Ghost Writer is a film that easily catches attention. Even in BISFF’s abudant program spanning almost 300 short films not lacking in experimentation, avant-garde, and exploration of visual media, it’s a very different piece. This seemingly cost-free film uses Google Maps street View images and first-person voice-over to tell a simple, mysterious story. Perhaps because of its simplicity, or perhaps because of its delicate balance between form and narrative, I couldn’t help but want to explore it further. In this film, I see the gesture of director Abe Callard as a young film auteur. Curious about how Abe came to this unique gesture in a series of choices, I interviewed him at the Goethe-Institut, 798 during the BISFF after party, to learn about the story and choices behind Ghost Writer. We finished our interview in the corner of the Goethe-Institut with the music of the dinner party and the sound of conversation everywhere. The interview was very smooth and enjoyable, perhaps because we “got to know” Abe in advance in the gesture of the film. We had similar perspectives on many issues, and Abe also provided many interesting and special insight.
Ghost Writer (2024, dir. Abe Callard)
Q: Have you ever been to Grand Marais, the town in your film?
Q: Was the story inspired entirely by the town, by the Grand Marais, or was it influenced by other things like real life, experience or other works of art or literature?
A: No. I think I just stared at the town until the story came to me.
A: I think I’m more influenced by novels than by films. Maybe like Murakami, the Japanese writer. I’m a big fan of his, and this kind of story where it’s like a boy and a girl meeting randomly and having this strange connection, and it’s kind of haunted and mysterious. It’s probably influenced by him. But I don’t think I’m very influenced by other movies. I don’t watch a lot of movies.
Q: Do you think the film needs a story? Or do you think a story needs a film to show it? Or how you think about the relation between film language and storytelling？
A: I think story comes first. I think a story can really be told in any way and I never start with a technique or a certain type of image or anything like that. I always care most about the characters and the story. And then I think I just let the story determine the image.
Q: So why you choose film but not other forms?
A: I have done storytelling in other forms. I’ve written books. And I’ve done plays and stuffs. I love every form. I want to make a video game.
Q: Why did you choose to shoot this film entirely with Google Maps?
A: Because I think that the images on Google Maps are not that different from my actual filming style. The way that the world looks in Google Maps, just like this kind of stable you might say wide shots of places, it’s kind of like how I would shoot a movie anyways. So it looks like how I imagine the world to look like.
Q: What role does the mouse cursor play in your short film?
A: It’s like that’s like the only representation of the protagonist. So you don’t see his body but you see that.
Q: How do you think of the relation or distance between you as a director, and the protagonist or the narrator in your short film? Because you use the first point of view and your own voice in the voice-over.
A: Let me think about that… I think I did write the protagonist in my own voice not just in the sense that I was speaking it, but in the sense that I wrote what I would say in that situation. Because I want the protagonist to feel neutral. I don’t want him to feel like a very strong character. I think the girl is the strong character to me, and the protagonist is like a blank canvas. So I just wrote him to have, in my view, the most average responses so that in a way there is no character. The audience member becomes the protagonist.
Q: I found the voice-over of the main character being you yourself. How do you consider the tone and rhythm of the voice-over？
A: When I’m directing actors, I always tell them act as little as possible, don’t give any emotion, just say the words on the page. So it was really nice when I was reading my own lines because I could do it exactly how I wanted which is monotone. I just try to read it like an AI voice reader.
Q: Can we say this is kind of minimalism?
A: Yeah. I think so.
Q: So how do the images and sounds work together in the film? I think the images are very minimalist, with no real characters appearing, yet the narration is very detailed—it describes perceptions of the environment, associations with the scenery, and even aspects of the body. How do you deal with that?
A: Every movie is like give-and-take where you want to give some things to the audience and take some things away. So I had to decide, for example, do I want to put in natural noises? Or do I want to just put silence and voice-over? And I thought if it’s just silent, it’s like I’m taking too much away and then the viewer is not immersed in the world shown in the film. Then that’s why I decided to include noises and music. I usually don’t put music into films. But I felt like in this case, because you’re just looking at a still photograph, if there’s no music it would be too desolate. So there needs to be some warmth. And also because the main character is so flat and effortless, I feel like I need to put in that music to give the sense of spirit. But the image is giving almost nothing.
Q: You mentioned the soundscape and the music, but also your writing is full of details. Why you choose this way? Sometimes you give a portrayal of the narrator’s inner world and sometimes you go into the description of the environment.
