis, facing the harsh, unrelenting tempers of the deserts. The film follows Paul as he earnestly seeks revenge against those who destroyed his family, all while battling his inner demons, marked by a prophecy of mass destruction he will cause in the foreseeable future.

As a sci-fi film buff who loves films like Avatar (2009) and Inception (2010), Dune has indubitably met all my expectations: a full-blown universe, unique characters, and most notably, its maximalist aesthetic.

Right off the bat, the film starts with a gripping scene of the Harkonnens hunting down Paul and Lady Jessica, showcasing Dune ’s distinctive dark orange hue. Throughout the film, the colour grading sets a clear tone for the scenes, amplifying the tension in pivotal scenes and adding to the mood of the film. Another example is the scenes set in Giedi Prime being shot in the famous infrared filters, giving it a monochromatic look and adding to the villainous aura of the Harkonnens. While it may seem relatively insignificant, colour grading can make or break a film, and in this case, it has been used masterfully to manipulate the atmosphere.

While the film has been widely regarded as the epitome of visual artistry and the peak of popular cinema, the aspect that enthralled me most was undoubtedly the characters. Dune: Part Two is filled with deep and complex characters, all fueled by their own justifiable motivations that resulted from their backstories. To me, every character felt so distinctively human that I could not help but empathise with them, even if they had some terroristic tendencies. Regardless of which side the characters stood on, they were willing to do everything it took to achieve their purpose.

However due to the film’s ambition, I do feel that some characters have been unfortunately sidelined to make space for the main characters, and as a result, felt one-dimensional and shallow. Such characters like Princess Irulan, played by Florence Pugh, and Lady Margot, played by Léa Seydoux, only had brief appearances and felt like mere devices to move the plot along. Even the Emperor, played by Christopher Walken, felt out of place and had little significance in the film even though he was the sole orchestrator of the fall of House Atreides. This aspect was so immensely frustrating to me as the Emperor’s lack of action and dialogue created problems that could have easily been prevented. Nonetheless, this decision is still somewhat reasonable due to time constraints and I do look forward to seeing how the side characters will be better fleshed out and utilised in the plot of Part Three.

The spotlight was instead shifted to the main characters, namely Paul, played by Timothee Chalamet, and Chani, played by Zendaya. During the film, we watched their tumultuous relationship blossom and go through their ups and downs. The two felt the most authentic to me, both with their values bornt from their vastly different upbringings. While Chani prioritised her loved ones, Paul prioritised his rage against the Empire and the Harkonnens. This aspect was very profoundly displayed in the third act (which is easily the best act of both Dune films), where although Chani had her doubts about the path Paul had taken, she chose to trust the man she loved and acquiesced to his plan. Paul, on the other hand, did not seem to share the sentiment, publicly marrying Princess Irulan, for his political gain. This scene was so incredibly heartfelt to me and was such a clear indicator of the routes their characters have taken.

This feature of interesting, flawed characters will always be the most compelling to me in any film, and the actors have done a tremendous job bringing them to life in Dune .

Overall, Dune: Part Two has effortlessly become one of my favourite films ever. The passion of the filmmakers was palpable, from the choreography to the music, every part of the film had me wanting more and ultimately lured me back to the cinema to watch it three more times. And although the film may have been snubbed at the recent award shows, I wholeheartedly believe that Dune: Part Two is a show-stopping spectacle that deserves to be seen on the big screen at least once in your life.

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About the author: As a huge film buff, Jia En has somehow never seen half of the most critically acclaimed films out there but will have watched all 5 installments of a franchise with an average of a 2-star rating.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Yeo Siew Hua: Seeing Differently

Tue, 14 Jan 2025 04:49:06 GMT

Yeo Siew Hua: Seeing Differently
An interview with Yeo Siew Hua

Singaporean cinema is finally reaching new heights, and one of the key contributors to these achievements is none other than Yeo Siew Hua, the writer and director behind the Golden Leopard-winning A Land Imagined (2018), and Stranger Eyes (2024), the first Singaporean film to compete for the Golden Lion at the Venice International Film Festival .

In our cinematic landscape that's growing faster and faster, what sets Yeo's works apart from the others are their fresh perspectives through which they view the Singapore identity. It's not just about what he explores, but how he explores these ideas in his films. His films start off with a straightforward baseline premise, before using that as a jumping pad to further ruminate on other concepts and themes, some in relation, some not.

Yeo is probably one of the first persons to realise on film the sometimes unreal, dream-like quality of Singapore's ever-changing landscape, working this concept of the shifting land of Singapore through land reclamation into his debut feature's ( A Land Imagined ) very structure, alternating between the perspectives and dreams of a local policeman and the missing migrant worker he is looking for. This creates a sense of metaphysicality between his characters, which is something his latest feature ( Stranger Eyes ) is deeply rooted in. Once again using structure and plotting that constantly evolves, he crafts a work that intertwines viewer and subject, which in itself is reflective of the medium of cinema too. The end result is an oddly moving film, revealing a new way of seeing how all of us humans are connected to one another.

That is, perhaps, the crux of Yeo's films: changing how we see the world around us, both on a national and personal scale.

I had the privilege of speaking to Yeo about his works, specifically his last two features mentioned above. (Though his filmography stretches further back, they are difficult to find and view.)

Interview

Amadeus: I'd like to start this by going back to your education, specifically your degree in Philosophy that you took at the National University of Singapore (NUS). How do you feel this philosophy background has impacted and influenced your works?

Siew Hua: I went to study philosophy really to understand my world and my environment around me. I also studied film at Ngee Ann Polytechnic before NUS, and I felt at that time, "Okay, I know how to press all the buttons, I know how to use the equipment, and I know how to make a film", but then I didn't really have much to say in my films. So, I think once you open up certain channels of critical thinking, studying something like philosophy, it helps you ask the right questions, and that definitely went into my filmmaking afterwards.

A: I think one of the reasons you have really stood out to me as a filmmaker is because of how you're not afraid to shift gears midway through the film, to kind of jump off your base premise to ruminate on something much deeper and head in a different direction. A Land Imagined and Stranger Eyes , they both do this perspective shift, retracing events through the eyes of characters we've been looking at from a distance up to that point. Is that gear-shift something you've planned out early in the writing process, or is it something you're kind of led towards as you progress through the draft?

SH: I think it was quite deliberate. I mean, it's not something that you can do on set. It's really something that you need to already start planning from the script stage. I think I come from a little bit more of an experimental background, so I think with my films I'm always thinking, "What am I pushing?" Am I pushing something formally? So now, with A Land Imagined and Stranger Eyes , I am very comfortable with making certain experiments. And it isn't – I won't even say that I'm absolutely certain that all my experimentation will be a success or it will work; I don't know what the final results are really going to be for the audience. But then I think I take this kind of mantra, which is that, like, if I know that it will work, I don't really want to do it anymore. It's no longer an experiment.

A: Were there any films or sources of inspiration that also demonstrated the same kind of gear-shifts that inspired you in any way?

SH: I think the one that made an impression on me – but this was a long time ago and it's not in the same vein as my films, per se – but I guess if you had to ask me, I would say Apichatpong's (Weerasethakul) Tropical Malady. It starts out as a romance, like a love story, then midway through it shifts into this… mythical, forest, animal thing.

A: Yeah, I heard that Tropical Malady does that shift.

SH: Yeah, so it kind of surprises you in that way. But, I don't think my films go on that tangent. You know, inside that I am still, sort of, working through a certain plot, a certain narrative, except that you start to feel that this plot opens up because of the different perspectives, and I would say that we start off investigating a case of a missing person, but we end up discovering something about the darker corners of the human soul, I guess that's how to put it.

A: Bringing the focus to A Land Imagined , I wanted to discuss the topic of dreams and their relation to the process of making that film. I feel that A Land Imagined especially possesses this dreamlike quality where we're weaving in and out between different points in the story's chronology and also the perspectives of the characters. How did you construct this structure, you know, in the writing, shooting and then the edit with (editor) Daniel (Hui)?

SH: The structure of it, like I said, was already baked into the script. In the editing, with Daniel, we were just trying to find the right balance. But the dream element was always sort of what I wanted to start off with. [For example,] the land where Marina Bay Sands is, for me as a kid, was completely water. It was just the sea; it's like it didn't even exist. Now there is land, now I'm stepping on what used to be the sea. This is really strange for me, growing up looking at this space that has now become our postcard of the country. Living in Singapore with these kinds of constant changes, every time I leave – because now I am not fully based here anymore – and I come back, in a year or something like this, I get lost because of the changes.

So it's very much about the land of Singapore that is like, it causes me to feel like I'm in a dream state, like the shifting nature of the sand and the space and the territory and the borders, is not something that anchors me to the ground. But meanwhile, when I speak to the migrant workers, and I ask them, "How's it like to be in Singapore?", I've heard more than a couple of times that they feel like, "Oh, it's a dream to be living in Singapore." I mean, I don't know what they meant it as, they could be saying, "Oh, it's really nice to be here, we can earn money, it's a dream." But in some sense, it's also like they're saying that it's a little bit unreal that they're here, like what they care about is their family back in (their homes), what they care about is there. And for them, living in Singapore is a very unreal space, it's like all of their reality is actually their wives and kids on their phone and all of this outside for them is a bit of a dream. And so it got me thinking, it's like we both come from totally different situations, but we're both in a dream called Singapore.

We are in a collective dream state. Within these dreams there is no stability in the dream state; in the shifting sand, so I created this structure that is also folding between the two lead characters drifting through this dream.

A: I like what you said, the identity shifts and there is an instability to it in that dream state. I feel like it really resonates because every day I see that there is a piece of Singapore that's being redeveloped, and there's always something that is changing up; it always feels different.

SH: Yeah, I don't know how you feel as a young person, but for me this sense of belonging is hard to grasp when all the spaces are changing. My childhood playground is gone. Where I saw my first films and all these things, they're gone. Where I had my first kiss, that's no longer there, so I no longer have anchor points in my life, because the spaces have changed so much.

A: Moving into Stranger Eyes , I felt that the film's theme of watching kind of builds up to this exploration of an almost metaphysical connection between two fathers through watching each other. Without going deep into spoilers, perhaps you could speak about how this aspect came into play, and also how it relates to watching and bringing people together.

SH: I think what I would say is that I sincerely believe that watching is not a passive act. It's something that's very transformative. It does something to the person who's doing the watching. At the same time, it does something to the person who is being watched, especially if he or she knows, so that's what's happening to the two characters. Many times I am sitting around, doing some people-watching by myself, and I end up staring at people and trying to give them a narrative. I pick up some kind of gesture, maybe somebody is playing with their fingers, and then I catch myself doing that. I would say that that is a moment where I'm looking so intently that I lose myself in the act of watching; you end up sharing some kind of identity with the person that you're looking at.

In a way, I would say that one has to project, in order to really understand what they're looking at; you have to project some of your humanity onto this person, or else this person is just a moving clump of flesh. You have to come up with the stories and the narratives of the person you're looking at, so much so that sometimes, all you end up seeing is yourself, because the narrative is coming from you, but that for me is very interesting because this act of seeing actually becomes a process of self-discovery. Sometimes it's not even about getting any real understanding about the person you're looking at. It actually is more about you finding something about yourself.

I also take inspiration from this experiment in quantum physics where you have these particles of light moving in a wave-like structure, but when you turn to observe it, it looks as though it's moving in a straight line. That's how I feel about human beings; if I know that I'm being watched, I end up walking in a straight line. I don't take the detours that I would have if I thought I was alone. I would not try different things – which might have fulfilled my human potential – if I knew that eyes are watching me. It's kind of a roundabout way of talking about what I wanted to say in the film.

A: We briefly discussed about identity earlier, and just recently you had a masterclass for us LASALLE students, during which you said something that really struck me: "when you date your film ahead of time, it will feel old by the time it comes out" How do you see your films' relevance to Singapore's society and even identity, maybe 5-10 years down the line?

SH: If we're talking about A Land Imagined , it still has its relevance today, outside of when it was made back then. When we made it, it was before the pandemic, and so many people at that point had not even seen how the inside of the migrant workers' dormitories looked like. So many people came up to tell me after the film that they never knew what the migrant workers' dormitories looked like until they saw the film. Since then, because of the pandemic, a lot more people are concerned about the workers' living conditions, as they were afraid that COVID would spread across the dormitories, which would pose a threat to other Singaporeans.

I think that's also what I hope for Stranger Eyes , I mean, I just released the film, I don't know how it will be like 5 years down the road. I suppose maybe the finer details of surveillance cameras – maybe they would have advanced into drones or something of that sort, maybe we would not need cameras anymore, and we would have a new face of surveillance. But I think, the questions I want to pose in the films, I hope are still very much about us, and how we live, and the relationship between the things that we are looking at and ourselves.

A: I guess as we bring this to a close, I'd like to ask about how you view your early works in retrospect. You might have already answered this, but how do you see their impact on you as a filmmaker and artist today?

SH: Every work for me is, you know, I mean, I give my whole self to it. For me, it's very rewarding, because when you give your whole self to a work, the work becomes a frozen moment of yourself. Now it's there for me to understand myself at that point; I look back at it and I understand how much I've grown. I don't try to make perfect films. I really don't care about making a perfect film, but I want to make an interesting film. I want to make a film where people will think, ah, he's trying to do something interesting, you know, like it's not perfect and you see that there are all its flaws, but I don't believe in that perfect film.

So for me, all my films are like a learning process, like a lot of people don't know that I started out making this documentary about the underground music scene that got systematically killed off by basically the government. There's so much in relation to fiction that I learn from making documentaries.

With my short films – I don't have many, but for the few that I do – they really are a free space for me. They really are free because it's not so expensive. When you make a work that is very expensive, you need to be a bit more conservative; a bit more restricted. But with short films, that's really a playground for me, to really experiment with things to keep myself fresh. It's sort of an accumulative building, but also an evolving kind of situation with one film to the other.

Stranger Eyes is distributed by Anticipate Pictures and opens exclusively at The Projector on 9th January 2025.

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About the author: Amadeus is a filmmaker who has loved cinema as far back as he could remember. Most of his time is spent in theatres, otherwise he is writing about the films playing in them.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Tickets are available at The Projector: https://theprojector.sg/films-and-events/stranger-eyes/

SFS Members are entitled to $2 off ticket prices. Simply select "SFS Member" option at ticketing and show membership identification at the door.

Film Review #156: EYES FORWARD (SYFF)

Mon, 13 Jan 2025 10:22:49 GMT

Eyes Forward :

A Moving Reflection on Disability, Identity, and Resilience

In Eyes Forward (2024) , director Audrie Chee delivers an introspective documentary that transcends the conventional narrative of para-athlete triumph. The 11-minute film centres on Joan Hung, a visually impaired national goalball player, and her journey navigating not just physical barriers, but emotional and societal ones as well. Through a mix of intimate storytelling and innovative filmmaking techniques, Chee crafts a narrative that feels both personal and universally resonant, inspiring viewers to see past their limitations to find their freedom.

At the heart of the documentary lies Joan's reflection on disability as something shaped by the environments we exist in, something that abled individuals like myself often take for granted. "People think that disability is a medical condition from birth, but I think that the environment is what makes us disabled," Joan remarks in the film. This sentiment is brought to life through a telling scene at a zebra crossing. In one instance, Joan is stranded and unable to cross because there is no auditory signal. In contrast, another crossing provides a beeping cue, allowing Joan to move forward with confidence. These moments highlight the difficulties disabled people face in navigating seemingly benign environments. Ultimately, societal structures have the power to empower or hinder them.

Chee's direction shines in her use of perspective. The documentary employs sensory storytelling, attempting to place the audience in Joan's shoes. Scenes filmed through a goalball eye mask, coupled with heightened soundscapes, give viewers a sense of Joan's sensory world. A particularly poignant moment unfolds when Joan shares her love for sunsets. "I love sunsets, but the colours are not so vivid anymore," she says. In tandem with her words, the scene's vibrant hues slowly fade, subtly mirroring her experience.

However, Eyes Forward is not merely about Joan's physical challenges. The documentary delves into her emotional struggles, including her complex relationship with her parents. Joan candidly shares how she once resented them, believing their genetics contributed to her condition. Yet, as the film progresses, she reveals a sense of acceptance and peace, a deeply human arc that adds layers to her story. This exploration of mental and emotional resilience is one of the film's strongest elements, reminding viewers that internal battles are often as significant as external ones.

A recurring question I had throughout the documentary is whether Joan's story could offer something new, given her extensive media presence on platforms like Youthtopia , President's Challenge Donation Drive , and Wearemajulah . The answer lies in Chee's approach. Instead of retreading familiar ground, Chee chooses to zoom in on the nuances of Joan's life: her quieter moments of reflection, vulnerability, and the deeply personal conflicts she faces. In doing so, Eyes Forward feels less like a highlight reel of achievements and more like an authentic exploration of identity and resilience.

Beyond Joan's athletic achievements, the documentary highlights her contributions to the community. As a facilitator at Control Your Controllables , a goalball programme aimed at building resilience in children, Joan demonstrates that her influence extends far beyond the court. Her passion for empowering young people, particularly those with disabilities, positions her as both an athlete and a mentor. This focus on community impact prevents Eyes Forward from falling into the clichéd narrative of the "heroic disabled athlete," offering instead a portrait of someone actively shaping the world around her.

The documentary's title, Eyes Forward , comes full circle in its final scene. Joan stands beneath an open sky, her face turned upwards, her eyes unseeing yet firmly forward. It leaves you thinking: if someone with visual impairment can courageously look towards the sky, overcome her limits, and chase her dreams, what’s stopping you? What does your sky look like?

Eyes Forward is not just Joan's story. It is a universal tale of overcoming limitations—not only those imposed by our bodies, but also those constructed by society and, sometimes, our own minds. The documentary emerges as a profound meditation on strength, acceptance, and the spaces we create for each other in our shared world.

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About the author: Isabel is an avid reader and writer who hopes to inspire greater connection and empathy in an increasingly isolated world. When she’s not crafting stories, she can sometimes be found going ps ps ps at her neighborhood cats. Connect with her on LinkedIn here: https://www.linkedin.com/in/isabel-hah-041751203?utm_source=share&utm_campaign=share_via&utm_content=profile&utm_medium=android_app

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #155: PEACE FUNERAL HOME

Wed, 08 Jan 2025 07:58:44 GMT

Peace Funeral Home (2024)

Dir. Megan Lim En

One funeral home, one mixed-up body, a father, and a daughter––this 15-minute short film packs a lingering punch to your gut that stays with you long after the credits roll. Peace Funeral Home , directed by emerging young filmmaker Megan Lim En, is a poignant yet humorous exploration of life, death, and the complex relationships that bind us. What begins as a seemingly simple story of a body mix-up at the Lee Funeral Home reveals a painfully realistic portrayal of tug-of-war between a micromanaging father and a daughter who is determined to take charge.

The film centers around Peace Fu Lee, a headstrong young lady who is more than ready to take over the family funeral business, and her father, Michael Lee, who is not yet ready to retire and let go. Their already strained relationship is pushed to its limits when Peace, tasked with her first independent assignment of delivering a body to its wake, discovers that she has the wrong body. Tensions escalate as Peace tries to right her wrongs and prove her worth, all while trying to maintain her composure under her father’s intense scrutiny.

In just 15 minutes, Peace Funeral Home masterfully depicts the fraught dynamics of a strained parent-child relationship, exploring the lengths to which our protagonist will go to earn her place––and her father’s trust––in the family business. Trust, or the lack thereof, is a central undercurrent source of tension in familial relationships that is not often discussed; its absence can breed serious and prolonged conflicts that affect a family’s cohesion, much like the relationship between Peace and her father.

As a generational family funeral business, the Lee family is bestowed with a huge amount of trust by many households for their services, yet they ironically struggle with trust within their own walls. This contrast prompts us to reflect upon the differences in how we manage trust in close-knit relationships compared to in broader social situations.

Set against the background of a business steeped in the sombre rituals of death, Peace Funeral Home ’s comedic premise of a body mix-up puts forward a sense of absurdity that challenges us to reconsider the gravitas surrounding funerals. On the surface, a funeral business may seem unlikely for a comedy, yet the film’s presentation of the event makes it strikingly relatable, especially in Singapore, where white-curtained funerals are a common sight under our void decks. Peace’s stubborn fight for control over the family business also mirrors a deeply relatable struggle for authority with the film’s young audience, who might be navigating generational shifts within their own families.

Lim presents funerals as a slice of life rather than in a melancholic light, because that is the reality for many people in the funeral business. “They’re just really chill and okay with dead people”, Lim remarked about her interactions at the funeral home where they filmed. “For them, it’s just their job”. She described a segmentation between the emotional gravity of the business and the personal lives of those in the profession, and how they are able to uphold appropriate reverence in the work that they do, but simultaneously accept death as a part and parcel of life. Lim decided to express this sentiment through the film, an example of one of these creative decisions was to have the protagonist’s brother, Nick, play video games on his phone while sitting next to a body in the van.

Humour emerges as the film’s emotional anchor, striking a delicate balance between levity and gravity. Just as the film presents comedy in such solemn contexts, Lim shared how her personal experiences with funerals inspired the film’s setting. She views death not as something to fear, but as an opportunity to find bittersweet joy in the remembrance of those you love.

Interestingly, the Mr Chua (the body) that got mixed-up in the film is actually played by Lim’s uncle, who was very interested in taking up the role. Lim laughingly shared how her uncle, a pastor, rejected the red packet they offered––a common gesture when an actor plays a deceased character––joking that he is covered by a greater power. Recounting another past experience when her uncle placed her grandfather’s ashes in the front seat because “Dad always loves to sit in the front seat”, Lim reminisced about the open and earnest perspective her family has always held toward such events and how it influenced the way she approached the theme.

It is evident how Lim derives a lot of inspiration from her own interpretation and lived experiences, not only in how she approached the subject matter of funerals and familial relationships, but also in the way she framed certain objects in the film.

The van, for example, is a key element in any funeral business, being the only form of transportation for many bodies. Lim realised this when talking to her friend who interned at a funeral home and it influenced the way she presented the vehicle in the film. “I think that it’s strange that a whole person’s life has now become like cargo”, Lim shared. The van is featured quite prominently in the poster and throughout the runtime, and becomes a pivotal setting for a number of climatic scenes.

Through the film, the van evolves into a poignant symbol, representing not just a body in transit but an entire life reduced to a cargo space. It also encapsulates the weight of the Lee family business––one that Peace and her father are fighting to control, one that Peace is responsible for, and one that Peace mistakenly disrupts and attempts to salvage.

Additionally, the van serves as a key location where Peace and her father confront each other directly. Lim’s careful and detailed pacing allows the tension between the duo to gradually escalate, building up to a breaking point rather than having them argue right from the start. The way Peace’s father fusses over small details, like whether she checked the body and closed the door properly, highlights the depth of distrust he has toward her. It is in these subtle moments that we see Peace’s authority repeatedly undermined by her father’s skepticism.

These details showcase Lim’s skills in building up her characters within a short timeframe, using concise and snappy dialogues to create dynamic back-and-forth banter that adds to the film’s strong and escalating pacing and tempo.

These narrative choices were further shaped by practical constraints during production, which Lim and her team had to navigate to bring their vision to life. She shared that it was not an easy task to work out details like the blocking and filming schedule during the process, since they were only allowed one night in the funeral home. Lim revealed that the script was originally set to be in the embalming room, but because there were actual bodies in the room, they felt it was inappropriate to use the space and adjusted the script according to the location.

Another instance where Lim and her team faced challenges was while filming the scene where a wake was happening. She shared that they had to move the same set of chairs, tables, and flowers in the background to make it look like a real wake was happening. “That’s where we really played with the camera angles and the coordination for the extras walking through”, described Lim, expressing how those were valuable learning moments for her as a director.

Peace Funeral Home was brought to life with the support of SCAPE’s Film Facilitation Programme (FFP), where Lim had the opportunity to be mentored by Carlo Francisco Manatad, an established director based in the Philippines. Lim shared how the mentorship pushed her to approach her script and story pacing from fresh perspectives, providing invaluable guidance in refining her writing and editing process. When asked about her thoughts on directing full-time in Singapore, Lim acknowledged the inherent difficulties in the practice. “In general, the arts in Singapore requires a lot of passion and it requires a lot of sacrifice. But if you are willing to make the sacrifice for it, then it will be something that will be very clear to you.”

Looking ahead, Lim currently has plans for a future project titled Happy Wife, Happy Life that is about a woman who is scheming to kill her fiancé so that she can be the sole owner of their Build-To-Order (BTO) flat. “It’s still in development, but I figured I’d probably do it when I’m 35”, Lim joked, possibly referring to the fact that Singaporean singles can only purchase a BTO flat if they are aged 35 and above.

With its sharp humour, realistic dialogues, and thought-provoking setting, Peace Funeral Home is a standout short film that stays with you long after the watch. The film was an official selection at the Davis Feminist Film Festival 2024 and a nominee for Best Short Film, Best Director, and other awards at the Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF) 2024.

Peace Funeral Home is now available to rent on the Objectifs Film Library as part of SCAPE’s FFP programme at https://objectifsfilmlibrary.uscreen.io/programs/collections-nyfaffp-2022 .

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #154: WICKED

Mon, 06 Jan 2025 01:05:34 GMT

WICKED: DEFYING THE MUSICAL GENRE

Celebrating 20 years of the musical, the Wicked film adaptation directed by Jon M. Chu was one of 2024’s highly anticipated film releases after six years of lying in wait. With a star-studded cast -- all highly reputable in the realm of staged musicals and films like Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande and Johnathan Bailey, along with screen legends Michelle Yeoh and Jeff Goldblum, the film garnered traction amongst fans all around the world. Its memorable (but also meme-able) marketing campaign and press runs also helped cement this film in the pop culture lexicon, and like many movies released this year, it has become appreciated as more than just a musical-to-film adaptation.

Movie musicals have existed since the dawn of sound in the film industry when film was still bound to the experiences of theatre shows. However, in the 21st century, the success of movie musicals, both original and adapted, have become a lot harder to predict. I’ve observed that the genre has seemingly divided itself into four broad categories: Trailblazing, highly revered musicals of the 2000s like Chicago (2002) and Moulin Rouge (2001); cult favourites that defy criticisms such as Mamma Mia! (2008) and The Greatest Showman (2017) ; and more recent box-office, awards-tier frontrunners such as Les Miserables (2012) and La La Land (2016). Lastly, there are the more experimental, but less successful films such as Cats (2019) and recently Joker 2: Folie à Deux (2024) . With such an expansive range, varying degrees of success, and highly divisive opinions, movie musicals definitely aren’t what they used to be compared to the Golden Age. It appears that it’s a rarity for post-2000s cinema to achieve what Singing In The Rain (1952) had, and we might wonder if we will ever find modern-day equivalents of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, perhaps?).

But that’s not to say that musical movies are entirely forgotten. After La La Land’s success , there seems to be a growing interest in reviving this genre, with films hopping on the bandwagon, incorporating musical performance into stories in their own unique way. Even Steven Spielberg and Lin Manuel Miranda tried their hands at adapting movie musicals for the silver screen with West Side Story (2021) and Tick Tick Boom (2021) respectively. 2024 has also unexpectedly brought us more of these films like Cannes Grand Jury Prize winner Emilia Perez (2024), and Joshua Oppenheimer’s The End (2024).

In an era where musical movies (except Disney musicals) are on their road to recovering their significance in cinema’s hall of fame, Wicked deserves to join the leagues of Spielberg’s West Side Story, Chazelle’s La La Land, and Miranda’s Tick Tick Boom -- contemporary cinema that has aimed to resuscitate this genre.

As a fan of the musical myself, I had complete trust in Jon M. Chu to bring the fantastical visions of Oz to the silver screen. From the Step Up franchise to Crazy Rich Asians and his most recent musical adaptation, In The Heights (2021), Jon M. Chu comes with a canon loaded with experience in directing scenes with energetic choreography and dance numbers. Wicked further proves that if there is anything Chu knows best, it's how to move the camera in the most effective ways to enliven choreography and capture the vibrance of movement and music on screen. Wicked comes packed with riveting dance scenes paired with the most iconic musical numbers of the Broadway show -- from ‘Popular’ and ‘The Wizard and I’ to ‘Dancing Through Life’, it almost emulates the same excitement one would have felt watching it live in a theatre.

Being a film so closely associated with The Wizard of Oz (1939) , most recognised for its vibrant and illuminating Technicolour, one would expect Wicked to evoke the same richness in colour. However, the film holds a more muted, subtle dazzle that does not replicate its predecessor. Yet, this is compensated with the elaborate practical set and costume design that immerses audiences deep into the colourful world of the yellow brick road and poppy fields of Oz , where Shiz University stands in its full grandeur. Fans can expect their eyes to dart across the screen, scouring the mise-en-scene for easter eggs and homages to previous iterations of the Wizard of Oz and the Wicked musical, making this film a delight for everyone. Alice Brooks, the cinematographer, who previously collaborated with Chu in In The Heights, creates scenes that bathe in the glow of emerald, gold and pink hues, imbuing every shot with elegance.

However, the true success of Wicked comes from the stunning performances of its cast. Cynthia Erivo who plays the titular role of ‘Elphaba’, brings out the nuances of her character, and takes us on an emotional journey with Elphaba along with all her power and vulnerabilities. Ariana Grande as the bubbly and slightly self-absorbed ‘Glinda’, surprises audiences with her comic ability, capturing the essence of Glinda’s sparkling personality and penchant for dramatic flair -- a performance highly reminiscent of her earlier days on Nickelodeon. . Jonathan Bailey plays up Fiyero’s charm, while Jeff Goldblum accentuates the Wizard’s twisted and subtly manipulative yet affable character, and Michelle Yeoh commands the screen as Madame Morrible with versatility and power. Credit also needs to be given to Peter Dinklage, Ethan Slater, and Marissa Bode, whose brief appearances manage to convey tender, heartfelt emotions for all of their respective characters, allowing us to really appreciate these supporting characters. Even Bowen Yang and Brownwyn James bring a humorous touch to every scene they are in. Under the pressure of playing icons in the musical theatre world, and coming from a long line of competitors for their parts, Chu brings out the best of his cast, creating a dynamic so wonderfully playful and a synergy that is so captivating.

As seen by the film’s press run, the only thing that screams louder than Elpheba’s battle cry at the end of ‘Defying Gravity’, is the cast’s passion for the musical. Erivo and Grande have been vocal about their early dreams of playing their characters, and this is evidently reflected in their performances that clearly demonstrate with panache. Wicked’s success seems to have revealed the formula to create musical movies in the modern day: Cast people with the performance skills of musical actors, people who love their roles, and trust Jon M. Chu to direct choreography-rich sequences.

Named as one of the best movies of 2024 by the American Film Institute, Wicked is proof that there’s still room for movie musicals in the 21st Century, despite the unpredictability of its performance over the years. While life’s troubles desensitise us to traditional musicals’ romantic visions where problems are easily resolved through song and dance, musical movies help remind audiences of the very essence of cinema: a gateway to escape. Like Wicked ’s whimsical and enchanting nature, musicals offer a slice of magic and possibilities, even when we feel that reality falls short of such ideals.

As audiences continue to wait in anticipation of Part 2 of this film, it is safe to say that musical movies are getting revived or as we Gen-Zs like to say:

We are so back .

Image sources: IMDb

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About the author: A devoted fan of indie cinema and an avid music enthusiast, Mavis is a pop culture junkie with a keen interest in all aspects of contemporary culture. She especially loves female-forward narratives and passionately champions representation in film, continually educating herself on the importance of diverse storytelling. Whether sitting in a cinema or browsing through crates of vinyl, Mavis enjoys being immersed in tangible experiences that bring stories and music to life.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Catch Wicked , now showing at Golden Village , Shaw Theatres , and The Projector !

Fishing for Words (SYFF): Lingering Belief in Community

Mon, 06 Jan 2025 00:52:26 GMT

Lingering belief in community: a short commentary and interview with Director Alton Tan

Alton Ron Tan’s Fishing for Words is a compelling short documentary that delves into the daily struggles of aphasia patients and their community in Singapore. Aphasia is a language disorder typically caused by brain injury. To varying degrees, it impairs a person’s communication ability, making even daily conversation a constant challenge. Currently, in Singapore, it is estimated that more than 2,500 individuals are diagnosed with aphasia.

Through his distinctive visual language that deploys striking imagery (or Montage d’attraction , to invoke a jargon from Eisenstein) and the recurrent motif of a children’s toy – alphabet fishing – Alton tactfully draws viewers into the fragmented inner word of aphasia patients and vividly highlights their constant wrestle with sentence construction.

The notion of meaning and cohesion no longer unfolds naturally through the single dimension of sound wave transmission. Alton creatively reimagines and problematises this process through the lens of aphasia, presenting a nuanced sense-making model that operates simultaneously on both auditory and visual levels.

In the unedited interview clips of aphasia patient Sherwin Tang, we witness the arduous labour of meaning-making. At times, meaning eludes us entirely, resulting in miscarriages where sense refuses to reveal itself. More often, the typically straightforward path to “good senses” is disrupted and detoured, leading us, alongside Sherwin, to repeatedly stumble into the rabbit holes of stammering and navigate the labyrinths of disorganised signifiers.

‘Fishing for Words’ was selected for inclusion and screened in the 2024 Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF) where it was met with enthusiasm.

Stammering in community

In our initial correspondence, I was entirely unaware of Alton’s neurodivergence. He shared some of his early works, including his dissertation on documentary as a form of activism, along with a few short films and scripts. Two intertwining themes immediately stood out across his works: community and communication.

In the fiction screenplay Budak Bising , the Malay teenager Afiz seeks to escape his family due to a lack of genuine conversation. In the documentary The Other Side a boy reflects on his struggles with finding community and navigating personal disillusionment with a religious group he once belonged to. In Fishing for Words , the themes of disrupted communication and the struggle for integration are unmistakable.

At the same time, Alton’s cinematic world often reveals a persistent hope for community and frank communication. Whether it is the family photo on Afiz’s wallpaper in Budak Bising , the yearning to be part of something larger in The Other Side , or the struggle to reconnect with society in Fishing for Words , these stories move away from the postmodern idea of “activism”, which often questions the value of community and communication. When asked about his view on community and communication, Alton’s answer is simple: “No one can live alone”. But what drives Alton to adopt this unconventional stance on activism? How will he interpret his activism through the lens of documentary filmmaking?

With these questions, I met the 27-year-old filmmaker on a fresh, stormy Saturday afternoon at a cosy bar near his alma mater, LASALLE College, where he graduated last year with a bachelor’s degree in film.

Exploring aphasia

Wenbo: ‘Fishing For Words’ explores aphasia. What drew you to this topic, and how did your initial inspiration evolve during production?

Alton: I originally planned to do a document about my experiences growing up on the autism spectrum part of my undergraduate project. My lecturers, however, suggested that my work should be more aligned with the community.

Around the same time, I came across actor Bruce Willis’ story. Later in life, he started appearing confused and disorientated in films. In 2021, all eight films he acted in that year were grouped into a special category at the Golden Raspberry Awards titled “Worst Performance by Bruce Willis”. It was later revealed by his family that the underlying condition is aphasia, resulting from frontotemporal dementia. Hence, I found some commonalities with my autism condition and aphasia, both are invisible and closely related to communication and language processing.

W: But why language?

A: Words are like currency. It is more essential than ever in today’s world. Especially when your livelihood depends on language, losing that ability makes it incredibly difficult to survive. That’s when I realised I wanted to create a documentary on this topic, but with a focus on something more local. People who suffer from aphasia often don’t receive the empathy they truly deserve.

Empathy and representation

W: What is empathy to you?

A: Empathy, to me, is more like a continuous exercise in understanding what I have compared to others. I have encountered various people from those on the variable ends of the autism spectrum to my current wheelchair-bound colleague. They face challenges I don’t have to deal with, just as I face challenges they might not experience. Empathy isn’t about forcing yourself to fully understand someone else’s experience – but really, it’s about recognising and understanding your differences.

So, it’s all about balancing your inner strengths and flaws with other people’s experiences. It’s not about pitying others or seeing them as weaker. It’s about understanding that we are all flawed in different ways.

W: Do you think we have done enough to portray such empathy in our visual culture?

A: No. Let me give you an example. In the 2022 National Day Parade, there is a segment featuring disabled individuals in wheelchairs singing a song. When filming the segment, many cameras, focused on the wheelchairs or visible impairments rather than the individuals’ faces. While it gives you context for their condition, I don’t think it’s enough. Not all disabilities are visible, like those involving wheelchairs; some of them can be just entirely invisible.

W: So you approach this differently.

A: I want to show people that people have agency. They are always actively doing something to regain that sense of normality. At least, that’s what I’ve experienced in my own life.

W: How does that change the way you view yourself?

A: I did not find out I was on the autism spectrum until I was 16. My brain processes things more slowly, and I struggle with complex topics. I had to drop my mother tongue in primary school because I wasn’t progressing in language. I was also bullied in school. I was unsure how to define my identity.

But over time, I realised I needed to stop feeling sad or wishing life had been different. I had to start doing something about it.

Documentary as activism

W: In your dissertation, you advocate for documentary as a form of “activism”. Do you consider it political?

A: No, I don't see it as political. If it were, I’d be encouraging donations to the organisations or lobbying the government to take action. But that’s not my intention. I don’t want to force anyone to make a choice. At least I don’t believe it’s about choices in the way, say, a presidential election is. If I were creating something to lobby the Singapore Parliament for more support for people with disabilities, that would be fine – but it’s not what I want to do.

W: So you see it as something personal – a direct exchange between you and your audience.

A: Yes. For my audience, if they feel engaged but don’t know where to take action or aren’t sure if they even want to, it’s okay. What matters is that they become aware – that they recognise these struggles and uncertainties in life. If my films help them understand the value of empathy and the flaws inherent in being human, that is more than enough. For me, it’s also about finding a sense of closure.

W: It’s a therapeutic form of activism.

A: We have been showing the depressing state of the world, but I believe that activism is about inspiring hope despite humanity’s flaws. I want people to be moved in a way that feels casual, not tragic. Right now, it’s about spreading more love and less hate.

W: Give us three recommendations for documentary films

A: Dear Zachary by Kurt Kuenne explores the flaws in Canadian custody laws. Procession by Rober Greene talks about the religious abuse and trauma in the Roman Catholic Church. Marwencool by Jeff Malmberg shows a man’s struggle with amnesia.

Alton Ron Tan’s Fishing for Words is available for streaming at: https://vimeo.com/1038473437/9addab9d4a

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About the author: An omnivore in film, literature and philosophy.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Wr iting Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

My First Film Festival Experience with SGIFF

Tue, 31 Dec 2024 14:56:12 GMT

My First Film Festival Experience with SGIFF

This year saw the 35th edition of the Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF) returning from 28 November to 8 December 2024. As someone who had been desiring the experience of a film festival for quite some time, I finally made sure to attend this year's edition, which was not only my first SGIFF experience, but my first Film Festival experience.

Having had a great interest in further exploring cinema, what better way was there for me to live and breathe films for a period of time than to attend a film festival? It's one of the best ways to discover new films.

Upon the release of the film schedule, I immediately drew out a plan of all the titles in the lineup I wanted to catch.

Having known SGIFF as a platform for films not usually showcased theatrically in the Singaporean mainstream cinemas, I made sure to catch the titles whose potential theatrical exhibition was uncertain.

Over the course of the year, I kept in tune with the various festival channels, and a number of films surfaced that were deemed by others – critics, programmer friends, festival juries, the online film community, etc. – worthy of attention. Examples include titles like Universal Language, April, and Grand Tour. It seemed obvious before the lineup was even announced that these films would get screened, so when the reveal came, they were already on my festival watchlist.

A major component in the planning – and subsequent crumbling of said plan – was the festival passes offered at this year's edition. Three passes were up for grabs: the Cinephile Pass, Industry Pass, and SGIFFriends Pass. I had the pleasure of obtaining the first two passes, which allowed me to cover the entire duration of the festival and almost all of its offerings.

How the Cinephile Pass worked was that you'd go to a screening, and if it was not sold out, you would be able to get a ticket and enter. However, if a screening was sold out, one would be relocated to the rush queue, where the empty seats of no-show ticket-holders would then be offered up to whoever came first. The former piece of information was not properly communicated before the festival began, leaving me believing that, sold out or not, I'd have to wait for all the ticket-holders to enter before I could. Fortunately, that was proven not to be the case and I spent most of the festival entering screenings with ease.

The Cinephile Pass opened up the possibility that my plan was never set in stone until it happened; the initial schedule could shift in whichever way possible. With the unpredictability of certain screenings that sold out quickly, I opened myself up to the idea of drastically changing my viewing plan midway through the festival, which resulted in the original plan going straight out the window about two days into the festival.

This was not the only factor that influenced my embrace of spontaneity. The second pass that I had, the Industry Pass, gave me access to the Industry Days conference that took place midway through the festival. It was three days of insightful panels looking into the various areas of filmmaking that were not widely covered, at least to the best of my knowledge. Guests – international and local – were invited to speak on topics such as Hybrid Filmmaking, Film Sales, Intimacy Coordination and Sustainable Production, just to name a few. Certain topics such as Film Sales are difficult to get substantial information on outside of the industry circle, making these talks invaluable as they give you a deeper insight into the necessary functions behind the making or distribution of a film.

I was privileged enough to receive a free pass from my school, and was initially only going to attend the morning sessions and proceed to screenings for the rest of the day. However, instinct told me to go on for the entire duration. Thanks to the newfound flexibility of my viewing schedule, I was able to bend it to attend the conference.

The panels were not the only benefits of the conference. There were plenty of opportunities for networking and socialising with fellow filmmakers. I met producers, directors, sound designers, and more faces in the local film industry. It was a boost of confidence and inspiration to continue making films. All of this culminated in the final closing night of the conference, where I managed to make friends with the crew members of Some Nights I Feel Like Walking, a Philippine film that was part of the official selection.

The Industry Pass also allowed me to attend the festival's 'In Conversation' talks, where revered guests from around the world would discuss their bodies of work. Some big names this year included Lee Kang-sheng, Yang Kuei-mei, Jafar Panahi and Lou Ye. It provided a rare chance to meet some of my filmmaking heroes in person and listen to them.

One of the greatest gifts one could receive from attending a film festival would be the ability to discover undermentioned gems from around the world, new or old. My personal standouts were Don't You Let Me Go (dirs. Ana Guevara, Leticia Jorge) from Uruguay, and The Dupes (dir. Tawfiq Saleh) from Syria.

It goes without saying that such titles do not have a mainstream platform, though having played at well-regarded festivals. Don't You Let Me Go , for example, slipped under the radar, only playing at the Tribeca Film Festival and a handful of others that do not have the same reach as the former. In the case of The Dupes , a film from 1972 without any information available online,it was almost as good as a piece of rediscovered cinema. I only caught these titles midway through the festival while trying to fill in the empty pockets of time in my schedule, and I was very glad to have done so.

Festival sections like the Undercurrent section made for some highlights, one of which was a Polish experimental short film Grandmamauntsistercat that repurposed and remixed archival communist propaganda into something new. Titles like these would not have been heard of within this circle if not for the platform provided by SGIFF.

Ultimately, this year's experience was a fantastic eye-opener into the world of film festivals for me. Amidst the rush and overwhelming nature of it all, there were many great lessons learned and memorable experiences and friendships forged.

Looking forward to the next edition!

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About the author: Amadeus is a filmmaker who has loved cinema as far back as he could remember. Most of his time is spent in theatres, otherwise he is writing about the films playing in them.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #153: HAPPYEND (SGIFF)

Mon, 23 Dec 2024 02:36:56 GMT

SGIFF Film Review - Happyend (2024)

Often, we learn important lessons about ourselves, about the world and about life itself through studying history. Can we do the same by examining an imagined future? Director Neo Sora answers confidently, "yes!"

Titled Happyend , Sora's second feature film, and his first narrative directorial debut, offers a peek into Japan in the near future where natural disasters, particularly earthquakes, threaten to cripple society, and where the authorities seize the moment to enact and enforce draconian orders which disadvantage some segments more than others, thus attracting protests. Confrontational as it seems, Happyend turns out to be a tender tale about friendship.

Told from a high-schooler quintet's point of view, the film draws us in through the eyes of best friends Kou and Yuta, played by newcomers Yukito Hidaka and Hayato Kurihara respectively, as they grapple with a clamp on their desire to express themselves and their love for music, and their weakening relationship as they navigate diverging ways from adolescence to adulthood. Hidaka's Kou further portrays the identity crisis of second-generation immigrants in Japan (he and his family are Koreans).

Integrating music seamlessly into the storytelling, Sora's work does not give the slightest hint that this is a debut. Composer Lia Ouyang Rusli's score illustrates a macrocosmic view of the modern world in the near future, including that of a society where information and technology make for a more sophisticated people to rebel against authoritarian regimes. The techno genre that our protagonists are deeply passionate about is contrasted by the symphonic score of the film, yet amounts to no contradiction whatsoever. Sora and Rusli worked wonders here.

Rusli's score might even remind some of Hou Hsiao-Hsien's magnum opus, A City of Sadness (1989). Interestingly, in a post-screening Q&A, Sora also acknowledged and paid homage to the majestic score by Naoki Tachikawa.

Sora certainly understands the potential of both film and music in inspiring minds and perhaps initiating deeper critical thinking, but whether that evolved thinking translates to any kind of action or reaction is up to each individual. Typically, dysphoria gathers like-minded people, or people who share similar misfortunes. Kou and Yuta, together with their closest friends, might just represent an entire generation of youths whose aspirations are challenged or suppressed. It is through their trust for one another and companionship that Happyend strikes a chord with viewers. Not to mention the diversity of these five characters, their natural chemistry dilutes what might otherwise appear as being diverse for diversity’s sake. This is sublime writing, casting, ensemble acting and directing.

However, the best thing about Happyend , in my opinion, is its balance. Sora does just enough across every aspect of filmmaking, and displays incredible restraint. While this film tells the struggles of the oppressed and ostracised, it also frees us viewers from the very confrontations that could make this film overly melodramatic. In trying to picture what catastrophes might be ahead of us, Sora successfully pushes us to think hard of our actions now, and more importantly, to cherish those we hold dear in our lives, because they are all we have if and when the future takes everything else away from us.

Happyend is co-produced in association with Giraffe Pictures who also distributes it in Singapore. Stay tuned for its theatrical release.

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Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #152: MILK (SYFF)

Wed, 18 Dec 2024 00:50:55 GMT

SYFF: MILK BY JAVIER LIM

Having premiered at the Singapore Youth Film Festival 2024 (SYFF), Milk is a short film written and directed by Javier Lim, with his peers from Nanyang Technological University (NTU) Art Design and Media school (ADM). Nominated for Best Screenplay and Best Directing at this year’s SYFF, the film was their final-year graduation project. Before its premiere, I had the privilege of speaking to Lim about his experience and the creative process that he underwent while bringing this story to life.

“I actually never intended to pitch this movie,” says Lim. Yet one would not expect that, seeing the level of execution and intent that went into it.

Milk follows the story of a woman, completely new to motherhood, who is learning the ropes of balancing it with her work life. Entrusting the care of her baby boy to her mother-in-law during the week, the film unearths generational differences and explores the tensions that exist within parenthood, marriage, and maternal instincts. Loosely inspired by the complexities of motherhood and intergenerational differences surfaced in ‘Inferno: A Memoir of Motherhood and Madness’ by Catherine Cho, Milk is a semi-autobiographical film where Lim relates the story back to the experiences of his own mother. “I read the book [‘Inferno: A Memoir of Motherhood and Madness] and I think it was the intergenerational conflict in Inferno that I related back to my mother’s experience that drove me to tell the story.” Milk was therefore an homage to the female figures in his life – Lim drew on his experiences growing up, watching his mother and grandmother raise him.

For a film that was only 15 minutes long, this thought-provoking tale introduces us to a range of extremely layered characters. The protagonist faces a strong internal struggle between caring for her son and her career, and feels pangs of guilt when she has to leave her son at her Mother-In-Law’s place. Subtle details of characterisation bring out her inner conflict – her constant worry reflected in her fretting over packing her son’s “chou chou” (i.e. comfort pillow that usually provides children a familiar scent) or scheduling time for her son’s medical checkups. Then, there is her husband, who in times of tension, precariously straddles between being a devoted husband who wants to ease his wife’s anxiety, and a faithful son to his mother.

“What was the intention of the husband’s character?” I asked Lim, “because on the first watch, I thought he was a ‘momma’s boy’”.

“We did consider removing the husband character actually, but it wasn’t working as fundamentally, the conflict involves the husband’s stance as well,” Lim responded. With the intention of keeping the conflict centred on the protagonist, Lim had no intentions to portray the husband as overtly good, “So the way we went was to make him a guy with good intentions but poor ways of showing them”. A viewer like me, could easily dismiss the husband’s role as an oblivious onlooker, the typical ‘bare minimum father’ who leaves domestic duties to his wife. Yet, it was evident that the husband is the bridge between the two women, highlighting how both key female characters are at odds with one another, and creating its own type of dysfunction within both relationships.

Finally, there is the Mother-in-Law, an elderly woman who has evidently accumulated years of caretaking. The audience would be quick to assume that given her age and experience, she would be a reliable caretaker for the baby boy. Yet, her joking banter with the baby seems to conceal a casual nonchalance towards the child. In addition, abiding strictly with traditions, she foresakes more modern methods of caretaking, which leads to the peak of the conflict in the film.

There is a synergy between these characters, as they bounce off each other with passive aggressiveness and contesting ideals of what it means to show love and care. The character dynamics between them flesh out nods to the anxieties of parenthood. Noticing all these conflicts between the characters, one can forget that all of them are ultimately bound together over their care for the baby. These details bring the short film back to what it tries to show: the complexities of marriage, and how ‘care’ often manifests itself in different ways. The film takes us on a journey to answer this question: what is the correct way to parent, when every generation is equally fallible, and has their own traditions of caretaking?

In a film that is so densely packed with detail and layers in its short duration, it conveys intention throughout. Asking Lim about his experience making this film, he told me in complete honesty, “It was actually very difficult. We had a lot of feedback when we wrote Milk . One thing is that I’m not a woman, so I had to navigate the gender differences in the script, but thankfully, our professors were very supportive and could give us advice on parenting to help with our script.” He said. “We came up with many drafts, and we kept drawing and visualising the chain of events, then trying different elements to find one that worked out.” He continued.

[��The following paragraph contains minor spoilers, read at caution or skip to the paragraph after!]

In a riveting final scene, we see the mother holding on to her baby boy, as she walks through the quiet neighbourhood intercut with cars swiftly whizzing past her. In this moment where the film reaches its emotional high, there is a palpable anxiety and desperation. We witness the instinct of motherhood kicking in, where protection has become her first priority. As the film ends, we see her sit down on a park bench holding her son, as a sense of stillness washes over the screen. “What did the ending mean to you?” I asked Lim. “The ending sequence was mainly for the mum character, because she’s never had a proper moment with her child. In that intimate moment, after doing something drastic, she was feeling the bond she couldn’t feel since she left [the child at the Mother-In-Law’s house].”

From its richly layered and thought-provoking dialogue, to the profound narrative, the film offers viewers a chance to reflect and engage deeply with its story, allowing them to form their own personal connections and resonance with the film. It’s a film constructed with deliberate care that supports a clear artistic vision, and a lot to be applauded for. “So what’s something you were extra proud of?” I asked out of curiosity. “Completing the film,” Lim laughed. When I asked what he learned on set, he said “I think I look at directors differently, I’ve become more aware of things that happened, the inner workings of a scene. I feel like I’ve become more confident, I know what to ask and how to be more analytical about the shoot. It’s thinking in the mind of the director.”

To end our conversation, I asked Lim “What’s one thing you hope audiences take away from your film?”

“Learn more about motherhood, what it's like to be a working mum and having to deal with a new family. And babies can’t drink water.”

While the short film isn’t available online yet, viewers can follow their socials @milk.thefilm on Instagram to stay updated on the film.

Image sources: Javier Lim

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Film Review #151: THE GIRL WITH THE NEEDLE

Sat, 14 Dec 2024 11:02:52 GMT

Survival vs. Morality in The Girl with the Needle

Premiering at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival in competition for the Palme d’Or, The Girl with the Needle is director Magnus von Horn’s third and latest feature film. The story is inspired by true events that happened nearly a century ago, which if you didn’t know before watching this film, provides a real shock as the story unfolds.

The psychological drama follows its young female protagonist, Karoline (Victoria Carmen Sonne), who is struggling to survive in post-WWI Copenhagen with a missing husband, and takes a job as a factory worker. Soon she begins a relationship with the wealthy factory owner, eventually becoming pregnant. Just as it seems her life might improve, fate has other plans. Karoline later meets a woman who can help, but she doesn’t yet know what she is really in for.

At the Cannes press interview, von Horn remarked that he and cinematographer Michal Dymek [ EO (2022), Sweat (2020)] decided from the beginning of the project to take their audience on a time travel. The black-and-white treatment successfully emphasised the poverty and struggle of post-war society.

What’s interesting about the narrative structure is that although several moments in The Girl with the Needle unfold in predictable ways, they offer a sense of comfort and ensure that the story is easy to follow. As a result, this allows space for the true shock and horror of Karoline’s predicament to be delivered without overwhelming the audience with narrative complexity.

The plot thickens when the factory owner makes a decision based on Karoline’s pregnancy. The way that this life-changing decision is made reflects societal attitudes of the time and underscores the precarious position of women, especially those who were of an underprivileged economic standing.

What follows quickly after is a key scene at a bathhouse. The camera’s framing of the titular needle on the countertop as well as its focus on Sonne’s facial expression of Karoline coming to a decision in those few seconds, makes it obvious that she would use that needle for something devastating. However, what makes the scene truly shocking is the sheer size of the needle. From the movie poster, I assumed it would be the size of a sewing needle, but it turned out to be far larger and all the more terrifying. While the storyline and camera framing in that moment are predictable, the unexpected scale of the needle creates a jarring contrast that heightens the shock factor. Judging by the gasps and squirms from the audience around me, I wasn’t the only one taken aback.

As the story progresses, another seemingly predictable narrative arc plays out - Karoline’s repeated rejection of her estranged husband, a kind but disfigured troubled man suffering from post-war post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), feels like another check off the traditional arc of redemption and forgiveness. But while his role is somewhat clichéd, it grounds the narrative, providing Karoline with a lifeline as she navigates her mistakes and choices. Without giving away spoilers, his consistent kindness towards her also makes him the moral centre of the story and someone easy to root for.

The Girl with the Needle is in essence, a dark fairy tale. Karoline’s journey mirrors the classic hero’s arc: a cycle of struggle, perseverance, and eventual triumph (somewhat). The narrative structure, formulaic as it is, keeps the focus on Karoline and her descent into moral ambiguity. Everything that happens because of and around her keeps her front and centre of the plot – main character energy – and reinforces her agency.

Ultimately, in focusing on her continued complicity (albeit the attendant mental spirals) in something so immoral and inhumane, the film highlights once again the poverty and desperation of the post-war era, and the universal grit to fight against one’s circumstance for survival.

The film forces viewers to grapple with the uncomfortable question: How far would one go when faced with the impossible choice between survival and morality?

For women like Karoline, it meant navigating a world that offered few choices, forcing them into morally gray or outright abhorrent decisions just to stay afloat. The line between right and wrong blurs when every decision feels like a fight for survival.

This tension between survival and morality remains strikingly relevant today, even in a richer global economy. While we may not face the same level of post-war devastation, modern society still presents its own versions of these impossible choices. From individuals forced to work exploitative jobs due to financial hardship, to the ethical compromises companies make to stay competitive, survival often comes at the expense of moral clarity.

This is why The Girl with the Needle reminds us that while the circumstances may have changed, the fight to survive – and the sacrifices it demands – remains part of the human experience.

And in that, von Horn powerfully takes “something that feels so horrible and [makes] something human about it and [looks] for the humanity in it,” as he says in a press interview at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.

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About the author: Glennice has always been drawn to the way film and TV unravel the layers of the human condition. For her, these stories act as windows to the world, teaching her about the complexities of life and the intricate connections between people. A marketing professional by day and devotee of the screen by night, Glennice immerses herself in films to understand the world a little better.

The Girl with the Needle has won numerous awards including Best Feature Film at the 2024 Polish Film Festival. It was screened as Singapore Film Society’s Showcase #38 for its Singapore premiere and exclusive one-time screening.

To catch more films like these, join SFS Membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Film Review #150: PRODIGIES

Wed, 11 Dec 2024 08:07:39 GMT

Film Review: Prodigies

Based on a true story, Prodigies is a 2024 French film inspired by the lives of real-life sisters Audrey and Diane Pleynet. It tells the story of twin sisters Claire and Jeanne, gifted pianists enrolled at a prestigious music academy. As they and their peers compete for the coveted role of soloist in an upcoming grand concert, their dreams are eventually derailed by a genetic illness that gradually impairs the use of their hands.

Believing in the power of the arts to transform lives, I found myself deeply moved by how the film explores the ways in which the sisters’ identities are intertwined with their craft. It serves as a reflection of one’s relationship with creative pursuits — how they shape us, challenge us and sometimes define who we are.

As a poignant exploration of identity and individuality, the image of the twins as a recurring motif forces viewers to confront the constant comparisons they endure. In the scenes at the academy, Claire and Jeanne are treated less as distinct individuals and more as mirror images, as they are subjected to perpetual judgement, ridicule and gossip. This objectification strips them of their personal goals and motivations, becoming a key challenge the sisters face not only in their interactions with others but also in their close relationship with each other.

The toxicity observed in the music academy goes further to explore the harshness of competition, portraying an environment where ambition is a relentless battle. The cutthroat nature of this setting highlights how the pursuit of artistic excellence can devolve into a ruthless contest. Initially driven by a passion for music, the students are gradually consumed by a fixation on success and recognition. Such moments are evident when a pianist is dismissed as arrogant as she fights to outperform the sisters, while a conductor berates a music teacher for his methodical approach as an educator, accusing him of diluting his artistic sensibility. Through this theme, the film critiques the extent to which one’s love for art becomes overshadowed by an obsession with achievement.

