In recent years, there has been an undeniable explosion of fictionalised depictions of the origins of “drug wars”. An example is Netflix’s successful dramatised rendering of the birth of America’s War on Drugs told from the point of view of DEA agents and the cartels themselves in Medellín, Colombia in the case of Narcos (2015-2017) and its follow-up prequel, Narcos: Mexico, which was released earlier this year. The talk of any “war on drugs” is one that we’ve been more or less accustomed to for years now.

But now, talks of a drug war have come to hit a little closer to home (especially for myself as a Filipino) as one has been ongoing for the last two and a half years in the Philippines ever since the current president, Rodrigo Duterte, was sworn into office. With his famed “no tolerance” approach and encouragement of vigilantism, what we’ve seen for the last two years is a rallying cry for citizens and police forces alike to take matters into their own hands. This is the underlying context within which Brillante Mendoza’s latest film, Alpha, the Right to Kill (2018) is set. 

Born out of his 12-episode Netflix miniseries Amo (which we'll touch upon more) released this past April as the very first Filipino series on the streaming site, Alpha serves as an extension of the narrative he explored there. The social-realist thriller, as described by Mendoza himself in an interview with the SINdie team from a few months ago, was unintentional as he didn't plan on making it, but he found that "there was still more to say, to tell".

Alpha opens with a shot of uniformed policemen marching in unison, a blatant display of rule and order as they walk up a closed street. Physically militaristic in their precision, this sets up the position that the police undertake in Duterte's war on drugs. Like soldiers amid a battlefield, each possible drug bust (as shown in the film) is not treated as an opportunity to expose what is, of course, a wider web of producers, suppliers, dealers, and users, but as the chance to simply shoot to kill. There are no questions asked, no attempts at gaining more insight, only assumptions made and another statistic to be added to a growing body count. 

Written by Troy Espiritu, the narrative of Alpha insofar as it's a quasi-exposé of the drug war touches upon the inevitable corruption that has ensued. One of the two protagonists, Espino (played by Allen Dizon, reprising his role from Amo), is a corrupt police officer who enlists the assistance of his eponymous “alpha”, or informant, Elijah (played by Elijah Filamor) to make a profit from the drugs obtained from a raid by reselling it on the streets. The juxtaposition of the two characters is an unsurprising attempt at making viewers perceive the drug war from “both sides of the coin” as the saying goes, with both men as fathers simply doing what they must in order to survive. Whether it’s smuggling drugs in his baby’s diaper or affixing a baggie of crack cocaine to a pigeon’s foot, Elijah does what he must. 

Before the aforementioned raid takes place, there’s a stunning sequence of footage presumably captured by a drone. As the shot pans upwards from the slums littered at the base of Manila’s skyline to the towering skyscrapers above them, it's almost as though the slums are the capital’s very foundations. The shot is as appropriate as it is revealing, for we later learn that Alpha is ultimately about the enduring cycle of corruption between the poor and those in power. 

Stylistically, Mendoza is haphazard and raw in his use of documentary-style filmmaking and hand-held camerawork. Despite the realism and intimacy that such techniques aspire to enable, it ultimately falls short. With its action-packed pace and sparse dialogue, the film struggles to give true depth to the characters, especially when compared to his earlier film Ma'Rosa (2016) which touched upon a similar subject matter. Moments of poignancy that should feel poignant feel like afterthoughts instead, such as those of wailing mothers and wives grieving over the deaths of their sons and husbands. Perhaps that is the intention—another day, another death. Have we become so desensitised to the sight of grief and mourning born out of the drug war? Is another body truly just another statistic?

Despite its subject matter and the fact that this is purportedly the reality of the Philippines today, it is interesting to observe the very limited role that Duterte himself plays. As a character in the background, we catch snippets of his voice as they reverberate from a TV screen at the police station, almost relegating an omnipresence to him.