Q: I noticed that in the lines spoken by the female character you use a girl’s voice. But the other characters, they don’t have their own voice, instead you use your own voice to speak for them. So why you choose this way?
A: Because she stands apart from the world, from everybody else. And she’s an outsider even in her own town.
Q: Do you have a unique language for this film? Because you use Google Maps and I notice that you use close ups to some parts of the space and then zoom out to the whole environment.
A: I think I try to make the film as close as possible to how I see the world. A filmmaker who edits a lot and has a handheld camera and many different angles sees the world in that way. They see it in this kind of chaotic, exciting, vibrant way. And I think the way I see the world is like just a still image. Sometimes I notice a detail and it’s like zooming in on it. So that’s what I’m trying to depict.
Q: I noticed sometimes the camera goes to the sky and zooms in.
A: Just because I like to look at the sky.
Ghost Writer (2024, dir. Abe Callard)
Q: Why you keep the watermark of Google Maps?
A: Because I don’t know how to remove it.
Q: I think it’s kind of beautiful in the sky, like some stars.
A: I like it in the sky. Yeah, it does look like stars. But it was not an intentional choice. The thing is there are some people, when they watch my movie, they think it’s about digital images. Maybe it is. But I didn’t think about that when I was making it. I’m just interested in the story and the place. I thought this is the best way to express it through those images partially because they don’t have any people in them. And I like that. But I’m not trying to say anything about maps or anything like that. I don’t know.
Q: Did you adjust the light or the color of the scene during your post production?
A: No I didn’t. I thought about doing it. Because the black in the film is not very black. It’s very light. But when I color-corrected it, it just didn’t have the same magic as when I originally discovered the images. Because the first thing I discovered was the image of the lakeside, outside his hotel at night where the main character meets the girl for the first time. And I was so struck by that image because you never really see night images on Google Maps, they don’t take them at night. So that was like a rare instance, and then I started to explore the town, and the whole town was depicted at night. It had this very rich warm color. I don’t know what kind of camera was used to take it, but it’s very beautiful to me. When I dropped the black down to something darker, it took away those details.
Q: Did you ever think of including some people in your images? I noticed that there are some people in the Google Maps without face, with mosaics on their faces.
A: That’s just because Google blurs them out. I didn’t blur them out. It would be a little creepy if there were no people. But I didn’t want to show the characters because I felt like when you’re talking to somebody in real life, you don’t actually look at their face very much. Like I’m talking to you right now, but I might be looking at another thing. Maybe the best way to represent a conversation is just looking up at the sky or something like that.
Q: My last question is the one that you once asked another director[2], and now I want to ask you. This world around us, and the world in your film, which one do you think is more real?
A: The world in my film.
[1] (The following words reveal the plot) The protagonist of the film comes to the wrong place: there are two Grand Marais towns in the United States, and the punk singer’s hometown is in Michigan, but the protagonist comes to the Grand Marais in Minnesota. So the one Abe wanted to visit is Grand Marais, Minnesota, as shown in the Google Maps image in this film.
[2] During the post-screening sharing of the 3rd section of International competition at UCCA, Abe asked Eneos Carka, one of the directors of I Accidentally Stepped on a Flower (which digitally modeled an abandoned stadium after scanning it, then used more than a million point clouds to redraw it), the same question, and the latter replied “Both”.
Abe Callard’s Ghost Writer is a short film made completely using Google Maps Street View mode. We can see a dialectic between the “new” and the “old”, between its form and story, and then see the young director Abe’s gesture as an auteur in the era of new media.
Ghost Writer (2024, dir. Abe Callard)
There is no lack of new faces at the 8th Beijing International Short Film Festival (BISFF) in 2024, and Abe Callard is one of them. His short film Ghost Writer had its world premiere in the international competition. At only 20 years old and still pursuing a philosophy degree at the University of California, San Diego (UCSD), Abe is, in fact, far from inexperienced. His feature film Early Riser, completed in 2024, was included in Dan Sallitt’s list of the ten best films of the year. This young filmmaker possesses a rare and striking maturity, observing the world with an incomparable calm and steady gaze. During the BISFF screenings, Abe could always be found sitting silently in the back right of the UCCA exhibition hall, watching almost all the films shown at the festival with a quiet and composed demeanor.
