Long Essay: Tropical Malady (2004): Reflections on Jungle Politics 20 Years After

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 5: Apichatpong Weerasethakul

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of the films of Apichatpong Weerasethakul. I chose to revisit his film Tropical Malady (2004) which premiered 20 years ago at the Cannes Film Festival.


Cross-published in Desistfilm.


Returning to Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s (hereby referred to as Joe) Tropical Malady (2004) is akin to revisiting the ghostly materiality of jungle politics. For many Southeast Asians, particularly those residing in rural areas, the jungle symbolizes a realm where spirits and humans coexist, often serving as a cherished home. In this essay, I aim to delve into Tropical Malady, exploring the intricate interplay of the spiritual realm within Southeast Asia’s rural landscapes and the politically charged portrayal of the jungle as the region’s revolutionary frontier. Acting as both a mystical sanctuary of spirits and a political battleground, the jungle becomes a site of transformation and upheaval, where the oppressive forces of the State clash with rebels fighting for independence, among other nationalist, neocolonialist, anti-imperialist causes.

Jungle politics becomes a unifying thread across Southeast Asian nations. Tropical Malady occupies a significant position as a cinematic counterpoint in this political discourse. It can now be reexamined beyond its initial context two decades after its debut. Through this revisitation, I aim to reconstruct the ‘jungle’ as a geographical manifestation of radical hope, an intersection of spirituality and dissent.

In Tropical Malady, two narratological movements can be discerned. The first movement involves exaltation, a departure, or a moving-away-from, which constitutes the film’s beginning. Here, the narrative moves from rurality to the global city. The second movement returns to the contested terrain—the jungle— in retrospect (a looking-back) and as a reunion (coming together). By revisiting the jungle, the film suggests a path to absolution. As posited in this essay, this return to the jungle paves a new route to belonging, reinstating radical love to its rightful, contested place.

I. From Forest to the Global City: Exaltations

Keng’s soldier troop taking a photo with a dead man’s body.

The film’s initial movement presents a rhetoric of exaltation between modernity and postmodernity. In the opening scene, a troop of soldiers discovers a deceased body in the field. Intrigued by the body, they proceed to take a photograph of the battalion and the corpse, leaving their intent ambiguous. However, within Southeast Asian discourse, the presence of soldiers in rural areas inherently signifies the state apparatus’ endeavor to surveil and control zones of resistance.

In this scene, the camera’s cinematographic intention is to create a comic effect. Through a sequence of handheld shots, the gathering of soldiers seems to be caught in media res. The soldiers display cheerfulness, laughing amongst themselves, while the face of the deceased is obscured, the body’s buttocks, exposed.

The camera pushes in; Fashion Show’s song titled ‘Straight’ plays on


The camera meticulously captures the process of wrapping the body and preparing it for transport, followed by expansive long shots that portray the vastness of the region. Amidst the tranquil ambiance of yellow grass and earth, momentarily pervaded by peace, the troop’s movement disrupts the pastoral silence. As the troops traverse the plain, the camera advances with an eerie sense of fluidity, accompanied by the upbeat rhythm of Fashion Show’s track ‘Straight.’ The music’s pulsating beat injects a sense of ‘coolness,’ unsettling the film’s narrative by shifting it to contemporary Thailand. This sets the tone and contextualizes the film within the cultural landscape of the 2000s, reinforcing its connection to modernity.

The filmmaker’s cinematographic choice to move the camera forward, employing a push-in technique, reflects modernity’s attempt to disguise reality’s inherent straightforwardness. It’s crucial to observe his aural approach, as it remains significant throughout his body of work. His utilization of music and sound for world-building, for instance, the auditory elements in Memoria (2021) is an attempt to construct an ontological materiality that sutures the entire film. Tropical Malady‘s poetic examination of modernity contrapuntal to rurality stems from this dual expression: the camera’s forward motion and the introduction of extra-diegetic sound—a convergence of advancement (a moving-forward) and inclusion (coming-in), emblematic of modernity’s aestheticization of resistance.