Given the fact that Alpha is a continuation of Amo and as a Filipino, it feels necessary to reflect upon the following points. Political leanings aside, Duterte's war on drugs has been long criticised by human rights advocates in the international community. Naturally, any depiction of its impact on the people who live through it each day is bound to fall under scrutiny as well. 

This is where we return to Amo. As I wrote this review, I was surprised (or perhaps not entirely so) to find that the series was heavily criticised in the Philippines as a "glorification" of the war on drugs and as pro-drug war propaganda, to the point that the mother of a falsely accused marijuana dealer began a petition to have it removed on Netflix. Labelled as a pro-Duterte figure and having directed the two State of the Nation addresses for the president, Mendoza himself said in an interview with AFP that the drug war "is necessary for the Philippines—not only for the Philippines but also other countries afflicted with the drug problem".

This, of course, makes Alpha similarly problematic for the same reasons and I understand that now. Social realism aside, I can't say the film does the reality of the drug war and its ability to impact the lives of Filipinos much justice—the film is about drugs and the world of the drug war but not so much about the people trapped within it. 

When Alpha opened at the 29th Singapore International Film Festival as part of the festival's  late night Midnight Mayhem section, Mendoza was there to introduce it. As he stood in front of a sleepy audience, he explained that the film had yet to premiere in the Philippines. Knowing what I know now, I'm curious to see what the reactions will be like. 

Written by Melissa Noelle Esguerra

Melissa Noelle Esguerra is a multifaceted writer who likes to explore all things pertaining to art, film, culture, and literature. She obtained her BA (Hons) in English Language & Literature with a minor in Linguistics from New York University. After having spent the last four years in New York City, she now resides in Singapore. 

The film’s narrative is straightforward at this point, but ten minutes into the film, cracks in reality begin to emerge. Lok claims to have seen visions of Wang’s last days before his disappearance in his dreams, and suddenly, we are no longer following Lok’s story. 

Wang becomes our central character and the film slowly begins to follow a social-realist vein. After injuring his arm, Wang becomes unable to sleep. He becomes an insomniac wanderer, spending his sleepless nights at a 24-hour internet cafe near his dormitory, passing the time playing computer games (primarily first-person shooter Counter-Strike) and spending time with a elusive female employee at the cafe whose side job is selling sexual favours. 

Though the film never completely forgets the mystery of his eventual disappearance, Wang’s daily routine becomes the main emphasis. Through Wang’s perspective, Yeo brings to the forefront the social concerns of migrant workers--their poor living conditions in Singapore and being taken advantage of by their employers. They are plagued by the possibility of being sent home owing debts to the company, not being paid even after working, and not being able to return home even if they have a family emergency. 

A Land Imagined is not content with staying in one place. As we continue with Wang’s journey and he slowly becomes accustomed to his nocturnal lifestyle, we see him less and less during the day. He spends more time at the internet cafe, or out at night with his friends. He becomes sucked into the imagined land of computers, obsessed with his game, chatting with a stranger behind the screen about the problems in his life. We don’t know how much time exactly has passed. It could have been days, weeks, even months. How long has this man not slept? 

Unlike more conventional depictions of Singapore on the silver screen where realism is king, A Land Imagined takes a more surrealist approach. Characters often behave as though they have been hypnotised. There is something odd about the way the actors move, perform actions or deliver their lines. At times it feels a little too early, and others a little too late. 

There are a few too many narrative threads left hanging and ambiguous. How is Lok, a police officer, able to live in some kind of landed private property? What exactly happened to Wang? Who is the mysterious stranger behind the computer screen chatting with Lok and Wang? Did we see Wang’s actual life before his disappearance or was it all just Lok’s imagination? 

A Land Imagined is not a conventional film by any means, and the film’s shifting tones and ambiguous narrative threads may feel at times like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with a piece lost. 

Although I watched the film quite a while ago, several great scenes from the movie still linger in my mind. Perhaps most notable is the film’s conversion of popular Counter-Strike map "de_dust2" into a captivating sensory experience. 