His short film Ghost Writer gives a similar impression. Using images entirely from Google Maps Street View and a first-person voice-over, the film tells a simple yet mysterious story. The protagonist is a ghostwriter who arrives in the town of Grand Marais on a mission to write the autobiography of a legendary rock musician, Lars Benson. After three days of investigation, the protagonist becomes disheartened, as there seems to be no trace of Lars Benson’s existence in the town.
To some extent, the film establishes a dialectic between the “new” and the “old.” Formally, it belongs to the era of new media, yet it connects to classical cinema through its noir narrative structure. The Google Maps Street View imagery introduces the visual language of the digital interactive interface, whose basic grammar differs greatly from the audiovisual construction of traditional films. Yet the film does not abandon narrative; on the contrary, its storytelling possesses a marked literariness. The first-person narration makes the experience of watching the film akin to reading a twentieth-century American short story, easily evoking the works of Raymond Carver or Paul Auster. They share an existential anxiety and a coolly detached narrative style that bridges the gap between film and literature.
Ghost Writer (2024, dir. Abe Callard)
This dialectic of the “new” and the “old” can also be understood as a dialectic between two kinds of perceptual experience shaped by Abe as the creator. First, the ghost writer in the story, a flâneur as defined by Baudelaire and Benjamin, constantly wanders through the strange, deserted town. As an ideal spectator and observer, he watches the world while remaining detached from it. Abe’s story is narrated in the first person. From his perspective, the town appears haunted, yet the people and things he encounters in fact become mirrors of his own subjectivity.
The second kind of perceptual experience arises from the film’s form. The Google Maps imagery constructs not only the vision and body of the ghost writer, but also that of a “data cowboy” traversing cyberspace—the image of a user navigating a digital virtual space. When the mouse cursor drags and rotates the viewpoint, when the sky or a building is magnified on the screen by zooming in, we are not only within the body of the ghost writer; we can also faintly sense Abe’s presence—the body of the filmmaker sitting in front of a computer, operating the mouse, remotely traveling through Google Maps’ Street View mode, freely exploring. And it is through this pure, unbounded exploration that the story naturally comes into being.
No matter the degree of self-awareness the creator possesses, this is undeniably a film that belongs to the new media era and speaks in the language of new media. The interactive interface and the act of roaming through cyberspace have become integral to the cultural cognition of both producers and consumers today. Moreover, on a practical level, the footage acquired through the use of new media offers an affordable mode of film production, especially for low-budget independent filmmakers.
Although Abe repeatedly emphasized the primacy of story over form in post-screening discussions, he nevertheless reveals the sensibility of an auteur of the new media era through his work. On the surface, Ghost Writer and Abe’s feature film Early Riser appear entirely different—in other words, they differ in the visual style—but one can still clearly sense the same auteurist attitude. Stéphane Delorme describes this kind of choice—one that transcends questions of form—as the auteur’s gesture (le geste), meaning a relationship with the world and a distinct perspective.
Abe’s gesture is full of secrets. In his films, each character, to varying degrees, refuses to open themselves to the camera or the audience, including the protagonist. Even among the characters, communication is often withheld; they choose solitude instead. When dialogue does occur, the image occasionally shifts toward irrelevant subjects—such as the sky—suggesting a drift in the characters’ gaze or attention. Is this emphasis on intersubjectivity part of Abe’s gesture as a creator? Gesture, like writing, is a choice—a “general choice of style, temperament, etc.” (as Roland Barthes explains)—and a responsibility to intervene in the world.
Ghost Writer (2024, dir. Abe Callard)
Gesture is not as easy to articulate in words as in style. It represents an extension of auteur theory into the metaphysical realm. It cannot be directly seen, but it can certainly be perceived. Gesture is the portrait shared by the auteur and his work—a deep signature. Compared to gesture, style is dangerous. We often see certain film auteurs become captives of pretension and gimmickry in their excessive pursuit of style, thereby losing their gesture. Gesture is an ethic—an ethic of form, an ethic of mise en scène.
Abe’s ethic lies in his ability to maintain an appropriate distance from his characters while roaming through space—like the unbridgeable gap between the ghost writer and Lars Benson, or between the two different Grand Marais towns. It is precisely this distance that creates delicate connections among characters, between the characters and the author, and between the characters and the audience. If a young filmmaker can already demonstrate his potential as an auteur at the age of twenty, it is because he has revealed a vibrant, evolving gesture. When we watch his films, we are, in essence, engaging in a dialogue with the auteur and his attitude toward the world.
Not all memories hold you together. Some simply wear you down.
