1. Reviews of Singapore Films

The House on the Moon

• The House on the Moon — Nelson Yeo [Locarno ’26 Review] — In Review Online

  Morris Yang reads Nelson Yeo’s reworking of Chang’e and Hou Yi through the distance between myth and mortal feeling, finding something productive in the film’s refusal to make its mythology entirely legible. One of the more theoretically engaged responses to Yeo’s second feature.

• ‘The House On The Moon’ review: Singapore’s Nelson Yeo turns Chinese moon goddess myth into ponderous flight of fancy — Screen Daily

  Amber Wilkinson is considerably less convinced, admiring the film’s scale and visual ambition while finding its storytelling difficult to penetrate. Is the film’s opacity part of its mythology or an obstacle?

• House of the Moon (2026) by Nelson Yeo Film Review — Asian Movie Pulse

  Panos Kotzathanasis similarly finds Yeo’s wuxia-science-fiction collision difficult to follow, occasionally tipping into pretension, while still recognising the ambition behind it.

2. Latest Criticism from Festivals: Locarno & Edinburgh

• Locarno Film Festival 2026 — Dispatch 3: Object a, The House on the Moon, Brave New Love — In Review Online

  In Review Online closes its Locarno coverage with Objet a, The House on the Moon, Brave New Love, O Jacaré and Our Time Will Come.

• EIFF 2026: The Arrow at Rest at Every Instant of its Flight — The Skinny

  Jamie Dunn gives Theodore Schaefer’s 16mm New York triptych five stars, locating much of its energy in Gus Birney’s three different performances.

• EIFF 2026: Pretty Babies — The Skinny

  Ross McIndoe is taken by the dreamier stretches of Tyler-Marie Evans’ tale of two teenage girls heading towards Hollywood, but less by the film’s use of sexual assault to push its story forward.

• EIFF 2026: Snapshot — The Skinny

  Snapshot imagines itself as a Victorian found-footage film, supposedly uncovered alongside wax-cylinder recordings that turn it into cinema’s first talkie. Jamie Dunn finds the conceit imperfect but the attempt thrilling.

• EIFF 2026: I Want Your Sex — The Skinny

  Gregg Araki returns to sex, power and queer provocation; Katie Driscoll finds a film that talks incessantly about sex without being especially sexy.

3. Spotlighting New Titles

• Sweet Milk Lake review — a rewarding film about a trans man mistaken for his twin brother — The Guardian

  Harvey Zielinski uses the familiar homecoming drama for something stranger: Jake returns to his hometown and is mistaken for his twin brother, but chooses not to correct anyone. The film apparently works because it resists turning transness into a single revelation, allowing memory, family and recognition to remain messier.

• Waves Turn review — the exhausting, joyful, boring, wondrous realities of new motherhood — The Guardian

  Josephine Ahnelt films five new mothers on 16mm, interested as much in boredom, repetition and ambivalence as the more photogenic pleasures of parenthood. The home-movie texture becomes a rebuttal to the composed image of motherhood inherited from art.

• Mad Rush review — an intricate phone scam isn’t quite enough to drive this very Melbourne movie — The Guardian

  Luke Buckmaster is less interested in whether Maddelin McKenna turns a phone scam into a convincing thriller than in how decisively the film belongs to Melbourne. A useful defence, with reservations, of films whose geographic specificity may ultimately matter more than their plot.

• The End of Oak Street film review — Financial Times

  David Robert Mitchell moves from It Follows and Under the Silver Lake to suburban dinosaurs. The question running through much of the criticism is whether this is merely Spielberg pastiche or whether Mitchell can smuggle his own strangeness into the machinery of an Amblin blockbuster.

• Toons Have Seldom Been Loonier Than in Coyote vs. Acme — The New Yorker

  Justin Chang finds the film considerably better than its near-erasure by Warner Bros. might have suggested. Ironically, a story about Wile E. Coyote taking a giant corporation to court now carries another story around with it: the corporation that nearly prevented audiences from seeing the film at all.

4. Discourse of the Week: Who Owns The Odyssey?

Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey has been out for a month, but criticism around the film has moved beyond whether it is simply “good” or “bad”. This week, the more interesting disagreement was over adaptation itself: what fidelity means, whether classicists have special authority over Homer, and what happens when an ancient text becomes mass culture again.

• The Odyssey Belongs to All of Us — Dissent

  Sukaina Hirji pushes against Emily Wilson and other classicists who judge Nolan primarily against Homer, arguing that the film is engaged not only with the original poem but with nearly three millennia of people interpreting it. The more provocative argument is about authority: why should scholars determine which conversations with Homer count as legitimate?

• Why Homer will outlast us all — Financial Times

  The FT similarly treats Nolan as another participant in an extremely long history of people rewriting Homer, from Virgil to Joyce. Fidelity is perhaps the wrong measurement for a story whose cultural survival has always depended on mutation.

• The Cost of Returning to Oneself — Shrine Magazine

  Tatiana Eva-Marie hates Nolan’s film, then does something more interesting than continuing to argue about it: she builds a four-film programme around nostos, or homecoming, through The Best Years of Our Lives, The Last Flight, The Burmese Harp and Rolling Thunder.

• “I felt so inspired”: Guardian readers on trying Homer’s epics after seeing The Odyssey — The Guardian

  Perhaps the most consequential result of all the fighting over fidelity: people are reading Homer. The film has driven readers towards the poem, competing translations and other retellings.

5. Beyond Words

• How Chinese Movies Depict the Rest of the World — Accented Cinema

  Accented Cinema reverses the much more familiar conversation about how Hollywood represents Asia: how does Chinese cinema imagine everybody else?

• Summer Blockbusters Joanna Coles Is Obsessed With — Obsessed: The Podcast

  The Odyssey discourse continues in audio, this time shifting attention from textual fidelity towards the racial backlash around Lupita Nyong’o’s Helen. The discussion argues that the film’s more interesting problems lie elsewhere—including an overstuffed star cast and uneven chemistry—rather than in a mythical Greek woman being played by a Black actor.

This week’s Criticism Digest is made free for all readers. Future Digests will be behind a paywall. Consider subscribing to ‘Reserved’ for more pieces like these.

Annie on the Dock (dir. Lin Yu-Pin)

The younger sister of a young deaf-mute fisherman has received her college admissions results. However, facing rising rent and uncertain futures, she rethinks her decision. With a simple story about family, the film evokes a socio-political reality of today’s youths who are caught in the malaise of financial difficulties. Its tenderness extends to the details of the small moments between siblings and minute details of everyday life.

Finding texture in the everyday, the film frames its characters within plastic sheets of a street vendor, degrading windowstills of floating fish farms, and curtains of a worn-down house. This composition provides aesthetic intrigue for the simple story, while simultaneously suggesting a search for clear communication marred by disparity in abilities and culture.

Nonetheless, the film obscures clarity in its final moments, creating ambiguity for a choice that would be more emotionally evocative with decisiveness. Furthermore, coming after films like Sound of Metal, its portrayal of deaf-muteness could have benefitted from more experimentation in not just its form but its focus. Precious minutes are spent watching a translation of a communicated dialogue. These minutes could have been used to enrich and deepen the storytelling. The film’s exemplary simplicity perhaps held it back from a more developed visual language.

Look Back (dir. Lin Qiying)

A standout from the section, this work unites the sensuality and emotions of Barry Jenkins with the poeticism and spirituality of Bi Gan. A young man looks back on the death of his father through narration of their final days together.

