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Review: Changfeng Town (2019)

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A bird is perched on the bird-stand dangling precariously on strings. Murmuring; the mischievous children hide behind an aged brick wall with slingshots in hand. It is a recurring game they play, flinging projectiles till the bird-stand is hit and swaying. Of course, the children don’t really mean anything by it, it is merely a game. A way to pass the time in their little isolated town.


We are at first introduced to a young delinquent named Redhead, nicknamed after his dyed red hair. Seemingly aimless, and inactive in the pursuit of his goals, we follow him as he wanders town, going through his life’s routine. From playing pranks with a group of mischievous children to visiting his mother in the dentist’s office for money to visiting the cinema to pursue his love for the beautiful cinema ticket-seller. Following him and seeing his routine, it becomes clear that there isn’t really much to do here in Changfeng Town.


There is the cinema, there is a dentist’s office, there is a bar, there is a school, there are shops and there are houses. People here all appear to know each other, and gossip seems to travel faster than wildfire. Eventually, we are forced to part ways with Redhead and the story that we follow changes. Now it’s the dentist and his son’s story. This repeatedly happens throughout the film, but one thing remains consistent, all these stories are of the residents of this town, we won’t follow them anywhere else but here in Changfeng Town.


The film Changfeng Town is not about any single individual, but about the eponymous Changfeng Town and it’s few but many townsfolk. Instead of a single tightly constructed narrative typically found in most films, we are offered here vignettes of the town residents’ lives and given the opportunity to witness the tiny secrets and burdens that they may carry. The town's dentist, the crippled handyman, the aspiring young poet, and the few many of the town’s inhabitants living their lives, weaving in and out between the vignettes that we are let to see. These stories may not be particularly exciting, after all, neither the world nor town are really at stake here. These are relatively mundane things - a gossip session in a tailor store, a dentist bringing his son to buy soda, a cinema ticket-seller hoping for her crush to show up. Perhaps a little uneventful, but never boring to watch. Much thanks to the wonderful and realised performances, and director Wang Jing’s sensitive direction that brings out the humanity in the stories and never over sentimentalises the drama.


Watching Changfeng Town is a soothing experience, it brings to mind a sense of nostalgia, the simpler times in childhood. Perhaps it is the nature of where the film is set in, the rural set design of the old and worn, beautiful in its imperfection and age and the absence of the things moving quickly that one might find in the city. (Even the occasional shot of an airplane flying across the skies seem to be moving slow.) The characters here let to breathe and follow through their daily routines, things clearly feel to be going at a slower pace.


Still, the countryside lifestyle is not idealised. Even in Changfeng Town, isolated and far from the city, the bitterness and flawed nature of human life take root. Lust and infidelity occur, the adults love their gossip which in turn causes them to ostracise others, and sometimes people just leave and never return. Acknowledged equally are the things pleasant and unpleasant.


By the end, all things come to the end. Though the story in the film tells the stories of multiple characters, it is clear that the perspective is from one particular mischievous boy who is now older and recounting his experiences through voice-over narration. His narration not only lends a nostalgic tone, but it also makes us aware of the passage of time. It’s an important element in Changfeng Town. In all the stories told, one thing remains consistent. All the characters end up changed one way or another as time continues on. Seasons change the same as people, their relationships and their circumstances do. Nothing is of permanence.


If there is one thing I took away watching the film, it’s that we may all come, go and change, but at least the memories remain.


Changfeng Town is directed by Tay Bee Pin and had its international premiere at the Busan International Film Festival in 2019.

Review by Timothy Ong

ShoutOUT! New Southeast Asian Films announced at Asian TV Forum and Market

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mm2 Chief Content Officer Ng Say Yong, film director Chai Yee Wei and mm2 Asia CEO Chang Long Jong

Get on the edge of your seats for 2020 as a full slate of new films are coming your way! The currently ongoing Asian TV Forum and Market in Singapore is seeing a string new signatures on dotted lines. Here are what we can expect.

First up, Singapore media entertainment and content company mm2 Entertainment and Cathay Cineplexes announced a brand-new joint initiative: Go Local Go Cinema to be launched in 2020. Under this new initiative, the group will be offering Singaporeans and PRs tickets to watch local movies - for FREE. in the coming year, mm2 Entertainment will be producing a slate of at least three home-grown films that will subsequently be screened at Cathay Cineplexes at no cost to moviegoers. 

mm2 Entertainment has a line-up in the coming year that explores the genres of horror, drama and comedy. Directed by Ong Kuo Sin, Number 1 is a music comedy that brings audiences into the life of a retrenched white-collar worker and how he found a second career peak in the place least expected. After experiencing multiple failed interviews, he takes to the job as a manager at a club called Number 1, and unexpectedly becomes its biggest performer in the local drag scene. 

A joint production with Vividthree Productions, Hell Hole is a tale about love, loss, suffering and karma directed by Sam Loh. A loving mother makes a death pact with a spirit, sacrificing herself to save her son. Years later in medical school, the son becomes a victim of bullying that results in his tragic death, reuniting the two as vengeful spirits who return to exact revenge on those who have wronged them. 

One Headlight is a joint production with Byleft Productions and Vividthree Productions in which director Ong Kuo Sin brings audiences on a journey of self-discovery and familial ties. As the young protagonist, Kenny, seeks to complete the task of reuniting his niece with her elusive father after the passing of his sister, he sets off on a reluctant road trip that teaches him the importance of family.

Writing Letters (working title), is a film produced in collaboration with Mocha Chai Laboratories, and helmed by award-winning Director Chai Yee Wei, whose past works with mm2 include That Girl in Pinafore (2013) and Twisted (2011). Writing Letters traces the heartwarming and unlikely friendship between an illiterate father and his neighbor who helps pen his letters to his daughter studying abroad. 

Also at ATF, the team behind Singapore’s first monster movie, Circle Line, consisting of Director Chua Jing Du, and Co-Producer Ng Say Yong, VFX Supervisor Barry Lim, and Actor Peter Yu, shared more about how the film was conceived and developed. The trailer for Circle Line will be unveiled during Chinese New Year 2020.



Singapore-based global IP development, producing and licensing studio 108 Media, which co-produced the Filipino blockbuster Eerie with Star Cinema and released the Laotian festival hit by Mattie Do, The Long Walk,  has signed an option to produce director-writer Aaron Cowan’s feature screenplay Best Served Cold– based on the short story, Don't Eat The Rice by Sabah-based author Jill Girardi and characters in her novel, Hantu MacabreSet in picturesque Kota Kinabalu in Borneo, Best Served Cold is a unique mix of supernatural action-noir with texture and character spilling off the page, revolving around Suzanna Sim, an ex-MMA fighter turned gumshoe who uses her fists and her knowledge of Southeast Asian black magic while working with a toyol, a Malaysian mythical creature, to find a rich new client’s missing husband. Ann Osman (aka Athena), the top female MMA fighter in Malaysia will be involved in the project.



Some of the other films on the slate of 108 Media include Uklub (The Curse), written by Atom Magadia & Anne Prado-Magadia (Philippines / Horror-Thriller), In the Name of Lucia, written by Dodo Dayao & directed by Sheron Dayoc (Philippines / Horror), Ten, written by Bernice Low, based on the book “Ten” by Shamini Flint (Malaysia, Family-Sports), Chandra, written by Shern Chong and Justin Wong (Malaysia, Crime-Action) and Lanun, written by Justin Deimen (Indonesia, Crime-Drama). 

Interview: Bura by Eden Junjung (2019)

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Bura

Eden Junjung’s short film Bura transports us back into 1998 Indonesia, where the political tensions in East Java are high and religious paranoia equally so. Rumors of black-clothed ninjas terrorizing the Tapal Kuda region ran wild, with stories that during the night, these ninjas were targeting Muslim clerics and Koran teachers. As such young Muslim scholars (santri) took it upon themselves to guard their teachers during the night. However, one santri leaves his post to meet his lover during these tumultuous days.

Bura recently had it’s international premiere at the latest Singapore International Film Festival 2019 as part of the Southeast Asian short film competition as well as competing at the Jogja-Netpac Asian Film Festival as part of the Light of Asia Competition. 

When asked about how he got started on this project and where the story originated from Eden shared, "This story comes from real events that occurred in Indonesia around 1998-99. We got this story from the person who experienced it at that time and he also became the executive producer in this film."

With that connection in place, Eden then quickly delved into the story by researching from books and more first hand accounts from witnesses who have experienced through these attacks.

Bura dan Ironi dalam Fiksi Pendek Eden Junjung

The film itself is assured, well composed with a steady hand and more excitingly, begins with an intriguing sequence showcasing some feats of human endurance done in a long take. Eden chose to craft the opening intentionally and muses that, "At that time the Muslim students learned the science of immunity to protect themselves from ninja attacks and protect their Quran Teachers." Eager to show this aspect of the story imbued the film a sense of mythical quality.

The film title itself alludes to this as Eden lets us in on the meaning. "It means to spit, snake, dragon."

