2025年10月17日至26日，台灣國際女性影展（Women Make Waves International Film Festival，簡稱：女影、WMWIFF）將迎來第32屆，以前瞻的策展理念呈現多元而銳利的選片。今年的主題單元包括「身體即異世界」（Sci-fi Reimagined: The Body as an Alien World）、探討社會議題的「闇夜凝視」（Seeing in the Dark）和探索個人經驗的「存在手記」（The Way Things Go: Notes on Existence）、以風景之眼回望歷史的「綿延之景」（Distilled Landscape），以及「唱，或者不唱」（Queering Voices）、兩個短片單元「XPOSED：慾望狂想」（Unruly Desires）與「短短」（Cinemini）。本屆影展亦將舉辦聚焦女性影像史的紀錄片回顧單元「特別放映：致先鋒女性！」（Special Screening: Salute to Trailblazers!），並香塔爾・阿克曼（Chantal Akerman）的回顧展。

自2017年我仍居於台北時觀賞過女性影展的幾場放映後，便持續關注其策展方向。影展的選片與策展始終令人印象深刻——主辦團隊在實驗性、開放性與交叉性之間保持微妙平衡，既堅守理念，又巧妙避開菁英主義。「女影」亦是少數能以深思熟慮的方式實現商業化的影展之一，其品牌形象與核心價值始終一致，不僅透過影片與觀眾對話，也藉由富有意涵的周邊商品延伸影展精神。

此外，「女影」持續推進女性影像創作與臺灣女性主義運動歷史的整理與再思，並透過出版專書深化討論。作為一個具高度社會意識與責任感的影展，「女影」並不參與影展圈的聲譽競逐，而是始終明確自身的目標與使命——首映從來不是唯一的衡量標準。

我於2022年首次在台北與女性影展的總策展人陳慧穎見面，當時她邀請我造訪兼具檔案功能的影展辦公室。過去三年間，陈慧颖為尋找適合影展的影片而頻繁往返各地，我們也在不同影展與城市多次重逢。這次訪談正是在這段持續的交流中自然形成的。在此次訪談中，陳慧穎談及「女影」的創立歷程與影展發展所帶來的變化，並強調每一步都與臺灣當地的社會脈動緊密相關。

台灣國際女性影展是如何開始的？

陳慧穎（以下簡稱陳）：我們影展是在1993年成立的，這與當時臺灣社會的氛圍密切相關。 當時剛剛解嚴，性別運動和對少數族群權益的關注逐漸興起。 我們的影展最初創辦的關鍵人物是黃玉珊導演，他當時有一個名為「黑白屋電影工作室」的電影製作工作室。 這個工作室不僅製作電影，也參與了許多節慶策劃工作。

影展的創辦可以追溯到黃玉珊、倡議者與學者（如李元貞、王蘋、張小虹、丁乃非等）與婦運團體「婦女新知」的合作。 第一屆影展舉辦在台北霍克藝術會館（Hoke Art Gallery），這種非戲院空間的選擇也反映了影展最初的實驗性質。 當時除了電影放映，還包括論壇、攝影、繪畫展等混合形式的活動。 第二屆影展在牯嶺街的皇冠小劇場（皇冠小劇場當時的名稱是：「皇冠藝文中心」）舉行，這是一個實驗性戲劇場所。 第三屆開始，是與帝門藝術教育基金會合作，在帝門藝術中心舉行，依然是在非戲院空間內進行。 第四屆開始，影展逐漸穩定，連續三年在誠品書店敦南店視聽室舉行。

直到2000年，影展才正式進入戲院，規模成長，開始使用35mm膠片放映。 最初的影展形式較為游擊，在非戲院空間，人們常常在投影幕前觀看影片。 進入戲院后，影展逐漸被視為一個正式的電影節，並開始具備更多商業屬性。

所以影展最初使用VHS或者16mm呢？

陳：早期主要是家用規格，如VHS，這種形式直到進入戲院後才發生變化，然後慢慢往BETACAM、35mm等等專業規格轉換。 早期影展與整個社會氛圍緊密相連。 女影算台灣滿早出現的影展，在我們成立之前，臺灣僅有金馬影展。 也是第一個以性別為導向的議題性影展。

金馬影展在我們成立前兩年，也就是1991年，就有在關注女性導演，並推出大師級女導演的專題放映，例如放映了Chantal Akerman和Agnès Varda的作品。 當時這些專題放映以「女性導演電影專題」為主題呈現，顯示了社會對女導演的逐步關注。

這種趨勢在當時並不局限於電影界。 其他大型藝術機構也以「女性藝術家聯展」的形式展出作品，顯示了1990年代初社會對性別議題意識抬頭的現象。 因此，我們影展的誕生絕非偶然，而是這一社會氛圍的產物，提供了一個專門聚焦女性導演的平臺。

80年代臺灣的新浪潮似乎沒有多少女導演，但到了90年代，像王小棣和黃玉珊這樣的女性創作者逐漸多了起來。 黃玉山導演現在還參與影展嗎？

陳：基本上能參加就會來參加女性影展，雖然她長期居住在台南，但影展期間會特別過來支援。 此外，她也參與南方影展的創辦，2022年剛滿20周年。 這些影展能延續至今，都覺得非常難能可貴。

我最近看了很多關於黃玉珊的資料，非常喜歡《牡丹鳥》。 這部電影在國外知道的人不多，真的很遺憾。 我也注意到她很重視通過影展和教育來改變觀眾的觀影習慣和思維方式。

陳：是的。 女性影展的一大特點是除了放映女導演的作品，自早期便會特別引進國外重要女導演的電影。 最初的幾屆影展都集中在性別影像領域的重要作品上，希望通過這樣的選片策略讓臺灣觀眾接觸到國外的性別議題影像。

當時，臺灣團隊無法親自到國外選片，就通過留學的臺灣朋友協助在當地挑選作品，然後再把這些影片彙集到臺灣放映。 這種國際化與在地化結合的方式，是女性影展的一個重要特質。

既有全球視野，又關注本地創作者，好像是影展成功的關鍵。

陳：早期，女性影展不僅關注女性導演的作品，也有在關注發掘臺灣本地女性的歷史。 例如，影展的團隊、理監事、或相關參與者不僅有導演身份的成員，也延伸出以女性視角出發的影像製作，比如以臺灣第一位女畫家或女醫生為主題的系列。 這些作品通過影展放映，以影像的方式重新記錄和呈現過去的女性歷史。 這種方式不僅僅是放映現有作品，而是強調再創作和歷史的再現。

女性影展成立時正處於臺灣性別運動風起雲湧發展的時期。 例如，1994年在臺北公館成立了華語地區第一間女性書店「女書」。與此同時，以學術機構為主的性別研究室也在1990年代初開始出現，比如中央大學設立了臺灣第一個性別研究室。 這與學術圈的性別論述息息相關，其召集人何春蕤教授參與性別運動，很著名的口號就是「我要性高潮，不要性騷擾」，從中也可以感受到1990年代性別運動的高漲氛圍。 總之，女性影展的成立可以視為臺灣性別運動與社會脈絡下的自然延伸。

你們每年的單元設置是否有固定模式？

陳：我們每年會根據主題重新設計單元，而不是保持固定格式。 主題通常與當下的社會議題相關，或者跟我們希望探討的面向有關，也有可能聚焦一般容易被忽略的領域。 例如某年我們做了一個關於生育的單元，便涵蓋了從不生的選擇到跨性別生育等多樣化內容。 透過單元設置，我們也在思考有沒有另一種觀點，或繞開主流關注，去呈現世界正發生的狀態。