On another note, Prodigies thoroughly encapsulates the sacrifices demanded by the pursuit of the arts. Claire’s father, for instance, forbids her from entering a romantic relationship, insisting that she remain singularly focused on her commitment to music. Meanwhile, her mother’s own backstory adds another layer of complexity, as she had abandoned her career in fashion to support her daughters’ musical ambitions. As the narrative unfolds, the sisters’ physical, emotional, and mental well-being are tested to the breaking point as they grapple with strained relationships, familial misunderstandings, peer pressure, demanding mentors, rigid societal expectations and the brunt of the approaching concert.

The onset of their illness incites further struggles as the sisters are told that piano can no longer be part of their lives, kicking off a series of events marked by feelings such as jealousy, betrayal, estrangement and isolation.

Failure is an inevitable companion in any artistic journey. In the face of setbacks, we often question if what we are doing is wrong. Yet art is inherently subjective, pure and boundless. As someone who has experimented with various forms of artistic expression and has a deep affection for the arts, I found a particular scene especially touching. The sisters, in a moment of defeat amid their failing health, assert that while they may step away from competitions and achievements, they will never abandon their practice of music. This sentiment struck a chord with me — the idea of giving yourself fully to your craft, not for recognition, but for the sheer love of creation. Sometimes, the most freeing act is to let go — throw your work out the window (as the sisters literally do) and embrace the liberation that comes with it.

Overall, Prodigies is a moving biographical portrait of how two sisters, when faced with a challenge that stood against their passion, chose to define their fate on their own terms. In doing so, the sisters have left behind a legacy that transcends their musical achievements, offering a profound lesson on the importance of love and resilience, resonating long after the film’s final notes.

Prodigies was screened as part of the 40th vOilah! French Film Festival and is currently playing in Singapore cinemas.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #149: GHOSTLIGHT

Wed, 11 Dec 2024 07:54:23 GMT

Ghostlight (2024)

Dir. Alex Thompson & Kelly O’Sullivan

Ghostlight (2024) is an unassuming yet extraordinary film that delicately weaves together themes of love, family, grief, and loss. Co-directed by Alex Thompson and Kelly O’Sullivan, the film captivated audiences at this year’s Sundance Film Festival with its quiet brilliance and emerged as a standout gem among the festival’s many talented offerings.

The story follows Dan Mueller (Keith Kupfurer) , a tense and sullen construction worker trying to hold his family—and himself—together after a traumatic incident. As he struggles to manage his belligerent teenage daughter, Daisy (the promisingly talented Katherine Mallen Kupferer) , and her erratic behaviour at school, we also see him trying to maintain an emotional distance from his wife, Sharon (wonderfully played by Tara Mallen) , an elementary school music teacher who is trying her best to reconnect the family.

After a sudden outburst of explosive frustration at work, Dan finds himself jobless and increasingly unable to control his emotions. Witnessing the incident, Rita (breakout Filipino star Dolly De Leon) , an actress from a nearby theatre, offers him an unexpected opportunity to join their community production of Shakespeare’s classic Romeo and Juliet . “It seemed like you might want a chance of being somebody else”, Rita suggests.

Ghostlight is ultimately a story about how people live in the face of loss and tragedy. At its core lies a profound question: In times of immense grief, how do we rediscover the capacity to let our emotions flow freely, if embracing them means admitting defeat?

Ghostlight offers theatre as an unexpected doorway––a place where pretending might help us reconnect with what’s real. The film delicately underscores the transformative power that art and community have in helping people navigate through life’s toughest struggles, reminding us that any attempt to engage with our emotions at all is better than burying them and pretending they don’t exist. “Many of us live our lives repressing our emotions because out there, they can be a liability. But in here, we can put those into good use”—eloquently delivered by the incredibly gentle Rita.

Despite its heavy themes, the movie is surprisingly funny and deeply cathartic, blending tears and laughter in just the right way. You cannot help but laugh at the many situational comedic moments, like watching Dan, a big, gruff construction worker, try to perform breathing exercises and do silly dances with the other actors. But watching him slowly break apart, piece by piece, and learn to feel, is incredibly moving.

In the Mueller family, it is clear that everyone is processing the incident in their own way; Daisy constantly lashes out because she doesn’t know how to let go of her emotions, Sharon turns to gardening as a means to cope, and Dan just stubbornly tries to will his way through. The family, or maybe just Dan, refuses to talk about the elephant in the room. Yet, the thing about buried emotions is that they don’t disappear––they fester and grow until they demand to be faced. Grief, in particular, is not just a storm that passes; it’s a quiet drizzle that lingers, shaping the entire landscape of people’s lives.

Dan’s inability to express his emotions not only isolates him but also causes immense strain on his family, who are silently struggling alongside him. One particular moment that moved me is when Daisy, after her therapy session, shares with Dan in the car that her friend attends family therapy together because, as she puts it, “she’s not the only problem.” It’s a poignant reminder that the burdens of grief and healing aren’t meant to rest on just one person’s shoulders.

It is only through the act of stepping into another’s shoes, of playing a character with motives he couldn’t even begin to understand, that Dan begins to find the courage to confront and accept the truth. By finally letting himself feel, Dan opens the door for his family to confront their pain together, breaking free from the silent isolation he had unintentionally imposed on them. In learning to share the weight of grief, they find a path toward healing as a family.

What makes the portrayal of the Muellers so compelling and heartfelt was the natural, lived-in dynamic among the trio. Finding out later that Keith Kupferer, Tara Mallen, and Katherine Mallen Kupferer are an actual real-life family adds yet another layer of charm to the film. The performances across the board feel deeply truthful, and this authenticity grounds the story in a way that makes the audience truly believe in the Muellers as a family.

Katherine Mallen Kupferer, in particular, delivers a powerhouse performance as Daisy, whose fiery intensity perfectly contrasts Dan’s restrained demeanour. She steals the show with her raw, magnetic energy, commanding attention in every scene she’s in.

While the plot risks being too contrived and predictable, borrowing its foundation from the all-too-familiar story of Romeo and Juliet , Ghostlight manages to carve out a tale of its own, leaving a heartfelt and truly genuine story about love, loss, family, and community, all set against the backdrop of theatre and with just the right amount of lightness.

Melancholic and tear-jerking at its core, the film is also filled with an uplifting sense of hope, warmth, and healing. Ghostlight reminds us that only by allowing ourselves to feel can we truly continue to live.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #148: CASTING A LIGHT ON THE DANCE OF DARKNESS

Wed, 11 Dec 2024 07:44:59 GMT

Film Review: Casting a Light on the Dance of Darkness (SYFF)

Casting a Light on the Dance of Darkness is an intriguing documentary short about Singapore’s sole practitioner of “Butoh”, a rare form of performance art originating from Japan. Director E-Vyn Toh successfully delivers on Our Grandfather Story’s (OGS) established approach to crafting sensitive, thoughtful portraits of their subjects. Going a step further, she seizes a unique opportunity to cross over from passive observer to advocate, crafting a subtle yet immersive experience that invites thoughtful discussion on tolerance and acceptance in Singapore.

If you were to ask me to describe “Butoh” after seeing it for the first time, one of the first words out of my mouth would be “exotic”. But that word does very little to describe anything about the dance itself. The word focuses on distance, describing a reaction to foreignness that sets our senses atingle when greeted by the unfamiliar.

But exoticism is a matter of perspective. The filmmakers understand this, and while the striking visual character of a Butoh performance is virtually impossible to neutralize, it is possible to carefully guide an audience past their initial reactions to Butoh, and into a more nuanced close-up of its performer, XUE.

XUE’s first encounter with Butoh was neither in Singapore nor Japan, but in the vibrant counterculture of New York City. Her emotional journey both abroad and locally, and her struggles with belonging and acceptance are articulated with confidence, and from a great deal of experience.

E-Vyn Toh demonstrates an ability to be won over by a subject yet maintain a sense of objectivity. It’s that objectivity that enables her to craft a subtle yet arresting piece that draws its audience deep into territory some might otherwise deem too “exotic”. Her ability to draw out both the thoughtful and passionate sides of XUE enables her to paint an intriguingly relatable picture of a unique Singaporean story.

Clear parallels are drawn between the life XUE knew overseas, and the one she is actively forging for herself in Singapore. The filmmakers demonstrate tact in selecting information that is most resonant with audiences, while maintaining a degree of privacy. We gain a sense of XUE’s experiences overseas, focusing on her encounters with the various counterculture movements of NYC. As audience members, we can’t help but contrast that with what we know of our own culture in Singapore, and the film invites us to wonder exactly how well XUE might be adjusting to her home turf.

XUE’s journey does not point fingers at any gaping problem or injustice in Singapore. Rather, her journey with Butoh serves as a catalyst for broader discussion about our own capacity for acceptance and tolerance. Butoh is presented purely as a form of self-discovery and expression. Her father’s decision to ignore her interest in Butoh could be compared to the attitudes of many in Singapore who, despite our outspoken multiculturalism, still retain a measure of “Not in my backyard” attitude when something too foreign or unsettling comes along.

One might argue that Singapore simply has neither the mass nor the obligation to host and sustain every practice, culture and fad that finds its way onto our shores. While that may certainly be true, XUE’s story reminds us that the ones who are most affected by our acceptance and rejection are often fellow Singaporeans, on their own journey of discovery, hoping to find some reassurance along the way.

The future of Butoh in Singapore remains uncertain, whether more will join XUE and grow the local practice, or if it will turn out to be a fleeting occurrence. Whatever the case may be, that uncertainty is all the more reason for us to show some hospitality while it dances on our shores.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Lou Ye: Inhabit the Cinematic Setting

Wed, 11 Dec 2024 07:31:08 GMT

Lou Ye: Inhabit the Cinematic Setting

Lou Ye may well be the only Chinese sixth-generation director who remains profoundly relevant in today’s international art scene. While contemporaries like Jia Zhangke, Wang Xiaoshuai, and Ning Hao continue to produce a steady stream of works for global festivals, Lou stands out as the sole figure who intentionally evolves his cinematic language to align with each era and spatial context. Over decades of cinematic practice, Lou has described his approach as being “attached” to the times, making his cinema inseparable from the fabric of socio-historical reality. Through an examination of Lou’s past works, including Suzhou River (2000), Summer Palace (2006), and his latest piece, An Unfinished Film (2024), alongside insights drawn from first-hand observations at this year’s Singapore International Festival (SGIFF), this article seeks to reconstruct and explore Lou’s philosophy of cinematic reality in his creative process.

Lou Ye was part of the Silver Screen Awards Jury at the 35th edition of the SGIFF, where his latest work, An Unfinished Film , was prominently featured in the Horizon section. He also delivered an insightful panel talk in person ( In Conversation: Lou Ye ) as part of this year’s program. Tickets for both the film screening and the panel discussion sold out immediately upon release.

An Unfinished Film received the Audience Choice Award on December 8th at this year’s SGIFF and is scheduled for a special repeat screening on December 14th.

In the panel talk, Lou admitted with refreshing frankness that the environment is both an obstacle and a driving force for his creative process. He passionately embraces any uncertainties it entails, remarking that “The charm and vitality lie beyond design (魅力与生命力在设计之外)”. Meanwhile, the enigmatic and unpredictable censorship system enforced by China’s State Administration of Radio, Film and Television (SARFT) – described by Lou in an interview as “no one knows the exact boundary” (Cinephilia, 2020) – has remained a constant presence throughout the careers of sixth-generation directors. For these filmmakers, the shifting political climate is an inescapable reality they confront time and again. Politics, therefore, is not just a backdrop to their cinematic reality but a force deeply internalised as an integral part of their artistic expression.

Though individuals may have their own opinions on Chinese censorship, we’d like to look past any value judgements but recognise it as an inescapable part of reality that the six-generation director must contend with – actively shaping their worldview in ways that transcend their individual will. Any one director may also respond differently to the political landscape at various points in time. For instance, to meet the SARFT’s standards, Lou made over one hundred cuts to secure the release of The Shadow Play (2018) (Cinephilia, 2020), illustrating a cooperative dynamic between creative vision and ideological constraints. In contrast, in works like Summer Palace and An Unfinished Film , Lou defiantly bypassed censorship altogether, opting to release the films overseas without obtaining official approval (the Dragon Certificate, or 龙标).

The unique political sensitivities of Chinese authorities shape Lou’s perception of reality in at least three distinct ways. First, recognising that reality is inseparable from politics, Lou excels at uncovering the political undercurrents embedded in daily experiences.

*Spoiler Alert: The next paragraph may contain minor plot details from An Unfinished Film (2024). Skip to the next paragraph if you would like to avoid any spoilers!*

In the climax of An Unfinished Film, Lou designs a scene where the crew members in the story attempt to break out of their quarantine rooms on New Year’s Eve, only to be immediately forced back by the guard – a moment that evokes the feel of a micro upheaval that is much valued in the Leftist political philosophy.

*Spoiler End: It’s safe to proceed from here!*

Intriguingly, the entire scene unfolds to the backdrop of the viral Dou Yin (Chinese TikTok) song Huohong de Sarilang (火红的萨日朗) . This song, usually associated with a lower-culture genre of music considered unsophisticated, outdated and rustic (“土”), yet resonates with the general public while being dismissed by elitists. At the same time, its lyrics metaphorically celebrate a unique flower species, extolling the non-restrained and carefree nomadic life of Mongolia. Both quarantine and the song were highly topical in China during the COVID era, but the juxtaposition of the two amplifies the tension, creating a moment that authorities might unmistakably interpret as sharp criticism.

Second, owing to the inseparability between politics and reality, Lou’s work is never intended as a deliberate reference to or commentary on contemporary politics. In the post-screening Q&A after the screening of An Unfinished Film on December 3rd, Lou humbly confessed that such considerations rarely cross his mind during the creative process. Instead, his focus lies entirely on portraying reality, with politics emerging incidentally as part of the broader reality he seeks to depict. During the production of An Unfinished Film , he even instructed his crew to “save the videos online”, not for any political purpose but simply because “it will be fun to watch years later”, much like replaying a family VHS tape at a gathering.

Third, as Lou’s primary focus is on a broader reality, his work prioritises overall dramatic tension over local political tension. He aims for heightened subjective sensibility rather than a chronological recounting of historical events. As a result, his films are often intensely saturated with emotion, pushing his portrayal of reality to another extreme. Simultaneously, Lou’s work presents two contrasting interpretations of reality: one that is radically subjective, where private stories evoke profound sentimentalism, and another that is radically objective, and faithfully assumes the role of a socio-historiographer. As Ma Da in Suzhou River puts it: “My camera never lies (我的摄影机不撒谎)”.

As Lou himself aptly describes, this duality is mediated by a third presence, serving as a bridge between psychological reality and socio-historical reality. In Suzhou River , this presence takes the form of Ma Da’s reflective narration; in Summer Palace , it is Yu Hong’s introspective monologue as she reads her diary; and in the recent An Unfinished Film , it manifests as the digital interface of WeChat or Dou Yin projected onto the silver screen.

However, Lou’s cinematic reality cannot be confined to his distinctive approach to accessing socio-historical reality through film. His work extends beyond this framework, constructing a hyperreality within the process of film production. This concept is best exemplified in Lou’s working methodology. He describes building a “realist” scene as a technical process that involves carefully predicting possible interactions between actors and their surroundings. This requires close collaboration with the art department, enabling the actors to fully “inhabit the setting (生活在拍摄环境中)”. Lou’s aesthetic of reality is not metaphorical; he physically constructs scenes that allow actors to move freely and naturally within them.

On the one hand, the observing camera is deliberately excluded from the rehearsal process, positioning it as external to the hyperreality. On the other hand, this absence allows the camera to seamlessly integrate into reality during actual shooting, capturing events as they unfold – spontaneous and uncalculated, driven by pure observation. In essence, Lou’s hyperreality can be succinctly defined as a dramatic reality enhanced by the presence of an observing camera.

Perhaps the most essential element of Lou’s cinematic reality is his ever-evolving linguistic features. His film language is always ad hoc, resisting any form of fixation. In Suzhou River , the rapid succession of shots in the opening sequence, captured from a moving boat, not only establishes the geographical context but also creates a chaotic atmosphere for the unfolding plot. In Summer Palac e, Lou shifts his focus to mise-en-scène, adapting to the more compact and complex spaces of dormitories and classrooms. By contrast, in An Unfinished Film , Lou is compelled to abandon elaborate mise-en-scène and long takes, as most scenes are confined to a single room. This constraint pushes him to adopt a simpler and more concise visual language.

At the same time, the evolving method of histography translates into distinctive approaches to image acquisition. Lou describes his monitor room during the production of An Unfinished Film as “the cockpit of an aeroplane”, reflecting the diversity of tools he deploys, including cinematic cameras, portable cameras, digital video (DV) cameras, phone cameras as well as found footage from Dou Yin. To insist on the legitimacy of a single film language, he argues, is to adopt a narrow perspective. Instead, the pressing question for Lou is: how should cinema respond to new interfaces and the evolving presentation of visual images? He observes that while phone screens have been ubiquitous for over two decades, their representation in cinema remains underdeveloped. Few filmmakers, he contends, have refined this as a legitimate part of film language.

Lou, in essence, is a director who evolves seamlessly with his time. His poignant sensitivity to reality and playful reinterpretation of his immediate surroundings remain as sharp as ever as he enters his 60s – a quality vividly evident in An Unfinished Film . This enduring vitality is, in itself, a remarkable gift from a masterful filmmaker like Lou to the mundane world.

A limited number of tickets for the repeat screening of An Unfinished Film on December 14th are available for purchase on SISTIC: https://ticketing.sistic.com.sg/sistic/booking/sgiff2024.

Reference:

Cinephilia. “娄烨访谈：用电影抵抗空间记忆的消失.” Cinephilia, May 7, 2020. https://cinephilia.net/75691/.

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About the author: An omnivore in film, literature and philosophy.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #147: THE SUBSTANCE

Fri, 29 Nov 2024 09:55:27 GMT

Execution is key.

Everyone knows the Hero's Journey – a story structure that has been done to death (or has it?), and seen all over through the history of cinema (e.g. The Matrix, Star Wars, Dune ). However, the films that really stand out are the ones that take this familiar story arc and execute it in a way that creates a different, or better version of it.

In a way, the titular “substance” does just that – it takes something that already exists and creates something that feels brand new out of it. Elisabeth Sparkle takes ‘The Substance’, which creates a ‘better version of herself’, the same way writer/director Coralie Fargeat takes themes surrounding destructive beauty standards and the never-ending desire to be loved and seen – which have existed within the realm of cinema for a long time – and creates an arguably better version of a film in the genre; The Substance manages to feel fresh and original despite having been created within a largely-used sandbox.

The story revolves around a television star who is beginning to phase into the stage of a has-been, when a mysterious product off the black market promises to create a ‘better version’ of herself. Things initially go well, before her misuse leads to everything going off the rails into madness.

We have seen such stories before, namely works like Mika Ninagawa’s Helter Skelter (2012) , Nicolas Winding Refn's The Neon Demon (2016), or Georges Franju's Eyes Without a Face (1960). What we have not yet seen is something that morphs into Peter Jackson’s Bad Taste (1987) , or David Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983) , to name a few. The Substance wears these points of inspiration on its sleeve, but never in a way that feels derivative.

I would be lying if I said I was not sceptical of how this film was going to turn out at the start, especially with its exploration of the themes I mentioned above. However, what elevates the film is its full commitment to its grotesque and gory nature; It starts off with glimpses of gore reminiscent of the French New Extremity movement (a movement that started in the early 2000s, with notable filmmakers including Gaspar Noé and Catherine Breillat, and more recently Julia Ducournau), before kicking the engine of the film into overdrive, constantly escalating with no signs of stopping; just when you think the film has reached its ultimate climax, it finds a way to go above and beyond that, reaching points where I was left in awe and uncontrollable laughter.

The Substance takes the painful internal struggle of wanting to be loved by the public vs losing oneself, and turns it into two personas: Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), and Sue (Margaret Qualley). The main conflict of the film rises between these two characters, eventually giving rise to a spectacular finale, which nothing can prepare you for.

The film also benefits from the all-in commitment of its leads. Moore gives this film her all, with a performance that can switch between tragic, heartbreaking, comical, and downright disgustingly hilarious (i.e. my way of saying it was downright disgusting, yet hilarious) with utmost ease, and it never feels like it’s going too far from the script. Qualley, likewise, is an absolute delight on-screen, proving herself to be an equal match to Moore. Dennis Quaid, who takes on a supporting role of the slimy, shrimp-devouring television head-honcho, also sells his distasteful persona perfectly.

All this is elevated by the beautiful craft at hand by Director Fargeat, who in collaboration with cinematographer Benjamin Kracun, frames the film in mostly stunning wides or claustrophobic close-ups. This further elevates the unnerving experience that is The Substance ; a film that keeps you constantly on edge, with some of the wildest gore of the decade so far, but also always maintains focus on its narrative and never loses itself in the effects and shock value.

At the end of it, The Substance truly challenges the subgenre it sits in that revolves around beauty standards, because it tackles something well-known in a new way.

Again, execution is key.

The Substance opened in Singapore theatres 26 September 2024. As of the date of writing, it is still playing in theatres. MUBI has acquired worldwide rights for the film.

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About the author: Amadeus is a filmmaker who has loved cinema as far back as he could remember. Most of his time is spent in theatres, otherwise he is writing about the films playing in them.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #146: FREEWAY (SYFF)

Wed, 27 Nov 2024 00:57:26 GMT

Film Review: Freeway

This review contains spoilers.

It begins on a rainy evening in Singapore as Siraj, a middle-aged civil servant, receives a phone call from his wife. He has invested in stocks, only to get in financial trouble, and she’s furious. Still, she offers to help with his debt, but Siraj decides a trip to a Malaysian casino will be his quickest way out. He rents a cheap car, loads the boot with cash withdrawn from his emptied bank account, and sets off across the freeway. From here, the film takes place in the span of a single night as the car travels across roads enveloped in darkness, the available light from the surrounding lampposts and the car’s headlights illuminating only brief images of the unfamiliar environment. Siraj has stepped out of his ordinary world and into an abyss he cannot see. As he enters this shadowy unknown, his desperation deepens and blinds him, ultimately pushing him to a harrowing point of no return.

Freeway (2024) is a Singapore crime drama short film from writer-director Cheng Chai Hong, depicting the ripple effect of greed and its instinct to destroy for personal gain. Siraj, the main character, is initially blessed with a comfortable life in Singapore, with a government job and a supportive wife. Yet, the greed of wanting more leads him to invest blindly in stocks and borrow from loan sharks. The events of the film act like a final test – will Siraj repent and face his obstacles together with his wife, or continue to run from his problems?

Later in the film, after countless unfortunate encounters and at his wit’s end, Siraj is given one last chance to redeem himself when a fellow Singaporean man offers him a safe trip home. Having found some semblance of familiarity he could trust, he is initially relieved, able to return to his place of comfort. However, he is soon overwhelmed by a new fear; Unable to confront the unresolved issues awaiting him back home, Siraj directs his frustration towards the man, resulting in an even more tragic turn of events.

[WARNING: Spoilers in the next paragraph, skip ahead if you want to experience the powerful ending for yourself, as you should!]

In a provocative closing scene, Siraj throws his red Singapore passport into a fire. As it slowly disintegrates, it serves as a perfect depiction of the ironic predicament he has found himself in. Generally considered one of the most “powerful” passports in the world, Siraj has burned his options and, in so doing, killed his freedom. Not only is he now a stateless fugitive with no home to return to, but he has also erased his identity, no longer recognising the person he has become.

The title of the film, Freeway , refers to the road Siraj traverses from Singapore to Malaysia – the route he thought would be an easy way out to being free of his problems. But by the end of the film, this path can be interpreted as limbo, the crossroads where Siraj finds himself stuck in, with no place to belong.

[END OF SPOILERS]

Freeway was screened as part of Singapore Youth Film Festival (SYFF) 2024. Audiences can look forward to Cheng Chai Hong’s next work, We Can Save the World , a science-fiction comedy feature film.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #145: REMEMBER WHAT I FORGOT (HKFGP)

Tue, 19 Nov 2024 00:17:59 GMT

Hong Kong Cinema Memories Rekindled: Remember What I Forgot

This review may contain spoilers.

Remember What I Forgot is a Hong Kong drama directed by Chiu Tsz Yiu. The story centers around a mysterious film enthusiast named Kim, who is everywhere in film spaces but remains an enigma. Kim’s deep knowledge of Hong Kong cinema and frequent appearances at film sets, premieres, and press conferences attract the curiosity of reality show producer Ginger, who begins investigating him. Suspecting Kim to be a critic who manipulates the industry through negative reviews, Ginger is intent on unveiling his motives. However, as she digs deeper, she finds Kim’s motivations are more personal and complex than expected.

The film invites viewers to see Kim not only as a film buff but as someone deeply rooted in Hong Kong cinema’s history. His connection with cinema reflects unresolved personal issues and emotional wounds, turning the witch-hunt into a journey that explores Kim’s hidden past and Ginger’s own self-reflection on her values.

Remember What I Forgot excels in visual storytelling, filled with references to iconic Hong Kong film moments. Kim often appears in places that evoke Hong Kong’s cinematic heritage, e.g. old theaters, bustling sets,etc. All of which pay homage to the golden age of Hong Kong movies. His dedication reflects his longing for a time when films felt authentic and connected to ordinary lives.

“I only want to remember everything about Hong Kong films. I don’t know it would bring everyone so much trouble... things just escape me all the time.”——Kim

Some memorable scenes include:

Old-School Cinemas: Kim is often shown sitting alone in vintage cinemas reminiscent of the 1980s and 90s. These scenes echo classics like Days of Being Wild , capturing the quiet solitude and nostalgia of Hong Kong’s cinema heyday.

Gangster Films: In a fantasy sequence, Kim imagines himself as a character in Infernal Affairs . The dark tones and tense atmosphere pay tribute to Hong Kong’s classic gangster genre, allowing viewers to feel the thrill of iconic cop dramas.

Romantic Cinema: In several scenes, Kim reminisces about lost love, and the cinematography evokes In the Mood for Love with warm lighting and lingering shots. This mirrors Wong Kar-wai’s style, creating a bittersweet beauty that reflects Kim’s inner world.

Martial Arts Films: A playful fantasy shows Kim imagining himself as a hero in a martial arts film, referencing Jackie Chan-style action scenes with fast-paced choreography and humor, celebrating Hong Kong’s rich action legacy.

These homage scenes are not only artistic choices but also highlight Kim’s emotional connection to films that have defined his life, underscoring his search for purpose and belonging.

The relationship between Ginger and Kim evolves from suspicion to mutual respect. Ginger used to be a screenwriter and has work to her name. When Kim plays this particular film, she is moved to tears, as memories flood back and touch a deep part of herself, what we often call our “original passion.” That is the turning point - Ginger’s investigation turns inward when she recognises the sincerity of film enthusiasts like Kim, who find their very beings inexplicably intertwined with cinema.

“Having made one good film is hard enough.”——Kim

As the film concludes, Ginger and Kim’s relationship reaches a new depth, with Kim finally opening up about his reasons for clinging to cinema. His story becomes a universal tale of finding solace in art, prompting viewers to reflect on their own sources of comfort and connection.

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Remember What I Forgot will have be screening on 23 Nov, Saturday 2.00pm at Golden Village Suntec City, as part of the Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation 2024 in Singapore.

Get your tickets at: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2246#/movie/2246

Visit https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/hkfgp2024 for more info.

Film Review #144: LONG ARM OF THE LAW (HKFGP)

Mon, 18 Nov 2024 02:37:05 GMT

Long Arm of the Law Movie Review for HKFGP

Voted as No.6 in the Best 100 Chinese Motion Pictures (No.6) by Hong Kong Film Awards, Long Arm of the Law (1984) is one of the most important films in Hong Kong Cinema. It was the acclaimed producer Johnny Mak’s directorial debut – and the only movie he ever directed.

Set in Hong Kong during the early 1980s, the plot revolves around Tung (Lam Wai), a former member of People Liberation’s Army, turned Hong Kong’s most wanted criminal. Planning to work on his last heist before retirement, he enlists the help of his fellow comrades in Guangzhou with the promise of a better livelihood for everyone involved. Things take an unexpected turn when the heist doesn’t go according to plan, and the gang is placed in increasingly risky complications with the triad and police.

As a producer in the former Rediffusion Television (previously Asia TV) and Commercial Television before moving into movies , Director Johnny Mak specialised in exploring social issues while his films remained entertaining.

Long Arm of the Law was inspired by an actual bank robbery, a mark of how Johnny Mak wanted to bring realism closer to the audience. Besides casting up-and-coming actors such as Lam Wai and Sum Wai, talent with real-life triad backgrounds were cast in this film. Several scenes were not rehearsed in advance, but were improvised to capture their more authentic reactions.

Long Arm of the Law also seeks to explore how a Mainlander Chinese in the Bamboo Curtain era desperately desired better opportunities in the colonial-ruled Hong Kong even if it comes at the cost of losing their lives. While it seems to be unthinkable in today’s context, it does make us ponder how remnants of that dynamic and struggle still exist today, all over the world.

The action sequences also serve as a strong selling point in the film. Choreographed by the legend Sammo Hung’s stunt team (Sammo Hung is also the producer of Long Arm of the Law) , the action sequences were mainly set in well-known landmarks such as the busy street of Tsim Sha Tsui – for its car chasing and cross-fire scene – and Taikoo Palace – with the biggest ice skating rink which serves the purpose for an important scene –, with the climax at the former Kowloon Walled-City, making this film immensely important as a documentation of the livelihood of the infamous landmark plagued with crimes and vice before demolition in 1993 for urban development.

A box office success with 3 sequels produced by Johnny Mak, Long Arm of the Law is one of the few classics that can withstand the test of time, and will continue to do so for decades to come.

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About the author: Ding Tai Wei works in HR in the film and entertainment industry and has been a proud Singapore Film Society volunteer since 2016. He’s a big fan of Asian cinema, indie favorites, and contemporary classics. He loves the nostalgic vibes of old-school theaters that bring back the magic of classic movie nights.
Long
Long Arm of the Law will have be screening on 23 Nov, Saturday 4.10pm at Golden Village Suntec City, as part of the Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation 2024 in Singapore.

Get your tickets at: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2247#/movie/2247/cinema/null

Visit https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/hkfgp2024 for more info.

Film Review #143: SUPERMAN (1978)

Thu, 14 Nov 2024 08:08:18 GMT

Commentary: More Than a Hero — Superman as a Tale of Humanity

This review may contain spoilers.

Richard Donner’s 1978 Superman is a cult classic, to say the least. As the first major big-budget superhero feature, one could argue it paved the way for many action films that have come since. More than just a hero’s origin story, Donner’s film also explores universal themes of identity, loss, love, and sacrifice, centring on Superman as a complex character who embodies both the hope and tragedy of being a hero.

The film begins on the planet Krypton, the home world of Kal-El (Superman). In light of impending annihilation, Jor-El (Kal-El’s father) makes the painful choice to save his infant son by sending him to Earth, just as Krypton explodes. As the last survivor of his planet, Kal-El represents the lifeline of his species, in the form of a baby as a vessel for growth. Immediately, this juxtaposition establishes that Kal-El will have to live with the fact that his existence came along with the destruction of everything he came from. This duality introduces the key theme of the film - the idea that hope is often paired with tragedy. The paradox at the heart of his identity is that even in the birth of a hero, there is an accompanying shadow of devastation.

Eventually, Kal-El arrives on Earth and is found by Jonathan and Martha Kent. Yearning for a child, they name him Clark and raise him as their son. Being a part of this family serves as the foundation of Clark’s identity, allowing him to experience the human condition through warmth and love rather than as a lone survivor.

The film skips another few years with Clark now in college. After he is teased by a bully, we witness a dramatic action scene as Clark kicks a baseball far into the sky, uses his superhuman speed to race against a moving train, and reaches his barn just as the same bully drives by in his car. The mischief in this scene encapsulates the thrill of youth, as Clark takes things on a whim and acts spontaneously to “show off”. Yet, he is still called an “oddball”, highlighting his difficulties to fit in, a common experience in growing up and coming of age. Jonathan sees how Clark used his powers recklessly, and gives him a friendly pep talk where he emphasises that he has a purpose in life he will one day discover — not soon before Jonathan dies from heart failure. Clark, though blessed with extraordinary powers, is unable to save him. For the first time, he experiences the painful realities of life and loss, wondering what his purpose is, “ All those things I can do. All those powers. And I couldn't even save him. ”

From here on, the film takes place with Clark now a young adult. In this new stage of his life, he is introduced to the workplace environment as he begins his career at the Daily Planet. Here he meets Lois Lane, a woman determined to succeed in her work while not giving him much attention, as he carelessly stumbles around the office trying to find his place.

One night, as Lois boards a malfunctioning helicopter, Clark immediately transforms from his everyday office attire to the classic blue and red outfit. Finally, Clark Kent becomes Superman. After saving Lois, he continues to travel around the city, capturing a thief, stopping a group of robbers, fetching a cat from a tree, and saving a plane from crashing. We see reactions from the public with people in disbelief. They look up to him as a beacon of hope, finding comfort in the presence of a hero with the power to save lives. Clark’s first night as Superman enables him to finally realise his purpose on Earth, as an unlikely protector who brings balance to society. This functions as a powerful expression of self-acceptance as Clark discovers a new dimension to his identity and embraces it.

A heartfelt moment unfolds as Superman sweeps Lois into the sky, offering her a breathtaking flight over the city. We hear voiceover narration from Lois as an internal monologue, in a rhythmic poem (“ Can you read my mind? ”) where she expresses her awe and admiration for being with Superman. This scene is styled as a physical representation of the feeling of romance, with the couple swept off their feet in a dreamlike, ethereal atmosphere with a homemade and nostalgic quality, while the music of composer John Williams perfectly accompanies the visuals with a soothing, comforting score.

After their escapade, Superman sets Lois back onto her balcony and flies off, only to return as Clark Kent. Clark rings the doorbell to her home, to which she sees him dressed in his plain office attire and black glasses, ready for their date. This scene underscores the emotional complexity behind superheroes. While Superman is capable of grand feats, he is also Clark, the ordinary man who longs for companionship and a life beyond the responsibilities of being a hero. Yet, Superman is the persona that captures Lois’ attention. While Clark tries to speak to her, she is clearly distracted and still mesmerised by her experience with Superman.

Their relationship culminates in the film’s climactic scene where Lois dies after Superman fails to save her. Rather than a triumphant ending where the hero easily defeats the villain, the film settles on a quiet note as Clark encounters his most tragic moment, reminded of Jonathan, his father whom he could not save. Earlier, it was Lois’ near-death incident with the helicopter that got him to become Superman and save the world. Yet despite the heroic acts, he could not save the woman he loved.

This film reminds viewers that hope is found only in the context of destruction. The annihilation of his home planet made him the last survivor of his species but allowed him his newfound family on Earth, the death of his father challenged him to be the man he is, and in trying to save everyone, he fails to save some. It is not only the external conflict of those around him but the internal conflict of his identity. Is he Kal-El who holds the legacy of his people, Superman who is admired by the masses, or simply Clark Kent who wants an ordinary and happy life?

Throughout the film, basic stages in the human experience such as loss, youth and love are personified from the perspective of a superhero. This film successfully echoes that struggle, where Clark tries to find a balance between his personal life and bringing peace to humanity.

The film ultimately ends on a positive note, as Superman manages to reverse time and save Lois before her accident. But more importantly, the essence of the film is the dichotomy between peace and suffering, not only how the hero saves the world but also how he struggles from the burden of being the hero.

Since this film, Superman has become a franchise, with Clark Kent undergoing countless reinterpretations and reflecting the ever-changing perspectives of how the world would see an all-powerful champion of good. Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel , for example, reflects today’s collective pessimism towards power, authority, and righteousness. On the other hand, Richard Donner’s Superman reflects an age that yearned for the innocence of hope and optimism, while still containing dimensions that feel distinctly human with its subtle internal struggles.

Overall, this origin story is not just about how Clark Kent becomes Superman, but also what it means to take on this responsibility. While being an entertaining and comedic film about the titular superhero, Superman (1978) stands out as a film that is also mature about the tragedy of being a hero.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #142: MEGALOPOLIS

Wed, 13 Nov 2024 12:55:38 GMT

Film Review: Megalopolis (2024)

When Francis Ford Coppola’s long-awaited science fiction epic hit the screens at Cannes in May 2024, it was greeted with a response so polarising it could only be described as classically Coppola.

Famously conceived and produced over the better part of a troubled three decades, Coppola’s 138-minute passion project has more in common with Metropolis (1927) and The Invisible Man (1933) than it does with more contemporary sci-fi outings. Filled to the brim with dazzling images that almost overwhelm the screen, Megalopolis is a vigorously neo-expressionistic experiment that reiterates Coppola’s undying commitment to cinema as an artform we’ve yet to fully discover.

While other directors tend to experiment with technique to distinguish themselves, to carve out a personal brand or motif, it would seem that every discovery Coppola makes only propels him deeper into uncharted territory. Some expected Megalopolis to be the culmination of a legendary lifetime of craftsmanship, instead we find him fresh and unpolished as ever, back in the workshop and breaking new ground yet again.

With wild stylistic swings, bombastic images and a shimmering sonic palette, Megalopolis is a full-body theatre experience that never quite manages to fully immerse its audience, but is simultaneously impossible to look away from. The result is a film akin to a half-waking dream, fading in and out of consciousness.

Basking in wild abandon, the film takes us on a journey of deconstruction, pulling apart any semblance of cinematic convention and asking us to reimagine the Cinema and the world it exists in.

Megalopolis revolves around the oligarchy of New Rome, a society facing rapid decline. From among their ranks emerges Cesar Catalina (Adam Driver), a brilliant architect and inventor whose designs seem to defy the very laws of nature. Cesar dreams of uplifting the society that struggles below him, which brings him into conflict with his self-serving, murderous relatives and the rulers of this dystopian civilisation. Over the course of 2 hours we see Cesar go through great personal sacrifice to realise his dream of building the titular Megalopolis, a self-generating city of the future.

Despite the film’s confounding stylistic approach, its underlying narrative is rather easy to follow. The abstract, sometimes phantasmagorical images are accompanied by Lawrence Fishburne’s booming narration, swooping in to provide interpretation whenever needed. Whether or not these explanations are warranted is debatable, it certainly stifles some of the film’s more potentially ambiguous moments, squashing any subjectivity by aligning us under a singular interpretation.

This lack of ambiguity extends to the film’s characters, who are essentially embodiments of archetypal figures. Overtly self-descriptive, and named after their ancient Roman counterparts, they never deviate from what they are clearly stated to be, behaving strictly according to type from beginning to end. They pose almost like statues, and speak in a dialect so odd it has been negatively compared to The Room (2003), and more favourably to the artful campiness of David Lynch’s work in Twin Peaks .

Coppola has a restlessness that has propelled him ahead of other filmmakers in the past. Known for exploring new ideas, one wonders whether his habitual dissatisfaction with the conventional limits of Cinema will ever be fully satisfied. Megalopolis is a bold attempt to encourage the constant reinvention of Cinema, to never settle for the tools that are currently in existence but to dream above and beyond them.

Megalopolis is a tough pill to swallow, difficult for even the most experienced and open-minded cinemagoers to wholly enjoy. But what it stands for is a noble declaration of faith in the cinematic artform, and its ability to overcome great odds to redefine itself and remain relevant to new generations of moviegoers. Whether it actually achieves that relevance itself is something one can only decide if they see the film for themselves.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #141: PIERCE

Tue, 05 Nov 2024 06:45:09 GMT

Film Review - Pierce 刺心切骨

Former national fencer for Singapore turned Karlovy Vary Film Festival Best Director Nelicia Low returns home with her award-winning directorial debut, Pierce . A multinational production between Singapore, Taiwan and Poland, this feature film is written and directed by Low, and stars Taiwanese rising stars Liu Hsiu Fu ( On Children: Child of the Cat ; Plurality ) and Tsao Yu Ning ( KANO ; Do You Love Me as I Love You ), and veteran multidisciplinary actress Ding Ning ( Cities of Last Things; Little Big Women ).

Pierce follows Zijie (Liu Hsiu Fu), a reserved high-schooler and prospective national fencer, raised by single mother Ai Ling (Ding Ning), as he faces an estranged older brother, Zihan (Tsao Yu Ning), a former three-time national fencing champion convicted of second degree murder who is to be released from juvenile prison.

At first glance, the premise seems like a familiar family drama. By the end of it, Pierce compellingly distinguishes itself as a uniquely personal film from Low.

Naturally, the film takes its time to explore the difficult rekindling of brotherly love between Zijie and Zihan. However, Pierce wastes no time in its overall narrative, building up to its climatic final act, conflict after conflict. It also challenges the viewer to examine the different characters’ decisions, perhaps even examining one’s own perception of familial love, and even our moral compass.

Courage also defines this film. The writer-director, a first-time feature filmmaker herself, entrusts the leading role of her deeply personal project to a relative newcomer in Taiwanese cinema. Liu’s layered portrayal of Zijie also adds to the film’s accolades as he was recently recognised by the Rome Film Fest 2024 - Best First Feature Award’s Special Mention. Barely a quarter since its successful Karlovy Vary world premiere, Pierce is likely to bag more awards in the coming months.

If one were to single out the most impressive trait of Pierce , I would sing praises to the young and promising Polish cinematographer Michal Dymek. Dymek’s most recent projects include Denmark’s submission to the 97th Academy Awards’ Best International Feature category, The Girl with the Needle (which will be screened as Singapore Film Society’s Showcase in November 2024), EO , which was nominated in the same Oscar category last year, representing Poland, and A Real Pain , another highly anticipated movie this year. Such a resume explains the superb camera work in Pierce . Apart from the brilliant use of close-ups at critical moments in the film, which worked to great effect given both Liu and Tsao’s sharp features, Dymek’s work truly shines in how it does not come across obviously to the audience how well the movie is shot, but instead completely immerses the viewer; only upon reflecting after finishing the film would one then realise just how immaculate every shot is.

Pierce wears its heart on its sleeve and does not abide by genre conventions. A moviegoer who craves a psychological thriller might just be as entertained by it as a fencing enthusiast. The early success of Pierce could signal more of such cross-cultural collaborations where talents from different parts of the world congregate and make art, improving and cementing Singapore’s position as an emerging player in world cinema.

Pierce opens islandwide in Singapore on 7 November.

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Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Pierce will have its Singapore Premiere on Thursday, 7th November, 7:30pm, at The Projector Golden Mile Tower, followed by a Q&A with Director Nelicia Low, moderated by Benjamin Kheng.

SFS Members may RSVP at https://singaporefilmsociety.eber.co/

Public tickets are available directly with The Projector: https://theprojector.sg/films-and-events/pierce/

Film Review #140: WE LIVE IN TIME

Thu, 31 Oct 2024 03:13:07 GMT

WHERE GRIEF AND TIME MEET - A COMMENTARY ON WE LIVE IN TIME

This review contains minor spoilers for the film.

From the moment Deadline announced the casting of Florence Pugh and Andrew Garfield in We Live in Time back in March 2023, I was immediately invested in the film’s story and filled with anticipation for its release. With its two critically acclaimed leads, standout reactions at the Toronto International Film Festival, along with the meme-worthy poster and Andrew Garfield’s appearance on Sesame Street and Chicken Shop Date , the film had created its own pop culture phenomenon and quickly generated buzz.

However, underneath the fun, humorous marketing lies a charming, heartfelt story about grief and love that will surely tug at the heartstrings of even the most stoic viewers.

Written by Nick Payne and directed by John Crowley, the film introduces us to Tobias (played by Garfield), a softspoken, compassionate divorcee who falls in love with Almut (played by Pugh), a headstrong but charmingly witty chef. It traces their story non-linearly, giving us insight into their whirlwind romance, parenthood, and of course, the impact of Almut’s cancer on their relationship.

I remember seeing the trailer for the film shortly after its release - it was clear that the movie would explore a doomed romance. Knowing that this trope has been explored in countless films before, I wondered how this film will treat this all-too-familiar trope differently?

Well, the answer lies in the film’s treatment of grief and time.

Time is constantly in the back of our minds as the film progresses, with much of its peak moments centred around the need for precision in time. It tells us that we exist in a reality where time never stops moving.

With the unceasing turning of the clock, stopwatches counting down to milliseconds, and days on the calendar going by - the film constantly emphasises the relentless passage of time through its non-linear storytelling. It feels rapid and fleeting, as the film jumps across timelines. This also heightens the feeling of how the passage of time disorients, hurries us and pushes us to impulsivity. But at the same time, we require it to process and reflect. The duality of time is a huge theme in this film, in terms of how it seeks to propel us forward, wear us down but also help us heal.

Non-linear storytelling often puts films in precarious positions, as it makes them vulnerable to criticisms of lacking a cohesive narrative. It’s often a hit or miss for me. However, Payne’s and Crowley’s masterful execution of the story allowed the jumbled sequences to feel purposeful, emotional and most importantly, logical for its context.

As it jumps between past and present, we are constantly teased with the possibility of optimism and hope despite a difficult present, reminding us that unpredictability still exists within predictability. The film becomes a piece of constructed memory, as viewers become active members in piecing together memories of both Almut and Tobias. However, a minor drawback is that the film deprives viewers of full emotional resolution, as scenes often jump before we witness events fully unfold.

With the lack of linearity, the film doesn’t relieve audiences of their emotional build-up. Instead, it rewards audiencess with scattered “feel good” moments sprinkled across the movie that both enlighten and stir a sense of melancholy.

However, you forget this minor flaw thanks to the powerful performances of Pugh and Garfield. From their first meeting, we instantly witness their characters’ contrasting dynamics: Tobias is a meticulous and rational man, while Almut is a spontaneous liberated woman - qualities each actor accentuates with nuance.

Their on-screen chemistry is palpable, making their romance feel uplifting, just as it is painfully fraught. Pugh shines as Almut; her pained expressions and voice heightening her performance as a woman conflicted with ambition, love and duty. Garfield complements her with a more subtle, quiet, grief, embodying a man deeply troubled by the possibility of losing his partner, while striving to remain a pillar of strength.

The actors work together in perfect synergy to relay the true conflict of their relationship and move audiences with their raw, authentic performances. The camera work and movement also allow us to be onlookers in their lives. Be it through an unsteady handheld camera, or detailed close-ups, there is an intimacy between us and their story, immersing us deeper into the experience of the turmoil and troubles of their relationship.

It is clear that through Almut’s and Tobias’s characterisation and experiences, Crowley successfully delivers his strategy to tackle the theme of grief. He shows us that our relationship with grief is difficult to realise and understand. Unlike the rapid passing of time, moments of grief feel slow and languid - a struggle revealed by each of the characters. It forces us to wonder: when time feels finite and fleeting, how then do we take our time in our journey of grief - an emotion that requires patience and practice? The film seems to surface the understanding that when we cannot move forward with time, we regress.

We revert to simpler understandings of happiness when challenges of emotions become too hard to express or even confront. In a scene at the doctor’s office, we see Almut, Tobias and a doctor share a tender moment as they all take candy from a Cadbury “Celebrations” chocolate box, as the doctor reminds them that “It is okay to not be okay”. The film surfaced how everyone is a child in the eyes of grief. It is an emotion that feels complex, larger than life and beyond comprehension.

Within those emotions, we are kids once again, learning to live life and trying to redefine what is “normal”. But along the way, we learn to see the world with a new sense of wonder and appreciation, as we continue living with the memory of our loved ones.

The most surprising thing about this film was how well it played with humour despite a rather heavy theme. In a movie that was so centered around time, the film’s comedic timing was also perfectly calculated. It subverts audiences’ expectations and eases the tension of what is supposed to be occasionally distressing, nerve-wracking moments, while never fully removing us from the intensity of these moments. Crowley’s intention of these moments was clear: it showed that life still offers moments of joy and humour that can exist with our sadness in short, brief moments, making the film even more poignant.

Florence Pugh said that the film made her “want to be active in my decisions and actually live.” While Andrew Garfield openly confessed that this film helped him cope with the loss of his mother. Clearly, the actors channelled their own personal connection with the film, and for many others, it may evoke a similar resonance.

That is the beauty of this movie. Poignantly straddling between themes of grief and time, it surfaces a universal emotion that most individuals would encounter as we, well, simply learn to live in time, amidst all the challenges of the everyday.

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Film Review #139: SMOKING TIGERS

Thu, 24 Oct 2024 04:24:54 GMT

Smoking Tigers is a film about longing and belonging.

We follow Hayoung (Ji-young Yoo), a lonely 16-year-old Korean-American child of divorce, struggling to find her place in society, while caught between conflicting social classes and cultural identities. Smoking Tigers excels at painting an intimate portrait of a young girl yearning for stability and security.

But it’s not just about that. The narrative carefully unfolds a situation where both adults and their children are navigating difficult emotional landscapes. The challenges faced by adults are not rooted in pure hopelessness, but are more about a deep emotional resonance — something that tugs at the heart. The adults are struggling with their own personal battles, especially because they don’t fit neatly into the conventional roles society expects of them. At the same time, their children are going through the tough, often turbulent, period of adolescence, where feelings like jealousy and confusion play a big part in shaping their experiences.

The film opens with Hayoung sitting in a tub, then on a wooden bench in a huge mansion with tall windows and lots of natural light. Yet neither the tub nor the mansion belong to her; she is there only to accompany her father as he attempts to engage a client for his carpet business. In contrast, she lives in a small house and bathes in a communal shower, far from the luxurious accommodations she clearly longs for.

Despite her family’s modest background, her mother sends her to an expensive college-preparatory bootcamp with fellow Korean-Americans who live a vastly different life. The bootcamp is strict and Hayoung struggles to find her tribe in the sterile atmosphere, and this serves to emphasise her sense of displacement. Nevertheless, she finally befriends Rose.

Despite bonding over extremely personal secrets, and getting into precarious situations together, Hayoung still seems disconnected from her new found bestie; uncomfortable to reveal her modest background, she remains closed off to a genuine connection. This then finds its way out in rebellious acts; Hayoung betrays herself, and even her family, to appear rich.

The film also cleverly uses set design to reveal stark differences in Hayoung and the rest of her social circle. Each time Hayoung’s home is shown, it is extremely dimly-lit – which may well be her mother’s way of saving money on electricity, but it is also cinematographer Heyjin Jun and director So Young Shelly YO’s masterful way of drawing audiences’ attention to the emotional dissonance which Hayoung experiences when she is at home. The atmosphere in her house starkly contrasts the brightly-lit hallways and living rooms of the mansions her father’s clients live in, and the colourful lights at the party thrown by a wealthier boy from her bootcamp. She seeks out such brighter, cheerful environments, deliberately following her father on his meetings with clients, in desperate attempts to convince herself that a better life is just around the corner.

As with most migrant stories, the push and pull of language and culture is always a painful navigation. When around her parents, Hayoung almost exclusively converses in Korean. This is brought to our attention at the beginning of the film, when a client compliments her father on her Korean, stating that he had raised her well. However, in the company of fellow Korean-American classmates, she switches to speaking English. Hayoung is repeatedly torn between embracing her Korean heritage and her American upbringing, in the process of reconciling both aspects of her cultural identity. Smoking Tigers is filled with quiet moments and dialogues, putting us in Hayoung’s detached and isolated headspace. Hayoung is trapped between worlds throughout the film, and struggles to find a place where she feels truly accepted for who she is.

Overall, Smoking Tigers does a great job at eliciting feelings of loneliness with its viewers, allowing us to empathise with Hayoung and follow her internal conflict. It is a brilliant feature-length debut from So Young Shelly YO, and a must-watch for anyone struggling to come to terms with their self-identity.

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About the author:

Aedan is a devoted cinephile with a keen eye for films which delve into self-discovery and identity. He enjoys revelling in the emotions these stories evoke, and hopes to share his insights with others. When he’s not watching a movie, he’s probably busy rearranging his DVD collection.

Smoking Tigers will have its Southeast Asian Premiere on 26 Oct, Saturday, 9pm at Golden Village Suntec City as part of the Singapore Korean Film Festival 2024. A repeat screening will be on 2 Nov, Saturday 2pm. Tickets are free through registration at https://singaporefilmsociety.peatix.com/ . If the screening is sold out, please arrive 15 min before screening time for a chance of tickets at the walk-in.

Visit kff.sg for more information.

Film Review #138: PROMISE

Thu, 24 Oct 2024 00:58:08 GMT

“So love lasts forever." - Min Si-woo, “About Love”

Promise (2023) is a poignant documentary that follows film director Min Byung-hun and his young son, Min Si-woo, as they navigate life after the loss of their wife and mother, writer Ahn Eun-Mi. This meditative and heartbreaking film captures the father-son duo's journey through grief, showcasing how it ebbs and flows like waves, where some days are better than others, and where sorrow and hope co-exist.

The film begins with a jarring gust of wind – like an impending thunderstorm – followed by seaside shots, and raindrops falling into a reflective puddle in the middle of the forest. This sets us up perfectly for the emotional storm that we will go through with the two protagonists. There is a heaviness in the air, and both father and son’s loneliness is palpable.

A key factor that keeps Si-woo going is his mother’s promise, which forms the foundation of their relationship, and, of course, the title of the film - that her passing is not a goodbye, and they will meet again. Throughout the film, we see the enduring influence of his mother. His father encourages him to process his emotions by writing poems and letters to his mom in heaven. These letters remind me of how we often share our daily experiences over meals; almost like a diary and ever more poignant because of its addressee’s passing. Over time, Si-woo’s poems become deeper in meaning. These poems reflect his attempt to grasp and immortalise his mother's image on paper. Poetry as a medium can aid in healing and the act of writing is important in connecting the family even across the boundaries of life and death.

Throughout the film, nature also plays a significant role for the grieving family. As Eun-mi loved the forest, Si-woo and Byung-hun often walk there, reminiscing about her and feeling her presence. Si-woo confesses that while he cannot hear his mom all the time, he can imagine her presence among the trees. Byung-hun also frequently finds solace in nature, wandering through the forest or by the seaside as though he is searching for something or waiting for someone. Looking at the endless rows of trees, the vastness of nature can be humbling, reminding us that even the most difficult times will pass. Some scenes even play out cleverly in reverse, suggesting a longing for the ability to manipulate time and return to the past. Nonetheless, as the white barren winter turns to spring, there is a renewed sense of hope.

Grief does not end and can manifest in various ways. As a single father, Byung-hun serves as a pillar of strength for his young son, who is devastated by his mother's loss. While Byung-hun often appears serious and solemn, he also shows moments of tenderness and playfulness with Si-woo. Their relationship is marked by both strength and vulnerability. Si-woo's grief is evident, but moments of heaviness are offset by his youthful joy and curiosity. What might a child without his mother become?

Still, there are moments of radiance sprinkled throughout as dark images are contrasted with tranquillity and delicacy. One such scene is of a collage of sunsets – the orange and red hues evoke a sense of peace and warmth, as though it is gently healing the wounds of grief, as chimes play in the background.

Director Min’s blend of visuals and music in the film beautifully conveys a transcendental journey, drawing parallels to how he and his son overcome their internal struggle of accepting the death of their wife and mother. It reminds me of the Jay Shetty quote about how grief is like a stone: “And it gets lighter to carry. But it does not mean that it is going away. You didn’t move on. You didn’t get over it. It doesn’t disappear. It does not get smaller. It stays the same. You just get stronger so the stone gets lighter.”Although the loss is permanent, there is a sense of hope that things will improve and that grief is not a permanent state. Love endures even after death, and the promise provides solace in times of brokenness like a warm embrace.

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About the author:

Si Qi is drawn to films as a means of exploring different slices of life and culture, as well as their capacity to reflect society. Her favourite genres include narrative and stop-motion films. She previously worked at a non-profit organisation in Singapore dedicated to film preservation where she managed film screenings and dialogues aimed at showcasing the richness of Asian cinema.

Promise will be screened on 1 Nov, Friday, 7pm at Golden Village Suntec City as part of the Singapore Korean Film Festival 2024 . Tickets are free through registration at https://singaporefilmsociety.peatix.com/ . If the screening is sold out, please arrive 15 min before screening time for a chance of tickets at walk-in.

Visit kff.sg for more information.

Film Review #137: DOG DAYS

Wed, 23 Oct 2024 05:55:55 GMT

The Heartfelt Bond Between Humans and Pets

A Review of Dog Days (2024)

Initially, when I watched the trailer of Dog Days (2024), directed by Kim Deok Min, I thought it might be a commercial comedy because the actors' performances were humorous and dramatic. However, after watching the entire film, my impression changed significantly.

Actually, Dog Days is a heartwarming film that contributes to conversations about companionship, mental health, and love. It resonates with anyone who has experienced the deep companionship of a pet, showing the powerful connections we form with animals, and the healing that follows.

Set primarily around a veterinary hospital, the film follows different characters whose lives are deeply affected by their pets. Each story contributes to a broader reflection on how pets help us heal, connect with others, and find comfort. It carefully balances the happiness pets bring with the inevitable heartbreak of loss, creating an emotionally complex narrative.

Visually, Dog Days employs a warm, naturalistic style that mirrors the comforting nature of the stories it tells. The director uses close-up shots to capture the intimacy between pets and their owners, adding depth to the emotional moments. This is especially so in the several fantasy sequences where characters recall their loved ones. During these moments, the cinematography and lighting are warm and bright, with soft colors, creating a stark and obvious contrast when the scene shifts back to the harsh reality of their actual situations.

I found the stories of each character or group of characters in the film to flow well with each other, thanks to the well-paced editing. This allows the film to maintain a tight rhythm, while ensuring that each character's story transitions naturally and has enough space to develop. The emotional expressions are powerful without feeling forced. Particularly touching is the story of a dog named CoCo, who suffered from cancer, leading the owner to make the difficult decision of euthanasia. Another moving storyline involved several scenes between an adopted girl and her foster parents, which brought me to tears. Of course, there are many more touching moments, and I believe audiences will naturally be drawn to the film, and find themselves resonating with its emotions.

When compared to other pet-focused films like A Dog’s Purpose (2017) and Hachi: A Dog’s Tale (2009), Dog Days stands out for its ensemble cast and focus on the human stories surrounding the pets. It is a more grounded, realistic portrayal of how pets influence human lives in a variety of ways. The pets in Dog Days aren’t depicted as extraordinary heroes; instead, they are everyday companions who help their owners navigate emotional challenges.