The naked body of a man appears; Fashion Show’s song titled ‘Straight’ plays on

This cinematographic technique of moving forward and coming in is interrupted by a second shot: a long shot that captures a field where the nude man traverses the landscape. Tropical Malady situates its visual politics within these insertions and disruptions, perceiving the globalized world as nonlinear, meaning the contemporary cannot be conveyed as colinear with modernity. The disruptive cut situates the film within the realm of postmodernity—a postmodernity, which is, according to the film, characterized by a bodily and aural apprehension of meaning. The field here demands to be perceived as a space of imminent political embodiment, yet it also complicates the inquiry: what defines bodies in specific locales? Tropical Malady’s opening shot introduces two types of bodies: the deceased body and the spiritual body. This duality renders Joe’s postmodernity as a conflicting realm of ethereal materiality. Moreover, the logic of capitalism aligns with similar assessments and indulgences: does not the global commodity market also solicit the fetishism of bodies, its ethereal materiality as manifest-being, operating on the dichotomy of dead labor and fetishistic phantasm, thereby endowing bodies with a spiritual dimension?

Tong wears a military uniform to increase his chances of employment.

One might be tempted to entertain this speculative interpretation, assuming that Joe’s visual politics align with Thailand’s postmodernity or reflect a symptom of global postmodernity. However, Joe critiques such notions. In another scene, Joe toys with the symbolism of the soldier’s uniform. Through a series of playful juxtapositions, Joe alternates between portraying Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee) as an ice factory worker and Tong as a soldier. This may bewilder the audience, particularly in the context of an art film. Later, Tong explains to Keng (Banlop Lomnoi) that he wears the uniform as a means of seeking employment, thereby expressing his socioeconomic status as a critique of postmodernity. Thailand’s burgeoning integration into the global market, evident in the years following 2004, fuels the relentless pursuit of capital accumulation, leading to a surplus of unemployed individuals—a manifestation of Marx’s concept of the reserve army of labor. Tong’s economic plight epitomizes postmodernity’s paradoxical combination of progression and regression. The film simultaneously articulates and disarticulates the essence of postmodernity, akin to a two-headed hydra.

Among Joe’s films, Tropical Malady stands out as the most overt in its portrayal of postmodern demise. Tong’s lack of education and unemployment, coupled with his manipulation of uniform signs, signal a breakdown in the traditional understanding of military symbolism. This dangerous trend sets a precedent for the potential exploitation of symbols associated with repressive regimes to assert economic control. It appears to foreshadow Thailand’s political trajectory towards military rule a decade later. The notion of using military insignia as a tool for personal empowerment seems absurd yet disturbing, as it elevates self-autonomy to the level of militaristic fetishism. Joe portrays Tong donning military attire as an example of postmodernity’s attempt to sanitize and glamorize violence through aestheticization—a familiar trope in Hollywood’s Marvel cinema, which sanitizes militarism as a form of visual spectacle. This approach, cloaked in the guise of aesthetic imperialism, has rendered military control, particularly of the carceral variety, conducive to both the commodification of sexuality and its suppression. Pornographic portrayals of military personnel engaging in same-sex activities epitomize the consequences of aestheticizing and sexualizing military symbols. Men in uniform become focal points for the deployment of sexuality and identity politics within the confines of postmodernity. Joe’s Tropical Malady should be taken as a cinematographic argument that complicates military insignia as a form of aesthetic deployment.

II. From the City to the Forest: The Spirit’s Path

Joe counters the aestheticization of militarism by offering an alternative narrative centered on the spiritual journey of queer love. Through Keng and Tong’s persistence to nurture their love amidst challenges, Joe dismantles the glamorization of militarism. It is worthwhile to examine the nuances of affection between the two in a series of scenes as follows:

  1. The Stare: During the troops’ initial visit to Tong’s family house, Keng gazes at Tong.
  2. Chance Encounters: Tong boards a public vehicle as Keng’s military vehicle passes by in traffic. Keng invites Tong to accompany him to his military base in Chiang Rai.
  3. Driving Lessons: Keng teaches Tong to drive, and rain leads them to seek shelter in an empty hut. On their journey back, Tong’s dog collapses on the road.
  4. Dog Hospital: Keng comforts Tong after learning that Tong’s dog has cancer.
  5. First Date: Keng takes Tong to a bar where Tong sings a song for Keng.
  6. At the Movies: Keng and Tong watch a movie together, with Keng playfully teasing Tong.
  7. The Love Note: Tong’s mother discovers Keng’s love note for Tong in his jacket
  8. Second Date: Keng and Tong rendezvous at an empty hut, only to be interrupted by a woman who urges them to visit a cave.
  9. Farewell: Keng escorts Tong home, and before parting ways, they exchange erotic gestures by licking each other’s hands. Keng leaves feeling content.
  10. Disjointed End: Tong vanishes, leaving Keng to search for him in vain upon returning to his room.