That fable-esque tone aside, the film overall feels somewhat understated, though for Eden, the film was made largely due to his urge to remember the past and share the . "It is important to remember history especially until now there has been no certain justice for the victims of the incident." He adds on that he isn't only concerned of the past but also what is happening now. "Issues that are disturbing the public and news of hoaxes still occur in Indonesia especially when political conditions heat up as they approach presidential elections."
Image result for bura film review eden

The film however seems to have much more going on underneath. There is a through line with regards to the female body or figure within the narrative, as well as a play on female clothing in a Muslim context especially when compared to these black clothed ninjas. 
Eden himself confesses that there are scenes that did not make it on screen and viewers may pick up between the lines. "The most memorable moment was when entering post production because I have to eliminate the scene that I like."

Review: Verdict (2019)

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Perhaps the most striking aspect of Verdict is its brutally honest depiction of Filipino judicial proceedings. From hiring lawyers to cross examinations, writer director Raymund Ribay Gutierrez is dedicated to blurring the lines between fiction and reality. It’s little wonder that many have already compared his works to that of Cinéma vérité. 

For this debut feature film, Gutierrez tackles the trials and tribulations that entail domestic abuse in the Philippines. The film takes its time to peel back the layers of a justice system that struggles to help those it is sworn to protect. While Gutierrez’s vérité approach lends itself to a gritty and realistic narrative, it can often make for a film that is as riveting as it is frustrating to watch.

Gutierrez has established himself as one of the most exciting writer directors coming out of the Philippines today. After starting out in graphic design, Gutierrez ventured into filmmaking under the tutelage of Brillante Mendoza, who’s best known for winning the Cannes Best Director award for his film, Kinatay, in 2009.

Ever since, Gutierrez’s films have gone on to premiere at some of the most prestigious film festivals across the globe. Most notably, his two short films, Imago and Judgement, were screened at the Cannes Film Festival in 2016 and 2018 respectively, with both competing for the coveted short film Palme d’Or. 

More recently, Verdict was screened in the Orizzonti (Horizons) section at the Venice Film Festival, where it won the Special Jury Prize. He is currently working on his second feature film. Quite the resume for a filmmaker who’s only 27 years of age.

Taking after his mentor, Gutierrez sought to explore social issues plaguing the Filipino community by telling the ‘found stories’ of individuals in a realistic light. With Verdict, he casts his light on the issue of domestic abuse, and the Kafkaesque justice system its victims must navigate in the fruitless pursuit of solace. It’s worth noting that Verdict is the feature length adaptation of his aforementioned short film, Judgement. 

Here, the victim is Joy, played by Max Eigenmann. The perpetrator is Joy’s husband, Dante, played by the late Kristoffer King. King’s performance was posthumously recognised by the Best Actor award at the Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF) last month


A violent encounter with her alcoholic husband one night leaves Joy and their daughter, Angel, battered and bruised. In response, Joy turns to the Filipino judicial system in the hope of finally putting Dante behind bars. What initially seems like an open-and-close case soon proves to be an uphill struggle, as the two parties square off in an endless battle of lawyers and witness statements. The courtroom quickly becomes their battlefield, and their child, the reward. 

Besides having scenes reshot and stretched out, the plot points of Verdict and its short film predecessor are practically identical. Arguably, Verdict does not so much seek to be an extension of Judgement as it is to be an expansion of it. 

For one, the film delves much deeper into the pathos of the antagonist, Dante. As much as viewers may want to see him behind bars, one can’t help but sympathise with his family, as they too are dragged into the affair. Boosted by King’s nuanced performance, we see his genuine concern for his mother and daughter, as well as his dogged denial to confess to his crime. 



It’s clear that Gutierrez didn’t want to paint anyone, not even the perpetrator, as a mere ‘villain’. In fact, the closest semblance to one is probably the judicial system as portrayed in the film. Bureaucratic and ill-equipped, it’s a system that would sooner serve a criminal paperwork than justice. The courtroom scenes are fittingly claustrophobic, with tight angles framing the victims who uncomfortably sit in the blistering heat.

There’s a courtroom sequence I wanted to highlight, where a man with tuberculosis is chased out. Before the judge orders him out, he asks for his case trial number to determine how far down the list he is. Though an abrupt moment, I saw it as a fascinating comparison of the justice system to a medical one. Gutierrez aptly paints the Filipino justice system as surgical and cold. Even the judge seems detached from the rulings he gives –– a cog in the machine churning out verdict after verdict, with little thought to what consequences may entail.

One of the most poignant shots is the very final one, which, without spoiling anything, speaks volumes for how such cases are treated and viewed under Filipino jurisdiction. By the time Verdict cuts to black, we are left with only dissatisfaction, which perhaps best mirrors Joy’s own feelings by the end of the film.

Gutierrez exercises incredible restraint in not pulling the camera back, even when we, as viewers, would rather avert our eyes from the horrors onscreen. It’s a harsh reminder of the realities that individuals like Joy have to face every day, and it’s a testament to Gutierrez’s dedication to projecting the true suffering such victims undergo. The film constantly denies its characters and its viewers relief, and this is where Verdict is at its best.

While there are welcome additions, not everything the film expands upon made for a more rewarding experience. Ultimately, the feature film takes 2 hours to get where its short film got in 15 minutes. That isn’t to say Verdict is any less effective than its predecessor. However, it also doesn’t prove itself to be that much more effective either. Like I said, this is a film that takes its time, and sometimes it may take more than it needs to convey what it wants to say. Although, in the director’s own words, “reality is our main objective”, and arguably, slow and tedious is the very reality of the Filipino justice system.


As his first feature length film, what Gutierrez has done here is nothing short of remarkable. Although comparisons to his mentor are inevitable, I’d argue that the young director has started paving the way for a filmography he can truly call his own. While Verdict can be a slow-burn, it still solidifies Gutierrez’s name as one to look out for in the years to come.

Review by Charlie Chua

Action, Cut, Reprise! An interview with Stanley Xu on his short film 'Reprise'

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Premiered in the Wide Angle - Asian short film competition at the 24th Busan International Film Festival, Reprise, by Singapore filmmaker Stanley Xu, is one of those double-layered dramas that toy with role play and blur the lines between real life and reel life. Pardon the pun, Reprise is quite a cliché but with palatable dialogue. A boy and a girl who were actually lovers in the past find themselves having to role play a break-up. Nuanced acting and eye candy lift this film above its tired concept, sparing you from wanting to say 'CUT'. 

Here is our interview with Stanley on his short film.

Is this short film based on a personal experience on set? 

Nope, it was loosely based on a personal experience I had when I was attending the acting classes in my film school. One of the assignment was to act out a moment based on our real life past experience. However when I try to recall moments from the past, a lot of the details are actually uncertain. Also, those details seem to be malleable as they changes slightly every time based on my emotional state when I recalled them. This observation made me realised that memories are very subjective and are not fully real, and similar to fiction particularly cinema, both are just our own adaptations from reality. 


Did you direct the actors closely or were they given a lot of room to improvise? 

I directed them quite closely as we were only given very limited time to film on that location. However during the rehearsal, I gave them a few scenarios to improvise on to build on their characters’ past relationship and memories. 

The director cut the actress in the middle of her takes because she was presumably overdoing it. But when she kissed her co-actor, I am surprised the director did not cut the take. Why is that so? 

The director cut the actress not because she was overdoing it. The first NG was because she didn’t continue her lines. The second NG was because she said a line that’s not written in the script. The third NG was because the hug was too awkward. And during the last take, when the actress’s real life emotions and memories began to merge with the scene she was performing, the actress and the character sort of become one. Hence, there are different possibilities for the audiences’ interpretation for that last take as to whether is it a filming of a scene, or is it her memory. 


I am actually more interested in the director character’s directorial vision in the film than the two actors.Can you share a bit about what kind of love story this ‘director’ was trying to achieve? 

Nothing special in particular, he’s just a young director trying to make a cliché romantic love story that’s all. 

Where are these actors from? Are they your course mates? 

Nope, we selected 22 out of 100+ applicants for the audition from an open casting call we’d posted on Facebook, before finally choosing our final 2 main leads. 

Interview by Varun Naidu

Reprise 漣漪 - Teaser from Stanley Xu Ruiyang 許瑞洋 on Vimeo.

Review: New Land Broken Road (2019) @ Thai Short Film & Video Festival

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With an average urban spatial expansion rate of 4.3% a year, Cambodia has become one of the most rapidly developing countries in Southeast Asia. The country’s capital, Phnom Penh, has seen significant urban development over the past decade. However, the rate at which residential areas are demolished and redeveloped has, for a large part, been unaccounted for. 

This rapid loss of space has left many Cambodians displaced. Having seen Last Night I saw you Smiling and now, New Land Broken Road, it’s clear that this issue is the prerequisite for the works of Cambodian writer director Neang Kavich.

Starting out in Music and Dance, Neang ventured into filmmaking, beginning with his first short film, A Scale Boy, in 2010. He made it as part of a documentary workshop led by renown Cambodian filmmaker Rithy Panh. Panh would go on to produce Neang’s 2013 mid-length documentary film Where I Go. 