A Land Imagined has stirred my heart. The moods conjured, the emotions brought about, and the artistic images which strike a balance between unworldly and real. It is without a doubt world-class cinema.  

A Land Imagined was screened in competition at the 29th Singapore International Film Festival, where it won Best Asian Feature Film.

Written by Timothy Ong

Here is something to spread some festive cheer! Our online shop is up! Welcome to the STORE!

What's in the store? It's our 10th Anniversary Comics Merchandise, consisting of posters, postcards and T-shirts. Prices are as above. There are 10 designs to choose from. All sales proceeds go into the operational expenses for the running of SINdie. SINdie is currently a pro-bono online film publication put together by the efforts of volunteers. Your purchases will mean a lot to us. Merry Christmas!

Check out this video which shows the creative journey from our artists' works-in-progress to the final artwork. We want to say a big thank you to Eric Khoo, Sonny Liew, Otto Fong, Boaz Yeung, Belicia Christianti and Marco Bintang.

Jeremy Sing, SINdie's Founder with filmmaker/comic artist Eric Khoo 

Comic artworks on display at the Intermission Bar outside The Projector 

From left to right: Ying Tong, Nicholas Chee, Jeremy Sing, Ng Peng Hui and David Lee

Young and promising comic artist Boaz Yeung with his comic art of 'Lulu the Movie'

 SINdie writers represent! From left to right: Colin Low, Darren Ong, Melody Chow, Jacqueline Lee and Jeremy Sing

Some of our most loyal supporters. Left to right: Jasmine Ng, Jeremy Sing, Tan Pin Pin and Sharon Tan

As this year’s winner of the Short Film Award at the Venice Film Festival and recent winner of Best Director and Youth Jury Prize at the Singapore International Film Festival’s Silver Screen Awards, young Indonesian director Aditya Ahmad has created a true gift (pun very much intended).

His award-winning short film, Kado (A Gift) also screened at the Jogja NETPAC Asian Film Festival this year and provides a wondrously nuanced, complex depiction of gender identity within a Muslim community. But most of all, it depicts the true lawlessness of (and freedom found in) adolescence, the unconditional love and acceptance found in friendships, and the inherent turmoil that is finding out who you are (or whatever that means). 

The 15-minute short provides an intimate glimpse into the life of androgynous teenager Isfi (Isfiri Febiana). Febiana does the role immense justice –– strength coupled with ambivalence radiating from each gaze when the camera rests on her. The opening shot depicts Isfi staring out of a broken window at the world below, only eyes in view, both an outsider and observer of the patterns and behaviours that constitute masculinity and femininity. 

Simple actions such as dressing and undressing are elevated in meaning here: they are rituals. Actions such as wearing trousers as opposed to a skirt, a hijab rather than going out with one’s head bare—these actions enable Isfi to fluidly navigate friendships and gain access to both social and intimate spaces. 

Kado's greatest fault is that it's only 15-minutes long. In this short amount of time, Ahmad has delicately given us a taste of Isfi’s world and in truth, there's so much more left to discover. To understand more about the story behind Kado, Melissa had a discussion with him about his film.




What drew you to the use of the short film format? What does it enable you to do that a feature length film does not?

I started making Kado with the intention of shooting a short film. The idea of making it as a feature length film came up during some screenings with friends. Some of them said that this movie should be a feature length film with the type of story it has. I know of some films that began as short films that were later developed into feature length films with the same story, but I didn't want to do that for Kado.

Do you feel like it’s because in 15-minutes there’s actually a lot one can do, or do you feel like for this specific film it was right to keep it as a short film?

I think this particular story just worked as a short film. I’m not really sure if it would work in a longer format. You’d have to add some elements to lengthen the film that might not necessarily fit with the narrative, and in the end, these elements might serve to only distract from the main story. 

What inspired you to make Kado?

