Things We Know/ Don’t Know about Each Other

In his 1995 essay The Generic City, Dutch architect and critic Rem Koolhaas writes, 

Is the contemporary city like the contemporary airport – “all the same”? […] What is left after identity is stripped? The Generic? […] From the grafting of more or less discreet traffic arteries, bypasses, underground tunnels, … from the serial bankruptcies and subsequent reopenings of specific units in more and more expensive shopping precincts to the relentless conversion of utilitarian space into “public” space, pedestrianization, the creation of new parks… all authenticity is relentlessly evacuated. […] The Generic City is always founded by people on the move, poised to move on. 

Koolhaas’ essay speaks of the tendency for all modern cities to gravitate towards sameness, perhaps in part subscribing to similar metrics of success. It is a mundanity that many in Singapore can relate to. At times this small country feels like a repetition of the same spaces and places. Conversations with our peers tend to gravitate to the same old topics, weekend activities revolve around the same events taking turns at the same spots by the same cliques, and come each holiday season, Singaporeans, bored of the confines of the island and itching to get out, leave in droves to feast their eyes on the rest of the world (by “world” we mean Japan and JB, really). 

The Other is Invisible 

But what are we overlooking when we assume our lived experiences are all “the same”? Tan Ker Wei’s beautiful documentary The World I Live in Doesn’t Exist challenges this head on. It introduces us to Pradnamepetch Kanoknak (Lamtham) and “Trith”, two individuals who have both been afflicted by depersonalisation and derealisation (DPDR), a dissociative disorder which distorts the individual’s perception of reality and identity, isolating them from what we think of as conventional society. 

The film combines animated sequences with digitally altered video footage to bring Lamtham and Trith’s stories to life. DPDR is a condition that many of us have likely never witnessed or experienced, but Ker Wei deftly manipulates image, video, and sound to both mimic its alienating, disorienting effects and amplify Lamtham and Trith’s thoughts and emotions. He pays close attention to what his subjects are saying. When Lamtham mentions Munch and Van Gogh as artists she admires, Ker Wei borrows their artistic styles to draw parallels to the emotional turmoil caused by DPDR. When Trith describes his first DPDR episode, the scene pulls away to reveal him trapped in a television, suggesting his separation from reality and foreshadowing further episodes to come. 

It is a delight when the visual effects peel away as Lamtham shares that she has since overcome the disorder. We can now see her clearly, just as she is able to see herself and the world around her. Even then, hers and Trith’s stories are a reminder that “others” do exist and cannot always be comprehended, even by themselves. And perhaps to a degree, an otherness lives in all of us. Ker Wei weaves in recognisable places in his film. Some are generic – the beach, a pedestrian crossing – some are local – the National Gallery, Shuang Long Shan cemetery, Bukit Timah Truss bridge (if we have spotted them correctly). These are scenes that you or I may see, and while we may not have DPDR, in these ordinary spaces our own hopes and fears might similarly play out in our minds. 

 

In that light, even if the city is thought to be mundane, we each give it meaning and experience it differently in our own ways. Some of this is due to conditions innate within us. We see this in documentarian Alton Ron Tan’s thought-provoking Fishing for Words that introduces Sherwin Tang, a spritely man living with aphasia, a speech disorder, after suffering a stroke roughly a decade ago. Like DPDR, aphasia is a condition invisible to both us and the city, and yet it is Sherwin’s reality. Opening with Sherwin’s voice, we hear him struggle to find the right words to speak before we see him on camera, much like how a stranger might reduce Sherwin to his condition before getting to know him in person. 

Alton captures Sherwin in an everyday setting, breaking down the process of ordering a cup of iced kopi. To many, this is an automated part of the day, but with a detailed lens we follow Sherwin counting coins out loud, as if to rehearse before taking the stand. Although his condition is invisible, we easily join his journey through the form of a mental tunnel as he perseveres towards the light. Sherwin may not have the smoothest coffee order, but he has manifested speaking to his wife — next is simply to fish again.  

