Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico described time as a spiral, an endless cycle of recurrences of development and collapse. Time to Vico is constantly rebirthed through civilisations both lost and existing.
Much like Vico’s interpretation of time, filmmakers Priyageetha Dia and Matthew Chan view time as a similarly shaped entity—a whirlpool. While most films follow the structure of a beginning and an end, the flow of Dia and Chan’s films is akin to the cascading of an endless temporal maelstrom. Though both films centre around water as a visual vehicle, their personal interpretation of water as a sigil couldn’t be more different.
For Priyageetha Dia’s film the sea is a blue memory (2022), the embodiment of water lies in the diasporic experience. Personifying the journey of “indentured labourers who migrated from India to Malaya’s rubber plantations under the British colonial rule”, the sea acts as an anthology of the lived experiences of all that has traversed through its waters. Hope, uncertainty and memory are the human-like qualities Dia seeks to invoke through the sea.
Interestingly, the first detail that comes to attention is Dia’s choice of presentation. Fitting in a 16:9 aspect ratio, the format feels intentional. The vertical nature evokes a feeling of peering through a window (or rather, a doorway) into an alternate reality. Digital renders of the sea in motion set the short’s premise. At its most visceral is the god’s eye shot of the sea. Glistening and reflective of the light of the Sun, the serene body of water intensifies in the next frame—displaying a much more intense and angry body of water with its evidently stronger current.
Time converges in a non-linear way in Dia’s film. With scenes of the sea in different phases of the day and weather conditions interspersed sporadically across the entire short, it is clear that Dia wants to bring attention to the vestigial nature of memory. During British colonial rule, the narratives of disenfranchised and vulnerable groups of migrants (in this case Indian rubber plantation workers) were often subject to erasure. The chronicling of these individuals often only resides within research circles. Their suffering and exploitation are largely unknown to the general public. Akin to the fragmented sequencing of the film, Dia’s wistful desire in the making of this body of work is for these narratives to be resurfaced and conversed about.
The only human-like entity to emerge in this short is an otherworldly spirit––Dia’s envisioned personification of the labourers’ journey to the plantations in Malaya. Clad in silver skin that glistens like sweat and blue eyeshadow that resembles the colour of the ocean, the entity immerses herself in the water with graceful yet almost unnerving movements. Branded across her back is a glowing rendition of the word MALAYA in an Old English-like font. From the gradual sinking of her hands into the water to the treading of water with her legs, the spirit is in a perpetual state of interaction and fusion with the sea. Perhaps the sea harbours and contains the hopeful intentions of these labourers, eternally suspended within these waters; for they were never realised.
With no dialogue, the focus is on the semiotics of the visuals and the accompanying soundscape. An eagle is seen within the short, signifying a yearning for freedom from the perspectives of the Indian labourers. Rubber trees sway in a mirage of blue, with a camera movement that is deliberately shaky and laboured. The frame evokes a sense of exasperation and tension, possibly alluding to the labourers’ state of mind.
Matthew Chan’s approach to water as a sign is a study in its various shapes and forms. Observing how light reacts to water, Chan’s four-minute film feels like a mantra of luminosity. The short focuses on the tactility of water—both in soundscape and visuals.
While Dia’s film focuses on emulating water using new technologies in the mode of CGI and 3D rendering (a leitmotif in her image work), Chan’s film sees with curiosity, using a medium he has on hand; an “imperfect” rendition of image technology in its early stages: a handheld Mini DV camera.
Much like Dia’s film, there is no concept of linear time within Still or Sparkling. Each frame alternates between two extremities. Some scenes feel like a prayer bead falling gently upon the surface of the water. Others are an ode to the chaotic nature of modern civilisation and draw attention to a man-made control of the nature and movement of water. Arranged in a sporadic and somewhat intuitive manner, time appears rearranged, recalibrated and even warped to Chan’s will.
Chan’s narrative in the film is intentionally much less clearer than Dia’s. Within this venn diagram of water and light in Chan’s exploration lies many more relationships between seemingly dichotomous elements in a mere four minutes. These relationships are left ambiguous, leaving audiences to draw their own conclusions upon the viewing of the short. Chan’s physical mode of presence in documenting these waters differs to that of the audience that watches the film. Pixels and static influence the final images presented. What then are we as viewers seeing? There are no direct answers from Chan through this film. He describes these images as “akin to impressionist painting”—a medium-focused, John Berger-esque approach that moulds reality into unique, digitised versions that will ever only exist through image.
Themes of civilisation and man-made structures can be seen throughout the short. Chan, through his viewfinder, observes pools, ports, the movement of water in the wake of a boat’s trail and more of such interactions. It is not only light and water that he observes; it is the human interventions within these waters that his eyes gravitate to—displaying a concern (or at least, a curiosity) for such a relationship. The soundscape speaks of a similar exploration, with mutters of passersby and city noises juxtaposed against close-ups of water in motion.
I assert again that Dia’s and Chan’s films mould time like a whirlpool. They ask us, amidst their own temporal chaos, to view water as a humanist entity. That inscribed across this relentless force of nature is something that reflects the human experience. To many of us, water invokes fear and mystery. To face the unknown and the potential pain that it carries, is the curiosity and courage that makes us human.
About the Writer
Nicholas See is an image/film director, stylist and writer. Within his main mediums of text and image, he continuously explores masculine lived experiences in the context of culture, religion and other related social scopes. He has written for Esquire Singapore, GQ Middle East and FEMALE Singapore and has recently completed his experimental short An Asura’s Rage that parallels Samsara, the cycle of rebirth in Buddhist cosmology, to his own grapples with masculinity. Connect with him via instagram @mystrangeanarchy or email: nicholas.seewb@gmail.com.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Asian Film Archive.