This film is based on Isfi’s story (Isfira Febiana, the main actor in the film), but it all started with my questioning of life and of my own existence as a human being. This began after On Stopping the Rain (2013) –– I started to question myself and my decision to make films. Asking myself these questions resulted in a crisis in my life about two years ago. I travelled a lot, I met a lot of people –– I experienced life. The thing is, I experienced that crisis because I didn’t feel alive. When I was travelling and I met those people, I found that some people actually needed me and knowing that made me feel alive. 

When I went back to my hometown, I met Isfi again. We worked together in On Stopping the Rain and for several years, we didn’t meet but were still communicating via phone. She shared the same anxieties with me –– she had been questioning her identity and felt confused about that. We shared these thoughts together and decided to make this film. In the process of making this film, we probably got more answers and we learned from the process as a whole. 



What is the role of gender in Kado?

My hometown isn’t a big city so it’s a little conservative but at the same time, we have a very strong Buginese culture. We have a belief that there are 5 genders that exist: male and female; calabai, where the person is physically male, but identifies as female; calalai, where the person is physically female, but identifies as male; and bissu, where there’s no gender identification, the person is gender-ambiguous and androgynous. 

The story comes with this context. I used to question whether these five genders really existed in our culture and how they existed. When I met Isfi, I spent a lot of time with her and her friends, I was inspired by their lives. At the same time, I was bringing those questions of existence that I had: Why was I born as who I am? Why was I born in this body? Why was I born into this family? 

That's very fascinating. Now that I have greater context surrounding the conceptions of gender that exist in Buginese culture, it's now interesting to look at Kado in this new light. I’ve read some comments from Western film critics who bring a view of gender that’s more geared towards how it’s viewed in their culture. In terms of having that extra added layer of context that’s unique to Buginese culture, how do you think the film would be interpreted within a wider Indonesian audience as a whole?

Through this film, I hope that people ultimately identify with these characters in the sense that we’re all human. We’re all born as humans –– we don’t have a choice in that or in the finer details of what constitutes being human. 

In some of the screenings we’ve had, people have come up to me and said, “Thank you for making this film” –– I’ve never had an audience that watched the film and felt negatively towards it and disagreed with the content. I think that it’s ultimately because what I’ve shown is a portrayal of what it is to be a human being. I don’t think there’s a difference between gender identities –– whether you’re male or female –– you’re just human and we’re all God’s creations. 



Media and technology play quite a role in the film, particularly as Isfi and other characters engage with one another through social media like Snapchat, et cetera. Within local Indonesian society, when it comes to issues of identity and gender identity, what have you seen are the ways in which people discuss that? Is it mostly kept online or do people openly discuss it in person as well?

I’ve found that a lot of young people discuss these issues via social media. But even in person when I’ve spent time with Isfi and her friends, I saw that they don’t see her differently. She’s just Isfi –– they don’t treat her differently. 

Of course, it’s not always like that. Isfi told me a story about her experience when she was in junior high school. Her school had a dress code and she told me that she would bring two sets of uniforms to school (like in the film). She’d bring the female school uniform including a hijab and a male school uniform in her bag. She would go the bathroom and then change before going to classes. In her final years of high school, they weren’t as strict about wearing the hijab to school. But she was also still bringing both sets of uniforms to classes. Some of her teachers were okay with that –– that she felt more comfortable in the male uniform, but others didn’t agree with her choices. They told her, "Why are using boys’ clothing? That doesn’t really fit you". On the other hand, another teacher told her that she looked really cool in the boys’ uniform. 

Not everyone in a given society thinks in the same way –– and for us, we live in a conservative society. Most of them wouldn't really agree with what she did and not conforming to your gender. 

Do you feel then that in some way that the traditional beliefs observed in some of these villages have a more tolerant approach to gender identity versus than the views that are held in cities?