Official poster of “Caught by the Tides” (2024). Used under fair use for commentary purposes.
Caught by the Tides | 風流一代 | Jia Zhangke | China | 2024 | 111 mins | Mandarin
Synopsis
Caught by the Tides follows Qiaoqiao over a span of twenty years, tracing her relationship with Bin, a man she once loved and lost amid China’s rapid modernization. Composed largely of footage shot over the past two decades — including archival material, deleted scenes from earlier Jia Zhangke films, and newly shot segments — the film blends fiction with documentary impulses. It’s less a narrative than a mosaic, chronicling emotional fatigue and cultural flux. What begins as a love story becomes a meditation on time, distance, and dislocation.
Watching a Ghost Reassemble Itself
I watched Caught by the Tides not for the plot, but for the residue. Watching it is like revisiting a version of your life you’ve never lived but somehow remember. Familiar faces (Zhao Tao, of course), familiar settings (a train station, a provincial street, a half-finished building) — but the stitching feels loose, deliberate. It’s a film made of things left behind. And you feel it.
What struck me most wasn’t the melancholy, but the fatigue. Not in the pacing, but in the images themselves. Caught by the Tides isn’t about being swept away. It’s about standing still as time refuses to pause.
Image from “Caught by the Tides” (2024). Used under fair use for commentary purposes.
A Collage That Forgets It’s Being Watched
Much of the film’s footage is lifted from Jia Zhangke’s older projects, unused or re-contextualized. In lesser hands, this could feel indulgent. Here, it oscillates between reverence and repetition. The aesthetics — static compositions, desaturated hues, ambient soundscapes — are familiar. But the effect is unstable.
We aren’t watching a story unfold. We’re watching an archive try to convince us it’s still alive. And occasionally, that illusion holds. Other times, it feels like the film itself is dozing off, slipping into its own past. There’s a kind of courage in that, even if it risks inertia.
Specters of Intimacy
Zhao Tao’s Qiaoqiao doesn’t so much evolve as evaporate. Her body moves through landscapes, but her emotional register remains hazy, fractured. The love story at the center is never really rekindled — it just hovers, like a fog that won’t lift.
Bin, too, isn’t a person so much as a placeholder for lost potential. Their dynamic feels hollow not because it lacks tension, but because it’s built on echoes. The more they meet, the less they seem to recognize each other. The romance here is not rekindled; it’s ritualized.
Image from “Caught by the Tides” (2024). Used under fair use for commentary purposes.
Time as Wound, Not Window
Jia Zhangke is no longer asking what modernization does to people. He’s showing us what remains after the question has exhausted itself. Caught by the Tides isn’t angry, nor elegiac. It’s weary.
The film flirts with emotional depth but rarely commits. Scenes fade before they form. Conversations happen offscreen. What we’re left with is drift: a life assembled from leftovers. There’s power in that, but also stagnation. The film seems aware of both.
The Romance of Running Out of Time
I wanted to love this film more than I did. I still believe Jia Zhangke has a singular eye for dislocation, for the quiet wounds of a country chasing itself. But here, I saw less of that urgency.
Instead, I saw a filmmaker revisiting his ghosts — not to exorcise them, but to gently remind us they never really left. Caught by the Tides is not a return to form. It’s a soft retreat.
From October 17 to 26, 2025, the Women Make Waves International Film Festival (WMWIFF) celebrates its 32nd edition, presenting a diverse selection of films in the programme shaped by strong curatorial concepts. This year’s thematic sections include Sci-fi Reimagined: The Body as an Alien World, Seeing in the Dark (addressing social issues), The Way Things Go: Notes on Existence (exploring personal experience), Distilled Landscape (looking at history through the lens of landscape), Queering Voices, as well as two short film programs—Unruly Desires (XPOSED) and Cinemini. The festival will also feature a documentary retrospective section titled Special Screening: Salute to Trailblazers!, dedicated to the history of women in cinema, along with a retrospective of Chantal Akerman.
Since attending several screenings at the Women Make Waves in Taipei in 2017, I have continued to follow its curatorial direction with great interest. The festival’s programming has consistently been impressive—its team maintains a delicate balance between experimentation, openness, and intersectionality, holding firm to its principles while avoiding elitism. Women Make Waves is also among the few festivals that have managed to achieve a thoughtful form of commercialization, maintaining coherence between its brand image and core values. Its spirit extends beyond the films and audience engagement to include practical festival merchandise that embodies the festival’s philosophy.