To learn more about the behind-the-scenes stories, I watched the film's press conference held in Korea on YouTube. During the event, the director emphasised that working with animal actors is far more challenging than working with human performers, as animals cannot be directed in the conventional sense. During filming, Kim prioritized the dogs' welfare, explaining that he would often wait patiently for the animals to perform naturally, rather than forcing them into specific actions. This approach allowed the dogs to exhibit genuine behaviors, contributing to the film's authentic emotional depth. With trainers on set at all times, the filming process became a lesson in patience and adaptability, often requiring the crew to adjust the schedule to suit the dogs' needs.

I have no doubt that this film will be loved by many audiences, just as it resonated deeply with me, reminding me of the joy and warmth pets bring to our lives.

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About the author:

Rachel Xia is a film director from China who’s been in love with art since childhood. Turning that passion into a career? Pure joy. But where she really has fun is with sharing films and the emotions they bring. She respects every creator’s voice—it's the mix of different perspectives that makes life colorful.

Dog Days will have its Singapore Premiere on 26 Oct, Saturday 1.30pm at Golden Village Suntec City, as part of the Singapore Korean Film Festival 2024. A repeat screening will be on 2 Nov, Saturday, 4.15pm.

Tickets are free through registration at https://singaporefilmsociety.peatix.com/ . If the screening is sold out, please arrive 15 min before screening time for a chance of tickets at walk-in.

Visit kff.sg for more information.

Commentary: THE MURMURING SALT

Tue, 22 Oct 2024 00:17:14 GMT

Commentary – The Murmuring Salt: Royston Tan’s Health Promotion Board videos

After a series of conflicts with authorities over his much-celebrated but equally censored works 15 (2003), Royston Tan left Singapore in 2003. From that point, his name became naturally associated with the subversive and rebellious undercurrent of Singapore’s local juvenile gang culture. His explicit and authentic depictions of violence, hormonal intensity, and the vitalistic yearning to live fully in the face of looming death have remained central motifs throughout his creative career.

In recent years, Tan has increasingly participated in public projects, including the 2020 and 2023 National Day Parades, collaborations with government agencies such as the Ministry of Communications and Information (MCI), and direct involvement in the 2023 Presidential Election. Financially, he acknowledged that “income from shooting advertisements is more stable than making movies”. Strategically, such projects are crucial for staying relevant in the local art scene. Politically, he has moved beyond the naiveté of juvenile passive-aggressiveness and self-destruction, now aiming for active intervention.

However, this hope seems destined to be in vain. His two recent low-sodium-diet campaign videos, commissioned by the Health Promotion Board (HPB), illustrate how creative individuals can be exploited by state power under the guise of public welfare. In the best case, one loses their independent voice. In the worst case, they become indistinguishable from power itself, perpetuating its dominance and serving conservative forces.

Salt (verb): 3 fraudulently make (a mine) appear to be a profitable one by placing rich ore into it.

--Oxford Languages

Both For the Love of Taste (2024) and Trust No Tongue (2023) parody various Hong Kong cinema genres. In Taste , it’s Wong Kar-Wai’s famous steakhouse scene from In the Mood for Love (2000), where Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung subtly hint at their intense yet immoral feelings for each other. The original scene is intimate and emotional, with a sense of privacy heightened by tight composition and restrained camera movement. The conversations are deliberately understated and pretentiously casual, yet beneath the surface, emotions rage. This underlying tension collapses the world into a suspended space that solely encompasses the two lovers. Alain Badiou’s notion that love is the truth of ‘Two’ may serve as the perfect footnote to this scene.

In Tan’s parody, the safety of the world of ‘two’ in the original scene is replaced by instability brought on by the presence of ‘the third’. Throughout the first half of the conversation, the audience is repeatedly led to believe that the two lovers are about to end their relationship, as they are each the ‘third’ in the other’s marriage. This uncertainty is heightened by deliberately breaking spatial continuity, using techniques such as shooting into mirrors. Only at the end of the scene is the punchline revealed – the ominous ‘third’ is none other than salt.

However, the punchline simultaneously suspends the validity of the story with its absurdity. There is no logical connection between ‘salt’ and the rest of the plot. Why salt? One has to ask. Salt is so forcefully foregrounded, almost shoved into the audience’s face. The ‘salt’ could easily be anything ‘inserted’ at will. It could be Tony Leung smoking a cigarette (then it becomes an anti-smoking campaign), or Maggie Cheung drinking bubble tea (who knows? It then becomes an anti-sugar campaign). The point is, ‘salt’ is something violently inserted into the original narrative, disrupting a private sphere and a personal encounter. Its only validity is in its ability to catch us by surprise, momentarily making us believe ‘it is true.’ An elegant story is invoked to mask the lack of substance in the didactic message. Absurdity catches us off-guard, creates a temporary power vacuum, and produces an access point for power to install itself into the personal narrative.

Salt (verb): 3b to add something secretly

also: to insert or place secretly.

--Merriam-Webster dictionary

Tongue , on the other hand, draws from a less defined genre, blending elements of gangster and kung fu films. In Tan’s version, the personified organs, led by ‘Master Brain’, must catch the imposter who allowed the salt in. This plot appears to stand in stark contrast to the previous one – where the first appeals to absurdity, this one appeals to reason (the brain).

In fact, Tongue aligns perfectly with a Foucauldian critique of modern power, where power becomes invisible and is internalised by the individual in the form of self-surveillance. The organs no longer work together to sustain life; instead, they turn against one another, accusing and surveilling each other.

Nevertheless, the trace of power is still identifiable. In one scene, a TV is abruptly lowered from the ceiling, showing footage of a man devouring extra dipping sauce, prompting ‘Master Brain’ to accuse Mr. Tongue of consuming too much salt. But what do those second-person point-of-view shots on the TV even refer to? Whose ghostly perspective is this? Who is this camera that constantly surveils us as we go about our everyday lives?

Behind Royston Tan’s name echoes the insistent murmur of collective discourse, driven by the quiet force of state power.

All of a sudden, I find myself exhausted by the fake enthusiasm in the voice-over at the end of each video, boasting about the health benefits of a low-sodium diet. I can’t tell you how much I miss the rapid-fire rattling of the young gangsters in 15, reciting their gang poems. That voice feels so familiar, so genuine. It is not the voice of state power, but of our gangster friends from Moon Sect, Fury Hounds, East Dragon, 18 Umbrellas, Hup Soon Heng, Red Raiders, Froggie Gang, Upright Gang…

Needless to say, involving established filmmakers in welfare projects remains an efficient and convenient way to improve the visual quality of the campaigns and integrate artists into the public discourse. Both Tongue and Taste have gained around one million views on HPB’s YouTube channel, making them some of the platform’s top hits. Ideally, this can be a non-zero-sum game. In both Tongue and Taste , we can still see Tan’s clear effort to balance his role as a government mouthpiece with that of a stylistic director. It seems that all creative individuals involved in public projects often face a contradictory state of mind. On one hand, as advocates, they are tasked with engaging and influencing the public. On the other hand, as independent voices, they bear the responsibility of exposing power rather than concealing it. While didactic informational videos often explicitly showcase the state’s power but fail to engage the public, Royston Tan’s work highlights the other side of the same long-standing dilemma – with his undeniable artistic virtuosity, his engaging work unintentionally conceals the presence of power.

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About the author: An omnivore in film, literature and philosophy.

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #136: MEMORIES OF A BURNING BODY

Tue, 15 Oct 2024 06:02:47 GMT

BENEATH THE SPECTACLE OF HOLLYWOOD

- UNVEILING WOMANHOOD IN MEMORIES OF A BURNING BODY (COMMENTARY)

“On this walk down memory lane, we can allow ourselves the luxury to pull out the weeds from the side.”

In an industry that moves so rapidly in search for new and up-and-coming stars, there has been greater attention directed towards novelty, with many films centered around the experiences of youths, while stories about the older generation take a backseat. This is especially so for women, whose roles become increasingly limited with age. In 2022, a study showed that female characters over 40 in film have dropped from 20% to 14%. The 2023 Oscars had also sparked conversations surrounding female experiences through the male gaze, which seemed to have received better critical acclaim than those made by women (with the exception of Barbie , of course). Beyond just representation on screen, there have also been discussions around the age discrepancies between female actresses and their male counterparts, especially with young female actresses having to act older than they are. Even the great Meryl Streep has expressed worries that her career “was over” when she turned 40, being only offered “three witch [roles]” instead of “female adventurers, love interests or heroes or demons”.

However, in 2024, more older women are taking on roles in popular cinema, like Anne Hathaway in The Idea of You , Kathryn Hahn in Agatha All Along and Rebecca Ferguson in the Dune franchise, suggesting a shift in mindset in Hollywood.

But just across the sea from the heavily romanticised narratives of commercial filmmaking, there is a humble, slice-of-life film based on the experiences of Latin American womanhood, Memories of a Burning Body .

In the gradual resurgence of films featuring stories about older women, Memories of a Burning Body is a timely bittersweet docufilm centered on the complexity of womanhood across generations and decades. It strips the narrative of heavily sensationalised, fantastical realities of female experiences in Hollywood films down to its bones, reminding us that the simple, everyday experiences of women are stories in themselves, and how the harsh realities of patriarchal society and gender expectations in reality often contest the utopian illusions of female experiences in mainstream Hollywood films.

In addition, as Latin American stories remain underrepresented in mainstream media, Memories of a Burning Body is a rare gem that sheds light on new perspectives of the female condition, reminding us of the need for not just female voices of the older generation, but diversity in storytelling as well.

Directed by Antonella Sudasassi Furniss, Memories of a Burning Body depicts a greying 71-year-old Woman (played by Sol Carballo), who embodies the experiences of the film’s three narrators: Ana, Patricia and Mayela, all of whom are over 60. Described as “the conversation I never had with my grandmothers”, the film tackles the difficult discussions about love, sex, marriage and ageing that are often seen as taboo. Speaking in complete anonymity, their candid narrations and reflections add a charming, witty humour amidst the film’s sentimental and mellow tone.

The film takes place in the home of the Woman. Adorned with a plethora of photos along its walls and decorated with old paraphernalia at every corner, the home exudes a sense of nostalgia, acting as a time capsule that preserves the experiences of the Woman who lives within it. Seen through the female gaze, we observe the Woman moving through her home in different stages of her life, as a child all the way to how we see her in the present. We also see the movement of its inhabitants, watching how the rooms once crowded with family, are emptied to just the Woman at present, and filled once again with her own family, and then back to her present state.

This constant movement amidst a space frozen in time adds greater poignancy to its story, showing the growth of a once sheltered girl grappling with the growing weight of gender and societal expectations, while simultaneously learning to be comfortable in her role as a daughter, mother and wife. Situated in a Latin American context, the film allows us to sympathise with the Woman’s journey in reclaiming her identity and breaking free from ideologies that were so heavily influenced by culture that betrayed her. The Woman’s life is occasionally interrupted by the gentle ringing of her phone, reminding viewers that despite the home’s traditional aesthetic, the story ultimately takes place in contemporary society, and portrays the Woman (and by extension Womanhood), as someone who is able to change and adapt.

Lighting and blocking plays a big part in bringing this story to life, often used to depict the loss of innocence in the Woman or the changing relationship she has with herself and others within the space. The intimate, warm glow of the home invites viewers to form different relationships with this environment that the Woman regards as home, viewing it as a vessel that holds countless memories, traumas and hardship. One can even regard the relationship with the home as cyclical, with the troubles of girlhood manifesting itself in different ways as the Woman matures. Despite the room’s alluring nature, Furniss makes a conscientious effort to never over-romanticise the image of the home, revealing the hardship and the harsh reality that lies beneath it.

Ultimately, this film is a celebration of the resiliency of womanhood that persists through age. It rejoices in female emancipation, and the ability of women to overcome female subjugation amidst inherited traumas and misogyny. It captures the delicate, tender nature of girlhood and all its experiences, even the curiosity of coming-of-age and the banes that come with it. As we watch the film, we are forced to question our own assumptions about the role of women, and how a system built from religious and patriarchal doctrines could so strongly skew our beliefs about female autonomy and the responsibilities of a woman in society. The film thus embodies how the female experience is one that is full of complexity, yet still so precious in our memory. The harmony created between the film’s narrative and Carballo's acting demonstrate a collective experience of womanhood, and a quiet solidarity forged through these experiences.

As a female who is rightfully still coming-of-age and wishes that there were more conversations around the female experience, I saw this film as a triumphant and empowering reclamation of the female narrative. It showed how a woman’s value transcends physical appearance, age and quite literally, body. More importantly, noticing the film’s identifiable parallels on my personal experiences in Asian society, the film’s storytelling creates a universal truth presented through a Latin American context, allowing it to stand out as one that is highly personal and unique, while still resonating with a mass audience, regardless of cultural background.

Through Memories of a Burning Body , you realise that womanhood can be presented by a multitude of experiences and in more ways than one. Sensationalised, romanticised Hollywood films act as a mirror to what women can aspire to be, but womanhood can also be portrayed through vulnerability. It is learning to embrace your past with kinder eyes and taking pride in overcoming hardship. It is knowing that you are more than what society defines you to be, and learning to love yourself more because of it.

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Join us for the screening MEMORIES OF A BURNING BODY (M18)

�� 19 Oct, Saturday
�� 1pm
�� The Projector, Cineleisure

�� SFS members, redeem your tickets for free at singaporefilmsociety.eber.co
�� Public tickets are available at https://sfs-memories.peatix.com/view

This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #135: THARLO

Wed, 09 Oct 2024 06:23:34 GMT

My Review on Tharlo

(On the evening of August 31st, I attended a screening of Tharlo , a film that once again drew me into the unique personal expression of Pema Tseden.)

The film tells the story of Tharlo, a simple and humble Tibetan herdsman. His life is straightforward, rooted in the traditions of his rural home. However, when he needs to obtain an ID card and have his photo taken, Tharlo leaves his village and travels to the county town. There, he meets a hairdresser, and finds himself experiencing emotions he has never felt before. This encounter leads him to question his identity and the meaning of his existence. The vibrant and alluring life in the town captivates Tharlo, and he gradually loses himself in his longing for a modern lifestyle. Driven by his fantasies, he even sells all his sheep and gives the money to the hairdresser, dreaming of a future with her—a life he has never known. But this fantasy soon crumbles when the hairdresser disappears with all his money, leaving Tharlo in a state of deep despair.

The film opens and nearly closes with Tharlo reciting quotations from Chairman Mao in a manner reminiscent of chanting sutras. The shifting attitude of the police chief toward him also creates a deeply ironic tone.

Cinematographer Lü Songye has given the film a unique character. The black-and-white cinematography, combined with aesthetically rich compositions and long takes from fixed camera positions inevitably reminds me of Yasujirō Ozu, another director I hold in high regard. Although the film primarily uses fixed-camera long takes, the simplicity of the actors' performances, the plain dialogue, and the director's careful crafting of the atmosphere all contribute to a narrative style that feels as natural as breathing—quiet yet powerful, and deeply thought-provoking.

I can’t help but wonder why the film was shot in black-and-white. Perhaps it can be interpreted as follows: "Black" represents the secular, complex, and conflict-ridden modern society, while "White" symbolises Tharlo’s pure, traditional image as a Tibetan herdsman. As the white is enveloped by the black, Tharlo experiences temptation and desire, but in doing so, he loses himself and is ultimately harmed—harm that leads to his tragic demise.

Tharlo is, once again, a profound exploration of the conflict between tradition and modernity in the process of modernisation. Tharlo’s story reveals how individuals struggle and become lost in the face of invisible forces within this conflict, ultimately descending into tragedy. The film’s unique visual style and deep themes moved me deeply, leading me to a deeper reflection on self-identity in modern society.

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About the author: My name is Xia Zhongjing, and I'm from Suzhou, Jiangsu, China. Now, I live in SG. I am a professional in the film and television industry with a Master of Arts degree, and I studied film in New York. My primary work focuses on documentaries, and I have a deep passion for all forms of beautiful artistic expression.

Film Review #134: BALLOON

Wed, 09 Oct 2024 04:19:27 GMT

My View on Balloon : Surrealism and the Female Perspective

Balloon explores the tension between Tibetan culture and modern society, the conflict between faith and reality, and the personal struggles of individuals against fate, all through a seemingly simple family narrative. The film's unique visual beauty and female-centric perspective reveal deeper human dilemmas.

Symbolism of the Red Balloon

The red balloon is a central image, symbolising hope, freedom, and helplessness. It appears throughout the film, blending realistic and surreal scenes to become an expression of inner emotions and a layered metaphor rather than a mere prop.

Surreal and Poetic Scenes

The surreal scenes are striking, such as the boys removing a mole from their brother’s body—believed to be a mark of their grandmother’s reincarnation—and running into the desert; or the brother searching for his grandfather in a swamp, with reflections shifting from illusion to reality. These moments are filled with poetic absurdity and reflect the film’s deeper exploration of Tibetan beliefs on reincarnation and destiny.

Female Perspective and Complex Emotions

Balloon is unique in Tseden’s work because of its focus on a female perspective. Drolkar, the protagonist, faces the dilemmas of unplanned pregnancy and religious belief, grappling with a desire for autonomy while being bound by tradition. Her struggle reflects the fractures caused by the clash of Tibetan culture and modernity.

Contrasting Female Characters

The contrast between Drolkar and her sister, Shangchu Drolma, highlights different choices of women confronting tradition and modernity. Drolma’s silence as a nun stems from a past failed relationship, subtly depicted as a metaphor for regret. The portrayal of these women, along with a modern female doctor, adds layers to the narrative, depicting the complex emotional landscape of contemporary Tibetan women.

Visual and Musical Expression

Visually, Balloon is memorable for its handheld shots and long takes, capturing the vastness of Tibetan landscapes and intimate emotional moments. The cool tones enhance the story’s emotional undercurrent, amplifying the characters’ anxieties. The restrained use of traditional Tibetan instruments adds a mystical quality to the film’s surreal elements.

Open-Ended Conclusion

The film’s conclusion, with a popped balloon and another floating skyward, leaves characters gazing upward, searching for answers that never come. This open-ended finale invites broader reflection, elevating the film’s social and artistic impact.

Balloon weaves together surrealism, cultural critique, and personal storytelling, offering a profound exploration of faith, identity, and the human spirit that resonates beyond its cultural context.

After the screening on August 28th, there was a live Q&A session with Professor Xu Feng from the Central Academy of Drama. The professor engaged in a deeper discussion with the audience, focusing on the cultural background of the Tibetan region, particularly the representation of Tibetan Buddhism in the film. This discussion allowed me to gain insights into aspects that I hadn’t previously understood, making it a very enlightening experience.

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Film Review #133: ALL THE LONG NIGHTS + Interview with JFF 2024 Festival Programmer

Wed, 02 Oct 2024 00:54:03 GMT

All The Long Nights (2023) at Japanese Film Festival (JFF) 2024

+ Interview with JFF programmer!

All The Long Nights (dir. Sho Miyake) feels like warm patches of sunlight flitting in and out on a chilly bus ride home. The story boasts the charm and fresh concept of modern cinema, with the texture and warmth of a vintage classic. Misa Fujisawa (Mone Kamishiraishi) experiences severe premenstrual syndrome (PMS) which flips her typical sunny demeanour and makes her erratic and irritable, lashing out at anyone in her vicinity. After her outbursts begin to affect her professional life, she quits her corporate job and takes a more laid-back role in a company manufacturing science kits for children. There, she meets Takatoshi Yamazoe (Hokuto Matsumura) whom she discovers suffers from a panic disorder. The two polar opposites butt heads initially, but warm up to each other and form an unlikely alliance.

“I can’t control my panic attacks, but I can help you every one of three times.”

Under the care of cinematographer Yuta Tsukinaga, who also worked on Sho Miyake’s last film, Small, Slow but Steady (2022), each shot in the film has a serene and dreamlike quality while portraying the most mundane subjects. I find this to be a special feature in Japanese cinema. Everyday scenes like the journey to and from work and home are such arbitrary constants in their daily routine, yet composed beautifully on screen.

As they learn about the other’s condition and how to support each other, Fujisawa and Yamazoe’s friendship poses the age-old question—can men and women be just friends? Their connection is based on their unadulterated desire to understand and support each other; two people who may be alone due to their conditions, but not lonely with each other.

This film marks the start of Japanese Film Festival (JFF) 2024, and aligns perfectly with this year’s theme of “Continuity”. As Fujisawa and Yamazoe’s lives ebb and flow and become intertwined, they discover themselves and teach each other how to cope. Their journey illustrates how human connection allows for continuity in an increasingly fragmented society.

All The Long Nights is a warm, inviting, and memorable opening film to JFF 2024, and screens again on 4 October alongside an exciting and diverse lineup! Now, who better to tell you more about the festival than the programmer himself? I had the pleasure of speaking to my friend, Deepagcharan Chandran, the programmer of JFF 2024, who kindly took the time to give me an insight into his curation process, putting together this year’s expansive mosaic of Japanese cinema.

INTERVIEW WITH DEEPAGCHARAN CHANDRAN, PROGRAMMER OF JFF 2024
[This interview is paraphrased slightly for clarity]

V: For this year’s JFF, how did you arrange your programme? What was your curation process?

D: I worked together with Japan Foundation, who provided us with a few titles. Then, I tried to complement the lineup with my own curation. [The Japan Foundation is a cultural organisation working with us to co-organise the film festival alongside Japan Creative Centre.] In my selection process, I paid close attention to major film festivals like Cannes, Venice, Locarno, and Berlin, to see which new Japanese films have captured their attention. This gives me a sense of the output from the Japanese film industry that can then be synthesised and presented to our local audience.

I try to draw a balance between presenting prominent, popular films and up-and-coming films that should be spotlighted. For instance, Sho Miyake, director of the opening film, All The Long Nights , is on the rise. He presents unique voices in society and shoots on film, adding texture. The festival programme also features a Singaporean co-production, My Endless Numbered Days directed by Shaun Neo. I was intrigued by his collaborative production process and wanted to support a local film that stood out. I also wanted to spotlight Gakuryu Ishii this year; The Box Man and Crazy Thunder Road are showing at JFF. His films have been credited with pioneering the Japanese New Wave and Japanese Cyberpunk genres. With unique films like these, I want the JFF programme to diversify the narrative of the constituents of Japanese cinema.

V: I know you currently do programming for SFS Showcases and some festivals. What is your key philosophy in selecting films?

D : Prominent filmmakers always have their films screened at the biggest stages at major film festivals, but I also like to follow up-and-coming filmmakers that get their launch pads at the sidebars of these film festivals. For example, Cannes has Un Certain Regard , Venice Orizzonti ; these are great places to look. To diversify, I try to keep up with what films people are talking about, read film criticism platforms like Letterboxd, A Rabbit’s Hole, and more.

V: How did you select this year’s opening film, All The Long Nights ? What do you feel about it?

D: For the opening film, we usually select something that’s a good representation of the festival, sets the tone, and is audience-friendly. It shouldn’t be like asking people to jump off a cliff, it should guide them on a trek up the mountain and then push them off (My personal favourite quote from Deepag) . I first saw our opening film, All The Long Nights in Berlin earlier this year, and it won my heart. In modern society, we tend to shy away from talking about how to be present for others who are going through issues while we face our own. All The Long Nights is a nuanced film about being supportive of one another in this world, and discusses mental health in a compassionate and gentle way.

V: ⁠Has your relationship with Japanese films changed after programming for JFF?

D: I’ve always had huge respect for the history of Japanese cinema. Becoming a programmer for JFF has helped me further understand and appreciate the giants of Japanese cinema as well as the voices that are waiting to be heard. We get to highlight uniquely Japanese directors who have crafted a language for Japanese cinema and allow us to understand Japanese culture and cinema. I wanted to delve deeper into uncovering these voices and creating a platform for audiences to watch these films. JFF is that platform for me.

V: Any ending thoughts?

D: I think Singaporean audiences love Japanese cinema and this festival has been a platform for people to explore outside the recent landscape of mainstream offerings, and presents an opportunity to watch films that weren't released commercially in Singapore, or other forms of Japanese cinema like independent arthouse films. JFF has allowed us to really appreciate Japanese culture. I also value our collaboration with our programme partners like the Asian Film Archive and The Projector to screen all these must-see works.

This year, we are also celebrating the 70th anniversary of Godzilla , which is a truly monumental milestone in Japanese cinema culture. I hope our audiences enjoy the lineup and take a leap of faith to watch the diverse range of films.

Japanese Film Festival 2024 runs from 26 Sep - 20 October and has diverse offerings screening at Shaw Theatres Lido, Oldham Theatre and The Projector (Cineleisure and Golden Mile Tower).

SFS Members are entitled to discounts to most screenings. Sign up for SFS membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Find out more about Japanese Film Festival 2024 here: https://jff.sg/

Author's bio: Victoria Khine is a fresh graduate from Film and Literary Arts at School of the Arts, Singapore. She loves watching and making films, and she writes from the heart.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #132: THE BEAST

Thu, 19 Sep 2024 00:19:16 GMT

SFS Showcase: THE BEAST - film review

Singapore Film Society’s monthly Showcase for June 2024 presented me with one of the most interesting moviegoing experiences in recent years - The Beast by Bertrand Bonello.

Seasoned French auteur Bonello reunites with Léa Seydoux in this dystopian, mind-bending film about artificial intelligence in control, and where human decision-making takes a backseat. This bizarre tale, told in three timelines, also stars George MacKay as Seydoux’s male lead across all timelines.

Seydoux plays Gabrielle, a woman constantly haunted by the idea that something catastrophic would happen to her if she were to act on her romantic interest in Louis, played by MacKay. The duo’s chemistry, coupled with the ominous energy between them and surrounding their interactions, is one of the merits that holds this convoluted film together.

If one finds the film difficult to follow and comprehend, perhaps leave the mind to rest and let the eyes take charge, for The Beast excels in its luxurious and showy imagery, set pieces, costumes and visual effects. Cinematographer Jośee Deshaies and production designer Katia Wyszkop deserve a special shoutout for their and their teams’ outstanding work in this regard.

Bonello roams free in his creative cinematic world with this film. As its director, co-writer, co-producer and even co-composer, his creative vision is felt throughout the entire film. As someone new to Bonello's works, I dare not say The Beast is his most ambitious project till date, but it certainly is one of the most creatively ambitious films in recent years.

As a sucker for European cinema as well as movies that exercise the brain, this film is very much up my alley and I would recommend it to those who crave something similar. At almost two-and-a-half-hours, depending on your perspective, this film could stretch the bladder but it absolutely stretches the mind just as much, if not more so. Moreover, how refreshing and satisfying is it to see an attractive British actor speak French?

Bonello's The Beast is one of the latest additions to the dystopian sci-fi film genre, and one that strives to unlock the "divisive at first but gradually becoming a classic over time" achievement. Appealing to a diverse range of moviegoers, namely Léa Seydoux and George MacKay fans, fans of European films and dystopian sci-fi fans, it is without a doubt the film which leaves me the deepest impression out of all SFS Showcases this year so far.

Check out my YouTube video film review of The Beast for other thoughts and views! And don't forget to explore SFS membership here!

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Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

Film Review #131: DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 16:41:49 GMT

SFS Preview - DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY (2024) - film review

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

The Chinese lunar seventh month has entered its final week this year. Known as the “Hungry Ghost Month” informally among ethnic Chinese in Singapore and the region, it is an annual month-long period where “hungry ghosts” are “released” from hell back into the human world - many of these spirits exact revenge on those who have wronged them when they were alive. It is believed that humans who breach the customs of this festival will likely be met with hostility from the spirits whom they offended. Pulling from this tradition, Taiwanese supernatural comedy DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY drops on 29 August in Singapore theatres, bringing a mix of laughter and screams to our island as the “Hungry Ghost Month” concludes.

DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY centres around “The Rookie” (Gingle Wang - DETENTION ; MARRY MY DEAD BODY ), an unnamed deceased girl who led a seemingly purposeless life in which she failed at everything she pursued, and who is now an equally uninspired ghost about to disappear in a month’s time. She chances upon Catherine (Sandrine Pinna - SEE YOU TOMORROW ; LEGEND OF THE DEMON CAT ), an experienced scarer, through her “agent and manager” Makoto (Wilson Chen Bolin - IN TIME WITH YOU ; TRICK OR TREAT ), and is brought under her wing. As a team, Catherine, Makoto and The Rookie, are locked into a scare-off with Jessica (Eleven Yao Yi Ti - THE GANS, THE OSCARS, AND THE WALKING DEAD ; TRICK OR LOVE ), Catherine’s former apprentice-turned-rival.

Directed by John Hsu, who also co-wrote the film with Kun-Lin Tsai, DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY is the director’s sophomore feature, marking the second collaboration between Hsu and Gingle Wang since DETENTION . Confusing as Wang’s third-billing might be, fans of the rapidly rising Taiwanese actress would very much rejoice given how she actually has the most screen-time in this film. Despite the light-hearted nature of the film, Wang’s turn leans more towards the emotional side and her character’s story may resonate with a fair number of peers who share similar life experiences.

While DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY does not hold back on its supernatural elements and the amount of gore, rigid horror fans should note that this film is ultimately a slapstick comedy much more than it is a scary movie. However, audiences who enjoy an abundance of outrageous gore will likely be satisfied with this film.

In the same breath, the teams who worked on the special effects of this movie deserve praise. Having seen a number of Taiwanese films over the years with average or disappointing special effects, DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY is a positive sign that the craft is noticeably improving in the nation’s film industry. With the Golden Horse Awards less than a quarter away, DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY should be confident and proud that it is considerably competitive in the technical categories - especially best sound, best editing, best visual effects, best action choreography and best make-up and hairstyling.

Years from now, when this film has developed its loyal fanbase, I predict there will be a friendly debate over if the film is better in its fleshed out, well-executed supernatural elements, or in its dramatic, emotional moments. I personally prefer the latter, and am curious to know more about Pinna’s Catherine - what she went through when she was still alive, how and why she became the scarer that she is? Some ten extra minutes of screentime, which would bring this film to only two hours anyway, could most certainly value-add to the bandwidth for Catherine’s character development.

DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY is a fun ride from start to finish. Powered by hilarious and committed performances, and supported by stellar technical craftwork, it is a solid crowd-pleaser that will surely make one’s day. Lastly, do sit through the credits and only leave when the entire screening ends, you will not be disappointed.

Catch DEAD TALENTS SOCIETY in theatres across the island from 29 August 2024 onwards!

随着今年的农历七月进入最后一个礼拜，台湾电影《鬼才之道》在新加坡上映显得特别应景。

暌违五年，徐汉强导演的第二部作品终于问世。继《返校》，《鬼才之道》再次由新生代人气女星王净担任主角之一。王净饰演一个菜鸟鬼，面对即将在一个月后从人间消失的危机，不得已必须尝试取得 “厉鬼证” 变成厉鬼才得以继续留在人间。

电影的另一个主要故事线则围绕着张榕容所饰演的凯萨琳，一只实力派厉鬼。她曾有一名学徒 - 潔西卡（姚以缇饰），但标新立异的潔西卡却和凯萨琳反目成仇，势不两立。凯萨琳身旁的团队也包括 Makoto（陈柏霖饰），在遇见菜鸟鬼同学后决定将她带入凯萨琳门下训练她成为一只吓人的厉鬼。

网路短剧《正港分局》不久前上架，再加上这部电影，王净的粉丝在这期间应该是大饱眼福了。戏份最多的她，因角色的可怜背景以及在电影中的成长，拥有不少动人的时刻，在这无厘头喜剧之中显得更加出众。

如果说《鬼才之道》有任何美中不足之处，也许是与它精彩的吓人桥段相比之下，少了对凯萨琳这个角色更深刻的人物塑造。观众对她生前的遗憾、悲剧了解的不多，有点可惜。也许制作团队在这方面特意留了一手，以便开发前传吧？毕竟它的IP颇有成为“邪典”（cult）的潜力。

知道这是一部鬼片，电影中的特效必然会在一个水准之上。果然，《鬼才之道》在技术层面非常亮眼 - 精准的剪辑、逼真又逼人的造型、动作指导、音效及视觉效果都给人留下深刻印象。距离2024金马奖还剩下不到三个月，这部电影想必是有机会在典礼上大放异彩。

《鬼才之道》的搞笑、娱乐性等都不必多说。在这里想要特别呼吁陈柏霖的粉丝，电影结束时请记得待到最后，保证你们不会失望！

Connect with Jarrett here: https://linktr.ee/jarrettandfilm

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Film Review #130: JURASSIC PARK

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 16:24:54 GMT

“If The Pirates of the Caribbean breaks down, the pirates don’t eat the tourists”: Revisiting Jurassic Park (1993)

Dear reader, this essay is a pretty deep dive into Jurassic Park (beware of spoilers) rather than a conventional review. It’s recommended that you watch the film before reading this essay in order to get the most out of it.

1. Returning to Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park (1993) was among the first few live-action films I ever saw in the cinema as a child. I watched it twice in the cinema and multiple times on VHS. But I don’t think I ever made a conscious effort to revisit it when I started to develop a more serious interest in film from around the time of my A-Level studies. Of course, over the years, I never ceased to say positive things about Jurassic Park in casual conversation, usually something to the effect of “The dinosaurs still look real even after all these years.” Now, this wasn’t because I was confident that the special effects had aged well. Rather, it was simply because this was something that the people around me always seemed to agree with quite reflexively. I never felt any discomfort about reusing this little white lie because, at some level, I had always believed that Jurassic Park would hold up under contemporary scrutiny, though perhaps not for reasons to do with its special effects.

To put my own theory to the test, I re-watched Jurassic Park recently from the start to the end for the first time in a very long time. Truth be told, I lost a bit of confidence in my earlier assumptions before putting the film on. I wondered briefly if my memories had been clouded by nostalgia. Regardless, I ended up thoroughly enjoying my re-introduction to the world of Jurassic Park .

2. Shooting a Dinosaur

I wasn’t wrong about the special effects. Some of them have aged visibly. But this doesn’t diminish the impact of the dinosaur scenes and set pieces. The dinosaurs are still presented with a certain sense of scale, solidity, and spectacle that more recent films armed with the advantages of modern special effects have not been able to replicate. How was this achieved? Much has been said about the film’s judicious mix of CGI and animatronics . Also, as with Jaws (1975), the storytelling in Jurassic Park adheres to the principle of “ less is more ”, which amplifies the potency of each successive unveiling of the park’s dinosaurs. Even as a child, I was somewhat aware of these factors. I can still remember the grown-ups around me marvelling at how entertaining the film was even though the dinosaurs had very little screen time.

Now, re-watching the film as an adult, a whole host of other things stands out for me. I’m more conscious now of how the “felt” physicality of the dinosaurs, as opposed to the weightlessness or floatiness of many modern CGI creatures, is as much the result of shooting and storytelling decisions as that of the use of practical effects. The dinosaurs are almost always framed tightly. It doesn’t matter which species we’re looking at or what the dinosaur is doing. It also doesn’t matter which part of the dinosaur we’re looking at: the entire body, a part of the torso, a claw, a foot, or the head – when it appears, the dinosaur or body part thereof fills a large part of the frame. There is also usually a human point of reference sharing the frame with the dinosaur. This could be a human character or a man-made object, one of the park’s vehicles, for example. If there’s a human character in the scene, we will get, as one other reviewer has pointed out, a good number of well-acted reaction shots , either one of wonder or terror. Scale, power, and physicality are thus communicated – and a sense of awe, intimacy, or spectacle is correspondingly induced – in the most direct of ways. One interesting example would be the famous shot of the reflection of the T-Rex’s roaring visage in the side mirror of the park jeep as it catches up with it in a chase scene. It’s only a reflection, but the T-Rex’s gaping jaws fill a large part of the frame. We also notice, at the bottom of the side mirror, the following warning in block letters: “OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR”.

3. Relatable Terror (or Wonder)

The audience is also reminded of what the dinosaurs are capable of even when they’re not on the screen or are obscured. “Less is more,” so the saying goes. But “less is more” can also be downright boring if mishandled or taken too literally. It will work, though, if it provides time and space for the creature’s physicality and potential to register in a proper build-up. And it works particularly well in Jurassic Park because such time and space are filled with relatable references to things that we can reasonably expect the audience to understand or to have even seen or experienced before. The use of rippling water (in a cup or otherwise) to announce the imminent arrival of the T-Rex has long since become a cinematic cliché. But it’s a perfect example of what I’m getting at. It is recognizably how a large animal could announce itself. The opening scene where a Velociraptor triggers a deadly workplace accident is another one. We can only see bits of the raptor through the slats of the transport container. But it’s the opening shots of the waiting park staff – armed, eyes fixed on the imminent delivery of the raptor, and led by a specialist, the game warden Robert Muldoon (Bob Peck) – that tells us what we need to know about the dreaded thing in the large box. What are the real-world threats or familiar cinematic ones that need to be mechanically restrained or shadowed by an armed welcome party? Who or what moves from place to place in a large sealed box? Serial killers? Hannibal Lecter? Destructive weapons? A dormant vampire? Consider, too, the raptor feeding scene. We see the raptors’ meal – a live cow – lowered into the raptor pen; we see the plants in the pen shaking, almost like rough waves; we hear the raptors tear the cow apart; and we see the mangled harness emerging from the pen once the feeding is done. This is essentially a large-scale version of a piranha feeding frenzy.

Jurassic Park seems to set its raptors up as a tiny band of intelligent human-like serial killers or hunters who eventually escape from “prison”. And I do mean tiny . As a child, the fact that there were only three adult raptors in the park completely flew over my head. I became aware of this for the first time only upon re-watching the film with the explicit intention of writing about it. Why only three? We learn from Muldoon that one raptor – the “big one” – “took over the pride and killed all but two of the others.” “That one,” Muldoon warns, “when she looks at you, you can see she’s working things out.” The raptors, he further notes, have been probing the electric fences for weak spots. We learn how human-like and clever the raptors are long before we even see them ambush Muldoon and open the kitchen door. Would a horde of raptors have been as cinematically effective as only three of them? I doubt it. If the raptors are already everywhere, the audience won’t get the chance to torture themselves by imagining where they may pop up next. It’s not for nothing that slasher films usually feature solo killers. The alien in Predator (1987) – another non-human but human-inspired hunter (or serial killer) – also prowls the jungle environment alone.

I can also now see how the main action set pieces – namely, the T-Rex paddock scenes and the raptor scenes – derive a lot of their effectiveness from their claustrophobic aspects. There is nothing intrinsically terrifying about a large carnivorous animal. But being trapped with one in close quarters certainly is. Granted, the T-Rex paddock scenes take place in an open-air setting. However, most of them are orchestrated around and within the park’s tour vehicles. We see the T-Rex knock over the tour vehicle containing Lex Murphy (Ariana Richards) and Tim Murphy (Joseph Mazzello), shattering the car’s glass canopy. It presses its weight on the overturned car as it attacks it, threatening to crush the children or to drown them in the muddy ground. In this entire set piece, the overturned tour vehicle is as much a threat to the human characters as the T-Rex is, even when they’re no longer trapped in it. The T-Rex disappears from the final act of this set piece, which revolves entirely around Alan Grant (Sam Neill) and the Murphy siblings evading the falling tour vehicle as they climb down the paddock’s side walls and later one of the large trees within it. The T-Rex paddock scenes work because the tour vehicle plays the role of a secondary (and, later, primary) threat. At some level, we can only feel meaningfully threatened by things that we know or find familiar and, well, none of us has seen a T-Rex in the flesh before. But we can easily relate to the claustrophobic terror of being crushed inside a cramped hulk of twisted metal and broken glass or of frantically climbing down a tree while a heavy object crashes through the branches above us.

We see similar principles at work in the raptor scenes. Like the T-Rex, there is nothing intrinsically terrifying about a raptor (or a known human killer, for that matter). But being trapped with two of them in a kitchen with few obvious hiding spots and with clanging metal surfaces and utensils that threaten to give your position away certainly is. So is having a snarling raptor head pop up through the panels below you while you’re crawling through an air duct. So is being chased by one in the restrictive walkways of an underground power shed. The raptor scenes recall those from slasher films (analogues for escaped serial killers deserve no less). Like many of the raptor scenes, slasher films involve people being stalked and killed by implacable and seemingly all-knowing masked humans (or non-humans even), sometimes in tight spaces. A good number of the shots of the raptors are shots of their “weapons” rather than full body shots: their jaws and teeth, their powerful legs, and, of course, their claws. Perhaps more interestingly, a number of the shots of the raptors are reaction shots, underlining their intelligence and their alertness (they always sneer knowingly). The raptor scenes work because they are, at some level, familiar and relatable in an unsettling way. No one on this planet has ever been hunted by a raptor in tight spaces before, but a good number of us can easily imagine the terror of being attacked by a fellow human being in a place with few avenues for escape. As an aside, wasn’t the shark in Jaws set up as an underwater serial killer ?

The raptor scenes are familiar in another way. There is a piece of concept art in Jurassic Park: The Official Script Book that places the raptors in a haunted mansion-esque environment. It never made it into the film, but some of the raptor scenes nonetheless still possess a haunted mansion quality. In both the film and in your standard haunted mansion fair ride, ghoulish heads and grasping limbs (or severed ones) pop out of unexpected places in dark and spatially restricted settings. The kitchen scene with Tim and Lex certainly possesses this charm. The Murphy siblings may as well have been crawling around their own house in order to evade the bogeyman who has just trundled out of their bedroom closet.

The dinosaur scenes in Jurassic Park still work well because of their relatable or familiar qualities. This, of course, also applies to the scenes where no one is getting killed and eaten. Consider the scene where the main characters observe the hatching of the raptor egg in the park lab. We see, in intimate medium close-ups, the main characters hunched and whispering around the incubator, like children coaxing a shy puppy out of its cage. Consider, too, the veterinary and petting zoo undercurrents of the Triceratops and Brachiosaurus feeding scenes respectively. These scenes are impactful because they trigger heartfelt callbacks to the real world.

4. Humans of Jurassic Park

Now, what of the human characters? It’s often said that the characters in Jurassic Park are thinly sketched . I don’t necessarily disagree. But several of the main characters – namely Grant, John Hammond (played by the late Richard Attenborough), and Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) – are sufficiently textured , in no small part due to the skills of the actors playing them, as to be worthy of being taken seriously by the audience. Spielberg and his actors succeed in making it seem as if these characters are inhabiting the world of Jurassic Park as opposed to merely appearing in it. In the helicopter ride to Isla Nublar, Hammond describes Malcolm as a “rock star”. Goldblum’s performance (not to mention Spielberg’s direction) in this film is such that we can believe that, even when “off-screen”, Ian Malcolm is indeed a rock star mathematician and has been for some time in the world of Jurassic Park . Grant’s introduction is another case in point. It’s just another day at the dig site with Ellie Sattler (Laura Dern) and the volunteers. But it shows us so economically who Alan Grant is in this world, even before we hear Hammond describe him and Sattler as “top minds” in their field. By the time Grant is done teasing the kid who didn’t think that raptors were scary (“More like a six-foot turkey”), we can believe that he’s a world expert on dinosaurs and that he’s therefore the right person to endorse the park and reassure its investors.

We can also identify with the characters in Jurassic Park because, like Chief Brody (played by the late Roy Scheider) from Jaws or Roy Neary (Richard Dreyfuss) from Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), they are regular people – played by good actors, it bears repeating – plunged into extraordinary and other-worldly circumstances. It’s easy to root for a small town police chief or an electrical lineman who’s out of his depth. In the same way, it’s easy to root for the characters in Jurassic Park because they are patently not monster-dodging action movie characters. That sort only appears in the recent Jurassic World series (2015-2022). All we get in the first one are regular academics and kids. Even John Hammond is “normal”. He’s a CEO, but of the avuncular Walt Disney variety. He’s not the type of CEO who’s going to take to the skies in a helicopter to hunt down rogue dinosaurs, as the late Irrfan Khan’s Simon Masrani does in Jurassic World (2015). Hammond shows his complacency in several scenes, but he doesn’t say or do anything on-screen that comes across as larger-than-life. When the power fails to come back on, he obligingly, and rather innocently, reassures a nervous Sattler with the following: “All major theme parks have delays. When they opened Disneyland in 1956, nothing worked.” “Yeah, but, John,” Malcolm, lying injured on a table, reminds him, “if The Pirates of the Caribbean breaks down, the pirates don’t eat the tourists.”

We can root for and relate to the characters in Jurassic Park because, like Chief Brody from Jaws , most of them try to do the right thing even when they’re out of their depth. Only the lawyer runs. But his real crime, the audience sees, is abandoning the children. “He left us. He left us,” Lex mutters, as Donald Gennaro (Martin Ferrero) scurries off in the rain for the illusory safety of the park bathroom. It is Grant (and Malcolm, albeit less assuredly) who steps up in spite of his earlier coolness to the kids. Once Grant and Lex are finally safe at the bottom of the side walls of the T-Rex paddock, he tells her to stay put while he goes after her brother, who’s stuck in the tour vehicle that’s fallen into the top of a tree. “He left us. He Left us,” Lex continues to mutter. “ But that’s not what I’m going to do ,” Grant tells her. When Grant reaches Tim, they exchange words that many a parent at the playground or at the end of a misjudged theme park ride would find familiar. Tim tells Grant that he’s thrown up. “Tim,” Grant says, “I won’t tell anyone you threw up, just … just give me your hand.”

A large number of the scenes in Jurassic Park take place in the park’s indoor facilities, particularly the control room and the bunker. While I was re-watching the film, I was struck by how watchable the “on-site” workplace scenes were. Take the control room scenes, for example. The control room is lightly staffed. We see uniformed staff walking here and there in the background, but it looks as if the whole park is managed by Dennis Nedry (Wayne Knight) and Ray Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson). We soon learn – courtesy of a minor rant from Nedry – that the park’s operations are highly automated. Later, we’re informed, via a throwaway line, of the departure of park staff for the mainland at around the time of the approaching storm. Keeping the control room lean allows for a tighter focus on the characters in the room. Nedry, Arnold, and Hammond genuinely sound like colleagues who have been working together (and, in the case of Nedry and Hammond, getting on each other’s nerves) for some time. “I will not get drawn into another financial debate with you, Dennis. I really will not!” Hammond says, when Nedry alludes to his being underpaid for automating the park’s operations. “There’d be hardly any debate at all,” Nedry retorts. The control room scenes, quite naturally, are filled with IT and workplace admin-laden lines. But Wayne Knight and Samuel L. Jackson make these lines sound believable. Knight, in particular, succeeds brilliantly at sounding just like the sort of guy who would leave junk food wrappers strewn all over his workstation – we know the workplace personality type. When the fences start to fail after Nedry sabotages the park, Hammond barks, “Find Nedry! Check the vending machines!”

Stripping the park of most of its (skilled) personnel creates space for small and relatable moments. A friend of mine recently suggested that I should take a closer look at the scene where Hammond wistfully explains his motivation for building the park to Sattler in the visitor centre restaurant. They’re alone and the power (and hence the refrigeration) is already out. Hammond is eating ice cream. We see several tubs on the table. “They were all melting,” he says, when Sattler comes over to join him. Later, in the bunker, Hammond fumbles more than once, as grandpa would in a home power outage. As Sattler prepares to head out to the power shed, Hammond notes that he should be the one to go instead, because “Well, I’m a … and you’re, um a …” Sattler heads out anyway. “Look … we can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back,” she says. When Malcolm tries to offer Hammond a small bit of advice on how to guide Sattler through the power shed, Hammond snaps back, “I understand how to read a schematic.” Sattler reaches a dead end, and Malcolm snatches the walkie talkie from Hammond.

5. “We have all the problems of a major theme park and a major zoo and the computer’s not even on its feet yet.” - Ray Arnold

Jurassic Park still holds up because a large number of its scenes are relatable in some way. Now, this isn’t the same thing as saying that it’s a realistic film. But, while re-watching Jurassic Park , I couldn’t help but think of one of the late Roger Ebert’s observations about Batman Begins (2005). “The movie,” Ebert wrote, “is not realistic, because how could it be, but it acts as if it is.” Jurassic Park , at least for me, successfully pretends to be realistic by daring to be about the park rather than just being about the cloned dinosaurs. There are dinosaurs in the film, yes. But the film dares to spend most of its runtime lingering around the physical infrastructure of the park: its well-designed vehicles, its tall electric fences, the automated vehicle tour (narrated by the late Richard Kiley, who was playing himself), the control room (with its two main administrators), the bunker, the power shed, the T-Rex paddock, the raptor pen, and other places. More importantly, the film doesn’t overplay the park’s sophistication. To put it another way, we’re not shown so much that we lose the ability to feel that this is just a big zoo, only its animal exhibits happen to be dinosaurs.

Jurassic Park succeeds in pretending to be realistic also because of its characters, none of whom are written or played as larger-than-life. This is a film that is carried by its actors. The lunch scene (Chilean sea bass is served), where the film’s themes of technological hubris are spelt out explicitly for us in a minor info-dump, is a case in point. “Genetic power is the most awesome force the planet’s ever seen, but you wield it like a kid that’s found his dad’s gun,” Malcolm warns. The lines in this scene have aged remarkably well. In another part of his mini-lecture, Malcolm tells Hammond that his “scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn’t stop to think if they should.” He may as well have been talking about AI. In the hands of a different set of actors, such lines could easily come across as too direct. It is to the actors’ credit that this scene, which is intent on telling rather than showing, doesn’t feel forced or boring. This really feels like how a polite meeting between cautious academics and a less cautious technology entrepreneur (“how can we stand in the light of discovery, and not act?”) would go. The lunch scene’s effectiveness is also partly due to the ambience of the private dining room. Or are they having lunch in a conference room? I can’t really tell. Whatever the case, the room has a bit of the feel of a small dark auditorium. There’s an automated slideshow clicking away, flashing park promotional material on the walls. We see a few lights on the walls. They provide a deliberate dose of delicate backlighting for the characters as they speak, making them look like expert guests on a nightly news show and underlining the gravitas of their words. Even what is effectively a lunchtime seminar is watchable. It’s a small but telling indicator of why Jurassic Park still holds up, even after all these years.

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About the author: Benjamin Choo is a Senior Lecturer at the Singapore University of Social Sciences. As you can probably tell, Goodfellas is one of his favourite films. But he has many others and he's hoping to share his thoughts on them with you in future pieces for the Singapore Film Society. Stay tuned for more contributions from Benjamin.

Film Review #129: WOLFWALKERS

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 16:08:09 GMT

WOLFWALKERS (2020)

As part of Cartoon Saloon’s latest installation in its Irish folklore trilogy, Wolfwalkers (2020) is a stunning and bewitching animated story that is nothing short of an exemplar for children’s films. It weaves adventure, friendship and family into one beautiful tapestry which is brought to life with captivating visuals and soulful animation.

Set in the lush and mystical forests of 17th-century Ireland, intertwining elements of English colonialism and Celtic paganism into its narrative, the film follows the journey of Robyn Goodfellowe, a young English girl who moves to Kilkenny with her father, Bill.

Robyn's father, a seasoned hunter, is commissioned by the ruthless Lord Protector to eliminate the wolves that inhabit the nearby forest. Determined to prove herself as a capable hunter, Robyn ventures into the forest and stumbles upon a magical secret: Mebh, a free-spirited Wolfwalker, a being who can transform into a wolf at will.

Intrigued and drawn to Mebh's world, Robyn forms a deep bond with her. As they explore the forest together, Robyn learns about the Wolfwalkers' connection to nature and their role as guardians of the forest. She also witnesses the devastating impact of the Lord Protector's deforestation efforts on the forest ecosystem and the local community.

Determined to protect her newfound friend and the forest, Robyn takes a stand against the Lord Protector. With the help of Mebh and the Wolfwalkers, she uncovers the Lord Protector's true intentions and exposes his plans to exploit the forest for personal gain. As the conflict escalates, Robyn's father, torn between his duty as a hunter and his love for his daughter, must make a difficult choice.

In the realm of contemporary animation, Wolfwalkers (2020) stands out by boldly embracing the laborious but fulfilling approach of hand-drawing its cartoonish frames. While its visible sketch lines and rough appearance may initially seem jarring, they imbue the film with a unique and unpolished charm. Unlike the photo-realistic and often sterile renders prevalent in mainstream animated movies, Wolfwalkers' distinctive art style serves a profound purpose beyond mere visual communication. It adds a layer of depth and meaning to the film's narrative. One striking example is the geometric contrast between the angular, imposing town and the soft, lush greenery of the forest, creating visually stunning and diverse images.

The directorial duo Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart exhibited remarkable creativity in their approach to composition and motion. The wolf sequences and the stylised design of the Wolfwalker den were particularly captivating to me. It is apparent that the film is a labor of love, with each frame radiating warmth, emotion and passion. Wolfwalkers (2020) stands out for its authenticity in an era when many animation studios have become overly profit-driven, making it a refreshing experience.

Although the plot remains fairly predictable, the film compensates for this by investing time in developing the characters and establishing the setting, resulting in a compelling and relatable narrative. Wolfwalkers (2020) excels in its uninhibited portrayal of emotions, captivating viewers with enchanting sequences brought to life by fluid animation. While I found some twists and turns in the second half to be somewhat redundant, they ultimately did not detract significantly from the overall entertainment value of the film.

Wolfwalkers (2020) is a children's film that transcends age boundaries. It tackles the classic theme of humans versus nature, treating its audience with maturity and presenting nuanced portrayals of characters and events. This allows for various interpretations and discussions regardless of age. Younger viewers may relate to Robyn's youthful energy and spirit, while older audiences may focus on the religious dogmas and political allegory. Overall, Wolfwalkers (2020) is a well-crafted film that appeals to a wide range of audiences, perfect for family movie nights or a feel-good relaxing watch.

Animated films like this one possess a unique blend of heartfelt emotions and stunning visuals that captivates audiences, but perhaps their most captivating aspect is their ability to ignite optimism and enthusiasm for the boundless possibilities of animated storytelling.

About the Author: Jane is a student who loves all types of media and creative expression, including film. She especially has a soft spot in her heart for Asian cinema and films that make her bawl. Apart from lurking on Letterboxd reviews, she likes to collect trinkets and do handicrafts!

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #128: AMERICAN FICTION

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 15:58:35 GMT

American Fiction : A surprisingly warm-hearted film that’s more than just a sharp satire

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Image Courtesy of Claire Folger (Orion Releasing LLC)

The accurate and meaningful representation of people of colour (POC), and its growing importance in media has been brought to the forefront of society in recent years. Hollywood has made strides towards representation for people of colour, with films like Moonlight (2016) and Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) garnering critical acclaim and resonating with audiences worldwide. It is a cultural shift which reflects the importance of authentic storytelling and of accurate storytelling of diverse cultural experiences.

Despite this progress, systemic issues hinder true inclusivity. Tokenism and the lack of diversity behind the scenes are major culprits, amplified when narratives are redirected away and produced for the white gaze. Authentic storytelling is lost and the pervasion of inaccurate, harmful stereotypes begins. We know how these stories end: rich, nuanced human experiences are shoved aside, replaced miserable, lacklustre narratives which scrape the bottom of the barrel. Are recent efforts in increasing representation merely scratching the surface, or are they indicative of genuine progress? And how can industries create diverse stories while preventing superficial representation and tokenism?

Cord Jefferson poses these questions to the audience through the thought-provoking and devastatingly witty American Fiction . Adapted from Percival Everett’s 2001 novel Erasure, Jefferson keeps to the source material with the film’s biting satire and prickly wryness, spotlighting the incisive racial critique that made the novel a tour de force.

Frustrated author and academic Thelonious ‘Monk’ Ellison (Jeffrey Wright) is tired of dealing with publishers who think they know more about authentic Black stories than him. Despite his talent, Monk’s previous works have made little progress into customers’ good graces. His upcoming novel is struggling to find a publisher and he knows why. While Monk’s works are rich with cultural and historical references, publishers demand ‘a Black book’. How, they question, is the African-American experience any way connected to a literary reworking of The Persians ? On the other side of the coin, fellow Black author Sintara Golden (Issa Rae), to Monk’s dismay, disapproval and utter disgust succeeds where he disdains to tread. With her critically and commercially acclaimed novel We’s Lives in the Ghetto, Sintara is everything Monk isn’t — adored, successful — and he hates it. Just listening to Sintara read out a snippet of We’s Lives at a literary festival, with its use of African-American Vernacular English (AAVE) and reductive stereotypes is enough to drive Monk to the edge.

Image Courtesy of Claire Folger (MGM)

Exhausted and tipsy, Monk heads to his study one night and types out a book meant to be performance art. Chock-full of derogatory tropes, My Pafology is submitted to his agent Arthur (John Ortiz) under a pseudonym, Stagg R. Leigh, anyways. “You wanted Black stuff,” Monk argues when Arthur initially rejects it, “What’s Blacker than that? It’s got deadbeat dads, rappers, crack and he gets killed by a cop in the end.” To the duo’s surprise, publishers not only fail to recognise the book’s absurdity but launch a bidding war for My Pafology; Monk-as-Stagg is even courted with seven-figure movie deals. As My Pafology becomes a media darling, Monk can’t quite believe that something like that could ever be a sensation.

While Monk navigates a whole new world with sceptical eyes, he simultaneously works through his knotty family ties. His past attempts to put both physical and emotional distance between both parties has worked wonders, pouring all of himself into his middling academic and writing career. But it’s when Monk’s back with his family and loved ones in Boston that his cantankerous facade falls away. His voice is softer, his plummy accent less pronounced and you can almost feel the weight slipping off his shoulder. There’s a tender vulnerability to Monk as he reunites with his sister Lisa (Tracee Ellis Ross), brother Cliff (Sterling K. Brown), and mother Agnes (Leslie Uggams), reaching hesitantly for a flicker of connection. Amidst great personal tragedy and turmoil, they try to weave those separated strands together into something still a little worn around the edges, but no less beautiful in their attempts.

Together, the cast makes for a beautifully imperfect family. Ross and Brown, hilarious and warm, tease Wright’s Monk with the familiar banter and jokes between siblings — something the latter sees himself sliding into soon enough. Uggams’ Agnes is the dignified, poised matriarch trying to keep her family — and herself — together after so much time apart, allowing herself to be taken care of by her children as she works through a terrifying diagnosis. And although their acting is luminous, moving and heartfelt in equal measure, American Fiction might just be Jeffrey Wright’s film. Fully realised in his portrayal of the complicated author, Wright shifts with ease through blisteringly talented and perpetually frustrated author and academic; the emotionally distant brother and son; and, eventually, someone bruised and world-weary but not entirely broken. He captures every little contradiction, idiosyncrasy, and thought Monk has with such sublime skill you almost believe he is the man himself. Monk is flawed, but Wright makes him perfectly human.