我很好奇，近年來的觀眾群體是否有變化？

陳：從我個人觀察，女性影展已經積累了一群忠實觀眾，這些人通常對女性議題有特別的關注。 同時，也可以觀察到對影展有興趣的觀眾群體，不僅觀看女性影展，也參與金馬影展等其他電影節。 此外，我注意到年輕觀眾的數量在增加，而較年長觀眾的比例可能有所下降。 此外，男性觀眾的數量也比過去明顯增多。

這幾年在中國成立了一個比較大型商業的女性影展叫「山一」，他們策展方式沒有性別限制，也包括男導演，只要作品與女性議題相關就會選入。 那你們對男性導演在女性影展中的作用怎麼看？

陳：從節目設置而言，我們放映的作品主要仍舊來自女性、或自我認同為女性的創作者，目的是保障女性導演的創作平臺，這一直是女性影展的重要初衷。 然而，對於像「酷兒單元」這樣的板塊，我們近十年來逐漸開放，不再對導演性別進行劃分。 此外，專題或研究為導向的單元則也可以不受導演性別限制，而是以性別視角研究電影現象，比如2018年的「女性復仇」專題就包含了許多男性導演的剝削電影（exploitation film）作品。

全球女性影展都會面對類似的問題：是聚焦女性議題、女性導演，還是女性主義？ 每個影展都會根據自身定位進行取捨。 我們的做法是希望在性別上保持開放和擴展，但同時也希望保留對女性主義的關注。 我認為，這種彈性正是女性主義的重要特質，可以為影展的未來發展提供更大的可能性。

我一直都感覺女性主義最大的挑戰就是關注女性但是不要把女性當成一個例外。

陳：在臺灣，關於性別議題的影展經常被質疑，比如有人會問，現在臺灣已經通過同性婚姻了，為什麼還要舉辦女性影展？ 這個問題很常見。 但深入探討後會發現，台灣影視圈仍然很少由女性主導，而性別意識雖然被認知，但未廣泛化為日常。 因此，女性影展的存在非常重要，通過強調女性視角，討論性別多樣性。 最終希望能夠不斷擴充討論的範疇。

現在辦影展的團隊有多少人？

陳：我們通常是一個比較小型的團隊，平時是以臺灣女性影像學會的社團法人形式在運作。 這個學會一整年度可能會有一些常態性的活動。 不過，比如從六七月到十一月這半年的時間里，就會進入影展籌備的密集期，工作量及節奏都會大幅提升。 儘管如此，我們的團隊規模還是相對較小，核心團隊最多也就十幾個人，相較其他影展人數是少了許多。
我們的資金除了政府補助外，來源包括票價收入、合作贊助，以及一些其他業務收入。 因為是NGO（非營利組織）的關係，營運模式跟其他大型影展有很大的差異性。

那志願者的參與情況如何？

陳：我們每年招募的志願者數量在30到50人之間，影展期間加上各種崗位的排班等人數可能會多到80多人。 志願者平時辦公室工作是從中午到傍晚，影展期間則是排班制。 我們的志願者能一起參與到影展的工作，除了辦公室的業務外，也有可能會參與到校園宣傳等等。

你們是否有計畫Giloo類似的臺灣流媒體平臺合作？

陳：有的，合作模式可能是媒體協力，或在影展中放映的影片，可能Giloo會有興趣談版權、上架，我們則提供字幕。 這不同於2020年南方影展與Giloo的合作是轉換為線上影展的方式。 我們的影展目前還是以線下放映為主，包括巡迴放映，都有時間與空間的特定性。 疫情期間我們也有過相關轉線上的考量，但線上放映的成本較高。

我對影展周邊商品也很感興趣，你們製作的東西跟別的影展商品都一樣。 我很好奇，你們如何挑選製作哪些商品呢？

陳：關於要製作什麼商品，我們一般會先和團隊、實習生一起討論。 雖然會有一些想法，但實際能不能實現還要看有沒有廠商願意合作。 比如今年有些商品是意料之外的，比如雞尾酒，這是廠商主動提出合作的，我們就決定嘗試。 另一方面，我們也有自己的願望製作，但不一定能夠實現，比如我們想做永恆筆，但因為成本太高暫時無法實現。 今年也沒有做常規的資料夾，而是嘗試了更實用的商品，比如衛生紙。 這靈感其實來自台灣選舉時常用的贈品、辦公室也很需要，我們覺得很接地氣。

臺灣影展的周邊商品氛圍很特別，每年都會推出新的創意商品。 相比之下，國外影展的商品種類較固定。

我覺得永恆筆與女性主義有著密切的關係，它讓女性能夠寫下自己的故事，避免這些故事被遺忘或抹去。

陳：對，我們的商品確實需要特別小心設計。 我們會避免讓廣告或商品設計帶有物化女性的傾向，這也是我們和其他影展相比需要更用心的地方。

非常有趣，商品的設計不僅體現創意，還能延伸影展的影響力。 哪些商品賣得最好？

陳：水餃包（提袋）賣得最好，因為很實用。 今年我們聽到一些反饋，打算調整或替換成其他商品。

I have always been very interested in the means of film funding and how it shapes both the filmmaking process and the finished film. That is one of the many reasons why this conversation with Meiske Taurisia – the Indonesian film producer – remains one of my fondest memories of interviewing filmmakers.

The conversation took place during the CinemAsia Film Festival in Amsterdam in May 2022, at the first post-Covid edition. Meiske Taurisia attended the festival with the Locarno-winning arthouse action film Vengeance Is Mine, All Others Pay Cash (2021, dir. Edwin). Since then, the Indonesian film market has undergone further changes, gravitating more and more towards Netflix for original productions, as the platform enjoys a large audience – especially among youth – in Indonesia who are eager to watch local films.

Meiske Taurisia discusses how she began working as a producer in the early 2000s, her long-term collaboration with director Edwin, and the release of Vengeance Is Mine, All Others Pay Cash in Indonesia during the pandemic. Between 2022 and 2025, she completed four films as a producer: the short film Evacuation of Mama Emola (2023, dir. Anggun Priambodo); the teen drama Dear David (2023, dir. Lucky Kuswandi) and the crime film Borderless Fog (2023, dir. Edwin), both for Netflix; and the horror film The Redemption of Sin (2024, dir. Yosep Anggi Noen). Her work is one example of the changes Indonesian cinema has undergone over the past two decades, shifting between independent production and collaboration with streaming platforms.

Maja: I noticed that many people are very unclear about what the role of a film producer is. Even I, when I started working as a journalist, would often ask directors questions that should’ve been addressed to producers—especially when it came to financing—because I’ve always been interested in the institutional side of cinema. How would you describe your role as a producer in the filmmaking process?

Meiske: I think it helps to think of it like running a restaurant: the director is the chef, and the producer is the restaurant owner or manager. There are certain areas only the chef should touch. If I start saying, “No, don’t use this salt,” or “Change this ingredient,” it would alter the whole dish—like bitter melon, for example. So I respect the director’s space. If I interfere too much, then why not become the chef myself?

Likewise, if the chef starts deciding on the interior, pricing, or management of the restaurant, you’d ask, “Why not just be the manager?” Each profession has its own “playground,” but those playgrounds complement each other. Our expertise complements each other—we can’t function alone.

That’s why I don’t understand when producers compete with directors. Everyone has their own territory. I have authority in my area, the director has theirs, and we discuss things. In Indonesia, I’ve seen cases where producers seem to compete with directors. But if it’s the director’s stage, let them have it. Everyone has their role, and we don’t need to step over each other.

Maja: The problem is when the producer used to be a director—or is still a director at the same time?

Meiske: I think that’s okay, actually. But I do believe that when people juggle multiple roles, they’ll always lean toward one. There’s no way to equally balance being both a director and a producer. One of them will be their strength, and for the other, they’ll delegate or have an assistant.