From the first words, “When we lived in the house,” the film compels you into its narrative. Beyond the 4:3 aspect ratio, Jenkins-inspired direct-to-camera close-ups for climactic moments, and lyrical narration, the film finds its poetry in the micro-expressions of its confident performers. They are at once believable and heart-wrenching. Its experiments with double exposure and anatomical shots of the body transform a simple premise and poetic form into brilliance.

In one dreamlike sequence, our protagonist wakes up to a flooded house. A recurring motif returns in the form of a cat at the finale, alluding to possible reincarnation. In lesser hands, these moments could have been cheap. Yet, through Lin’s rich confidence, these scenes feel at once earned and pained. Lin’s thoughtfulness heralds an exciting filmmaker to watch.

Elsewhere (dir. Lin Ting Xuan)

Keeping to themes of grief and death, our protagonist here wakes up from a dream–possibly of religious rituals. From the first intertitles, we are brought into the world of spirituality: Southern Fujian folklore believes that Gods move between mortals. Spurred by these recurring dreams, she travels to Thailand for answers.

Strange occurrences blend reality and dream: Speaking people suddenly fall asleep, worshippers at a temple are unconscious, and characters disappear from the film. These elements evoke the works of Apichatpong Weerasethekul, especially given the protagonist’s journey from the city into rural landscapes. No answers are given, or even needed. The atmosphere of escape into mysticism suffices. Curated in the middle of this packed programme, the film could easily lose its sense of awe that demands patience and journeying. Yet, the assured filmmaking of Elsewhere leaves one longing to stay within its beautiful dream.

Finding My Mama (dir. Wang Yinjie)

The only documentary in the programme, Wang’s film is a love letter to her deceased grandmother as the family sits down together to recount their fragmented memories of the matriarch. Stories of her sacrifices, tenacity, and migration piece together a journey only known through collective effort.

Wang’s form makes the film intriguing even for an outsider. Degraded news archives sets temporal context, old TV shows represent a person who can no longer be filmed, and books she read all become pieces recounted of her that, when put together, provide a possibility for understanding someone no longer able to be fully comprehended. Juxtaposed against the modernisation of China and the Cultural Revolution, Wang’s grandmother’s history becomes a lens into China’s own history. Xinhua (New Chinese) hairstyling becomes her trade amidst efforts to build capital, rendering her a symbol of New China. Aided by the aforementioned metatextual materials, we glimpse into China’s transitional decades.

Cumulatively, the documentary format can allow only a glimpse towards understanding. The family looks at photo albums together, and the narrator no longer recalls whether a memory of her grandmother is accurate. Yet through these fragmented narratives, Wang creates a singular work as part of her Prismatic Forest 2025 School of Film Art piece, less about her grandmother or a view of Chinese history, and more about the unstable nature of memory and the potential of it in the act of archiving.

How to Make a Perfect Wedding Film (dir. Zhang Yang)

Perhaps the singular outstanding work from the programme, Zhang’s film is metatextual, experimental, comedic, and tugs at your heartstrings. Centred on two wedding videographers trying to capture the perfect video, they realise that their only voiceover of the bride’s mother has been ruined by careless audio input into the camera. They adventure through ridiculous extremes to recreate and discover the lost dialogue.

Set against this ludicrous premise and an opening declaration that the wedding is the ultimate representation of love and respect, the film transforms into a story of mother and bride: a child’s desire to disobey, a mother’s inability to let go, and all that is unsaid between parent and child. For an Asian audience familiar with the onscreen reticence and parents’ senseless disapproval, the catharsis of communicating a parent’s love is earned and powerful.

Aiding its strong emotional core, the film experiments with form: a science-fiction ending visually conveys marriage as a departure from the family home, versatile and playful frames create a comic-like feeling, and subtitles are transformed onscreen to mirror the videographers’ editing of footage. These metatextual innovations demonstrate the filmmakers’ care and love for cinema, creating tonal textures that entertain and touch, and suggest all that cannot be communicated. As a whole, this remarkable film shines as the programme’s pinnacle and encourages an audience to remain excited for what else Zhang has in store.

In its entirety, the programme’s diverse tones and interests encourage an audience to be comforted and eager for the possibilities of young filmmakers from the Southern Chinese region. Often, filmmaking resources and educational possibilities are concentrated in China’s North. As part of efforts like KwanTeo’s to democratise accessibility in the South, these five films are breaths of fresh air in the canon of independent Chinese cinema. As these filmmakers journey on with their films and next efforts, what is clear is that these are five talents the global industry should pay attention to.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

There is no doubt that Chen is one of the most brilliant filmmakers to emerge from Singapore in recent years. His Cannes win opened doors, while his international work and producing efforts have charted new directions for Singapore cinema.

In We Are All Strangers, trilogy staple Yeo Yann Yann plays Bee Hwa, a kopitiam beer lady who marries Hokkien Mee vendor Boon Kiat (Andi Lim). His son, Junyang (Koh Jia Ler), marries Lydia (Regene Lim), an underage schoolgirl who becomes pregnant. What follows is a Kore-eda-esque story of a makeshift family forming around precarity.

The merits of the film are clear. Yeo is the standout: every pause, shift in expression and beat of comedic timing lends the film its emotional core. Chen also shows off his comic instincts with throwaway lines about K-Pop group BTS and Singapore that are sure to resonate with local audiences. Reminding us of the excellent filmmaker he is, Chen punctuates the smallest moments with formal wit: a date invitation becomes funny through the opening and closing of a lift door; a forbidden apple eaten on a bus holds love, sadness and pain at once.

Chen’s filmmaking capabilities are undeniable. Yet it is precisely because he is so capable of making compromise feel tender that the film’s ideology deserves greater scrutiny.

By the film’s conclusion, its protagonists have largely accommodated themselves to the structures around them. One returns to the meritocratic path as a means of escaping poverty; another takes up his father’s vocation as a hawker; another character who dares to imagine a different life ends up imprisoned. Through the warmth and beauty with which it resolves them, the film risks arguing for conformity as an end.

Chen seems to suggest that the system is imperfect, but dignity is found through adapting oneself to it rather than imagining life beyond it. That is not necessarily unrealistic. In fact, the truth is that his depiction is painfully realistic.

But, realism does not have to mean accepting the limits imposed upon one’s characters as the natural limits of adulthood.

Chen’s earlier films left more room for rupture. Ilo Ilo (2013) complicated depictions of the domestic worker by insisting upon Teresa’s emotional life and the influence she possesses beyond the labour expected of her. Wet Season (2018) allowed a woman to leave behind the roles and commitments that had come to define herself as she imagines freedom elsewhere. Whatever their flaws, these films found hope in characters whose desires exceeded the positions assigned to them.

We Are All Strangers, by contrast, increasingly locates dignity in learning how to inhabit those positions.

This tension becomes more apparent in the film’s treatment of Lydia. For almost a third of the film, she recedes from view, despite her class difference from the rest of the ensemble, opening up possibilities for a more complicated account of family and social mobility. Some of her dialogue also arrives without sufficient context: for instance, a throwaway line blaming her mother for her father’s departure feels disconnected from what the film has previously allowed us to understand about her.

Her mother Tracey, similarly, comes from a different class position that might have disrupted the relative harmony of the family Chen constructs. These omissions are therefore more than missed opportunities for character development. They point towards the contradictions the film chooses not to examine too closely in arriving at its vision of reconciliation.

Reflecting on his three-film journey, Chen said: “In your 20s, you are rebelling and complaining. In your 30s, you want to change the world. In your 40s, it’s not just [about] accepting things. The maturity comes from accepting that for all the criticism you might have, there is so much beauty and goodness you find around you––which in the past I wasn’t paying attention to.”