In this series of scenes, we trace the spirits’ journey from the forest to the city and back again – the second movement. Keng and Tong’s love story is characterized by a search for common ground, with Keng taking on the role of the pursuer, builder, and dominant figure, while Tong initially hesitates but eventually acquiesces, seemingly oblivious to Keng’s advances.

Throughout the scenes, Keng is depicted as temporarily freed from the constraints of military life, possibly on vacation and seizing the opportunity to pursue romantic connections with men. In this fleeting moment of liberation, queerness emerges as an alternative path. Keng’s defiance against societal expectations to conform to heterosexual norms imbues these tender moments with political significance. Tong’s submission serves as a dual affirmation, validating both the spiritual bond between them and their defiance of traditional relationship norms.

Joe masterfully portrays these queer dynamics in a cinematic manner, evoking a sense of lyricism and romance intertwined with conjecture. The pinnacle of this lyrical conjecture lies in Keng’s farewell to Tong, transcending into a realm of queer spirituality that prompts contemplation of Hegelian notions of immediacy and sense-certainty, rather than merely specters.

What does Hegel’s Spirit teach us in these tender moments? The Farewell scene comprises several shots. In the first shot, Tong drives the motorcycle with Keng as his passenger. Mobility here serves both as transportation and as a narrative device guiding them toward their union. The scene then cuts to Tong urinating; we only see his back while Keng waits on his motorcycle. When Tong returns, Keng immediately grabs his hand, first smelling it (Tong interjects that it is unwashed), then licking it.

In this moment, the sense-certainty of desire manifests itself almost as something bodily and immediate. It diverges from contemporary depictions of queer intimacy. This gestural rupture is almost pre-linguistic. The point of contact is a phallic symbol twice removed from the consanguinity of the body. First, it is not the penis itself. And secondly, it touched the phallus, and only through the phantasmal bridge of imagination can we reconstruct its original place.

However, in a Hegelian sense, the dialectics of homosexuality demand one to construct a logic of the world around a phallic absolute, twice removed from its immediacy. In this context, the hand serves as the mediator between the phallic absolute and the immediate body. To rationalize is to elevate the understanding of desiring production beyond this moment of euphoria.

The gesture of Keng licking Tong’s hand, which initially held the phallus, is reciprocated by Tong licking Keng’s hand. This affirmative act constitutes the suture of understanding. Reciprocity essentially leads viewers to rationalize the moment as sublime. The scene channels the notion of reciprocity as a means of stitching in.

And then, Fashion Show’s music ‘Straight’ resumes. Relieved, Keng rides his motorcycle around the city, with the nightscape unfolding before him. Passing through various moments, Keng continuously navigates between two temporalities. Eventually, we see Keng reunited with his platoon, still accompanied by the music as the spirits’ path converges and then diverges.

This adventurous detour leaves viewers with questions about the fate of the two lovers. In a way, Joe manages to fracture the narrative and turn it against itself, which proves most advantageous in the realm of art cinema. Here, elliptical narratives dominate the order by which stories are portrayed. Spaces between storytelling logics expand ways of being, producing a fragmentation of the story that creates room for queer politics to fester and foster. This leads us to the latter part of our analysis: the jungle as the revolutionary backdoor.

III. The Jungle as The Revolutionary Backdoor: Spirited Away

At last, we come to our last point – the climax and denouement of the story constituting the latter half of the film, which is often the most overlooked part of a two-part film. Most people regard the queer first half as the sufficient expression of Tropical Malady’s politics while disregarding the other half as an artistic experimentation, lacking ontological substance. However, this essay contends that the latter half constitutes Joe’s complete expression of the jungle as the backdoor for the revolution.