If someone’s both a director and a producer, I think they’ll usually be stronger in directing. Back to the cooking analogy—at the end of the day, it’s the taste of the food that matters. What kind of experience does the dish create? Sure, the restaurant name matters too, but if the food doesn’t live up to it, reputation won’t carry it.

Even the perfect dish will have critics. Some like it, some don’t. It’s about the majority response. But still, the cooking—the chef’s work—is central. That’s not to downplay my role as a producer. We have our own battlegrounds. Our bigger role is making sure people even get to taste the dish, you know? Turning an idea into a realized film. Everyone can have brilliant ideas, but can they actually bring all the ingredients together? That’s where the producer comes in.

You know, I’ve wondered why there’s no “Best Producer” award. But with something like “Best Picture,” it’s a combination of everything. I can live with that. Because if there were a “Best Producer,” how would you even judge it? It’s such a complex role. You need to have creative taste, understand art, management, financing, policy… everything. If we believe that film is primarily an art form, then yes, the cook—the artist—is essential. But film isn’t like fine art. In fine art, you don’t have “Best Art,” because artists work alone. In film, a director can’t work alone. That’s why they need producers and a crew. So in that sense, “Best Film” already represents everyone.

Maja: You studied textiles and design, and started off as a costume designer. How was that, and how did you transition into producing?

Meiske: It was really an accident. I never planned for this in my life. Back then in Indonesia, we would rent DVDs or pirated copies. Of course, I’ve always loved watching films, but I never thought of making them. I enjoyed film purely as an audience. I liked the visual surprises and plot twists—that’s what I looked for when I watched.

I studied architecture for my bachelor’s degree, and then I studied textile design at an art school. It was actually a double program—I studied at two different universities and had to go back and forth between them. Initially, I wanted to study art, specifically sculpture. But my parents said, “What are you going to do with sculpture?” So I chose textile instead.

After finishing both bachelor’s degrees, I worked in textile design. Then I went to the Netherlands to do my master’s, which focused on forecasting—fashion design and strategy. It wasn’t about designing clothes but more about turning something, like paper, into a fashion product. The focus was on trend forecasting—planning, and analyzing when fashion industries say, “This is the trend.”

Maja: Like Pantone.

Meiske: Yes, like Pantone and all that. That was my master’s in Arnhem. Then I returned home, but it was during a major economic crisis in Indonesia—right after the reformation era when Suharto lost power in 1998. By the time I came back, it was 2002, and the crisis was still ongoing.

I wanted to work for a branding agency, which aligned with my background, but none accepted me. So I worked as an art teacher at a high school. At the same time, I applied for a part-time job as a costume designer in film. I just wanted to try it. Teaching at high school and junior high school gave me more holidays than most other jobs—two months in the middle of the year and two months at the end—so I had a lot of free time. During those holidays, I took on film jobs. That’s actually how I entered the film industry—by accident. I was just trying to fill that two-month holiday gap.

Then I met Edwin. At that time, he was working as an assistant director, and I was the costume designer. We worked together on a film production, and that’s how our conversations started. He was already making short films, and I liked them—I thought he was really talented. I truly believed in his work. He wanted to make his first feature about the Chinese minority in Indonesia, and I’m ethnically Chinese. When I read his treatment, I saw myself in it. That’s what moved me. That’s why I said, “Okay, I’ll help you.” Edwin and his friend, the cinematographer, were like, “Hey, I’m the director, he’s the cinematographer—we don’t have a producer. Why don’t you help us?” So I did. I never thought about it as something long-term; it was just to help him, because I saw my own life in his story—his first feature.

But that help continue until now. We screened the film in competition at Busan in 2008, and then we were invited to Rotterdam in January with Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly. At that time, what I was thinking was: “Okay, for the next feature, I want him to be seen.” So I looked for labs, I met people, I promoted him—and eventually, he got the opportunity to make his second feature, and I became the producer.

It was never planned. I didn’t have a big vision of becoming a film producer. But I do know why I stayed in this profession. I studied art for a long time—my bachelor’s, my passion—all of it was in the art world. I think the reason I’m still here is because I truly believe there’s so much talent out there. And those people can’t do it alone. They need someone like me—someone who can see the talent and help realise it. That’s why I do this. I believe this is art. And I want to support these talented people. It just so happened that I met Edwin. If I had met someone else, maybe it would have gone in a different direction. But I believe in this work, and that’s why I’m still here.

Maja: When I was reading about the film culture initiatives you’ve supported in Jakarta such as micro cinema Kinosaurus. I was wondering how those initiatives have influenced local filmmaking?

Meiske: I do know that we distribute a lot. We try to be consistent, and we focus on empowering communities, which I think is very important in Indonesia. The reason this is important is because cinema in Indonesia is dominated by a monoculture of Hollywood films. We don’t really have many alternatives. I mean, there are cinemas that screen Korean films, but even Korean cinema is becoming like Hollywood now, competing like crazy.

So these communities are vital, we have to keep engaging with them. I can imagine that for people living outside of Jakarta, it must be very difficult to get access to non-mainstream films. I have the privilege of knowing people at the film festival circuit—I can reach out and ask for their films, and then distribute them in Indonesia. But imagine someone living outside of Jakarta—they don’t know how to reach sales agents and distributors.

That’s the reason why I set up such initiatives, cinemas won’t survive without supply. It’s the classic supply and demand idea of economics. I wanted to fill that gap, to support these communities so they could survive. Because if they don’t, then nothing will grow, nothing will be cultivated for the future.

At the same time, I also try to spread the idea of small economies. I remember when I made Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly in 2008, all the screenings in community spaces were free. Free of charge. But by the time I made Postcards from the Zoo, I told everyone: I don’t want the screenings to be free anymore. Back then, the mindset was: “If it’s an independent film, why should we pay?” And I had to tell them: “It’s the other way around. Because it’s independent, you should pay.” So when I screened Postcards from the Zoo, we charged three to four times more than a regular cinema ticket. People said, “Are you crazy?” And I said, “Well, if you want to watch it, great. If not, that’s okay.” I felt like I had to build that attitude—because otherwise, people wouldn’t see the amount of suffering and effort that goes into making these films.

But that’s the good part—I can say I had an influence on the attitude of local audiences. After Postcards from the Zoo, whenever I did community screenings, everyone paid. That might not sound like much in Europe, but in Indonesia, it’s significant. After that, the norm became: community screenings are not free anymore. That’s the kind of influence I think is important—for people to understand the value of our work.

Maja: If screenings are always free, it’s detrimental to the whole profession. It’s like doing film criticism for free.

Meiske: Yes! And audiences might not respect independent filmmakers. But now, slowly, people are beginning to understand. At least now there are two options. You can try to be big in the domestic market, with millions of viewers. Or you can try to be big internationally—by going to festivals. At least now those two are seen as equal. It’s not like, “If you do this, you’re better,” or, “If you do that, you’re lower.” No—they’re just different options. I mean, I also enjoy watching a film like Pretty Woman once in a while—it’s fun! But we can’t survive on that kind of cinema all the time.

Maja: There’s this myth of the independent filmmaker as a martyr—for example, Tsai Ming-liang selling tickets to his own film outside the theatre.

Meiske: Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I think, in general, that’s Asia—especially Southeast Asia. And the reason is simple. In Europe, you have the idea of a welfare state. In Asia, we don’t. None of the Asian countries—definitely not Korea, not Japan, and certainly not countries in Southeast Asia. Most of us are heavily influenced by US-style capitalism. That’s the mindset here. That’s why public funds hardly exist in this part of the world. It’s the opposite of Europe. You have public funds because you believe in the welfare state. You have a system—even if it’s not perfect. But we don’t.