For many Singaporeans, Chen’s realist depictions of Singaporean lives will strike a meaningful chord. There is nothing inherently wrong with recognising beauty and goodness within circumstances one might once have criticised.

But there is a difference between discovering beauty within difficult conditions and rendering those conditions beautiful through cinema. This distinction matters because filmmaking is itself an act of curation: deciding whose perspective remains visible, which contradictions are allowed to persist, which compromises receive emotional closure, and deciding where a story ends.

In Chen’s “mature” version of Singapore, acceptance increasingly appears inseparable from dignity. His characters survive not by exceeding the frameworks around them, but by learning how to live within them. Perhaps, then, the question raised by the conclusion of Chen’s trilogy is not whether we eventually learn to appreciate Singapore despite its imperfections, but why maturity must come at the expense of imagining new possibilities.

We Are All Strangers (我们不是陌生人) releases in Singapore cinemas on August 20, 2026.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan.

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1. The Theatrical Window Strikes Back

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The ‘film’ is a Frankenstein’s monster of Dune and other science-fiction epics stripped of the humanity and heart of these stories. Due to climate change, much of the world has submerged and now turns to Mars as a solution. Each nation then sends some of its best candidates on space missions. Singapore, miraculously, decides to send Lin Jia Jun, the son of a cleaner. The plot tries to argue that though he does not have the best background or abilities, his heritage means that he is a “wild grass”—someone that cannot be burnt by fire, a weak metaphor for the trials of the mission.

After this premise of five minutes, the film takes strange and wild directions. We enter Black Mirror to see Lin form an ‘anchor point’ with childhood friend Chen Hui Min, whose convenient appearance sees her volunteering for ambitions of being an astronaut just to help ground him on Earth with a loosely explained connection. Next, we enter Guardians of the Galaxy to find a secret three-century-old colony living beneath Mars from (surprise!) Singapore. We traverse to I.S.S. as nations turn on one another, and secretly take its agents out. We then travel to Squid Game to find an elite class of Earthlings betting on which astronaut would die and succeed.

The film’s loose and unconnected threads speak to the nature of artificial intelligence. Plot points are lost within five minutes, the antagonist changes every scene, and entire characterisations change up between scenes.

The sound mix (or lack thereof) points to the disparate nature of the work. One scene ends, and the score abruptly cuts. Any attempts at drawing an emotional connection are lost immediately in a work paced like micro-dramas instead of a feature work. My ability to control the speed and experience of a micro-drama would be more pleasurable to this. There are moments where the story genuinely had something going for it, such as a gripping Dune-like score whilst crossing Mars and the entrance into the secret civilisation. Yet, the lack of creative supervision allowed for AI to hallucinate a film that bred incoherence and senselessness.

Central to dramatic works is conflict and obstacles. The production company somehow believes that conflict derives from externalised plot points that re-shape the work every five minutes. In key moments where something human could be derived, we move away. During Jun Jie’s onerous training to prove himself worthy, a human storyteller could have induced a Rocky-esque montage to honour his hard work and sacrifice. Instead, within five seconds, his difficulties are overcome no matter the set-up. The ‘storytelling’ here could only be sensible to a smooth-brained audience.

Consider, too, its problematic depictions of women. Hui Min, whose likeness was based on the production company FizzDragon founder Pax Chen, exists simply to serve Jun Jie. She exists to sacrifice her efforts for his dreams. Mind you, the characters are not married; She made the sacrifice purely because she once protected him from bullies as children, a trope common in Chinese micro-dramas. Within the Martian civilisation, Pai is an Angelina Jolie-like archetype who is brilliant, strong, and wise. Yet, we see her being commanded by Jun Jie, who has little to no experience on the planet. Women, like these AI tools, are abused in the service of a patriarchal vision of humanity.

Perhaps most telling is its depictions of ‘Singapore’. We speak with an accent that would locate us in the Western hemisphere. Between scenes, our national flag transforms from five white stars and a crescent moon into the five yellow stars of China’s flag. The film absurdly dramatises the migration of Southern Chinese sojourners to Singapore by proposing that the same Hakka migrants had the technology to travel to Mars three centuries ago as part of a secret plan that, in the film, is forgotten within ten minutes of its introduction.

Perhaps most fantastical was the occurrence of protests in Singapore that went unpunished, led by Pax Chen’s avatar Hui Min. The only non-Chinese character is an unnamed Indian man training Jun Jie at the beginning. Most racially problematic is that key texts in the film are written in Mandarin and untranslated into English, for a work whose subtitles and English writings are the consequence of AI-hallucinated spelling. Who knew humans depend on oxiygen!

I was surprised to find out that substance abuse in Singapore is illegal, when considering the many hallucinatory and fabricated narratives of the past hour.

In justifying the use of AI following the screening, founder Pax Chen defended that “to build a slower car is better than to stay in the era of horses.” It was a strange hallucinatory response about AI’s quality to a question about AI’s ethics. Nonetheless, taking it at face value, it is surprising that such terrible AI storytelling is used to justify the future of storytelling when its lack of rudimentary knowledge in filmmaking is comparable to a child’s. Adding further insult to injury, Chen argues “the only way we see for local content to be created is with AI Generative Content” as if a whole industry of filmmaking does not exist within Singapore.

Chen emphasises that the film exists for “entertainment.” As reported by Mothership, the first half of the theatre was blocked off. These were guests for the premiere. The back half, however, was the general public. Throughout the screening, the back half would heckle, laughing at the film’s oddities, and jeer by riling up the crowd to applaud at the mission’s “success” in the film. If Chen’s intention is for these AI films to entertain by being the butt of the joke, she has succeeded.

The screening was attended by former Northwest Community Development Council Mayor Dr Teo Ho Pin. In his introductory speech, he hoped that the film would “inspire our people to look to the future,” citing the creation of the National Space Agency of Singapore in April 2026. All this writer can afford is to wonder how so much investment and grants are being made into AI storytelling, when its output is regressive and primordial relative to the filmmaking efforts of the last three decades.

It was depressing walking out of the cinema, especially after a poorly-hosted Q&A session that largely ignored questions from the back half of the theatre and took praise from the invited guests in front. It was all the more sobering considering our policies that now heavily invest in generative storytelling.

Contrary to a FizzDragon’s representative who articulated the aims of the company to tell stories “cheaper, better, faster,” and compromised on errors and mistakes in the film just to premiere on August 9, 2026, perhaps the creators ought to slow down and reflect on their intentions, storytelling and craft before traumatising us all with these devilish creations. We have survived three decades without AI filmmaking, we can survive many more without it.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Capitalising on its cuteness, Moo Magic Dairy is set up to consolidate Malaysia’s farms for profit-building—except for one village: Kampung Semerah Padi, Perlis. There, its farmers resist the expansionist efforts of the “evil company” and aspire to form a co-operative that would allow them to retain the land that has sustained them their whole lives.

The premise of Mojoku Hilang (2026), literally ‘Finding My Mojo’, uses the comedic convention of mistaken identity to explore its central conflicts between progress founded on economic utility and the traditions of rural “country bumpkins.”

Adi (Adipati Dolken), an ambitious and charming executive at Moo Magic Dairy, hails from Indonesia. After selling his father’s farm, he is recruited into the corporation to expand its business. Pressured by his cunning boss, Dato, to convince the final domino to fall into the corporation’s hands, Adi takes on a false identity of Adam to assimilate himself into the village. There, he develops a romance with a farmer’s daughter, Ayu (Mimi Lana), complicating his agenda.