In addition, WMWIFF continues to advance the documentation and re-examination of women’s filmmaking and the history of Taiwan’s feminist movement, furthering these discussions through book publications. As a festival with a strong sense of social awareness and responsibility, WMWIFF does not participate in the prestige competition of the festival circuit; rather, it remains steadfastly committed to its own goals and mission—premieres have never been its sole measure of success.
I first met Chen Huei-Yin, the festival’s chief curator, in Taipei in 2022, when she invited me to visit the festival office, which also serves as an archive. Over the past three years, Chen has frequently travelled in search of films suitable for the festival, and we have crossed paths many times at different film festivals and in various cities. This interview emerged naturally from our ongoing conversations. In it, Chen reflects on the founding of Women Make Waves IFF, the transformations it has undergone, and how every step of its development has remained closely intertwined with the social dynamics of Taiwan.
Maja Korbecka (MK): How did the Women Make Waves International Film Festival begin?
Chen Huei-Yin (CHY): Our festival was founded in 1993, closely tied to the social atmosphere in Taiwan at the time. The country had just lifted martial law, and movements concerning gender and minority rights were gaining momentum. The key figure behind the festival’s founding was filmmaker Huang Yu-Shan (黄玉珊), who then ran a film production studio called Black & White Studio (黑白屋電影工作室). The studio not only produced films but also participated in organizing a variety of cultural events and festivals.
The creation of the festival can be traced back to the collaboration between Huang Yu-Shan, a group of activists and scholars (including Li Yuan-Zhen [李元貞], Wang Ping [王蘋], Chang Hsiao-Hung [張小虹], and Ting Nai-Fei [丁乃非]), and the women’s organization Awakening Foundation (婦女新知). The first edition took place at the Hoke Art Gallery in Taipei (台北霍克藝術會館), and this choice of a non-cinematic venue reflected the experimental nature of the festival’s early days. In addition to film screenings, the event included forums, photography and painting exhibitions, and other hybrid formats. The second edition was held at the Crown Theater on Guling Street, an experimental performance space. Starting from the third edition, the festival collaborated with the Dimen Art Education Foundation and was held at the Dimen Art Center—still outside a traditional theater setting. From the fourth edition onward, the festival became more stable and was hosted for three consecutive years at the audio-visual room of Eslite Bookstore’s Dunnan branch.
It wasn’t until the year 2000 that the festival formally entered the cinema space, expanding its scale and beginning to use 35mm film projection. In the early years, the festival had a kind of guerrilla character—films were screened in non-theatrical spaces, often with audiences gathered before a simple projection screen. Once it moved into theaters, the festival gradually came to be recognized as an official film festival and began to acquire more commercial characteristics.
MK: So in the beginning, did the festival screen films on VHS or 16mm?
CHY: In the early years, we mainly used home video formats such as VHS. This only changed after the festival entered theaters, when we gradually transitioned to professional formats like Betacam and 35mm. The early editions were deeply intertwined with the broader social atmosphere of the time. “Women Make Waves” was one of the earliest film festivals to emerge in Taiwan—before our founding, the only existing festival was the Golden Horse Film Festival. We were also the first issue-oriented festival in Taiwan to focus specifically on gender.
Two years before our establishment, in 1991, the Golden Horse Film Festival had already begun to pay attention to women directors, presenting a special program of works by renowned filmmakers such as Chantal Akerman and Agnès Varda. These programs, titled Special Focus on Women Directors, reflected a growing social awareness of women’s filmmaking.
This trend wasn’t limited to the film world. Other major art institutions also began organizing group exhibitions of women artists, signalling a rise in gender consciousness in early 1990s Taiwan. Therefore, the birth of our festival was by no means coincidental—it was a product of that social climate, providing a platform devoted to women filmmakers.
MK: There didn’t seem to be many women filmmakers during Taiwan’s New Wave of the 1980s, but by the 1990s, filmmakers such as Wang Shaudi and Huang Yu-Shan began to work in the film industry. Does director Huang still participate in the festival today?
CHY: She usually attends whenever she can. Although she has long lived in Tainan, she makes a special effort to come support the festival during its run. She also co-founded the South Taiwan Film Festival, which celebrated its 20th anniversary in 2022. It’s quite remarkable that both festivals have continued to this day.