Image Courtesy of Amazon (Orion Pictures)

As the film progresses, it’s clear that Jefferson’s screenplay is no mere adaptation. It’s an elevation. Jefferson, who has cut his teeth as a screenwriter for shows such as The Good Place , Succession and Mad Men, has crafted a film with bite. A cutting examination of race and society in modern America, American Fiction never pulls its punches while bringing the audience along on a scathing takedown of the literary community, publishers and the white liberal gaze. But Jefferson’s greatest triumph isn’t American Fiction ’s satirical fleet-footedness. The film is at its best when focusing on the lives of the Ellisons and those around them, creating a rich tableau of the human experience. As Monk finds himself becoming a pillar of support for his family, he becomes vulnerable enough to let his neighbour Coraline (Erika Alexander) in and fall in love. The others around him go through a similar transition, from Cliff, who has recently come out as gay, to the family’s long serving housekeeper Lorraine (Myra Lucretia Taylor), who falls in love and later marries a family friend. American Fiction is a comedy that’s smart yet sweet; empathetic yet unapologetically direct in laying out its thesis; intelligent and aching with rich emotion.

Call it a satire, call it a comedy, call it a drama if you’d like. At a glance, all three genres seem to define American Fiction . But if you look closer, none of them truly stick. American Fiction defies these labels to become something far greater.

Witty, warm and never dull, American Fiction is a foundation-shaking classic for the modern era.

About the Author: Kymberly has always been an avid traveller, eager to explore countries, worlds and universes both real and fictional. Drawn to film and literature from a young age, she has a passion for understanding the human condition across different places in time, and especially enjoys watching documentaries, period pieces and dramas. When she doesn't have her nose in a book or glued to a movie, you can find Kymberly rooting for her favourite sports teams at the top of her lungs, spending time in nature or working on a graphic design/editing project.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #127: TEACHER'S LOUNGE

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 15:48:40 GMT

Film Commentary: Power plays amid the post-truth: Unravelling society's threads in The Teacher's Lounge

“What happens in the teachers’ lounge, stays in the teachers’ lounge”, Carla Novak asserted during an interview with her students, even as she’s embroiled in the eye of a storm that began from there. As the film plays out, the responses to that assertion would be: if only, unfortunately not, I’ll be damned.

This is just one of the many ironies that shroud Novak in the German drama film The Teacher’s Lounge , so much so that it approaches absurdity. The young, idealistic but naive schoolteacher (portrayed marvellously by Leonie Benesch) takes matters into her own hands when theft in the school becomes more prevalent. Caught between her ideals and reality, the consequences of her actions threaten to break her.

Watching this film is like playing Jenga but without the fun and games. It is so taut the first time I watched it I was borderline nauseous; but also because of my personal experiences with teaching and what a nightmare this would be. Right off the bat, the film opens with a string-plucking soundscape as the viewer is plunged into the centre of the theft issue, a sense of mistrust brooding. The film does not let up at all, and the squarish 4:3 aspect ratio adds to the sense of tightness and claustrophobia.

The film is not an easy one to sit through, but its effective commentary on the current state of society is worth it. It is drama at its finest, a near-perfect miniaturisation of current society on school grounds.

Schools are institutions with a foundation built on trust — and yet trust is so fragile. The Teacher’s Lounge shows how mistrust slips in as easily as the wind in its modern-day study of trust versus truth, powered by technology that exacerbates the proliferation of mistruth. It is rare to see a film like this that holds a mirror to the post-truth society, and does it so well.

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche posited: “All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.” The film advances this argument as its focus goes from finding the thief to the power struggle between the accused and the accuser, a matter of who can garner more support. Traditional power dynamics are inverted.

Ironically, what Novak teaches in the classroom is a different story. The notion that modern science serves as a beacon of logic and predictability is challenged within the narrative's framework. Maths and science lessons with topics like astronomy taught in classrooms seem incongruent with the unpredictable nature of reality portrayed. This dissonance raises profound questions about the role of morals and integrity in fostering a flourishing society, hinting at the necessity of societal contracts to navigate the murky waters of power dynamics. Lessons in the classroom are merely child’s play, and teachers haven’t caught on yet.

In dealing with Oskar Kuhn (Leonard Stettnisch), a bright but troubled student whose mother becomes Novak’s archnemesis, she pulls out her Rubik’s cube to entice and engage the unresponsive kid. The scene encapsulates the irony that envelops Novak. Here she stands, a teacher of maths and science, realms defined by clear steps, logic, and predictability. She tells Oskar that to solve it, “a clear sequence of actions” is needed. Yet, she finds herself in a broader situation lacking any semblance of order or rationality. Solutions are elusive even in domains built on the premise of their existence.

What she throws into the mix is her naivety, rashness, unwiseness and self-righteousness, the latter often the subject of scorn from her exasperated colleagues. In a moment of impulse and folly, she makes a secret video recording in the teacher’s lounge, thinking that she could catch the thief but forgetting the legal consequences of it. This mistake (and the others that follow) causes seismic shifts, like a thread that unravels and spins completely out of control. To what extent will she pursue her path, which ensues dragging everyone down?

In her pursuit of the ‘truth’, she fails to see that beyond mere truth lies a power struggle, where the ability to assert dominance and rally support holds sway. And this is why this film is so magnificently gut-wrenching — the ones whom she goes to great lengths to care for and protect turn against her at the drop of a hat.

This post-truth era thrives on social divisions that threaten the very fabric of social stability. Stubbornness, as shown in Oskar, becomes a formidable force, rooted in an unwillingness to yield, even amidst the chaos of character assassination and manipulation that pervades interpersonal dynamics.

“Truth" becomes a mere façade, wielded as a tool for manipulation rather than a guiding principle. The Oscar-nominated film furthered its stroke of genius by critiquing sensationalism in the media.

In a scene where the student journalism club interviews Novak, the kids gather round like vultures, looking on. Unbeknownst to Novak, she is dead meat. Of course, the students twisted her words to write about the worsening situation and the bubbling mistrust and instability in the school. Of course, they honed in on the opportunity to profit from it. Of course, they published the tabloid story, front page, without her prior consent. A furious Novak storms into the club room only to be shot down by the students that “We do not allow ourselves to be censored to make you look better”, refusing to admit they had twisted and taken things out of context.

The motto plastered on the wall of the journalism clubroom, "Truth overcomes all borders," serves not as a beacon of journalistic integrity, but as a shield for cunning and scheming. It underscores the pervasiveness of media’s deception and the precarious nature of truth in a world driven by ulterior motives.

This is juxtaposed with Novak’s attempts to soften her words for students and their parents. She displays an admirable level of care and sensitivity, meticulously choosing her phrasing and ensuring the edges are rounded. However, the irony lies in how effortlessly the students twist and manipulate her words, demonstrating a flippant disregard for her efforts. It begs the question: for whose sake was this softening done, and to what end? This points to the current state of the weaponising of language that hurls the practice of softening language for the sake of the kids completely out the window. Alas, interpretation, not truth.

Ultimately, Novak is a textbook example of right intentions, wrong execution. As director Ilker Çatak quotes, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions”. Frustration — by both her colleagues and us viewers alike — arises: is she deeply resolute or unbelievably stubborn in her ways? When will she learn in this losing game?

The Teacher’s Lounge stands out as a compelling commentary on the absurdities of a post-truth society, fuelled by mass media sensationalism. It is a rarity to find films that confront these themes head-on, making it a must-watch for audiences seeking thought-provoking narratives. The film’s pacing is commendable, with Çatak skillfully crafting a plot that keeps viewers engaged from start to finish, featuring stellar performances from the cast as well.

The Teacher’s Lounge is a perfect analogy for present-day society that ends in a glorious, risible high, a story that goes way beyond just one school’s teacher’s lounge.

About the author: Kennice reads, writes, dances, and watches theatre and film as a way to understand life on Earth (& perhaps beyond). Probably thinking of having another cup of yuan yang siew dai.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #126: SNOW LEOPARD

Fri, 30 Aug 2024 08:46:24 GMT

Film Review: Pema Tseden’s Snow Leopard

On the evening of August 24, 2024, I watched Pema Tseden’s masterpiece Snow Leopard on the big screen in Singapore. This film left a profound impact on me, particularly the deep, soulful gaze of the snow leopard, which seemed to embody a sense of forgiveness and compassion. Through its eyes, I felt as though I could glimpse the director himself, prompting deep reflections on life and nature.

The film continues Tseden’s signature approach to storytelling—using a “small” story to explore “big” wisdom. Centered around the core event of a snow leopard killing nine rams, the story unfolds through the perspectives of a herder, a lama, journalists, and government mediators. Despite the seemingly straightforward plot and simple language, the film engages in a profound discussion about human nature and the natural world. The conflicts between the herder and the snow leopard, and among the human characters, vividly illustrate the clash between modern civilization and traditional Tibetan culture—more specifically, the collision of values, beliefs, and ways of life. The juxtaposition of a lama carrying a DSLR camera, a Tibetan eating birthday cake, and everyone gathered to watch a BBC documentary alongside infrared footage of wildlife on the snowy mountains, makes this cultural clash even more apparent than in Tseden’s earlier works, such as The Silent Holy Stones (2005) and Balloon (2019) . Perhaps this also reflects the current reality of Tibetan culture, which is constantly confronting and integrating with the forces of modernization.

The film’s black-and-white sequences were particularly striking and beautifully executed. These scenes were surreal, establishing a sacred and spiritual connection between the snow leopard and the lama. Their gazes are not just mutual observations, but also acts of self-examination. The use of CGI in these sequences represents Tseden’s exploration of new expressive techniques, marking a departure from his previous works.

Another element that deeply impressed me was the film’s meticulous sound design. The sounds of the snow leopard, vultures, and other animals in various situations were captured with incredible subtlety and authenticity. This attention to auditory detail significantly enhanced the film’s realism, creating an experience that can only be fully appreciated on the big screen in a theater.

Lastly, I must mention Jinpa’s performance. His delivery, especially the intensity in his voice when speaking his lines, was truly compelling. He brought to life the unique character and approach to life of a Tibetan herder, making his portrayal resonate deeply with the audience.

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Watch the film with us and stay for the exclusive post-screening virtual Q&A moderated by our Chairman, Kenneth Tan with special guests Jigme Trinley, and Dukar Tserang.

��️4 Sept, Wednesday
�� 7:30pm
�� The Projector@Cineleisure (Level 5)

SFS members can redeem tickets to the 4th September session of SNOW LEOPARD for free and enjoy $2 off other Pema Tseden films. RSVP here for 4th September screening: https://singaporefilmsociety.eber.co/

Tickets to The Projector's Remembering Pema Tseden retrospective screenings are available here: https://theprojector.sg/themes/remembering-pema-tseden/

Film Review #125: BRATAN

Mon, 19 Aug 2024 02:26:36 GMT

BRATAN Review

Tajikistan — it’s not everyday you get a chance to catch a film from this lesser-known region in central Asia, surrounded by Afghanistan, China, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. Hailing from the 90s, director Bakhtyar Khudojnazarov made this debut film at 25. However, it premiered only a couple of years back posthumously, thanks to his friend and colleague, German filmmaker Veit Helmer, who discovered it and went through the painstaking and pricey process of restoration.

Thankfully he did, so we get this gem. Bratan , or Brother , tells the story of 17-year-old Farukh (Firus Sasaliyev) and his younger brother, nicknamed Pontsjik, or Pancake (Timur Tursunov), who stay with their grandmother. Living in poverty, Farukh engages in petty theft to make ends meet. The brothers embark on a freight train ride across the deserted countryside to visit their long-lost father, now a successful doctor, in hopes of a better life.

A certain importance underscores this film as it was made during the Perestroika-era, and right before the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. In dreamlike black and white, the film captures parts of Tajikistan beautifully, despite the industrial, barren and dusty environment; watching this film feels like stumbling on a relic of a forgone past.

Post-independent Tajik film pioneer Khudojnazarov studied at the prestigious Gerasimov Institute of Cinematography (VGIK) in Moscow. He went on to make Kosh ba Kosh (1994), which won the Silver Lion at the 50th Venice International Film Festival, and Luna Papa (1999).

In this film of familial responsibility, how the brothers were treated can be seen as a mirror for Tajikistan’s circumstance when it declared its independence in August 1991. Just like how they’re left to their own devices and have to fend for themselves despite their father’s affluence, Tajikistan had to stand on its own when the Soviet Union collapsed.

They get by. Bratan is a beautifully crafted story peppered with humorous moments. The two brothers were well-casted, with such natural chemistry to bring out their unique relationship of sibling-guardian. Pancake is extremely adorable with his little stubby tummy, often getting bullied or picked on. But he also has a weird penchant for eating something very inedible (we’ve probably heard stories of children eating inconsumable objects much to the chagrin of parents, but Pancake takes it up a notch, amusingly). His crying can be quite hammy at times and there were a couple of abrupt cuts but these can be shrugged off.

Hardy older brother Farukh is a natural on-screen, charismatic chap. He’s a maturing teenager but has to step up as his brother’s guardian, being in shoes that are too big for him. This results in jocular twists when the duo encounter various situations, reminiscent of tough love, but stopping short of the full-blown parental nurturing and care.

I found it quite ambitious for Khudojnazarov’s debut film to be a rail film and to feature children and animals — not an easy feat, considering the risks and unpredictability involved. It paid off. When the credits rolled, I was surprised that time had passed so quickly.

Hop on if you ever get the chance to watch this charming, heartfelt journey. Watch the trailer here .

About the Author: Kennice reads, writes, dances, and watches theatre and film as a way to understand life on Earth (& perhaps beyond). Probably thinking of having another cup of yuan yang siew dai.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Acting, Life, and the Cosmos: The Passive Power of Doreen Toh

Tue, 06 Aug 2024 01:07:30 GMT

Acting, Life, and the Cosmos: The Passive Power of Doreen Toh

In the realm of theatre and film, some careers are forged through deliberate ambition, while others unfold through serendipity. Doreen Toh's journey in acting encompasses over 100 theatre performances and notable film roles. The feature films she starred in, Their Remaining Journey (2018) and Dreaming & Dying (2023), have graced the international stages of the Rotterdam and Locarno Film Festivals.

Guided by her late mentor theatremaker William Teo , Doreen embraced a philosophy that sees acting not merely as a profession, but as a way of life. Despite her extensive career, Doreen's humility remains remarkable. She attributes her three-decade journey to serendipitous moments, which she fondly refers to as fate, guiding her through the stage and screen.

Photo from Facebook

The youngest of four, Doreen spent her formative years in a kampung until she turned 20, an experience she believes contributed to her open nature. When I asked if she had aspired to be an actress since young, she said, “Oh no no no no. But I loved singing. All my neighbours knew because I would ride my bike around and sing so loud. My dream was to be a singer”.

Her first foray into acting came when her colleague walked over to her work desk one day with a newspaper in hand. “That day, a full-page section in the Chinese newspaper featured an interview on the Toy Factory [theatre company], and the article mentioned they were having an audition for their upcoming major production at Kallang Theatre. So my friend said, ‘Eh, we go and see how’.” Though Doreen was initially hesitant, she agreed to accompany her friend. Many actors were needed, so the auditionees were immediately plunged into workshop sessions.

“I was fascinated by what they did during the workshops because it’s so different from the mundane life.” Eventually, Doreen was cast in the lead role. I said that she was a natural-born talent, to which she shook her head vigorously.

“I don’t know why, but I think it was because the male lead was very tall, so perhaps I was more suitable height-wise”. After being with Toy Factory Production for about five years, she branched out to other theatre companies and slowly became a household name in the theatre scene.

POSTETERNE (英台起诉记) is an original work written by Goh Boon Teck, inspired by Chinese folk classic The Butterfly Lovers . A team of 100 were involved in this mega production staged at Kallang Theatre in 1992. Photo from Toy Factory Production Facebook

“I think I’m very fortunate. The lead role involvement was more demanding, but it also evoked [something in] me. It became another area in my life, and it made me realise that it’s very important for a human being to have this space for creating. It also opened up a lot of perspectives and personal insight into what life is, as theatre is always challenging.”

Photo from Love at Fifty

Formal training was not the norm; instead, learning came from experience, productions, and various directors. From those humble beginnings, her love affair with acting blossomed, gradually transitioning from the intimate confines of the theatre to the silver screen.

“My belief is that things will happen by itself. I’m a very passive person. All of my friends know. There was once, one of my friends talked to me very seriously. I think he meant well.” She puffed up, mimicking him, and continued, “He said, “你要有企图心！你没有企图心就是没有呼吸了！(You need to have ambition! If not, it’s like not breathing!).”

“I agreed at that time. I don’t have [that urge] to want to do more, to push myself. Theatre for me is about opening myself and enriching my life, which partly I owe to my life guru, the late William Teo, who taught me that in life, learning how to be oneself is more important than anything else.”

Whilst Doreen focused on that, she was led to other terrains. In 2018, filmmaker Tan Wei Ting was looking to cast for her short film CA$H . “She cast five of us, all of us were theatre-trained. That was my first short film. After that, a lot of film industry people began to know me, so on and off I would receive WhatsApp messages, ‘Oh, I got your number from so and so’. CA$H opened up a lot of opportunities.”

Doreen revealed that this scene, praised by many of her peers as incredibly natural, was actually improvised, something the cast is accustomed to thanks to their theatre background.

Thumbnail from YouTube

That stepping stone catapulted her into the short film scene, which her friends eventually called her, “short film queen”, also thanks to her open mind and heart to invitations. “I’ve always gone for auditions [for whatever invitations]. I don’t choose, as I was recommended by someone.”

“It’s a blessing for me, to say what each character wants to say. However small the character, she chose me — I perceive it as that, so maybe she thinks that through me, her voice can be heard. As a theatre-trained actor, we all say, ‘There are no small roles, only small actors’. Because of CA$H , like they say, 阴差阳错 (a strange combination of circumstances). Perhaps it’s my calling?”

In 2023, Doreen's role as Mrs Lim in Nelson Yeo's Dreaming and Dying propelled her to Locarno, Switzerland. Reflecting on these experiences, she remarks, "When I acted in it, it never crossed my mind that it would bring me so far, like Locarno or wherever. It’s always [about] the character."

Dreaming and Dying delves into the intricacies of repressed desires and tangled memories, which are themes that Doreen believes many can relate to, especially with Mrs. Lim's unexpressed emotions. Yeo had written the character with Doreen in mind.

Doreen was nominated under the Best Performance category in the Asian Feature Film Competition. Photo from Facebook

Despite her unwavering passion for acting, the fear of the phone no longer ringing lingers at the back of her mind. "A lot of actors will have this question, but still, we hold on to it. We still don’t want to give up," she reflects candidly. While she's often cast in maternal roles, she harbours a fervent desire to portray a sharp-witted policewoman solving murder cases. "I haven’t had the opportunity to delve into Chinese historical drama roles either!" she exclaims with youthful enthusiasm.

"For me, being an actor is a privilege. I feel honoured to tell different people’s stories because Doreen’s story and personal life are very boring. But at this stage right now, I don’t know if I can still be true to myself. How my path will be, we never know, but if I can be as genuine and truthful as I am, that’s more important," she muses.

The essence of Doreen's journey lies in her steadfast dedication to authenticity, embodying the antithesis of the typical path to stardom. Instead, she channels her heart, soul, energy, time, and effort into her characters truthfully, viewing herself as a vessel for their stories. "The universe quite sayang me lah," she beamed.

About the Author: Kennice reads, writes, dances, and watches theatre and film as a way to understand life on Earth (& perhaps beyond). Probably thinking of having another cup of yuan yang siew dai.

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This article is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #124: BLACK DOG

Wed, 31 Jul 2024 15:37:10 GMT

Black Dog

Black Dog was not what I expected. I had imagined it might go down the road of a stripped back Man and His Dog movie, something along the lines of Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy. However, Guan Hu’s film, with its wide open landscapes, and taciturn lone (bike) rider, evokes grander Western genre tropes with art-house sensibilities, crafting a film that is expansive, reflective, and visually arresting from first frame to last.

Eddie Peng’s Er Lang returns to his hometown after a stint in jail for manslaughter. With the town teeming with stray dogs in the lead up to the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Er Lang joins a dog patrol capturing strays to make some money, befriending the titular nameless dog as they form a connection. As Er Lang and the dog slowly solidify their bond, Guan Hu with his fellow writers opt to do a surprising amount of dense world building. In this fading town overrun with stray dogs, we have the looming Olympics, an oncoming solar eclipse, impending demolition, a dilapidated zoo, a travelling circus, local gangs, and a man obsessed with locks holding the keys to every single one. While this abundance of plot elements might seem excessive, they collectively evoke a profound tone of wistfulness as Er Lang grapples with inevitable change.

The town and its natural surroundings act as a way station for fleeting events, like a rest stop town that no longer needs to exist: the perfect environment for strays (man or dog) to thrive. Peng’s Er Lang is written to be a man of few words, and Peng carries the film capably across the film’s runtime. In entangling himself with the film’s various narrative threads, he navigates his familiar but strange environment searching for kinship and belonging. It feels inevitable that the kinship Er Lang gravitates to is in the form of an aggressive, possibly rabid, dog. Er Lang is a man that wishes to be alone, but not lonely, and the only companion that fits that bill is man’s best friend. There is an existential ennui that hangs over the film's proceedings, even with its darkly comic tone, where retracing your steps and figuring out your next one feels one and the same.

The film’s mood is immensely bolstered by its beautiful visuals, captured in a stark and measured manner. Natural vistas are characterised by inky blacks and cool greys with gorgeous landscapes in the Gobi Desert. Urban locations have a post-apocalyptic quality with its largely empty streets, as if the town has been hollowed out of most human life, aside from those travellers passing through it. Shot largely in wide or extra wide shots and with camera movement restricted to mostly simple, confident pans, there’s marvellous blocking on display across the film. The film announces itself boldly in its opening shot where a horde of dogs blitzes across an arid mountain landscape causing a bus to overturn in the far distance.

During an audience Q&A on the premiere night of 25 July at The Projector Cineleisure, director Guan Hu positioned the film as a return to independent filmmaking after a slate of popular blockbusters, and cinematographer Gao Weizhe’s desire to go back to a “ simple and honest ” style of filmmaking pays great dividends here. More than with camera movements and cuts, what drives the film’s visual grammar is the action within the frame, through performance and blocking.

The cast is rounded out by a solid supporting troupe, with an assortment of background actors and animals that give the town a strong lived-in feel. Also, watch out for an extended cameo from well-known Chinese Director Jia Zhangke. The film's constituent story elements might not hold up on their own, but like a ragtag army of dogs, they bark beautifully together, with the film nabbing the Un Certain Regard prize this year at the Cannes Film Festival. Black Dog is confident and assured with a strong back-to-basics quality that makes for a transporting and meditative trip to the cinema.

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About the author: Ben co-hosts the film podcast Deep Cut , he also writes about film at The Kinetoscope .

Film Review #123: GOODFELLAS

Mon, 15 Jul 2024 23:35:43 GMT

“I’m in construction”: Revisiting Goodfellas

I can’t remember when I watched Goodfellas for the first time. It might have been sometime around A-Levels, give or take (probably give) a couple of years. But I do remember experiencing a very profound deepening of my cinematic consciousness when I first saw it. So many things about it stuck out to me then and still do today. Like many other film fans, I often replay my favourite shots in my head, and a number of them are very often scenes from Goodfellas .

One of my longstanding visual earworms is that scene near the start of the film where two gangsters are getting out of their car as young Henry Hill (played as an adult by the late Ray Liotta) is looking out of his window at them. As they get out, we see an insert shot of the back of their car springing upwards from a sagged position. It’s probably just a second long, but I remember being utterly transfixed by it. I reviewed it again while writing this piece. It works so perfectly, not only as a bridge between shots, but also, and more importantly, as a visual metaphor that complements Henry’s narration. For young Henry Hill, these gangsters, whom he admires so much, have weight . For me, that simple shot exemplifies the precision and the seamlessness of the filmmaking in Goodfellas .

The long take of Henry Hill taking Karen Friedman (Lorraine Bracco) to the Copacabana club via the back entrance also resurfaces in my head from time to time. Quite apart from the logistical brilliance of this scene, what stands out for me is how well it serves the needs of the story at this point in the film. In some films, long takes call attention to themselves or to the director’s self-indulgence rather than to the story and the characters. The Copacabana long take, in contrast, is snugly synced with the narrative. We follow Karen and Henry from behind in a privileged over-the-shoulder position. We realize we’re seeing and feeling what she’s seeing and feeling. At this point in the film, Karen still doesn’t know that Henry’s a gangster. The detour through the back entrance and the kitchen, dotted here and there with service staff who know who Henry is and who receive twenty-dollar tips from him, shows her that he is someone important in this world while leaving the important questions unanswered. We also realize we’re seeing what Henry wants Karen to see. He is somebody and he wants her to know it. When they’re finally seated at their hastily put-together table at what is very clearly a VIP spot near the stage, she asks, “What do you do?”. “I’m in construction,” he replies, and we’re instantly reminded he’s not. The take, still unfinished, shows us Henny Youngman on the stage, whose monologue carries over to the next scene of Henry and Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci) robbing Air France.

Just about three minutes after the Copacabana long take, we have a series of scenes starting with Morris “Morrie” Kessler’s tacky wig shop commercial and ending with Henry placing a bloodied gun, with which he’d just pistol-whipped Karen’s neighbour, in Karen’s hands. What stands out for me in this roughly four-minute stretch of the film is the clockwork precision of the transitions between the scenes. Every scene in this four-minute stretch cuts directly to someone or something that was seen, heard, or talked about in the directly preceding scene, creating a rapid-fire but coherent string of shots. Of course, this isn’t the only stretch of the film where such technical crispness can be detected and admired. It’s really representative of the overall briskness of the storytelling in Goodfellas . But, for some reason, it stuck out to me when I was rewatching the film in preparation for writing this piece. When Morrie’s wig shop commercial ends, the camera pans from the television screen to Jimmy Conway’s (Robert De Niro) glaring face and subtly dollies out. We’re in Morrie’s wig shop and Morrie owes Jimmy money. Henry isn’t succeeding in persuading Morrie to pay up, so Jimmy walks over and chokes Morrie with a telephone cord. The phone then rings: it’s Karen, looking for Henry. Henry rushes off and the film cuts to the payphone booth from which she’d made her call. Henry pulls up alongside the payphone booth. The camera pans right as he gets out of his car and pans left and dollies out as he guides her into it. She says her neighbour made a pass at her and threw her out of his car when she resisted. As Henry drives off, the film cuts to a shot of Karen’s neighbour fixing his car in his driveway with two other guys , then whip-pans back to Henry, waiting across the street in his car with Karen sitting next to him. Henry looks at a reflection of Karen’s neighbour in the rear-view mirror , gets out, walks across the street, and pistol-whips him. He then walks back to Karen’s house ( Karen, looking out from behind her door, steps out ) and places the gun in her palm. We see a shot of the bloodied gun resting in her palm . Karen now knows a little more about Henry, but she decides to commit: “I know there are women, like my best friends, who would have gotten out of there the minute their boyfriend gave them a gun to hide. But I didn’t. I got to admit the truth. It turned me on.” They get married in a Jewish wedding service (Karen is Jewish) in the next scene, which starts with a shot of a glass being wrapped in white cloth .

Another thing that struck me when I saw Goodfellas for the first time was the artful directness of its camera work. The camera is almost constantly moving. In certain scenes, it feels as if the camera is practically tracing out an invisible chalk dotted line for my eyes to follow. It is, of course, the job of the director to make us see what he or she wants us to see. But Scorsese does this in parts of Goodfellas with a directness that has never ceased to feel refreshing and exhilarating to me. We see an example of this in the scene where Tommy and Jimmy are brutally attacking Billy Batts in Henry’s bar. When Tommy and Jimmy start going at Billy, Henry rushes to the door and locks it. Scorsese tracks Henry to the door with a fast dolly-in shot that lands on the door handle as Henry locks it before quickly tilting the camera upwards to show us Henry’s face. Another memorable example, for me at least, can be found in the scene where Jimmy learns that Tommy has been whacked. Jimmy receives the news over the phone in a payphone booth outside a diner. When the news registers, Scorsese executes another fast dolly-in shot to give us a medium close-up of Jimmy smashing the handset in anger. I would also count Scorsese’s use of a reverse dolly zoom to frame Henry’s final meeting with Jimmy in a diner among my many visual earworms, and I’m certainly not the only one who feels this way, given the number of YouTube videos I’ve found that highlight this scene.

Scorsese’s technical directness in Goodfellas may not be to everyone’s taste. I can see why it may feel unsubtle or perhaps even jarring to some. But the examples above work for me for the same reason the Copacabana long take works for me: they’re not there for the sake of being there; instead, they serve the story and the characters. The fast dolly-in shot that takes us close to Jimmy as he batters the payphone works well in telegraphing his anger, but only because of the build-up that directly preceded it. We already know how much Tommy “getting made” means to him. “As far as Jimmy was concerned,” Henry explained just a while earlier, “with Tommy being made, it was like we were all being made.” “We would now have one of our own as a member.” The framing of Henry’s last conversation with Jimmy with a reverse dolly zoom is, in the same way, instructive rather than superfluous. The distortive effect of the reverse dolly zoom underlines the mistrustful mental states of both characters and tells us that this isn’t an ordinary catch-up between long-time associates: there’s been a shift in their relationship with each other, and not for the better, by this point in the film. Jimmy asks Henry to go on a hit job, but Henry immediately sees it’s a trap: “Jimmy had never asked me to whack somebody before, but now he’s asking me to go down to Florida and do a hit with Anthony. That’s when I knew I would never have come back from Florida alive.”

There are other shots and sequences I could talk about. But, like the ones above, they all had the same effect of making me more conscious of the fact that, in watching a film, I was essentially taking in the director’s vision, and I daresay that there are also many others who’ve come away from their first few viewings of Goodfellas feeling the same way. Goodfellas taught me, a lay filmgoer, that I was looking at things on the screen that the director consciously wanted me to see. I know this sounds obvious. But I wasn’t always fully aware of this elementary principle. At some point in my life, though, I started to look out more conscientiously for the director’s hand in deciding what stayed in or out of the frame, and I’m sure Goodfellas played no small part in helping me to reach that point. To put it another way, it was somewhere in the post- Goodfellas years of my life that the fact that film was first and foremost a visual storytelling medium finally registered.

When I first started to watch films a little more intensively, I sometimes read them as if they were books or plays; that is to say, I probably devoted too much of my attention to plot, acting, and writing – to the unfortunate exclusion of what could be or could not be said and done with a camera. Goodfellas was one of the films that made me take films on their own terms, that made me realize that, if I really wanted to understand fully what was going on on the screen and in the characters’ heads, I would also need to pay careful attention to shot composition, camera movement, editing, etc. Goodfellas had such an effect on me because, as discussed above, the filmmaking in it is so unabashedly direct and technical. Every time I watch scenes from Goodfellas , I feel as if I’m on Scorsese’s set and that he himself is nudging or yanking my gaze here and there. I don’t think I’ve encountered many other films that have commanded me in such a fashion. Goodfellas helped me to see how, in the late Alexandre Astruc’s words, “[t]he film-maker/author writes with his camera as a writer writes with his pen.” For this reason, I believe Goodfellas makes for a great introduction for lay filmgoers and young film-makers alike to what films are about or can be.

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Film Review #122: A City of Sadness

Fri, 31 May 2024 02:13:06 GMT

A City of Sadness

The year is 1945. Japan has just surrendered and Taiwan is once again a sovereign nation. In a small coastal town near Taipei, a baby is born to the eldest of the Lin brothers, Wen-hsiung. Apart from him, the Lin family seems to be plagued with mishaps, with the other brothers either missing in the war or being physically or mentally handicapped. Despite these misgivings, Japan’s surrender heralds a new era for Taiwan.

A City of Sadness , written by Wu Nien-jen, forms part of Hou Hsiao-hsien’s unofficial trilogy touching on Taiwanese history. While the main narrative focuses on the Lin family, the continuous political upheaval driven by the Kuomintang plays a pivotal role in shaping the film. On February 28 of 1947, anti-government protestors were massacred by the Kuomintang troops at the behest of Chen Yi, the governor of Taiwan and then Kuomintang President Chiang Kai-shek. The full scale of the massacre is not shown, but the Lin brothers, like many other Taiwanese, become inadvertently affected by the aftermath of that incident. At the height of political infighting, innocent lives are lost at the expense of securing power for the new government. Hou isn’t too brash about his critique, but it isn’t necessary either as history plays its own role in the film. What Hou chooses to show is reactionary, akin to the embers of a flame. We don’t see the raging fires of the bloodshed, but the smouldering aftermath.

The Lin family experiences tragedy unfold one after the other, with each brother suffering at the hands of either Shanghainese triads or the Kuomintang. Attempt as they might to maneuvre through the political uncertainty of a new regime, they are treated as criminals due to their previous dealings with the Japanese. Even Wen-ching, a deaf photographer played by Tony Leung, is accused of conspiring with the guerillas and is arrested. As the film plays out, we see each of the Lin brothers seemingly at the mercy of corrupt officials and the Kuomintang. It’s a helpless struggle against totalitarian powers, one that gives no heed to the lives of a few. The Lin family is a representation of the many who went through that ordeal, a microcosm of Taiwan’s tumultuous journey post sovereignty.

Despite the string of political happenings in Taiwan during the years following Japan’s surrender, the audience sees very little of any actual violence. Hou’s elliptical approach to the film reveals events through radio reports and Horomi’s monologue of her diary. We don’t see the full scale of brutality but witness it happening to the Lins, which brings the same kind of trepidation knowing full well what’s actually transpiring the entire time. As the camera lingers a close distance away, we are invited to bear witness to the afflictions of each brother. From the mental state of Wen-liang after the war, to being framed by Shanghainese triads after crossing them. Together with the wrongful detainment of both him and Wen-ching, these culminate in the Lin family being torn apart by circumstances beyond their control.

Perhaps this narrative style would be off-putting for audiences who lack the context of the February 28 incident, drawing the same critique from critics who saw the lack of depiction of brutality as being indifferent to it. As with many films that change with relevancy over time, it is now being reflected upon as a cultural classic that speaks volumes of Taiwan’s contemporary history. The bastion of Taiwanese identity shortly after regaining sovereignty, and the rough years that followed call upon audiences to think about it in a different light.

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About the Author: Ivan Chin has a penchant for Hong Kong cinema and science-fiction films, but enjoys anything from blockbusters to the avant-garde. His favourite directors include Johnnie To, Denis Villeneuve and Stanley Kubrick. He also fervently hopes to see local films blossom. In his free time, he can usually be found wandering around cinemas.

SFS & AFA members enjoy $3 off discounted ticket when purchasing with a discount code. The code will be provided ahead of the ticket sales. Sign up for an SFS Membership now to enjoy discounts for our Special Presentations and at least 24 complimentary Spotlight, Showcase & Preview screenings in a calendar year!

Anyone can sign up for SFS Membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Get your tickets here: https://sfs-cityofsadness.peatix.com

A Storm, Mallet and Duck at Home Movie Day Singapore 2023

Fri, 24 May 2024 06:12:11 GMT

A Storm, Mallet and Donald Duck at Home Movie Day Singapore 2023

18–19 November 2023: Home Movie Day Singapore (HMD) inaugurated its annual celebration of small-gauge and amateur filmmaking. Its itinerance saw a migration from Momo Films to Objectifs while the multi-screens had been consolidated to one large projection surface. With Mathew and Wan Fong abroad, co-founders Felix Kottmann and Weng “Easy” Lee were in charge of a programme presenting a new roster of commissioned and family archive films. They were set to welcome visitors with bowls of kacang puteh and coolers of alcohol.

Except the annual Super 8 workshop that bookmarked HMD was in jeopardy. It aimed to equip participants with a Super 8 camera and film stock to make Straight 8 , no-edit films, process their films overnight and screen them the next day. The end-of-year monsoon had arrived to filter the light in remarkable shades of grey. With the quality of film image heavily dependent on strong natural light, the workshop’s success seemed dim.

Gloomy clouds gathered during art director Livia Taslim’s sharing about the previous workshop and her application of Super 8 at work. Grey light settled in during Felix’s instructions on operating the Leicina Special and Nizo S56 at 18 f/ps. The supply of kacang and drinks slowly diminished as friends and guests from analogue Facebook groups arrived.

I found myself in conversation with co-organiser Weng, who said his library of home movies began with a wealthy uncle’s documentation of family weddings. Years later, he learnt to use a Standard 8 camera from staff at Widescreen Centre, London. If home movies were once only accessible to the upper class, entry into the creative possibilities of the medium has expanded because of communal networks in analogue technology in the vein of their Super 8 workshop.

We spoke about the new section: a call for anyone who has Super 8 films to bring them in for inspection and screening. Has anyone reached out? Not yet, but Weng was hopeful. They’ve been promoting the event to analogue communities on social media. We shared our anticipation of the possibility that someone walks in with an old reel and we all get to watch something that hasn’t seen the light in years.

Min, a LaSalle student, made a film chasing the storm and planned to overlay the image with spoken poetry. Students Jew, Tae Won and screenwriter Yvonne collaborate on a story about a young student rushing to turn in an assignment on time. It starred Jew in a dual role, playing multiple group project members and Tae Won as the teacher. The climax of the story sees Jew tripping and losing her grasp on the assignment, which was supposed to fall to the ground floor and impede her timely submission. Instead, the prop landed on a ledge and triggered momentary hysteria before a broomstick was located to retrieve the errant assignment.

—

Later that evening, the sound of shutters fell as Felix announced, “This is the master of lab.”

In the dim light at the end of the corridor was Patrick Tung, founder of Analog Film Lab and engineer of the overnight Super 8 development process. Seated amidst a row of sinks, buckets of canisters and tanks of chemicals, he was bashful at the praise and beckoned us in.

The process of extracting the exposed film has to take place in complete darkness so Patrick gave a short demonstration to begin with. There’s a mallet to crack the film cartridge, a blank spool, a LOMO cine development tank and a tank spiral from the USSR. The first step was to crack the cartridge with the mallet and wind the film in a spool before unrolling it on the grooves in the spiral. Repeat twice. Following that, stack the film plates on top of each other and develop at the same time. It’s tricky beyond the fact that the entire process has to take place in pitch darkness: both plates must be aligned or the chemicals won’t wash the prints evenly.

We settled in chairs scattered around the room. In a striking meeting of analogue and AI, Patrick says, “Siri, turn off the lights.”

There are some tiny red bulbs around the furniture to make the darkness feel less total but it doesn’t make the series of loud bangs less ominous. As the mallet fell relentlessly, Min’s quip rose above the din, “It’s the kind of horror I would watch. Someone swinging a mallet around at people in a dark room and you don’t know who it hit or when it will hit you.”

The banging is brought to a halt by the sound of plastic hitting the ground. Felix announced he had the film. He felt for perforations to make sure the film was inserted right side up. The sound of something turning.

“Stop.” “Go further.” And the first reel was in the panel. “Second cartridge please.” The hammering began again.

“Is this the top roll?” Patrick asked. “Yes — oh f*ck, no it’s not. Aiyoy ,” Felix replied. More shifting. “The ends of the bottom layer came out a bit but I put it back.” Patrick noted, “The problem is we only do this once a year. If we did it more often, it’d be perfect. Practice makes perfect.”

The lights switched on. We head to the sinks for the E-6 process, which goes by in a flash of chemical pours, timers, water rinsing and conversations in between. Yvonne told me between rinses about how she made the jump from architecture to writing movies and TV dramas; there’s something about how architecture demands a solid framework that also applies to storytelling. She’s here to fulfil her interest in shooting film and signed up after seeing it on Instagram.

Weng arrived after wrapping the first day at Objectifs in time to help Felix and Patrick retrieve the film from the tank. While they hung the negatives in steep loops on a string of twine, I asked if anyone brought an old reel in for inspection while the shoot was taking place — no, unfortunately. Then a loupe is passed around and we spend time admiring the minuscule frames backlit by our phones.

—

I arrived at Objectifs to Min and the organisers coordinating the start time between the projection of her Super 8 reel and the recording of the poetry reading on an external loudspeaker. For the next 3 minutes and 20 seconds, Min’s voice crackled through small portable speakers as the images on the screen turned progressively greyer in tandem with the approaching storm. Next, laughter fills the silent film that follows as Jew runs and flails dramatically to express the anxiety of tight deadlines.

The laughter made way for rapturous delight when Weng’s announcement that they would be screening a reel brought in earlier results in the face of Donald Duck emerging in a bloom of rays. The social media blast worked: the person who brought the reel found out about the event on an analogue film group. Magenta from colour fading has bled into the image but who cares as Chip n Dale start antagonising the grumpy Donald in Three for Breakfast (1948). Joy at the familiarity of beloved characters has turned the afternoon into an after-school programme; the whir of the projector and the buzz of the crowd aligned.

I stayed in my seat to watch the programme on loop. Amongst others, Locarno-winner Nelson Yeo makes his HMD debut with a Super 8 short lensed by frequent collaborator Lincoln Yeo. His film, about a vaguely suicidal couple with visions of death by falling durians, transforms into an old-timey karaoke dance session complete with light-up sing-along subs.

Grace Song followed her 2022 HMD commission Ring Ring, Mama with a split-screen piece following a woman’s day-to-day life vis-a-vis the winding rows and decorations that make the columbarium niche where her husband’s remains are stored. She also starred in fellow HMD returnee Jonathan Choo’s King of Ubi (2023) as a servant. Following that, nuptial celebrations shot on Super 8 by local wedding videography unit Sloth Creatives and a narrative Straight 8 by students from Ngee Ann Polytechnic's Film Sound Video programme.

As evening approached, Weng switched back to the analogue projector to thread a reel that featured his parents’ holiday and scenes from what Tanglin and Katong shopping centres used to look like. It tuned the room something wistful and sombre. Felix followed that with a European holiday with his partner and her mother. Titled Madame Chang Goes to Europe , the film follows its titular character’s first trip to the continent with choice intertitles that include “Colosseum almost as big as The National Stadium,” and, “They told me Swiss fondue was like eating hotpot. But it was really just bread and smelly cheese.” His favourite he said, is how the da la ba (大喇叭, trumpet) that was part of the Bavarian music show at the Hofbräuhaus München became a pseudonym for both the beer hall and giant sausages on their trip.

When the event came to an end, everyone that lingered around seemed to naturally move to clear the room. I thought about the conversation I had with Matthew and Wan Fong the year before and their hope that Home Movie Day will be able to exist without any central figure involved and extend beyond their immediate network. As the equipment is packed, trash cleared and the event ends with friends and strangers getting acquainted around Weng’s Kombi, I think it’s found its path to that.

Films at Home Movie Day 2023

Commissions:

Flowers for My Mother and Father — Grace Song

The King of Ubi — Jonathan Choo

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Straight 8) — Juan Qi An

On the Squared Stone (Straight 8) — Jordon Gan and Wong ShuXin

Farewell, Mi Amor — Nelson Yeo

Hawker — Agnes Li

Soft — Giselle lin

I think I have Brain Fog — Martin Loh

Perfect — Zhang KC

Personal archives:

Kristin Dan Kuching Kuchingnya — Michael Kam

Breathless — Russel Zehnder

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About the Author: Sasha Han seeks to reify the fugitive effects of looking through language. She received her BA in 2021 and has worked with HBO Asia, the Singapore International Film Festival and the National Archives of Singapore.

Sammo Hung Masterclass

Tue, 21 May 2024 02:20:09 GMT

Sammo Hung Masterclass

There is a sense of excitement hanging in the air in the Singapore Airlines Theater at LASALLE. The fervour from the crowd builds as more people stream into the auditorium, awaiting the entrance of the honoured guest. A respected veteran with no less than three decades of experience in the Hong Kong film industry, known as the dai gor (big brother) among his peers, Sammo Hung Kam-bo needs little to no introduction.

Local stunt groups Sandbox Training Ground and Ronin Action first take the stage to put on a display of action choreography. Sandbox Training Ground performs an improvised version of a scene from Millionaire’s Express , while Ronin Action brings on ‘Sammo Hung’ replete with a bulging belly. Both demonstrations are fun to watch, and channel the kind of action comedy Hung was and is still known for.

Finally, the man of the hour enters with presence as he strides up the stage. Despite entering his golden years, his stature remains strong and commanding, and an aura of authority follows him. He brings a genial but powerful energy to the theater, and it’s immediately obvious to even those who might not know him as well that he’s a highly respected veteran and a pop culture icon.

Hung’s masterclass sees him doling out wisdom not necessarily just on how to make films, but how to persist as a creative and an artist against all odds. As traditional and cliche as the mantra to work hard might be, there are a few grains of truth buried in them. Hung recounts his childhood, when he asked his grandfather to enrol him in his master Yu Jim-yuen’s school to learn Peking opera, only to regret it soon enough. As shown in his short from Septet: The Story of Hong Kong , the training was exceptionally tough, with Hung having to do handstands on a wooden stool until his arms gave way.

It wasn’t until he made his own foray into the film industry that he appreciated his master’s tough love and austerity. Hong Kong’s film industry was a pressure cooker, and if you couldn’t or weren’t willing to do it, someone else would gladly take your place. One of Hung’s first directorial efforts, Warriors Two (1978) , is a classic story of revenge. While it possesses the hallmark tropes of the genre, it’s memorable because Hung plays the comic relief. We know he could easily trounce his enemies, but he chooses to do otherwise. When asked how many takes it requires to shoot action scenes where there are both close-ups and wide shots, Hung’s response is simply “It depends on how smart the actors are. If they’re smart, we need less takes.” It’s this wit and humour that peppers the whole masterclass, even as Singapore Film Society’s chairman, Kenneth Tan, fires several spontaneous questions at Hung.

Perhaps what set Hung apart was his penchant for casting as leading roles his fellow actors and stuntmen instead of making himself the star of the show. A part of it was to ensure commercial success of course, and an action star like Jackie Chan in Winners and Sinners (1983) could rake in the box office. For Hung though, casting different actors gave each a chance to showcase their talents, adding to the dynamics of the film. It’s why his films often had comic relief such as Dean Shek alongside skilled martial artists like Yuen Biao. Hung attributes his success to the hard work and trust given by his stunt team.

As for being one of the progenitors of the jiangshi (hopping zombie) genre, Hung remarked that it was quite by accident. A longstanding part of Chinese mythology, the jiangshi has been a horror trope often used for comedic effect. In Encounters of the Spooky Kind (1980) , the suspense created by the horror is displaced by the comedy that takes place afterwards. Hung joked that after the success of that film, Hong Kong was filled with hopping vampires since many directors were trying to cash in on the popularity.

Of course, Hung too went under the tutelage of the old masters, most notably Lau Kar-leung, a prominent figure who himself was known for many martial arts films. The director would be influential to Hung’s style of shooting in earlier films in order to best capture the action choreography. Over the years, as the martial arts genre evolved along with audience’s expectations of the films, so has Hung’s style. When asked what he thinks of modern filmmaking technology, his reply is that one can only do their best to make things look real, and the discerning audience will judge for themselves. Of course he also admits that if it were possible to do it well digitally, he would welcome the change.

Like other Hong Kong actors, Hung also had his brush with Hollywood trying to capitalise on the martial arts craze in the 1990s. Initially reluctant to work on Martial Law (1998 - 2000) due to the language barrier and different film making styles, he eventually agreed with his wife Joyce Godenzi helping him to learn English. One thing Hung noted while working on Martial Law , was that the cast were provided with more welfare than those in Hong Kong, which would not be as receptive to the needs of the actors.

As for the future of the Hong Kong film industry, while many lament the bygone eras of its heyday, Hung still sees potential in it. He explains that in today’s media landscape, funding a film is the biggest initial hurdle to cross, with the box office being the biggest concern on the minds of producers. Hung still remains active in the film industry even if not directing, most recently starring in Soi Cheang’s Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In (2024) as the antagonist.

In spite of how venerated Hung is, the man is a humble, salt-of-the-earth type of filmmaker. Perhaps what can be truly gleaned from the masterclass is not the finesse from elaborate stunts or complex action choreography, but to possess the tenacity and be open to opportunities. We might not all make it, but we can still try.

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The Sammo Hung Masterclass was co-organised by SIngapore Film Society and Asian Film Awards Academy.

Sammo Hung stars in his latest movie- TWILIGHT OF THE WARRIRORS: WALLED IN (2024). Now showing in theatres!

Anyone can sign up for SFS Membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Film Review #121: WEATHERING WITH YOU

Mon, 20 May 2024 05:19:35 GMT

The Weather Can Go Crazy: Dissecting Young Love in 天気の子 ( Weathering With You )

雨. Ame. In Weathering With You (2019) , Makoto Shinkai’s depiction of Tokyo is one blanketed by a perpetual downpour. The weather spares no remorse for those who dwell below, transforming city streets and alleyways into miniature canals. Staring out of windows peppered with sprinkles of water droplets, Tokyo’s citizens can only gaze hopelessly at the veil of clouds above them and pray. Eventually, the silent plea of one adolescent girl was answered, kicking off a fateful chain of events that would form the basis of Weathering With You (2019) . Shinkai is no stranger when it comes to writing animated films blooming with budding teenage romance, best seen in his previous acclaimed works such as 5 Centimetres Per Second (2007) and Your Name (2016) . His intrinsic ability to splice simple but heartfelt storylines with beautifully handcrafted animation sets him apart. Weathering With You (2019) is an outstanding example of how he masterfully blends these elements to create a truly captivating cinematic experience.

In the bustling heart of Tokyo, teenage runaway Hodaka navigated the urban labyrinth, yearning to establish his place and start anew. He sought refuge at "K and A Planning," an occult magazine company led by Keisuke and Natsumi Suga. In exchange for meager pay, Hodaka eagerly undertook the mission of pursuing urban legends within the vibrant metropolis. Through this investigative work, he comes to meet Hina, an 18-year-old girl harbouring magical powers that enable her to shape the weather. Their chance encounter sends the pair off on a journey through the concrete jungle which sees them navigate love and sacrifice as the weather mirrors their actions. Beyond the film's stunning visuals (Tokyo is flawlessly recreated through 2D and 3D animation), the story itself delves into Japanese mythology and tradition. From Shinto shrines to old wives’ tales surrounding weather deities, Weathering With You (2019) elevates its modern appearance and themes with exquisite depictions of culture and folklore.

Hodaka and Hina find solace in their companionship, but their relationship is repeatedly tested by various challenges that come their way. One significant obstacle they face is the unyielding authority of the Japanese legal system. Being only 16 years old, Hodaka is under the legal age requirement of 18 in Japan, which significantly limits his ability to navigate the city. Consequently, he struggles to secure stable, legal employment and is forced to move from one temporary shelter to another. His recklessness and naïveté lead him to pocket a firearm found in a trash bin – a misguided attempt at self-protection that reveals his poor judgment and lack of support during this troubled time. In Japan, owning firearms is categorically prohibited. If you discharge a gun, even in an act of desperation, like Hodaka did, you can face severe legal consequences and encounter significant trouble with the police.

Hina, on the other hand, faces custody issues over her little brother, as she is not of age to become his legal guardian. The siblings' mother's untimely passing due to illness has left Hina shouldering the responsibility of being her brother's sole caretaker.

In a daring act of youthful rebellion, Hodaka and Hina decided to run away together. Hodaka is being hunted as a wanted fugitive for possessing a firearm, while Hina is determined to protect her brother from being taken away by child protective services. This desperate flight symbolizes their defiance against the legal system that has failed to provide for them when they are most vulnerable, prompting them to take matters into their own hands.

While on the run with Hina, Hodaka offered a silent prayer at night, “Dear God, if you exist, please don’t take anything more, and give anything more,” Hina's existence was all that he held dear, but upon waking up the next morning, Hodaka discovers that she had disappeared.

Hina's situation has taken a turn for the worse, as she now finds herself pursued not only by the National Police Agency but also by even more formidable forces. Bearing the mantle of being a “Weather Maiden”, her body would gradually dissipate and eventually vanish - a sacrifice that would cease the relentless rain and allow Tokyo to bask in the warmth of the sun’s glorious rays again.

Hodaka and Hina’s desire to remain together is further challenged by this supernatural phenomenon, rendering the odds of their reunion increasingly insurmountable. Fate had snatched Hina away from Hodaka’s hands, but Hodaka was not ready to bend to fate’s will. Set against the backdrop of Japanese rock band Radwimp’s “Grand Escape”, the film’s heart-racing climax sees Hodaka fearlessly plummetting through the sky to rescue Hina, defying the forces of fate and the elements.

Critics have cited this scene as an exemplary instance of "climate change denialism" because Hodaka prioritized reuniting with Hina over addressing the catastrophic weather conditions. From my point of view, scrutinising the film's ethics and rational decision-making is not necessary because the protagonists are merely teenagers driven by intense emotions. Hodaka's decision to reject Hina's sacrifice and let Tokyo's monsoon continue may be seen as selfish, but he was determined to brave the ensuing heavy rains and potential repercussions to save the girl he dearly loved. He had squared up against the unyielding laws governing the city, and the divine laws of nature governing the sky. This brings to light the paramount conclusion that young, teenage love truly knows no bounds.

In the intricate workings of the human mind, the simplest and most enigmatic processes unfold. The sight of the sun piercing through the clouds, accompanied by the gentle caress of its warm rays on our skin, evokes an innate sense of joy and hope within us. Scampering through the nooks and crannies of a city that never sees the sun, Hodaka and Hina are nonetheless able to remain hopeful and energised through their deep and overpowering love for one another. Every possible impediment and deterrent has been thrown their way including the legal system, supernatural occurrences, and incessant rain. Yet, their love remains steadfast and persistent, refusing to succumb to adversity.

In a realm bereft of prospects and sunshine, the vibrant flame of teenage love remained unyielding. Despite the failures of the legal system and the wrath of the weather gods, young Hodaka and Hina clung to each other. As they free-fell through the clouds, Hodaka's defiant embrace of Hina echoed his bold declaration: "I want you more than any blue sky!”

Weathering With You (2019) triumphantly proclaims the beauty of vigorous and youthful juvenile love. As we grow and mature, the ways in which we fall in love with someone change. Our thoughts become more grounded, and our decision-making ever more practical. But one can only reminisce the times during their youth when we could fall head over heels for someone with no care or concern for the world; when our attachment to someone could ebb and flow as capriciously as the weather; and when our hearts race for the person we thought we could truly weather a storm with.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: A devoted cinephile since young, Terry’s love for cinema stretches beyond the silver screen. Apart from obsessing over his favourite films and rewatching La La Land for the 50th time, his other interests include mixed martial arts, learning new languages, and reading manga.

Commentary: Eric Khoo - Singapore’s First Auteur

Mon, 20 May 2024 05:17:03 GMT

Eric Khoo - Singapore’s First Auteur

As a final year student majoring in film directing, I have always been intrigued by the term “auteur”. A term that describes in essence, a film director who has a very distinct body of work, and is often credited to be the major creative force in a motion picture (Britannica, 2024). It is a term that has been thrown around a lot in film circles over the decades to describe legendary directors such as Akira Kurosawa, Stanley Kubrick, Francios Truffaut, and more recently, Christopher Nolan who is known for his big concept films and immersive IMAX sequences.

The term ‘auteur’ first originated from French film critics of the Cahiers du Cinema magazine of the 1950s, particularly Francois Truffaut in his essay "Une Certaine Tendance du Cinéma Français" ("A Certain Trend of French Cinema”) where he defined the auteur as a film director who has a distinct style and personality injected into his or her film.

I personally feel this distinct style and personality need not only be expressed through visual aesthetics (think Wes Anderson or Wong Kar Wai), but also thematic obsessions (think Denis Villeneuve or Yorgos Lanthimos). This led me into the rabbit hole trying to think — does Singapore have an auteur?

Eric Khoo certainly comes close, having directed over seven feature length films (including Tatsumi , an animated film, and the Cannes Palme d’Or nominated My Magic) and numerous short films. Suffice to say, Khoo has certainly built up for himself a substantial oeuvre for us to analyse. In this article, I would be focusing on three aspects that I feel can be considered in any assessment of Khoo as an auteur.

His focus on social realism

Khoo’s first feature length film Mee Pok Man (1995) features bleak social drama infused with angst-filled melancholy. According to Raphael Millet (2015), it “single-handedly revived the Singapore film industry”. The story of Mee Pok Man revolves around the titular figure, a shy noodle-shop owner (Joe Ng) and a prostitute named Bunny (Michelle Goh). A chance accident brings both souls together but as Zhao Wei Films (2019) puts it “…just as the two lonely souls begin to connect, Fate intervenes and deals them a cruel hand.” The down-and-out protagonist, the bleak social realist tone and focus on heartland locations around Singapore would come to define Khoo’s body of work in time to come.

A still from Eric Khoo’s debut feature Mee Pok Man (1995) featuring Bunny and Mee-Pok Man

After a very successful festival run for Mee Pok Man , Khoo’s next feature 12 Storeys (1997) is almost an anthology of sorts, weaving together three stories of the occupants of a 12-storey HDB (public housing) flat. Again, Khoo focuses on the heartlands, choosing to tell a story that is part supernatural, part social realist which makes for a very interesting watch.

A still from 12 Storeys (1997) featuring a group of uncles featured in the film.

Even with his more recent films such as In the Room (2015) , which features a pre- Parasite fame Choi Woo Shik, and Ramen Teh (2018) , which features an international cast including Takumi Saitoh, Tsuyoshi Ihara and homegrown actors such as Mark Lee and Jeanette Aw, Khoo always focuses on the social realist aspect. For example, in In the Room, Khoo focuses on six short stories that span several decades — only connected by the same hotel room. The social realist aspect that Khoo famously employs comes in full force here, taking place in the form of the characters. From a rock and roll singer in the 60s to a married woman discussing her affair with her Singaporean boyfriend in the 80s, Khoo has this affinity for focusing on characters that you might see everyday and gives you the chance to be a fly on the wall, observing their most intimate and personal conversations.