Lending realism to the film is the ensemble’s remarkable performances. The young leads are supported by veteran actors Wan Hanafi Su (from Apprentice and La Luna) and Dato Tamimi Siregar. Their balance of rich interiority and spirituality, with externalised comedy of errors, creates tonal shifts that can please even the snobbiest of critics. They form an effective central heart of the film, where their characters’ tension between modernisation for commercial benefit and the familiarity of tradition felt realised and true.

The film includes participation by Malaysian, Indonesian and Singaporean cast and crew. Reflecting on this tripartite nature, debut director Min Lim called it a “Nusantara” collaboration during the film’s premiere at GV Bugis+ on 30 July. Nusantara is an Old Javanese term that refers to the Malay Archipelago, which includes Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore.

Mojoku Hilang can therefore be read as a love letter to Malaysia and the Nusantara. In Bahasa Melayu and Indonesia, “our homeland” translates to “tanah air kita”, literally our land and sea. The farmers’ acceptance of Indonesian Adi speaks to a regional identity informed not just by one’s land but the seas that unite us.

In the film, a New Zealander investor remarks on Malaysia as a “volatile market” where people are “influenced by sentiments.” As a callback, another local character later remarks that “emotion is what drives decisions.”

Taken together, Lim seems to celebrate the emotional core of being Malaysian (and the larger Nusantara community). Yes, we approach decisions and progress differently, but what’s wrong with that? Here is a pride and desire for regional identity that could be championed more in Southeast Asian cinema.

The film can feel fantastical at times. Plot points conveniently resolve, soundtrack cliches anchor emotional moments, and careless visual effects distract. Yet, if audiences accept the film’s fantastical desires for simplicity, unity, and hope, particularly in hyper-capitalised and nationalistic times such as these, its sentiments feel less like baggage and more like an ideal for our region to aspire towards.

As Min Lim describes her intentions with Head Writer Honey Ahmad:

The film is just “two girls who wanted to make a film that feels good, and remind us of love and hope.”

Select theatrical screenings open in Singapore on July 31, 2026.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

A significant population of Thai-Chinese in Bangkok originated from the Teochew-speaking regions of Southern China. The language represents their heritage, culture and history. In a scene where matriarch Suman speaks to her gay son Mos’s Australian Boyfriend about durian, she speaks to him in Teochew, a rare occurrence in the film. Nonetheless, it evokes familiarity and tradition — reminders of family.

Yet, Mos’s immediate shutdown that “Outside Thailand, no Chinese speaks Teochew anymore” proposes a rejection of these traditional and inherited patriarchal values. While the factual accuracy of this statement remains questionable, its significance lies less in its empirical validity than in the way it dismantles the traditional Teochew family structure depicted in the film. Mos’s remark signals the emergence of a new generation, one whose liberal queerness unsettles the values and hierarchies upon which the family is built.

Ironically, the family also initially rejects him for that same homosexuality, which disrupts these traditions. Only after he proves “useful” to his family does acceptance come.

Across both examples, one’s social belonging is not influenced by identity: whether Teochew or queer, traditional or modern, identity politics does not matter.

Instead, the film proposes that true societal acceptance only comes about with one’s utility within contemporary capitalist society. It is a reminder that Teochew is rejected by modern society not just because it is “outdated” but because it is useless in today’s context.

Beyond Teochew, the Isan language from Thailand’s northeastern region also reveals another marginalised position within the film. Early on, Mos is taken away as a child because matriarch Suman speaks the Isan language instead of Standard Thai. Language is treated visually as a form of contamination where one’s mother tongue could ‘pollute’ a child’s possibility of societal assimilation.

Thai society in Ratchapoom’s film is a homogenous one that sees Standard Thai as the only linguistic possibility. Any deviations from the norm queers one’s assimilation into society and is therefore determined not to belong.

At a point towards the film’s ending, matriarch Suman speaks to protagonist Nat in Teochew. It is a moment stripped of utility, motive and ideology. Instead, language is used purely to communicate one’s appreciation and love for a family member. Using Teochew, Suman accepts Nat as family. In doing so, she repurposes a language dismissed as obsolete, demonstrating the value of language in its capacity to bridge intimacy, kinship and a sense of belonging.

Language matters. In a film plotted around the diction of utility (“Useful”), for one to be accepted into society, the socio-linguistic revelations within the film reveal the marginalisation experienced by the characters. Beyond gender, sexuality, ethnicity, spectral existence, and perceived usefulness, A Useful Ghost suggests that the politics of belonging operates not only through state and bureaucracy, but, more importantly, through the intimate structures of family, language, and everyday life.

Written by Lee Peng Ming, edited by Daryl Cheong and Phyllis Chan

This was the second time the film was screened to a Chinese audience in full since Wuhan in November 2025. The audience was curious whether, and how, it passed Thai censorship. Ratchapoom shared that he was less concerned about the censors’ views on the film’s queer themes and more its depiction of a monk character without propriety.

Asked about his inspiration amidst the film’s many connected themes, Ratchapoom shared that the film originated from a single idea: the Thai folklore story of Mae Nak Phra Khanong (Lady Nak), who died in childbirth while waiting for the return of her military husband. She then existed as a ghost for the father and son, much to the disapproval of society. This legend has been adapted into many Thai horror films.

For Ratchapoom, this reminds him of the queer experience. Just as two individuals are separated by society, so too are queer lovers. He argues that even though Thailand is known to be queer-friendly, discrimination exists. It is reportedly common for parents to tell their children, “You can be gay or lesbian, so long as you are useful.”

This points to the intersectional neoliberal capitalism Ratchapoom critiques in/through his film. Ratchapoom argues that queer Thai individuals subsume their identities to become instruments for people in power, upholding these oppressive systems in turn. Ratchapoom asserts that, similarly, the Chinese people in Thailand attempt to “fit into” Thai society by being useful and therefore valuable to people in power. As such, there seems to be a trend for them to be “conservative” in order to “preserve” the power.

Holding these complex intersections comes naturally to Ratchapoom. When asked if he drew inspiration from Roy Andersson, he shared that he was more inspired by Portuguese filmmaker João César Monteiro, whose film Recollections of the Yellow House (1989) featured visually striking images paired with incredulous dialogue and situations, such as a character asking about pubic hair in their food.

Ratchapoom seems to find inspiration through the juxtaposition of differences. This is also seen in the film’s structure. Asked about the mix of genres, he replied that he likes to surprise audiences.

Otherness is therefore emphasised by Ratchapoom. Asked about the stiff shoulder pads of his female protagonists, Ratchapoom shared that he was inspired by ‘80s women’s fashion, particularly uniforms and office wear, to punctuate their anachronism and how the ghosts do not belong in time and modern society. Its utilitarian nature also points to the capitalist expectation of continued labour, even at death.

Against such oppression, Ratchapoom emphasised the need for imagination. He shared that the final scene of revenge was the natural ethical choice for him. Previous drafts saw unfortunate endings for the characters. He then challenged himself: People in power always win in reality, so “why must our imagination be limited? Why can’t we imagine revenge and how people in power can lose?”

To him, “imagination is an ethical choice.”

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Kuomintang governed Mainland China from 1928 until it was threatened by the Chinese Communist Party. The landlord Hou (monkey), naturally, is a Kuomintang military official. His opulent wife desires to profit from their house and therefore decides to evict its three families of tenants. A juxtaposition of class and status is created, where crows represent the greed of the Kuomintang, and the sparrows reflect the innocence and goodness of the proletariat.