Let us begin with Marx’s inauguration about the specter of communism haunting Europe. In old Europe, communism has been relegated to the realm of the spectral by the Holy Trinity of powers. At this historical juncture, communism holds a dual potential: it is both incorporeal and always already a materialization of the proletarian revolution.

In Southeast Asian discourse, the ghostly materiality of communism in the jungles reflects modernity’s fear, and therefore demonization, of communism. Throughout history, communism has been treated merely as an idea, removed from its physicality. Whenever communism surfaces in public discourse, the state apparatus ensures it is marginalized and distanced from public opinion. Meta (Facebook) ensures that community pages by left-leaning groups are devoid of existence. The triumph of neoliberal capitalism is characterized by the suppression of communism as the most viable path forward.

The transformative power of the jungle: Keng encounters the jungle’s spirit – “… it is so real, it brought me to life.”


In this context of entombment and haunting, we interpret Joe’s portrayal of the latter half of Tropical Malady as an orchestration of the jungle as a site of revolutionary politics. One thing remains evident: the military, represented by Keng, struggles to track and trap the jungle’s ghost. It is a spectral struggle, wherein the military endeavors to comprehend the transformations and evolutions of the ghost, only to find itself transformed in the process. This encapsulates the politics of revolution in the jungles: armed struggle is not merely a specter but also nominally a ghostly materiality, one that changes those who engage with it.

The jungle ghost eludes capture, morphing into something else whenever military force attempts to confront it. This demonstrates the impossibility of quelling armed resistance in the forest. Historically, Southeast Asia has witnessed many armed struggles that effectively use the jungle as a force itself. Myanmar’s Karen National Liberation Army, the Philippines’ New People’s Army, Vietnam’s Viet Cong, and Timor Leste’s freedom fighters for national independence, among many others, all used the jungle as a weapon against repressive and imperialist forces. The jungle in this sense constitutes a revolutionary backdoor, embodying Southeast Asia’s ongoing efforts to redefine itself and break free from its repressive past. Tropical Malady implores us to reconsider the transformative power of the jungle in reshaping the world anew.

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Film Review: After the Curfew (1954)

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 4: Indonesia [Film 2 of 2]

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of Indonesia. I chose to review Indonesian classic’s Usmar Ismail’s After the Curfew (1954). It’s my first time watching this one.


This review is cross-posted in Asian Movie Pulse.

After the Curfew (dir. Usmar Ismail, Indonesia, 1954) – ***** – Usmar Ismail’s recently restored “After the Curfew” (1954) revolves around a soldier returning to his former life in the bustling city of Bandung, Indonesia, only to find himself increasingly alienated by the American-influenced modernity prevalent there.

Set in postwar Indonesia following the nation’s struggle for independence from Dutch colonizers (1945-1949), the film reflects the shaping of Indonesia’s contemporary historical and political landscape. This period also gave rise to significant global alliances, notably the Bandung Conference of 1955, uniting nations of the Global South against colonialism and neocolonialism, with the Philippines among the participating countries. Nationalist, democratic, and communist ideals proliferated in postwar Indonesian society, championed by figures like Sukarno, the leader of Indonesia’s anti-colonial movement against the Dutch. During this period, the sense of impending freedom was palpable, reflected in the mise-en-scene that portrays Indonesian society still steeped in revolutionary fervor but gradually embracing a more Westernized way of life.

At the heart of this societal shift is the protagonist/anti-hero, Iskandar, a former revolutionary soldier grappling with his newfound existence. Reuniting with his fiancée Norma, former comrades, and acquaintances like the infrastructure developer Gafar, brothel owner Puja and his companion Laila, as well as his former military superior-turned-governor Gunawan, Iskandar navigates these encounters, attempting to reconcile his past with an uncertain future.

For Iskandar, the Indonesian nationalist revolution defines the true reality that everyone must experience. It constitutes the site of maximal change, the historical turning point of his nation, that seemingly slips into ordinariness and oblivion when faced with Indonesian postwar contemporary life which seemingly forgets what happened to the struggle for independence.

For Iskandar, the Indonesian nationalist revolution represents the ultimate reality that all must confront, a pivotal moment in his nation’s history. It constitutes the site of maximal change, the historical turning point of his nation, that seemingly slips into ordinariness and oblivion when faced with Indonesian postwar contemporary life.