One standout example I can highlight out of the six short stories in In The Room is First Time. The story focuses on a Korean couple discussing their romantic and sexual relationship in the room, bringing up problems and issues that pertains to their personhood. The conversation they have with each other feels very real and something that I do believe that people in real life would discuss. Therefore, I believe that one hallmark of Khoo’s work that he constantly revists is his focus on social-realist stories, regardless of his budget or cast.

2. His propensity towards the non-genre

Maybe this is a distinct trait of a true arthouse filmmaker, but something I noticed throughout his films is that Khoo leans towards not making genre pieces. Granted, the catch-all term for the genre that he works in is “drama”, he does not limit himself to genre conventions.

For example, My Magic (2008) could be said to be a classical narrative drama as it has, on the surface, a lot of ingredients that warrants one to think that way. However, if you were to dig deeper, you will find that there are a lot of discrepancies that lend one to think they are not really watching a “drama” piece. For instance, the “magical-realist” angle that is interwoven into the story. As the audience is primed to think that it is a social realist drama, they would not expect any “magical” things to be happening, however, in My Magic they do. Without giving away too much, this “magical-realist” aspect comes into play as the magical acts that Francis (the main character) and his son do not only is for entertaining their audience, it also is a viable way for them to get out of danger or situations which would not be deemed “realistic” in a more “realist” film.

Eric Khoo’s film My Magic (2008) which got him a Palme’dOr nomination at the Cannes Film Festival in 2008.

3. His heart in championing local cinema

When people think of an auteur they often (rightly so) think about the directorial works that a filmmaker has done. However, I would like to offer a fresh perspective on the auteur theory and include works that a filmmaker has produced.

Creative producing is something that I feel is often overlooked when it comes to analysing a filmmaker’s body of work. Through Zhao Wei Films, Khoo’s production company, we can start to see a trend in the kinds of stories he champions.

From the slate of works that Zhao Wei produced, we can see that Khoo certainly loves to champion works of fiction that are created by young Singaporean filmmakers. Works such as Royston Tan’s 15 (2003) and 881 (2007) , Boo Junfeng by way of Sandcastle (2010) and The Apprentice (2016), all of which were by emerging filmmakers who went on to become auteurs in their own right.

A still from Boo Junfeng’s Sandcastle (2010) .

Therefore, I believe that Khoo really loves local cinema and wishes for it to flourish and he walks the talk by championing works and filmmakers who share the same sentiments.

In conclusion, the Singapore film scene should be grateful for its first auteur who has been making films since he was 30. I believe that without Khoo’s influence, we might not have had such filmmakers coming out from Singapore as Anthony Chen, Kristen Tan, Boo Junfeng and so many others telling such authentic Singaporean stories that matter.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Arel loves people, including all the messy parts that come with it. He believes that everyone has a story to share and strives to share them meaningfully on the big screen. Other things Arel loves are his guitar, his blu-ray collection and his bed. You can catch more of him at bio.site/arelkoh.

Film Review #120: WHEEL OF FORTUNE AND FANTASY

Mon, 20 May 2024 04:27:40 GMT

Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy

In Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s impressive filmography, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) stands out as a stunning anthology of stories that delves into the intricacies of human connection and desire. While it may not have received the same level of accolades as Hamaguchi’s Academy Award-winning Drive My Car (2021) , released in the same year, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) is no less a masterpiece.

Film still from Once Again (Credit: Potential Films)

In one of Hamaguchi's more experimental works, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) , three independent short films form a compelling triptych, each surpassing the last in emotional resonance. The initial installment, Magic (or Something Less Assuring) , explores a love triangle involving model Meiko, her close friend, and her ex-boyfriend, whose complex connections with both women drive the narrative. While the story's predictability left me slightly underwhelmed, it effectively sets the stage for the remainder of the film.

One aspect that particularly resonated with me in Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) was when Meiko's friend uttered the phrase, "No dirty talk, no physical touching. But we caressed each other through our conversation." This line encapsulates director Ryusuke Hamaguchi's unique approach to exploring human desire in the film. Rather than relying solely on physical intimacy to create tension, Hamaguchi emphasizes poignant dialogue that delves into the innate need for mutual understanding and empathy. Throughout the various stories in the film, the most compelling scenes are not those centered on physical intimacy, but rather those that utilize dialogue to express this profound human desire.

Film still from Magic (or Something Less Assuring) (Credit: Potential Films)

In the second story, titled " Door Wide Open ," a married mother named Nao finds herself caught in a web of manipulation. Her friend-with-benefits convinces her to plot a sting operation, a honeytrap, as a form of revenge against their professor. But as Nao embarks on this plan, an unexpected connection forms between her and the professor, leading to a heartfelt exchange about self-worth and their shared life challenges.

Finally, Once Again examines the journey of Natsuko and Aya, two strangers who initially mistake each other for former high school classmates. Through their unexpected encounter, they help one another confront and heal from unresolved emotions and regrets, leading to a transformative experience for both characters.

Throughout the film, a recurring theme becomes apparent: the intertwining of fate and personal choice. Though the three stories unfold separately, they all explore the delicate balance between destiny and autonomy. The film immerses viewers in the intimate lives of the characters, creating a sense of isolation from the outside world. As the film concludes, however, it brings a heightened awareness of the myriad possibilities that shape our existence.

In contrast to formulaic feel-good movies, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) stands out for its compassionate and compelling portrayal of flawed characters. Rather than relying on admirable qualities to elicit empathy, the film authentically explores the complexities of human existence. Through its characters' unresolved feelings and mistakes, the film invites viewers to reflect on their own imperfections and find common ground. Hamaguchi's nuanced depiction of human nature challenges the notion that admirable qualities are necessary to evoke empathy, showcasing that it is the raw and relatable experiences of being human that truly connect us.

Film still from Door Wide Open (Credit: Potential Films)

Additionally, Hamaguchi choreographs these stories with restraint, intentionally omitting superfluous characters, plot elements, and elaborate cinematography. While some might criticize his minimalist filmmaking style, I believe this understated approach is well-suited to the film's narrative. With the absence of all these distractions, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) maintains a light and straightforward sentiment despite its deep themes, creating a welcome equilibrium.

As Hamaguchi once observed, “To some extent, all films are fiction and documentary at the same time.” Likewise, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) operates as a fictional documentary that not only entrances the viewer but also leaves an enduring imprint on their soul. It is a film that deserves to be savoured, contemplated, and revisited, as it offers a rare and profound exploration of the human experience, leaving a lingering impression and filling viewers with a sense of fulfillment they never knew they needed.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #119: SUZUME

Mon, 20 May 2024 03:20:04 GMT

Suzume (2022)

When it comes to Japanese animation, there aren’t many who can offer what Makoto Shinkai brings to the big screen. His mastery over light, shadows, and brilliant use of oversaturated colours brings out a distinct, breath-taking style of animation that’s even comparable to that of the world-renowned Studio Ghibli. Romance is a big part of many of Shinkai’s films, but another core theme reflected throughout his recent projects is that of natural disasters in Japan, and both subject matters are evidently present in the critically acclaimed Your Name. (2016), as well as his latest feature, Suzume (2022), the latter of which took inspiration from one of Japan’s worst disasters to date.

The story of Suzume revolves around its titular heroine, Suzume Iwato (Nanoka Hara), who, while on her way to school one day, has a chance encounter with Souta Munakata (Hokuto Matsumura), a young man searching for an abandoned area housing a sole door. He is later revealed to be a “Closer”, whose goal is to lock up specific doors scattered across Japan to prevent giant, supernatural worms from emerging and unleashing a series of powerful earthquakes upon the country. Amidst a series of fantastical events, such as a statue coming alive into an adorable, yet mischievous cat referred to as Daijin (Ann Yamane) and Souta transforming into a three-legged children’s chair, Suzume finds herself thrust into a coming-of-age journey to save Japan from impending doom, and, in the process of which, slowly comes to terms with the unresolved inner turmoil from her childhood.

As with Shinkai’s other films, the worldbuilding in Suzume is at its finest. It’s clear how meticulously animated every scene in the film is, and the realistic style of drawing and animation present in the shots of the different Japanese towns and cities is just superb. The sequences of weather and nature that Shinkai and his team are renowned for are ever as impressive. Whether it’s the galaxy-lined skies, radiant sunlight, fluffy clouds or pouring rain, the attention to detail can clearly be seen in every element, from the tiniest water droplet to the tallest building. The film’s dazzling scenery is also accompanied by a magnificent score composed by Kazuma Jinnouchi as well as rock band and long-time collaborators Radwimps, who Shinkai also worked with on the soundtracks for Your Name. and Weathering with You (2019).

Its beauty aside, what makes Suzume work so well is the film’s inclusion of humour amongst its acknowledgement of the threat of natural disasters that have plagued Japan over the many years. The devastation effects of earthquakes can be felt everywhere, from the destruction of property to the pain that victims feel from losing loved ones to the disasters. Suzume herself knows this all too well, having lost both her mother and childhood home to the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, which she has never truly healed from. Perhaps it is this feeling that spurs her forward in her journey with Souta to locate and close the remaining doors; to prevent more catastrophic disasters from hitting Japan and destroying everything in its wake, leaving others feeling the way she has felt all these years.

As for the doors themselves, what lies on the other side is an alternate dimension housing the worms, and the doors are specifically positioned in deserted and heavily damaged areas throughout Japan. It’s as if the doors act as a seismic epicentre and are the source of the earthquakes, which possibly explains why everything within their vicinity is destroyed and considered uninhabitable. Despite tackling such a serious subject, however, Suzume balances out its emotional depth with its fair share of funny moments, ranging from Daijin’s antics to the hindrances that Souta and Suzume must endure when the former is stuck in chair form.

Coupled with spell-binding animation and a heart-warming love story, Suzume is ultimately a story of healing, detailing one young woman’s path to rediscovering the will to live and finally closing the door on her past, allowing herself to finally move forward in life both physically and emotionally. Inviting audiences out on a tour of Japan stylised in Shinkai’s signature flair, Suzume can even function as a road trip film of sorts and, much like his previous blockbusters, it’s a visual feast for the eyes and is bound to leave a lasting impression with both first and long-time viewers of his work.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Maya has always had a penchant for animated movies, growing up watching the likes of Walt Disney and Studio Ghibli, many of which are among her all-time favourite films. Writing is one of her stronger suits and she is currently exploring how to best utilise this skill after finishing her pursuits in film studies. Apart from frequent trips to the cinema, she enjoys travelling and indulging in her interests in fashion, café hopping and video gaming.

Film Review #118: THE HOLDOVERS

Mon, 20 May 2024 02:59:37 GMT

The Holdovers : An acerbic yet endearing film that warms both heart and home

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Image Courtesy of IMDB

The festive season is synonymous with feasts, family reunions, fun, and the heartwarming tradition of holiday films. These films evoke a cozy, fuzzy feeling, easing us into the spirit of goodwill and hope as we bid farewell to the waning months of the year. They serve as a mirror, reflecting the best aspects of humanity: the inherent goodness in others, no matter how hard it might be to uncover at first; the resilience we summon during challenging times; and the remarkable, almost mystical way that the holiday spirit renews and revitalizes.

However, holiday films nowadays are cranked out at fever-pitch by studios to seemingly court the box office in cinemas and on streaming platforms. Consequently, the genre has now become a feeble attempt to truly distil that feel-good spirit. It is easy to feel cynical about the holiday season when the fun and humour in these films are cliched and formulaic – where genuine charm and bona fide storylines seem like an afterthought to writers – and we leave the cinema feeling foregone with a lingering sense of disappointment and unfulfillment as the credits crawl to an end.

The Holdovers is not one of those films. Although its cinematic release in Singapore came far too late for Christmas, it is a triumphant, bittersweet delight that plumbs the depths of loss, regret and love in the human condition while dishing up some truly searing, scathing humour. Set in the 1970s, The Holdovers revolves around three main characters and the ills that plague them: a serially unlikeable and curmudgeonly classics teacher, Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti); a brilliant yet achingly troubled student, Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa); and Mary Lamb, the school’s head chef and a grieving mother (Da’Vine Joy Randolph).

As director Alexander Payne’s first period film, The Holdovers fully leans into the era’s cinematic, stylistic mainstays. From the period-accurate opening credits, title card and studio logos created by graphic designer and longtime collaborator Nate Carlson to the raw footage itself (altered with film emulsion and colour grading in post-production) Payne opted for an authentic immersion into the era. The opening scenes of the film establish the wintry atmosphere through the brilliant cinematography. Eigil Bryld, the cinematographer and camera operator, masterfully captures the austere, ancient, and imposing campus of the fictional Barton Academy, which is heavily blanketed in snow. Despite its size, large enough to accommodate generations of rowdy boys, the campus appears eerily empty when its residents are reduced to only three.

Image Courtesy of IMDB

The trio are reluctantly forced to spend Christmas at Barton. As victims of circumstance, they would rather nurse their emotional wounds anywhere but there. Paul resents being appointed caretaker for the holdovers, a consequence of his misstep in academic politics. Wounded Angus conceals his pain with caustic sarcasm, abandoned by his holidaying mother and stepfather in St. Kitts. Mary is visibly saddened, mourning her son Curtis, a Barton alumnus who died in the Vietnam War. Each paints a lonely portrait, aching for connection in a situation they think runs scarce. While it is unsurprising that the three eventually become closer and form a deeper relationship with one another, screenwriter David Hemingson expertly crafts the narrative progression with remarkable strength and flair. Remarkable is the film’s use of sharp and clever dialogue — a potent mix of witty repartee, impassioned outbursts, and barbed yet amusing insults— all of which enhances the film’s humour and emotional depth, granting the audience deeper insight to each character and their distinct voice.

The actors build on the writing to truly breathe life into their characters, making them the beating heart of The Holdovers . Amidst the ensemble, Paul Giamatti delivers a crackling, spiky performance, relishing the part of the pipe-smoking, liberally-swearing teacher, Mr Hunham. From effortlessly hurling cutting insults to delivering fiery speeches, Giamatti is an explosive tour de force. Mr Hunham loves his subject but loathes his students, a mutual feeling that he accepts but never acknowledges openly. Giamatti brilliantly captures Mr Hunham's fleeting moments of remorse through subtle gestures—a blink-and-you'll-miss-it downward twitch of his mustache, a pregnant pause where his good and lazy eye fill with melancholy—providing a silent yet significant glimpse into an otherwise pompous, eloquent character. This is Giamatti's first leading role in some time, but his captivating, magnetic performance makes it unforgettable.

With unwavering confidence, showbiz newcomer Dominic Sessa skillfully navigates the complexities of Angus' life. He effectively captures the emotional turmoil rooted in his father's absence, the painful realization of his mother choosing another over him, and the impending threat of being sent away to military school. Sessa equips Angus with palpable angst, sharp wit, and quick thinking, enabling the character to stand toe-to-toe with Mr Hunham and later form a hilarious partnership that borders on the realm of pantomime. The seamless collaboration between Giamatti and Sessa creates a perfect balance, allowing each character to shine with ease in their shared scenes.

Regrettably, the character of Mary takes a backseat to the conflict between and within Paul and Angus. Defined primarily by her loss, Mary should have had the character development that Mr. Hunham and Angus received. Despite this, Randolph, whose moving performance has rightfully won her both the Golden Globe and Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, shines. She pours herself into Mary’s aching grief and maternal love, capturing her loss over Curtis. Both of them, we discover, paid too high a price for what the white, wealthy Barton boys got for close to nothing; the victims of structural racism and classism while the latter were effortlessly parachuted into prestigious colleges. Randolph echoes Mary’s quiet dignity and strength, visible despite the loss written in her slow, weary movements, shaky expressions and glances fraught with glimmering tears. In a world that offered her little, she stood out as the film's standout performance, portraying Mary with empathy, warmth, and kindness for others.

Image Courtesy of Focus Features

The Holdovers is more than just a holiday film about three broken individuals forming an unexpected family in an unwanted situation. It delves into the complexities of characters trapped by societal expectations, evoking empathy and a desire to comfort them through their pain. The film revolves around Paul, Angus, and Mary's longing, anguish, and resentment, culminating in a quiet triumph that serves as the movie's emotional core. The characters' struggles and imperfections resonate with viewers, as they see reflections of themselves in the on-screen drama. Set against the backdrop of the 1970s, an era of beautiful dreams and fading idealism, The Holdovers offers a thought-provoking and emotionally charged cinematic experience, far removed from the comfort of a cozy, warm blanket.

They hope. They dream. They try.

In this world, that might just be enough.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

(SCFF 2024) Film Review #117: 富都青年 Abang Adik (2023)

Tue, 30 Apr 2024 12:53:55 GMT

Abang Adik (2023) by Lay Jin Ong

When quizzed on how he knew cinemagoers from four vastly different countries enjoyed his inaugural feature film, director Lay Jin Ong, had this to say: “I think it is because there were tearful people all around, some sobbing even after the film ended, right up to the Q&A session.” With its universal message of love and longing, that’s how you know Abang Adik might be the frontrunner for the most moving picture of the year.

Most of the story takes place in the Pasar Pudu district of Malaysia - an area where the marginalised mingle; a sea of undocumented people fighting to stay afloat. A deaf-mute orphan boy called Abang (Taiwanese superstar Wu Kang-ren) and the slightly younger Adik (Jack Tan with a gaudy brown mullet and dad bod in a bid to portray the “real Pudu”) are two of them. The orphans become sworn brothers and develop a loving kinship nurtured by the motherly instincts of a transgender sex worker, Miss Money (Tan Kim Wang), who feeds and shelters them as if they were her own.

While Abang makes an honest living toiling at a wet market, Adik gives in to the thrill of impulse and resorts to illegal dealings and sex work to supplement their dream of escaping poverty. The “gor” (elder brother) of the two proves to be the more sensible one and constantly picks up after his ne'er do well brother, but when an overly helpful social worker, Jie En (Serene Lim), steps in, things take a gruesome turn for the worst, resulting in nail-biting tension where one brother makes a life-and-death decision in the ultimate act of love.

According to Lay, many nameless people live like Abang, Adik and Miss. Money in a vicious cycle of poverty, hopelessness, and the constant need to “find a semblance of light in the darkest of places”. This prompted the Taiping-native to kickstart his directorial career to expose the sad reality of these people and provide them a guiding voice.

Aided in part by an atmospheric and soul-crushing score by Ryota Katayama, the film echoes neo-noir elements of Bong Joon-ho’s seminal masterpiece, Parasite (2019) . It is clear Lay was at least partially influenced by Bong’s Oscar-winning picture in Abang Adik, seeing how they are both social-commentaries with jaw-dropping twists and violent tendencies.

Cinematographer Kartik Vijay, on the other hand, provides another narrative layer to Abang Adik - one of sacrifice. His deeply affecting and slow-burning portraits of Abang’s psyche shows us why everyone needs to love and be loved. Kang-ren’s phenomenal performance using mostly body and sign language moves mountains, none more so than in one highly emotional scene played out entirely in sign language at the tail-end of the film, that affected Jack Tan so much so that he wept uncontrollably after shooting ended.

The director triumphantly recalls how his film inspired a Taiwanese granny to successfully obtain identity cards for her six stateless grand kids, and how, “One of the couples just tearfully held on to me after the screening of the film and did not say a word” - a testament to how the film had affected both the hearts and minds of the audience. His next hope is that the film can spark a reevaluation of human rights for the betterment of Malaysian society. Lay envisions the message of love being the “will keeping everyone alive”, and his labour of love that is Abang Adik might very well do just that.

Author's bio: Leon is a huge film buff who enjoys horror, psychological thrillers, and drinking too much coffee for his own good. In his spare time, he writes film critiques and goes on solo trips around Asia.

You can find his other articles at: https://asianmoviepulse.com/author/leon-overee/

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Abang Adik and the post-screening Q&A was held as part of Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 . Get your tickets to more screenings and filmmakers in attendance here : https://www.gv.com.sg/GVGroupSynopsis?group=faa78f45-2ac5-44c6-ba70-89bebbe76d0c#/group/faa78f45-2ac5-44c6-ba70-89bebbe76d0c

SFS Members are entitled to $1 discount using the exclusive promo code provided via Members EDM. Email us at info@singaporefilmsociety.com if you have not received yours yet. Anyone can sign up for SFS Membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

(SCFF 2024) Film Review #116: Rain Town [雨城] (2023)

Mon, 29 Apr 2024 09:16:30 GMT

Rain Town (2023) by Tunku Mona Riza

Empowerment of simple stories fuels the cinematic movement of director Tunku Mona Riza, whose features pack a familiar yet cathartic punch. Following up on the success of Redha (2016), which explores the intricacies of autism, the alum of the New York Film Academy once again delivers a candid story diving into the private chambers of familial disharmony.

Set against the backdrop of the Malay Peninsula’s wettest town, Taiping, a tempestuous drama begins to brew in the “Choo” household. In the beginning, there were smiles all around the dining table. The matriarch, Aileen (Susan Lankester with perhaps her greatest onscreen performance) lovingly makes mooncakes, a detailed and careful endeavour, much like how she raises her three children: the rebellious fire cat, Alex (Wilson Lee), only daughter, Ruby (Pauline Tan), and of course pride of the family, Dr. Isaac Choo (Fabian Loo).

After a lunchtime squabble in both Cantonese and English tongues (a risqué move by Tunku, who is the first person of Malay descent to direct a Chinese-language movie), the truth slowly comes to light: the siblings are unhappy with Daddy Choo (Kin Wah Chew), who rules over the family with an iron fist. But we find out that he is nowhere to be found amidst the merriment of the Mid-Autumn festivities.

The head Choo is finding his joy elsewhere- “rain-betting” with his friends; a tradition where locals bet on the probability of rainfall, a serious business involving froggish feng shui trinkets and divine intervention. One slowly begins to realise that Rain Town is not just a narrative of family conflict but also a tourism piece for the cobbled streets and old-school sights and sounds of rustic Taiping.

Back to the drama - it all begins because of Mr. Choo Kam Wah, the patriarch of the family who stubbornly dictates the lives of his children. Everything revolves around him and his ideals. Kam Wah speaks, and fathers all around Asia, fathers echo after him. It is an age-old tale that starts to gain traction when everything goes awfully wrong within the family. There is nothing unique about this yarn, and yet, it is still strangely entrancing.

Perhaps the film’s triumph card is the layered performances of its talented cast with their fully realised and relatable characters. It will not only make you laugh but also cry. And cry you will, for some of the scenarios verge on the cusp of sappiness with its palpable episodes of grief and sorrow.

Yet, against comforting and warm lightning and vibrant golden hour hues, the movie moves along at a digestible pace, with some exceptional transitions including a standout moment of a birds-eye view of the city in its rainy splendour. It all proves to add a mellow touch to some tense heart-to-heart moments within the Choo household (of which there are many to go around in this emotional rollercoaster).

Ultimately, Rain Town is a clash of the old and new in an ode to change; a cautionary tale of customary folly; one that chooses the predictable narratives to get the point across, because after all, the simple stories are what in Tunku Mona Riza’s voice, “bear substantial weight for those directly affected”. And this one will affect you in one way or another.

You can find his other articles at: https://asianmoviepulse.com/author/leon-overee/

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Rain Town [雨城] is part of the Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 and is scheduled to screen on 5 May 2024, Sunday, 2.30pm at GV Bugis+. Purchase your tickets here: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2197#/movie/2197

(SCFF 2024) Film Review #115: Kong and Jigme 回西藏 (2022)

Mon, 29 Apr 2024 09:15:29 GMT

Kong and Jigme [ 回西藏 ] (2022)

Worlds collide in this dual effort by relative newcomer Lhapal Gyal and acclaimed Golden Rooster award-winning director Guoxing Chen, with an inspired and ambitious adventure based on a true story that takes place in the great Tibetan expanse.

While the desert wind blows viciously, a lone figure in the yonder slowly approaches the foreground. His vestige is a blur, until a separate shadow of a man and mule descends upon his unexpectedly prone body in the sand. Lao Kong (Yang Song, in a Golden Rooster nominated- performance), travels to Tibet for his new role, but a wrong turn almost causes the Chinese government official to succumb to the unforgiving desert, until he is rescued by Jigme (Jigpa), an enigmatic figure whose identity escapes Kong just as fast as he arrived to save him.

After a hoopla over the burial of dead goats and a loss in translation among the townspeople, Kong once again meets Jigme, who proves to be well-versed in both Tibetan and Mandarin (What can he not do?). When Kong employs his saviour as his dedicated translator, they kickstart a buddy movie of epic proportions, traversing the countryside and encountering a diverse cast of characters that threaten to put their newfound friendship to the test.

Like the wide-eyed Kong who slowly discovers a place unlike his own, we too, are taken on the fascinating Tibetan experience of gastronomic ‘Tsampa’ (Tibetan food staple) delights, a bar brawl set in a dingy drinking hole and a sentimental brush with death amongst others. But, be prepared to commit, as this is a film that enjoys taking its time (over almost 2-hour long to be exact), while surrendering to the sights and sounds, naturally giving storytelling a backseat.

As the film ambles along, the men grow closer together and become fast friends, but the action is slow to come, with some instances marred by at times, hurried dialogues and a slightly overinflated midpoint. However, the journey is all that matters in Chen and Gyal’s collaborative mumblecore, one set to guttural “Lu songs” and featuring traditional “Guozhuang dance”, you will be sure to learn a thing or two about Tibet.

Behind the lens of Daming Guo, known for spectacles such as 2018’s Up the Mountain , we are treated to a sumptuous visual buffet of the natural beauty of Tibet, offering a glimpse into this unfamiliar yet beguiling autonomous region of China. Kong and Jigme is as much a study of human relation as it is a celebration of diversity and life in all its shapes and forms.

As Kong succinctly puts it, “Our ultimate goal is about respect for life, we just handle it in different ways”. And so is the beauty of this movie, for showing how two people can be so different yet so closely entwined - exceptionally relevant for the current state of the world, reminding us how being a little more inclusive can go a long way, life-long almost, as in the friendship of Kong and Jigme.

You can find his other articles at: https://asianmoviepulse.com/author/leon-overee/

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Kong and Jigme [回西藏] is part of the Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 and is scheduled to screen on 1 May 2024, Sunday, 8pm at GV Bugis+. Purchase your tickets here: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2174#/movie/2174

Sammo Hung: A Retrospective

Mon, 22 Apr 2024 10:45:59 GMT

Sammo Hung: A Retrospective

To the average person not connected to Asian cinema, Sammo Hung might not be whom one immediately envisions as a martial arts actor, much less one whose work is intrinsically woven into the cloth of martial arts cinema. And yet, you would be hard pressed to find anyone else who has garnered as much respect and acclaim in action cinema, both in front and behind the camera.

Born in Hong Kong, Samuel “Sammo” Hung Kam-bo’s life was connected to the movies right from the very start; his parents worked in the industry as wardrobe artists, and his grandmother was Mrs. Chin Tsi-ang, no less than the first recorded female martial arts actor in Chinese cinema. He would continue this familial lineage as his grandparents enrolled him into the China Drama Academy, an institution that is known as a “Peking Opera School”, which focused on teaching acrobatics, martial arts, and other avenues of physical performance.

Moreover, these types of schools have been long associated and worked on a sense of “Chinese tradition”, where teachers are called sifu, or masters, and they maintained absolute control over their students’ lives. Hung’s experience would be no different during his seven-year tenure at the school, but he would soon find himself honing a skill-set and talent that would lay the foundation for his career to come.

In fact, Hung’s time during the school is one part of a larger “flashpoint” on the development of Hong Kong action cinema. His abilities led him to be the leader of the pack of the “Seven Little Fortunes”, a performance troupe showcasing the best talent the school had, and many among this small group would go on to spearhead and re-shape the cinematic landscape of martial arts cinema during the late 70’s and early 80’s. The biggest name amongst these seven is undoubtedly Jackie Chan, whose popularity would surpass even Hung with his international success. Action movie diehards would know the names of Yuen Biao, who would star alongside Chan and Hung in classics such as Project A (1983) and Wheels on Meals (1984), and Yuen Wah, who is perhaps most known on screen as the Landlord in Stephen Chow’s Kung Fu Hustle (2004). Another member, Corey Yuen, would become a renowned action director for both Asian and Hollywood films, working on X-Men (2000) and The Expendables (2010), among others.

However, what made Sammo Hung stand out amongst this already prodigious amount of talent was his seniority, both in and out of the troupe. Jackie Chan himself would touch on this; in a press conference, he would describe how, as the oldest among them, Sammo would give him and the other students some pocket money from his earnings, establishing himself as the “big brother” of the group.

This would extend even beyond from the troupe to his work in film, where he would be the first of the group to make a mark in the industry, decades before he would solidify his legacy and earn his “big big brother” status in the Hong Kong film scene. Beginning as a child actor in the early 60’s, Sammo would quickly put his talents to good use, honing his craft at the Shaw Brothers Studio throughout the decade in a variety of action and stunt related work, during what is considered the Golden Age of Hong Kong cinema. As he branched away from Shaw to Golden Harvest during the 70’s, he would put his name on modern day classics such as Bruce Lee’s Enter the Dragon (1973) and King Hu’s A Touch of Zen (1971).

Sammo would have a solid career as action director through the 70’s, although his onscreen work would continue to be mostly in supporting roles. However, as the decade came to a close, the local industry began to shift. Whilst martial arts remained popular, new trends were emerging; brilliantly performed but rigidly choreographed moves were shifting into a more fluid style, as well as a seemingly increased preference for contemporary settings. Indeed, one only needs to see Sammo’s work in Knockabout (1979) and Project A (1983) to feel this stark difference in style despite being only four years apart.

Sammo then would find himself in the midst of this era of trailblazing, pioneering and establishing how martial arts will be “felt” on screen with films such as Wheels on Meals (1984) and Dragons Forever (1988), and yet that almost pales in comparison to his increased work as a producer during this time, breathing life into subgenres that are now considered staples of the era.

One example would be the jiangshi, or zombie, genre of horror films. With his own Encounters of the Spooky Kind (1980) as a progenitor, he would go on to help kickstart this now iconic symbol of Hong Kong cinema by producing Mr. Vampire (1985). Another example would be the female-led martial arts film, where he revitalised the genre by producing Yes, Madam! (1985), which would introduce the world to Michelle Yeoh.

This undercurrent of reinvention would reflect on Sammo himself as well, albeit in a smaller capacity. Whilst he continued to mainly work in martial arts, he would take the chance and explore more dramatic avenues in the filmmaking world. The biggest marker for that should almost certainly be Mabel Cheung’s Eight Taels of Gold (1989), in which he gives a fully dramatic role as an émigré coming back to his hometown. His efforts, done much earlier than his opera troupe compatriots, would net him a Best Actor nomination in the 1990 Hong Kong Film Awards.

The 1990’s and 2000’s would prove to be somewhat of a relative lull in Sammo’s career, though he continued to have steady work as director and action director, providing his experience to Wong Kar-Wai’s Ashes of Time (1994). He also continued to make sporadic appearances in films, and even appeared on TV. Notably, he starred in his own successful American TV show, Martial Law (CBS, 1998 - 2000), an outlier in both American television and what one would expect for a Hong Kong martial artist star.

However, after a prominent role as the antagonist in 2005’s SPL, Sammo would have a fierce resurgence in his stardom after his acclaimed performance in Donnie Yen’s Ip Man 2 (2010) as the old fashioned yet ailing master of Hung Gar kung fu, as well as serving as the action director once more. His role in the film is almost cognizant of his legacy; a highly respected figure from the days of old, sparring with the ‘new guard’ and keeping pace with them.

Thankfully, unlike his character in the film, Sammo is still fairly active in the film scene and has continued to work, with his most recent directorial feature being The Bodyguard (2016), where he seemed to have allowed his career to come full circle, giving cameo appearances to his old opera troupe brothers and some prominent members of the industry during its heyday. Indeed, for some of them, such as famed supporting actor Dean Shek, this was the first time he had been on screen since the 1990’s, and would be his final performance before his death in 2021.

In the past few years, it seems as though the wider Hong Kong film industry was finally giving Sammo his due. He has always maintained a level of respect and significance, but it’s only recently that there have been more public accolades of his life’s work. Just last year, in 2023, he received the Asian Film Awards’ Lifetime Achievement Award, and as of this writing, it has only been a few days since he has been awarded the same by the Hong Kong Film Awards. In his speech after the ceremony, he dryly quipped that, after receiving two Lifetime Achievement Awards, he would like to get one for Best Director, hoping that he will get the chance to direct at least ten more movies in the future.

At 72 years old, Sammo Hung remains as dedicated to his work as ever. He is slated to appear in Soi Cheang’s much anticipated Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In (2024), whose title itself evokes a time gone by, a time that Sammo was deeply part of. His career is not just woven into the history of the Hong Kong film industry, but intrinsically changed and shaped it to what it is today. Let us hope that it shall continue to do so yet.

About the Author: Wei Li Heng is an avid lover of uncovering and writing about obscure and underseen Asian cinema. He hopes to discover local cinematic gems and share them to a wider audience.

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The Filmmaker in Focus: Sammo Hung segment is part of the Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 and will take place from 3-5 May 2024. Find out more here .

(SCFF 2024) Film Review #113: Carp Leaping Over Dragon’s Gate (菠萝, 凤梨)

Mon, 22 Apr 2024 10:45:50 GMT

菠萝, 凤梨 [Carp Leaping Over Dragon’s Gate] (2023)

Yan Xiaolin’s directorial debut 菠萝, 凤梨 (2023) has a fitting English title: “ Carp leaping Over Dragon’s Gate ”. Drawn from the Chinese proverb “鲤跃龙门” [ li yue long men ], it paints a picture of glorious ascension, much like how 菠萝, 凤梨 (2023) illustrates the resolute power of China’s national examinations in determining one’s social status for life.

For most fish, the journey begins not at the gate, nor the waterfall that cascades from it, but rather a small stream miles away. As for Miao, hers comes in the form of a scuffed garage in Shandong province, where she and her mother, Wei, live. Besides taking care of her brother’s mother-in-law to earn a meagre wage, Wei doesn’t have much in the way of money. After all, she never received any formal education past middle school.

Perhaps, that’s also why Wei sees 高考 [ gao kao ], the Chinese university placement exam, as the most important step up for her only daughter Miao. Even though Miao doesn’t seem to be performing academically (and doesn’t care much for it anyway), Wei has her eyes set on getting her into a top tier university. Using long, languid shots filmed in black-and-white, Yan illustrates Wei’s subsequent downward spiral, which eventually drags her into committing fraud. Wei and Miao illegally move across the country to take a different paper, with nothing to their name but piles of debt and a dream. From then on, it’s all down to luck — Wei and Miao are subjected wholly to the forces of the currents as they wade their way through.

Film still from 菠萝, 凤梨 (2023)

Hu Ling, who plays Wei, gives a performance to remember which earned her a Golden Horse Best Actress nomination last year. In this character study, we vicariously feel Wei’s fierce desperation for Miao to have a better life. In her faults, frustrations and little joys, it’s easy for us to see our mothers, and maybe a bit of ourselves too. While it’s convenient to resent Wei for her hypocritical and self-sabotaging behaviour, 菠萝, 凤梨 (2023) compels us to examine the inequalities enshrined in the meritocratic system instead.

Despite the cruelty of the situation, Yan does well to let gentleness permeate through. Amidst Miao’s rebellion and Wei’s frustration, there are well-placed moments of mutual care and codependency. Whatever Wei cannot say in words, she conveys through the pineapple slices she prepares for Miao daily. Whether it’s the northern 菠萝 [ bo luo ] variant or the slightly sweeter 凤梨 [ feng li ] found in the south, these pineapples continually serve as a symbol of luck and hope regardless of the changes Miao and Wei have to endure.

Although Yan closes the curtains on the film with a denouement that does not seem to portend to a decisive outcome, the film shows its overall strengths in the portrait it paints of meritocracy, poverty and family. In the grand scheme of things, 菠萝, 凤梨 (2023) might still be a carp scaling up the waterfall, but it shows promise for Yan Xiaolin’s future filmography to truly surmount the dragon’s gate .

About the Author: Jane is a student who loves all types of media and creative expression, including film. She especially has a soft spot for Asian cinema and films that make her bawl. Apart from lurking on Letterboxd reviews, she likes to collect trinkets and do handicrafts!

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菠萝, 凤梨 is part of the Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 and is scheduled to screen on 2 8 April 2024, Sunday, 11am at GV Bugis+. Purchase your tickets here: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2170#/movie/2170

(SCFF 2024) Film Review #114: A Boy and a Girl (少男少女)

Mon, 22 Apr 2024 10:43:28 GMT

Unfiltered Desolation: Adolescence in A Boy and a Girl (少男少女) review

In a rural, sleepy, coastal town in Taiwan, Hsu Li Da’s debut feature film unfolds as a raw and unfiltered narrative, showcasing a side of Taiwan I have rarely seen. In A Boy and A Girl (少男少女) , two teenagers yearn to escape their deadbeat town by delving into vice to amass the funds needed for their departure. As time passes, their success complicates their desire to leave, along with threats, extortion and betrayal.

The town is unnamed, and so are the people living in it; identities are reduced to gender or societal roles, with a focus on the two adolescents and the people who are supposed to guide and guard them — Boy’s guardians (Man and Woman), Coach, Police Officer. The film's portrayal of a loveless place is stark and unapologetic, digging into the seediness and the dark underbelly of morally corrupt people.

From the outset, the film teeters on the edge of a coming-of-age story but morphs into a coming-of-rage one. The town features rundown, dilapidated sheds and a scarcity of greenery that mirrors the desolation of its inhabitants. Only fleeting glimpses of hope bring forth any signs of life early on in the film.

Dialogue in the film mirrors this mood, sparse and stripped of emotion, delivered with impassive faces that betray the characters' frustration. Sex becomes a currency, a tool for exploitation and abuse, devoid of any semblance of love. The relationship between Boy (Travis Hu 胡语恒) and Girl (Kira Skelly 尹茜蕾) is fraught with ambiguity, oscillating between partnership and somewhat romantic relationship, but almost never touching upon genuine affection and care in their unloving world. These questions weigh heavily throughout the film: how can they know what love is if they have not yet received it, especially when they are being hurt more than they are being loved?

While the film is rich in its depiction of the town's gritty realities and features a striking location, I would have liked a bit more depth and innovation in its storytelling. Narrative motifs do feel a little underutilised as the film is very story-driven.

Hu’s portrayal of Boy showcases an unexpected versatility that brings out the shedding of innocence and the changes he undergoes, from slightly awkward, sullen and naive to rash and rowdy, devoid of and numb towards morals and the law. At 16 years old and nominated for Best New Performer at the 60th Golden Horse Awards, Hu is one to watch in the coming years.

A Boy and a Girl serves as an extreme and poignant reminder that it takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to lead them down the wrong path.

About the Author: Kennice reads, writes, dances, and watches theatre and film as a way to understand life on Earth (& perhaps beyond). Probably thinking of having another cup of yuan yang siew dai.

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The film is part of the Singapore Chinese Film Festival 2024 and is scheduled to screen on 1 May 2024, Wednesday, 4.20pm at GV Bugis+. Purchase your tickets here: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2203#/movie/2203

SFS Members are entitled to $1 discount using the exclusive promo code provided via Members EDM. Email us at info@singaporefilmsociety.com if you have not received yours yet. Anyone can sign up for SFS Membership here: https://www.singaporefilmsociety.com/membership

Film Review #112: FANTASTIC MR FOX

Mon, 25 Mar 2024 07:03:51 GMT

Film Review #112: FANTASTIC MR FOX

Wes Anderson Will Keep On Being Wes Anderson Until The End Of Time

An impossibly orange image of a field flashes. The lines are so impossibly straight and the textures are so uniform that our minds struggle to register the image as anything beyond just an abstract collage of shapes.

A film by Wes Anderson.

We are then introduced to our dolls. Mr Fox, the family man who misses living large. His wife, who reigns him in just when he begins to wander too far. And his son, Ash, who would like to embody the same masculine stereotypes his father once did, but finds himself out of his depth. Even his father fails to live up to this idea anymore, weighed down by both the emotional demands of a more civilised era, and home loans high enough for any woodland creature to baulk at. All of this will become everyone else’s problem soon enough.

It’s shocking how well Wes Anderson’s signature style gloms onto stop-motion. Here, he can direct his actors to give their deliberately-stilted performances before transposing them into deliberately-stilted bodies, ones that sort of ratchet from pose to pose in place of moving. And if he wants to fuss over the vectors and construction of every single one of his shots, then here is a constructed environment where he can move every single building one centimetre to the left until they form a perfect 45 degree line in the shot.

Even amongst other adaptations of Roald Dahl’s work, Anderson’s Fantastic Mr Fox stands out because of how much the director is willing to tease out Dahl’s gleeful misanthropy while still tempering it within this tone of gleeful mischief. Mr Fox’s kid, Ash, is untalented and misanthropic to such an extent that you really do begin to understand his father’s apathy towards him, especially when overachieving-yet-endearing cousin Kristofferson visits for an extended stay.

Compare this with Danny Devito’s Matilda adaptation, which plasters over everything in a uniform coat of sickly-sweet nostalgia to paper down Dahl’s feverish desire for an utopia where all of the nice, pretty, college-educated people and all the ugly, mean, and stupid people should live together, and both of these groups should never contact each other ever again. Anderson’s Fantastic Mr Fox at least respects us enough to trust us to empathise with these Foxes even at their most petty moments. Ash is just plain awful to talk to thanks to his teenage angst, and his father is even worse.

This being an Anderson film also means that it never fully reaches the fully unhinged nature of films like Mel Stuart’s 1971 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory . There, Stuart revels in making the Chocolate Factory feel like a barely-contained deathtrap, and you really do feel like Gene Wilder is two seconds away from biting someone at any given moment. Mr Fox, on the other hand, feels far more restrained in his performance. He obviously thinks of himself as smarter and sharper than everyone around him, but Anderson lets us feel just how annoying he is to be around as much as he lets us know how good it is to pull off a well-made plan while sporting a shit-eating grin the whole time.

Of course, all of these miss the forest for the trees: Wes Anderson is the perfect midwit director. Every element of every second of every single one of his movies is purpose-made to scream at you that yes, you are in fact watching a Wes Anderson movie. This masterclass in cinema-as-branding means that he’s extremely easy and fun for people to talk about, regardless of whether or not you love or hate him. Even complaining about how twee he is feels twee in and of itself, and just helps further cement his place in the cultural mythos as some kind of eternal waifish gnome-boy, forever jaunting in the woods with Owen Wilson and company.

This makes it easy to paint a picture of Anderson as more stereotype than man, but there is yet meat on these bones. Almost every Wes Anderson protagonist suffers from a crisis of masculinity but here it is articulated the most plainly. Mr Fox will probably keep on acting this way until the end of time, but we can find precious alleviation in knowing that the person who finds him the most annoying is himself.

Yes, it’s great that Mr Fox reaffirms his masculine identity, but at the same time you can’t help but appreciate how he ends up making everyone’s life worse in the process. Mr Fox has his one final gloat before the credits, but he also quips about how the food they have to scavenge for now tastes worse than before. We are left to stroke our chins.

I still haven’t watched Asteroid City . I’m pretty sure it’s good, but I’m in no real hurry. I’m sure that no matter how many of his films I catch in theatres, or don’t catch in theatres, Wes Anderson will still be here, reconstructing and deconstructing his own mythos of dapper-guys-who-talk-with-flat-affects and guys-who-will-one-day-become-dapper-guys-who-talk-with-flat-affects until the heat death of our universe. And he will surely find a quirkier way to do it every time. Damn! Did you know that Wes Anderson makes his film crew get measuring tape out to make sure the camera’s exactly in the middle of his sets? Damn! And did you hear that he made the voice actors for Fantastic Mr Fox record their lines in the middle of the woods? Damn! But also, it’s crazy how…

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Justen is an artist, animator, and writer. Their biggest dream is to create something that sucks so bad it pisses everyone off. Follow them at https://www.instagram.com/diejusten/

Interview with Kelvin Sng, Director of King of Hawkers

Fri, 15 Mar 2024 03:51:00 GMT

Interview with Kelvin Sng, Director of King of Hawkers

Film still from King of Hawkers (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

Even though Singapore’s hawker food is widely beloved and part of the quintessential local diet, no film has ever featured hawker culture centre stage until King of Hawkers, which was released in February 2024—six decades since pioneer hawkers cooked their way to our hearts.

Director Kelvin Sng said he was inspired to make the film after hawker culture was recognised by UNESCO as an intangible cultural heritage. Wanting to showcase this uniquely Singaporean cuisine to a global audience, Sng is looking to release the film outside Asia, after securing distribution partners in Malaysia and the Philippines.

“My motto is ‘stay local, go global’. I don't try too hard to create content that is not part of my growing up or my own experience,” he said, adding that his film should resonate with audiences abroad because of its relatable narrative.

“At the end of the day, we are telling a universal story about family, redemption and the human condition, just through the eyes of hawker culture,” he said.

The film follows Zhang Nala (Dawn Yeoh) as she returns to Singapore after a divorce to man her mother’s (Liu Ling Ling) failing bak chor mee stall. This draws the ire of some of her fellow hawkers, led by Liu Derong (Hugo Ng), a headstrong grandfather who sells Singapore’s best chilli crab. When an award-winning Hong Kong masterchef (Moses Cheng) challenges the hawker centre to a cooking duel, the competition descends into dirty tricks and backstabbing as the reputation of Singapore’s hawker food is threatened.

Film still from King of Hawkers (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

Sng dishes on the cast’s cooking skills and his food recommendations at Sims Vista Market and Food Centre, where the hawker scenes were shot.

There are so many hawker foods to choose from. Why feature bak chor mee instead of a dish that is more famous like chicken rice?

We shortlisted about 50 different hawker dishes from Singapore. For the final five that made it to the film (bak chor mee, chilli crab, satay, thosai and bak kut teh), we tried to go for a diverse but classic mix.

Chef John See, the film’s food director, said there was nothing much to film for chicken rice—just steam, chop and that’s it. You can't do stunts here and there, which was why I shortlisted bak chor mee. The dish was more appealing in terms of the ingredients and the way we could creatively match them with the female protagonist.

Film still from King of Hawkers (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

Did the cast members who played hawkers learn how to cook dishes for the film?

Yes, these actors went through training about two weeks before filming started. We did not get any hand model or substitute; all the cooking shots came from the cast.

Some of them got hurt during filming. Moses was cut badly by the crab while he was chopping it, but because I didn't say cut, he continued like he was the 厨神 (god of cookery). I really admire and salute these actors for their professionalism.

I also got to try Dawn’s bak chor mee and chilli crab from Hugo and Moses, which were very good. As they were trained and monitored by Chef John, the dishes couldn’t really go wrong. I got to eat bak chor mee so often because Dawn would always offer me until I got sick of it!

Based on recent reports of Mimi Chu wanting to retire, was it hard to convince her to be part of the film?

It wasn’t easy. We told her we only needed two days of her schedule and did not have to worry because most of the dialogue would be in Cantonese, which she is comfortable speaking. Her role also didn’t require her to have emotional outbursts; she just had to look stern all the time.

We told her that Hugo and other Hong Kong-based actors will be in the film as well, so it wouldn’t be a standalone appearance from her. These were the considerations that convinced her to come on board because she wasn't really keen initially.

Mimi Chu in King of Hawkers (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

The last time we see Liu Derong in the film is during the hospital scene. Does his story end there or were there scenes that did not make it to the final cut?

The original cut of the film was three and a half hours, which was a surprise to me because my script was only 126 pages. Initially, I tried to split the film into two parts but my producer said part one would be too slow since the story was not crafted as a two-parter.

So the final cut that you see is two hours. I received a lot of feedback like “what happened to Liu Derong? Why is there no closure? The hospital scene was so dramatic but in the end nothing happened, we felt cheated!”

We did shoot a scene to conclude Liu Derong’s storyline, but it was cut. It was an emotional scene and even the actors were asking me why, of all the scenes, I had to delete it. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been influenced by my editor who said this scene could be taken out.

At some point, probably next year, I will be releasing the three and a half hour director’s cut of the film, the way that it’s meant to be seen.

After filming at Sims Vista Market and Food Centre for three weeks, what are your dish recommendations for first-time visitors?

First off, I must say this hawker centre is a hidden gem. When I told others about this place, they were like “Geylang got hawker centre meh?” There’s a lot of good food there that only insiders know.

You must try the wonton mee which is very famous. Talking about it makes me hungry. Get your kopi from Heng Heng Coffee Stall. It was the only stall board that we did not remove for the movie. Their coffee is very special—a lot of patrons were angry with us because they could not drink Heng Heng’s coffee for three weeks and said it was torture. So these two are highly recommended!

King of Hawkers is now playing in cinemas.

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About the Author: Darryl obsesses over creative details in media, from films to brand campaigns. He writes about the local creative scene and makes art inspired by local news stories. These personal projects can be tiring at times, but they also make him feel truly alive.

Film Review #111: POOR THINGS

Fri, 15 Mar 2024 03:28:32 GMT

Film Review #111: POOR THINGS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from Poor Things

Director Yorgos Lanthimos ’ works are best described as an exploration of the dark side of human nature. If you are familiar with his past works like Lobster (2015) or The Killing of a Scared Deer (2017), you would expect nothing short of absurdity from his latest feature, Poor Things .

The film is a sexually liberating, ingenious cinematic feast featuring the best performance by Emma Stone yet. Receiving a total of 11 nominations for the Academy Awards, Poor Things set itself as the second-most nominated film this year behind Oppenheimer. Clinching Best Production Design, Best Costume Design, Best Makeup and Hairstyling, and of course Emma Stone won Best Actress for the 2024 Oscars. .

Film still from Poor Things

We follow Bella Baxter, played by Emma Stone, into this almost neo-surreal imaginative world where she is reborn with the mind of her unborn daughter — yes, you read that part right. Lanthimos brings us into this child-like state of discovering new things alongside Bella, just that the discoveries are just from the perspective of Bella. The incessant sex scenes of Bella, who has the mental capacity of a child to bear in mind, were very daring, to say the least. Though it’s been labelled as a sexual odyssey, the deeper issues addressed in the film captivated me deeper.

We explore humanity while living through the mind of a child but with the body of an adult. Having the contrast of a child-like adult navigating the world through suffering, fun, fear, sex, desire, and many more themes, it manages to bring out unique perspectives in the characters surrounding Bella. Poor Things tries to bring across this message of how a woman doesn't necessarily need a man to live their lives. Which, I think, was really beautifully captured.

We have so many different men who try to control Bella’s life. Be it Duncan, Godwin or Alfie, they were all trying to control Bella’s life trajectory. With Bella gaining full independence and a refined attitude after her journey of seeing the “outside” world, it was very refreshing to see how one’s attitude can change with a different perspective. And, I think Poor Things captured that flawlessly.

Film still from Poor Things

Poor Things reminded me of why I want to tell stories in the first place. To share your stories and leave an impact on others watching your film, I think that is the essence of filmmaking. The film left me reflecting on my own life and how I should try to view things from many different, yet new perspectives.

This quote, “If you can imagine it, you can achieve it”, by William Arthur Ward, summarises how I would describe this film. There is no ceiling to filmmaking, especially in terms of the production design and cinematography in Poor Things. We see over-saturated colours, film noir, ultra-wide fisheye shots, and futuristic vehicles all coming together like nerves in a functional brain. I admire Cinematographer Robbie Ryan for his eye for aesthetics and splendid execution in bringing the vision into a visual treat I experienced in the cinema.

Unfortunately, this disturbing yet brilliant film only had limited screenings at The Projector in Singapore. I do wish a lot more people would have a chance to see this film on the big screen. If you do have an opportunity to catch Poor Things , please do not miss it.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Ye Kai is a dedicated film geek who loves leaving the cinema with his feelings evoked. Apart from creating visuals as his day job, you can find him with his electric guitar, force reading literature and probably obsessing over cinematography.

Film Review #110: TÓTEM

Fri, 15 Mar 2024 03:17:18 GMT

Film Review #110: TÓTEM

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still of Tótem

How do we mourn for someone not yet gone - more so through the eyes of a child where death is incomprehensible?

Lila Avilés’ second feature Tótem (2023) is a soulful exploration of the longstanding subject of illness, as the prelude to death, and usherer of grief. Having premiered at the 73rd Berlin International Film Festival, Totem was streamed at the 2023 Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF).

Film still of Tótem

Centering around a family coming to terms with a relative’s terminal illness, Totem follows seven-year-old Sol (Naíma Sentíes) as she attends a birthday party for Tona (Mateo Garcia), her father, who is ailing from cancer. We witness the comings and goings of family members and friends as they convene at Sol’s grandfather’s house, amidst many moving parts, to throw a final hurrah for Tona.

Personally, I found the film’s suggestion of illness – as not simply an individual experience, but one that implicates other family members – extremely insightful. Illness not only assumes centrality within the family but subsumes the identities of those around them, of caretakers and loved ones. And yet, in the face of despair, I also appreciated how Tótem presents a latent optimism in its reassurance of love’s endurance.

While illness has long been sensationalised in media as dramatic and spectacular, in Tótem , Aviles instead invokes a more familiar and understated presentation, one that addresses more unseen nuances. The film presents the unspoken dilemma faced by those suffering from chronic illness: when illness takes on a communal nature, how does one navigate the distance between them and their loved ones?

On one hand, there is an obvious instinct for closeness and to cherish remaining time with one’s family. But on the other hand, there is instead a conscious effort to isolate from one’s family to reduce their emotional burden, but at the cost of alienating those around them.

Film still of Tótem

These complexities of negotiating one’s illness is extremely palpable in Mateo Garcia’s portrayal of Tona. The numerous moments of prolonged stillness and loneliness he experiences, is paralleled by Sol’s loneliness as well, perfectly capturing the double-bind of trying to reconcile this distance.

In a more positive light, Tótem also introduces the different ways love manifests, not only through the various family members’ acts of service, but also within objects. Tona’s illness becomes an opportunity for collective action, where each family member performs their love for Tona, whether explicitly or unspoken.

Film still of Tótem

Specifically, in an overlooked scene, Roberto, Tona’s father, gifts him a bonsai, which while peculiar given its eventual outliving of Tona, I found extremely powerful in its symbolism. Much like how Tona paints for Sol: “I painted this for you because, sometimes we can't always see the things we love the most, but they are there…”, objects become proxies for people to live on through. Rather than an object for Tona to own, the bonsai instead becomes an object for his memory and presence to live on through and be preserved in. For if Tona’s life cannot be preserved in his current body, then instead in the bonsai. Where Roberto’s love cannot be communicated verbally (after being rendered mute by his own cancer) – he will do so in action, in his commitment to taking care of the bonsai, and in this way, love endures even posthumously.

Film still of Tótem

Tótem is hence a film about family, about their idiosyncrasies, convictions and sacrifices, but most of all, about all the things we do for one another. No ostentatious gestures are produced by Tona’s family members, Tótem instead explores how there are no “wrong” ways to love, no certain way love should look like, only that it should be sincere.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Cheng Hao is a big fan of literature and gravitates towards stories from the margins. Admittedly, with his short attention span, he tends to watch more film summaries on Youtube than films themselves. Nevertheless he enjoys exploring film adaptations of novels and has a penchant for sci-fi.

Film Review #109: MEAN GIRLS

Mon, 11 Mar 2024 05:22:37 GMT

Film Review #109: MEAN GIRLS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from Mean Girls (2024)

When I think of the Y2K era, one of the first things that comes to mind is the various teen comedy and drama films, all chronicling the typical American high school experience. Some examples include Clueless (1995), Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (2004) and High School Musical (2006), but probably the most iconic of all when this genre is brought up is Mean Girls (2004). It’s a well-loved classic that retains its popularity and continues to constantly be quoted and referenced even two decades after its initial release, so I was caught off guard when I stumbled across a trailer for the remake of the film online.

In an age where many films are being remade to suit future generations, or in some instances, dare I say, as an opportunity to generate more revenue, I asked myself, “why was this necessary?”. That was when I took to the comments and learned that the remake was meant to be a musical adaptation, based on the Mean Girls Broadway musical, as many netizens were explaining to those who, like me, thought that the remake was essentially a replica of the original.

Film still from Mean Girls (2024)

Aside from the addition of musical numbers, Mean Girls (2024) features the exact same storyline as the original: Cady Heron (Angourie Rice) relocates to the United States to attend high school publicly after being home-schooled her entire life in Kenya, Africa. There, she befriends art kids slash outcasts Janis ‘Imi’ike (Auli’i Cravalho) and Damian Hubbard (Jaquel Spivey), but also catches the attention of the Plastics and its queen bee, Regina George (Reneé Rapp). Cady infiltrates the Plastics after being invited to join them, and soon discovers the ups and downs of being a part of the most popular clique in school.

I went into seeing the new Mean Girls thinking that I would simply be watching the exact same film from 2004, just produced on a higher budget and made especially catered to a generation hooked on social media. Now having watched it, I will say that while my initial views haven’t changed, the film was still generally a fun watch. One major takeaway for me was how visually striking many of the sets were for the musical numbers, from the beginning scene in which a duet in someone’s garage transports audiences to the African plains, to a sequence of a school hallway coated in bright colours with confetti blasting everywhere, which looks like something straight out of an Instagrammable photobooth. Performances-wise, Rice channelled the naïve and innocent Cady well, but the show was definitely stolen by both Rapp, who also portrayed her character on Broadway, and Cravalho, especially during scenes where they showcased their ability to belt out their respective powerhouse tunes.

Film still from Mean Girls (2024)

Where the Mean Girls remake falls flat though, comes from the overall film making a shift to be more family-friendly. In the original, no punches were pulled, signifying the brutality of high school dynamics and pitting young women against each other in the name of popularity. The remake tries to tone all of this down, from language to risqué jokes, possibly due to it being adapted from a Broadway musical. In return, however, the film’s core message gets affected. From the original rallying cry of stopping girls from slut-shaming others, the new version diminishes it to not calling someone stupid or fat, for it won’t make you any smarter or skinnier. This new takeaway felt slightly disappointing in comparison and came off more as a teaching point for a group of children instead of teenagers, not fetch at all if you ask me.