The ideologies are thinly veiled for contemporary standards. Each family is tempted by greed, desire and indifference to compel them towards inaction when faced with eviction. Eventually, threatened by material lacks or dramatic shifts, they unite to reclaim the house (and by extension, China) from Hou in a symbolic climax set by the staircase, where high and low angles, shifting of levels, and camera zooms signify the shifting of status as Hou falls from power and the people rise up.

In spite of its ideological superficiality, the film is a useful resource, providing insight into the changing sociopolitical atmosphere around the end of the Civil War. Half of the film was produced before the end of the War, with the other half of production concluding after. For the filmmakers, they reflected the ideological shifts as “natural” and therefore sought to use cinema to articulate the desires of the common people. Hence, while the film may be uninspiring today, it was a landmark in representing the call and desire for collective action and revolution.

Particularly symbolic is the change in the picture framed on the highest floor. As a symbol of power and status, the highest room is reserved for the landlord. By the denouement, the image of Officer Hou is replaced by that of old man Kong and his deceased son. The son was shamed for being a Communist, a vulnerability that Hou repeatedly exploits against Kong. Kong, an intellectual working as a copywriter, struggles alone. Of note is how Kong’s surname alludes to his lineage as a descendant of Confucius, thereby ascribing him with wisdom and historical status. By extension, the Communist movement is likewise positioned as the inheritor of this intellectual and historical legacy. The replacement of the picture is a literal shift in framing: from Kuomintang exploitation to Communist ideals, from animalism to wisdom, and from individuality to collectivity.

The film relies on cinematic language reminiscent of the Classical Age of Hollywood, providing regality and importance to a film challengingly set mostly in a single location. Deep focus creates a richer sense of depth, and diopter lenses evoke two planes on a single one. The film was also anchored on famous actor Zhao Dan’s performance, whose films like Street Angel (1937) and Crossroads (1937) established him as a celebrated actor by 1937, before he was imprisoned by a Kuomintang warlord.

For a simple narrative elevated to historical significance through its context, production history, and ideological representations, Crows and Sparrows would continue to prove significant, especially presently amidst its 2K restoration.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Shi Chuan, a professor at the Shanghai Theatre Academy, who is active as a film programmer and researcher, spoke at KwanTeo. He was one of the producers of the 2K restoration that premiered in 2024 at the Shanghai International Film Festival, which was part of a special programme celebrating the 75th anniversary of the formation of the People’s Republic of China.

For Shi, the language matters.

As part of a national campaign to boost unity, Mandarin was encouraged. Conversely, Chinese languages and dialects were discouraged. This included Shanghainese, a dialect of the maritime metropolis that was spoken in the original film. However, for its initial release after the Chinese Civil War, the film was initially redubbed into Mandarin.

For this Shaghainese restoration, it is not just a cinematic existential moment. It is also a linguistic one rooted in identity, where the film’s intended language can finally be restored to the image.

However, Shi pointed out that modern Shanghainese has developed largely from that of the ‘40s. It has become influenced by slang and the dialects of neighbouring cities. The initial film production also saw deviations from the written screenplay, where actors were encouraged to improvise on set.

Sound, therefore, had to be the first step in the film restoration process. The team had to re-translate the screenplay from Mandarin to Shanghainese, which does not exist in written form.

Then, the contemporary voice actors needed to adapt themselves to a different form of speech. In recording the dub, the voice actors physically embodied and replicated the performances and actions of the film’s original actors. They endeavoured to capture the energy of the initial film.

Shi was joined onstage by Zheng Dali, the son of the film’s director Zheng Junli. Zheng Dali was part of the restoration process and even voiced one of the roles. Other descendants of Shanghai’s first-generation filmmakers were also invited to lend their voices to the project. Speaking on this decision, Zheng expressed his gratitude that the film could be a “tribute” to the contributions of these pioneering artists.

The original film played a monumental role in shaping national consciousness, particularly vis-à-vis its allegorical support for Communism. The respectful restoration process, therefore, uplifts and celebrates the past, and also commemorates a key cinematic achievement for China.

Above all, by embracing the intended dialect, the sharing emphasised the growing acceptance of other Chinese languages and dialects, particularly by a younger generation more acquainted with Mandarin. KwanTeo, as a film event emphasising the role of Teochew as language, origin and space, provided a natural and inspiring synergy, reminding audiences of the pivotal role it plays in propelling Chinese cinema towards new directions.

Readers interested in the specific restoration process may refer to this helpful article by Peng Pai, a Chinese publication.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Singapore brands itself as the gateway between East and West. Situated along the Strait of Malacca, which oversees Western trade into China and the East, Singapore has long occupied a geographically privileged position as an entrepôt of cultures.

It is then unlikely to be a coincidence that Ah Girl’s mother begins dating a man named Uncle Sam (an allusion to the United States), and the names of her father’s dates are associated with their Eastern nationalities of Malaysia and Japan. All three are nations that have exercised cultural and political influence over Singapore: the country was occupied by Japan, briefly part of Malaysia, and remains swayed by the United States.

Japan’s presence in the film is particularly pronounced. Ah Girl’s grandmother expresses a lingering resentment towards Japan, rooted in memories of the Second World War, but is compelled to travel there amidst the J-pop craze and the country’s growing popularity as a travel destination among Singaporeans. Decades after the Occupation, Japan’s cultural influence persists. Ms Japan is seen to be the kinder of Ah Girl’s parents’ new lovers, understanding and patient, but opulent and undesirable. At the pinnacle of ‘90s consumer culture, the film comments on the hold of Japanese consumerism on Singaporeans.

When Singapore banned chewing gum in 1992, most Singaporeans began smuggling some on weekend trips to Malaysia. Ah Girl’s Chinese title refers to its titular girl as a Bubblegum Girl. The sweet asserts itself in the plot when Ah Girl sells them in school for financial independence. Her father’s girlfriend, Ms Malaysia, is pertinently portrayed as liberated and sexy. For Singaporeans, Malaysia becomes a mecca of illicit activities.

Uncle Sam, an allusion to America, showers gifts and later is shown to be abusive. It is reminiscent of the United States’ Cold War strategy of coupling economic aid with vigorous political demands.

Ah Girl is set in 1994, a transformative period for Singapore after its economic success saw it named as one of the four “Asian Tigers”. It was also the year of the Michael Fay case, where the 18-year-old American teenager was caned by the State for vandalism despite appeals by then-American President Bill Clinton. Some would comment that Singapore’s decision was driven by a need to demonstrate strength and independence.

Ah Girl, too, longs for independence. Caught between Teochew, Mandarin and English cultures and names she herself did not know existed, she has to decide eventually on her own name and therefore her identity. Taken through this geopolitical lens, her parents’ troubled relationships can be interpreted as a commentary on Singapore’s struggle to assert its own independence from Malaysian, Japanese and American influence.

In a country like Singapore, where rapid changes subvert attempts to articulate or create a national consciousness, Ang’s ingenious suggestions of identity entrapment are perhaps the sharpest depiction of ‘90s Singapore yet. In Ah Girl, the longing for self-declarative clarity and certainty mattered more than the ability to attain or define the self. Ang has created the cleverest Singaporean film of late while remaining emotional and heartfelt at its core, sure to please a crowd.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Ang shared that each character of her Chinese name 玉桔 proposes two different colours: emerald (玉) and orange (桔) respectively. Yet, translated into English, both characters become ‘Geck’ and lose their individual essence. Speaking to a Chinese audience that could discern its meaning seemed to allow her name, and therefore her heritage, to be appreciated.