To those unfamiliar with verbal impairments, we might pity Sherwin and, as the film points out, assume his difficulties for a lack of intelligence. But make no mistake, Sherwin does not pity himself. He does not dwell in sadness and instead believes he, and everybody like him, can overcome their fate. Even without full access to speech, he chooses to be active on the frontlines, living as joyfully and loudly as he can. Every word that Sherwin now says is beautiful to him, and we sense that this sublimity has permeated the rest of his life, and perhaps a bit of ours too. 

 

The Other is (caused by) us

While the ‘other’ is invisible, the invisible could be ourselves. In Full Shift, Christal Gallyot vulnerably portrays a mother, Tania, struggling in silence against the backdrop of a mundane world. Tania works as a food packer and raises her son alone as her estranged husband is in and out of prison. We see her right before his re-release as she attempts to break up an intimate relationship with her co-worker, Johann, and go through an abortion by herself. Unlike Sherwin who searches for words to live on, Tania recluses for survival from a cyclical banal condition– involuntarily assuming the role of the other. 

Her dispassionate expressions play out through a sequence of cold utilitarian spaces, continually shunning any concern directed at her. In the clinic, Tania endures a blitz of questions regarding her choice of abortion and quickly assures the doctor that things are okay. While the doctor’s concern for Tania’s support may be genuine, the perceived deprecating questions have driven her away. In the factory, Johann shares his cigarette and checks on her, but she brushes him off with a white lie, consciously misdirecting his care and leaving him out of the equation. Tania ‘others’ herself in the process of shouldering burdens alone, pointing to how easily the aforementioned sublimity can be lost on us.

Maybe it is our grasp on relationships that creates or absolves the sense of ‘otherness’ —  whether we can muster the strength and trust to present an authentic self, and whether we can accept another for doing so. If not, we may create misunderstandings in the ones we love, causing them to feel like they are “not from here”, alienating them from our world. We hope Tania and Johann can return to their bike rides through the city at twilight — a space only for them, carved out of genericness, broken free from repetition.

 

A city comfortable in sameness naturally generates resistance against that authentic self. This sameness in the military stretches as far as to classify what is seen as an appropriate ‘sexual deviation’. The power to classify carries the same to alienate and Leon explores this condition in 302 by depicting the absurd repercussions when a young man, Aaron, chooses not to fake a girlfriend for his military ball and instead dreams of dancing with his boyfriend. To the state, Aaron’s sexuality is a ‘sickness’ and society is not ready for him, hence he is encouraged to quietly pretend like many have before. 

That is a frustrating proposition to accept, let alone to be diagnosed with. Similar to Tania, Aaron endures a barrage of questions from a medical officer (MO), adding colour to how this ‘sickness’ exists in the minds of others — like believing “something would happen” while training in a swimming pool with his peers. Aaron’s interview with the colonel also explains how it is easier if one simply conforms — improving the ease of obtaining scholarships and charting a successful public service career. We learn that Aaron’s boyfriend faked a girlfriend and wonder if the MO and colonel did too. 

Ironically, feigning sickness made it easier for Aaron’s mother to gradually accept his situation. Upon picking him up from being discharged, she learns that he is not going to be an officer and exasperatedly exclaims “it’s quite stupid right, just because of this little thing you’re born with, cannot be an army officer”. Aaron’s use of sweaty palms as a cover for his sexuality brings a silly twist to internalise the bizarre military classification. His mother wants to defend him valiantly but faces his silent emotions of surrender and longing for home instead — “it’s too much” he says — she then seems to understand and holds his arm lovingly. 

Though dejected, Aaron stayed authentic. The sleeves of his wardmates straitjacket were coincidentally being untied and he saluted Aaron on his way out — a curious moment suggesting Aaron is free from the pretence and respected for his courage. The salute also jabs at the peculiar obsession with being an army officer, restricting life within a linear structure and overlooking the beauty of multitudes. 302 makes clear that ‘others‘ exist through both personal and structural ignorance, shining light on miscalculated classifications that we have become willing captives to.