That’s why I try to influence people with this idea of the small economy. I don’t know if it’s making a big difference, but I believe that independent filmmakers are now being recognized. Unconsciously, that change is happening. People are now paying the same amount to see a film in a community screening as they would in a regular cinema—that means something.

I remember fighting with the Ministry about this. I asked, “If I want to charge for tickets in community screenings, how do I do it legally?” Because if we call it a “ticket,” it includes taxes—and I can’t deal with taxes in these small communities. It’s all individual-based. So we discussed it with the Ministry, and they said, “Why don’t you call it a donation?” Donations don’t involve taxes. That’s how it started.

Maja: Let’s talk about the second pathway: the film festival circuit. Do you think there are barriers preventing young Indonesian filmmakers from getting into European festivals?

Meiske: Well, this is just my immediate response, but yes, there are barriers. One is the submission fee. It might not be a lot, but it still matters. If the fee is 50 or 70 euros—how much is that in Indonesia? It’s a lot. Especially for young filmmakers. Also—do they even have a credit card? That’s another issue. These may sound like small things, but they’re real obstacles. I remember in the beginning, when Edwin and I made short films, we could do it for 300 or 500 euros. So if the submission fee is 50 euros, that’s already a big chunk. That’s why their only option is often to submit to festivals that do not have submission fees or a very small one.

When I did the short film with Edwin, I had already traveled to festivals. I got to meet programmers—or at least I could ask around. I could ask, “Who’s the programmer for short films at this or that festival?” And people would introduce us. Sometimes we’d get a fee waiver code. But for filmmakers who don’t have access to this network it is difficult.

I feel there’s a hierarchy, or at least an uneven power relationship. For example, if you have a collective from Indonesia and a collective from Europe working together, it feels more balanced. It’s fair. But when you’re helping someone—let’s say I’m helping a filmmaker working on his short film—I’m doing all the submissions, everything. Now imagine doing that for ten people. The workload gets bigger and bigger, and that’s essentially the producer’s job.

So when we talk about initiatives and collectives, my question is: do they want to take on the role of producer? If not, then what can they offer? Maybe just publish a list of quotas or opportunities—like saying, “Hey, this is a slot for getting into this festival.” That might be the most they can realistically do. But imagine if 100 filmmakers are reaching out to the programmers. Sure, they can try to help, but then they’re expected to manage access across every festival, almost like a gatekeeper. And there will always be networks—some people have access, and some don’t.

I’m not saying I’m not concerned. But it also reflects how eager someone is to break in. I mean, lots of people are already making short films. I jumped in midway, too. Your growth depends on how much you want to develop yourself, how you navigate this map—how you approach people, how you talk to them. There’s a kind of knowledge that you either try to catch up with or you don’t. The gap also challenges you: do you want to catch up?

Ideally, there would be better conditions. Like in Busan—they don’t charge submission fees. That’s great. It’s more accessible. But every festival has its own policy. Some are charging really high fees.

Maja: Yes, it’s twisted. It’s a whole economy. I heard Venice charges 70 euros for a short film, but then when I think about press accreditation to the Berlinale, it’s the same amount in the environment in which as a freelancer you are being paid 50 euro or 80 euro per review or an entire essay or festival report.

Meiske: Imagine 1,000 submissions—that’s 70,000 euros. No wonder Venice can pay for Hollywood premieres. But that’s another story—Hollywood is a different world. It’s the same with Cannes. These festivals exist within a canon, this idea that everyone needs everyone else. Hollywood wants the stamp of artistic quality, and art festivals want Hollywood’s stamp of accessibility and commercial success.

Maja: Wow, that’s a vicious circle. So what are your plans now, for work?

Meiske: I still want to make films. I realised a few years ago—after more than ten years of doing this—I can’t switch anymore. I know how to be a producer. Before that, I used to change a lot. But at one point, I told myself, “Okay, this is it.” If I start something new, I’ll have to begin from scratch—without any knowledge. And now, I’m not sure I can do that anymore.

Maja: Any new projects?

Meiske: When I worked on Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly and Postcards from the Zoo, we relied on European grants. That was the only way to make the films back then. But after Postcards from the Zoo, I realized it’s not sustainable. In Southeast Asia, you can’t just keep relying on Europe. So, I co-founded a company with Palari Films, where we mix investment and grants. Possessive and Aruna were our experiments with investment. With Vengeance is Mine, Others Pay Cash, I already had experience and it worked. It was difficult, because both sides had different expectations. But I think Vengeance met both. And we won the Golden Leopard, that was a big moment. It felt like a shared success.

So now I want to keep experimenting—with financing, and also with the kinds of films we make. That’s where I still see growth for myself. I can’t make films just for money—I get bored too fast. I need challenges. And now that I have my own company, with fifteen people working with me, I have to think about them, too. Not just myself. That’s why I’ve accepted that we need both commercial and artistic projects. If we want to survive, we have to do both. But I believe we can still keep the Palari signature, even in commercial films. I don’t know how yet—but that’s the challenge.

Maja: That’s really interesting, because in a way, it connects to your original interest in branding.

Meiske: That’s true! In the end, it all connects.

Maja: Vengeance was also released in Indonesia. How was the audience response?

Meiske: It was good. But it’s a hard question to answer. It was during the pandemic. Cinema attendance was around 30%. In that context, the film did well. It even made the top ten box office in 2021. That wouldn’t have happened in normal times.

Like, last year during Eid—which is one of the key holiday seasons in Indonesia—a horror film made four million admissions in one week. That’s usually the number one or two films would do. Vengeance only had around a hundred thousand tickets sold. But still, it made top ten that year. So we were like, “Yay! Top ten!” But of course, it was due to special conditions. But in the end, I’m happy.

Maja: That’s really interesting. Sometimes art films weren’t hit as hard as big blockbusters when it came to numbers.

Meiske: Yeah, that’s true. And the audience response was great. It was in the big commercial cinemas. But we also had community screenings. They’d book a cinema, bring friends, and watch it together. That was really nice. We were able to empower communities with this film because it had just won a big international award. It helped bring people back to the cinema.

I think we had around a hundred screenings that were organized by cinephile communities. Not by us. They saw the film was playing in their city, and they made it happen themselves. That was the best part. Even during the pandemic, it still created a kind of momentum. I think the pandemic maybe even helped that, because people needed something to gather around. It made an impact on the cinema landscape here.

在鹿特丹一个飘雪、寒冷的清晨，Gagaland 的媒体场次刚刚结束，一群记者走出放映厅，神情恍惚地环顾四周。刚刚在银幕上看到的东西，充满了社交媒体的美学气质，并交织着纪录片、童话与音乐录像的元素。向来持怀疑态度的 Kevin B. Lee 打破沉默，问道：“我们刚才看到的——这算是电影吗？”
也许我对任何能让我思考、让我感受的视听形式都太容易动容，但 Gagaland 一下子就吸引了我。它像是华语电影中极为罕见的珍宝——在叙事与形式上都展现出强烈的在地性。
不久之后，我与策展人丁大为一起采访了这部影片 23 岁的导演滕语涵和制片人闵婕，谈论 Gagaland 的创作过程以及支撑其背后的理念。

Q： 我对这几个角色很好奇，因为他们都很抓人。每个角色在电影里都有自己的故事，包括他们如何开始跳舞、跳舞的动机是什么。这让人物显得非常真实。那么，这些角色都有原型吗？

