the delights of singaporean cinema
12 Storeys. Seemingly yet another Singapore-made movie but Mr Huang wasn't joking when he said Eric Khoo was a prominent director. I'm glad we watched this during GP, and it was introspective and not at all abhorrent, nice enough for me to attend GP lesson today just to watch it come to a close.
Only they tricked us into coming and the movie didn't finish playing.
It successfully pierced my soul enough for me to try finding the CD in the library, and when that was on loan, the book, written by screenwriter James Toh. I found the language um not to my taste. It sounded a little simplistic, or maybe it just paled considerably to the movie's ability to coat every event with multiple meanings that only a master writer could accomplish doing the same in prose, in paragraphs where one word marches in front of another and no type can be layered.
It has made me think a little about Singapore. I feel relieved to know a darker heart lurks within our lush bushes, beyond that of cheery reminder-posters, that someone has put microscopes to our daily affairs just when I was convinced that none here will. It's a dark bleeding heart choked with ankle-high mire. It tilts my opinion mildly to the other end, when I had wanted out all along suddenly the fact had hit me rudely in the face that for all the reasons and reality and hidden beautiful things going on underneath, the work of human hands that isn't something meant to impress but merely to tell stories, I might as well stay. The local flavour is titillating; I don't know why I like to be reminded of something common on the movie screen when I see the same thing every single day, but indirectly it hints of common experiences that strike tenderly to where we all have felt safe or at least belonged to at some point.
Irrevocably, every Singaporean movie consists of a mild jab in the government's side. Under the influence of external literature and critique on the overseer of my living space, I still have trouble deciding whether support translates to subservience, a word which most of us would not find friendly (or would not comprehend its meaning, I don't know, seriously), a word which my 'proclaimed independent' side does not take very lightly. Honestly does it really matter? Everything runs smooth as butter on knives.
Now, if only Jack Neo was something of this sort. Go make something as vibrant and thought-provoking.
I will finish the book tonight.
Only they tricked us into coming and the movie didn't finish playing.
It successfully pierced my soul enough for me to try finding the CD in the library, and when that was on loan, the book, written by screenwriter James Toh. I found the language um not to my taste. It sounded a little simplistic, or maybe it just paled considerably to the movie's ability to coat every event with multiple meanings that only a master writer could accomplish doing the same in prose, in paragraphs where one word marches in front of another and no type can be layered.
It has made me think a little about Singapore. I feel relieved to know a darker heart lurks within our lush bushes, beyond that of cheery reminder-posters, that someone has put microscopes to our daily affairs just when I was convinced that none here will. It's a dark bleeding heart choked with ankle-high mire. It tilts my opinion mildly to the other end, when I had wanted out all along suddenly the fact had hit me rudely in the face that for all the reasons and reality and hidden beautiful things going on underneath, the work of human hands that isn't something meant to impress but merely to tell stories, I might as well stay. The local flavour is titillating; I don't know why I like to be reminded of something common on the movie screen when I see the same thing every single day, but indirectly it hints of common experiences that strike tenderly to where we all have felt safe or at least belonged to at some point.
Irrevocably, every Singaporean movie consists of a mild jab in the government's side. Under the influence of external literature and critique on the overseer of my living space, I still have trouble deciding whether support translates to subservience, a word which most of us would not find friendly (or would not comprehend its meaning, I don't know, seriously), a word which my 'proclaimed independent' side does not take very lightly. Honestly does it really matter? Everything runs smooth as butter on knives.
Now, if only Jack Neo was something of this sort. Go make something as vibrant and thought-provoking.
I will finish the book tonight.