“After the Curfew” masterfully argues for the irreconcilability between the revolutions fought on the frontlines and the societal transformations that follow. One sees the incomplete nature of such social revolutions through Iskandar’s alienation and disillusionment.

On a broader scale, it contends that true social revolution eludes postwar Indonesia, with the old order persisting and bourgeois values and feudal structure retaining their dominance. It subtly critiques American cultural imperialism, embodied in Laila’s aspiration for a more modern, Americanized lifestyle portrayed in magazines like LIFE.

In addition, the filmmaker posits that a revolution’s success hinges on its ability to fundamentally alter societal norms and behaviors, echoing Maoist principles in cultural revolution. In postwar Indonesia, as depicted in the motion picture, capitalism prevails, leaving revolutionaries like Iskandar disconnected from a society that fails to align with their ideals. It argues that the new American-influenced Indonesian society metaphorically extinguishes the revolutionary spirit, foreshadowing the tragic events of the 1966 CIA-backed communist purge, which claimed the lives of countless intellectuals and activists, further underscoring its central thesis.

In conclusion, “After the Curfew” is a poignant cinematic exploration of the complexities surrounding postwar Indonesia’s transition from revolutionary fervor to modernity. Through the lens of protagonist Iskandar’s alienation and disillusionment, Usmar Ismail skillfully examines the tension between the ideals of the nationalist revolution and the societal changes that ensued. With its nuanced portrayal of the struggle to reconcile past and present and its commentary on the enduring influence of imperialism and capitalism, what emerges is a thought-provoking reflection on the nature of social revolutions and their lasting impact on individual lives and collective consciousness.

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Film Review: The Seen and the Unseen (2017)

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 4: Indonesia [Film 1 of 2]

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of Indonesia. I chose a film not included in the list Kamila Andini’s The Seen and the Unseen (2017). It’s my first time watching this one.


The Seen and the Unseen (dir. Kamila Andini, Indonesia, 2017)**** – Kamila Andini’s The Seen and the Unseen navigates the depths of a child’s subconscious, as seen through her cultural heritage. It recounts the story of fraternal twins, Tantri and Tantra. One fateful day, Tantra stole an egg from the gods’ altar, and Tantri subsequently prepared and consumed it. Tantri ingested the egg white, while Tantra consumed the yolk. Unexpectedly, Tantra collapsed and was rushed to the hospital, where doctors discovered a tumor in his brain. Tantri conjectured that the tumor resulted from consuming the yolk, interpreting it as divine retribution for disturbing the balance between the spiritual and human realms, as well as between man and nature.

The film offers a profound lesson about the inner world of a child, often perceived as simple and direct, is in fact intricate and mystical. It revisits the innocence of childhood, the off-beaten path, the path without the chains of representation, of the law.

Moreover, it challenges the conventions of adulthood, which often overlook or diminish cultural roots. The child characters gravitate towards the pre-linguistic and the non-representational. Tantri, for instance, is depicted walking at night and engaging with her comatose twin, the spirit of Tantra.

Furthermore, the film explores the boundaries between night and day, light and darkness, and the symbolic significance attached to them. The theme of duality permeates the narrative, embodied by the twins Tantra and Tantri, their preference for egg yolk over egg white, and the symbolic interplay of round shapes reminiscent of the sun and moon.

Andini utilizes cinematic space as a platform for the interplay between childish fantasies and the gravity of adult life. This spatial dimension significantly contributes to the film’s portrayal of indigenous consciousness, rendering it accessible to non-Indonesian audiences. Through gestures, masquerades, and a yearning for absence, Andini authentically captures elements of her culture, The generality of gestures, of masquerade, of longing for absence – Andini taps into pure expressions of her own culture, facilitating cross-cultural communication.

In its entirety, The Seen and the Unseen traverses the abstract terrain of pre-ontological Indonesian existence. It revitalizes cinema’s theoretical potential as a medium for exploring indigenous knowledge beyond the boundaries of language and the written word. By rediscovering cinematic expressions of rituals, dualism, and transformation, the film amplifies the discourse surrounding indigenous cultures, reshaping the language of cinema as a conduit for cultural understanding and appreciation.