MK: I’ve recently been reading a lot about Huang Yu-Shan and really loved her 1990 film The Peony Birds (牡丹鳥). It’s a pity that the film isn’t better known internationally. I also noticed that she places great emphasis on using film festivals and education to reshape audiences’ viewing habits and ways of thinking.
CHY: That’s right. One of the defining features of the Women Make Waves is that, from the very beginning, we not only showcased works by women directors but also made special efforts to introduce important international films about women. In its early years, the festival focused on landmark works in gender and feminist cinema, aiming through this curatorial strategy to expose Taiwanese audiences to global discussions of gender representation.
At the time, our team couldn’t travel abroad for film selection, so we relied on Taiwanese friends studying overseas to help choose films locally and recommend them for screening in Taiwan. This combination of global vision and local initiative has been a key characteristic of the Women Make Waves.
MK: Balancing the global and the local seems to be crucial factor in the success of any film festival.
CHY: In its early years, Women Make Waves not only highlighted women directors’ works but also sought to uncover the histories of women in Taiwan. The organizing team, board members, and participants included not only filmmakers but also creators producing works from a female perspective—such as films about Taiwan’s first female painter or first female doctor. By screening these works, the festival re-recorded and re-presented women’s histories through moving images. This approach was not merely about screening existing works but emphasized re-creation and the cinematic reimagining of history.
The festival was founded during a time when Taiwan’s gender movement was rapidly evolving. For instance, in 1994, Taiwan’s first feminist bookstore, Fembooks (女書店), opened in the Gongguan area of Taipei. Around the same time, gender studies programs began to appear in academic institutions, such as the establishment of the first Gender Studies Center at National Central University (中央大學) in the early 1990s. These developments were closely linked to feminist discourse in academia. Professor Josephine Ho (何春蕤), a prominent activist and scholar, was leading the gender movement with her well-known slogan, “I want orgasm, not sexual harassment.” That slogan captures the vibrant and radical spirit of the 1990s feminist wave. In short, the founding of the Women Make Waves can be seen as a natural extension of Taiwan’s gender movement and its broader social context.
MK: Do you follow a fixed format when designing the festival programme?
CHY: Each year, we redesign the program sections according to the main theme rather than keeping a fixed format. The theme usually relates to current social issues or to certain perspectives we wish to explore. Sometimes, it focuses on areas that tend to be overlooked. For example, one year we curated a section about reproduction, which ranged from the choice not to give birth to transgender experiences of reproduction. Through the way we structure our programs, we also ask whether another perspective is possible—whether we can step outside mainstream attention and present the world as it is unfolding.
MK: I’m curious—have you noticed changes in the audience demographics in recent years?
CHY: From my observation, the festival has built up a loyal audience base—people who have a particular interest in women’s and gender issues. At the same time, many of these viewers also attend other film festivals, such as the Golden Horse Film Festival. I’ve noticed an increase in younger audiences, while the proportion of older viewers has somewhat declined. In addition, the number of male audience members has grown significantly compared to the past.
MK: In recent years, a relatively large commercial women’s film festival called “Shanyi” has been established in China. Their programming approach doesn’t restrict directors by gender—they include male directors as long as the films relate to women’s issues. What’s your view on the role of male directors in a women’s film festival?
CHY: In terms of programming, we still primarily showcase works by women or creators who self-identify as women. The goal is to ensure a creative platform for women filmmakers, which has always been one of our festival’s core intentions. However, for sections such as the queer cinema program, we have gradually become more open over the past decade, no longer dividing films by the gender of the director. Similarly, in research-based or thematic retrospectives, the director’s gender is not a limitation—the focus is instead on a gendered reading of cinema. For instance, our 2018 program Women’s Revenge included many exploitation films directed by men.
Women’s film festivals around the world face similar questions: should they focus on women’s issues, on women directors, or on feminism itself? Each festival defines its own position. Our approach is to remain open and expansive in terms of gender, while still maintaining a commitment to feminist perspectives. I believe this flexibility is one of feminism’s most vital characteristics—it allows for greater possibilities in the festival’s future development.
MK: I’ve always felt that one of the biggest challenges for feminism is how to focus on women without treating them as an exception.
CHY: In Taiwan, film festivals dealing with gender issues are often questioned. For instance, people might ask, “Now that Taiwan has legalized same-sex marriage, why do we still need a women’s film festival?” Such questions are quite common. But when you look deeper, you realize that women still rarely occupy leading positions in Taiwan’s film and television industries. Gender awareness may exist, but it hasn’t yet become an everyday social practice. That’s why the Women Make Waves remains so crucial—it foregrounds women’s perspectives and opens up discussions about gender diversity. Ultimately, our goal is to continue expanding the scope of these conversations.