Yes and no. It differs from place to place and person to person. For example, there’s a village that’s about a 3-hour drive from Makassar where I live and they believe that you should be touched by a calabai before you get married. But at the same time, when I was still in high school, I remember I once had a haircut. A friend told me that some people claim that if a calabai cuts your hair, if they’ve touched you, all of your prayers in the past are voided –– like you’ve fallen out of favour in God’s eyes. 

Wow.

Yeah (laughs). There are a lot of beliefs that societies have built in order to ignore and erase people. They don’t want to acknowledge them and the fact that they exist. 

You mentioned you were filming something and then you got sick –– what are you working on next?

Oh, that? That was just regular work! (laughs) I was shooting outdoors and it was raining all day, so I fell ill and I got a fever. I was filming a music video –– I found it interesting and the music was good. So I said, “Why not? Let’s go do this”. It wasn’t with a famous singer, I don’t think she’s even broadcasted her work on TV or on YouTube yet. I found that these types of projects are good as a place to explore or exercise the more technical aspects of filmmaking –– you’re able to build knowledge and develop skills on that you can then bring to your personal projects.

At the end of the day, what do you hope for audiences to take away from your films?

I’ve always said that what I want to bring to my films is that I want to share my discoveries, and what I’ve gained from this process of exploration. What I’ve learned is that life itself is a gift. To be human is a gift from God and life is a gift that should be given to others, too. I believe in that concept that we’re all just made from the stars and that we’re all very connected to each other. 

The film was screened under the Asian Perspective section of the 13th Jogja NETPAC Asian Film Festival held in Yogyakarta.

Nervous Translation, which had its world premiere at the 13th Jogja NETPAC Asian Film Festival , is a meeting of dreams, childlike perceptions of the world and an intermittent connection with the real world. Created by Shireen Seno, an architect by training and a lover of experimental cinema at heart, the film offers a thoughtful palette of visuals and textures that echo the world eight-year-old Yael, the main character, creates in her imaginative mind.

Yael lives with her mother who is perennially exhausted from work and is rather emotionally detached. So Yael likes to listen endlessly to the cassette tapes recorded by her father, whom we never seen, but according to the narrative, is working in Saudi Arabia. To fill her voids, for which she has many, she relishes in creating little make-believe worlds within the house, playing with household items and finding meaning for herself through them. What's interesting is that Shireen's visual expression of Yael's world, for instance in the recreation of miniature sets like a kitchen and later on, a cluster of housing in a flood, adds another layer of observation into the film. It is like looking through a snow globe at someone who is also looking at a miniature world from the palm of her hands. This film, in many ways, tries to marry fantastical set-ups with more sobering real-life truths. We guess that's how the term magic-realism came about. One of the 'real-life truths' the film tried to reference is Philippines’ Martial Law in the 1980s. In a few instances, Yael rebels in certain ways, only to be penalised later by her mother, seemingly a allegorical reference to Martial Law. Dwarfed by these real-world issues, Yael never lets them douse her sparks of imagination and her blissful ignorance that underlies most of the film. With a mix of deliberately-choppy editing and surrealist sound design, Nervous Translation take you off the logic train for a different ride. For people with reservations about experimental cinema, this film could be challenging. But Shireen has this to say. Here is SINdie's interview with Shireen.

You are a big proponent of experimental cinema. To people who are not warmed up to experimental cinema, how would you sell it to them?

I think experimental cinema is amazing because there are no limits ot it. Sometimes I feel like the term experimental cinema is used as a way to put a label on things that don't fit. They are like misfits. Outsiders. Which is a good thing. And it is a good thing that there is a medium where you don't have these narrative restrictions. You can find your own form.

How was this film funded? Given its esoteric treatment, was it challenging to get funding?

In its early stages, the film received script and project development funding from the Hubert Bals Fund of the International Film Festival Rotterdam and production funding from The Global Film Initiative, while the final productions funds came from Cinema One Originals. Yes, it took several attempts/years applying to local film festival funding to finally bring home the bacon after the initial interest died down.

Why is the film called Nervous Translation?