滕语涵（TYH）： 人物都有原型。首先，红毛这个角色是最真实的，他是本色出演。至于KD这个角色，原本我们也找过演员，但最后没找到合适的人选，就让乔剑楠来演。他是内蒙古人，所以我们又根据他的情况改了剧本。其实，KD的原型是三个彝族小朋友的故事。
这个故事最早发生在大凉山。有三个大概十五六岁的彝族少年，他们初中毕业后到山东一家做鸭毛的羽绒服工厂打工。工厂的待遇特别差，他们也觉得太辛苦，就决定离开。从山东回大凉山的路很远，要在河南郑州转车，于是他们一路流浪到郑州。到了郑州火车站，他们的钱包被小偷偷了，只能在火车站西广场流浪。
到第七天的时候，他们已经非常饿了，正好遇到了在那儿跳舞的红毛。那天红毛带了吃的，三个小孩就问他能不能分点吃的。红毛答应了，于是他们就在广场上一起尬舞起来。
很奇妙的是，在那天上午，偷他们钱包的那个人又出现了，问他们要不要一起去偷东西。三个小孩说要考虑一下。结果到下午，他们遇见了红毛，他们的人生也因此发生了一次微妙而巨大的转折。后来红毛收他们为徒，一起跳舞。
因为我们没找到合适的演员来演那三个彝族小孩，所以最后就让乔剑楠来演，把角色改成一个内蒙古来打工的年轻人，但他依然在羽绒服工厂工作。

Q： 所以，你去接触这些人群、做调查研究的整个过程大概花了多长时间？

TYH： 我最早是在2017年12月初左右看到关于郑州尬舞的新闻报道，从那时知道了三个大凉山小孩的事情。之后我认识了泥巴（制片人廖勇），我们一拍即合，决定要一起去做这个项目。
我们很快就去了郑州，和他们一起生活，真正进入他们跳舞的环境。当时我们也拍了一个很小的纪录片，现在片尾里还能看到。拍完那段之后，我们又回去改剧本。大概在2018年初的时候我们第一次去了郑州，回来后继续修改剧本。期间我们一直保持联系——红毛把我拉进了他各种粉丝群，我们自己也有一个和许多尬舞者在一起的群。
2018年9月我们正式开拍。开拍前，我们带着演员去红毛家里住，真的和他们一起生活——我当时就睡在红毛女儿的床上，每天和他们一起去跳舞。后来在郑州又待了一段时间，我们才转到山东那边正式开机。整个过程前后大概经历了大半年的时间。
到了后期阶段，我依然会从他们的直播里汲取灵感，因为我们的素材来源其实非常多样。

TYH： 这个是我们剪辑指导邓博超的一个巧思。因为那时我并不是特别有经验，他先帮我们搭出了整部片子的“龙骨”。从那时候开始，这部片子就已经在尝试把纪录和剧情结合在一起了。
我看完之后觉得特别好，因为这正是我想要的东西。我们无法回避真实人物在其中的感受，而我也并不在乎如果把纪录片素材放进去，会不会“穿帮”或者显得不连贯。那些逻辑层面的东西，我其实并不是很care的。我更在乎的是能不能传达出想要的感觉。现在影片呈现出来的样子，对我来说，是完全靠近我的心的。

Q： 我也很好奇，你提到红毛不是演员，但其他一些角色是你选的。你是如何挑选这些演员的？比如说，那位黑人小演员是怎么找到的？

闵婕（MJ）： 当时我们在制片阶段，有一个制片方提供了选角的平台。我们就在豆瓣等一些地方发布了演员招募信息。原本剧本里其实并没有黑人小孩这个角色。那时我们写的演员需求是：“来自大凉山，14岁，微胖，皮肤黝黑，爱跳舞，幽默。”
过了一段时间，我收到了一封来自肯尼迪的邮件。他给我发了个人资料，我一看，这不是个黑人小朋友吗？他在邮件里说：“我14岁，爱跳舞，皮肤黝黑。”我觉得这也挺合适的，就想着：那为什么不能是个黑人角色呢？后来语涵就调整了剧本，让这个角色自然地融入故事当中。

Q： 我觉得这一段非常有趣。虽然他是配角，但非常抢眼，也能和黑人舞蹈文化产生某种联系。在郑州的尬舞人群中，外国人常见吗？

TYH： 外国人挺多的。郑州真实的尬舞人群里，本来也有外国人参与。所以肯尼迪这个角色的加入，我觉得特别自然，也挺满意——这是电影自己“长出来”的东西。
肯尼迪其实是《流浪地球2》的演员，他和吴京有对戏。他第一次联系我时就写信说：“你需要跟我的经纪人谈。”于是我就和他的经纪人谈片酬、合同等细节，还得准备中英文版本的合同。因为他才14岁，我们还必须征得他父母的同意。我后来和他远在尼日利亚的妈妈沟通了很久，详细解释了拍摄内容和工作安排，最后他们才同意。
拍摄过程中，我们关系越来越熟。有一天他突然在我车后座大笑，我问他笑什么。他说：“闵姐你知道吗？我拍完《战狼2》之后两年都没接戏了，而且我根本没有经纪人。”结果发现，他其实是自己假扮经纪人来和我们谈条件（笑）。

Q： 听上去肯尼迪算是专业演员。那其他演员呢？男主角你也提到是素人。现场是即兴表演多，还是严格按照剧本？跳舞的部分又是怎么拍的？

TYH： 其实肯尼迪是我们演员里最“专业”的。剩下的两个女孩也是通过公开选角来的。我们主要看她们敢不敢跳舞。两个女孩都有舞蹈基础。霹雳之前演过戏，水仙也在一部千万级流量的网大里演过女三号。
我们还请了一位舞蹈指导。在开拍前，他们一起生活了一段时间，做了一个“舞蹈工作坊”。主要目的是帮助演员解放身体，让他们放开自己。红毛会带他们去各地尬舞，老师也跟着他们。其实那段时间我们整个剧组都住在宋庄，每天晚上都有人尬舞，我们也都会去跳，我自己也参与。
乔剑楠为了角色，在短时间内减了20公斤。他一直在做心理和身体的准备。虽然大家都不是专业演员，也没什么经验，但每个人都非常认真。

Q： 张爱玲曾经说过“中国是没有跳舞的国家”。我想说的是，中国的舞蹈文化在现代电影里其实挺有意思，比如贾樟柯或刁亦男，他们的电影里都有大量跳舞的场面。

TYH： 对，其实中国人不是“不会”跳舞，而是羞于用身体去表达。但那种表达的欲望是一直存在的。只是大家从小被教导，跳舞是有“固定姿态”的，要学、要专业、要成为“舞蹈家”才可以。很少有人告诉你：“你就随便跳就行。”
如果我们从小就被这样鼓励，我相信中国会有各种各样的舞蹈形式。哪怕是跳交谊舞的，也总是互相教、互相学，反而少了那种自由的身体表达。

Q： 电影里提到了“尬舞”这个行为，甚至连“尬”这个词都曾被禁止使用。你们显然非常了解这一群体所面对的压力，也了解它的魅力所在。能谈谈你对“尬舞”本身的理解吗？究竟是什么吸引了你们？

TYH： 跟红毛一起生活的那段时间，我有一个特别深的体验。有一次拍摄时，他突然向我伸出手，那一刻对我来说非常神奇，像是一个有魔力的瞬间。因为在那之前，我只是通过屏幕和媒体认识他，当他真实地站在我面前，那种鲜活的姿态让我特别感动。
尬舞跟中国其他任何形式的舞蹈都不一样。广场舞讲求的是“整齐划一”，大家要一致；但尬舞恰恰相反，它追求“我偏要和你不一样”。越有个人特色越好。尬舞的人常说：“我怎么快乐就怎么跳。”而我觉得——快乐本身是一件需要勇气的事，是一种勇敢的行为。我们常说 happy is also revolution，快乐本身也是一种革命。真正去追随自己的快乐，需要极大的勇气。所以我觉得“尬舞”是非常勇敢的。而且在那样的一个环境中，它能如此自然地生长出来，还与中原街区的气质如此契合，甚至发展成了一种本地亚文化潮流——这太吸引人了。
当我第一次看到红毛跳舞时，他那种迸发式的身体能量深深打动了我。他跳起来的时候，会整个人蹦起来，用尽全身力气。那是一种非常真诚的表达。对我来说，那一刻永远都是感动。当你真的站在那个场景里，就会明白——没有人能拒绝“尬舞”。它有一种魔力。对我来说，这完全是身体的语言，是一种超越国界的表达。如果让我用语言去讲“尬舞”，我可能要说很久；但如果现在我跳一段，你立刻就能明白。