MK: How large is the organizing team?
CHY: We’re generally a small team, operating year-round as a nonprofit association under the name Taiwan Women’s Film Association. The association organizes various regular activities throughout the year. However, from around June or July to November, we enter the festival’s intensive preparation period, during which the workload and pace increase dramatically. Even so, our core team remains relatively small—usually no more than a dozen people—which is considerably fewer than most other film festivals.
Our funding comes from multiple sources: government grants, ticket sales, sponsorships, and other small-scale income streams. Since we operate as an NGO (a non-profit organization), our financial structure is quite different from that of larger festivals.
MK: What about volunteer participation?
CHY: Each year, we recruit between 30 and 50 volunteers. During the festival, the total number involved—including those working in various shifts and departments—can exceed 80 people. Volunteers usually work in the office from noon to evening during the preparation period, and on a shift basis during the festival. They participate in all aspects of festival operations—not only office duties but also tasks like campus outreach and promotional events.
MK: Do you plan to collaborate with Taiwanese streaming platforms like Giloo?
CHY: Yes, we’ve considered collaborations in various forms, such as media partnerships or licensing arrangements. For instance, Giloo might acquire streaming rights to certain films screened at our festival, while we would provide subtitles. This is different from the South Taiwan Film Festival’s 2020 collaboration with Giloo, which converted the festival into a fully online format. For now, we still focus primarily on in-person screenings—including touring programs—because of their time- and place-specific character. We did consider online options during the pandemic, but the costs of online screenings are relatively high.
MK: I’m also intrigued by your festival merchandise—it feels quite distinct from other festivals’. How do you decide which items to make?
CHY: We usually start by brainstorming ideas with our team and interns. While we may have certain concepts in mind, whether we can actually produce them depends on whether a manufacturer is willing to collaborate. Some products come about unexpectedly—for example, a cocktail was a partner’s idea, and we decided to give it a try. On the other hand, there are items we’ve long wanted to make but haven’t been able to due to cost—such as an eternal pen, which we had to postpone. This year, instead of our usual folders, we opted for more practical items like tissue packs. The inspiration came from promotional giveaways commonly used during Taiwanese elections—and, since tissues are always useful in the office, we thought it was a fun and down-to-earth choice.
Festival merchandise in Taiwan is quite distinctive—each year brings new creative products. By contrast, merchandise at foreign festivals tends to follow a fixed pattern.
MK: I think an eternal pen has a deep connection with feminism—it symbolizes women writing their own stories, ensuring they’re not erased or forgotten.
CHY: Exactly. We have to be especially thoughtful in designing our products. We avoid any advertising or design that might objectify women, which is something we pay particular attention to—perhaps more so than many other festivals.
MK: That’s fascinating—the merchandise design not only expresses creativity but also extends the festival’s influence. Which items sell the best?
CHY: The tote bag still sells the best. This year, we’ve received some feedback about it, so we’re considering adjusting or replacing it with other products.
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。
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.
Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly (2008, dir. Edwin)
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.
NEW YORK, NY – APRIL 23: Actor Nicholas Saputra, producer Meske Taurisia and director Edwin of the film ‘Postcards from the Zoo’ visit the Tribeca Film Festival 2012 portrait studio at the Cadillac Tribeca Press Lounge on April 23, 2012 in New York City. (Photo by Larry Busacca/Getty Images)
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.
Postcards from the ZOO (2012, dir. Edwin)
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，充满了社群媒体的美学气质，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。
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。
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”。
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.”
The motion picture is a form of drama—a new and modern drama. Its warm reception among the people of our time lies in the fact that it offers the most economical and flexible means of expression, and that it stands as a beautiful crystallisation of many arts and sciences combined.
Yet, in the end, cinema remains dramatic in nature. Though its methods of expression differ from those of the past, its essence should ever be preserved—the innate dramatic charm that holds man’s enduring interest in life itself.
Cinema is ice cream for the eyes, and an armchair for the soul.
A film is made of a soft material.
II. Chinese Celluloid Turns Hard
Yet such is the case only with the majority of films on the international market.
Once cinema reached China, it, like so many other things, underwent a curious transformation. The soft film, in the hands of our esteemed domestic producers, somehow turned rigid—stiffened as though soaked through with starch.