The new Mean Girls turns high school into an all-out song and dance party, but ultimately dials down on the nastiness when it comes to navigating through “girl world”, both in person and online. If this is to suggest that there’s been an improvement since 2004 in young women being less spiteful and more supportive towards one another, one is sorely mistaken, all you have to do is take a look at social media. That being said, if musicals are your cup of tea and you find yourself wanting to revisit another version of the classic teen comedy, then get in loser , it’s not too late to re-meet the Plastics.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #108: THE TENANTS

Mon, 11 Mar 2024 04:03:35 GMT

Film Review #108: THE TENANTS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still of The Tenants

With a cinematography and plotline that parallels that of David William’s Brazil (1985), Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite (2019) and Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis , The Tenants (2023) by Yoon Eunkyuong manages a brilliant reimagining of the ways in which dystopian worlds can be constructed through the sci-fi horror genre.

The film, which premiered at the 2024 Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF), illuminates socio-economic crises exacerbated during the pandemic and explores a dystopian world of housing crises, environmental degradation as well as pervasive capitalism.

Film still of The Tenants

Shin Dong, the film’s lead, receives a letter about his eviction from his apartment and, with his online friend’s advice, decides to put his room up for rent to evade eviction by his landlord. The offer is taken up swiftly by an eccentric newly-wed couple — a tall, suited-up imposing man and his comparatively tiny wife who stays smiling and mute for most of the movie. Though seemingly harmless, their strangeness soon pervades Shin Dong’s home and his personal life as they overstay their welcome.

The in-between spaces in The Tenants

The Tenants plays on levels just as Parasite does, featuring the isolated, desolate world of the attic, and the “real” world on the first floor where Shin Dong resides. Unlike Bong's Oscar-winning film however, Yoon is heavy-handed in her approach to the film’s generic forms and pushes its absurdism both visually and narratively. During the post-screening Q&A at the film’s premiere, the director stated that though the film was initially in colour, she felt that monochrome would shape the narrative better — and she is right.

By cleverly leaning into the deeply absurd world of The Tenants , Yoon blurs the hierarchy between the attic and the main floor as a metaphor for the illusion of ranks and progress in the corporate world. As the protagonist moves between and through spaces, the film makes it difficult to locate him within its surreal world, estranging both the audience and Shin Dong himself from the reality within The Tenants . The monochrome tones also further obscure the already surreal setting and perpetually elude the audience.

Film still of The Tenants

In fact, there are moments when this lack thereof in terms of visual locales and established sense of place in The Tenants filmic world feel dissatisfying for my comprehension of the story, yet it also enhances the non-space that Yoon has created. Rather than concretising a sense of here and now, the film thrives in its peculiar rejection of space and time, and instead embraces their abstraction — Shin Dong’s hallucinatory multi-leveled apartment being the source of the film’s absurdism.

It is this discomforting feeling of not truly knowing where one is — in Shin Dong’s room, his attic, or somewhere else entirely — that effuses a creeping sense of hopelessness.

Is there a paradise?

Shin Dong is depicted as a determined worker who strives to reach the elusive paradise (it is a vast, scenic beach that contrasts the grey concrete buildings in the city) but is entrapped by his monotonous corporate life.

Relating the film’s portrayal of the relentless corporate culture with Camusian absurdism, the absurd is knowing that we live in a perpetual cycle of rank chasing and will never quite reach that “paradise” we associate with higher status, wealth or power. This fight is irrational anyway, as paradise does not exist.

When reality finally settles in in the form of Shin Dong’s entrapment in the attic, he is awakened to the absurd. The girl that had once haunted him from above his ceiling is now sleeping soundly in his bed while Shin Dong stares down at her through the cracks, now cast as the stranger bunking in the attic. As opposed to the positive response that Camus proposes when facing the inevitably irrational and meaningless world, The Tenants offers a depressing conclusion that takes on a much grimmer view due to the prevalent socio-economic anxieties of today’s world.

Film still of The Tenants

In the final scenes, Shin Dong is given a choice. There are pills in the attic that upon consumption would allow him to continue living in his hallucinations — which he eventually succumbs to. He then awakens once again to find himself back in his own room and the cycle of self-delusion continues.

The film’s bleak outlook is what sets its depiction of the absurd apart from that of Camus’s comparatively optimistic interpretation of Sisyphus’s punishment by the gods. Condemned to push a boulder up a hill and have it fall again and again for eternity, Camus finds Sisyphus’s lucidity towards his outwardly meaningless punishment significant, and states that meaning for the condemned man lies in the tiny grains of sand on the hill.

In contrast, lucidity towards one’s meaningless pursuit for success in Yoon’s film does not seem viable for the Shin Dong, nor to the audience who reside in a parallel, capitalistic world. Plagued by a sense of necessary conformity to social structures enforced by capitalism, we too are caught in the in-between space of the Yoon’s attic, desiring escape from a system that entraps us with nowhere certain to go.

Hence, choosing to take the pills, Shin Dong resigns to the false escape from his bleak reality. One cannot imagine Shin Dong happy.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Hoiye loves people's ideas and their stories, and is still striving to uncover more and share them better. Film and literature are places where Hoiye seeks out these voices to explore more narratives from around the region. Outside Hoiye's air-conditioned cocoon with books and films, you can find Hoiye falling off plastic rocks and going on solo coffee dates.

Film Review #107: INSIDE THE YELLOW COCOON SHELL

Mon, 11 Mar 2024 02:49:23 GMT

Film Review #107: INSIDE THE YELLOW COCOON SHELL

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still of Inside The Yellow Cocoon Shell

To the general population, if you asked them what they think about ‘slow cinema’ most of them would probably say something along the lines of “boring”, “too artsy” or “hard to stay awake and hold my attention” but Pham Thien An’s directorial feature debut, Inside The Yellow Cocoon Shell , is anything but.

The film had its world premiere at the Directors’ Fortnight at the Cannes Film Festival and won the Camera d’Or which is awarded to the best first feature film. One interesting aspect to note is that it is a co-production between Vietnam, Singapore, France and Spain which seems to be the current trend of Singapore’s film industry, collaborating with other nations rather than purely producing films ourselves.

Were there some parts that I felt were too meandering? Were there parts where I was struggling to stay awake? Did I find Cocoon Shell to be very “inaccessible” to the general audience? Yes, yes and yes.But somehow, it still manages to captivate me throughout its unusually long runtime of 182 minutes.

As you can tell from my bipolar review, one can imagine how much I have been wrestling with myself to deem Cocoon Shell a masterpiece or not. With long takes that are quite reminiscent of Kaili Blues (2015) by Mainland Chinese filmmaker Bi Gan (another directorial debut effort), Pham holds the audience captive to the dialogue that is being spoken rather than the events unfolding on screen, enticing the viewer to lean into this world that he has created.

Film still of Inside The Yellow Cocoon Shell

Cocoon Shell also dives deep into the concept of spirituality which comes as no surprise as Pham is a devout Christian himself, exploring similar themes in his past short film, Stay Awake, Be Ready (2019). One criticism I hear often about Cocoon Shell is that it prioritises its spiritual themes and plots while foregoing the narrative or the characters. Although I can see where this is c oming from, I believe that the spiritual elements lend Cocoon Shell a very interesting “vibe”. It is rare to see a South-East Asian film evoke the Christian dogma so explicitly that I feel really made this film stand out from that of his counterparts.

Film still of Inside The Yellow Cocoon Shell

The long takes and meandering actions of the characters in Cocoon Shell create this spiritually meditative nature that entrances you and lulls you into the world that Pham created. An example would be a sequence that sees the protagonist riding a motorbike to visit a war veteran in real time. Another would be the protagonist waking up in the middle of a storm and absurdly deciding to walk in the rain, only to be greeted by butterflies on a tree at the end of his “journey”. However, I personally feel that the scenes might just be an indulgence to show off the technical flair on the part of Pham Thien An.

Overall, I would say I did not know what to expect going in (other than its awards buzz) but was pleasantly surprised by a film that is thematically intriguing combined with a director who is confident about his shots, opting to let things play out in almost single, static long takes. I would highly recommend anyone to watch it and form their own opinions. As for myself, I look forward to tracking this young director’s burgeoning career with a particular interest in what he might come up next.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #106: TIGER STRIPES

Mon, 11 Mar 2024 02:38:34 GMT

Film Review #106: TIGER STRIPES

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still of Tiger Stripes

Tiger Stripes is Malaysian director Amanda Nell Eu’s directorial debut that stars Zafreen Zairizal as Zaffan, an 11-year-old girl who experiences physical changes to her body resulting in supernatural occurrences happening around her. As her body undergoes its metamorphosis, she constantly struggles with her identity and place in society. It had its World Premiere at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival where it won the Critics’ Week Grand Prize.

What really stands out to me is how the film can be seen as an interesting exercise in genre blending. In the first half or so, it plays out like a teenage drama (minus the romantic subplots) touching on typical woes that teenagers face (e.g. fitting in, bullying, friendships etc.). But what makes Tiger Stripes stand out from its contemporaries is the way that it slowly devolves into sort of a supernatural horror/thriller without taking itself too seriously.

Film still of Tiger Stripes

Something I find interesting is how the film portrays the ‘supernatural’. To me, the supernatural beings seen in the film are very reminiscent of an Apichatpong Weerasethakul film à la Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives . The jungle setting, the supernatural beings lurking in the trees at night, the audience only able to see the glowing eyes of the ‘other’…are all distinct traits of Weerasethakul’s, and now Eu’s, cinema.

The ‘supernatural’ can be said to be the impulse and the sensibilities of South-East Asian cinema that Eu is tapping into, which I believe is no coincidence on her part, as she shared during her Q&A session during the Festival Opening of Tiger Stripes at the 2023 Singapore International Film Festival, “…it’s more special screening it in South-East Asia, I don’t know we just get it. I mean it’s the visual language that we know and maybe we don’t see it enough on the screen but we have heard of it and we know of beings that sit in trees or live in trees. We know of like people who turn into animals or animals who turn into people. This is all language that we are used to and it is not just Malaysian but all over South-East Asia we have this kind of shared folklore or shared oral story traditions…”

Tiger Stripes ultimately is a great look into the existence of “Gen Z” girls living their best lives which I feel Eu captures so tenderly. The girls record each other dancing to music, gossiping with each other, having their own ‘hazing’ rituals… all of the things which bring me back to my days in secondary school even though I come from an all-boys school and I love it for that. As Eu puts it, “the film has very universal themes [and] that was always my intention to… you know everyone somehow felt like an outsider someway or maybe had expectations that society somehow pressured them to kind of fit into and I think that is very universal everywhere…”

Film still of Tiger Stripes

However, that being said, a teenage drama meshing together with supernatural horror elements does not quite work for me. The film tries to deliver on both fronts but sadly falls a bit short on either side. I would have appreciated it more if the film delved into the supernatural themes more in the first half to prime us for the eventual transformation of Zaffran and the story’s climax that happens in the second. Overall, it is a great effort by Eu on her directorial debut and I will definitely give Tiger Stripes another try when given the chance to watch it again.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #105: Maestro

Mon, 04 Mar 2024 15:03:09 GMT

Film Review #105: Maestro

Maestro: A lovingly constructed symphony that fails to strike a chord

Image Courtesy of Jason McDonald (Netflix)

In the past couple of years, biopics have saturated both the silver screen and the motion pictures award nomination lists. They grow in popularity as audiences demand a peek behind the curtain of fame that is just as much about their genius and passion, along with the person themselves. Rocketman (2019) was a riotous, unapologetic banger bringing us into the life and times of revered pop singer Elton John (Taron Egerton). I, Tonya (2017) pitted the talented yet tormented Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie) against her mother, her ex-husband and figure skating rival Nancy Kerrigan (Caitlin Carver) in a dark, devilishly hilarious film. More recently, Oppenheimer (2023), drew acclaim from both crowds and critics, featuring the haunted, tortured genius of the titular theoretical physicist (Cillian Murphy), who rose to prominence as “death, destroyer of worlds” following his invention of the atomic bomb.

People naturally yearn to understand public figures: their drive, talents, and personal struggles, as well as the relationships that shape them. Despite social media offering glimpses into their lives, we still crave more, seeking vulnerability and authenticity behind their curated personas. This innate curiosity drives us to explore every avenue, from books to tabloids, in search of the person behind the celebrity.

Walking the well-trodden path of the biopics that came before, Maestro gives the audience a glimpse of the man behind the music. Spanning from the 40s to the current epoch, the film details how Leonard Bernstein (Bradley Cooper), a renowned composer and conductor, rose from being a relatively unknown figure in the industry to a much-coveted luminary in music and one of the most famous conductors in the 20th century. Behind this glittering curtain, however, the film focuses on his lesser-known personal struggles. The once-loving relationship between Bernstein and his wife, actress Felicia Montealegre, bends and breaks through the years as his continued affairs with his mistresses and his alcohol and substance abuse wreak havoc through their marriage.

These were elements of his life that were not publicly disclosed — and would taint Bernstein’s reputation were it to be widely publicised in his lifetime.

Besides Bernstein’s achievements, Maestro is equally about the three driving presence in his life — his wife, Felicia; his foresight, so far ahead of its time that it finds itself isolated in the present; and his greatest passion, music. Although actual shots of Bernstein conducting, composing and playing music are few and far between, the soundtrack - a curation of both Bernstein’s own compositions and other pieces of classical music - adds to the rich soundscape of the film. From soaring, grand symphonies to quiet yet no less emotive piano solos, the score is atmospheric, electrifying, emotionally raw — a perfect reflection of the musician. If you were to summarise Bernstein in a single scene, look no further than the extended sequence closing the film.

Underneath the Romanesque spires of the Ely Cathedral, Bernstein begins to conduct Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 “Resurrection”. Bernstein’s movements are languid, almost relaxed — a master warming up in the opening strains of the symphony — and end with him so fully immersed in the symphony that he becomes the music. His energy is frenetic as the symphony reaches its crescendo, yet he does not waver throughout the sequence; Bernstein conducts with a smile on his face and pours his entirety into the performance. As the camera seamlessly tracks around him, it would not be difficult to believe that Bernstein was touched by something divine; so great was his fervour and passion that he seems ineffably bewitched.

Although director Bradley Cooper rarely strays from the linear narrative of a biopic, the film’s stylistic fabric is crackling and dynamic, mirroring Bernstein’s essence and energy. Cinematographer Matthew Libatique helps to visually capture the rich subject matter of the film with a careful hand that doesn’t overwhelm, seamlessly switching between shooting in boxy, black-and-white that captures the bustling, restless energy of the 40s and 50s and lush, rich full colour that brings the vibrant culture of the 60s and 70s to life. Maestro ’s imagery is a particular standout — an unbroken shot of a younger Leonard Bernstein rushing out of a room and into the New York Philharmonic’s David Geffen Hall; a brief yet tender quiet moment with Bernstein and his lover, clarinettist David Oppenheim; a long shot of Felicia Montealegre walking up to the fateful party where she and Bernstein first meet, sparkling with a quiet hope. These moments, so fleeting yet so pivotal to our understanding of Bernstein’s character, all create a beautifully-crafted mosaic of Leonard Bernstein’s life — his achievements as a musician, devastating domestic disagreements and tender moments spent with his loved ones.

Cooper’s characterisation of Leonard Bernstein is commendable, capturing fleeting yet endearing moments of Bernstein's magnetism and vulnerability. At times, it seems like he is part himself, part Bernstein. Cooper portrays the great man with a gusto and flair that mirrors the restless spirit Bernstein possessed, pouring his heart and soul into his work.

However, the narrative skirts the edges of his psyche without truly immersing itself in it, despite its best efforts to truly understand Bernstein. The film tantalises the audience with glimpses of the inner turmoil and passion in his life and through the people he loved — Felicia and his other mistresses — yet, it shies away from comprehensively examining his internal conflicts, leaving a lingering sense of unexplored depth.

Image Courtesy of Jason McDonald (Netflix)

Moreover, Maestro stumbles in its portrayal of Leonard Bernstein’s relationships, particularly with himself and those closest to him. While the film hints at the tumultuous interplay between Bernstein's relentless pursuit of perfection and his personal connections, these dynamics remain largely underdeveloped. The emotional resonance that could have arisen from an in-depth exploration of his inner struggles and the impact on his relationships remains disappointingly elusive.

Admittedly, Maestro stands as a testament to Bradley Cooper's directorial finesse and Leonard Bernstein’s enduring legacy as one of the greatest composers of his era. However, the film falls short of understanding the depths of Bernstein and Felicia’s characters. The film is a well-meaning symphony that attempts to resonate on multiple levels but unfortunately emerges as staggeringly one-dimensional in certain respects. Instead of offering a comprehensive portrayal of Bernstein and, to a lesser degree, Felicia, the film merely provides glimpses of their inner lives to the audience; providing lushly constructed scenes of their complicated characters yet not making a concerted effort to delve further into their psyche. What remains is a frustratingly incomplete film.

For all its attempts, Maestro left much to be desired, reducing a brilliant, multifaceted man to a hull of his true self.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #104: OVERSTEER

Sun, 03 Mar 2024 07:13:16 GMT

Film Review #104: Oversteer

Oversteer : Accelerating Into Another First In Singapore Cinema

Released at the end of January 2024, Oversteer , dubbed Singapore’s “first car-racing” movie, is the latest film by local director, Derrick Lui. The 48-year-old Creative Director at Vogue Films, has produced and directed a number of films, notably 1400 (2015), before embarking on this ambitious project.

Inspired by a true story, Oversteer centers around Fung (Aden Tan) - a car enthusiast from a very young age - as he pursues his dreams of opening up a mechanic workshop despite his father’s disapproval. Fung leaves his house following an argument with his father and sets out to bring his passion to reality. Not long after, the looming debts of a new workshop pressures Fung into dabbling in street racing for fast cash.

Themes of love, friendship and family outline the story, much like the Hollywood’s Fast & Furious franchise. Though one might expect the racing aspect of it to be similar too, Oversteer focuses more on the main protagonist as he overcomes financial tribulations, betrayals and familial acceptance together with his love interest, Yu (Janassa Neo) and his best friend, Foo (Hanrey Low).

The cinematography of the skyscrapers and landscapes of Malaysia, where the story takes place, is impressive to say the least, and the racing scenes set in the backdrop of Malaysia’s busy highway were a treat to the audience. Appearances by some of the professional Malaysian racers and drift masters such as Drift Princess Ashley Wong and former Team Petronas racer Farique Hairuman also make the racing scenes realistic and gripping.

While the storyline is linear for the most part, the transitions between the different milestones in the protagonist’s life could have been more fleshed out if there was more focus on the characters and their relationships, and though this might have been to keep to the 86 minute runtime, it allowed the film to feel compact and fast, just as a racing movie should.

The making of Oversteer , which took 10 years, has a slew of its own challenges.Lui opened up about financing it with his own savings, which almost halted the production of the movie, after finding it difficult to find sufficient fundings and international collaborators. His run-ins with Malaysian police while filming and multiple rewrites of the script had also been the highlight of his personal struggles with trying to keep the wheels turning, no pun intended.

If any cognisance is to be taken of the experience, it would be Lui’s own determination, paralleling the character, Fung, to see his ambitions through. At one of the screenings at Golden Village Yishun, Lui enthusiastically made a brief appearance to share his sentiment, “I hope that people can see that Singapore is able to produce these kinds of action movies and it can only be done so with all of your support by turning up”. It indeed seems like this is just the beginning of many action films by Derrick Lui.

Oversteer continues its theatrical run on 3rd and 10th March 2024. Get your tickets on GV website now: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2145#/movie/2145

SFS Members are entitled to a $2 discount with the exclusive promo code. Email us at info@singaporefilmsociety.com if you have not received yours yet.

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About the Author: Nora is an aspiring filmmaker with a deep passion for storytelling through the lens of horror. When she's not behind the camera, you'll often find her engrossed in books that fuel her imagination, or eagerly watching the latest spine-chilling films. Whether crafting eerie narratives or devouring tales of terror, she's constantly inspired by the macabre and the art of cinematic storytelling.

Film Review #103: OVERSTEER

Sat, 02 Mar 2024 06:05:19 GMT

Film Review #103: Oversteer

Oversteer : Revving Up the Indie Racing Scene with Heart and Horsepower

Oversteer is not the high-octane Fast and Furious or Top Gear of motor racing films and series, and it may be an ambitious genre film to undertake on a shoestring budget. With dimly shot night scenes, generous use of steady cameras and close-range camera work, Oversteer has an indie film look rather than the style, flair, scale and glamour associated with high-production race films. But director, producer, and writer Derrick Lui manages to keep his audience engaged for the entire 86 minutes of his film. Its tight storyline, reasonably strong performance, relatable characters, and some authentic racing moments will not leave you disappointed.

The narrative entwines Fung (Aden Tan) and his vehicular passion, nurtured by his father (Zhang Yaodong), into a heartfelt coming-of-age journey. Fung's refusal to join the family business, opting instead for a hands-on life at a mechanic shop with his friend Foo (Hanrey Low), sets the stage for a tale of personal discovery and racing prowess. The film then progresses through a series of well-executed racing scenarios, despite the limited budget. Day and night scenes, city centre and borders settings, straight roads and curving hills create pure cinematic moments of speed, action, roaring engines and screeching tires. The fast-paced editing also transmit the "out-of-control" energy of racing.

As Fung expresses in an internal monologue, referring to his on-and-off track journey, sometimes it takes "oversteering" to be able to find oneself. The presence of race cars such as the Nissan Silvia (S13), the Audi R8, the Lotus Exige S, the Porsche 911 (997), and two well-known racers - Drift Princess Ashley Wong and Fariqe Hairuman - add to the pleasures for car enthusiasts.

The film also explores the theme of taking risks for personal dreams versus surviving via conventional tracks, such as the somewhat startling but humorously rendered song piece by Fung’s eccentric boss who croons about his lost dream to be a K-pop singer, before lending money to Fung and Foo. Another isolated, and potentially out of context, action scene between Fung's sister (Grace Teo) and two boys, however lands, due to its impressive choreography that shows off the stunt actresses’ skills. Brief romantic scenes, such as the one between Fung and his wife Yun (Janassa Neo) in their little flat shot in low-key lighting and tight frames, lucidly depict the couple’s penury and intimacy in equal measure. At the same time, repeated transitions between overview shots of the gleaming megacity and typical back alleys where the majority of the scenes take place around the car repair shop draw the audience's attention to the nuts and bolts and everyday hardships that underpin a city's modern life and facades. Although Oversteer might not possess the breath-taking cinematography and visuals of Hollywood race films, its strength lies in portraying the mundane to offer the genre a fresh look.

*[SPOILERS AHEAD IN THE NEXT PARAGRAPH. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.*

Aden Tan's performance merits special recognition. Tan plays the lead character Fung, who is a devoted friend, an enthusiastic racer, and a caring partner, but he is also vulnerable to life's challenges. Displaying a composed demeanour that is complemented by his friend's over-the-top personality, he has us rooting for him throughout, especially when he breaks down after realising that Foo has gambled away the shop's money. As Fung collapses next to his car, literally and symbolically attempting to unsuccessfully modify the capacity to "oversteer" but instead destroying the car, the protagonist's breaking point at the end of a prolonged period of resolve is palpable and heart-breaking. This is felt in no less measure due to Tan’s sensitive and powerful display of raw emotions, a remarkable feat for a young actor. Overall, character development shines, particularly with Fung's multifaceted journey. That being said, more depth into the supporting characters and their motivations would have enriched the narrative further.

In closing, Oversteer drives its narrative with heart and authenticity. Its indie lens offers a fresh perspective on the racing genre, albeit with a few bumps along the way. Oversteer might not race with the high-budget giants, but it carves its niche, promising an engaging journey that resonates—making us keen to see what Derrick Lui and his crew will do next.

Oversteer continues its theatrical run on 3rd and 10th March 2024. Get your tickets on GV website now: https://www.gv.com.sg/GVMovieDetails?movie=2145#/movie/2145

SFS Members are entitled to a $2 discount with the exclusive promo code. Email us at info@singaporefilmsociety.com if you have not received yours yet.

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About the Author: Ipsita Sahu is pursuing her doctoral in Cinema Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her thesis titled Arrival of Television in India: A Media Archaeological Study explores the changing audio-visual context of 1970s India, linked to the entry of television. Sahu's work on single-screen theatre is published in the BioScope journal.

Film Review #102: OLD FOX《老狐狸》

Fri, 23 Feb 2024 08:30:23 GMT

Film Review #102: OLD FOX《老狐狸》

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Winning four Golden Horse Awards, including Best Director and Best Supporting Actor, at last year's ceremony, Old Fox (老狐狸) is a Taiwanese film I initially did not expect would come to Singapore.

Movie poster of Old Fox. (screengrab from Golden Village website)

Credit: Sky Films Entertainment

In what is now supposed to be the last film which the great master Hou Hsiao-hsien served as one of the producers following the announcement of his retirement due to declining health, Old Fox tells the story of the Liao father-and-son duo who struggle to make ends meet as they both dream of buying their own apartment and opening a hair salon one day.

The end of the 1980s, transitioning to the 1990s, was a particularly challenging period in Taiwanese history. Other than the high inflation and stock market volatility depicted in the movie, Taiwan had also just ended martial law in 1987, lost their well-respected president Chiang Ching-kuo a year after, and began to endure the extremely gray and long-lasting regional political climate as a result of the Tiananmen Square incident in Mainland China. The turn for a more democratizing Taiwan also brought about increased economic competitiveness, a phenomenon which drove different characters in the film to resort to alternative measures in order to keep afloat, such as moonlighting and investing in stocks.

Still of Liu Kuan-ting (left) and Eugenie Liu in Old Fox

Credits: BIT Production Co., Sky Films Entertainment

Bluntly speaking, the main message of the film, however well-conveyed by the end of it, need not rely so heavily on the specific historical context in which the film is set. This is especially true as the last scene of the film came on. Without spoiling it, the film’s last scene practically provided the ending of the story so clearly and idiot-proof that some audiences may not appreciate it. Personally, I felt the writers could trust more confidently that their story and its message can land as effectively without the need for a last scene like that in the film. I finished the film with the impression that the last scene was specifically curated to serve as a time juxtaposition to the rest of the film, and hence felt it was unnecessary.

Still of Kadowaki Mugi in Old Fox

Credits: BIT Production Co., Sky Films Entertainment

While we are still on the script, Old Fox also fumbles a little with the side story of Liao Tai-lai’s romantic past. Apart from explaining certain music choices in the film, Tai-lai’s reconnection with his high school sweetheart served little purpose for the narrative and could have otherwise made the film slightly more bladder-friendly. The character Yang Jun-mei (also known as “Mrs. Hua” in the film), played by Kadowaki Mugi, did however contribute to a pivotal montage in the film, bringing the story from its second act to the last in a key moment of revelations. I find this montage well-edited but it is the music in this montage that stands out the most: Chris Hou, the film’s composer, won one of the film’s four Golden Horse Awards last November with his whimsical and melancholic score for this film.

Still of Bai Runyin (left) and Akio Chen in Old Fox

Credits: BIT Production Co., Sky Films Entertainment

As a sucker for great performances, and who recently grew to appreciate outstanding child performances more, Old Fox’s main character - Liao Jie, played by one of Taiwan’s most sought-after child actors today, Bai Runyin, showcased Bai’s talent and potential extensively. Liao Jie is, in my view, one of the most complex, layered and challenging youth characters in film (of any language) in recent years. Bai, who is no newcomer by now, leveraged on his adorable appearance and endearing demeanor to bring to life this kid who longs for a better life, but who is shown many questionable and even downright unbecoming ways of attaining it. Bai’s Liao Jie is a character whose journey is evidently more mature and morally dark for a child his age. It is perhaps precisely this intricacy that divides audiences - on one hand, some might condemn the negative portrayal of what the world imparts and how it influences a child’s ethics, and on the other hand, some others might applaud the daring characterization and screenplay. In any case, personally, I look forward to future projects of Bai Runyin. And as for Akio Chen’s titular “Old Fox” Mr. Xie, he is arguably the character that left the deepest impression on me in all of 2023’s Chinese-language movies, and that is largely attributed to Chen’s masterful performance, which earned him the Best Supporting Actor Golden Horse Award in 2023.

If directing is the conduit of all creative aspects in filmmaking, then Hsiao Ya-Chuan truly delivered the best outcome for this film. Hsiao assembled and coordinated some of 2023’s best cinematography, editing, production design work and acting performances among Chinese-language movies. I would have submitted this film as Taiwan’s official entry to the 96th Oscars’ Best International Feature category.

Apart from its imperfect screenplay, Old Fox is overall a timely work of art and social commentary which explores the human psychology of one-upmanship versus compassion and empathy, in a time where scams and fraud plague the modern world.

Old Fox earns four stars on my Letterboxd. Catch it at The Projector before it ends its run in Singapore!

第60届金马奖的大赢家是台湾电影《老狐狸》，勇夺四座金马奖，其中包括最佳导演及最佳男配角。这是一部我原先没预料到会在新加坡上映的台湾华语电影。

《老狐狸》的监制之一是侯孝贤大师，这也是他因病退休前的最后一部电影。

本片讲述在 1989 年，经济不稳定的台湾，廖泰来（刘冠廷饰）与独子廖界（白润音饰）谋生的故事。廖父子梦想能买下自己的房子并开一间理发店，但省吃俭用的他们却因为通货膨胀而离梦想越来越远。他们的房东谢老板（陈慕义饰），人称 “老狐狸”，机缘巧合遇见廖界。两人结交后，老狐狸与廖界分享自己如何 “断绝同情” 使自己成功。

这部电影的时代背景与氛围刻画得栩栩如生。八十年代末至九十年代初是台湾现代史非常重要的一部分。除了片中可见的通货膨胀、股票与经济的不稳定以外，台湾在 1987 年刚解严，众人敬仰的前总统蒋经国又在一年后逝世，而 1989 年的六四事件掀开了至今仍乌云笼罩的两岸政治景象。这个大环境使台湾的求生欲更强，竞争激烈的社会导致不同人想方设法让自己立足。这也是为什么片中有些角色会透过别的管道赚钱，例如卖面的李家玩股票等等。

电影的寓意固然深远且有深度，但尾声的最后一幕也许太过直白，甚至还有点多余。倘若编导对自己的故事与电影的呈现方式有足够的信心，这最后一幕应该可以省略掉。在我看来，这最后一幕有点刻意为了和电影主轴的时代背景形成对比而拍。

其次，廖泰来的感情线也是剧本欠佳的另一个地方。《老狐狸》片中某些令人如痴如醉的经典曲子出自于廖泰来与青梅竹马杨君眉的爱情故事，这条感情线却在故事中并没有多大的意义。不过，杨君眉本身在片中后半有一场戏，是重要的一环。这一幕在三个不同的故事线之间来回切转，是电影里剪辑较为突出的转折点之一。除了剪辑，这场戏的配乐给人的印象更深刻，侯志坚丰富多彩又有几分伤感的配乐也为他夺下他演艺事业的第一座金马奖。

《老狐狸》最成功的地方无疑是演员们精湛的演出。台湾现今炙手可热的童星之一 - 白润音，挑起大梁担任本片主角，充分展现演技，前途不可估量。廖界这个角色是近年来最有意思，最具挑战性，层次又鲜明的孩童电影角色之一。白润音透过自己可爱的外表及讨喜的形象将一个渴望美好未来的男孩诠释得相当细腻。面对现实的残酷、外界的险恶，廖界在片中的成长扑朔迷离，而白润音有着超龄的过人表现。早在几年前的《亲爱的房客》里崭露头角的白润音如今已不是新人，大家应该期待他未来更优异的作品。至于金马男配角得主陈慕义，他的演出更是毋庸置疑，而 “老狐狸” 谢老板这个角色也是 2023 年华语电影中令我印象最深刻的角色。

萧雅全导演得奖实至名归。除了演员们的精彩演出，《老狐狸》在各个技术层面都非常亮眼。不论是摄影、剪辑、美术与造型设计等，萧雅全拍出了 2023 年最好的台湾电影之一。从客观的角度来看，《老狐狸》才应该是代表台湾角逐本届奥斯卡金像奖最佳国际影片殊荣的台湾电影。

这部电影的美中不足即是它的剧本。拍得那么好却无缘金马最佳原著剧本及最佳剧情片，可想而知这是多么可惜。不过，《老狐狸》仍是一部发人省思的好作品。在这充满诈骗的网路世代，这部电影透过对人心的挖掘，探讨人是如何看待个人利益，又是如何在自私与同理心之间徘徊取舍。我给《老狐狸》在 Letterboxd 打四颗星。

《老狐狸》现已在 The Projector 上映。

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Jarrett is a devoted cinephile for over half of his life. Apart from movies, coffee keeps him awake and music keeps him alive. Having studied theatre and performed as an actor before, he's also a sucker for great performances.

Follow Jarrett on Letterboxd: https://boxd.it/2JImT

Film Review #99: THREE COLOURS TRILOGY

Thu, 22 Feb 2024 04:40:58 GMT

Film Review #99: THREE COLOURS TRILOGY

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

A Tapestry of Ideals: Exploring Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity through Kieślowski's Three Colors Trilogy

The colours blue, white and red flock together to proclaim the bold and perennial values of the French Republic. Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. Having allegorised the Ten Commandments in a series of short films known as Dekalog, Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieślowski is no stranger to producing anthological films. His parting gift, however, would cement his legacy as one of Europe’s most influential directors - The Three Colors Trilogy.

Blue (1993), White (1994), and Red (1994) - This trio of psychological dramas mirror the ideals of the French Republic, and are arranged in the flag’s hoist-to-fly order. Each feature’s core is centred around the respective theme they undertake, and when viewed collectively, provoke and answer some of our greatest moral and existential questions. Blue tackles liberty, White explores equality, and Red navigates fraternity.

Poster of the Three Colors Trilogy. Image Courtesy of the British Film Institute.

Blue (1993) delves into a universal feeling that anyone who has experienced a profound attachment will experience - Grief. A Parisian woman isolates herself from society after losing her family in a tragic car crash. This narrative poignantly captures the essence of freedom born from loss, portraying the profound emptiness and the "unwanted liberty" that accompanies the death of loved ones.

Film still of Juliette Binoche in Three Colors: Blue. Image Courtesy of The Cinephile Fix

White (1994) addresses equality with a clever narrative of vengeance and reconciliation weaved into an ingenious story that levels the playing field between its two protagonists. A Polish man meticulously orchestrates an intricate revenge plan against his French wife who abandoned him and seized all of his financial assets. This black comedy oscillates between wit and satire across scenes, showcasing the man’s ever-increasing determination to get back at his wife - and drag her down to the lower echelons of society where she abandoned him.

Film still from Three Colors: White. Image Courtesy of the Film Obsessive

Red (1994), the most critically acclaimed of the triad, embodies the ideal of fraternity. The film traces the journey of a model and a retired judge as they form an unlikely friendship, enforcing the notion of humans being social creatures. The film's portrayal of chance encounters and the warmth of companionship highlights this intrinsic social nature of humanity. In addition, the colour red is utilised in a way that no other piece of media has presented it before, illuminating the film with its iconic luscious and lush appearance.

Film still of Irene Jacob in Three Colors: Red. Image Courtesy of FILMGRAB

Despite boasting wholly different stories, the films share a common thread through various motifs. Each protagonist is connected to the past through material objects, a lamp of blue beads in Blue (1993), a plaster bust of Marianne in White (1994), and a fountain pen in Red (1994). These objects reappear at crucial moments to reinforce the ideals of the French Republic, as well as underscore their underlying differences. An old lady attempting to discard a bottle in a bin makes an appearance throughout the trilogy as well. In Blue (1993), the protagonist does not even notice the lady. In White (1994), the protagonist scoffs at her unsuccessful attempts. In Red (1994), the woman is finally assisted by the protagonist, concluding this side story that has explored the characters’ different responses to the lady’s plight. Finally, all of the characters make an appearance together at the end of Red (1994), closing the curtain on the trilogy with a cheeky nod to the previous two films. These elements, along with a cameo that unites the characters in "Red," underscore the trilogy's cohesive exploration of human values.

Watching the trilogy was a huge breath of fresh air for me, and my constant re-visits to this triad of films impresses me each time. Instead of enveloping the films with a collective, over-arching theme, each film explores a different ideal which allows for a refreshing viewing experience when moving on to the next movie in the series.

For Black Mirror fans out there, this trilogy will no doubt entrance you with its anthological stories that are equally captivating and profound. Ultimatewly, the Three Colors Trilogy is a masterful cinematic exploration of liberty, equality, and fraternity. Its stunning visuals, intricate storytelling, and powerful performances make it a must-watch for cinephiles (and the Letterboxd community). Kieślowski's work is a kindred spirit to the viewer: subtle, yet profoundly impactful, leaving a lasting whisper of its themes in the hearts of its audience.

Film collage of the Three Colors Trilogy. Image Courtesy of The Playlist

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: A devoted cinephile since young, Terry’s love for cinema stretches beyond the silver screen. Apart from obsessing over his favourite films and rewatching La La Land for the 50th time, his other interests include martial arts, learning new languages, and reading manga.

Film Review #101: ONLY THE RIVER FLOWS

Wed, 21 Feb 2024 11:02:46 GMT

Film Review #101: ONLY THE RIVER FLOWS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

I have a habit of refusing to search up synopses of movies I intend on watching, and resisting all related content on social media including trailers, audience reviews, clips, etc. I have come to enjoy going into a theatre having only a mere idea of whatever will be screened. It's a process of discovery — good or bad.

With that same approach, I walked into the screening of Only the River Flows by Chinese filmmaker Wei Shujun without knowing much about it, except that the poster, clearly inspired by Edvard Munch’s The Scream, looked cool and that the main character resembled renowned Hong Kong actor Tony Leung. In a line, the film is a commendable cinematic neo-noir mystery crime-thriller that falls under the genre of arthouse cinema. And in another line, the film is everything all at once — or at least it tries to be.

There is much to unpack in the mystery that unfolds. Set in the remote Banpo Town in rural China, 1990, the film begins as a solid crime-thriller plot which follows Ma Zhe, Chief of the Criminal Police, as he investigates the murder of an elderly woman by the river. All evidence seems to point to a clear culprit and an arrest is swiftly made.

However, Ma Zhe is disturbed by this easy conclusion and believes the real murderer is still on the loose — and this is where the plot begins to diverge. Shifting away from the murder investigation, the film explores the lives of the town’s people, revealing dark secrets and inconsistencies that further complicate the already closed investigation.

Film still of Only The River Flows

Midway through the film, it turns into an exploration of the main character’s psyche as he spirals into near madness from the failed investigation. This particular twist in the plot is conveyed through surreal, at times comedic dream sequences which reveal Ma Zhe’s faltering mental state as he chases dead ends and the truth perpetually eludes him.

As a sucker for weird, surrealist or abstract story-telling techniques in film and prose, it pains me to say that the way Only the River Flows executes it feels lacking. There is a frivolous playing up of the arthouse element in the film, particularly in its depiction of Ma Zhe’s nightmares. Certainly, the dream sequence makes for a unique stylistic choice that differentiates the film from other more conventional crime-thrillers but it does not add to the story, and ends up detracting from the suspense necessary to anchor it in its filmic genre.

Genre-bending, merging, breaking, are of course common in many cinematic works but it can crumble when the film doesn't quite know where it wants to stand. That is the main glaring flaw in Wei’s film.

Film still of Only The River Flows

Further, the occasional easter eggs scattered throughout the film to add mystery and intrigue are often unexplored or lack significance to tie their relevance to the story. Instead, I was left with more questions that the film never quite answers.

If you are going in expecting a suspenseful crime-thriller with a predictable arc, Only the River Flows will only edge you — despite my criticisms, I do think Wei does that well — and then utterly confuse you. It’s up to you to decide if that confusion is a worthy contribution to the film’s mystery.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Hoiye love s people's ideas and their stories, and is still striving to uncover more and share them better. Film and literature are places where Hoiye seek s out these voices to explore more narratives from around the region. Outside Hoiye's air-conditioned cocoon with books and films, you can find Hoiye falling off plastic rocks and going on solo coffee date.

Film Review #98: THE BOY AND THE HERON

Wed, 21 Feb 2024 10:42:38 GMT

Film Review #98: THE BOY AND THE HERON

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Nature's Palette: The Evocative Journey of Grief and Healing in Hayao Miyazaki’s 'The Boy And The Heron’ (2023)

The recipient of a Golden Globe Award this year, acclaimed Japanese auteur Hayao Miyazaki’s The Boy And The Heron (2023) explores poignant themes of loss, grief, and healing through the eyes of a young village boy, Mahito.

Mahito odysseys on a magical voyage into the spirit realm through a mysterious village tower after losing his mother, meeting bizarre characters in even more bizarre lands. Amidst the chaos and allure of Miyazaki’s signature delicately hand-drawn landscapes, nature and its symbols such as fire and water take centrestage in communicating the film’s thematic concerns.

Fire, initially embodying loss, war, and violence, undergoes a transformation to symbolize life and protection as Mahito's journey progresses. This evolution mirrors Mahito's shifting perception of his mother's demise. Unlike Miyazaki's previous works, where fire often signifies destruction, in The Boy And The Heron (2023), it becomes a nuanced symbol of both devastation and regeneration. The early scenes of chaos in Mahito’s village, sparked by a firebombing, pivot quickly to focus on Mahito's personal tragedy—the loss of his mother to the flames.

The blocking of Mahito in the centre of the frame and the colour of his clothes draw focus onto Mahito instead of the burning village. The sound design also focuses on Mahito’s breathing as he runs towards Himi. This immediately conveys that this tragedy at the hands of fire is personal to Mahito. This portrayal diverges from the broader societal impact of war seen in Miyazaki’s films like Howl's Moving Castle (2004), instead offering a more intimate exploration of fire's dual nature. In previous films, war is seen less as a personal tragedy and more as a social evil that brings widespread demolition to innocents. Fire is often shown as being a destructive force, burning anything and everything in its path, and the sounds of burning, bombs and war are also more explosive. In contrast, in The Boy and The Heron (2023), the tragic scene of Mahito’s mother being burnt alive is strangely depicted more peacefully. She merely looks like she is becoming one with the fire, without resistance.

As Mahito discovers a pyrokinetic younger version of his mother in the spirit realm, fire's role as a harbinger of life and a protector is revealed, aiding the rebirth of souls and eventually providing Mahito with closure.

Here, fire is a life-enabling source, a beacon of hope that allows the Warawara to continue their journey to rebirth. Himi’s life has come full circle, with fire being familiar rather than antagonistic to her throughout her life. What once was a painful reminder of death and loss for Mahito, now stood as a symbol of protection and life. As the meaning of fire changes, it becomes apparent that it is not an antagonistic force, but merely executing a necessary part of the cycle of life.

Film still of Mahito and Himi from The Boy And The Heron. Credit: IMDb photo gallery.

Film still of Mahito observing Himi use her powers in the world of the tower from The Boy And The Heron.

Credit: IMDb photo gallery.

Water, on the other hand, symbolizes loss and healing, presenting life and death as intertwined realities. Mahito's interactions with water—whether attempting to catch a grey heron or experiencing illusions of his deceased mother—underscore the film's contemplation on the fragility and cyclic nature of existence. Water's transformative presence in the film, from a symbol of drowning and despair to one of clarity and renewal, reflects Mahito's inner journey from mourning to acceptance. This is a poignant, brutal, reminder of the fragility of life and the arbitrary nature of death,

Film still of the Heron’s cruel illusion of Himi from The Boy And The Heron. Credit: IMDb photo gallery.

manifesting the film's theme of untimely and shattering loss. This way, water weaves in the melancholy tones of Mahito’s loss in the film’s story.

To Miyazaki, natural habitats are beautiful not only because they are serene to look at but also because of the constant symbiosis between its inhabitants and their life cycles. In The Boy And The Heron (2023), life and death are stripped to their simplest forms in the Land of the Dead, through the prey-predator relationship between the fish, the Warawara, and the pelicans. This ecosystem of the Land of the Dead mirrors the reality of the living world, acknowledging death not as an antagonist but as a necessary force for the continuation of life.

Film still of the Warawara from The Boy And The Heron. Credit: IMDb photo gallery.

The Boy And The Heron (2023) stands out not only for its breathtaking animation but also for its sensitive and layered treatment of grief. Through the lens of natural symbolism, Miyazaki guides the audience—and Mahito—towards a message of resilience and recovery. Fire and water, in their various manifestations, convey the transformative power of loss and the possibility of healing. In doing so, Studio Ghibli once again tackles a challenging subject with elegance and depth, offering a poignant reminder of the cyclical nature of life and death. This film, therefore, is not just a narrative about overcoming grief but a visual and thematic masterpiece that resonates with the universal experience of loss and the indomitable spirit of human recovery.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: A big fan of a diverse range of films ranging from animated movies to Lord Of The Rings to surrealist comedies, Ramaa adores films and hopes to create timeless films for children and films that pack a resonating punch one day. For now though, she is still a film student with big dreams and an even bigger imagination. Her personal philosophy is "be the main character you were born to be!" - which explains the many different film OSC playlists she has for different scenarios in her life.

Film Review #100: MONEY NO ENOUGH 3

Wed, 21 Feb 2024 09:50:36 GMT

Film Review #100: MONEY NO ENOUGH 3

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from Money No Enough 3

When Jack Neo announced last year that he was going to make the third instalment of Money No Enough , some netizens joked that he was running out of film ideas. 16 years had passed since Money No Enough 2 was released, and Neo found greater box office success with the Ah Boys to Me n film series of the 2010s. Why go back to a franchise that few youths—the typical demographic of cinema goers—have watched before or even know about?

Very simply put, since the Internet boom, finance has changed. People make (and lose) money differently now. There was an opportunity to ‘update’ the everlasting tale of money woes in Singapore, and Neo wanted to seize on it.

Featuring the same main cast of the franchise, the film follows young seniors Ah Huang (Mark Lee), Ah Hui (Henry Thia) and Ah Qiang (Neo) as they navigate family and financial problems. Delivery driver Ah Huang, the poorest of the trio, struggles with debt and after borrowing money from Ah Hui and Ah Qiang, starts selling unsafe health supplements online to great success. Ah Huang’s greediness soon causes problems for both his daughter and his close friends.

Film still from Money No Enough 3

One of Neo’s recent criticisms is how his films feature excessive product placements. Money No Enough 3 features fewer logos than his previous films but they are still awkwardly placed and ruin the pacing. Shockingly, a few financial companies thought it was a good idea to sponsor this film, seemingly oblivious that the film’s message of avoiding “too good to be true” investment products could backfire on them. The sponsors may realise that we are laughing at them, not with them.

Ultimately, the film is full of ironies. Some of the cast are livestream sellers themselves, yet the film paints them as greedy and unethical. Film sponsors think they are immune to the film’s message on investments. The charismatic main cast, now in their 50s and 60s, spew juvenile, crude jokes which overshadow the clever ones.

Money No Enough 3 offers a decent amount of laughs, but it takes more to live up to the legacy of the franchise.

Money No Enough 3 is now playing in cinemas.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #97: ART COLLEGE 1994

Sun, 11 Feb 2024 14:25:34 GMT

Film Review #97 : ART COLLEGE 1994

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Art College 1994 is enchantingly anachronistic. Despite being animated, it adopts a visual style where the drawings are so clearly referenced from footage of real actors that it borders on rotoscoping. Compare its drawings with ones found in films such as The Case of Hana and Alice, where real life footage is traced and drawn over in order to give the appearance of gesture over the course of multiple drawings rather than the solidity of form demanded by typical animated works.

In Art College 1994, the drawings are also traced over, but are more sparse. Instead, the way the characters move is animated with enough clarity that we can understand that they were drawn with more attention than the typical gestural nature most rotoscoped works assume. Despite technically being donghua (动画, literally meaning animation, but more colloquially used to refer to animated works from China), it stands out in a medium filled with mythology-inspired works with its grounded, low-action setting. There are few better places for a film on the crossroads of both style and country to situate itself than in university, in between adolescence and adulthood.

Film still of Art College 1994

Enter: The Chinese Academy of Arts. Among its students are the long-haired Xiao Jun, his best friend Rabbit, their rival Lin Weiguo, and a dozen other prospective Picassos looking to carve their names onto some canon or another.

Director Liu Jian’s characters mull about artistic cliches and debates anyone who’s ever seen Rothko discourse on their instagram feed will no doubt be familiar with; representative vs abstract, contemporary vs classic, installation vs sculpture, passion vs money. There is a sense of familiarity as we see these slackers from three decades ago go through the same rhythms of debate and gossip that we find ourselves so used to. We visit another gallery, another show, watch another movie, wondering if this will be the piece that lets us justify to ourselves why we ever decided to identify as something as self-absorbed as an artist.

Still, there is a composed joy to be found. It is in times like this where we begin to notice form, rather than content. A lot of the watchtime is spent by the viewer trying to suss out how sincere any character is at any time. There is a moment in the film where music student Gao Hong beams as she talks about how her stints singing at bars is sure to blossom into a career, but how much does she believe it? In times like these, one recalls Umberto Eco:

“I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows that he cannot say to her "I love you madly", because he knows that she knows (and that she knows he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still there is a solution. He can say "As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly". At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly it is no longer possible to talk innocently, he will nevertheless say what he wanted to say to the woman: that he loves her in an age of lost innocence.”

Eco, like us, is aware that in our modern age, there is no narrative we could live that hasn’t already been lived for us by dozens of Kurt Cobains, Salvador Dalis, and Frida Kahhlos on our screens and newspapers. But of course, this doesn’t prevent him from telling his very cultivated lover that he loves her. Rather, he admits that he cannot love her in a way that is novel (perhaps the ultimate defeat in a culture so bereft of new images). Yet, he would like to love her anyway.

It is this space between cringeworthy irony and painful sincerity that the film finds itself. Every character in Art College 1994 , like all of us, must eventually admit that there is a part of us that wants to create something good and true, that resonant, total work of art. Yet, even in art school, a space ostensibly dedicated to that very dream, the reality of the waking world weighs heavily on the minds of Xiaojun and his cohorts. And so, instead of making art, they spend most of their time talking about art.

Film still of Art College 1994

It’s a snapshot of an art school in 1994 as much as it is a snapshot of an art school in 2024. More importantly, it is a document to every time you’ve found yourself wondering if you can leave the gallery, and the ultimate tribute to the sleeping losers of the world.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Justen is an artist, animator, and writer. Their biggest dream is to create something that sucks so bad it pisses everyone off. Follow them at https://www.instagram.com/diejusten .

Film Review #96: FOE

Fri, 02 Feb 2024 16:09:36 GMT

Film Review #96: FOE

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Environmental crises related to climate change and the possible, imminent takeover of AI continue to be two of the biggest concerns our planet faces, particularly in recent years. Even before the severity of these issues steadily increased as years went on, many films, such as Don’t Look Up (2021) and Ex Machina (2014), have attempted to tackle and answer questions regarding these subjects, and the latest of which to do so is Garth Davis’ sci-fi thriller, Foe, based on Ian Reid’s novel of the same name.

Set in the year 2065, rural corners of the planet have practically turned to dust and become a barren wasteland, with many resources turning scarce. Earth will soon be inhabitable, and the government’s solution to combat this is to send a group of shortlisted people to live up in space, decided through a lottery system. The latest candidate to make the list is Junior (Paul Mescal), and it’s not long before him and his wife, Henrietta (Saoirse Ronan), receive an unexpected visit from government representative Terrance (Aaron Pierre) to inform them of what’s to come next, such as how an AI replicate of Junior will take his place at home, keeping his wife company in his absence.

As its two biggest stars, Ronan and Mescal give the film their all, bringing stellar performances to the table, and their respective portrayals can even be attributed to older roles that they’ve played in the past. As a young woman yearning for more than what her current life offers her, Ronan’s depiction of her character echoes that of her roles in Lady Bird (2017) and Little Women(2019). Meanwhile, Mescal’s acting prowess comes through as he showcases his ability to channel intimate scenes well, a factor that was also evident with his performance in the multi-award winning Aftersun (2022).

Film still of Foe

Foe is, however, not without its flaws. The actors’ performances may be its biggest saving grace, but one noticeable aspect is the contrast between the film’s timeframe and its overall setting. Despite taking place more than four decades into the future, the mise-en-scene of Foe ironically sends us back in time into what closely resembles a period piece. The costumes and locations have a mid-century flair to them, with Junior and Henrietta residing in a dusty farmhouse and driving a beat-up pickup truck. When the film alludes to the fact that many parts of Earth are inhabitable, it’s also questionable as to why and how there are so many other patrons and workers present alongside the two leads whenever they go into work for the day. The cinematography, though captivating, sometimes relies too much on symbolism for the story to come across.

Even with Reid himself on board the production and co-writing the screenplay alongside director Davis, Foe struggles to garner the same positive reception the original novel received. Though having not read the novel myself, I can’t provide my perspective on this, but for what’s meant to be a dystopian thriller, the film adaptation of Foe doesn’t provide many insights into the ethics of AI or the possibility of our planet being degraded into a pale, desolate landscape from the effects of climate change. Rather, it fixates on the seemingly unhappy, yet somewhat rekindling romance between its leading couple and the mysteries the unwarranted stranger brings with his cruel tests.

Foe poses the simple question: who goes there, friend or foe? The answer might be closer than you think.

Film still of Foe

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #95: PEE MAK

Mon, 29 Jan 2024 03:49:43 GMT

Film Review #95: PEE MAK

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Released over a decade ago, Thai director Banjong Pisanthanakun’s highly acclaimed film Pee Mak (2013) seamlessly merges multiple genres into a riveting story that remains a charming classic till today.

Pee Mak (2013) spins a twist on the Thai folk legend Mae Nak, which tells the story of a soldier, Mak, who returns home from war to discover his wife, Nak, had died during childbirth. When his wife returns from the dead as an unsettled apparition, his neighbours warn Mak about the dangers of mingling with the spectral world. Mak heeded their advice and fled from his wife’s ghost – a mistake that indubitably compelled her to terrorise the village as she is unable to process her grief.

In Pisanthanakun’s retelling, Mak and his four best friends, Shin, Ter, Puak and Aey, go through an arduous and long-winded endeavour from amusement park to boat rides to decipher the truth behind Nak’s apparition. Their conclusions vacillate back and forth, and at some point Shin and Ter even speculate that Mak could be a ghost too. Regardless of what his friends thought and what he discovers, Mak remains true to his love for Nak.

While Pee Mak (2013) is categorised as a horror flick, I find that it succeeds more as slapstick comedy or a romantic drama. With only a handful of jumpscares, the film’s eerie tone are subtly woven into its set design rather than excessively relying on overt narrative devices. The spectral elements remain tolerable for most audiences and the film’s humorous and heartwarming moments often take centre stage instead. The use of macabre motifs provides an opportunity to inject offhand jokes that catch the viewers off-guard. Through this juxtaposition, Pisanthanakun’s comical moments are amplified, making them delightfully over-the-top.

Film still from Pee Mak

Additionally, I found the themes of romance to be a beautiful pivot within the storyline, particularly Nak and Mak’s on-screen chemistry. In tandem with the exaggerated horror and comedic scenes, their cliché romantic moments seemed almost absurd, but also inexplicably charming. Their unconditional love for one another ironically highlights the unconventional context of their relationship: one allegedly a ghost, while the other corporeal, yet they make it work.

Pee Mak (2013) excels in its dramatic yet seamless switches between genre and tone, which compel viewers from laughing out loud at Mak’s shenanigans to tearing up at a heart-wrenching scene. Admittedly, the humour does fall flat at times, but Pisanthanakun does a good job at keeping his audiences invested in the story, which is essential for such a fast-paced and dynamic movie.

Film still from Pee Mak

While many aspects of Pee Mak (2013) are uniquely Thai, including its language puns and historical background, it still resonates with the larger Southeast Asian audience. In fact, apart from being Thailand’s highest grossing-film, it was also the first Thai movie to ever have been screened in all the ASEAN countries, achieving success both domestically and internationally. Perhaps it is the deep-rooted supernatural horror or the familiar tropical setting, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of Malaysian folk tales like the Pontianak while watching this film.

Pisanthanakun remains true to the spirit of traditional storytelling, especially through the melodramatic yet emotionally satisfying closing. Pee Mak (2013) may be visually mediocre and perhaps underwhelming for cinephiles looking for a more contemplative or artful film, but there is no denying the film has a universal charm to it. Above all, Pee Mak (2013) strikes me as a genuine film – humorous and entertaining, and is certainly a film worth a watch.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #94: A YEAR OF NO SIGNIFICANCE

Fri, 26 Jan 2024 04:42:41 GMT

Film Review #94: A YEAR OF NO SIGNIFICANCE

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from A Year of No Significance

With the decline in cinema attendance and annual box office revenue, is Singapore’s film industry ever going to recover or even blossom? Are Singaporean films no longer appealing to Singaporeans or are other factors at play affecting our box office? Recently, I had a chance to catch local director Kelvin Tong’s 11th feature film, A Year of No Significance , or 大风吹 in Mandarin.

The film premiered at the 2023 Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF), after its delayed release from 2019 due to the pandemic. A Year of No Significance is a realist drama showing a slice of life in 1970s Singapore. The film’s title is an ironic stab at the significance of 1979 in Singapore’s history amongst the Chinese diaspora, channeling the raw emotions of change and unfamiliar familiarity through the lens of Chinese-educated architect Lim (Peter Yu). Tong explores the deep-rooted themes of family, loneliness & favouritism with Lim’s struggle in 1979.

As a casual local film supporter, A Year of No Significance is nothing short of a great period piece film. It encapsulates how life was in the 1970s and the struggles of chinese-speaking professionals.

Film still from A Year of No Significance

By exploring the relationship between Lim and his father, we feel almost frustrated when Lim’s father favours his youngest son despite him being flawed. The common struggles explored like generational trauma and loneliness keep the film relatable. Not to forget, the amazing performance by Peter Yu, especially in the way he delivers his lines and the important use of dialect.

The storyline, themes and period where the film takes place draws similarities to another local film, The Diam Diam Era , directed by Jack Neo. The Diam Diam Era released in 2020, post pandemic managed t o pull in 1.516 million in box office revenue. Granted, Jack Neo is the king of Singapore’s box office revenue, it makes me wonder if A Year of No Significance will be able to perform as well in terms of box office numbers? The answer is very unlikely.