Last year, his short film, New Land Broken Road, was released as part of a Southeast Asian omnibus which premiered in Singapore. This month, it is being screened at the Thai Short Film and Video Festival, as part of the Astro A-List programme.

Also this year, Neang’s released his first feature length documentary, Last Night I saw you Smiling. It was screened at the International Film Festival Rotterdam (IFFR), and at the Singapore International Film Festival (SGIFF) last month. The documentary explored the grief and sense of loss that came with the ongoing urban development in Phnom Penh, Neang’s home city. These themes of displacement and urban loss seem to be a common thread in Neang’s work. 

New Land Broken Road shares many of the same ideas. Although, its fictional narrative granted it greater liberty in expressing Neang’s concern over urban development. Watching it now, I find it a fascinating precursor to Neang’s feature documentary.


In New Land Broken Road, Neang cast his light on Cambodia’s youth, focusing on a group of three young hip-hop dancers as they contemplate their place in a rapidly changing cityscape. Consequently, the three friends find themselves in front of a billboard advertising an upcoming housing estate. The image on the billboard boasts multi-storey homes with a picturesque exterior. Interestingly, this facade provides the backdrop for the rest of the film. 

Two of the three, Pasith and Thy, discuss their hopes for the future as the impeccable image looms behind them. While the pair remain to get their motorbike running, Nick ventures into the night in search of a lost iPhone –– possibly scavenging for the remains of a past long gone. Armed with a flashlight, he treks across the plains, revealing an endless skyline littered with lights; his own lost amongst them.

Later, Piseth and Thy meet Leakhena, a young street vendor. Her cart boasts garish LED lights that bathe the surroundings in red. Piseth seems immediately drawn to the cart and its owner. They quickly bridge a connection in the midst of a city they feel increasingly disconnected from. Even their present surroundings speak of this disconnect. The hustle and bustle of Phnom Penh twinkle like twilights in the distance. To Piseth’s surprise, Leakhena claims to sell her snacks along these very outskirts. Unsurprisingly though, she complains about not earning enough.

Each of them are struggling to keep up with the times. Piseth and Thy express their doubts over dancing for a living, while Leakhena engages Piseth in a fruitless conversation about selling a “trendy” alternative. They belong to Cambodia’s new generation of youth, and yet, they are quickly becoming relics of the present.

Neang has previously lamented about how Cambodia has undergone such rapid change over the last few decades. Evidently, his characters in New Land Broken Road share this concern. Perhaps the film’s most vocal expression of this concern occurs when Piseth flicks a switch on the cart, changing its LEDs from a radiant red to a sickly green. As though on cue, a hum of thunder reverberates around them as they look to the sky in apprehension.


With a film as perplexing as this, it’s often difficult to determine if every creative decision is a happy accident, or a stroke of true genius. Perhaps the answers lie in the film’s enigmatic title. Perhaps “New Land” refers to spatial expansion as a result of urban development, and perhaps “Broken road” refers to the path of destruction left in its wake. Regardless, Neang has painted an intimate portrait of marginalised Cambodian youth coping with change.

Lastly, I wanted to highlight how the film opens with a psychedelic dance number, and closes with a more bittersweet one. Dance clearly plays a key role here. Their conversations are even punctuated by brief dance routines. Although it seems to bear little relevance to the plot, the youthful vigour the characters carry in their dance is a poignant reminder that life goes on, even in the face of rapid progress.

Review by Charlie Chua

Review: Tenebrae (2018) @ Thai Short Film & Video Festival

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Set in the soon-to-be demolished Pearl Bank Apartments, Tenebrae by Nicole Midori Woodford is a quiet ode to cinema’s archival capacities. Following a family as they pack up the last of their belongings, the several handheld shots create a fluidity that mimics the ephemeral nature of memories. This is complemented by static, MC Escher-esque, long shots that fragment portions of the brutalist building itself. Woodford plays with cinematic technique to reveal the potential cinema has to serve as an archive of affect, just as much as it archives locations headed towards obsolescence. 


Touch plays a key role in Woodford’s construction of an archive of affect. We see the protagonist, Iris, walking across hallways and climbing staircases, trailing her fingers over the walls, as though trying to preserve the building in the sense-memory of touch. This relation between touch and memory is most explicitly rendered in the final moments of the film. Driving away in the darkened, windowless back of a pick-up truck, Iris punctures a hole in the tarp to reveal a projection of the Pearl Bank building on the floor of the truck. Marvelling at this, she and her brother touch the projection, as though by touching it they can encode it in their own corporeal memories. 


Not only does this film work as an ode to the building, it is also in many ways an ode to the communicative and evocative nature of film. These final moments reference the apparatus of film, with the two characters literally inside a black box, illuminating images through a small pinhole. In its intangibility, film brings what is lost closer to us, almost graspable by our very own hands. Woodford demonstrates a keen awareness of just how powerful film, in the way that it functions, can be. 

Review by Tanvi Rajvanshi

Review: Friends With Benefits, Without Benefits (2018) @ Thai Short Film & Video Festival

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Despite rising conversations about consent culture and sexual harassment in the West, Thailand’s mainstream media has been largely nascent towards such topics. Due to a myriad of interlocking reasons both cultural and institutional, this subject is one that has been only slowly filtering into public discourse recently. Thus, Sorayos Prapapan’s film, Friends With Benefits, Without Benefits, pleasantly surprised me by providing a glimpse of how potent the cinematic discourse surrounding Thailand’s own MeToo moment can be, and their rising consciousness on this difficult topic.

Prapapan’s short film has been screened at both local and international film festivals. It was showcased at the 2019 Thai Short Film and Video Festival as part of the Astro A-List programme, and also featured at the 72nd Locarno International Film Festival in the same year.

The plot is fairly straightforward: a budding filmmaker seeks help from a friend to help act and model for his film proposal in order to get funding. The friend is dressed head-to-toe in a cat mascot costume, playing the role of a cat that has lost her way in a concrete jungle. The two then catch up on their separate lives in a restaurant setting, before digressing to talk about the nature of sexual harassment in contemporary times. It is revealed that the filmmaker protagonist himself admits that he had harassed a girl in the past, but details are left ambiguous. At the film’s climax (which is also its ending), the filmmaker harasses his friend by attempting to force a kiss onto her before leaving. The actress flees in a cab, feeling disappointed with him.

The film had a delightful composition, complete with quality acting, well-paced acts, and succinct, yet effective dialogue. The film had its own distinctive elements which stood out as well, such as the tinge of surrealistic elements in the budding filmmaker's proposed story, which juxtaposed the realist backdrop of the actual film and the very real issue of sexual harassment at hand. Moreover, the enigmatic nature behind the film-making protagonist's past continually beckons to the viewer, with viewers left pondering on the mysterious incident of sexual harassment that he himself admitted to committing.


I particularly appreciated the meta-cinema moment that occurs midway into the film. While dining, the actress asks the protagonist to “stop acting like [he] is from a Hong Sang-soo film”, to which he responds that when he finishes this line the camera will zoom in. As if upon instruction, the camera zooms in to a medium close-up shot of the actress. This self-reflexive, tongue-in-cheek moment reminds viewers of their own role as mere spectators, imposing their watchful gaze upon the screens as the scenes unfold. The fact that the film is about a budding filmmaker, along with references to other Asian filmmakers and the film’s own meta-cinema moment, all seem to enhance the film’s degree of verisimilitude rather than diminish it.

Most importantly, I noticed that if the viewer is not attentive, they would miss out the subtle nuances that characterise and progressively build towards the third act, whereby the transgressive act by the protagonist is committed. The gravity of the situation is only felt if you notice these subtleties, which for the inattentive or unsuspecting viewer may be lost on preliminary viewing. Throughout the film, we receive little nods that affirm the morally ambiguous nature of the film-making protagonist. The way he acts around his friend and the type of replies he provides all seem to construct a sense of general uneasiness and creepiness within this character. Most blatantly at the beginning, he takes an unsolicited photograph of his friend as she talks on the phone to her boyfriend.

At one point, the actress asks why she was picked for this role since her face would not even be visible in the photographs. The filmmaker protagonist says it is because her (acting via) body language is good. This seemingly “artistic” reply (as the actress remarks) takes a chilling turn once we understand what happens later on between the two.

This brings us to the didactic element of the film. What began as a hopeful pre-production process for a film switches into a friendship turned sour by betrayal and sexual harassment. This traces the film’s larger point, which is to ponder on how easy it is to transgress the boundaries of friendship and trust; that sexual harassment can occur even between friends. It is the latter point that I think Prapapan hits the nail with, as we see for ourselves how easily one’s trust can be broken in such a case. The deep-seated and emotionally-damaging implications of sexual harassment is encapsulated in one line by the actress friend: “Whatever you have done, you scared that girl and she can’t erase it”.

Friends With Benefits, Without Benefits deals with a very serious topic in a style that is both realistic and engaging. Overall, the film features good storytelling alongside Prapapan's blending of humor with deep-seated political commentaries. Prapapan also manages to successfully illustrate one of the lesser-explored dimensions in the lived realities of sexual harassment: when it occurs among friends. The film can thus be seen as a watershed moment for Thailand’s own MeToo moment in cinema, serving as entry into a difficult, yet necessary subject that Thai mainstream media and entertainment needs to explore.