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Cross-posted in Film Police Reviews.

Film Review: The Road to the Racetrack (1991)

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 3: 100 Korean Films

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of 100 Korean Films. I chose one film, the #71 on the list, Jang Sun-Woo’s The Road to the Racetrack (1991), one of my favorite films of all time.


The Road to the Racetrack (dir. Jang Sun-woo, prod. Taehung Pictures, South Korea, 1991) – ****½ – Jang Sun-woo’s The Road to the Racetrack presents an intriguing premise: two lovers, both having completed their PhDs in France, find themselves back in each other’s arms upon reconnecting in Korea. Throughout the film, there is a lingering question of the viability of their relationship, only to realize ultimately that there is none. However, these two lovers might offer deeper insights into the historical forces at play in South Korea during the 1990s, perhaps more than the director’s initial intention. This interpretation leads us to reconsider how history can be subtly encoded in films, especially in the characters themselves.

For those who have not yet watched the film, The Road to the Racetrack resonates with contemporary Korean cinema, reminiscent of works by directors such as Hong Sang-Soo. Its portrayal of embroiled, dysfunctional cis relationships leading to despair is a familiar theme, yet there is more to it that meets the eye

The film’s opening prompts the question: Are they strangers? Initially, it is unclear. Jang Sun-woo thrusts his audience directly into the forefront of their relationship. We only learn that the woman, Ms. J, hails from a wealthy family of businessmen, and both Ms. J and Mr. R resided in France during their graduate studies.

The film offers a masterclass depiction of mansplaining and manspreading. While R is romantically involved with J, he is also a father to two children and a husband. He seeks to divorce his wife to marry J, who is already engaged to another man. In a classic demonstration of mansplaining, R consistently manipulates J, coercing her to submission.

Mansplaining in the film reaches a conceptual level akin to a social form of sadomasochism. R’s idea of control is almost paradoxical, given his status as a unemployed intellectual: no permanent address, alienated to his original family. Set in early 1990s South Korea, during a period of economic liberalization, R’s sole method of control was to assert dominance by physically controlling J. He is admittedly incapable of asserting class dominance, but resorts to intimidation and rape, symbolizing the old masculine feudal Korea.

To this effect, J and R symbolize the historical forces at play in early 1990s South Korea: R represents neoliberalism, carefree and privileged, while J embodies the feudal nobility, clinging to domination and force, to old habits, to nostalgia. Their incessant arguments and reconciliations underscore the futility of their ideological constructs.

In actuality, R, much like feudalism, is deeply entrenched in J’s sphere of influence. Despite their separate operations, feudalism continues to exert a historical influence on the emergence of the market economy under neoliberalism through primitive accumulation. Essentially, R paves the way for J’s power to manifest. R and J represent dialectical constructs, mirroring the dialectical relationship between feudalism and neoliberalism.

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Film Review: Yi Yi: A One and A Two (2000)

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 2: Best Chinese Motion Pictures [Film 2 of 2]

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of Best Chinese Motion Pictures. My review of Fei Mu’s Spring in a Small Town (1948) is already up. This is my second pick from the list, one of my most favorite films of all time, Yi Yi: A One and A Two (2000).


Yi Yi: A One and A Two (dir. Edward Yang, Taiwan, 2000) – ***** – For years since I watched Edward Yang’s Yi Yi: A One and a Two (2000) in my dorm room during my ChemEng undergrad days back in 2009, I hesitated to write about it. I feared spoiling the experience and memory of crying alone at 2 AM, trying to piece together how a three-hour movie could have such an effect on me. At that time, I was not what one might call a professional cinephile. I relied on pirated movies from a DVD shop/bookstore atop Zagu at the UP Shopping Center. Yi Yi was just one of many pirated DVDs I purchased back then. As an undergrad, I was broke, and buying the two-disc film for 100 pesos was a significant expense for me. Now, the challenge lies in gathering my thoughts and articulating why this film practically changed my life.