Personally, I loved A Year of No Significance a lot more, the story was a lot more well-written and the characters have more depth to them. The film focused on Lim’s relationship with his family, his colleagues and his ex-wife. I really felt for the character especially when I have been in love before, I have had troubles with my family and of course everyone has struggles in life. If you enjoyed The Diam Diam Era , or feel a sense of nostalgia whenever you happen to reminisce to old Singapore, I think A Year of No Significance will be a perfect film for you.

Both films have similar target audiences which are the older generation of Singapore who lived through the 1980s period or just people interested in that period of Singapore history. How is The Diam Diam Era able to garner that impressive local box office revenue? Is it just because of the director’s name or could it be the local cast's popularity with the audiences? I think there is a lot at work for a film’s box office success other than just how greatly produced the film is.

Film still from A Year of No Significance

At the 34th SGIFF this year, some of the country’s leading filmmakers were present for a panel, including Kelvin Tong. One of the leading concerns was the dwindling post-pandemic box office that Singapore is going through.

Local director Anthony Chen, who directed two films this year, Drift and Breaking Ice was one of the panelists. With both his films premiering in Sundance and Cannes respectively, it shows that Singaporean filmmakers have an abundance of opportunities to be on a world-class stage. Yet, Chen pointed out that our box office is halved even with Hollywood films. Even Jack Neo, Singapore’s leading box office filmmaker is not commanding the numbers he used to.

This brings out the question of whether audiences are finding Singapore’s films or even films in general not as entertaining as they used to be. A huge impact of this will be streaming platforms like Netflix, Disney+, Hulu, etc. This creates a huge convenience for audiences to just catch a film in the comfort of their own homes. Has technology caused our film industry to suffer? Or is catching a film in the cinema just a hassle now?

I see Singapore’s film industry blossoming for more budding filmmakers to create films that both enrich the soul as well as entertain the public audiences. But, I think the box office decline is caused by a domino effect with the pandemic, technology and the biggest fear is that the cinema will just become a nostalgic place in the future.

Filmmaking is a unique storytelling art form that allows everyone to escape from reality once in a while or feel emotions that they want to feel. I don’t think we lack support from the government but I think as audiences, we need to appreciate local art forms more. Mainly because we are the main people who will truly understand the beauty of Singaporean films.

A Year of No Significance is a beautiful film set in the 1970s, one of my favourite local films alongside Ilo Ilo, Mee Pok Man and Shirkers. I hope everyone reading this will bring your family members, friends or — to be honest — anyone to catch this film before its theatrical run ends.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Interview with Jin Ong, Director of Golden Horse-winning film Abang Adik

Thu, 25 Jan 2024 03:54:32 GMT

Interview with Jin Ong, Director of Golden Horse-winning film Abang Adik

Film still from Abang Adik (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

On paper, Abang Adik was set to be a beloved critical darling on a modest budget. A record-breaking box office success for a Malaysian film in Taiwan, plus several international film awards later, the film has started political conversations and thrust first-time director Jin Ong into the mainstream spotlight.

The Singapore Film Society spoke to Golden Horse Award nominee Ong on his inspiration for the film, bizarre censorship requests and that egg cracking ritual seen on posters.

Jin Ong is not afraid to tackle touchy socio-political issues of his home country Malaysia in his films. The 48-year old has produced films centering on poverty and transgenderism throughout his decade-long career. In his directorial debut, Abang Adik (Malay for older brother, younger brother) follows two stateless orphans in Malaysia who navigate financial hardship and an unjust society as the law cracks down on illegal residents.

Highlighting the Plight of Stateless Persons

The idea of spotlighting the issue of statelessness in Malaysia came to Ong during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. “The government gave aid to those with identity cards, but what about those without them? They also live here but they do not have any identity, let alone benefits, so how could they survive?” he said.

In researching the struggles stateless residents in Malaysia face, Ong reached out to nongovernmental organisations who connected him with those willing to share their experiences. Ong was so moved by the testimonies and by wanting to portray as realistic a situation as possible, he injected the words of the stateless residents verbatim into the characters’ lines.

Speaking to his feeling of hopelessness, a 20-year-old stateless man told Ong that “it has been so many years and I still do not have any card with my photo on it.” The quote puts identity cards into perspective—how it is something legal residents do not give much thought about but its absence effectively neuters a stateless person's quality of life.

Bringing Characters to Life

Taiwanese actor Wu Kang-ren plays Abang, a deaf-mute and hardworking older brother who wants to build a stable life, while Adi, played by Malaysian actor Jack Tan, sees fast cash from crimes as the only way to escape poverty. The yin-yang dynamic sets the pair up for heated arguments, and an irreversible accident that plunges them into a crisis, but it is clear that their love for each other far rises above any storms they weather.

Film still from Abang Adik (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

Critics have praised the chemistry between Abang and Adi, with Wu winning the Golden Horse Award for Best Leading Actor and Tan becoming a Best Supporting Actor nominee. Talent aside, both actors spent considerable time together before filming began. Wu arrived a month before to learn Malaysian sign language and familiarise himself with Pudu Wet Market, where Abang works odd jobs. Ong made sure that the pair bonded organically as they learnt how to slaughter chickens from stall owners.

“There was no casting group that followed them, so they built the relationship over the month. When we started filming, we could see that they were essentially brothers,” Ong said. The film’s social media accounts posted behind-the-scenes footage of Tan sobbing between takes, having internalised the character going through an emotional climax.

Filmgoers may be left in tears at the end of the movie, but it does not lack laugh-out-loud moments, thanks to sister Money (Tan Kim Wang). The transgender neighbour is sassy, but more importantly a mother figure to the brothers who watched out for them as they grew up. In slice of life scenes such as having dinner together, they essentially behave like a family, despite all three not being related by blood at all.

At 57, Kim Wang was the oldest Golden Horse Award nominee for Best New Performer in 2023. Ong said it was easy to convince the veteran stage drama actor to take the role.

“I’ve known him for a long time and he's a real neighbourhood auntie. I wasn’t looking for an actor…I adjusted some of his dialogue to fit his background and knew he would do well. He just likes to perform”, he said.

Subtle and Overt Symbolism

Ong is quick to acknowledge his team for the film’s success, singling out his cinematographer Kartik Vijay for realising his creative vision.

“As a new director, I had ideas, but I don't know how to express them. Kartik helped me draw the scenes frame by frame, and advised what the lighting should be”, he said. Splitting the film into three parts, Kartik used three different camera positions from static shots to close-ups per part to convey a progressively darker mood.

Another subtle way of portraying the snowball effect is the use of repetition in the film. From eating curry to the brothers cracking the shells of hard boiled eggs on each other’s foreheads, each repeated action is set in a different context to pace viewers on the tragic spiral the brothers undergo throughout the film.

Behind-the scenes with Kartik Vijay (Left) and Jin Ong (second from right) (Photo credit: mm2 Entertainment)

Ong wanted a symbolic act that could represent the brothers’ closeness, and looked to his childhood for inspiration.

“In primary school, I had a classmate from a poor family. As his family could not afford to buy good food, his mom would just give him an egg for lunchtime. He would then crack the eggshell on his forehead,” he said. The action has since become a go-to pose by fans at meet-and-greets, sometimes with real eggs.

Special appreciation screening in Malaysia (Photo credit: Facebook )

Having worked on multiple local films, Ong had a good idea of what films were permitted to be screened in Malaysia. Even so, he was surprised at some censorship requests when he submitted the final cut for review.

“The kissing scene was supposed to be about 10 seconds. But the report I received said we were only allowed to do three seconds. So I just cut it to three seconds,” Ong said. Eventually, the version released in Malaysia was a mere minute shorter than the international version.

The Power of Love

Ultimately, Ong says Abang Adik is a story about unconditional love—a topic he intends to continue exploring in his future films.

“In our tough lives, I think love helps us survive. Love can heal, but can also destroy. It is not just an emotion; it is a very strong power”, he said.

Ong wants filmgoers to feel 温暖 (emotionally warm and comforted) after watching Abang Adik , but the rollercoaster of emotions experienced, culminating in a waterfall of tears when credits rolled did not initially register as a positive feeling, but eventually felt rewarding.

Are we to feel sorry for the brothers? To give and receive unconditional love is something that even the richest person in the world cannot afford to buy. Perhaps both Abang and Adik are rich beyond measure.

Abang Adik is now playing in cinemas.

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Film Review #93: FALLEN LEAVES

Wed, 17 Jan 2024 08:12:45 GMT

Film Review #93: FALLEN LEAVES

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from Fallen Leaves

Nobody looks specifically at fallen leaves, but Aki Kaurismäki’s is a charming treat.

Dry, dreary and dead, they serve as a metaphor for the two main characters in his 20th feature film, Fallen Leaves. Kaurismäki sheds light on the lives of blue-collared workers, the supposed latest addition to his Proletariat series.

“It felt like this bloody world needed some love stories now”, said Kaurismäki of his Palme d’Or contender, focusing on love as conflict’s antidote. Though this may be simplistic and overstated, it offers the solace of a world where war is abhorred and love is embraced.

Film still from Fallen Leaves

Fallen Leaves tells the story of single supermarket worker Ansa (played by Alma Pöysti) and Holappa (played by Jussi Vatanen), an equally lonely, depressed and alcohol-reliant worker after a chance meeting one night in a local karaoke bar. Both attempt to make first love work between them despite being beset by adversities that come in the form of a lost phone number, missed encounters and a train accident.

Fallen Leaves is a beautiful gem. Its simplicity reflects the seasoned expertise of Kaurismäki, who has found his own brand and style of deadpan comedy, told through clever framing, brilliant acting and comedic timing.

The script is tight and minimal, with lots of breathing space for actors’ stiff actions and awkward silences to land their comedic punches. It’s no wonder that Charlie Chaplin — whose last name was adopted for the stray dog Ansa takes in — serves as Kaurismäki’s inspiration. He also managed a couple of cheeky winks through Jim Jarmusch’s The Dead Don’t Die , much to the amusement and enjoyment of several audience members who guffawed at this if you know you know moment.

Film still from Fallen Leaves

The backdrop of the Russia-Ukraine war — often blaring on Ansa’s radio — adds to the depressing atmosphere of the film. Though not geographically involved, the environment is hostile and depressing, where love is a weak flame struggling to keep ablaze. Kaurismäki skillfully interweaves moments of hope amidst the couple's hardships, crafting a well-structured plot that keeps the audience invested, rooting for their triumph despite each setback they encounter.

Through the cast’s brilliant performance, Kaurismäki has crafted delightful and endearing characters with his two leads. Pöysti, in particular, stands out with her command of the screen, adding subtlety and nuance to her character’s steely temperament.

As the characters are rarely expressive and smiles are hard-earned, the music does a lot of the emotional heavy lifting. The film employs the clever use of J and L cuts for the music to transition seamlessly from diegetic to non-diegetic and vice versa, effortlessly lulling the audience into Kaurismäkiland.

Film still from Fallen Leaves

This stylistic method — of the environment emoting for the characters — is utilised in the cinematography too. From depressed Holappa’s reflection in his small, shattered mirror, to the strategically positioned rain streaming down the window superimposed on Ansa’s downcast face, waiting for Holappa who never showed up. Enthrallingly, it felt more evocative than actually seeing the characters respond emotionally.

This romantic dramedy cements that the Finnish director is a master in his own right. The winner of Cannes 2023 Jury prize, Fallen Leaves shows simple does it.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Kennice reads, writes, dances, and watches theatre and film as a way to understand life on Earth (& perhaps beyond). Probably thinking of having another cup of yuan yang siew dai.

Film Review #92: SPACKED OUT

Mon, 15 Jan 2024 04:04:35 GMT

Film Review #92: SPACKED OUT 無人駕駛

*T his film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Hong Kong director Lawrence Ah Mon’s Spacked Out finds its space in the Y2K DreamZ programme’s nostalgic curation, which was organised by the Asian Film Archive last year.

Film still from Spacked Out

Spacked Out centres on the turbulent lives of youths in Hong Kong, primarily four teenage girls ages 12 to 13-years-old. Set against the backdrop of modern Hong Kong as it approaches the new millennium, the film captures brightly lit malls, neon-coloured street signs and wacky fashionable outfits adorned by the teens.

Interestingly, the colourful mish-mash of clothing and accessories fashioned by the teen girls first struck me with its familiarity as the Y2K trend has been resurfacing in current times. Despite being released over 20 years ago, the film’s visuals, themes and concerns are still relevant. Through its mise-en-scene and thematic concerns, the film itself brings about a similar experience that emphasises the inbetween-ness that girlhood exudes and it is characterised by the nostalgic transience of girlhood.

The film opens with Cookie’s (Debbie Tam Kit Man) monologue as she voices her feelings of isolation and abandonment by her loved ones. With her mother absent and her best friend, Mosquito (Lam Hoi Man), sent off to a reform school, Cookie finds herself lost and left to her own devices. Along with her group of rebellious friends, the film explores their youthful woes as they go about their day-to-day lives. Initially, the plot appears mundane as the camera trails after the girls to school (where they fool around and avoid studying), to retail stores, the KTV room, loitering aimlessly. Soon, however, we come to realise the unique yet universal teenage troubles underlying their otherwise average school lives.

Through the lens of subcultural youth communities in Hong Kong, the film captures the private struggles of the four protagonists' budding years, depicting their awkward transitions from adolescence to teenagehood. The prevalence of Hong Kong’s youth gangs and drug abuse amongst youths have long been recognised and documented, noting the cultural and social significance of these practices over the decades. As Lawrence’s film displays, the girls and their peers often bond over their vices whilst exercising their independence.

The film presents itself like an amateur piece, picturing scenes of inexperienced actors who, on occasion, cast glances at the camera and recite their lines in staged tones. In fact, fragments of Debbie’s personal schooling experiences were included in the film’s narrative. Indeed, these moments of breaking the fourth wall and the infusion of the actresses’ real-life accounts were what gave Spacked Out its vivid authenticity and heightened its sense of liminality -- between past and present, reality and fiction.

Uncomfortably realistic in its depiction of ignorant and self-indulgent youths, Spacked Out , highlights the cruelty these unassuming youths are capable of. Bean Curd (played by Maggie Poon) appears the most crude amongst the quartet. Her shaven head, brash speech and sharp gaze concretise the tough persona she exhibits. In one shocking scene, Bean Curd taunts a distressed classmate to commit suicide upon noticing her self-harming with a penknife.

At the film’s climax, a series of unfortunate, though foreshadowed, events occur. Upon receiving a call from Banana’s (Au Man Sze) god sister, the girls head to her apartment in search of refuge where they are soon joined by a group of boys. A nightmarish breakdown soon takes place. Intoxicated by alcohol, tobacco and drugs, sexual tension and jealousy surges in the small space. Multiple betrayals occur as the girls flirt with their new male interests, leading to Bean Curd’s attempt at suicide through self-harm (in an ironic twist of events) and the god sister’s overdose on drugs, which ends in a tragic death.

Having lost their sense of reality, the girls turn on one another and themselves. As such, while drugs and alcohol are abused as emotional escapes for the characters, they also result in a trance-like state where morality dissipates.

Later in a haunting scene of moving plastic dolls and threatening close-up shots of surgical equipment, Cookie finally undergoes a traumatic abortion. However, the film ends as inconclusively as the rest of its directionless plot, and we find ourselves once again at an impasse. Despite the chaos that had just ensued, they become estranged events from a bygone time. The girls return to their lives, to the light-hearted pool session and stasis, and all that had happened appears tucked away in memory.

In the plot’s directionless form, a sense of ennui pervades the film and it is this sense of liminality that corresponds with one’s own perception of girlhood. Girlhood is a time of uncertainty and becoming that occurs and remains in the past, lingering only in memory. This is not to say that actions are inconsequential in one’s youth, but rather they are at times wishfully forgotten as one approaches adulthood.

The film’s nostalgia for youth is bittersweet, as the past is marred with countless wrongs. Where the film does superbly well is in its making real and vivid an otherwise fleeting time in our lives. Lawrence emphasises this crucial stage in the characters’ teenage years, and roots its importance through its twisted reality. Far from the innocent girlhood of which one may view through rose-tinted glasses, the film acknowledges the cycle of self-discovery and self-destruction. Cookie, caught in her own uncertain and unstable youth, hovers between wanting change yet being unable to pursue it.

In spite of the evident cruelty and selfish ignorance of the girls, Spacked Out distances itself from a moralistic presentation of their behaviours. Instead, Cookie’s narratorial voice provides the main mediation for the ugly events taking place. Cookie frequently reminisces about her close friend who has moved away yet has not contacted her, and she dreams of a simple but unattainable escape from her sordid reality. Her narration informs the audience of her naive yet hopeful outlook for the future — one that is embodied by the mature and elegant girl she befriends at the pool. Through her voice, the film makes prominent her innocence that persists despite the harrowing events that threaten it.

By revealing the ugly realities behind teenage girls’ closed doors, the film peers into their inner psyche. As the contradictory traits of self-importance and self-loathing plague the characters, it appears a necessary, albeit unpleasant, process towards self-understanding. Within this liminal space and time, girlhood undergoes various states of confusion, experimentation and self-realisation. Setting aside pointed blame thus, Spacked Out incites empathy as well as the audience’s contemplation of their own uncertain and possibly, hormonal youths.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Hoiye love s people's ideas and their stories, and is still striving to uncover more and share them better. Film and literature are places where Hoiye seek s out these voices to explore more narratives from around the region. Outside Hoiye's air-conditioned cocoon with books and films, you can find Hoiye falling off plastic rocks and going on solo coffee date.

Film Review #91: PERFECT DAYS

Mon, 15 Jan 2024 03:38:12 GMT

Film Review #91: PERFECT DAYS

This film review may contain plot sp oilers, reader discretion is advised.

A reminder of the beauty in quiet, diligent living in Wim Wenders’ quasi-documentary of a Japanese toilet cleaner’s cyclical routine.

Perfect Days is the perfect slice-of-life movie to catch a breather from our cosmopolitan lives, with its 4:3 aspect ratio framing delicate shots of Tokyo landscapes and remarkably nuanced acting by Koji Yakusho. The film competed for the Palme d'Or at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, winning the Prize of the Ecumenical Jury and the Best Actor Award.

As a film that is co-scripted by Wenders and screenwriter Takuma Takasaki, perhaps a result of this cross-regional production between Germany and Japan is a more observational lens into Hirayama’s life. After all, he was first contacted by the Shibuya district on whether he would make a documentary about the Tokyo Toilet Project, an architecture project on renovating public toilet facilities. It was first about the toilets, then the story.

Film still from PERFECT DAYS

As routine as the middle-aged man’s life may be, he seems to seek solace and comfort in the same thing he does every day. He wakes up, brushes his teeth, looks at the trees, goes to scrub the same public toilet cubicles, eats at the same restaurant, reads and even dreams similar black-and-white montages in his sleep... There isn’t much going on in each frame, except a certain charm in the ordinary that permeates throughout the film.

Barely a line is spoken 30 minutes into the movie, if at all. It’s the visuals that speak volumes. The pace is unhurried, given the lack of a major arc in the story. It is a film more so to be felt than to be understood.

I feel how Hirayama is at peace with the laid-back routine and hobbies he picked up, such as photographing trees with a film camera, listening to cassette recordings in his van and gardening. These nostalgic analogue activities present a state of tranquillity in his routine, and they depict a zen-like character which he has developed from his life experiences.

But how did Hirayama become the way that he is in the film?

Film still from PERFECT DAYS

The film teases familial tensions when Hirayama’s sister arrives at his house to pick up his niece who had run away from home. Her chauffeur and slight surprise at what Hirayama does for a living delineates their different social backgrounds. Wenders sprinkles breadcrumbs in the movie for us to recognise a certain depth in Hirayama’s backstory, but there aren’t enough to satiate my desire to truly understand his character. Yakusho’s acting was subtle and it felt like he portrayed someone real — someone who really lived a life. I felt his emotions especially in the last five minutes of the film. While I do not fully know Hirayama, Ya kusho made me care and feel for him through his moving performance.

The scenic views of Tokyo as the van cruises along the highways will definitely make Perfect Days a calming watch on a slow rainy day. It unfolds gracefully like a dream, allowing viewers a tranquil escape into a time of visual meditation. Perhaps we don’t have to understand what Hirayama has been through, but you will definitely feel something about the way he does what he does.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Kevia loves to create and is usually in the technical side of film and photography. She enthuses over films that emotionally resonate and explore aspects of our humanity.

Film Review #90: THE HOLDOVERS

Tue, 09 Jan 2024 08:41:01 GMT

Film Review #90: THE HOLDOVERS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Alexander Payne did it again! This time, a large portion of props to David Hemingson the screenwriter too! While Payne pretty much directed the film so well it could come off as though he wrote it, let us celebrate the wonderful work of Hemingson as well. As we enter the awards season, both Payne and Hemingson are each getting recognition in their respective categories, speaking to the quality of this film.

Film still from The Holdovers. Credit: Universal, Miramax and Focus Features

Nearly a score after Sideways (2004), Paul Giamatti and Payne reunite in what many predict would be another iconic collaboration to be remembered, in The Holdovers (2023). Set in the early 1970s, Giamatti plays Paul Hunham, a quick-witted but rigid ancient-history teacher whose students and colleagues dislike immensely. Forced to remain on campus over Christmas break to supervise students who could not travel for the holidays, a special bond forms between him and Angus Tully, played by Dominic Sessa in his feature film debut - an intelligent but troubled boy whose folks demand he stay in school for the holidays - and Mary Lamb, played by Da'Vine Joy Randolph - head cook at the school's cafeteria who just lost her son to combat in the Vietnam War. Needless to say, the trio aced their roles.

Film still from The Holdovers. Credit: Universal, Miramax and Focus Features

If one were to name a movie this year that fully embodied the word "empathy", this would be it. As usual, Payne's style exudes throughout the film; he elevates Hemingson's screenplay and teaches us that, ultimately, kindness, patience and understanding will always triumph over an individual's sense of entitlement because, quite simply, every human being goes through their own hardships, and it never hurts to be kind(er) to one another.

The entire film was shot in existing physical spaces and no sets or soundstages were used, and this is no small feat. Payne and the film's crew created over two hours of 70's nostalgia, and every second of it was curated to perfection. The film sells on its quirkiness and brilliant humour. Giamatti's excellent performance is perhaps universally appreciated amongst devoted cinephiles by now, and he is in contention for best actor at the Oscars, but his fellow co-stars also deserve mentions.

Film still of Da’Vine Joy Randolph in The Holdovers. Credit: Universal, Miramax and Focus Features

Da'Vine Joy Randolph gave a reserved, but no less compelling, performance as the grieving mother, Mary. To not risk giving away too much, just know that she sends viewers a timeless reminder to always cherish your loved ones, be it your spouses, children, parents, or anyone else. Awards pundits are on it, and let it be clear that if and when Randolph does win Best Supporting Actress all the way till the end of this movie awards season, it shall be a richly deserving victory to remember for ages to come.

Film still of Dominic Sessa in The Holdovers. Credit: Universal, Miramax and Focus Features

Dominic Sessa, in his feature film debut, matched Giamatti shoulder-to-shoulder in The Holdovers. In a role equally layered as that of Mary Lamb, Sessa as Tully certainly added a killer first entry to his professional body of work and resume. Watch out for his character's transformation especially in the second half of the movie. Like Randolph, Sessa is gaining some traction for this awards season, likewise, deservingly.

If the film is to be nitpicked, however, the overarching flow of the narrative from beginning to end is a little long and some moments in the film could be better connected to reduce the runtime slightly, but even this can barely count as a flaw. Fans of Payne's work and audiences who love a nostalgic movie, especially one with a festive vibe, will absolutely devour this film.

It is a shame The Holdovers couldn't make it to the screens in Singapore before Christmas 2023. This film is poised to become a new Christmas classic and may very well stand the test of time.

I give The Holdovers a solid rating of 4.5 stars on my Letterboxd, but I might just bump it to 5 stars as I watch it again.

Catch The Holdovers exclusively at The Projector from 11 January onwards!

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About the Author Jarrett is a devoted cinephile for over half of his life. Apart from movies, coffee keeps him awake and music keeps him alive. Having studied theatre and performed as an actor before, he's also a sucker for great performances.

Follow Jarrett on Letterboxd: https://boxd.it/2JImT

Film Review #89: MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON

Fri, 05 Jan 2024 06:04:40 GMT

Film Review #89: MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON

2023 was a year filled with intensely emotional films that caught many of us off-guard. From Jerzy Skolimowski’s EO right at the start with barely any dialogues yet, keeping us all at the edge of our seats with tension, to (what I personally refer to as THE break-up film of the year) the heart-wrenching and absolutely frustrating The Banshees of Inisherin (at which point I thought donkeys might be the animal of 2023 to break our hearts) to the highly anticipated Barbie that moved audiences to feel and think in so many things we never had the words for before… 2023 was truly a big year for cinema, but looking back, the one film that I still find myself revisiting in my mind is Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (2022). I have always believed that the most important movies are the ones that change us in some way, and Marcel the Shell with Shoes On will transform you by the end of 90 minutes.

Credit: IMDB

Marcel the Shell with Shoes On came to theatres in Singapore later than its international releases in other countries, so there was already a lot of buzz about it before I finally had the chance to watch it during the Mental Health Film Festival Singapore in early November 2023. Marcel’s undeniable cuteness was already raved about, and Jenny Slate was the perfect person to give Marcel his unique confident stuttering, but nothing could have prepared me for the juxtaposition of childlike naivety and surprisingly mature self-awareness that landed so many poignant moments.

Credit: IMDB

The film starts right off the bat with interview footage for the documentary that Dean decides to make when he meets Marcel. Instantly, so many layers of metaness are attached to the themes of the film. Dean is not only the director of the fictional documentary, but also the director of Marcel the Shell with Shoes On , the film is a feature adaptation from his previous short film which he co-wrote with Jenny Slate. The way Marcel explains to his Nana Connie what a documentary is (“it’s like a movie, but nobody has any lines and nobody even knows what it is while they’re making it”), and the ways in which Marcel’s world exists in tandem to ours, provides much needed relatability and simultaneously accentuates the art of documentary filmmaking. Marcel’s innocence and wit also allow the film to call out repugnant behaviours in our society with unfiltered critical observations that stem from Marcel’s confusion or frustration as he interacts more with the human world and deals with the pros and cons of sharing his life online, shining light on the influencer culture in today’s society where there is a tendency to get caught up on fast trends.

Credit: IMDB

We start by learning how Marcel gets around a big human house and how he survives day-to-day. Though this starts off as a way to set the scene and provide context to who Marcel is, it slowly weaves into the bigger narrative of Marcel’s lost family members, and often provides comic relief at times where things get a bit too heavy, allowing the film to do an incredible job at being palatable and avoiding melodrama. This mechanic also becomes the catalyst for Dean to get more emotionally attached to Marcel, and there is a constant tension of whether or not Dean will break the rule of documentarians to not interfere with their subjects.

Credit: The Boston Globe

One of the things I found myself repeating to my friends after we left the cinema is that Dean’s reactions to Marcel were so calm and wholesome, especially when he laughed or held the camera on a quiet and thoughtful Marcel a few seconds longer, allowing us more candid and genuine insights into emotions he might have hidden while the camera was still rolling. That speaks volumes more about what the fictional (and possibly the real) Dean was going through in his own life, without too much direct exposition to take away from Marcel’s story.

Credit: IMDB

Marcel explains a lot of his emotions and thoughts in ways that bring awareness to the times that we feel similarly, but never give the words to address them and process them. That, to me, is the most important thing about this film - it gives its audience ways to verbalise the deep loneliness or sadness that is part and parcel of life, that might seem overwhelming at times, but help us appreciate the joyful moments even more. Marcel deals with grief, loneliness, dementia and so much more in carefully crafted metaphors, quiet moments, and perfectly composed background score, all in a way that is thankfully uncynical.

The director Dean Fleischer Camp on the set of Marcel the Shell With Shoes On . Credit: Maria Andreotti
New York Times

It made me remember my love of cinema, and its ability to transform its audience and teach us perspectives outside of our own, in a way that I had not paid attention to since I was a kid rewatching The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) and willing myself to not blink so I could track all the movements. With the beautifully executed stop-motion animation that sits seamlessly alongside live action elements, Marcel the Shell with Shoes On is sure to inspire a new generation of filmmakers,storytellers, animators and people with healthier communication skills, paying particular attention to mental health in our society.

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About Marcel the Shell with Shoes On

DIRECTED BY: Dean Fleischer Camp

YEAR: 2022

STARRING:

Jenny Slate

Isabella Rossellini

Rosa Salazar

Thomas Mann

Lesley Stahl

SYNOPSIS:

Marcel is an adorable one-inch-tall shell who ekes out a colourful existence with his grandmother Connie and their pet lint, Alan. Once part of a sprawling community of shells, they now live alone as the sole survivors of a mysterious tragedy. But when a documentary filmmaker discovers them amongst the clutter of his Airbnb, the short film he posts online brings Marcel millions of passionate fans, as well as unprecedented dangers and a new hope at finding his long-lost family. A beloved character gets his big-screen debut in this hilarious and heartwarming story about finding connection in the smallest corners.

Film Review #88: THE WONDERFUL STORY OF HENRY SUGAR

Wed, 03 Jan 2024 12:17:07 GMT

Film Review #88: THE WONDERFUL STORY OF HENRY SUGAR

Wes Anderson’s second outing, after Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), in adapting a Roald Dahl work is indelibly impressive.

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar is one of 4 shorts, available for streaming on Netflix. The fact that these shorts, with their eye-catching colours, quirky set designs and costumes, and fourth-wall-breaking-staring-into-the-camera protagonists pop up when so many households switch on their TV sets marks the possible renaissance and beginning of a new generation of Roald Dahl fans.

Credit: IMDB

For those of us who grew up reading Roald Dahl books and watching the glorious adaptations, we know that no one tells such strange children stories as Dahl. ‘The Witches’, ‘James and the Giant Peach’, ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, ‘Matilda’ - all these titles and more shaped the way some of us learnt storytelling when we were younger. Not knowing how much was fiction, despite the spectacular things that were happening, not knowing if a protagonist will live to survive the end of the story, not knowing who the real bad guys are… these are themes that are essential to Dahl’s storytelling. And they follow through in this series of short stories as well.

Credit: IMDB

According to Netflix , Wes Anderson delayed making this series as he was unsure about how to tell these stories without using Dahl’s exact words, before he realised he did not need to. Part of why this series is so important to today’s audience is precisely that - when we watch the 4 shorts, it feels exactly like we are reading Dahl’s books. The way in which The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar’s narrative structure unspools itself highlights Roald Dahl’s efficacy in capturing the minds of his readers, and Wes Anderson’s magical ability to build captivating visual elements that both serve and disrupt the narrative to wonderful effect.

Credit: IMDB

With a star-studded cast including Ralph Fiennes, famed to the younger generations as Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter series — playing the role of Roald Dahl himself at points in the story — Ben Kingsley, Dev Patel, Benedict Cumberbatch and Richard Ayoade, the film is a visual delight. None of the characters outshines their roles despite the accomplished actors’ massive screen presences. This further highlights Wes Anderson’s masterful direction of the entourage of A-listers and his signature manner of allowing all his quirky characters to complement each other seamlessly.

Credit: IMDB

The effect of breaking the fourth wall enables the audience to treat the film in similar fashion as the source material, akin to being present in a book reading session, but with the terrific set designs and Wes Anderson’s visual trademark characteristics, precision framing and attention to the visually pleasing color palette, viewers are almost in a state of sensory transplant to Wes Anderson’s world. But the mannerisms in which the characters present themselves is an indication how much Wes Anderson imbues his own individualistic take on Roald Dahl’s original story; they would be perfectly at home in any other Wes Anderson worlds, such as Moonrise Kingdom or The Grand Budapest Hotel .

Credit: IMDB

The story of Henry Sugar prompts great curiosity as it deals with the titular character, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, trying to learn the skill of seeing without eyes, which he tries to employ to aid his gambling habits. Henry is inspired to do so by an account he chances on - a transcript from Dr Z Z Chatterjee who witnessed first-hand the great Imdad Khan, played by Ben Kingsley, who learnt the ability with the reluctant aid of a great yogi.

The set designs are reminiscent of the theatrical staging of Asteroid City , and Wes Anderson pays careful attention to perfectly picturise the world that Roald Dahl describes in his book. The actors also often double up as different roles, almost reminiscent of a play, which calls back neatly to how many of the cast members themselves are accomplished theater practitioners. The movements of the sets, camera pans, on-screen costume, hair and make-up changes, and the long takes also highlight the theatrical characteristic of the film. It almost feels like a live-action sibling of Fantastic Mr Fox .

Credit: IMDB

The soundtrack – Cosi Fan Tutte, K. 588, Act I Scene 2: No.10, Terzettino, Soave Sia Il Vento – provides an amalgamation of earthy and oneiric tones which reflect the story’s dual nature; the detailed account throughout the narrative provides a groundedness, yet the remarkable things that happen in the story demand a suspension of disbelief as though it must be a fever dream. In true Roald Dahl fashion, we are left with a bittersweet close that leaves us at a loss of what to feel.

Credit: IMDB

As the characters describe and narrate the plot in minute details, it is almost impossible not to be engaged with the story. With a compact runtime of 39 minutes, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar is breath-taking and captivating, and perfect for audiences today. Hurray for the renaissance of strange stories for all ages!

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About The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

Directed By: Wes Anderson

Year: 2023

Cast: Ralph Fiennes (Roald Dahl, Policeman), Benedict Cumberbatch (Henry Sugar, Max Engelman), Dev Patel (Dr. Chatterjee, John Winston), Ben Kingsley (Imdad Khan, Croupier), Richard Ayoade (Dr. Marshall, Yogi)

Runtime: 39 minutes

Synopsis: A beloved Roald Dahl short story about a rich man who learns about a guru who can see without using his eyes and then sets out to master the skill in order to cheat at gambling.

The other shorts in the collection:

The Swan

Cast: Rupert Friend (Narrator), Ralph Fiennes (Roald Dahl), Asa Jennings (Peter Watson)

Runtime: 17 minutes

Synopsis : A young adult Roald Dahl short story about a small/brilliant boy ruthlessly pursued by two large/idiotic bullies.

The Rat Catcher

Cast: Richard Ayoade (Editor/Reporter), Ralph Fiennes (Rat Man), Rupert Friend (Claud)

Runtime: 17 minutes

Synopsis: A lesser-known Roald Dahl short story about a professional rodent exterminator.

Poison

Cast: Dev Patel (Woods), Benedict Cumberbatch (Harry), Ralph Fiennes (Roald Dahl), Ben Kingsley (Dr. Ganderbai)

Runtime: 17 minutes

Synopsis: A well-known Roald Dahl short story about a man who discovers a poisonous snake asleep in his bed.

Film Review #87: DREAMING & DYING

Wed, 03 Jan 2024 08:31:10 GMT

Film Review #87: DREAMING & DYING

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

In a comparatively prolific year in Singapore cinema, especially for non-commercial films, Nelson Yeo’s Dreaming & Dying (好久不见) has caught buzz quite easily. Recently awarded the Golden Leopard for Filmmakers of the Present competition and the Swatch First Feature accolades at the Locarno International Film Festival 2023, it’s not a stretch to say that certain expectations have been set for Yeo’s directorial feature debut.

Dreaming & Dying movie poster. Credit: KawanKawan Film, Momo Film Co, and Lights On

Dreaming & Dying t ells the story of three middle-aged individuals who, over the course of a class reunion (in which no one else turned up), grapple with a resurfacing love triangle first formed when they were still classmates decades ago. Starring Kelvin Ho, Doreen Toh, and the face of Singapore cinema in 2023 - Peter Yu, Toh stood out in terms of performance, while Yu’s turn was somewhat underwhelming, although I would attribute that largely to Yeo’s creative decision in regards to Yu’s character, Heng, whom I find the most poorly constructed among the three leads, and this could be due to the director’s far-reaching artistic ideas but more on that later.

As I finished watching and was leaving, I couldn't determine if I liked the movie or not. I am long past the phase as a moviegoer ingrained with the mindset of having to “fully understand” the film that I’m watching, hence I wasn't too bothered by how the film left an enormous portion of it up to audiences’ interpretation. First thoughts on Yeo’s directorial vision and execution - was he ambitious? Definitely. Was he effective? Questionable.

Film still of Doreen Toh and Kelvin Ho in Dreaming & Dying .

Credit: KawanKawan Film, Momo Film Co, and Lights on

Two specific technical elements of Dreaming & Dying caught (and maintained) my attention though - the colour & aspect ratio, and the cinematography. Shot in 4:3 dimensions, the colour grading and cinematography resembled so much of the 1970s and 1980s Hong Kong and Taiwanese cinema. Something about the way the camera zoomed in and out for many shots created an unlikely sense of nostalgia for me. Aesthetically, this was a deeply enjoyable aspect of the movie.

Yeo was incredibly ambitious with the story telling in Dreaming & Dying - tons of visual metaphor and symbolism lavished throughout the film; I was reminded of the 1986 H ong Kong film Dream Lovers (梦中人) which starred Chow Yun-Fat and Brigitte Lin. Some stylistic and thematic overlaps between the two films were rather apparent. As I missed the 15 December screening with a post-show Q&A with Yeo, I don’t know if any audience member(s) asked Yeo if he had any inspirations or film references for Dreaming & Dying. I certainly would have asked him, perhaps even name-dropping Dream Lovers directly and specifically, if I had been present.

In Yeo’s attempt to explore a range of visual techniques to aid in his storytelling, he might have lost some audiences midway through the film. Specifically, the character Heng, where most of the film's dream sequences and symbolism are found, might have been too sophisticated for Yeo to handle at this stage of his career. Noting the film's ultra-friendly 77-minute runtime, the experience felt more than 90 minutes. This is not to say the film had very significant flaws. I did find the complicated emotions of the three characters well-conveyed, and this is specifically where Doreen Toh’s performance stood out.

Film still of Doreen Toh and Peter Yu in Dreaming & Dying.

C redit: KawanKawan Film, Momo Film Co, and Lights On

Being his first feature film, there is no way one could even guess what Yeo’s style is. However, I dare say he had already crossed the most difficult hurdle in his career as a filmmaker, creatively. Given the filmmaker’s ambitions and vision in this movie, it is hard to imagine if he could make another film more complex and/or abstract than Dreaming & Dying.

Truth to be told, I had no clue what score or rating to give this film. Just as I browsed both IMDb and Letterboxd and saw an average of around 3 stars, I asked myself if this made sense to me, and it did. As such, my rating for Dreaming & Dying is 3 stars on Letterboxd.

Catch Nelson Yeo’s directorial feature debut Dreaming & Dying exclusively at The Projector!

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Follow Jarrett on Letterboxd: https://boxd.it/2JImT

Film Review #86: LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND

Fri, 29 Dec 2023 15:05:40 GMT

Film Review #86: LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Film still from Leave the World Behind

When the apocalyptic thriller, Leave the World Behind, became the top streaming Netflix film in the first week of December, it was clear audiences fell hard for the bait sprinkled throughout the two-hour adaptation of the 2020 novel with the same name. X erupted with fan theories about the overreliance of technology, racial tensions and global politics. Even Elon Musk chimed in because Tesla cars made an unfavourable cameo.

The film takes place on a remote part of Long Island, where an upper-class family is on a well-deserved holiday before all hell breaks loose — the loss of network reception. A mysterious duo then joins the family and they try to figure out what is going on, albeit reluctantly together.

Most of the drama happens during conversations which make up the bulk of the film, and the small cast, led by Julia Roberts and Mahershala Ali, deliver solid performances. There is palpable tension when Roberts’ chaotic character, Amanda, clashes with Ali’s G.H. Scott, who steals each scene with his stoic nature and enigmatic presence.

Film still from Leave the World Behind

But great acting cannot mask a poor script and the lack of character development — Amanda's son, Archie (Charlie Evans), is a sexually-charged teenager while Ruth (Myha'la Herrold), the female young adult of the duo, is a woke, insufferable know-it-all. These are stereotypical and shallow characters who stay one-note throughout the film, making them very hard to care about.

Pacing also suffers thanks to draggy, corny dialogue that is classic internet discussion bait. As hints drop that the network blackout is more than just a temporary disruption, characters throw believable theories around while shoehorning racial relations and gender power imbalances into conversations, packing the main plot with unwanted filler. Add paranoia and character unlikability to the mix and some scenes become a chore to get through.

Despite these glaring flaws, the film shines in highlighting how small the characters are in their increasingly hopeless situation through beautiful cinematography. The use of colours in its art direction also tells a story of the characters’ emotions throughout the film, from the blue family car to moody room lighting.

Film still from Leave the World Behind

Leave the World Behind ends with more questions than answers. You will not find a resolution on the fate of the characters or what is causing the apocalypse, which is the main complaint of general audiences. To many critics, those questions are irrelevant, because the real questions one should be pondering about are intellectual ones — those you would find in a social sciences research paper. But when the premise revolves around unserious caricatures tackling heavy topics while civilisation collapses, can any discussion be fruitful?

The apocalypse is just a vehicle to deliver not-so-subtle uncomfortable questions, devoid of any thrill. Strip away the preachy distractions and the plot becomes a bland example of doomsday, conveniently starved of details. Leave the World Behind thinks it is clever, but the best films tend to show more than tell.

Leave the World Behind is streaming on Netflix.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Film Review #85: ANATOMY OF A FALL

Fri, 29 Dec 2023 14:54:54 GMT

Film Review #57: ANATOMY OF A FALL

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

The coveted Palme d'Or honor stayed in France at the Cannes Film Festival 2023. Co-writer and director Justine Triet's latest work, Anatomy of a Fall, took home the big prize earlier in May, on top of a special award, Palm Dog, for the dog in the film - Snoop, played by Messi the 7-year-old celebrity Border Collie.

Film still from Anatomy of a Fall. Credit: NEON

Anatomy of a Fall premiered in Singapore at the French Film Festival (FFF) 2023 held in November and later went on to screen commercially exclusively at The Projector. Its initial premiere screenings at the FFF, where I first caught the film, all met with sold-out audiences. Does the film live up to the hype? Yes, but not without its imperfections.

For a genre like courtroom drama, films typically struggle to capture audiences in Singapore, but Anatomy of a Fallproves itself to defy this trend. And rightfully, the film stands tall on a few merits from acting to screenplay and directing, even editing for a pocket of cinephiles and industry professionals.

Sandra Hüller is the centre of the film and holds the film together. While Triet (and her partner-and-co-writer Arthur Harari) penned a complicated and nuanced character, and she directed Hüller superbly as one would imagine, Sandra the actress (because the character's first name is also Sandra) just commands the screen through and through. A character with quite basically the whole range of human emotions displayed on screen, Sandra was embodied by Hüller convincingly and truly deserves the praises and attention both the film and the actress have enjoyed.

Film still of Sandra Hüller in Anatomy of a Fall. Credit: NEON

However, cliché as it may be, a strong and compelling lead ought to be supported by an equally competent supporting cast and Hüller had just that. Without these three gentlemen - Swann Arlaud (as Sandra's defense lawyer), Antoine Reinartz (who fiercely brought to life the prosecuting attorney) and Samuel Theis (Sandra's deceased husband at the heart of the mystery) - much of the film wouldn't have worked. That said, the one character and performance that really both brought out Hüller's best and stole the show at the same time, was Daniel, the visually impaired son of Sandra and Samuel, played by the incredible Milo Machado Graner.

Film still of Milo Machado Graner in Anatomy of a Fall. Credit: NEON

Without revealing important plot points, Machado Graner stood out in the latter half of the film and absolutely left me gobsmacked in the last act. His character, Daniel, is so multi-layered, complex and even haunting that it's hard to imagine having a 13-year-old performer deliver it. One specific scene in the last act of the film, well two actually, broke my heart and for a few moments I forgot about Hüller’s character, which given the intensity and impression of her role in the film, speaks volumes about the young teenager’s riveting turn.

Ironically, one of Anatomy of a Fall's strengths could also be a weakness itself - the script. Triet and Harari created a captivating and intense courtroom drama that had my eyes glued to the screen, but as a result, a few other scenes throughout the film were on the edge of sending viewers into daydream mode, not to mention the way the film ended could have been more polished and refined. Overall, however, the screenplay remains a plus for the film than it is a minus.

While Sandra and Samuel (the characters) were writers and perhaps less relatable to most viewers because they aren’t typical urban adults who work 9-to-5 jobs, it is nonetheless commendable that a failing marriage, especially one where not necessarily the husband/father bears more responsibility, is being portrayed on film. Moreover, this family’s relationship is also explored through the child’s attempt to reconcile with his parents, adding nuances to the narrative as a whole, instead of only exploiting the trial which forms the bulk of the film’s runtime. Beyond the entertaining (subjective as it is) courtroom scenes, the developments and dynamics of a nuclear family falling apart and how it recovers, no matter the difficulty, should be what more audiences think about as they leave the cinema.

Anatomy of a Fall earns 4 stars on my Letterboxd.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, with support from Singapore Film Society.

Follow Jarrett on Letterboxd: https://boxd.it/2JImT

REGIONAL (NEW) ACTORS FORUM, HONG KONG FILM GALA PRESENTATION 2023 - An Actor’s Perspective

Mon, 18 Dec 2023 00:42:01 GMT

REGIONAL (NEW) ACTORS FORUM,

HONG KONG FILM GALA PRESENTATION 2023

- An Actor’s Perspective

"Being an actor is an endless journey of exploring time, space, and self. While there are techniques to train one’s physical body and facial expressions, there is neither a final formula to getting it ‘right’, nor a proven path to success. Because of how many ways there are to become a successful actor, I find great value in listening to other actors’ journeys and learning how they overcame challenges to get to where they are today.”

- Agnes Goh, Singapore-based actress and writer of this article

Image of Agnes

I remember when I was a very young kid, there would be Hong Kong dramas on TV and my entire family would watch them together during dinner time. Despite the fast-rising popularity of Korean films (which I am also a fan of), Hong Kong films hold a special place in many Singaporeans’ hearts. Hearing dialogue in original Cantonese just ‘hits’ differently and brings back many fond memories. This year is particularly special because it is my first time attending Singapore Film Society’s Hong Kong Film Festival, called Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation 2023 , which happened from 29 September – 1 October. During the Stage to Screen: Regional (New) Actors’ Forum, I had the opportunity to meet some of the region’s up-and-coming actors in person.

The forum saw award-winning actor Mak Pui Tung from Hong Kong, Season Chee from Malaysia,and Doreen Toh and Xuan Ong from Singapore. All the actors brought with them years of experience in both stage and screen work. Before they introduced themselves, the audience had a glimpse of their strong foundation as actors through a presentation snippets of their recent work.

Poster of STAGE TO SCREEN: REGIONAL (NEW) ACTORS' FORUM

Pui Tung left a deep impression on me with his stellar performance in The Sparring Partner, which was one of the titles in the line-up. He shared that he had intentionally planned a five-year trajectory for his theatre involvement to venture into a new medium of performing thereafter – the reason why he started acting in movies. I was in awe of the unwavering vision he had for his acting career, and his decisiveness to leave his comfort zone and explore new possibilities when the time came.

On the other hand, Season, a character actor, inspired me with his incredible multilingual proficiency. He is undoubtedly a testament to Malaysia’s (similar to Singapore’s) multiculturalism, being proficient in English, Mandarin, Malay and a few Chinese dialects.

Doreen is not only an extremely experienced theatre practitioner in the local scene, but also has many outstanding film accolades under her belt, most notably as the leading lady in Nelson Yeo’s award-winning feature Dreaming & Dying (2023) .

Last but not least, Xuan made her recent big-screen debut with Grace Wu’s Seven Days, in which she played a unique and challenging role - an ‘old’ ghost in a young body.

(From left to right): Doreen Toh, Xuan Ong, Season Chee, Mak ui Tung and Moderator Adele Wong

The forum surfaced relatable challenges, concerns and perspectives they had as actors transiting from stage to screen. One of the most important points highlighted was about understanding the relationship with the audience. In a typical theatrical setting, actors perform on a stage with (usually) substantial distance from the audience. It is essential for any stage actor to project his/her voice, exaggerate their body language, and engage in the physical space around them. Whereas for film, the camera is the audience; theactor needs to be conscious of subtleties and nuances in their performances, since every micro- expression or micro-movement is captured (and magnified) on the big screen.

Another salient point that was brought up during discussion was the preparation process. In a theatrical performance, an actor goes through rounds and rounds of rehearsals to experiment, explore, and express different possibilities with space and the relationships with other characters. During the actual performance, there is no break or interruption to the entire process. The actor is immersed in the environment and has to stay in character throughout the show until it finishes.

Unlike theatre, speed is a key element in shooting for films. There is often little to no time for extensive rehearsals, and an actor must make the best possible creative choice about their performance in a short time. There are often numerous takes for each scene, and it is on the actor to ensure each delivery remains truthful and believable despite potential sensory fatigue kicking in.

On this note, Doreen shared an insight that stayed with me. In her experience, performing on stage in a theatrical performance is a culmination of ten years of preparation offstage (台上一分钟，台下十年功). Like any performing art form, it takes tremendous effort and practice to perfect the craft. However, since actors rarely get to practice or rehearse as much before the director shouts ‘Action!’, they have to rely on their years of foundation and instincts to delivery well - for films, it is a display of those ten years of preparation, onscreen (台上十年功, 台下一分钟).

The floor also raised wonderful questions, most of which were from prospective and current acting students. One of the questions raised was one that I think about a lot as well in my own career as a freelance actress. How do actors get more opportunities?

Pui Tung, currently acting on a freelance basis, encouraged independent actors to be fearless in pursuing every possible opportunity. ‘ Go and send that email, attend that audition, do what you need to open up new doors ,’ he suggested.

Xuan related that to how she did everything – from performing at USS to taking on small roles - to boost experience in the earlier phase of her career.

Season emphasised how important it is to ‘ do your best in every opportunity, it takes time but eventually you will be seen. '

All three of them gave very powerful and actionable career advice as to how new actors can chart their journey, while Doreen offered rich life advice: It is natural for actors to feel beaten down by rejections, and eventually doubt themselves for reasons that are beyond them. ‘ You must find a life outside of acting. Do what you can control, and let go of what you can’t ,'she added. Whenever there were no acting gigs for her, she would read, watch films, develop new interests and hone her skills. The actor’s journey hinges on preparation and everything that you do between projects.

It was a truly valuable session for me. The generous sharing helped me ascertain the beauty of performing across different media, as each medium challenges us in different ways. Theatre demands extensive mind-body-spatial awareness and physical stamina for the actor to perform well in a live setting. Mistakes may happen, but the show must go on. Film is a microscopic medium that amplifies each movement and expression, and the actor must be exceptionally purposeful in their choices. It is important to convey emotions truthfully and subtly in cinematic moments that the audience will remember.

RE GIONAL (NEW) ACTORS' FORUM Panelists and Moderator, with panel attendees

As I was penning down this experience during the forum, I had concluded my first stage performance and had a taste of what the panelists spoke about at the forum. As they had wisely shared with the audience that day, we would always be a work-in-progress and we should keep creating new possibilities for ourselves.

I look forward to the next edition of the festival, and crossing paths with wonderful actors again.

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About the Author: Agnes is a freelance actress-writer who has joined the team at Singapore Film Society to connect more people through films. Inspired by the films she watched, she hopes to empower people through the stories she tells and make films that could showcase a slice of Singapore to the world. Know more about her on Instagram @ agnesgohsl or her website .

Check out what other attendees said about the forum!

Film Review #84: THE BOY AND THE HERON

Fri, 15 Dec 2023 10:26:30 GMT

Film Review #84: THE BOY AND THE HERON

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Renowned Studio Ghibli director Hayao Miyazaki has announced on three separate occasions his wishes to retire from filmmaking, all of which have resulted in him running right back to the animation studio when inspiration unexpectedly struck. Despite news circulating that he would retire a decade ago, his latest film, The Boy and the Heron, released over the summer in Japan following no prior advertising or publicity whatsoever, was a risky feat only surmountable by a highly successful and well-loved animation company like Studio Ghibli, whose work has left behind such a strong legacy. Only recently has the film been making its theatrical rounds globally for fans across the world to bear witness to what could possibly be Miyazaki’s final fantastical feature.

Film still from The Boy and The Heron

The Boy and the Heron tells the story of Mahito Maki (Soma Santoki), a young boy navigating through a world of grief and loss after his mother is killed in a fire during World War II in Japan. After his father (Takuya Kimura) remarries his late mother’s younger sister Natsuko (Yoshino Kimura), Mahito evacuates to the countryside, but struggles to adapt to his new family and surroundings. However, adventure soon awaits in the form of a grey heron (Masaki Suda), who informs Mahito that his mother is in fact alive and needs rescuing.

Like many of its predecessors, The Boy and the Heron sets its protagonist out on a coming-of-age journey to find his way in the world, rediscovering life’s purpose and meaning. The film’s Japanese title differs from the English one, translating to “How Do You Live?”, referencing the 1937 Japanese novel of the same name written by Genzaburo Yoshino. While the film is not an adaptation, it does share similarities with the original novel, mainly both protagonists grappling with the death of a parent and struggling to move on with their lives. At the mere age of 12, it’s no wonder Mahito doesn’t know how to move forward after his mother’s tragic death. So when a scene shows him finding a copy of the very novel gifted to him by his mother, it’s as if she has posed the very question to him, and Mahito hopes he can find the answers for himself, first from the novel, and later during the quest he embarks on.

As expected of Miyazaki, The Boy and the Heron is filled with charming, breathtaking animation from start to finish, accompanied by a spectacular soundtrack composed by long-time collaborator Joe Hisaishi. The film transports audiences to a wondrous, alternate universe in typical Ghibli fashion, where fantasy mixes with reality, animals and peculiar creatures come alive, and the souls of the living and dead coexist with one another. Hues of green, blue, and gold gorgeously paint the scenes, and I personally found that the most beautiful moments in this film were captured in between its quiet bits and moments of empty space, whether it be sequences of the luscious outdoor scenery and architecture, or a simple shot of a hallway with a glittering ceiling.

Film still from The Boy and The Heron

While it doesn’t beat out the studio’s more popular works, The Boy and the Heron remains a marvellous addition to Ghibli’s lineup of incredible films. It poses the same important question from the novel to its protagonist and audiences: how do you live your life despite the negative human experiences thrown your way, all while tackling subjects of grief and mourning? Overall, if Miyazaki means it this time about his retirement, this film feels like the perfect swansong of his career, though only the man himself can determine if and when he’s truly done with filmmaking.

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This review is published as part of *SCAPE’s Film Critics Lab: A Writing Mentorship Programme, organized by The Filmic Eye with support from Singapore Film Society.

About the Author: Maya has always had a penchant for animated movies, growing up watching the likes of Walt Disney and Studio Ghibli, many of which are among her all-time favourite films. Writing is one of her stronger suits and she is currently exploring how to best utilise this skill after finishing her pursuits in film studies. Apart from frequent visits to the cinema, her other interests include fashion, café hopping and occasional video gaming.

The Actors are Present: Conversations with the boys of Tomorrow is a long time

Sat, 02 Dec 2023 06:46:58 GMT

The Actors are Present:

Conversations with the boys of Tomorrow is a long time

Since the world premiere of Jow Zhi Wei’s Tomorrow is a long time (2023) at Berlinale, the film has toured the film festival circuits in Hong Kong, Vancouver and Taiwan’s Golden Horse. The film will make its Southeast Asian premiere in competition at the 34th Singapore International Film Festival. It arrives with an announcement that the film’s lead actor, newcomer Edward Tan has been nominated for Best Performance at the Silver Screen Awards for his sensitive and embodied performance as Meng.

Edward leads an ensemble of young actors that compose the bullies in school and boys in National Service that the solitary Meng encounters. That none of the supporting cast seemed to turn out lesser performances than the lead speaks of the two to three years long casting and rehearsal process. Zhi Wei admits it was a commitment for all the actors in the film since they had to come in regularly for workshops without the certainty of being cast, “When you want to be an actor, you're there and you're present at every audition and rehearsal.” On a humid afternoon in October, I meet with Zhi Wei and three actors from the film, Edward Tan, Lekheraj Sekhar and Josh Lim , in a cafe nestled at a corner of a carpark.

First picture from top left: Lekheraj Sekhar, Edward Tan and Josh Lim . Jow Zhi Wei in spectacles.

All three actors had been in acting school at some point. On Edward, an alum of Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts (NAFA), Zhi Wei says “The thought of going up against Leon Dai and Neo Swee Lin would freak most actors out, let alone actors who have never acted [in a feature film]. This is Edward's first film and he rose to the challenge.” Raj went to School of the Arts (SOTA) and plays Kishod, a fellow serviceman who befriends Meng in the second half. Zhi Wei was “blown away with what he brought to the conversation with Edward in the jungle “ and was “moved to see him play a scene [he] took years to write. They were just speaking to each other side by side talking, and that speaks so much about his ability as an actor.” With Josh, who plays one of the bullies and is currently pursuing a degree in acting at Laselle, Zhi Wei remembers how he “came with this openness and was very willing to try things. He had this innate energy and was crazy during rehearsals, trying anything and everything. I loved that.”

In the following conversation, I speak to the actors of Tomorrow is a long time about their process as actors, their camaraderie on set as well as their reservations, dreams and desires for the future of their industry. It was an afternoon of affirmation for each other, filled with laughter and a palpable excitement for the moment at the premiere, where they can finally watch the film in full with the rest of their cast members.

The following conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

SH: How did you first hear about the film?

ET (Edward Tan): I saw the audition on Facebook (SG Casting Calls). I was still in NS (National Service) at the time but I was bored so I started auditioning. I went in without expectation because if I had gotten the job, I wouldn't have been able to do it because of NS. I just went in because I hadn't acted in a long time and wanted to get back into it. The schedules worked out in the end because they had to postpone the shoot during COVID.

LS (Lekheraj Sekhar): Shirmaine, the casting director, saw a trailer for a passion project short [film] I acted in. She reached out through my friend. I didn't know what it was really about and thought I'd just audition. I genuinely felt like I was obviously not going to get it because it was on a much larger scale than anything I've done. It had been a really dull year but the last two months picked up and it wasn’t gradual. I'm still recovering from what happened.