Reviewed by Bryson Ng

Review: Unconsoled @ Thai Short Film & Video Festival

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Symbolic of a sense of freedom without restraint, horses are often used to portray a character’s struggle against their restrictions. Their fates are typically intertwined with the characters', and horses can even function as a metaphor for strength and a headstrong demeanour. Le Bao’s Unconsoled features a horse throughout, giving the animal an independence from its human counterparts, including scenes of its own. And rightfully so, because this is a story about absence and aging.

Throughout the 15 minute short, Le Bao focuses on the connection between three generations of women and the past that seems to haunt them. Characters often relay stories of their past experiences to the youngest character Mien, and the stories aren’t blissful. These are melancholic memories, ideas which we come to accept as being true instead of what we actually wanted. Mien’s father speaks about watching his own father beat his mother and doing the same to his wife, while her mother recalls living with her father, who could not stop screaming in pain.

These characters are reflecting on the family’s past, but unable to release their anger. Unconsoled feels as if it is being gripped tightly from the outside, left without solace or comfort in the face of the present moment. There is tension throughout the story, which never gets alleviated from both the audience members and the characters themselves. But it is a powerful experience. It does not feel strenuous on the viewer’s mind. It is peaceful and serene through its own desolation.

Le Bao isolates the story from the outside world. There is no sign of life other than the main family and feels like an underground tale from far away, where time does not pass and states do not change. It gives the entire film a feeling of being inside a snow globe or some sort of ship-in-a-bottle. This environment would not be encountered by anyone else and it feels as if it would be strange to reveal to these characters that they are actually being recorded. Nowadays, so many of us feel like we are the heroes of our own story. But in Unconsoled, the characters reside in the shadow of their family’s past, almost defined by their absences. And it is precisely this characteristic which makes the story so intriguing.

The environment is equally captivating, and it is coloured beautifully. The blue sand within and surrounding the house stands out against the browns, greens, and greys of the rest of the shots. You are drawn into this world, if only for its aesthetic. It is soothing and calming, but feels awfully foreboding. It never brightens up, never lets light into the story. And the characters carry this with them, the loss of their family a constant indication of what might come next.

Isolation is scary, and while Mien and her mother have each other and the horse, it is impossible to say that this state of affairs will be sustained forever.

At the end, it is the horse who leaves. The freedom has been lost. The entire scene plays out so humanly it seems almost too good for words. As the horse leaves, it is all saddled up as if it is packing for the future. It hesitates and looks at the house for one last time, as if considering whether or not this is the right choice. Finally, it turns around, actively choosing to leave familiarity behind. Whether this is a release of tension or a tightening of it is for the audience to decide.

Making an Audio-Film 'Cinematic': An interview with Roshan Singh on 'Temujin'

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Something new to start the year? Ever heard of an audio-film? Here is something of an old but new idea. Dramatic audio rendition of a story. Rediffusion-style storytelling but long-form and more ‘cinematic’. 

Temujin: An Audio Drama (Temujin) is the brainchild of Roshan Singh, a recent graduate from Yale-NUS College with a specialisation in creative writing. With years of archival research, travelling to Mongolia, and intensive writing/rewriting, Roshan was granted the Yale-NUS College Outstanding Capstone award for Temujin and he set out to create Temujin as a free-to-access high-quality audio drama to be made available on major audio distribution platforms by early 2020. 

Temujin follows the rise of Genghis Khan (once named Temujin) - and the fall of his closest friend. The sun rises for another day across the Mongolian steppes. Genghis Khan is at the cusp of creating the largest land empire ever known and all that is left is to decide whether or not to kill his oldest rival and friend, Jamukha. 

Told from Jamukha's perspective on what seems like the last night of his life, Temujin reveals a rarely-told moment that shaped human history: the ill-fated bond shared between two young warlords caught between rivalry and friendship, empire-building and tender brotherhood.

To uncover more stories behind the making of Temujin, we went straight for the horse’s mouth (pardon the pun). We spoke to Roshan the creator.

What attracted you to the Genghis Khan story? And why this chapter from The Secret History of the Mongols?

The first point of contact was my best friend (and our Executive Producer) Amarbold Lkhagvasuren. He once mentioned that he found the historical Genghis Khan more compelling than Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and suggested I do some reading. He pointed me towards ​The Secret History​ and Jack Weatherford’s ​The Making of the Modern World​ to begin with. Once I started, I found myself -- admittedly to my own surprise -- genuinely engrossed.

What surprised me most was that these stories are incredibly intimate. I was expecting lengthy accounts of war and bloodshed, but those actually tend to be glossed over in favor of gripping exchanges between flawed and relatable characters. It’s almost entirely relationship-driven. The stories that we’ve chosen to feature in our adaptation are centred around possibly the most dramatically-charged relationship in the entire epic: the tragic, decades-long friendship of Jamukha and Temujin.

You mention a lot of existing representations of Mongolian history in English is inaccurate, what are the misrepresentations and how is the real Genghis Khan like?

We could get into the strange history of the Hollywood adaptations, notably including ​The Conqueror ​(1956) starring John Wayne as Temujin. Suffice it for now to say that there’s some strange stuff out there.

There hasn’t yet been an English version of the story that I’ve found in my research which really focuses on the complex tenderness between Jamukha and Temujin. Usually, the character of Jamukha is either glossed over, reworked to be a moustache-twirling villain, or written out entirely. The fascinating nuances in Genghis Khan’s character which are revealed by his relationship with Jamukha are lost with these changes.

As I mentioned earlier, I found that ​The Secret History of the Mongols is driven by the depth of its smaller moments. Generally, the film adaptations I’ve seen go ‘big’ at the direct expense of that depth. The warfare which is given relatively little space in the source material often becomes the selling point of the adaptations.  All this said: the goal of ​Temujin​is not to revise Genghis Khan historically. What we’re aiming to do is to faithfully adapt a surprisingly intimate story which is at the center of one of the primary historical sources about his life. If we do our job right, this shouldn’t replace existing discourse on the man, so much as nuance the popular perception that he was little more than a simpleminded and bloodthirsty barbarian warlord.

 
Characters from Temujin: an Audio-Drama
Tell us a bit more about your immersion in Mongolia and some interesting anecdotes in the course of your research for this story. 

I realised that the trip to Mongolia would be necessary pretty early on. It was partly a matter of further historical and cultural research, as you would expect, but also of geography. Early drafts made it clear that I couldn’t proceed with writing unless I could visualize what the characters were seeing and feeling around them at any given point in time. All the more so when we’re talking about the Mongolian steppes, which is an entity all its own.

I had the pleasure of travelling with Amarbold and his family, who helped curate a thorough itinerary for our road trip. A large part of the journey was dedicated to covering the types of terrain that were being represented in the story, and understanding what it meant to live and move about in those spaces. 

Having been to those places allowed us to isolate key sounds that evoke them -- so what we wound up doing was, distilling the visual reality of the place into its key component sounds, which then allows the audience member to recreate a version of that visual reality in their own heads while they’re listening. Another interesting fact: we wound up needing to use fewer sounds as opposed to more in our soundscapes! It turns out that our ears are actually very sensitive to the reality of what we’re hearing, and that fewer (if carefully-selected) soundscapes are more pleasing to the ear than a ‘realistic’ full recreation.

This research also directly informed the very first monologue in ​Temujin, which is about the vastness of the open Steppe set against the claustrophobia of its densely-packed forests.  

Is this possibly the first full-length work of audio-cinema in Singapore? Where else has this been done?

I don’t believe there are any other audio projects of this scale happening right now, although we certainly can’t claim credit for being the first: serialised audio fiction is a major part of our Singaporean storytelling tradition. At the peak of its popularity in 1980, close to 100,000 Singaporeans were subscribed to Rediffusion radio fiction programming. We even had legendary politicians like S. Rajaratnam writing radio plays for Radio Malaya -- fun fact, George Orwell himself was so impressed by Rajaratnam’s writing that he personally invited him to write scripts for the BBC.

Where are audio-films usually available for public consumption?

Audio-driven stories have been on the rise again thanks to the ubiquity of podcast culture. Accessing them is usually as simple as logging on to either Spotify or Apple Podcasts, no additional payment required. That’s where you get classics like ​Welcome To Nightvale which helped to establish the creative potential and mass appeal of the format. Marvel Entertainment recently dipped their toes in the medium with ​Wolverine: The Long Night, as well.

It’s easy to find a huge variety of long-running serials, but self-contained audio drama experiences are a bit rarer. One of my favorite recent releases is ​36 Questions, which is a free-to-access three-act musical by Broadway talent at the top of their game. I’d also recommend scoping out Audible for their archive of BBC productions, including the classic Hitchhiker’s Guide ​series and their adaptations of Neil Gaiman’s novels. The consistently high production values across their music, foley and performances are really quite stunning. They set the high bar we’ve strived to meet in our own work.

What do you say to people who think this form of presentation is too old-fashioned?