I. The Child as Philosopher

Two key realizations stand out regarding why Yi Yi made such an impact on me. The first realization occurred in 2009, which I later recognized as my initial philosophical awakening. In Yi Yi, I witnessed the exposition of Nietzsche’s third Zarathustran Metamorphoses – the philosopher as the Child. It took years for me to truly grasp it. In 2009, my understanding of Nietzschean philosophy was rudimentary. It wasn’t until 2014, when I delved into Nietzsche through Deleuze, that the concept of the child-as-philosopher fully materialized for me.

In Yi Yi, the Philosopher-Child is epitomized by Yang-Yang’s character, although the notion permeates several characters and their instances of transformation. According to Nietzsche, the Philosopher-Child represents a crucial step in transcending the asceticism of philosophy. It entails unlearning what we previously knew and embracing a fresh start, akin to a child. Yang-Yang’s character embodies this childlike openness to new beginnings. In the film’s conclusion, he reconciles concepts of life and death, as well as mediation and reality, encapsulating the transformation of the spirit from mere sense-certainty to the realization of the Absolute.

As viewers, Yang-Yang’s character overwhelms us, embodying the intricate process of unlearning adulthood and perceiving the world anew. Edward Yang contrasts Yang-Yang with his ascetic mother, who clings to repetitive faith, while resembling his father, NJ, who seeks new paths in life. Ting-Ting serves as the family’s moral compass, navigating societal ethics through her relationship with her controversial friend Lili and her friends. Together, Yang-Yang and Ting-Ting represent the pendulum between ethics and the theory of knowledge, which forms the philosophical essence of the film.

II. Maoist Theory of Knowledge


We will come to know everything that we did know before. We are not only good at destroying the Old World, we are also good at building the new. 

– Mao, “Report to the Second Plenary Session of the Seventh Central Committee of the Communist Party of China” (March 5, 1949), Selected Works, Vol. IV, p. 374.


The second realization regarding Yi Yi dawned on me later in my adult life, thanks to Alain Badiou. To me, Yi Yi embodies and explores the problematics of a Maoist Theory of Knowledge, encapsulated in the phrase: “We will come to know everything that we did not know before.” Beyond the Maoist films of the 1960s and 1970s, Yi Yi stands as perhaps the only film I’ve seen with its own theory of knowledge, particularly a Maoist one. Edward Yang cleverly articulates this theory through the Socratic dialogues between Yang-Yang and his father NJ in the car.

Yang-Yang’s insatiable curiosity drives him to seek the whole truth. Yang-Yang conjectures that humans cannot know the whole truth, only half of it. Thus, through his theory of photographic knowledge, he offers access to this other ‘half-truth.’ Yang-Yang’s theory resonates with Maoist ideals of uncovering previously unknown truths. He embarks on investigation and action, with photography serving as his practical solution. It’s a remarkable feat for a film centered on middle-class Taipei.

III. From Yi Yi to the Revolution

Sublation is the crucial step needed to translate the lessons from Yi Yi into revolutionary action. One weakness of the film lies in its idealism. Its portrayal of class dynamics and slow pacing fail to inspire mass action, primarily because its theory of knowledge remains confined within an art-philosophical framework. For philosophical films to incite mass action, they must integrate the mass line into the process of discovering the subjectivity itself through cinema.

Yi Yi marks a significant stride toward philosophical enlightenment. However, it may require another filmmaker to actualize its philosophical theory of knowledge as revolutionary praxis.

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Film Review: Spring in a Small Town (1948)

The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge
Week 2: Best Chinese Motion Pictures [Film 1 of 2]

For this week’s installment of The Big Continent: Asian Cinema Challenge, challengers are tasked to select, view, and critique films from the list of Best Chinese Motion Pictures. Without hesitation, I chose the top-ranked entry, a film from pre-Maoist era China by the rediscovered Chinese master filmmaker, Fei Mu. I intend to critique one or more films from this list over the course of the week. This marks the first of two films that I’ll be reviewing.


Spring in a Small Town (dir. Fei Mu, prod. Wenhua Film Company, China, 1948) – ****½ – I must confess, I’ve watched Spring in a Small Town several times before, yet it failed to leave a lasting impression of significance. Initially, I found it overly melodramatic. It wasn’t until I viewed Fei Mu’s Blood on Wolf Mountain (1936) that I began to grasp the director’s intent. Fei Mu proves to be more than a technician; he utilizes the expressive power of cinematic space to delve into themes of history, society, and community.

