Taiwanese Documentarian Wu Yao-tung’s philosophy of “accompanying” his subjects, rather than critiquing them or advocating for change, finds its fullest expression in his new work The Way He Sings (2024).
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