The audience brimmed with curiosity, each individual often asking three to four questions. For an hour after the dialogue concluded, audiences continued to speak to Ang outside the cinema and enthusiastically supported the sale of film merchandise—the first iteration of the film’s sales.

Of note, many Chinese audiences repeatedly asked about the influence of Japanese culture experienced by the Grandmother, portrayed with complexity by Singaporean arthouse regular Doreen Toh.

Related to the central theme of names, Ang was asked about the protagonist’s experience with them. Ah Girl was given many names, and was surprised to find out she has an English one. Ang remarked that this is common in Singapore, where different languages resulted in different names. She uses her own full name as an example: Ang Geck Geck Priscilla Hong Yu Ju. For Ang, what mattered was how Ah Girl chose her own name by the film’s end as a way to reclaim identity.

Audiences were curious about Ang’s process of working with children. Ang shared that she shortlisted a few children to workshop together, allowing them to play freely without adult intervention in order to be their natural selves.Thereafter, upon casting, Ang worked with and visited the families to understand their life experiences. Rather than dictating to the young cast what to do in the given situation, Ang was able to allow them to naturally be themselves across the twenty-day shoot.

This process is symptomatic of Ang’s views of children. This remains a central theme of her film. She encourages adults to treat a child as a person, to recognise that they are naturally curious and to approach them with patience. Just as her film is her hope for her own parents to “understand her perspective as a child”, Ang sees value in not pushing children away.

The film took 12 years to complete. When the project was not initially well-received during the funding process, Ang had cut a trailer to showcase the performances. Asked about her motivation to persist, Ang shared that she saw a “light” and kept following it. For her, belief matters more than passion.

Ang uses the Chinese title, Bubblegum Girl, to make her point. The candy is flexible, and, therefore, resilient. Each time the candy is blown, one can always begin anew and blow the candy again.

Just as how a name is an assertion of one’s identity, candy is symbolic of individual resilience, and the film is the product of one’s twelve-year journey, one is continually reminded of the strength of belief in oneself and the need to journey on.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

After a three-decade hiatus, Taiwanese avant-garde band Blacklist Production had been invited by the Cultural Department to reunite. Amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, the intention was to unite their Western blues with the indigenous singing of Paiwan chief Ngerenger Darusakiv, who was famed for his rich and deep voice.

Immediately, it did not go well.

Darusakiv does not read music and is not musically trained. Instead, much of his own performances are drawn from his own cultural practices and inspiration in the moment. In a particularly moving moment, we see Darusakiv seek permission from his seniors to draw inspiration from tribal histories and experiences—a process of respect and care perhaps less familiar to egalitarian artists.

The spontaneity of such indigenous creation clashes with the established industry norms of planning, re-creation, and precision. Even when the professional musicians and producers declare patience and attempt to accommodate Darusakiv’s strategies, it is evident that this is an endeavour more aspirational than practical.

Wu’s black-and-white cinematography compels an audience to focus on the process rather than the product. It is matter-of-fact, encouraging you to look beyond the superficiality to experience the tedious process with the film’s subjects. Yet, his inspired framing often says more than meets the eye. Darusakiv is often framed separately from his other musicians, and a recording of a Zoom call points to but never acknowledges how eight hours have passed in a difficult conversation.

Perhaps most emblematic of Wu’s excellence as a filmmaker is his willingness to subvert his established cinematic grammar to reflect his subject’s journey.

In a moment towards the end when the production falls apart, the cinematic language shifts drastically. The production is unlikely to come to fruition. Darusakiv is advised to consider that “a CD is a CD”. In essence, the documentary reminds us that music, and all art by extension, does not require a finished marketable product. Instead, simply having experienced creation as a process is art in itself.

The documentary format, then, is the perfect medium for allowing access into an opaque process that might never be experienced again. Wu’s filmmaking then transforms a straightforward act of recording to offer reflections and analysis.

Though KwanTeo’s programming of this feature with I’m Here (2021) resulted in a tedious three-hour-long humdrum that saw one-third of audiences walking out, the pairing offered unique insights into artistry: With some determined to sacrifice material comforts for ‘true artistry’, and others sacrificing a need for a final product, to instead enjoy of the process. Few filmmakers provide insights into the artistic process as Wu has, just as how his earlier works allowed access into his own psyche as a filmmaker. Wu continues to prove himself as an excellent artist.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Both of them were part of a theatre movement in 1980s Taiwan that was anti-government, experimental, and smaller-scaled. This was a response to the martial laws that lasted till 1987. This is part of Wu’s initial plans to explore the experiences of these 80s theatre groups that Wu had witnessed as an audience.

But time has moved on.

Jixing started the Little Theatre School to develop 20 students a year. Often slouched over, looking into the distance, and eating convenience store food, Jixing is visibly depressed. He laments the excitement of people coming together as a collective but eventually moving on to bigger plans.

In a brilliant structural choice, we hear about Jixing’s monumental performance in an adaptation of White Serpent before we see it. Through the staging, popular folktale turns into commentary, blending theatrical elements of camp, gender play, and non-conventional staging. Appearing in white briefs and Chinese Operatic make-up, the play reportedly drew huge laughter.

When we finally see footage of the play, we see a Jixing transformed: energetic, humorous, hopeful. The forty years have not been kind to him as he holds onto fragments of the past. Even more affecting is how Wu blends sounds of the play performed in the ‘80s with it performed by Jixing’s current students. In doing so, Wu creates a painful portrayal of Jixing as the ‘White Serpent’, struggling to survive in this world. Simultaneously, we experience time as Jixing: past and present blending into one, and all he has to hold onto is what he believes to be the path of a true artist, sacrificing himself for his art.

Spliced with Jixing’s journey is Mo-lin’s own. Much more senior, he used to write criticism and now writes children’s songs to make money. He absolutely loathes his current employment. Wu follows him around to trace the memories of significant performances of his past, but memory is not stable for Mo-lin.

Mo-lin spends his afternoons in a public garden. Wu questions the pointlessness of seniors walking around. Mo-lin pushes back. To him, the public garden has history. The garden’s past was social and exciting. For the seniors, it is them recreating and re-experiencing their memories. After all, they socialise, watch people, and exercise. True to his word, the ordinarily sharp and serious Mo-lin is seen dancing and bonding with strangers he had just met at the garden in a particularly humorous moment of the film. Wu removes the sound, taking the focus away from the music of the scene, and inviting us to simply be with these seniors.

Looking beyond the seeming pointlessness of the present, Mo-lin insists: “They have memories.”

In these moments, the film allows the two artists to speak to each other even if they never meet. Both are artists struggling in the present amidst a world that seems to have forgotten them.

This experience of the present is Wu’s greatest gift in his filmmaking. He does not rush. He allows the audience to spend time with the subjects, inviting us to go beyond observer and judgment to companion and empathy. At times, the film uses techniques of montage, voiceover narration, and sound effects to allow for Wu’s intimate commentary. However, these never feel condescending, but are ways of allowing Wu to express his feelings towards his subjects that are more personal and difficult to articulate in person. It also allows room for introspection, as the film continually grapples with the past and present.

The film is a special treat for all who flounder between time, and wonder if our best years have already passed.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Before Taiwanese documentarian Wu Yao-tung even began speaking, he was already apologising to the audience. Fumbling through his laptop as he arranged his presentation slides, his script briefly flashed onto the screen, complete with reminders of when to pause for laughter. It was an apt introduction to a filmmaker whose presentation would be refreshingly informal, despite grappling with some of documentary cinema’s most difficult ethical questions.