The first thing I would say is, digital audio storytelling is one of the newest presentation forms to hit the mainstream. We’re only just beginning to see (hear) what the medium is capable of, given the almost limitless possibilities afforded by modern audio engineering tools and resources. What’s more, it’s one of the most accessible forms I can think of -- the content is just about three taps away on your phone or laptop.

I think the idea that audio content is outdated comes from the fact that people aren’t huddled attentively around radios anymore -- the whole ‘video killed the radio star’ idea. But people these days are plugged in and listening to content on their phones while commuting, working out, or doing mundane tasks. There are just as many consumers of audio content as there have ever been, if not more, and that’s the audience I imagine would have an interest in tuning into ​Temujin.

What’s in it for younger audiences who are used to flashy visuals in storytelling?

I would say it boils down to the specific strengths of our audio-only medium. A lot is actually gained by ‘losing’ visuals! But let me give you a specific example. 

We don’t normally think of prose as ‘films without the visuals’. The type of engagement you get when while reading a novel is entirely different than that of watching a film. Prose evokes thoughts, images and sounds unique to each individual -- film is able to curate all of the above in ways that the viewer may not even have imagined possible. 

The audio drama format exists somewhere in-between film and prose. It has the personalised and evocative visual properties of prose, as well as the immersive and engaging qualities of film. It is its own entirely distinct kind of storytelling engagement, and one that I think first-timers will be delighted and surprised to experience.

Listening to the sample, I must admit the use of the English language seemed slightly disorientating because the delivery and the aura of the clip sounded very anglicised. Unlike actual movies where you can get actors speaking in their natural language and superimpose subtitles, how do you plan to create authenticity around this story?

We have to clarify what we mean by ‘authentic’. The moment we decided on English as the language for the script, we had to approach the project through the lens of translation and adaptation, because, of course, these people didn’t speak English. Nor did they speak modern Mongolian. But asking an audience to accept the translated language of an adapted story is an entirely reasonable, and entirely common, prospect. The alternative -- asking our actors to ‘put on’ Mongolian accents -- was something I refused to consider.

The authenticity that most concerned us was our relationship with our source material. I did not want to change any of the lines of this history -- and I wanted to be extremely careful about reading between them. After more than two years of development and research, I can say with confidence that our characters’ behaviors, motivations and actions are all rooted in a close reading of ​The Secret History of the Mongols

The colloquial English was the end-result of finding a way to keep these characterisations as immediately accessible to the listener as possible. In some of our experiments with other styles, there was a performative artificiality that creeped in -- this includes a version of the script based almost on the elevated verse found in the English translations of the Secret History, and another that was entirely in iambic pentameter. 

In the end, I’m confident that the style we arrived at communicates these characters clearly, and that these characterizations honor our wonderfully-rich source material. This is the most meaningful kind of authenticity we could aspire to.

Who are your actors? Could you share some of your directing treatment?

It’s a fairly international cast, comprised mostly of people with whom we’ve had good working experiences with in the past. We have actors from Indonesia, the Philippines, India, as well as a whole bunch of us from Singapore. This is reflective of the greater production team make-up, where we have a Canadian and two Mongolians as well. 

In terms of directing, what made this process interesting (and different from traditional stage or screen variants) was our recording set-up. Rather than isolated capsule rooms, I was keen on recording our full ensemble at once. This could be compared to a theatrical one-shot: our recordings would be harder to ‘adjust’ in the editing room, but if we got it right, would result in a brilliant, continuous and theatrical feeling across scenes. We were also keen on blocking out specific moments of action mid-scene as live foley, which is kind of like the audio equivalent of using practical effects instead of VFX.

The end-result? When listening to the audio drama, you’ll be able to tell exactly where everyone is within the space, and what they’re doing in relation to each other -- like a stage that exists solely in your mind. It’s a really immersive and one-of-a-kind feeling, and one that I’m glad we took the time to get right.
 
The foley production should be interesting. Could you share more about it?

Of course! I think, when you get into it, you’d be stunned by the sheer possibilities that are opened up to you. It feels a bit like having a limitless VFX budget. Anything you imagine can be incorporated into your soundscape -- you can modulate where those sounds are coming from, you can convey motion, you can play with filters that suggest interior/exterior locations, and best of all, you can modulate each and every one of those at will. You can build up a world for the listener, and send it crashing down in a second. 

That, actually, is the first huge lesson I learned about foley production. When you can do anything you could possibly think of, the art is in doing less, not more -- especially when we know that we want our character performances to be the driving force of the listening experience. We’ve arrived at a design which strikes a nice balance between moments of sound design splendour, and more subdued soundscapes that support the vocal performances rather than distracting from them.

Following a successful Kickstarter fundraising campaign last year and the completion of production, Temujin will launch late this month and will be available for free on all major audio platforms.

Follow its progress on:
  • Facebook (facebook.com/temujin.audiodrama)
  • Instagram (@temujin.audiodrama)
  • Twitter (@temujindrama)

Interview by Jeremy Sing

ShoutOUT! The Inciting Incident: Sinema Screenplay Challenge

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 The Inciting Incident: Sinema Screenplay Challenge
The Inciting Incident is Open For Submissions Until 6 February 2020 

The Inciting Incident is Sinema Media’s inaugural screenplay competition, in partnership with casting agency Hello Group, acting school Method Acting Asia, publishing house Epigram Books and online interactive and fundraising platform Premise.

It aims to encourage screenwriters to shake off their hesitation, flesh out their stories and put them into the world. It's also an opportunity to spotlight emerging talents in this under-recognised and under-appreciated craft.

The competition will be held in four rounds, one for each quarter of the year in 2020. In each round, a genre will be announced, ten finalists will be chosen, and subsequently, three winners will be decided. At the end of the competition, all finalist screenplays will be collected and published in a print collection.

Contestants are to submit an original English-language screenplay for a 3 - 5 minute short film based on this quarter’s genre of COMEDY.

Submission period ends on 2359hrs (GMT +8) 6 February 2020 (Thursday). There is a S$5.00 entry fee per screenplay. For full details and to submit entries, visit the competition’s official website at: https://www.sinema.sg/theincitingincident/

ShoutOUT! [Call for Submission] : Full Circle Lab Philippines (FCL) 2020

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Submissions for Full Circle Lab Phillipines (KCL)


On behalf of the Film Development Council of the Philippines (FDCP), we’d like to share that the Full Circle Lab Philippines (FCL) is now open for submissions.

FCL is a project development initiative launched by Matthieu Darras and the FDCP in 2019. It covers five key areas:
1)      The Fiction Lab – For features films in development
2)      The Series Lab – For series (mini-series and multi-season series) in development
3)      The Animation Lab – For animation IP stories (shorts, features, or series) in development
4)      The Documentary Lab – For feature-length documentaries in post-production
5)      The First Cut Lab – For fiction feature films at the editing stage

The 2nd edition of FCL is open to filmmakers from all the Southeast Asian countries, and will take place in Manila from 15 to 22 April 2020. The respective submission deadlines are as below:
1)      The Fiction, Series, and Animation Labs – 1 March 2020
2)      The Documentary and First Cut Labs – 15 March 2020

Applications should be sent to: info@fdcp.ph. For more information, including eligibility criteria and application requirements, please visit the lab page here.

ShoutOUT! National Youth Film Awards 2020 is back and open for submissions!

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The 6th edition of the National Youth Film Awards (NYFA) opens for submission from 11 February to 30 April 2020.

Organised by *SCAPE, NYFA remains an important platform for aspiring filmmakers seeking to join the film industry. Since its launch, NYFA has awarded some 133 youth filmmakers, many of which have gone on to achieve international acclaim, with names such as Idette Chen (Bangla, Short Shorts Film Festival & Asia (SSFF & Asia) 2019) and Shoki Lin, (ADAM, Cinéfondation Selection, 72nd Cannes Film Festival). 

“Through NYFA, *SCAPE has recognised over 700 local young filmmakers over the last five years. Some have been deemed up-and-coming filmmakers in the industry, while others have progressed to start their own film studios,” said Goh Kok Wee, Executive Director of *SCAPE. “These success stories are a testament to NYFA’s commitment to be the national platform for young talents to kickstart their career in the filmmaking industry. We will continue to support these youths as they hone their directing and story-telling skills to be future ready.” 

Winners for this edition stand a chance to embark on a regional learning journey at events such as the Golden Harvest Awards and Short Film Festival in Taiwan, and SeaShorts Film Festival held annually in Malaysia, where their films will screen, and they will have the chance to network and learn from regional filmmakers at forums, workshops, and exhibitions. 

Winners will also be invited to pitch their stories for an anthology of short films, where they will be given a $20,000 seed fund to produce a short film each. 

This year’s edition of NYFA will continue to accept submissions under both Media Student and Open Youth categories. Participants aged between 15 to 35-years old are free to submit their Documentary, Animation, and Live Action films. 

More information is available at scape.sg/nyfa.