The title actually came from a dream. I had a dream in which I had to go my relative’s place to find a pen for the film. I really like the phrase because ‘nervous’ usually comes with ‘nervous breakdown’. So I was quite intrigued by the phrase and I wanted to explore it. I feel the word translation is interesting because there is lot of subjectivity to it. So that’s when I felt I needed to collect more dreams. I had trouble writing and I knew I had to collect more dreams and just put them in there and not have to make sense of it so much, and to have that kind of absurdity perhaps, and let them breathe on their own.

What inspired you to use miniatures in the film?

I actually studied architecture, so I have that experience with scale and I feel it is like a recurring motif in my works. I like to play with the concept of scale. My first film Big Boy was about a boy and his parents who are obsessed with him being tall. So there is play with scale. And the first one was about dealing with the colonial mentality. And here in Nervous Translation, I am using scale as a way of emotionally and psychologically entering a child's point of view.

The play with scale seems to bring home the point that the world is never the right size for the girl and vice versa. What drew you to an expressionist or magic-realist mode of telling the story?

I think I am a bit of deadpan kind of a person maybe? I like this kind of dead pan humour that is absurdist in a way. I grew up reading a lot of Kafka. So there is a lot of absurdity in it. The waking up or falling asleep....playing with the scale of things. Who built the miniature sets for the film? Any interesting incidents to share? Especially the ones involving real cooking?

The miniature stove is made entirely out of metal, so it's non-flammable and can really cook food with a tealight candle! It's made by a small German company that handcrafts a line of brilliant miniature stoves designed to be used with incense cones that they also make from entirely of natural materials according to an old family recipe. The miniature sets for the final scene of the film were designed by Carl Papa, a filmmaker known for his animated films which use different kinds of techniques, such as rotoscoping and handmade elements. For Nervous Translation, Carl led a team of young artists including Mikki Luistro and Bee Lachenal to build the handmade sets based on our live action set.

You and John edited this movie. A lot of filmmakers have trouble editing their own movies for various reasons. Do you find it challenging to edit your own film?

I am not such a good editor. So that’s why I asked John to work on it together with me. I did sort of a rough edit and he helped fine-tune it. He’s got a really good sense of rhythm. He started off as an editor, so he’s got that base. For me, I actually started off taking photos. I am more of a visual person and I feel that so much of the footage was so composed in a way that I was so happy we had all these shots taken in between moments when we were just rolling the camera. It helped us get away from this sense of structure. It was through the editing and the sound design that allowed us to break free of the structure. 

Do you direct child actors differently from adult actors? Especially now that you have your own child? (Shireen’s child cried on cue when this question was asked.)

She can speak for me haha. About directing children, I am terrible at directing actually. I am really nervous so I actually prefer working with non-actors. I feel like I am at the same level as them. I feel intimidated working with professional actors. But for this, we had a timeframe to complete. That’s why we considered working with a casting director. So we came across this girl called Jana, who is actually a child star. I didn’t really know her at all because I don’t really watch TV now. She is known for her work on TV comedies. She has been a star since she was six and she has her own comedic timing, and her own way of acting. But we said no, just try to relax. So a lot of the footage in the film was just the camera rolling when she was just waiting, being a kid, being herself. I was really happy to have that footage of un-staged stuff and it was mixed together with the scripted stuff. There was really so much time waiting that she had the chance to be herself and when children are left to be themselves, that’s when the magic happens.

There are close to 6 film festivals in the Philippines currently. Do you think the scene is seeing some kind of a resurgence of a golden age?

There is definitely no shortage of films being produced, and it's great that these film festivals are open to anyone to submit their scripts. The catch, however, to most of these festival funds is that they own the majority of the rights to the film, so it's really a trade-off. A new fund offered by the Bangkok-based Purin Pictures is changing the game, in offering grants with no catch to Southeast Asian films, with one slot per grant session dedicated to female filmmakers from the region.

Interview by Jeremy Sing