Wu’s presentation unfolded with a montage of his films, tracing his practice from Rui Ming Band (1998) to I’m Here (2021). Rather than explaining his creative process, he questioned whether the idea of documentaries could even be neatly articulated. He argues that documentaries deal with lives that are already messy and contradictory, and that perhaps the form should be seen as an experiment in observing.

Wu posed a series of questions to the audience: How do we observe another person? More importantly, how should we observe them?

After decades of filmmaking, Wu said documentaries did not change the world as he had believed in his naive, younger days. Years spent filming reality taught him that what documentaries could change was the documentarian’s own way of seeing.

Holding a camera, he argued, does not simply bring one physically closer to another person. It draws us into their emotions, vulnerabilities and lived reality. When someone begins suffering before the lens, the filmmaker is inevitably confronted with an ethical dilemma: should one continue filming, and if so, is one prepared to bear the consequences of that decision?

Drawing on his experience serving as a juror at numerous film festivals, Wu lamented that many contemporary documentaries prioritise concept over people. He remembers immaculate compositions, carefully considered camera angles and striking visual design, yet often struggles to remember the individuals at the centre of those films. Too frequently, he said, he sees the director rather than the subject.

Looking back at his own early works, Wu admitted that he could no longer make films in quite the same way. He described his younger self as more naive and insistent in understanding others through questioning. Today, he seeks something different. Rather than interrogating his subjects, he hopes to accompany them, allowing his documentaries to become spaces where filmmaker and subject can eventually meet one another.

It was a philosophy that would be tested immediately.

After the presentation, a Chinese journalist questioned Wu about his treatment of Tom, the protagonist of Swimming on the Highway (1998). In the film, Wu portrayed the complexities of Tom living with HIV, and the film’s raw honesty has been examined through an ethical lens of how the camera negotiates its relationship with “vulnerable subjects.”

“Don’t you think you’re using the excuse of making a documentary to bully someone on camera?” She interrogated.

Joe Huang, who was moderating the session, responded by noting that Wu and Tom remained on “good terms” after filming, even meeting for meals together before they lost contact. It was unfair, he argued, to “make assumptions about a relationship an outsider had never witnessed.” Wu echoed the sentiment, explaining that he had known Tom “personally” and that after the film’s release, “Tom publicly shared that the documentary had made him braver.” However, Wu does wonder whether Tom truly believed those words or had simply been trying to protect Wu from the public backlash.

The journalist pressed further. “Don’t you feel any guilt?” In clarifications after, she explained to Refractions that she had to press because she thinks the director “dodged” her questions.

Wu replied that his later documentary, Goodnight & Goodbye (2018), was his “long-overdue apology” to Tom after three decades. Rather than questioning or challenging him again, Wu said he simply wanted to “accompany him” in his final days. The journalist did not appear to have watched the 2018 follow-up.

The exchange concluded with her statement, “Over here, we have a term for someone like you: shameless.” Before Wu could respond, an organiser stepped in, reminding the audience that “personal attacks had no place in the discussion.”

The confrontation left no easy answers. Perhaps, for context, the dialogue session would have benefitted from a prior screening of both films.

Written by Phyllis Chan, edited by Daryl Cheong and Lee Peng Ming

Senior film programmer Philip Cheah (Jogja-NETPAC Asian Film Festival, Shanghai International Film Festival, formerly Singapore International Film Festival) expands on Law Kar’s lecture at KwanTeo by de-centering Hong Kong as the site of Southeast Asian filmmaking hub and examining developments in today’s Southeast Asian market. At his KwanTeo Lecture, Cheah proposes the existence of a ‘New Nanyang’ Cinema.

Nanyang is transliterated as Southern Seas, referring commonly to Southeast Asia.

For Cheah, Old Nanyang refers to the 19th century Chinese diaspora in Southeast Asia who witnessed the colonisation and exploitation of the West. Cheah therefore defines the New Nanyang as the generation that followed after the baby boomers from 1946 to 1964 in post-colonial, independent Southeast Asia. Cultural freedom defined this generation, where rock-and-roll and pop culture influenced true personal independence and expression.

This generation also regarded themselves less as Chinese and through new myriad identities from non-Chinese influences instead.

Simultaneously, New Nanyang saw the fusion of cultures, particularly through assimilation and marriages with non-Chinese locals of these territories. For example, the Perenakan people represented the fusion between Malay and Chinese cultures. Cheah argues that British colonisation resulted in the normalisation of English usage, and less reliance on Chinese.

Hence, the osmosis of cultures between Southern China and Southeast Asia characterises the cinema of New Nanyang. Cheah used the Chinese feature Common Paper (dir. Zhang Jiuwo, 2025) as an example: Chinese filmmakers who were inspired by Indonesian filmmakers like Garin Nugroho and even researched in Indonesia as part of their filmmaking process.

KwanTeo co-founder Chen Baiqi posits that like the waves of the Sea, the fusion between cultures in Nanyang expands on influence, understanding and cooperation beyond geographic borders and limitations.

Cheah points out that both Teoswa Sonata (dir. Lu Xiaohao, 2025) and Dear You (dir. Lan Hongchun, 2026) featured the same actor Wang Yantong. Cheah was inspired by this synergy and the work by the founders at KwanTeo to term this a Chaoshan New Wave. He drew comparison to Taiwan New Wave: The restless youth, urban/rural divide, and natural observational rhythms point to a new generation of Chaoshan filmmakers that KwanTeo continues to develop through their CineLab.

The New Nanyang generation is necessarily culturally diverse, with different Southern Chinese languages beyond Mandarin characterising their works. Cheah points out the Chinese Southeast Asian directors that characterised these works. For example, Ah Girl (dir. Ang Geck Geck, 2026) sees the fusion of Hokkien and Mandarin. Similarly, Malaysian director Chong Keat Aun (director of Snow in Midsummer, 2023) also researches different Chinese dialects.

Yet simultaneously, the New Nanyang directors could also be disentangled from Chinese influences. For Cheah, this is seen through Luka (dir. Tiong Guan Saw, Malaysia, 2026) in Malay and A Useful Ghost (dir. Ratchapoom Boonbunchachoke, Thailand, 2025), with its focus on Thai.

Such diversity of influences and concerns anchors Cheah’s view that a New Nanyang Cinema exists. When questioned by an audience member regarding the problematic terminology of ‘Nanyang’, Cheah jokes that Luckin Coffee has a ‘Modern Nanyang’ flavour in Singapore. It points to the normalisation of ‘Nanyang’ in parts of Southeast Asia.

Cheah previously spoke at KwanTeo in 2025. This year, his interpreter brings up a statement from 2025 that encapsulates Cheah’s fascination with New Nanyang, where re-examining our viewpoints on geography and historical connections provides new means of examining one’s identity. Yet, above all, allowing for re-definitions with each new wave of the Sea means new cinematic experiences:

“Having a map is having a voice.”

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

Senior Macau-born film critic Law Kar gave a guest lecture at KwanTeo, and argued that Southeast Asia accounted for Hong Kong’s pre-war film industry success and post-war revival.

Law demonstrated through statistics how Nanyang (the previous name of Southeast Asia) accounted for the largest share of pre-war film box office: Liangguang (Two Guangs referring to Guangdong and Guangxi) accounted for 22.5%, Hong Kong 12.5%, Macau 4%, the Americas 8.5%, Other Territories 12%, but Southeast Asia collectively took up 39.5%.

Largely across the territories, Law credits this success to the millions of Chinese diaspora migrating to the region for work. This was especially resonant in British-colonised Malaya and Singapore and independent Siam (Thailand), where then-King Rama VII loved Hong Kong cinema to the extent of collaborating with the industry on the 1933 film Romance in Mekong River (湄江情浪).