Review: The Tree House (2019)

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It is apt to posit that The Tree House is a culmination of Trương Minh Quý’s artistic endeavour thus far, a maturation from previous explorations of subject matters and the medium of film. Someone familiar with this Vietnamese filmmaker’s nascent oeuvre would easily recognise the elements of his earlier cinematic works in the latest feature film: personal stories retold in a surrealist voice, the persistence of the dead in the mind of the living, a hypothetical departure from Earth to Mars, and historical reconstruction through individual and collective memories of the Vietnam War.

At the heart of The Tree House is an ethnography project investigating the notion of the home as conceived by various indigenous minorities in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. But the project is by no means positivist; the hermeneutic nature of the film is evident in the subjection of the filmmaker himself to investigation. This is seen in the reference to the self in the third personal pronoun and the unpacking of his thoughts and sentiments, just like other studied objects of the film. The result is a dialectic attempting at reconnecting with human’s primitive and perhaps universal relationship with the home.

Hồ Văn Lang, once in the spotlight of Vietnam's national media, is among Quý's interviewees

Departure from home sets the underlying premise for the film. It is the move from Earth to Mars for the filmmaker, from a cave or a tree house to a village for the Ruc lady and Kor man, and from Vietnam to America for singer Thái Thanh. A longing for home ensues, where a slight stimulus suffices to trigger the recollection. Evidently, the playback of a sound recorded by the filmmaker on Mars induces him to enter a stream of narrator’s consciousness as it reminisces gusts of winds caressing a roof on Earth.

Under said circumstances, the idea of the home is necessitated by mental constructions rather than an empirical exercise. When asked about his tree house, the Kor man describes it in terms of its height and components, but the viewer is still clueless about what the home is like despite the filmmaker’s attempt at drawing it out. Meanwhile, the Ruc lady, arguably owing to her greater proficiency in spoken expression, relies on recounting how her family used the cave to describe her home – for instance, the story of their celebrating the food that her father had brought back from a hunt. This echoes humanist geographer Yi-Fu Tuan’s writing on the apprehension of space as mediated by bodily interaction with the environment. Indeed, re-enactment of moments playing with her sister at a stone slab or washing leave the Ruc lady in nostalgia so immense that she fails to sleep when returning to the village. Her vivid recollection emerges purely from her mental capacity, which the filmmaker speculates to be an interplay of memories and imagination.

Meanwhile, possibly due to the nature of his craft, the filmmaker relies on photographed images to recall the past. Using the apparatus of experimental ethnography, he juxtaposes the found archival footage of the resettlement of the locals in Quảng Ngãi by the Americans during the Vietnam War with his own footage of his interviewees. The choice of 16 mm film as the shooting format for The Tree House is thus fitting, rendering the two temporally distinct pieces of footage formally coherent. At the same time it begs the question of the role of the filmmaker. To the indigenous people, Americans are seen as intruders displacing them from their home. Then, is the filmmaker-narrator Quý any different? While he doesn’t displace the indigenous people, Quý admits his unease in this ethnographic approach of exposing anonymous identities through images.

Juxtaposition of archival footage with Quý's own film points to the potentially troubling ethnographer's standpoint

Hence, the recognition of his standpoint as a potentially Eurocentric ethnographer reveals the filmmaker’s internal struggle reconciling the influence of Western thoughts with his own roots and consciousness. “Without photographed images, what would become my memories?” hints at the Cartesian tradition of ocularcentrism that privileges vision over other senses. This philosophy is perhaps so ingrained in filmmaker’s thinking that it seems impossible to be like the Ruc lady who imagines and acts out her memories, or the Kor man who spatialises and territorialises his. In the same vein, knowledge of the French New Wave primes his identification of Agnès Varda’s chance footage upon forgetting to turn off her camera with his own. Yet he never sees it as Varda’s “The Dance of the Lens Cap”, but a remorse for the burnt film that has died.

Such a position critical of his own ideologies isn’t consistent throughout the whole film. The filmmaker expresses his wish for a tomb house to shelter his body upon his death just like the tradition of the Jarai people. One can characterize this as risking cultural appropriation and romanticising the indigenous customs. Of course, if one were to overlook the power relations configuring the knowledge acquisition, this line of reading can be criticised as imposing a double standard – if the filmmaker can assimilate Western thought, why can’t he do the same for Jarai worldviews?

Nevertheless, the responsibility of being cognisant of one’s ideologies is not reserved for solely the filmmaker; the viewer, in the process of decoding cultural descriptions and social behaviours as portrayed in the film, are made aware of their own worldviews. For instance, descriptions of the Jarai’s notions of soan– the invisible spirit – and rup– the visible material manifestation – mirror Plato’s Theory of Forms. One can also draw a parallel between the Ruc lady’s moving out from the cave to the village and the allegory of the cave. But these Western allusions are never made explicit by the filmmaker; rather, they can only be the exercise of the viewer’s capacity at comprehending the visual cues.

There are certain gaps in the film that are left unaddressed. For one, the Ruc lady doesn’t identify a single cave as her home, but any space housed in a cave, for her family had to move from one cave to another to hide from the American soldiers. Home thus appears to exist as an architectural type – an abstract idea and formal conceptualisation of space – rather than a specific material place anchored in geography. This opens up possibilities for transplanting home of the past into the present and the future, transcending the physical distancing that is commonly thought to be the culprit of the longing for home. Sceptics therefore may question if the film’s over-reliance on the poetics of nostalgia is defensible.

But they could be totally missing the point when insisting on the spatial comprehension of home. Snapshots of a Hmong boy at a family meal or sauntering around the premise of his home, juxtaposed with the Ruc lady and Kor man who reminisce about what used to be their home, seem to suggest that the conception of home is linked to childhood memory. It then matters not the physical distance nor the reproducibility of the material house. Once the period formative of what home is passes, home is forever locked in the temporal past, only accessible through nostalgia – a longing for home.

Film Review: Filipiñana (2020)

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Directed by Filipino director Rafael Manuel, Filipiñana presents a sharp look into the unspoken social hierarchies and class structures that dominate the surreal setting of a golf course, a microcosm for the filmmaker’s home in the Philippines. The film follows a young girl named Isabel (Jorrybell Agosto), a new worker at the golf course, as she wanders around the premises and begins to become all too aware of the seemingly invisible structures that govern her conduct and behaviour.

Made while he was studying at London Film School, Manuel shows himself to be as adept at crafting indelible images as he is at incisive social commentary. Presented in 4:3 aspect ratio, with cinematography awash in soft pastel colours against a backdrop of lush greenery, the setting of the golf course feels oddly secluded yet eerily charming. Through wide shots, characters almost feel like miniatures on an elaborate diorama. The film is composed of still shots that, coupled with the use of diegetic sounds—mostly of leaves rustling and birds chirping—create a dreamy atmosphere. Here is a place in stasis that can be seen as an escape for its patrons but a prison for its workers.

Manuel displays an especially playful visual style that confers a distinct sense of surrealism upon the work. Between the heavily choreographed movements of the patrons on the golf course—with the rich  swinging golf clubs or fanning themselves while receiving pedicures in synchronicity—and the workers getting consistently portrayed as being literally between their legs—Manuel creates a clear distinction between how he portrays the rich and poor. The theme of economic disparity is also communicated through visual metaphors, one of the most distinct being the sight of ants nibbling at the edges of an ice cream sundae, which mirrors the desperation of the workers themselves.

The playful visual style and heavily choreographed nature of the film is evocative of the works of Jacques Demy and a post-Tumblr era of visual aesthetics. One scene that brings this sharply to mind is of disco lights being projected sweeping past a character, looking not too unlike a Beach House album cover.


As stated by Manuel himself on his Kickstarter page, the film seeks to explore the dynamic between female workers and their female superiors, people who are ostensibly part of the same social strata but yet are in different positions of power. This is seen from an even larger dichotomy between young and old, and in the contrast visual between the dull grey blouses of the younger female workers and the bright pink ones of their superiors. By placing a focus on Isabel our empathy is directed to lie with the young. Through Isabel we slowly realise the unfair structures in place, from the overblown reactions she faces from her superiors in response to absurdly benign acts like sneaking a taste of cake. A single truth that seems to ring true throughout the piece is that in a society divided by class, the people that come in the most conflict to maintain a sense of decorum and their own livelihoods are those at the bottom.

Moving in a languid pace that reflects the aimless ennui of Isabel herself, the film possesses a sense of melancholy that is similarly reflected in Isabel’s fellow workers, who in their leisure time are depicted as sleeping, or slumped into various corners. A great sense of irony lies in the fact that in a picturesque resort the only thing Isabel seemingly longs for is escape.


Throughout the film, the song "Filemon" by Manuel Colayco recurs and casts a spectre across the film. The song is at first hummed by Isabel as a comforting tune and later sung by her at a karaoke session during the climax of the film. Through the song’s lyrics, Manuel fully verbalises themes that were previously ruminated on. During the climax the camera breaks its fixed position and slowly zooms into Isabel as she sings and tries to shake off her emotionally vacant state. It is revealed that the cheery, comforting pop ballad that Isabel’s peers bop their heads to is actually about the economic desperation of a man who spends his wages on alcohol to escape, not too dissimilar to their own situation. The way the song plays throughout the film underscores the inherent tragedy of the characters' lives, that the restrictive system they participate in will always be a silently accepted certainty.