ZW (Zhi Wei): It was a sped up process for Raj. For the role of Kishod, there was another actor we were looking at but when I spoke to him, he pulled out because he wasn't ready to go to Taiwan in the middle of nowhere, filming in the jungle at night. We were re-auditioning a month before I started shooting the first half of the film.

JL (Josh Lim) : For me, Shirmaine contacted a very good friend of mine who is also a casting director. He asked if I wanted to try it out and of course I did! Then Shirmaine said there would be no script for the audition and I was wondering what that was going to be like because I come from theatre and I’m very used to working on a script. At the audition, Zhi Wei began by talking to us. I expected a formal audition but was asked to improvise and got to understand another actor as well. I've never had an audition where I felt like I could do whatever I wanted with the character and left feeling like I had a lot of fun. I remember thinking, "Wow, this is why I'm acting." I was in NS and had got into Laselle's acting programme, but I was reconsidering my choices and why I chose to do a degree in acting. The audition renewed my passion for performing.

SH: Did you guys receive scripts?

ALL: No.

ET: They kept the script really hush-hush during rehearsals. Nobody knew what the film was about. When I first read it, it was very interesting how everything came together like oh, yeah, we rehearsed this during auditions.

JL: It was only after a few rounds of auditions when the roles were confirmed that we got the script. Even then, we didn't have to say what was in the script word for word. We were given a lot of liberty and freedom to play our characters. I really enjoy working with Zhi Wei in that way because not many directors are like that. It was a working relationship not a top down approach.

LS: It was very interesting for me to [finally] read the script. Because I'm in a specific part of the film and I know a specific version of Men g , Zhi Wei made a point to provide me only with the story from my character's perspective. I know nothing of Meng's background, what happened to him in Singapore and his other life. I only know him as this soft spoken guy in NS. It was only until I watched the movie that I knew what happened to Meng . I really thought it was an army movie, a Full Metal Jacket situation. I probably would have acted very differently if I knew. I don't want to say it's method, but it really puts you in the situation.

ZW: What I usually do is I start off with a chat. I want to know if there's something I think is interesting about them I can draw from. Then we do some exercises, nothing too heavy. The first audition is about knowing if they can relax and to explain this journey I will take with them. It’s also about listening to actors. You can't direct all actors the same way.

Zhi Wei directing in Taiwan.

SH: Edward mentioned you were giving them scenarios from the script without telling them?

ZW: Scenarios like the script, but not the script. I like to do that because it frees me up to see what they have to bring. I plan it quite well: I understand that at some point they have to see a script. But I want it to be at a specific moment when we have done the work together and they know who I am as a director and person. Then we give them the script and we talk about it. I chose them for a reason because they bring some kind of energy, some kind of chemistry that helps bring the film to life.

LS: Getting directed by Zhi Wei is a very organic experience. When you look at a script before going into an audition, you're formulating your character in accordance to what's on the script. But the way he approached it was to give us these scenarios from the script. It was a process of discovery of the characters. Then when we look at the script, we already have a sense of our characters' internal monologue.

ZW: And they stayed with me for the entire audition process. It's a commitment to be in this film. For Raj it was quick but for Edward and Josh, we had rehearsals every other week for six months. They came in for rehearsals without knowing if they were going to be cast. I couldn't promise them anything. Of course, as time goes by, being casted becomes more certain because you keep returning. But in the beginning they had to take a chance.

SH: What sort of exercises were you guys doing during the audition?

ET: My favourite exercise was actually playing an animal. Play a turtle or flamingo.

JL: During the first session I played the victim then swapped with the other actors to be the bully.

SH: I feel like I should've asked this at the beginning. How did you start acting and performing?

LS: I started acting when I was in primary school for drama club. I acted in a rendition of ‘Grease’ as Danny Zuko in Primary 3 — a 9-year old Danny Zuko. Then I went to SOTA to study acting because I really enjoyed it and wanted to become an actor. Then 6 years passed and my interest in theatre fluctuated. I came out wanting to do more art management but being in this film revived acting as a passion for me after NS, which literally destroyed me. Getting this opportunity revived whatever I felt I lost in NS.

JL: I got into acting accidentally. The Chinese Chess Club in primary school closed down and I was put into the drama club because they needed more boys. I continued all the way to secondary school. When I had to choose what to do after secondary school, I couldn't imagine doing anything other than acting so I joined Lasalle to do a diploma in performance and now a Bachelor’s in acting.

ET: I initially wanted to go to SOTA for visual arts but my parents wanted me to go to a normal mainstream school. I actually started acting in secondary school so if I had gotten into SOTA, I would have stuck to drawing. Everything worked out in strange ways. After secondary school, I went to NAFA’s theatre programme and started dancing because I was originally interested in musical theatre. I took up ballet to learn dancing but grew to like it on its own so I kept up with it. I started from the very beginning and there was a point where I was dancing with kids.

SH: What did you draw when you were younger?

ET: Random things. I watched a lot of cartoons and started painting with acrylics before doing watercolours.

SH: Was acting something you ever had to discuss with your parents?

ET: I have a lot of siblings so I think my parents got tired of managing us and allowed us to do whatever we wanted.

JL: I had to be very strategic about convincing them. I thought, “Why don't I invite my parents to watch my SYF performance? If they liked it, they'd let me continue acting.” So I did and they really liked it! They thought the whole show was amazing and I had the potential. Because they're Asian, I was telling them how much my drama teacher makes. I was doing the math for them and telling them that if I did really well in acting, I can be a drama teacher that can earn this much as well. It was less about acting and more about money.

LS: My parents were surprisingly supportive and have been very supportive throughout my life. Because of ‘Grease’, they were like okay lah, let him do what he wants. But it was a highly controversial choice in my extended family. They wanted me to go to an elite school and eventually study law or medicine. I just wanted to be an actor.

ZW: I remember after shooting in Taiwan, I met Raj's parents at the airport on the way home. I said to them, "Your son is a great actor!" And they just smiled at me.

LS: They're very awkward and don't really know how to react. Anyway, my parents might have forgotten that I'm a great actor now. They just tell me to tidy up my room.

JL: You need to remind them.

LS: The next time they tell me to put my towel back I'll tell them, "I'm a great actor."

SH: Was there a performance or someone you really admired when you were younger and still do?

ET: I was very inspired by musicals. What drew me was the music and that's why I continue dancing — because of music. And the dancing in ‘West Side Story’. In my acting, I use music to help me. It's sometimes hard to generate emotions but music can help get me into the mood.

JL: The inspiration I get is often not tied to a person or people but portraits of vulnerability. When I look at characters and think about what makes them relatable, it's often the vulnerable side of them that attracts me to watch more. Sandra Oh is really good [at that]. There was a period of time where I would binge watch Grey's Anatomy and she's such a strong character in the show but whenever you see her break, there's gravity and truth in her performance.

LS: One of the people I admire most is Øistein. I grew up watching Doodle Champs on Kids Central and Øistein is this trade artist who would start with a squiggle and start making images out of it. I was so obsessed: in school, I would make squiggles and play “doodle champs” by myself. The other is my theatre teacher, Ms Serena Ho. She would encourage us to just put things out no matter how bad we think it's going to be, then make something out of it. Both of them are advocates of the element of play in creating art. I think a lot of times we tend to lose that sense of experimentation. I like the idea of putting something random out and seeing how it works then playing around with it. Øistein and Ms Serena gave me a lot of courage.

SH: That's important. It's easy to get caught up in the fear of failure and end up not doing anything. At some point each of you mentioned NS which I'm very happy about. I want to talk about that, especially since the film is about boys coming-of-age in Singapore and that tends to begin with mandatory enlistment. Raj, you said NS broke you?

LS: Before NS, I was in SOTA, an environment that was extremely liberal, where anything goes and sensitivity is celebrated. Going to NS sometimes means you're going into a very conventionally masculine and potentially toxic space, where vulnerability is seen as weakness. I had severe adjustment issues. I was so bad at handling rifles, just bad at everything really. I questioned every part of who I was when I was in the army. It broke me because I was unable to address an environment that is so regimented. It worked out in the end, because the less positive aspects of it seeped into my character in the film. The way I handle adverse situations we go through in the film is influenced by how I was when I was in NS.

Raj on set in Taiwan.

SH: Would you say this film gave you another chance to do NS again? This time, you were able to help others get through it.

LS: Yes! It was almost like interacting with my past self. I was almost a completely different person. I had a couple of friends but they weren't with me throughout the entire period.

JL: What you said is really relatable because I had a really down time in NS too. In art school, you are respected and your opinions are valued. When you go in, they talk down to you. I initially did quite well. I was Platoon Best in BMT (Basic Military Training) and sent to OCS (Officer Cadet School). I was fighting with myself about whether I should continue being in OCS because I also thought it was such a stupid thing to do. But I was literally tearing up booking in and going into South D was so sombre. OCT (Officer Cadet Training) ranks are lower than a private and that felt like it was against me as a person. It took a lot of courage to tell them that I want to get out of the course.

I eventually got posted to medic school, then the bomb disposal squad, a unit mostly made up of regulars where we work in teams. At both places, everyone was treated with respect. The regulars would talk to you as friends would and we'd go for regular outings together. That was when I truly liked the experience of NS. Now, when I'm so detached after having been out of NS for so long, I only remember the downtime. The free time you get, time where you have fun with your section mates in the bunk and become friends.

SH: How did all of you feel going into the army? Was there a lot of trepidation?

LS: Oh no, I was so excited and thought I could be a good leader. I had such confidence in being good at things because I did pretty well in school. I went into NS with the mentality that it was going to be a piece of cake. My Mum tells me that after I was born and brought back to the house for the first time, my father was introducing me to the house like it was my new bunk [going], "Okay recruit..." He was always quite excited for me to go to the army. Not because he had high expectations but because he thought it was fun and would make me more adaptable. I don't completely disagree with this because it does make you more capable of dealing with adverse physical conditions. But I'm wondering if it desensitises you in the process as well.

JL: I packed 2 months in advance thinking about what I'd need because I thought the army was fun and going to BMT meant I could make friends. And the jungle! It sounds so fun. I was really excited for the gear that I’d be receiving, the uniform, Bushcraft...

ET: You know how when you first get in, you're really inspired? It's a new start and you can reinvent yourself. But then, you slowly get demoralised. I wasn't looking forward to it but I was determined to take it seriously and try my best. But you do get mentally exhausted in time. Generally, I don't think the army is a very good environment for someone creative and their psyche. It does help you learn about yourself, in a way. How much shit you can take. How I'm actually quite capable of tolerating things like I never thought I'd be able to get through and I'll just get by.

SH: Edward mentioned reinvention. Was this something the others experienced as well?

LS: There's this sense that NS is a milestone that every Singaporean boy has to go through — a point where we transition into adulthood.

ZW: NS was quite a long time ago for me. What I remember most is I had to completely readjust myself because I was living life a certain way and I was suddenly thrown into this environment. I remember the quiet moments where I will bring a book to read during free time and tune into music in my mind. Those quiet moments were where I remembered myself. With regards to why it’s in the film, NS is a coming-of-age moment every Singaporean boy has to go through and it seemed to be a natural progression of the story. At the same time, I wanted a new environment to recontextualize the film. I wanted the NS portion to be more fable-like, about a group of boys going through the jungle together.

SH: Would you say that filmmaking is like being in the army since things take a lot of time to get set up? I hear how in NS, you spend a lot of time just waiting to get activated, and I was wondering if the waiting was similar.

ET: I think waiting on a film set doesn't feel like waiting at all. It's a moment waiting for what's going to happen next.

LS: Waiting was present in both NS and film but waiting in NS felt less constructive. I think it's because the actors were all waiting together. It gave us a lot of opportunities to talk and build rapport with one another. We were a section both on-camera or in the background chilling. With Edward, we had really good conversations while waiting, which helped with filming.

JL: Even in NS, the waiting really gave me a lot of time to bond with my section to play, just as it did in filming. Waiting together is fun and it's in these moments that you build a friendship with each other. Even now, I'm still really good friends with my castmates and want to keep up with the friendship.

ZW: Every film I've made took time. I've never been a person to churn out films. I admire filmmakers who do that but for me, it requires time to live with it and think about what I really want to say. You begin with a lot of ideas before you let things fall away from the core. I never felt like I was waiting for the sake of waiting.

SH: I'm also thinking of your NS journey, how you brought books and listened to music in your head. You weren't just wasting time waiting for commands.

ZW: What I tried to do was find things that gave me joy. Making films and working with actors give me joy and that allows me to continue. When I go to film festivals and watch a film I love, it feeds me and makes me want to make another film. That's something that I search for.

Edward Tan drinking from a packet and Dominic Tham on set in Taiwan.

Photo by Lekheraj Sekhar.

SH: I'd like to go back to what it was like on set.

ET: I come from theatre so one big difference is you get to be in a natural environment instead of using big props. I think they also require different types of stamina. In theatre, it's the stamina to do the same thing over and over again, from beginning to end. And each time you do it, you have to pretend that you're doing it for the first time. For film, you have to do it like you're doing it for the first time, but it's in smaller chunks. For Tomorrow is a long time (TIALT), the shooting process was very long, which is where stamina is required.

ZW: What I like about film is you can always retake if you do something that doesn't work. It's something I try to impress upon the actors to not worry, because if it isn't good, we can try different things. With different takes, I try to do different things so it gives me options in editing. While you have to wait for a whole day before performing again in theatre, it's more immediate on set.

SH: I understand that the making of the film was mostly chronological.

ZW: Yes, we shot in Singapore first, then Taiwan. Initially, there were discussions of shooting in Taiwan first, then Singapore. I insisted that we had to do Singapore first because for Edward as an actor, he needs to know what happens in the first half of the film before he embarks on the second.

SH: The actors received the script after rehearsals ended and I'm wondering, when you read it, did the character of Meng come first or did your personal experiences precede it?

ET: When I first read the script, I was quite surprised. I thought I was very different from Meng . I prefer to be alone while Meng cannot be alone. I would have reacted differently in the situations that Meng was in. I think I got used to Meng after shooting the film.

ZW: I remember Edward breaking down at the end of the film. He was so immersed that he felt very sorry to let him go, which says something about his sensitivity. Filming took two months but Edward lived as Meng before that.

SH: What was going through your mind when you broke down?

ET: We were shooting a scene where M e ng was sitting at a table by himself. I was thinking about the first scene where he was eating with his father at home but there wasn't anyone around him in the scene.

SH: How did it affect you as an actor looking back at this journey you had with Meng from the start of the film to the end of it?

ET: It didn't even occur to me to think of it that way because I was so immersed in Meng . I was really thinking about how he would feel at that moment. I think I broke down not because I couldn't part with the role, but because I had become more connected with Meng as filming progressed. When we first started he felt like a stranger. In that moment, the fact that there was no one [around] him really affected me.

SH: Raj, what was the process of filming and how did you approach the character?

LS: The practical difference I saw between film and theatre was, in the latter, you're feeding off the energy and live reaction of the audience which drives you. On film, your expressions are less projected and I had to get used to being nuanced about my emotions. When I was doing this film, I had to adjust to this sense that I was never really going to know how I was doing.

With Kishod, I had this sense that he was sort of like me. I really did draw from my own personal experiences with being in NS. While it helped that my character was not entirely different from who I was, it was sometimes hard to draw the line. I remember Zhi Wei asking if I wanted to name the character Raj. I was very against it because that was the one thing that distinguished myself from the character.

SH: Josh, you don't seem like a bully at all. Was it hard playing one?

JL: It was actually really hard. I'd never bullied anyone and have never been bullied. But I remembered that during the devising process, we started improvising and I felt the character. Whatever I did during the filming process was my emotional recall from rehearsals. [Having to speak] in Mandarin and Hokkien — I don't have an emotional connection to those languages even though my family speaks them. I feel that it's very important as an actor to grasp the nuances in language so I immersed myself in Chinese songs while speaking to my family in Mandarin and Hokkien. Now I love it, and think Hokkien is such a nice sounding language especially when you hear the Taiwanese speak it. It's so soft.

SH: When they told you you were going to play a bully, how did you feel?

JL: I was kind of excited. Acting is a lot about playing and here was a new character I've never done before and I was wondering how he would behave. I took it as a chance for me to really play and explore the possibilities. It was the same way during filming as well. Being on site was really fun to us because you could interact with the architecture. I was in an abandoned swimming pool and the leftover water was disgusting. It was so much fun.

SH: Did your character have a name?

JL: His name is Josh. Josh playing Josh.

ZW: A number of the characters in my films aren't named. In my previous films their names would be "The Man", "The Woman", "The Boy". I like that they have no names and I see them as just them. I also gave Raj that choice but he said he didn't think it was helpful. It's great that they can tell me what they need and we'll work on that.

SH: Did each of the bullies have a characterisation? Or were they a pack that travelled together? There was this sense that they were always overwhelming in numbers compared to Meng , who was solitary.

ZW: I see each of the bullies as individual people. They couldn't be non-descript.

Left: Josh Lim, Li Jin Hao, Edward Tan.
Right: first row, Josh Lim; second row Li Jin Hao, James Sui and Belmont Soh; third row, Jaden Chew.
Photos by Josh Lim.

SH: Do you ever think about your characters after the last scene you played them?

ET: Definitely. I wonder if he's a singer sometimes. I hope he found his community and people. And peace.

LS: I do think about him a lot because it was a very reflective experience for me. It felt like I was reconciling a part of myself by basically getting the chance to relive portions of my NS experience and then deal with it differently. Kishod is that representation of the supportive guy I wish I had on my side.

ZW: Josh had a shorter period on set.

JL: Two days.

SH: I can't believe you guys only took 2 days to shoot those scenes.

JL: Rehearsals really helped when it came to actually shooting so we could do it fast.

ET: We became really tan after the swimming pool scene.

JL: I remember [the crew] applying a lot of sunscreen because I was shirtless in that scene. There were a lot of fighting sequences and a stunt choreographer was there!

LS: We had a [similar] swamp scene. It was at night and it was so cold. I was kind of excited to do that scene because it's one of the highlights of the film. The crew was also so warm, both literally and metaphorically. The moment we got out of the swamp they would wrap us in towels and put us over the fire and marinate us.

ZW: We had a heat tent where we put the actors.

LS: I miss that deep bond with the crew in Taiwan. I don't speak much Chinese and I tried my best but they were also trying to speak in English; both of us trying to navigate the language barrier. It was so lovely. They introduced me to new music as well, like X Japan, this metal Japanese band I love so much now because of my makeup artist Colin.

JL: It's so nice that in filming you get to meet so many people but when it ends it's so sian . How long was the entire Taiwan jungle forest process.

ZW: We had to quarantine for 3 weeks in the hotel room. Solitary confinement and Zooming each other and with producers who were showing me pictures of all the different locations so they could figure out what I liked and didn't so we could immediately head out to scout after quarantine. Shooting itself took 12 days, plus scouting for about a week, for a total of five weeks.

The 6 boys had to do the quarantine and couldn't come later because the logistics to schedule for them to come down later wouldn't have worked. While we were scouting, they had a week to go around Taipei for a bit.

LS: Quarantine was damn fun because I always wanted to use a bath bomb in a bathtub with a nice glass of wine. I wanted to see the way bath bombs reacted with water so I did that on New Year's Eve with a Lush bomb my Mum bought in Singapore. While counting down to the new year, I was just singing my Happy New Year to myself. The isolation was also really helpful in getting myself in character. Edward was my roommate for the most part.

SH: What did you get up to?

LS: Sometimes our conversations were about the most random things and ended in total silence. We would just go back to doing our own thing. He's the ideal roommate because he was so chill.

ET: I enjoyed his ukulele.

LS: I was very noisy and a huge nuisance so I can't believe he managed to disappear and get into character.

ZW: One of the crew stayed next door to them and they were saying, "Oh my god, I can hear Raj through the wall."

Edward’s journal for Meng , a drawing of a grasshopper and other insects, an origami of a beetle.

Photos by Edward Tan.

SH: Edward, did you enjoy it?

ET: Sometimes. But he's a very nice person to have around and he's funny.

LS: At least I'm nice, then! The thing about Edward is the amount of preparation and effort he puts into characterisation is crazy. Even with me being present in the room, he could be totally in the zone and focusing on getting into the Meng mode. You can see it because he's really just focused on that and he's disappeared. He was also working out, going all out in the physical and emotional preparation, even though I was a huge distraction. Putting me in the same room as him could have been so dangerous for the film, but living together helped us build rapport.

ET: I pretend to be Meng and write journal entries, like about what happened before this scene and after. They're just to help me understand him. All the diary entries would be addressed to Meng's grasshopper friend, because Meng likes collecting insects and has a pet grasshopper. He had a cage in his room and I thought that that was maybe what was in the cage.

ZW: If you notice in the film, there are pictures and frames of insects. So his father is a pest controller while Meng collects bugs. It's a small detail that you might be able to pick up if you watch it a second time. It's not meant to overwhelm you with its significance but it's these details that I put in when I'm defining him as a character, which Edward was intelligent enough to pick up.

JL: That's a really good exercise actually. Doing your 6-steps.

ET: It helps to compartmentalise your thoughts.

SH: Were there pictures inside the journal?

ET: No, but I drew insects.

JL: Quarantine was kind of like a cage too.

ZW: What was it like for you guys in quarantine?

JL: I had an elderly grandma at home when I was sick with COVID in Singapore, so I did my quarantine in a hotel. It was seven days and I was in the same space all the time. I was going crazy, I cannot imagine spending three weeks in a hotel room.

ZW: I loved it. It was just my thing.

LS: Remember how the otters took over? I was so happy for them.

SH: We've talked a bit about waiting. All of you are reaching the end of your education for the foreseeable future, though I'm not sure if any of you are planning to further your studies. What can't you guys wait for to happen?

ET: Honestly, I'm waiting for the next chance to act.

SH: Does it feel like it's very hard to continue?

ET: I’ve continued auditioning but sometimes, rejection can be really demoralising.

JL: It's so scary. When we graduate, the safety net will not be there anymore. We'll really have to find work. The industry in Singapore is really hard. A lot of actors stop acting after a while because they have to focus on something else to put food on the table. But also being in school with such a busy schedule, there were many times that I had to say no to projects. It feels like the worst thing to do. Because you just want to act, but because of school and your training, you cannot do that. When I'm in school, I feel I’m always waiting for life to begin. I'm excited but my future in Singapore is so uncertain.

LS: For me, there's a high chance I'll end up doing a job that's unrelated to the arts simply because of money. I have this idealistic notion that I'll get a job that grants me this financial stability to fund my passion projects. But I know when push comes to shove, it'll be way more difficult than I envisioned it. I want to try to achieve it anyway, where there's money coming in from a full-time job and this money is going back into my passion for acting. I'm currently doing a part-time communications internship because I'm trying to figure out what to do after university and I have nothing much on my resume.

SH: Is there a role you guys wish you could play?

JL: Right now, I just want to capitalise on my youth and play a high school character. I'm not going to look young forever and I want to do those kinds of roles, like The Teenage Textbook Movie.

ET: I'm very interested in Jim Carrey's filmography. I would like to do something similar to what he's done. Both his comedy and dramatic works. He also has a really flexible face.

LS: You really do have a Mask’ sort of face. I also think you can play a Joker kind of character.

ET: Playing a psychopath is on my bucket list.

JL: I played a serial killer once before. It was so fun because you really have to get into a serial killer mentality.

SH: What is the serial killer mentality?

JL: A bit psycho? You think killing people is funny and you enjoy killing people. Sadistic. Playing a character that's so drastically different from yourself is so much fun. You're really stepping out of yourself and having an out-of-body experience.

SH: Why do so many actors want to play psychopaths?

LS: Because you can take such risks. Because you can really play around with it. It gives you the flexibility to do out of ordinary things. It's fun when you can break something that you wouldn't be able to do in a conventional setting, but you can be wild in these circumstances. I want to play a psychopath too, but I'd like to do more comic roles as well. I do it in theatre, but never had the chance to do less serious work. It tends to be very emotional.

SH: Do you feel like Singapore doesn't really support its actors in general? What is your sense of how the system and structure works?

ET: I can't think of anything specific to Singapore because it feels like actors elsewhere in the United States also face the same problems about sustainability. There's no full-time actor job because it's a gig economy. [In that sense] it's really good to see more Singapore content being made, which is quite hopeful.

JL: It's really hard for me to say because when I first started out, it was hard to break into the market. Not a lot of stuff would be offered to me anyway. In Singapore, there isn't a big market for actors because it's such a small country. There aren't a lot of jobs. I feel like other actors overseas would probably face similar struggles but being an actor in Singapore is a little bit harder. There's just not a big industry, unlike in Thailand, US, China, where the population is huge.

SH: Do you think you'll leave?

JL: I want to be in Singapore and I also want to experience acting overseas. Recently, I did a project in Thailand. There, I got to learn more about how big the Thai industry is and what actors do. That gave me the inspiration to try other markets in the future. You need connections and you need to be brave.

SH: Raj?

LS: I wanted to talk about being a minority actor in Singapore. It's become a double edged sword. There’s a positive in that people are focusing more on inclusivity and diversity; there's an avenue for someone to enter the industry in this manner. But on the other hand, it can fall into tokenism. For certain projects I've been selected for, I know it wasn't always because of merit. There was barely any competition because I’m an Indian guy. I get cast because I look a certain way. I'm not sure it's a problem that can ever be solved.

Naturally, the racial makeup of Singapore means that there's less minority actors. It can sometimes lead you to question your own ability. I don't know if I'm a good actor or if I'm only here because of my race. That's my experience acting in Singapore.

ZW: Raj isn't wrong. In this particular film, we were considering actors of all races especially for the casting of the army boys. I was very specific to the casting directors that we would cast as wide as possible. For me it's about the ability of the actors and I think Raj is a wonderful actor. In the scene where he has a conversation with Meng , I felt that these words that I'd been living with for years had come alive. I was very moved by them. I understand where Raj is coming from and I hope people can look past that and cast Raj for the actor that he is.

LS: Thank you so much, Zhi Wei. It's only natural that it is this way, of course. Most of the stories are being told by Chinese folks because they are the majority in Singapore and that means there's also more competition amongst the Chinese. [But] I feel quite strongly against tokenism because of my personal experiences being selected for corporate videos in the past. I've literally been told I was selected only because they needed an Indian guy. Someone else was supposed to be selected but because this person wasn't diverse enough, they weren't selected. It affected how I perceived myself and how people would assume that this guy is up there because they needed representation.

ZW: Does it affect your confidence as an actor?

LS: Definitely. For TIALT, I knew it wasn't tokenism because it was focused on performance. But there are so many cases where they clearly don't care about how well or badly I act. I'm in because they just need some loud, funny Indian guy — especially in the corporate world where they need to show face. I think it's more prevalent in the commercial side of things. The experience of being a minority actor is different to that extent.

ZW: I'm sorry that you had to go through that. Your ability speaks for itself. A lot of people have told me that you've given a wonderful performance, so it's sad to hear that.

LS: I don't even feel too bad about it because I have these things to thank for even getting these opportunities in the first place. It's not all bad. You can take advantage of being the diversity hire, but it never fully feels like earned it.

ZW: Thank you for coming onboard the film. I feel very lucky to have actors like these. I know their struggles are real because being a young actor in Singapore is always difficult. I hope that they continue to work and I look forward to seeing them in other people's films as well, not just my own. I also look forward to working with them in the future if the opportunity arises.

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About the Movie:

Directed by: Jow Zhi Wei

Cast: Leon Dai, Julius Foo, Edward Tan, Harry Nayan, Lekheraj Sekhar, Jay Victor and Neo Swee Lin

Year: 2023

Duration: 1h 46min

Language: Mandarin

Synopsis: A middle-aged widower whose relationship with his sensitive teenage son in the densely packed spaces of contemporary Singapore slowly becomes unbearable.

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Tomorrow is a long time will have its Southeast Asian premiere on 3rd December 2023, 4.00 PM at the 34th Singapore International Film Festival. The screening will be followed by a Q&A with the director. Tickets can be purchased here: https://sgiff.com/film/tomorrow-is-a-long-time/ .

(JFF 2023) Existential Booksellers and Filmmakers in 'Polan' and 'Your Lovely Smile'

Wed, 01 Nov 2023 02:53:27 GMT

[JFF 2023]

Existential Booksellers and Filmmakers in Polan and Your Lovely Smile

*This essay may contain plot spoilers. Reader discretion is advised.*

A few years ago I watched from a monitor as an actor recited, “If I had such a hard time quitting music, don’t you think I’m meant to do it?” The short film was never released, but the line comes back to me in the moments where grief over failure and the fear that this finally, is the moment my time in film ends strikes. As I saw myself through these moods, it became clear to me that it was never a question of extracting myself from film: it was to lose myself in the work of it and make it sustainable.

At this year’s Japanese Film Festival, I found the courage to stick with that imperative in the company of the booksellers of Polan (2022) and the filmmakers in Your Lovely Smile (2022). The central concern of the films’ subjects is not the crossroads of pursuing money or passion. Instead, having already made the decision to pursue their chosen careers, we find them in medias res. The result is not so much a celebration and valorisation of cultural workers as it is an insistent affirmation of the right to walk the path one desires. It isn’t that there’s an absence of self-doubt, frustration and helplessness; nor is it that there aren’t impossible obstacles to reckon with, which span stingy landlords to an indifferent audience. It’s the fact that they are met with a steadiness and stoicism that belies the existentialism of these booksellers and filmmakers who are all too busy with making things work to lament their misfortune.

Described as “ chalan - polan ” (Japanese: happy-go-lucky) in his youth, Polan’s namesake Kyosuke Ishida, was a committed student protestor in his youth. He held fast to the ideal of running a vintage bookstore while other protestors began to wear suits and apply for office jobs. Now he sports a newsboy cap and dark, stiff fabrics, throughout the length of the documentary — a most practical uniform for extended contact with dusty old books in crates and shelves that must constantly be stocked to optimise a customer’s browsing experience. Workwear fit for a life spent amongst books.

Polan in the daytime.

At Polan, the only indication of the store’s closure is an unassuming piece of paper stuck to a bookshelf. Otherwise, it’s business as usual. Why waste time on a grand announcement when they were going to continue what they were doing anyway? Along with Polan’s staff, Mr Ishida and his wife, Chiseko Ishida, flurry through the bookstore tending to customers, sorting and pricing books, restocking and aligning their shelves between cashiering duties and completing online orders that, despite everything, has maintained steady sales and allows them to find a way to persists in negotiating the cooperation of desire and the practical. In an age of industrial nostalgia and romanticism for the purity of analogue experiences, the elderly couple’s migration to bookselling online is only an evolution of their bookselling career. They are booksellers through and through, concerned only with getting books into the hands of their customers by any means necessary.

Of course it would’ve been great if they had retained their store. Mr Ishida iterates they would have continued operating the store “by any means necessary” — if it weren’t for the disruption of the pandemic and more crucially, an unsympathetic landlord with multiple properties who refused to make a small reduction in rent to avoid setting a precedent for other tenants. And so Mr Ishida packed up the shop with his wife, leaving the secluded corner of Tokyo abandoned, barren and dim. In a closing note, director Nakamura Kota informs the audience that no one has taken up Polan’s former space. Meanwhile, the Ishidas continue selling books online and at book fairs while their staff, past and present, opened their own book nooks across Japan. Save the empty rental unit, everyone’s lives went on.

Rental space after Polan’s closure.

If Polan depicts the duality of endings and beginnings, Your Lovely Smile is a wry meditation on how making progress is often more static and repetitive than it is marked by dramatic evolution. Hirobumi Watanabe, maverick director of Japanese independent cinema, stars in Lim Kah Wai’s metatextual narrative about independent cinemas and a critically acclaimed filmmaker trying to sustain himself beyond the festival circuit. With the axiom that filmmaking is life, Watanabe’s devotion to cinema takes on a comedic existentialism as he cannot seem to stop himself from making films even when his films aren’t in production. But it's not compelling enough to draw a devoted, paying audience; less so when it comes to independent films in an ongoing pandemic. To mitigate this doubled alienation, Watanabe’s persona treks across Japan to distribute his films to local cinemas. Much has been made of the reticence of the audience to venture beyond franchise and superhero blockbusters. I propose that in Your Lovely Smile , that tendency to blame the audience is interrupted and the onus is on the filmmakers themselves to find an audience of their own.

Watanabe-persona is confronted with an empty theatre.

Following the success of his last screening in Tokyo, Watanabe-persona sports a t-shirt with “Genius” emblazoned across the chest, holding on to the hope that entertainment giants like Japanese Big Four studio Toei, Netflix and Amazon would come calling and thereby deliver his genius to a mainstream audience. He is finally called into a meeting at a luxury resort in Okinawa, only to be met by a self-serving Big Four producer played by Shogen, who instructs him to complete a script based on the producer’s life and to cast the woman of the hour by his side. Watanabe-persona tries his best to complete it but as he has admitted before, he doesn’t make films for an audience, especially not when the audience is a singular egotistical figure who delights in making himself the locus of power. The paradox of not making films for an audience yet being financially dependent on their attendance comes to a head: if he can’t bring the masses to his films, what he can do is screen his film in many spaces so that as many people get to see them as possible.

Watanabe-persona sets out on the road and soon finds it nearly impossible to convince any of the independent cinemas across the country to programme his films. Indeed, when he finally secures a screening, the struggle to generate publicity to attract an audience is endearingly comical until, despite some encouraging interactions, no one turns up. Facing a theatre full of empty seats, can a filmmaker still call himself a filmmaker if no one is there? Thank god for the camera that accompanies his trek to independent cinemas across Japan, rendering his life as film itself. Just as the endless nature of searching and waiting for an audience seems to tip into the Sisyphean, he winds up in a cinema at the end of the world — literally, as it faces permanent closure. Presented with an opportunity to meet a small but dedicated audience regularly but in the capacity of a cinema worker, Watanabe-persona takes it on. It’s what he was in search of all this time. Soon enough, he is an elderly man hobbling to the front to greet this audience of his own.

An elderly Watanabe-persona greeting the audience at the end of the movie.

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About the Author: Sasha seeks to reify the fugitive effects of looking through language. She received her BA in 2021 and has worked with HBO Asia, the Singapore International Film Festival and the National Archives of Singapore.

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Japanese Film Festival 2023 runs till 20 December this year. More info at https://jff.sg/

Film Review #83: MONSTER

Wed, 04 Oct 2023 16:48:39 GMT

Film Review #83: MONSTER 怪物 [Kaibutsu]

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

*本篇影评含雷，请斟酌阅读。*

Film still from Monster

Koreeda's films will always be anticipated because of his delicate and sensitive portrayal of individuals and their subconscious tendencies. His 2018 feature Shoplifters , a gut-wrenching depiction of a group of chosen family members, earned him the renowned Palme d'Or. Monster is his first Japanese feature since Shoplifters , after dabbling with directing overseas in Korea and France.

Monster is Koreeda's first film for which he did not write the script, but his collaborator Yuji Sakamoto won the award for best screenplay at Cannes. It is also a tribute to the late Maestro Ryuichi Sakamoto, with some of his famed pieces used to emphasise bittersweet emotions.

Film still from Monster

The movie introduces itself with a mother, played by Sakura Ando, seeking to understand her son's erratic behaviour. This is further aggravated when her son, Minato, is accused of something unbelievable by the school, leaving audiences baffled and this constant need to comprehend the current situation acts as an impetus to drive the narrative.

While the word "monster" conjures up a grotesque image, the investigation of the monster in this film takes on a non-physical shape as we comprehend the concept of how the child protagonist copes with being estranged from his environment. Despite being an allegorical interpretation, Koreeda is more concerned with studying the concept of truth and whether or not an interpretation told from a single point of view is able to hold up to its legitimacy.

Film still from Monster

The film follows a triptych structure, supported by an exceptional editing technique and sound direction. You can visually appreciate the amount of thought that went into getting each episode to fit the entire premise. Initially, the first and second acts seem desultory at the expense of providing perspectives of different characters who are intertwined in the lives of the two child protagonists, Minato and Yori. But as the story progresses, more layers are added, giving incredible depth to each and every character.

Koreeda is a master in directing children — his films I Wish, Nobody Knows, Like Father, Like Son are testament — and Monster is no exception. It has left a deep impression through the performance that he has managed to extract out of the two main protagonists; it is so nuanced and complex, highlighting the unique and often under-appreciated ways in which adolescents perceive the world around them.

Another similarly themed film that comes to mind instantly is Lukas Dhont’s Oscar-nominated feature, Close . Both films are spiritually related and would be an interesting double-bill experience. Audiences are definitely bound to walk out trying to process the ending sequence of Monster alongside the deeply moving score of the film. Monster is undeniably a remarkable addition to Koreeda’s filmography.

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About the Author: Deepag is highly interested in adding films with innovative voices and historical significance to his Letterboxd watchlist.

About the Movie:

Directed by: Hirokazu Kore-eda

Cast: Sakura Andō, Eita Nagayama, Soya Kurokawa, Hinata Hiiragi, Yūko Tanaka

Year: 2023

Duration: 2h 5min

Language: Japanese

Synopsis: When her young son Minato starts to behave strangely, his mother feels that there is something wrong. Discovering that a teacher is responsible, she storms into the school demanding to know what's going on. But as the story unfolds through the eyes of mother, teacher and child, the truth gradually emerges.

Film Review #82: BREAKING ICE

Tue, 26 Sep 2023 11:46:26 GMT

Film Review #82: BREAKING ICE 燃冬

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

*本篇影评含雷，请斟酌阅读。

Film still from Breaking Ice

Anthony Chen's fourth feature, The Breaking Ice (2023), marks a decade since he brought home the accolade Camera d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival for his debut feature, Ilo Ilo (2013). The Breaking Ice premiered at Cannes's Un Certain Regard race this year, and is Chen's first Mainland Chinese film, starring Golden Horse Best Actress Award winner Dongyu Zhou, together with co-stars Haoran Liu and Chuxiao Qu.

The film tells a story that explores themes of redemption, loneliness and the blurred lines between friendship and love. The three leads formed a love triangle in the movie, a portrayal which reminded several audiences of François Truffaut’s Jules et Jim (1962).

Film still from Breaking Ice

For casual moviegoers or audiences who aren’t familiar with Chen and Chen's work, it is easy to see this film as one made by a Mainland Chinese filmmaker. In his attempt to tell the story he wanted this time, Chen eluded nationalities, geography, culture and customs.

The Breaking Ice revolves around Nana (Dongyu Zhou) - a former competitive figure-skater turned tour guide in Yanji; Haofeng (Haoran Liu) - a bright but depressed finance executive who works in Shanghai; and Xiao (Chuxiao Qu) - a worker in his relatives' restaurant living in regret for not realizing his potential. Three people from extremely different backgrounds formed an unlikely bond, at times a love triangle, at times three bodies sharing one same soul, and other times floating in-between.

The Breaking Ice, when compared to Chen’s first two features – Ilo Ilo and Wet Season – shows an improvement in crafting not one or even two but three central characters and their respective back stories to a relative degree of perfection. To this end, Chen deserves massive praises, but might I add, this feat in itself brings about the film’s imperfections. That, as interesting and even entertaining as watching the three leads may be, the plot or story started from good at best, to a point where even with the resolutions of the three leads being ambiguous, I couldn’t push myself to genuinely care about finding out what exactly happened to them after the events in the film.

Film still from Breaking Ice

The film stands tall on its compelling performances from the three leads, and on Chen’s direction. Apart from Cannes, the only other major awards news for the film so far is that Singapore has chosen it to represent the country at next year's Oscars in the international feature category, but it's still a long way and the first hurdle would be making into the shortlist. Zhou's performance needs no additional praises, it's a pity The Breaking Ice isn't gonna hit the Golden Horse Awards this year else Zhou might've been in the run for her second best actress award. Both the gentlemen did a wonderful job with their own characters too but if only Chen had given more time and space to dive into Xiao’s story would Qu then match his co-stars’ presence.

The Breaking Ice is a visually stunning film that warrants a theatrical first watch, and a second watch for those of us interested (yes that includes me) from the comfort of our bed or couch.

My Letterboxd score for the film – 3.5 stars

时隔十年，陈哲艺导演再次问鼎坎城影展。

陈导的第四部作品《燃冬》由内地三位炙手可热的演员领衔主演 – 金马影后周冬雨，以及新生代男神刘昊然、屈楚萧。

《燃冬》故事讲述前花式溜冰员转延吉导游娜娜（周冬雨饰）与上海金融新秀浩丰（刘昊然饰）及娜娜多年青梅竹马韩萧（屈楚萧饰）的三角恋，以及他们三人的复杂背景和过去。

论野心，这部片无疑是陈哲艺导演目前为止视野最远、最广，主题内容最深的电影。不得不说，三个主角的塑造非常成功，其中任何两位，以及三位合体的所有情节，都很吸睛，丝毫不觉得电影枯燥乏味。剧中的娜娜、浩丰及韩萧除了构成一个三角恋之外，与彼此更多的是一种互相救赎的关系。

在看的时候并没有察觉，但现在发现周冬雨在《燃冬》里饰演娜娜，跟她的第一座金马影后电影《七月与安生》形成了相当有意思的对比。两部都是由三角恋展开故事的电影，而周冬雨原先从《七月与安生》里两位女主角之一的李安生，变成了《燃冬》里被两位男主角同时喜欢上的娜娜。无奈《燃冬》无缘今年的金马奖，不然周冬雨很有可能问鼎她的第二座影后奖座。

承上所述，《燃冬》的优点也可说是它的缺点。再一次自编自导的陈哲艺，固然将他故事里的三大主角塑造的有形有象，有声有色，有血有泪。不过，电影的故事却显得不比它的角色生动，以至于结尾三位主角的后续发展不明，某些观众可能觉得无所谓，不被勾起好奇心。

要选出《燃冬》最值得赞赏的地方，想必是三位主角的演出，以及陈哲艺的指导。僅管电影不完美，9月29日仍传来了《燃冬》被选为代表新加坡角逐明年奥斯卡金像奖最佳国际电影殊荣的喜讯。

《燃冬》片中景色壮观宜人，许多画面都拍得让人如痴如醉，观众必须在电影院里享有自己的初体验；而有意想二刷的人们，凉快安静的周末午后沙发是个不错的选择。

我给《燃冬》在 Letterboxd 打 3.5 颗星。

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Follow Jarrett on Letterboxd: https://boxd.it/2JImT

(HKFGP) Film Review #81: TO BE CONTINUED

Tue, 19 Sep 2023 07:31:05 GMT

Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation

Film Review #81: TO BE CONTINUED

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

Haider Kikabhoy and Dora Choi’s To Be Continued begins ostensibly as a documentary about an abandoned building; Hong Kong’s State Theater, located in North Point. Kikabhoy is our main presenter as he goes into detail about how he slowly developed his fascination for the building, and his understanding that Hong Kong had almost let a historical landmark pass it by. The tone is actually quite upbeat in that regard, less mulling on why the building had been left behind and more on the almost child-like curiosity in unearthing its history. There is certainly much to be fascinated by here, with ample amounts of old footage and urban explorer-esque discoveries as Kikabhoy dives into the long-unused theatre, coated in old dust and older memories.

Were that the sole focus of the documentary, I personally would still have viewed it quite favourably; I admittedly am a fan of abandoned buildings. To clarify, I am a fan of going through the history of famed abandoned buildings, to uncover and research the sheer wealth of history of what once allowed everyday people in and out its doors. However dilapidated they become, however an eyesore some might deem them to be, the life that the people gave them lingers on, long after they have since closed down.

Film still from To Be Continued

While the subject is of a building from Hong Kong, I believe such a sentiment would resonate to a Singaporean audience as well. It is no surprise that Hong Kong has demolished and bulldozed many historic buildings in its 60 years of progress; the Raffles Place of the 1960’s is a far cry from how it is today, but to focus on the buildings that still remain, I cannot help but think of The Majestic, the old Cantonese opera house that is situated on Eu Tong Sen Street. Whilst not completely abandoned, this near-century old building that survived through World War 2, Singapore’s independence and rapid industrialization, has long since been past its prime, and you would scarcely find any photos of its interior, but it still prevails in Chinatown as a living, breathing symbol of Singaporean history.

But To Be Continued is not just about a building’s legacy. Kikabhoy states as much in the documentary itself, where in his research of the State Theater he comes across the man who found it; Hong Kong’s first impresario, Harry Odell. It is here where the documentary begins to show its hand in full, as we transition in focus from the State Theater to Odell. We learn of Odell’s life before and during his time in Hong Kong through a wealth of archival material, punctuating by interviews with his living relatives and the people that had been influenced by him; those who know their Hong Kong cinema will probably perk up in recognition at interviews with Rebecca Pan and Kenneth Tsang (in a posthumous appearance).

Film still from To Be Continued

The documentary frames him around the context as a leading entertainment taste-maker during Hong Kong’s “coming of age” years, highlighting his achievements even outside of the State Theater, from introducing international musicians and acts into Hong Kong, such as Benny Goodman to The Beatles. A contentious discussion can certainly be made in regards to just how much Hong Kong’s cultural progress is influenced by this one man, but To Be Continued’s sincerity in its subject matters were able to push past my most cynical inclinations. Kikabhoy invites Odell’s living family back to Hong Kong and to tour their old home, and there is a palpable sense of nostalgia and history being relieved, which I believe is the documentary’s intention.

To Be Continued is a love letter to a building and to a man, but more importantly than that, it is a ruminating but ultimately optimistic call to remember the people and places of a nation’s history, for it can be so easily forgotten. As I wrote above, I am sure that that will be a message that resonates quite heavily to the Singaporean people.

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About the Author: Wei Li Heng is an avid lover of uncovering and writing about obscure and underseen Asian cinema. He hopes to discover local cinematic gems and share them to a wider audience.

This review was written for Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation happening on 29 September - 1 October 2023.

Tickets are available here: https://shaw.onl/HKFG23

(HKFGP) Film Review #80: TWELVE DAYS

Tue, 19 Sep 2023 07:05:38 GMT

Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation

Film Review #80: TWELVE DAYS

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

If you've seen director Aubrey Lam's romance film Twelve Nights ( 2000), you may be familiar with the structure of its sequel, Twelve Days (2021).

In the same way, the film consists of twelve sequences in an intimate relationship, each of which begins with a sentence representing the heartfelt words of either the hero or the heroine. Twenty-one years on, the protagonists have changed from being a young man and a woman with separate partners to another couple who have been married for years.

If Twelve Nights explores the plight of young couples in romantic relationships, then Twelve Days carries that dilemma over into the context of marriage. This time, Lam seems more interested in focusing on women's situation of being disciplined in marriage, especially in a patriarchal society. Women as individuals are prevented from pursuing their freedom in intimate relationships by the minutiae of daily life.

Film still from Twelve Days

Same as twenty-one years ago, Lam maintains her "pessimistic" attitude toward intimate relationships. She seems to favour the portrayal of men who are "emotionally inattentive" and women who place too much of their own value on close relationships.

In both films, the male characters agree that "life is mundane and bland." The female character, however, expects to find freshness in the relationship, trying not to equate LOVE with HABITATION.

In Twelve Days , Simon and Jeannie's motivation for getting married was simply the need to form their own private space. Although the film's plot is presented in a more fragmented way, the seemingly everyday scenes are filled with metaphors for the relationship between this two.

An unpleasant incident at their wedding is a foreshadowing of the discord in their marriage. The bowling match between Jeannie and Simon alludes to the fact that they have become "rivals" rather than " partners" in marriage. When waiting for the New Year's countdown, they constantly look at each other across the streets in Central, representing both a physical and spiritual separation. (This shot also echoes a similar scene from Twelve Nights .

Film still from Twelve Days

Twelve Days is my first time seeing Stephy Tang as a contemporary woman struggling with intimacy since Table For Six(2022). She presents a compelling performance in her “HK modern women”area. Unlike the more dramatic approach to comedy, as the only female lead in a film that unfolds from the perspective of a female character, she controls the pace of the film with her powerful and natural performance. Outside of this, the fragmented pace leads the film to omit some of the characters' motivations. The film concentrates more on showing the conflicts in the marriage of the two rather than the deeper reasons for these conflicts.

Rather than saying that the film discusses "whether marriage is a compromise," I prefer to think that the film presents "whether women need to compromise in marriage." Lam renders her less-than-optimistic answer to this question to the film's ending. The toxic relationship goes in circles, and the runaway "Nora" ends up back at "the doll's house." The story of Romeo and Juliet is a classic simply because the script doesn't have the plot of them being married for years.

Overall, if you're interested in a film that discusses intimacy in contemporary Hong Kong, Twelve Days might be a choice for you.

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About the Author: Shirwen has always been an English literature student, and is sometimes, a theatre kid trying to find out more about what she can do in film studies. She's also a Chick-flicks lover, so maybe you can find her fan fiction when surfing the Internet.

This review was written for Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation happening on 29 September - 1 October 2023.

Tickets are available here: https://shaw.onl/HKFG23

(HKFGP) Film Review #79: JULY RHAPSODY

Tue, 19 Sep 2023 04:49:14 GMT

Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation

Film Review #79: JULY RHAPSODY

*This film review may contain plot spoilers, reader discretion is advised.*

In July Rhapsody, a mid-life crisis unfurls as a domestic drama of a school teacher’s marriage woes. When his wife’s ex-lover makes an intrusion into their lives, it brings back old memories both had chosen to forget. To further complicate matters, a precocious female student tries to tempt him with her seductions. Ann Hui’s domestic drama contemplates past and present romances, reflects upon one’s inner desires but finds redemption within regret. July Rhapsody comes across as a genuine attempt to work through a troubled marriage, even as the couple look back with nostalgia on their own youth.

Hui, known for her films that tackle social issues, treats July Rhapsody as a romance film but approaches its subject from a mature perspective. Much as it would be easy to sensualise it, Hui is restrained in how she deals with the sensitive subject of teacher student relationships. As authoritative figures that students typically look up to, it becomes a conundrum that complicates life both in and out of school. The film puts this at the forefront of the narrative, and while it places a strain on the family, becomes essential when the couple are forced to find closure to past problems.

Film still from July Rapsody

Ching (Anita Mui) is sought out by her old flame, their teacher, who is ailing. It creates tension between her and Lam, who becomes struck with insecurity. Now older and a mother of two, she feels obliged to settle any unresolved hurts by being his caretaker in his last days. Lam (Jacky Cheung) becomes mired in his own insecurities when he attends a class reunion, seeing his old friends now leading lavish lives while he earns less as a teacher. With the passion of his marriage burnt out, he is swayed when a younger student Woo (Karena Lam) shows interest in him. Lam’s predicament then, feels like a repeat of history, a mistake that he is determined not to commit.

Film still from July Rapsody

July Rhapsody is guided by the moral values that Lam as a school teacher espouses. Even when he is met with temptations, there’s always that inkling of rationale in his eyes. His role as a teacher of literature carries with it a poetic sense of reasoning, and he digs into that in order to curb his own emotions and impart moral values to Woo. While the implication of their relationship is outrageous in its own right, the poetic approach softens it. July Rhapsody has a premise that would normally be deemed taboo in the eyes of Chinese audiences. Hui however, frames these interactions to place Lam in a more redemptive light as he seeks to make things right.

Film still from July Rapsody

It’s also great to see Jacky Cheung act opposite Anita Mui. The two leads share a chemistry, but unlike that of young lovers, they play the old married couple convincingly. Nestled comfortably in each others arms, with an intimacy that comes from years of understanding the other party. It’s a marriage that’s dictated by trust and commitment, only punctuated by the occasional moments of sentimental reminiscing. As each strives to find closure to past problems, it forces them to be honest with one another, and through that bridge the distance between.

Film still from July Rapsody

One might see the film as one that paints the younger, innocent female student as the temptress who seeks to ruin a happy family. Such was the case when Ching had an affair with her teacher, and now when Woo is trying the same with Lam. However, the truth is often more nuanced, and this is exemplified by the fickle way each character behaves. There’s a constant fluctuation of emotions at play, stirring up confusion between the mind and the heart.

Ann Hui doesn’t always promise the happiest of endings with her films, but each seeks to provide catharsis by offering a form of closure to the issues at hand. July Rhapsody sees Lam and Ching come to terms with their own mistakes and emotional baggage, allowing them to be free of past burdens that weighed them down.

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This review was written for Hong Kong Film Gala Presentation happening on 29 September - 1 October 2023.

Tickets are available here: https://shaw.onl/HKFG23

Zen-Mind Filmmaking: Singapore Filmmaker-Educator Introduces A New Experiment and Movement

Mon, 21 Aug 2023 04:29:46 GMT

Photo credits: Jared Kim Photography

“It is not uncommon to hear of art inspired by Zen philosophy, from calligraphy to archery to architecture to gardening, but filmmaking is a complex process that is highly conditional and dependent on external factors.

How do you make a film with a Zen-mind? What will it look like?"

For most art forms, the process of making is as important (and enjoyable) as what is made. While filmmakers enjoy making films, the end justifies the means.

‘ You are only as good as your last film ’, they say.

The making itself often brings more pain than joy to the filmmaker because of numerous conditions attached to the process. From funding, to marketing and distribution, every aspect of the production weighs heavily on the shoulders of all independent filmmakers. Ironically, enjoying the process is the last thing that comes to mind.

This is probably why ‘Zen-Mind Filmmaking’, conceived by Singaporean filmmaker-educator, Tzang Merwyn Tong - currently a lecturer at Republic Polytechnic teaching Visual Storytelling and Film Appreciation - sparked my interest. As the name suggests, it is an approach inspired by Zen Buddhism to free filmmakers from the conditions attached to filmmaking and focus on the “now” – the making. As an avid yoga practitioner and actress myself, I am inherently aligned with the ‘Zen’ philosophy but I know filmmaking is anything but Zen.

"The Zen-Mind filmmaking methodology employs the use of minimalism, non-attachment to make films in the here and now. The purpose is to free the filmmaker from entanglements associated with filmmaking. Too often entanglements like funding, seeking resources and hustling for support takes priority over the act of making films itself."

Photo credits: Jared Kim Photography

On 10 January 2023, I attended as a representative of the Singapore Film Society for the first ever sharing of Zen-Mind Filmmaking Experiment. Other invitees to the closed-door session included filmmakers, artists, musicians, researchers, film educators, zen-masters and meditation practitioners. Tzang mentioned that he wanted this sharing session to be interrogative to see if it holds water from both a Zen or filmmaking perspective.

During the event held at Lasalle Campus on 10 January 2023, Tzang started with a one-minute mindful practice. Much like how I begin a yoga class, we breathe. And… do nothing. He wanted us to be in the “now” before sharing more about his approach and addressing some questions from the floor during the Q&A session, which was moderated by Lasalle lecturer and filmmaker Wesley Leon Aroozoo.

“Zen is about coming back to the center. The center of filmmaking is storytelling with the moving image."

As part of his research, he experimented with Zen-Mind Filmmaking with four local independent filmmakers. He outlined a ‘Zen-Mind’ manifesto that guided the filmmakers to be minimalistic in planning (e.g. rehearsals, scripting, shotlist etc.) and non-attached to hiccups (e.g. weather conditions, sound interference etc.) that occurred. The end result was four distinct short films that carried a vein of the filmmaker’s unique thought process and storytelling style, spreading across genres of drama, dark comedy and experimental thriller.

A ‘Zen-Mind’ short film does not have to leave the audience feeling Zen.

(From left) The Verge, by Darshan Kunasagran; The Cell, by Zach RS Ho; The Rehearsal, by Mattheaus Choo; Useless, by Syafiq Fadzelli

[Zen-Mind films "The Cell" by Zach RS Ho and "The Verge" by Darshan Kunasagran made its World Premiere in the Philippines at the Bakunawa Fantastic Film Festival in December 2022 to intrigue and acclaim. "The Verge" was voted the 6th most-watched short film in the online telecast.]

As I sat through the post-screening dialogue session with the filmmakers, I felt their sense of liberation when talking about their films. It was less about how good the film turned out, but about how much it resonated with them. As a member of the audience, I appreciated the art in their self-actualisation, even more than the films themselves. More than a methodology, Zen-Mind Filmmaking has a wellness dimension to help filmmakers look inwards during the process of actualising their films.

Photo credits: Jared Kim Photography

We often say, trust the process. Growing up in a culture that emphasizes precision and efficiency, how feasible is it then for a filmmaker to relinquish control and trust the process, I wonder…

Having watched the four Zen-Mind films, I am curious to see more of such films being made to offer a different cinematic experience. I am also hopeful to see how the Zen-Mind approach can help foster a more collaborative relationship between the director and actor, one that creates space for spontaneity.

Zen-Mind Filmmaking may have started out as an experiment but it has the potential to grow into a film movement born out of Singapore. While Dogma95, the Romanian New Wave and the No Wave Cinema movement of the New York Underground inspired Tzang, the Zen-Mind Filmmaking movement is philosophically very different from all of them.

Most of all, I look forward to seeing how much of the film industry this movement will wash over.

Additional resources:

If what you have just read interests you, check out our short video excerpts from 10 January’s Zen-Mind Filmmaking session on our TikTok and Instagram @singaporefilmsociety .

Check out the full length recording of Zen-Mind Filmmaking by Tzang on Youtube: https://youtu.be/jkqtpf9SnOM

For more information on the 4 experimental films, check out Tzang’s thoughts: https://linktr.ee/tzangm

About the founder of Zen-Mind Filmmaking, Tzang Merwyn Tong ( @tzang_m )

Tzang is an award-winning Singapore independent filmmaker and educator best known for his independent films often set in surreal alternate realities and made under tight constraints. His films have won festival acclaim in Rotterdam, Berlin, Montreal, Lund, Hong Kong and Tel Aviv. His latest film FAERYVILLE - Singapore's first dystopian teen movie, made in 2015, has just debuted on Netflix. Tzang has an MA in Arts Pedagogy and Practice from Goldsmiths, University of London, and is currently a Lecturer at RP's School of Technology for the Arts, teaching Visual Storytelling and Film Appreciation.

For more information on Zen-Mind Filmmaking, please contact @tzang_m on IG.

About the writer, Agnes ( @agnesgohsl )

Agnes is an actress who loves stories that inspire, empower and resonate with the audiences. After taking a leap of faith to venture into the film industry during the pandemic, she has been actively collaborating with filmmakers from across the world. Amidst the hustle and bustle, she finds her zen in yoga, films and connecting with like-minded folks in the SFS family. More about her at: https://agnesgoh.com

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