MJ： 说实话，比如你们今天看完电影，可能会觉得它的视觉语言很爆炸，或者跳舞的姿势很奇怪——有些人会用 explosion 来形容。但我前阵子就一直跟语涵说，如果接受采访，我一定要说：其实我们拍的是一部非常普通的电影。
因为它讲的就是一群非常普通的人。他们就是普通人，故事也很简单——男孩喜欢女孩，一群人喜欢跳舞。跳着跳着，有的人想成名，有的人成名后想赚钱。这不就是最普通的人的欲望和爱好吗？
正因为如此，我觉得“普通”这件事变得很珍贵。现在世界上很多地方，反而是normality缺失的。所以我们拍的其实是一部非常“落寞”的电影，一部关于普通人、关于平凡生活中那点热情的电影。

TYH： 其实片中有纪录片的部分涉及到了这一点。比如结尾那个镜头，我们写了“404 not found”，其实也有这种隐喻。最后那个小男孩拉着小女孩，在那个有点虚构感的“武林大会”场景中，也许是在尝试“走出去”，但镜头却定格在“404 not found”——那也是一种表达。
“尬舞”虽然火，尬舞的人也获得了很多关注，但这种关注同时带来了压力。很多人觉得他们“很低俗”，而他们自己则会问：“为什么快乐的事就低俗？”确实，进入直播领域后，他们开始通过刷礼物获得收入，也就不可避免地出现利益纠纷。你也知道，现在的直播圈有一些“擦边”的内容——当然，那完全不是红毛他们这一批人。但这确实让整个领域变得更复杂。
尬舞的动作又太“出格”，它不符合所谓“高雅”的审美标准，也不在主流的美学体系里。它太狂野了，所以势必会引起争议。我觉得他们内心其实挺委屈的。尤其是当他们被赶出公园——有时刚放歌就被撵走。
有一次我和红毛、还有他的舞伴“大雪”一起去公园。那儿原本有很多人围着看别人跳交谊舞，曲子节奏很快，我也不知道叫什么。红毛和大雪站在旁边，也想跳。结果当他们一开始跳的时候，人群立刻转过来围着他们看，跳交谊舞的人反而被冷落，只能把音乐关掉。
这就说明，“尬舞”从来不缺关注度。很多人都渴望被看见——而“尬舞”天然地吸引目光，也因此不可避免地和别的群体形成“关注度的竞争”。

Q： 比如在80年代，霹雳舞一度流行，也成了利用流行文化赚钱的方式。田壮壮在《摇滚青年》（Rock Kids）里就拍过那种现象。你们的电影似乎也没有回避“尬舞”和赚钱之间的关系。

TYH： 对，我们没有回避这个问题。因为那是他们生活里非常真实的一部分。我们其实没想太多——普通人有各种欲望：想跳舞是一种欲望，想成名是一种，想赚钱也是一种。我觉得这都特别正常。
红毛某种程度上是一个“领袖”式人物——他原本就是个老板型的人，所以在片中，他看上去也有点像团队的“经理”。但真正的冲突其实在他和底下的队员之间：孩子们追求的是快乐，而成年人需要养家糊口。
我们在郑州拍摄时，有一场戏在桥头取景。拍着拍着，有个粉丝突然跑过来，对红毛喊：“我是你的粉丝！红毛皇帝！”那一刻我能感觉到红毛特别开心。我们都是“无名之辈”，但如果生活里有那么一刻让你觉得自己被看见、觉得快乐——那为什么不呢？

Q： 电影最后有一个我特别喜欢的镜头。红毛戴着一副很大的墨镜，镜片里倒映出拍摄者，好像在制造一种互动的感觉。那一幕让我觉得导演和被拍摄者之间的关系特别平等。

TYH： 我也挺喜欢那一幕。其实我不太想用特别“虚”的语言去阐释它——就像现实与幻想之间的界限，在我们的片子里本来就模糊。比如有一个我特别喜欢的镜头：两个人刚谈恋爱，背景中出现一个巨大的月亮。这其实是后期加的，但我依然会把它定义为“纯现实主义”。
因为生活本身就是这样——它会突然冒出一些奇怪的、超现实的瞬间。比如两个人在走路，突然有个演员从胳肢窝下面钻出来（笑）。生活里充满这种不按常理出牌的小奇迹，只是我们平时忽略了它们。对我来说，那些地方最浪漫，也让我觉得生活像一个巨大的游乐场。
我还想特别提一下那个流浪汉的角色。我非常喜欢他。我们去郑州红毛家那边调研时，在火车站西广场看到他在尬舞。后来我们纪录片里也保留了这个人物，甚至海报上也出现了他——戴着一顶旧军帽。
他平时几乎不和人说话，只是在那儿跳舞、笑。后来我们去了他住的地方——火车站广场地下三层的一个开放式地下室。红毛现实中经常去看他。那流浪汉平时沉默，但只要地面上传来红毛音箱轰隆隆的声音，他就像被召唤的灵魂一样，从地下浮现出来开始跳舞。在我心里，他就是“跳舞之神”。

Q： 影片里有很多角色，故事也很热闹，甚至有种像“打仗”的感觉——让我联想到中国古典小说，比如《水浒传》，人物众多、情节繁复。你们为什么会设计成这样？

TYH： 对，其实我们最早就有这个想法。比如我们曾写过“尬舞三国”，歌词里就用了一种非常中国式的表达形式——“喊麦”。“喊麦”是起源于中国东北的一种民间唱腔，带有很强的节奏感和口语性。
我们最初的剧本其实是分章节写的，每一段都有标题，就像一首首“喊麦诗”。里面的歌词都是我写的。我甚至可以当场“喊”给你听（笑）。其实我们有一版喊麦是我自己录的，但我喊得太差，最后请了一个真正的喊麦大哥来配音。他现在是个rapper，还特地嘱咐我不要提他的真名。
我在鹿特丹时写了几句：“老铁送我穿云箭，千军万马来相见，一月荷兰鹿特丹，欢迎你来gagaland。”——“穿云箭”是快手直播里最贵的礼物，所以这句话也带着一点网络文化的玩笑意味。它对我来说是一种感谢：代表剧组的所有“老铁”们给了我很多爱，才把我“送”到了这里。
还有“祝酒歌”那一段，我们用了一个带有民族风格的旋律，后半段甚至改编了莫扎特的一首曲子，变成山歌的调式。我们的音乐老师为此付出了巨大的努力。平遥版的时候，那一段其实没有歌词，大家看着像一个MV。我当时特别苦恼，不知道怎么处理。后来我突然想——既然大家都觉得它像MV，那我就干脆让它成为一个MV。为什么电影不能有MV呢？于是就成了现在这个样子。

Q： 片中有一句自嘲——“给你五毛钱做个特效”。你用了很多网络视觉和“快手美学”的元素，看起来既地道又复杂。这些特效做起来是不是很花精力？

TYH： 真正麻烦的不是技术，而是思考——到底“差点什么”。比如“鬼畜”（Kichiku）那种剪辑方式，技术上其实挺复杂的。我们一开始也试过，但后来放弃了，因为鬼畜必须先有一首歌，再按节奏做素材，挺难的。
我很幸运遇到一个优秀的动画团队，他们原本做当代艺术，所以特别能理解我们要的感觉。很多时候我只要一说，他们就明白。也有一些段落真的挺难，比如那场“天上掉人头”的戏，画起来就很费劲。还有肯尼迪和黑人小孩走路的那一幕——那是我们一帧一帧抠出来的，特别耗时间。