The result was that audiences, once filled with eager expectation, gradually lapsed into disappointment. Attendance at the theatres, once abundant, began to dwindle, while the producers themselves, quite at a loss, could not fathom why their soft films had all become hard.
Thus one may say that Western films are soft, while Chinese films are hard. Taken in general, this is indeed the case.
III. The Consciousness Debate of the Left
The reasons for the hardening of Chinese films at present are exceedingly complex. In general, the idle film journals of the day are fond of speaking at great length about consciousness (yishi, 意识)—and by that term, they nearly always imply something steeped in the colour of the Left. To be left-leaning is, in their view, to possess “consciousness”; to be right-leaning, or even not left enough, is to produce a film of “distorted consciousness,” and therefore, a bad film.
With this dogma as their rule, they proceed to criticize the films of Europe and America, forcing them, by sheer argument, into a leftist frame. Consequently, every Western film becomes, in their eyes, unworthy of attention because it presents a “distorted consciousness”. When they encounter Western pictures that are artistically superb and immensely successful at the box office, their criticisms take on a familiar tone:
“…A vapid indulgence of the late (or declining) capitalist era…”
“…A low-grade work suited to the petty bourgeoisie (or small-town citizenry) …”
“…A portrayal of the bourgeois ambition to oppress the masses.”
Having swept aside all Western cinema with such phrases, they then hint to Chinese producers that only left-leaning films will suit their taste—otherwise, they will show no mercy in print.
And so, these ignorant producers have at last been violated by this host of so-called “Mr. Consciousness.”
IV. The Subjects of Revolutionary Slogans
There is yet another sort of filmmakers who, unable to find sound material for production and blind to both the spirit of the age and the psychology of the audience, nonetheless assumes the pose of a pioneer of the times. The films they produce appear, on the surface, to be revolutionary, progressive, and full of struggle—grandiose and sensational in every respect. This much can already be discerned from the titles they choose. Yet, if one looks beneath the surface, the substance of these films proves hollow and anemic—forced, shallow, and utterly lacking in vitality.
Such pictures leave the spectator with nothing but the futility of shouted slogans. Indeed, they often drive those who go to the cinema for the enjoyment of art to stay away altogether, lest they be subjected, without reason, to the tedious preaching and propaganda of these so-called “revolutionary films.”
Modern audiences are, after all, more frank and practical. They care for usefulness in all things and have little patience for hypocritical sermons. Having just laid down the burdens of their daily responsibilities, they seek in the cinema a brief respite of pleasure. They do not wish to be confronted again, upon the screen, with unexpected lessons or duties.
Yet our producers, thinking themselves clever, insist upon forcing ideology onto the screen, turning soft film into a medium stiffened with dry and lifeless moralizing. Thus the soft film, soaked and starched into hardness, loses its natural quality—and this, alas, has become the surest way for our domestic cinema to dig its own artistic grave.
V. The Soft Films We Need
What we need in our cinema today is none of the kinds just mentioned, but films that are gentle and transparent—soft films in the truest sense. They should be filled with the original essence that drama has always imparted to life; they should be works of art worthy of appreciation, noble films that bring genuine joy and welcome to the people.
Such films ought to mirror the realities of life itself, allowing audiences to behold the richness and beauty of the world around them, and to awaken, of their own accord, a renewed interest and vitality toward life. This is the highest contribution of the motion picture, and the rightful path for all who devote themselves to the art of film.
Our motto is this:
“A film is made of soft celluloid; therefore, it ought to be soft in spirit.”
— Published in Modern Cinema, Vol. 1, No. 6 (1933)
[1] Huang Jiamo (1916-April 26, 2004) born in Du’an, Guangxi province in Southern China. Screenwriter, film theorist, and scholar. Coming from a family who worked at the renowned Shanghai publishing house West Wind (西風), Huang Jiamo got involved in the intellectual debates in the 1930s when he started publishing a film magazine Modern Film (現代電影) alongside modernist writers Mu Shiying and Liu Na’ou. In 1936, Huang became a screenwriter for the Shanghai Yihua Film Company. In 1944, he graduated from the Department of Political Science of National Central University in wartime-time Chinese capital city, Chongqing. After graduation, he joined the Foreign Affairs Bureau of the Military Commission of the Nationalist Government as a translator. After 1956, he engaged in historical research at the Institute of Modern History of the Academia Sinica. Died in 2004 in Taiwan.
sailuluo 赛璐珞 