Law argued that some success was also seen in other colonised territories: Dutch-colonised Indonesia, American-colonised Philippines, and French-colonised Vietnam. However, he argued that Indonesia was hampered by infrastructure, with a lack of transport between villages and islands, and few theatres. Vietnam and the Philippines saw competition respectively from French and Hollywood films. Whereas Hong Kong cinema took longer, not consolidating its presence in these markets till the 1950s.

To Law, Hong Kong was always the transition point between economic and film powerhouse Shanghai and Nanyang. Especially in the early ‘30s, Shanghai performers dominated Hong Kong films but could not speak Cantonese and had to rely on dubbing. The Shaw Brothers, who built up the Malaya and Singaporean markets in the 1920s, also primarily showed Shanghai silent films until the mid-30s when Cantonese-language films in Hong Kong took up more attention.

Following World War 2, Chinese-speaking cinema was dominated by Communist China’s productions that utilised Hong Kong as a port towards Southeast Asian markets. During the war, resistance films against the Japanese invasion were also produced in Hong Kong before being distributed to the region.

Wuxia and romance films then dominated post-1947 Hong Kong production, following tedium towards resistance and war films. Between 1947 and 1949, more than 400 films were finished in Hong Kong, of which more than 350 were Cantonese ones. Most of these were exhibited in Southeast Asia, galvanising the revival of post-War Cantonese cinema.

Cinema fuelled by filmmakers in exile also contributed to the market revival. In 1952, the Union Film Enterprise (中联影业公司) emerged as a filmmakers’ cooperative. The filmmakers did not receive fees for their works. Rather, production began once deposits were received from distributors in Singapore and Malaya, and they were paid accordingly by recouping box office gains.

KwanTeo Programmer Feng Yu concluded that Mainland Chinese knowledge of Chinese-language cinema tends to be restricted to the geographic boundaries of China, but Law’s lecture provides an accessible understanding of Southeast Asian markets and their importance in developing our knowledge of Chinese cinema.

KwanTeo began cultural exchange and collaborations with Southeast Asia in 2017, being one of the first film events with a focus on the Southern Seas.

Written by Daryl Cheong, edited by Phyllis Chan

First travelling to the Three Gorges region in 1994, Feng initially documented the lives of its many residents, a project that eventually culminated in her debut documentary, The Dream of the Yangtze River (1997). Returning to visit the village in 2002, she continued to film and gradually found herself drawn to a local peasant woman, Bing’ai.

On the surface, Bing’ai’s life appears unremarkable. Like many women in the reservoir region, she married young, raised children and worked the land. However, beneath this ordinariness lies her relentless battle with bureaucracy. As villages bear the threat of submersion due to the dam’s construction, many residents were forced to relocate. Yet Bing’ai refuses to take it quietly. Determined, she readies herself to fight against bureaucracy to remain on the land she has now called home, a land that she has worked and tended to with care and painstaking effort.

Feng’s framing quietly reinforces the imbalance of power that defines Bing’ai’s life. As she negotiates with the village secretary, Bing’ai is pushed deep into the background while the foreground is dominated by the official’s legs as he absent-mindedly swats away at flies. The composition makes her seem almost insignificant within the frame, mirroring her place within an opaque administrative system. As the secretary insists that he is merely carrying out orders from higher authorities, references to countless departments and government agencies reveal a bureaucracy with no discernible centre, exposing an endless chain of responsibility that continuously defers any accountability.

Bing’ai and her husband argue fiercely with these local officials, refusing to accept their circumstances without resistance. Yet once the confrontation ends, an ominous silence settles between them. It is devastating to witness, as one realises that both of them are quietly aware of how futile their struggle is against this vast system.

Throughout the film, bureaucracy infiltrates every aspect of Bing’ai’s existence. She recounts her pregnancies and the abortions that followed due to China’s One-Child Policy directly to the camera with remarkable composure, as though these experiences are everyday occurrences. State policy governs not only where she is allowed to live, but also her bodily autonomy, turning even the most intimate aspects of her life into matters of administration.

Nonetheless, Bing’ai is never reduced to a victim in this documentary. Stubborn, sharp-witted and deeply indignant, she even declares that she intends to outlive those who demanded that she uproot her life so she can witness their downfall. Feng could have easily portrayed her as a tragic figure, but instead she documents every facet of Bing’ai’s personality as if she were one of your neighbours, friends, or even family. She is warm, personable, and her unwavering defiance only makes her impossible not to admire.

In the film, Bing’ai mentions to Feng that 「土能生万物」— “The earth gives rise to all living beings”. For her, land is not merely property to be measured or redistributed, but instead it is evidence of her labour, memories and life itself. Through intimate touches, the documentary allows questions of how policy and development can ever bury the profound sense of belonging that land can afford to those who call it home.

Written by Phyllis Chan, edited by Daryl Cheong

Chinese documentary filmmaker Feng Yan is not your typical director. Sporting a buzz cut and speaking into the microphone with an almost improvisational energy and without the prepared slides expected from previous guest lecturers at KwanTeo, she immediately exudes an air of disarming informality. It feels fitting, then, that her path into filmmaking was just as unconventional.

She did not come from film school. Feng studied Japanese literature in university before moving to Kyoto to pursue agricultural economics. She recalled having “no concept of documentaries or photography” and that her introduction to both came unexpectedly in 1992, when she worked as a translator for a photography exhibition. Encountering documentary photography and photojournalism for the first time, she realised that these mediums were a means of understanding the world, something she felt was largely denied from her while growing up in China.

When DV cameras became increasingly accessible in 1992, Feng picked one up for the first time. She did not do so with the aspiration of being a “filmmaker”, but rather a desire to better understand her own country and the world around her.

With plans for the Three Gorges Dam set to transform the Yangtze River, her curiosity eventually brought her to the Three Gorges region in 1994, where she became acquainted with a peasant woman, Zhang Bing’ai, who would later become the subject of her 2007 documentary. Reflecting on their first encounters, Feng remembered that while everyone else addressed her as “Reporter Feng”, Bing’ai simply called her by her name. Rather than treating Feng as an authority figure, Bing’ai approached her as an equal. Looking back, Feng believes Bing’ai simply wanted someone she could confide in. In a tightly knit rural community, where everyone knew each other and societal expectations often demanded that people save face, an outsider sometimes became the safest person to entrust one’s worries.

The relationship that developed between them extended far beyond that of filmmaker and subject. When Feng first screened Bing’ai for her in Beijing, Bing’ai tearfully exclaimed that she and her husband “looked like actors”, before joking that she “should have been more cooperative” during filming. As the audience erupted in laughter, Feng recalled the memory with an equally warm smile.

When asked what had become of Bing’ai after the documentary’s release, Feng happily shared that she was doing well. The film had brought visitors from across China and around the world to the Three Gorges region, many of whom made the journey simply to meet her. Bing’ai now welcomes these visitors into her home, cooking meals for them and spending hours in conversation. Feng herself even became an unlikely middlewoman for Bing’ai’s tangerine harvest, helping to sell them online as Bing’ai shipped the fruits to people across China.

For Feng, the documentary was a way of connecting Bing’ai with people far beyond the Three Gorges. It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that Feng said she only makes films about people she genuinely likes and respects. She has no interest in pursuing stories that require her to force conversations or make herself uncomfortable simply to obtain more footage. Over the years, her relationship with Bing’ai has evolved from that of director and subject into a lasting friendship.

Smiling, Feng simply described it as “destiny.”

Written by Phyllis Chan, edited by Daryl Cheong