Q： 有些视觉效果在手机视频里反而更自然，但转化为电影语言就更难。你为什么还是要坚持把这些东西变成电影，而不是直接做成短视频？

TYH： 我其实没想那么多。对我来说，这些影像语言是我成长环境的一部分——特别自然。我后来在给美术馆做作品时，也用了很多直播的画面。对我来说，这已经是我们这个时代的一种“常态”。也许是因为我生在这个时代，这个年龄段，我的电影就自然呈现出一种“综合产物”的形态。但为什么我还是要拍成电影？因为我想为“老铁们”拍一部电影。短视频当然有它的魅力，甚至比我们做得更厉害。但我希望能用电影的方式记录他们，用电影这种“更长、更深”的单位去表达。
MJ： 是的，说实话，我们俩都是“重度短视频用户”。我特别爱刷B站，语涵也老看各种短视频。但我们同时又是“电影原教旨主义者”——非常热爱电影，看很多艺术片。
但我觉得这两者并不矛盾。我的身份首先是一个filmmaker，所以我当然要拍一部film。只是短视频带来了一种新的影像语言，它是一种新的“影像单位”。影像语言一直在进化，电影本身就是由影像语言组合成的另一种单位。
对我来说，这两者只是不同的单位，但它们使用的“原材料”都是影像。我们只是尝试把当下已经存在的这种语言，吸收到电影中去。以前也有人问过我们：“现在快手都这么厉害了，那电影是不是快死了？”——我觉得不冲突。我觉得不冲突，而且我相信电影是不会死的。很多人都觉得电子书一出来了，self publishing出来了，谁还买纸书，但是有的文化产品我觉得有它存在的一个稳固性在的，书这种媒介几千年来形式在变，但“书”这个概念从未变过。那是一种人类的需求——不是生存所需，但精神上离不开。我觉得电影也是一样。它可能在形式上不断变化，但那种“以影像叙事、以时间构建感受”的需求，不会消失。

During the CinemAsia Film Festival in 2025, filmmaker Truong Minh Quý presented his feature, Việt and Nam, to audiences in Amsterdam. It was an unexpectedly warm early March in the Netherlands when we sat down in the festival office near Studio K to talk about the film, almost one year after its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival in 2024. I had seen the film a few months earlier and rewatched it in preparation for the interview. I was curious how the film would affect me after some time had passed. I must say, it is not a film to be watched in between other screenings at a major film festival. While seeing it at the Busan IFF was a memorable and powerful experience, I felt somewhat sad that I didn’t have enough time to reflect on it as it deserves. However, at a film festival like CinemAsia, which is dedicated to local audiences, there is space to breathe, think, and talk about the film. Truong Minh Quý was a very generous interlocutor. Despite having been interviewed multiple times since the film’s premiere, he avoids repeating the same answers—as if the film is now its own being, with its own history.

Maja Korbecka: Việt and Nam has been traveling the film festival circuit for a year now. How has your attitude toward the film—or your understanding of it—evolved over this time?

Truong Minh Quý (TMQ): I think there have been many changes. The film started its journey in May last year in Cannes, and just before that it was banned in Vietnam—which, to be honest, I don’t think should overshadow the conversation around the film. But I also can’t avoid it, because it has become something people immediately associate with it.

At every festival, the film is introduced as “banned in Vietnam.” Audiences always ask about it—why it was banned, how it was banned. So I can’t escape that; it’s become part of the film’s history. The beginning of this journey was emotionally overwhelming, because everything happened all at once.

But now, after all the festivals and the release, I think I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned to accept different opinions about the film. And I’ve also learned how to look at the film in a more innocent, fresh way—almost as if I were back at the beginning, before it was even shot.

What sort of feedback have you received from audiences that surprised you?

TMQ: This film occupies a strange position. For me, one of the main reasons for making it was to let go of the dominant narrative of Vietnam. I think both audiences inside and outside Vietnam already have a set image when they think of Vietnam—usually war and landscapes.

For me, filmmaking is a spiritual process. There’s this enigma I’ve always felt I had to solve—the enigma of “Vietnam” as a narrative. As a filmmaker, how do I deal with that? How do I work with this narrative, which is so ingrained in the history of cinema and art, while also responding to it?

At the same time, I wanted this film to be about releasing that burden—the burden of history. That’s why, in the film, you see a directness in many aspects: in the way it approaches the war—or rather, the wars—because there are many, and they’re often unnamed (in the film). I wanted the audience to be free to connect each scene with whatever war or wars they wanted.

This directness also applies to the love story in the film, and to how the characters express emotion. There’s something very lyrical and transparent about it.

Even the title—Việt and Nam—is a way of calling something by its name, of facing it directly, and then letting it go. For me, the film is quite open emotionally, and it’s really about a spiritual journey—trying to solve a spiritual question.

But what surprised me is how differently audiences reacted. The Vietnamese authorities banned the film because of the English-language title – “Việt and Nam.” That was unexpected. They saw the title as offensive. Overseas Vietnamese audiences, on the other hand, have very different political backgrounds. So for some of them, the title made them think the film was a propaganda piece, and some refused to watch it.

So the film is just there, standing independently in the sunlight, so to speak—and it’s fragile. People project onto it depending on their political and historical backgrounds. Each person sees it through their own lens. I’ve also received feedback from overseas Vietnamese, especially in France, who told me the film made them feel homesick. Some haven’t returned since the 1970s, and they told me it made them want to go back.

But of course, I’ve also had some not-so-positive responses, especially from Vietnamese audiences who are politically motivated in a different way. What I’ve learned is that I now need to maintain some distance from the feedback.

Some people see me as a kind of messenger or representative of Vietnamese cinema or history. But I’m not comfortable with that. It’s not a position I ever wanted. I’m just a filmmaker. I decided to tell this story in this way, at this moment. And in the future, I’ll move on.

MK: I heard you’re working on a new film. What is it about?

TQM: It’s a documentary I started shooting more than two years ago, before Việt and Nam. I’m co-directing it with Nicolas Graux, my partner, who’s also a filmmaker. It’s a documentary in the form of a home-movie film. Something like what Jonas Mekas did.

We shot it with vintage Bolex cameras on Super 16mm. The technical nature of this camera really shaped the film. The frame rate is unstable, very fleeting. Each rolling lasts a maximum of about 30 seconds, and it’s hand-rewinded so everything is manual. That constraint created the style of the film.

MK: So each scene can only last about 30 seconds before you have to stop and reload?

TMQ: Yes, exactly. We have to stop, wind it up again. That’s how it works.

MK: Will it be a full-length feature?

TMQ: It’s around 70 minutes now. I think that’s a good duration—not too long. We’re in the final stage of editing.

MK: I’m really looking forward to seeing it. It sounds lovely. What’s it about?

TMQ: It’s mostly about how we see the beauty of life—flowers, children playing.

MK: Did you shoot it in Brussels?

TMQ: No, in Vietnam.

MK: Can you still shoot films in Vietnam? Could you make another film with new footage there?

TMQ: I have to be more cautious than before. I think my name is now known infamously. I never wanted to be visible to the system, but it happened.

That said, we’re independent filmmakers, so we know how to work around these things. For example, I don’t have to have my name on the official paperwork for the shoot. Or I could use a pseudonym. And often we just say we’re making a documentary—authorities tend to think documentaries are harmless, so they don’t pay attention.

