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 intogood 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.

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.

Megalopolisrevolves around the oligarchy of New Rome, a society facing rapid decline. From among their ranksemergesCesar 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 likestatues, and speak in a dialect so oddit has been negatively compared to The Room (2003), and more favourably to the artful campiness of David Lynch’s work inTwin 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.

Writer’s Bio:

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.

“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) [1]. Beyond just representation on screen [2], 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 [3]. 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” [4].

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 [5], 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 womahood, 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.

References:

[1] Wilon , N., & Kaiden, E. (2024, March 15). Hollywood’s exclusion of women over 40 leaves us watching the same show on repeat—Opinion. Yahoo Entertainment. https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/hollywood-exclusion-women-over-40-175602909.html

[2] Jackson, A. (2024, February 21). 2023 marked ‘historic low’ for women in leading film roles, according to new study: ‘This is an industry failure’. Variety. https://variety.com/2024/film/news/inclusion-study-2023-historic-low-women-in-leading-film-roles-1235917950/

[3] H-SU, K. (2024, April 12). Hollywood: Why are women always younger than men in movies? Medium. https://medium.com/@kristinehsu2020/why-are-women-always-younger-than-men-in-movies-a105adec04c8
[4] Burtt, K. (2024, May 16). Meryl streep revealed why she thought her ‘career was over’ at the age of 40. Yahoo Entertainment. https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/meryl-streep-revealed-why-she-170452902.html

[5] Sun, R. (2023, November 6). Despite real-life population growth, latinos remain silent or invisible in film. The Hollywood Reporter. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/latino-representation-movies-study-1235637531/

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.

Credit: Mediacorp 

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.

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 pspsps at her neighborhood cats. Connect with her on LinkedIn here.

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 storyis 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.

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.

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”1. 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):3fraudulently 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’ [ET1] 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):3bto 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 imposterwho 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.

Reference article:

1 https://www.zaobao.com.sg/entertainment/story20240919-4758001

[ET1]Suggest using single rather than double quotation marks for words that are not direct quotes, just to differentiate.