The Other is around us 

Indeed, it is easy to make assumptions about the people we do not know, and easier still to keep them at arm’s length. Perhaps it is because in a small city like Singapore, personal space is precious, and too often our differences rub up against one another. We encounter it daily, on a commute, for example. The person who talks too loudly on the phone, the person who watches a video on speaker, or the one unaware that their backpack is hitting an innocent person behind them. We do not know who they are, why they are here, nor where they are going. And who knows? They might have a complaint about us too. With no attachment to and no interaction with our fellow commuters, we journey in solitude, but it can also be one of profound loneliness. 

Kevia Tan’s MRT City is then a startling, if brief, look into the lives of those around us. We are introduced to a variety of characters – a lady on her way to work, a traveller in Singapore, a gentleman with a penchant for collecting loyalty points, a gardener, a pair of anglers heading out to fish, an avid videographer, and a pair of students. Only, these are not characters. These are real people. Great care has been taken to name them (wait for the credits) and against the mundane, everyday commute, their stories come brimming to the surface.   

Kevia’s weapon of choice (the GoPro Hero 1, without a viewfinder, she informs us) has been chosen carefully. The camera is discreet, easily brought around without inviting stares, but more so, it has been wielded in a manner that indicates an authentic experience is being made. Always below eye-level, sometimes with the impression that the filmmaker has simply slung the camera around her neck as she traverses the bowels of our MRT system, documenting it with frankness. In fewer words, the shots are not staged. The people we meet through the film do not talk to the camera, but converse with Kevia behind the camera. The GoPro merely eavesdrops on the conversations being made, allowing the audience to bear witness to genuine, spontaneous connections between strangers. The fish-eye effect might recall a travelogue (as GoPros are wont to do), but in the film’s context it instead brings to mind the image of a child holding up a magnifying glass to better see the world. More strikingly, these strangers do not shy away from sharing their stories and quirks with another. They are not that unfamiliar after all, as they could have easily been us too. 

We see this yearning to connect once more in He Shuming’s delicate film Matinee at Three. The film pays homage to Tsai Ming Liang’s Goodbye, Dragon Inn, set in Taiwan, about a movie theatre’s final night and the characters who attend its last screening. In Shuming’s take, three characters – a man, a woman, and a projectionist – have gathered for the 1960 Singapore Chinese film The Lion City, a love story between Feng Ling, a factory worker, and Shao Ming, the factory’s young master.

The projectionist waits for a text message, the woman tears up as The Lion City sings about love, and the man, intrigued by the woman, seems to go after her but hesitates (she is oblivious to his intentions). In these tender vignettes, Shuming examines the quiet complexities of human nature. No explanation is given for their actions. Each character carries with them their own inner world, their “other”, that informs their external response, but is known to no one but themselves.

In a changing city, the cry to connect, for constancy, is palpable. “With the Lion City in front of you,” Feng Ling muses to her lover Shao Ming, “there’s no way you can escape from reality.” Yet, reality itself has changed. The Singapore of the 1960s is hardly recognisable today. Places from the past are now dissonant with the present by virtue of having remained the same. The setting of Matinee at Three – The Projector at Golden Mile Tower – is significant. Unlike the theatre in Goodbye Dragon Inn, The Projector is still going strong (thank heavens), but Golden Mile Tower has already tried three times for collective sale since 2022. No success so far, but in all likelihood, its demise is just a matter of time. In what ways should we live when the city itself feels so temporary? 

 

A Call to Connect 

Viewed together, these films are a reminder of the inner worlds that lie inside each of us. Untold worlds, be it because we do not want to, we are unable to, or simply because we have never been asked to speak about them. There is so much we do not know about the people we meet, the joys and struggles of the strangers we pass by day after day, or the otherness that lives deep within ourselves. Yet we each have the power to affect those around us, amplified, perhaps, by the smallness of this island city. A simple message can be found here: to connect, withhold judgement, and be kind. And who knows when we might see each other again. Singapore is not so big after all. 

 

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About the Writers

Christopher and Samantha Chia are two siblings who studied architecture, enjoy writing and watching films.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Asian Film Archive.