MK: For me, it was mind-blowing because it reminded me of Yellow Earth and what it did to the global image of Chinese cinema.

TMQ: I like Chen Kaige’s films more than Zhang Yimou’s or the others. There’s this darkness in them, you know—something wise but also something corrupt in the characters. His films are heavy. I like that—they’re not just beautiful like Zhang Yimou’s. Maybe I should have called the film “Blood Earth” (haha).

MK: I think “Việt and Nam” is perfect because it evokes the division between the South and the North.

TMQ: For me it is not a division as such. It’s like, I keep using this metaphor—when we stand in front of a mirror, we see the reflection of our face in the mirror, there are two faces but they are one at the same time. So Việt and Nam, for me, are like a mirror. It’s not something to connect or separate—it just reflects.

MK: One of the things that really grabbed my attention in the film was the idea of colonialism—or rather, what contemporary colonialism means. Choosing to go to another country as if that’s the only good way out of poverty. I was wondering how you see the connection between the film and colonialism?

TMQ: I think the film definitely has a strong historical foundation. It all goes back to war, and to how we perceive different wars in relation to what’s happening in the film.

But at the same time, I wanted everything to be abstract. Even the destination of the characters—the country they want to go to—it’s never named in the film. Same as the characters’ own names. We don’t really know who they are.

Because when we talk about immigration, if we only rely on what we read in newspapers or in interviews with real people who immigrated and returned, then yes—we hear that the main motivation is to earn money to send home. But not all of these people are poor. Some come from average families, even well-off ones.

So the motivation to leave is not just economic. There’s something deeper. Maybe historical. And the film tries to make that connection. I think the audience can make those connections—or not. But in the film, I never answer the question “why.” Why do they want to go?

Because I think, first of all, we shouldn’t have to justify why we want to go somewhere else. But also, due to economic and political reasons, for some countries it’s incredibly hard to travel. Even just to travel requires huge preparation—sometimes half a year in advance. And in this case, it’s not just travelling. It’s gambling with your life.

So the film doesn’t answer the “why.” That question is too vast. And for me, not the most important. What matters more is how to create interconnections between migration, history, and memory. So the character lives in between. He carries the history of his family, who have a direct link to war, and now he himself is migrating.

Also, I think this film contains many wars—not just the American war in Vietnam, which is the most obvious one, because of how Hollywood shaped our collective knowledge. Whenever we talk about the war in Vietnam, people immediately think of American movies.

This film makes references to that, even visually in some scenes. But it also references the Vietnamese propaganda war films. It uses cinematic language to refer to different cinematic and historical backgrounds.

And the film also implies other wars—not directly, but they’re there. Like the war between Vietnam and the Khmer Rouge. There are many scenes that imply different historical moments. Always unnamed, but present.

MK: When I was watching it, what really struck me was how you use the color black. It’s a very subjective impression, of course, but when I was in Vietnam and visited temples, I remember them being very, very black—especially compared to temples in Taiwan or China. I was wondering about your use of black. I mean, obviously, there’s the association with coal mining, but beyond that, blackness seems to create a very strong character for the film itself. What does it mean to you?

TMQ: I think it’s very important. First of all, for the audience to be immersed in such darkness is quite unusual—and maybe even uncomfortable. Some people might feel it’s too dark.

But for me, it’s essential. First, of course, it’s the environment. Coal miners work every day underground. If you actually go into a coal mine, you’re completely immersed in darkness and silence. It’s like being stuck in a sound recording studio —but without light. What you see is only what’s within the small lit zone of the tunnel.

You feel very suffocated. It’s a completely different world. But because of that limitation, there are certain forms of beauty that you can’t see when it’s too bright—like the floating coal dust, the way it sparkles.

So in this film, I use darkness, of course, as something metaphorical—as a way of giving space for imagination. In the darkness, the audience can imagine more. They can picture the two lovers floating in a starry night, for example.

But the darkness is also historical. It’s the darkness of unsolved questions, of memory. There are many questions in the film that are never answered. And I think darkness can carry a kind of weight—a heaviness that is important to feel through watching.

And of course, when we talk about film, we also have to consider practicality. Artistic choices must align with the reality of making a film within budget. In that sense, darkness is very practical. You don’t have to show everything.

MK: I can imagine that it must have been very difficult to shoot with that kind of lighting.

TMQ: Yes, but it had to be like that. Otherwise… Well, if this was a Hollywood film, we would see everything—even inside the coal mine.

But here, I took inspiration from the real environment of underground coal mines. And that inspiration also helped us with the budget, because we only needed to light what the audience needs to see. Some scenes were shot in a studio, and we only lit specific areas. Other scenes were filmed in a real cave, which we transformed into a coal mine.

If we followed the Hollywood style of lighting, we would have had to construct everything from scratch. And the result wouldn’t be right for me, because when people see that kind of lighting, they know it’s a movie. But when people watch this film, the first thing they feel is that it’s suffocating, it’s dark—like being in a black hole.

That layering between darkness and light also creates something dreamlike. Though that wasn’t my intention, some people ask me, “Was it a dream?” Like in the opening scene, where the boy retells his story. But for me, everything is real. And I think reality already contains that dream-like quality. It can happen by accident, through editing or even just through atmosphere—it becomes obvious.

MK: I also noticed that the film is a huge co-production. Was it difficult to communicate with all the producers and maintain your vision? Did anyone try to interfere?

TMQ: Luckily, I didn’t encounter any conflict between the producers and my choices as director. I think I was fortunate. I was also lucky to work with a crew of about 50–60 people for 45 days.

From the outside, it looks like a massive production—eight or nine countries involved. But actually, this is pretty standard for independent films from Vietnam or similar countries where there’s no national film funding. So we had to piece by piece find money from different countries. Some gave very small amounts, some a bit more—and each one wanted us to spend their portion of the budget in their own country, in one way or another.

That’s a whole separate issue. This model of international co-production is helpful, of course, but it also comes with problems. For example, this film—if it were made in France, with the same scale and length—it would be impossible to make it with the same budget. It would cost three times as much, but with half the shooting days.

So when people watch this film and see that it’s shot on Super 16mm, with 45 shooting days, and multiple locations all over Vietnam, they might assume it had a huge budget. But no. It was only possible because we shot it in Vietnam (with the understanding and support of the crew, too). So there’s also a question of fairness in the global economy of filmmaking. I don’t have an answer to that.

MK: During the shoot, did you change the script in any way? Or was it exactly as it was written?

TMQ: I had a script before the shoot, of course. But I made many changes during location scouting and casting. Not so much during the shoot, but in pre-production.

For example, the older man who plays the veteran—he’s a real veteran. He shared his own memories with us. That changed the confession scene. So the final version is different from what was written.

And when I found the right locations, the characters’ actions had to change accordingly. Small things. But important.

MK: Maybe this is too personal, but—what do your parents think about the film?

TMQ: They haven’t seen it yet. I haven’t had the chance to show them in the right setting. They don’t live in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), where I organized private screenings for friends.

But at the beginning, when some news came out saying the film was banned, my mother asked me, “Is your film anti-state?” I told her, “No, it’s not. Don’t believe what you read in the media. They haven’t seen the film.”

MK: I hope you’ll get a chance to show it to them properly.

TMQ: Of course I could show it to them on my computer, but I don’t want to. It’s a totally different experience.

MK: I first saw it in a cinema in Busan, and then again recently on my laptop—and it’s just not the same.

TMQ: Exactly. I think it’s very important for a film like that, even if it’s just in a small screening room. My parents could sit down in the dark with others. If they just watch it on a laptop, they won’t focus. They’ll laugh or ask me questions in the middle. But if they’re in a cinema—maybe they can see others praising their son and then they’ll think, “Okay. Maybe this film isn’t bad. Someone liked it.”