Film Review: The Mortician of Manila (2019)

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Directed by Leah Borromeo, The Mortician of Manila focuses on the effects of President Rodrigo Duterte's drug war in the Philippines. His campaign has claimed 30,000 lives so far and the death rate doesn’t seem to be slowing down.

The documentary starts off with neither a title card nor opening credits. The very first shot of the documentary is of a bloodied dead body, one riddled with gunshot wounds, as explained by undertaker Orly Fernandez. He serves as a guide to this dark and untold tale of death and loss, explaining to Leah the daily occurrences that he witnesses on a regular basis. He goes on to explain that if a body is unidentified, he will simply post pictures of the body on Facebook in a bid to find the next-of-kin. As the audience reels with shock at such an uncouth practice, Orly explains in a matter-of-fact tone, “That’s how it is.”

This very first scene prepares the audience for the rest of the documentary, where there will be more dead bodies, more sorrow and more disturbing facts that will shock anyone who has been sheltered in a first-world country such as Singapore.



The documentary does an excellent job of showcasing the different facets of the story. It features the emotional grief of a mother who has just lost her son, depicting the pain that comes with this drug war. On the other hand, the documentary also features Orly who remains a diehard Duterte supporter despite the boiling pot of violence and emotions that he has to bear witness every day.

Orly is the driving force of this documentary and it’s a very good choice from director Leah Borromeo to focus on Orly. He is the audience’s link to his world and is a man of contradictions when it comes to such issues, but he doesn’t mind sharing his views freely with the filmmakers. He gives the documentary a sense of harsh realism, humour and sense of warmth in his interaction with his friends, co-workers and his adopted daughter.

It isn’t long before the audience realise that Orly is very much your everyday man. Like his customers, Orly isn’t rich but he tries to help the victims as much as he can while still trying to support his family. In one scene, we see his daughter tell him that she’s hungry and he tells her that there’s food, which turns out to be cup noodles. We see him doing his best as a father in taking care for his child and one of the most lighthearted moments of the documentary is when he banters with his daughter as she tries to guess his age, which he refuses to reveal.

The filmmakers also feature Orly celebrating his 67th birthday with friends, employees, some family, photojournalist and his dogs. It is the most heart-warming scene in the documentary amidst all the blood and death and it really grounds Orly as an empathetic man who isn’t indifferent to the victims of the killings despite his support for Duterte. In fact, Orly makes up the 82% of the Philippines population who still support Duterte’s drug war, a shockingly high figure despite the violent results.


As a journalist herself, Leah Borromeo does an excellent job angling her story to reveal the censorship that the media has to bear in the face of Duterte’s drug war. She features two photojournalists working in the Philippines, Vincent Go and “Brother Jun”, both of whom are passionate in covering the extrajudicial killings. They represent a façade that is rarely featured in mainstream media as journalists are prohibited by the government from covering any of these killings in a bid to minimise the amount of flak the Duterte administration has been receiving. I feel that it’s extremely important to highlight the good and hard work that journalists have put in to cover such stories for the world to see. Without them, the government will have more freedom to do as they please with the extrajudicial killings.

The technical aspects of the documentary are very well-crafted, such as a soundtrack by Jamie Perera that is a data sonification by of all the deaths in the war on drugs in its soundtrack. Each sound is a casualty from 2016 to the present day and it effectively evokes a sense of dread and terror in the audience, reflecting the emotions of the human beings whom we see on screen. The cinematography by Joshua Reyles is excellent as well, despite the harsh and cramped conditions that he had to shoot in, and his focus makes every frame of the documentary mesmerising.


My only personal gripe with the documentary is that it could have covered more depth in its subject matter. I understand that the filmmakers may want to keep the scale of the documentary small so as to feature the more human elements of the drug war. However, the drug war has many other shocking aspects that should be covered as well, such as the increasing corruption within law enforcement officers and the abuse of authority with the killing and kidnapping of certain prominent figures by the police.

The Mortician of Manila is a documentary that should be seen by everyone, especially South-East Asians who are in such close proximity to such atrocities. The documentary doesn’t have a clear stance on which side it picks; rather it presents the different views of different characters and it has the dignity to let the audience decide for themselves who they'd rather align themselves with. It serves as an entry into a topic that is very controversial, but very important in today’s chaotic political climate and director Leah Borromeo has done a superb job in covering this subject matter.

Film Review: Viral Kids (2020)

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It's a bleak world we live in, as Filipino filmmaker, Arjanmar H Rebeta, might testify.

“The truth is imprisoned, hands are chained,” a blind man sings against the noisy shamble of oncoming traffic. His voice is low but gentle, steady guitar strumming belying the bustle on the street that ensues: children running around, playing and peddling items from sampaguita (a kind of sweetly-scented jasmine) to their voices, the street vendors with their assortment of knick knacks, the roar of car engines and the passersby who go out of their way to ignore them.

Viral Kids follows the lives of a cast of children, all street beggars who have to make a living. We are first introduced to Jepoy, who dreams of becoming a police officer and of attending school one day, though not in that order. Concon, his distinctively younger and grubbier counterpart, wants to be a director instead. His yellow shirt is filthy and oversized, reaching down to his knees.

“Good for you that you’re already wearing a uniform.” There’s a note of envy in Concon’s voice, as they pause to take a selfie in front of a school with a mobile phone magicked out of thin air, presumably stolen by Jepoy.


A prominent motif in Viral Kids, mobile devices and social media only serve to highlight the inequality between the haves and the have-nots, and more so between the children and the adults who parade them around on social media. It seems almost voyeuristic, seeing these children objectified and turned into sources of viral entertainment videos, inspirational photos and the like, all at the mercy of the adults viewing them.

But though street kids as they may be, their heads are never bowed from subservience, but rather, for survival. Sam, another child part of their motley panhandling crew, gleefully shows off her new envelopes to Concon just moments before she assumes a servile role and lowers her head to beg for donations aboard a blue-gray Jeepney headed for San Mateo. It’s all just play-acting, and children like to play, right?


The passengers aboard are apathetic to this, their faces illuminated by the blue light of smartphone screens playing the same video — a scrappy, young girl with a soulful voice, singing on the streets of Manila while collecting donations — or buried in newspapers, with headlines like “House panel OKs bill lowering age of criminal liability to 9 years old”, an act that criminalises child offenders who commit serious crimes at par with adults. Of course, all this does not matter to Concon, who steals the earring off a female passenger’s ear and runs away, giggling. Her panicked shout attracts a police officer, who immediately begins to chase them.

“Just run,” he yells at Sam, his unwitting accomplice.

“Why are we running, if you did not do anything?” she screams back. Her shrill voice is dampened by the slap of their shoes against concrete and the sound of the wind rushing past their ears.


Though just 15 minutes long, Viral Kids is more than just another social commentary about the lives of Filipino street children, the social structures that affect them, and the widespread effects of technology. Technology, which not only serves to highlight the deficiencies of the system but exacerbate them in turn.

Not all is grim, however. In the very last moments of the film, Jepoy manages to wrangle a video of one of the abusers on to the internet, hinting at his newfound empowerment and freedom in the hands of social media. Unfortunately, cases like his are few and far-between.

At its heart, Viral Kids is also a metaphor for how we run our lives: controlled like clockwork, merely empty souls with no care and concern beyond the lives of our immediate family and our own. Humans are often selfish after all, and Arjanmar H Rebeta’s adult caricatures exemplify this characteristic. Uncaring, callous and driven by desire, the adults of Viral Kids seem almost demonic in their apathy, complete character foils to the innocent children who live, breathe and feel.


There’s a scene where Concon runs through a dingy street, his pineapple-tied hair bobbing along as he dashes past lines of people using their phones, so still they may as well have been frozen in time. In the darkness, he gingerly clips on the stolen earring and smiles to himself, brushing his hair past his ear twice and pretending to admire the glittering jewelry. He may be alone at this moment, but his eyes are shiny — not from tears or the glare of artificial lighting, but from genuine happiness.

Film Review: Happy Old Year (2019)

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Who would have known what 2020 would bring? That question deserves a double wink. Opened in Thailand in December, Happy Old Year by Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit is pitched as a timely send off to old memories, unfinished affairs of the heart and 2019.

2019 was the year decluttering guru Marie Kondo shot to fame with her ‘spark joy’ philosophy. Happy Old Year wants to put Marie Kondo back into her closet and tell her, ‘You are a terrible influence’. The film tells the story of young adult, Jean, played by Chutimon Chuengcharoensukying of Bad Genius fame, who wants to transform her family living space into a zen-like office. Essentially, the story is a battle between a kind of housekeeping facism and making room for memories and old connections. Also operating on a somewhat funny level is the imposition of Swedish minimalism in maximalist Bangkok and the side effects of it. A little backstory here – Jean has just returned from Sweden, after years of living there, to Southeast Asia’s city of excesses, Bangkok.


Somehow, the very thought of decluttering a typical working class home in Bangkok is oxymoronic and smacks of the kind of ironic humour found in Thai commercials. And this is Nawapol, king of the offbeat, so the story expectedly defies reason a little and Jean’s decluttering exercise is taken to the extreme. She bears no mercy for sentimentality. Crumbs from her past relationships, an estranged boyfriend and a runaway father, are ruthlessly swept away. She even has a decluttering manifesto to abide by which spells out in title card frames, in the ways of the minimalistic Nazi.

It is also grappling with the decluttering of human relationships that locks down the emotional core of the film. Can we ever draw the line on friendships? A major portion of the film explores Jean dealing with her closure with Aim, an ex-boyfriend whom she had callously drifted away from when she left Bangkok for Sweden. The need to return him a camera he left behind leads Jean to an awkward reunion with Aim, whom she learns has moved on with another girl who was introduced as his fiancée. Suddenly, old wounds are reopened and Jean gets more than what she bargains for and what she can emotionally handle.



Just because it is the elephant in the room does not mean the story has to move at a laborious pace. The emotional entanglement with Aim is the hardest to let go in Jean’s journey to declutter but it is one arc stretched too long. Besides regret, it was hard to find other emotional notes in the entanglement. In fact, the film seems to present a wry take on the emotional pitfalls of decluttering with bits of signature Nawapol humour, echoing the sensibilities and tone of a recipe book. It touches several raw emotional nerves but never really reaches a point of poignancy. It had an opportunity with the backstory of Jean’s father and the piano. But beyond the – pardon the pun – high octave hysterics of Jean’s mother in their debate over the fate of the piano, a little expose on why her father disappeared from their lives would have lent more gravity to the family drama. Otherwise, Jean’s mother just seems a little, you know, mad.



Among the items dumped in the great clean out, several old photos hit some emotional sweet spots in the film. It started with photos of some candid college tomfoolery involving Jean and Aim. Then came the mysterious photo capturing the encounter of two strangers who were to later to become husband and wife. But most tender of all, was an old family photo with Jean’s father playing the piano to the doe-eyed delight of Jean and her brother. The film tried to register many different notes around the theme of decluttering, such as visual design, humour, loss, dilemma. Yet one particular note rang louder than the others: nostalgia. Particularly in these photo moments, we found nostalgia and a connection to something more tangible. Everything else dumped into the mix felt nameless and transient. It is also interesting to note that these photo moments were also moments of a medium crossover in the film, completing what the rest of the visual narrative could not fill.



As Jean moves closer to achieving the desired minimal look for her office, the film bears an interesting duality of excitement towards seeing the finished transformation and the notion that something is slowly going amiss. What’s disappointing is that this builds up, rather glacially, towards a fence-sitting ending of self-doubt. What’s nice is that it ends with a sentimental Thai Song. Don’t know the lyrics but they all have a sweet ring to it. And what’s left to imagine is possibly Aim’s new life in Southeast Asia’s most decluttered and sterile capital, Singapore. Big warm welcome.

Review by Jeremy Sing

ShoutOUT! SeaShorts Film Festival Returns End August in Ipoh and Opens For Entries.

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Entries are now officially accepted for the fourth annual SeaShorts Film Festival set to be held in Ipoh, Perak, Malaysia this 25th to 30th August!

Qualified directors from across the ASEAN region are invited to apply at bit.ly/seashorts2020submission by 30th April under the theme “Reimagining Short Films, Reinventing Southeast Asia”. Submissions in all genres and forms under 20 minutes will be considered.

A selection of 30 titles will compete for the SeaShorts Award, with Malaysian filmmakers qualifying for the additional Next New Wave Award. The candidates and winners will be determined by an independent committee of professional judges comprising Cambodian-French filmmaker Davy Chou of Anti-Archive, Philippine producer Bianca Balbuena of Epic Media, Singaporean sound engineer Rennie Gomes, and renowned Malaysian academic Dr. Farish Noor.

The competition section will be complemented by a robust line-up of activities that aim to reflect the
diversity, authenticity, and bold visions of emerging and established Southeast Asian filmmakers. In addition to screenings, the Festival every year hosts industry sessions, art experiences, experimental projects, as well as S-Express, a travelling showcase dedicated to the new wave of cinema in the region.

“SeaShorts has always been about looking at Southeast Asia—how we were in the past, what we could be in the future, and where is there room for reinvention—through the filmmaking lens,” said Tan Chui Mui, Festival Founder and Co-Director, who is a member of the pioneering Malaysian production company Da Huang Pictures. “And what better way to explore that than through the possibilities of short film.” 

“It is an exciting time for Asian cinema." adds Nicholas Chee, Festival Co-Director and Executive Creative Director of The Flying Kick Asia. "With recent successes on the global stage bringing a dramatic increase in fresh eyes and production values, the possibilities for greater exposure and storytelling are expansive. We look forward to receiving the entries and sharing them with our audiences.”

An emerging regional platform for film discovery, SeaShorts shines a spotlight on the many creative voices in Southeast Asia, with the 2019 Festival seeing more than 2,000 admissions come through the doors. Indonesian drama Ballad of Blood and Two White Buckets by Yosep Anggi Noen was presented with the SeaShorts Award while Amanda Nell Eu’s Vinegar Baths picked up the Next New Wave Award.

Full details of the 2020 programme will be unveiled in June. For more information, visit seashorts.org.

Film Review: California Dreaming (2019)

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We hear the sound of waves crashing against the seashore before we see our protagonist, Sarita, walking purposelessly along a beach. The roaring cacophony of the waves gradually overwhelms us as she stops, the pale blue of her blouse blending into the ocean, closing her eyes and taking in a huge breath – a moment in solitary reflection and escape, giving oneself away to nature. 


This sense of escape is the essence of California Dreaming, a short film directed by Sreylin Meas. Sarita, a woman from Phnom Penh, has come to a seaside resort in Cambodia to escape from the responsibilities and problems in her urban life – indeed, calls from her mother keep her tethered to the reality that this tranquility is only a reprieve. Instead of enjoying herself or relaxing, Sarita gazes with a sombre fatigue that weighs her down.

That is until a chance encounter with Sak, a worker at the resort. After a few moments of hesitant conversation Sak invites her to a large house nearby, and through the rest of the day in-between subtle glances do they begin to reveal more about themselves to each other. They speak equivocally, and yet, it is the understanding of what is left unsaid about their problems that authentically connects the two. 

The film is heavily restrained, instead focusing the camera to treat each subject with the same languor, care and dedication like a portraitist. In this sense California Dreaming exists within the same paradigm as Portrait of a Lady on Fire (dir. Céline Sciamma, 2019), which also paints the budding relationship of two women in delicate chiaroscuro and composition. The railings of the nature path where they first meet, for instance, forms leading lines to focus our attention to Sarita and Sak. The blocking presents an equal exchange of information that they provide about themselves, slowly opening each other. The result is an aesthetically pleasing, symmetrical image that reflects their compatibility for each other, even though they haven’t realised it yet. 


But the essence of the film lies in how these characters break free from the mold set on them. Sarita’s mother’s phone calls interrupt the peace of her mini-vacation; Sak confesses that her arranged marriage didn’t work out. It is in the framework of societal molds, with the disappointment and dread of the urban everyday, that they find kindred spirits within each other. We see this framework in the dense foliage of the trees, hiding even a bit of free sky; we see this in the constraining walls of the house that Sak invites Sarita to. And yet, despite the seeming restriction, the camera makes sure to shoot each of them in the center, balanced by architectural doorframes and lines and establishing eyelines beyond the camera to each other.  The effect is such that the camera appreciates the beauty of each individual, lingering with a precious kind of sensuality that refuses to lift its head beyond the overt. It is, essentially, the female gaze that both California Dreaming and Portrait do so well with technical mastery measured with careful restraint. 


Unlike Portrait, Meas never lets us see more than the barest interaction. Its vast ellipses in time hint at the developing relationship, instead of showing it. Day scenes cut to night scenes after barely a conversation; almost no time is wasted after their first kiss to cut to the following day, when Sak drives Sarita around on her motorcycle. The minimalist style of acting adopted by Monysak and Sarita never expresses anything more than subtle curiosity and desire either. In this sense, an audience without the patience to only witness snippets of a relationship that barely completes the whole might dismiss the film as disjointed, or perhaps even boring. 

But what is felt, more than anything, is the absence of such connections. If the rustling of trees and the sibilance of crickets do not backdrop each scene, the crashing of the waves do. The only time there is silent ambient sound is the hotel room Sarita stays in – it’s no coincidence that in the only time that she finds herself in an enclosed space in the film, the unnatural greenish lighting is accompanied with unnatural silence. Dialogue is offered, soft and gentle, that always seems to respect the sounds of nature. If anything, Meas invites us to experience the patient tranquility of the diegesis and the spaces left unbroached or unsaid in connecting to a stranger. It offers a reprieve from the fast-paced maximalism of the film landscape today – another escape from the status quo. 

In the end, Sarita looks beyond a pier, then turns back to us and walks. A whole horizon to her, and yet she is returning – a rejection of freedom? Or is it that she is returning to Sak, who has become Sarita’s freedom itself? That is for you to decide. But whatever it is – freedom, peace, or quietude, their connection is undeniable. 

Review by Ethan Kan

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