On the outset, Spring in a Small Town uses space to explore erotic tension and, more profoundly, to stage an erotically charged yet non-sexual drama concerning the complexities of a love triangle. The narrative revolves around a husband, Liyan, and his wife, Yuwen, who are visited by a mutual friend, Zhang Zhichen, Yuwen’s former lover from their teenage years. Throughout Zhichen’s visit, Yuwen attempts to seduce him, drawing him closer, yet Fei Mu portrays these interactions with a restrained elegance reminiscent of another brilliant Chinese-language film Wong Kar-Wai’s In the Mood for Love (2000). Meanwhile, Liyan’s sixteen-year-old sister harbors affections for Zhichen, prompting Liyan to ponder the prospect of his sister marrying his best friend.

Fei Mu’s chosen setting is a dilapidated house situated in a small town ravaged by the Sino-Japanese War. Contrasted with Blood on Wolf Mountain (1936), where Fei Mu vehemently expresses his disdain for Japanese invaders, Spring in a Small Town adopts a more nuanced approach, using the ruins of the physical landscape to recontextualize the melodrama as an exploration of the past.

For Fei Mu, memory permeates the present, unsettling its presumed stability. When Zhang Zhichen visits, Yuwen’s complex feeling about the past lover and her present husband disentangle. Such an untangling transplant memory as material history, the past intervening in the present for the future.

The film delineates two pivotal historical moments: the disruption caused by Zhichen’s arrival, which upends the characters’ daily routines, and Liyan’s near-death experience, which prompts Yuwen to rekindle her connection with him, compelling Zhichen to depart. These two moments reactivates first nostalgia as a form of desiring-production, and secondly, the historical fidelity towards change. Somehow, Yuwen’s return to Liyan sublates the potential to desire to overtake tradition. Yuwen emerges as the most changed, as if saying that the spring is truly finally here.

Much like Fei Mu’s other works, the female characters drive the narrative forward. They constitute the force of change. In Blood on Wolf Mountain, a young village girl urges her fellow villagers to confront the wolves; similarly, in Spring in a Small Town, Yuwen symbolizes the season itself, transitioning from the “winter” of her marriage with Liyan to the blossoming “spring” of their renewed connection, despite the harsh realities they face. She truly embodies the essence of this cinematic masterpiece.

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Film Review: Rotting in the Sun (2023)

Rotting in the Sun (dir. Sebastian Silva, USA/Mexico, 2023) – *** – Sebastian Silva’s Rotting in the Sun is a dark comedy following a film director, Sebastian, played by Silva himself, who is grappling with depression. Encouraged by his friend Mateo, Sebastian visits a gay nude beach where he encounters Jordan Firstman, a social media influencer whom Silva accuses of lacking authenticity for being social media influencer.

The film attempts to capture an edgy, 90s Queer New Wave vibe, characterized by its deployment of a cinema verite style. It delves into two realms of reality: the unsimulated reality of Mexican society (but otherwise a product of performance) and the mediated reality of social media and the internet that pervades the narrative. Both Silva and Firstman navigate these realities in a drugged state, seemingly interested in each other yet ultimately disengaged. Caught in this whirlwind of dissociations is Vero, the maid, burdened with the truth about Silva’s death.

Vero, the central protagonist, shoulders immense responsibility for all. She remains the moral compass of the story. As a cis-female Mexican woman from a struggling family, she must also confront her employers’ homosexuality, all while worrying about her father’s medical bills and the threat of unemployment. She grapples with life’s most practical problems, which is a stark contrast with her privileged employers. In Vero, we see the income disparity of the ‘artists’ and their servants. She dwells in precarity, while her employers live autonomously. Even the work of mourning for Silva’s death is part of her undeclared job responsibilities. She’s clumsy but hardworking. Unlike the archetypal murder suspects in other films, Vero lacks the otherworldly tenacity and intelligence to resolve the conflict. She is humanly ‘real,’ and the film problematizes Vero’s mistakes of being all-too-human.

The movie also explores the subtext of melancholia in many gradations: first would be what I call the artist’s sadness, embodied by Silva himself in his search for himself, his own self-realization as a creator himself. The second would be the sadness negated by toxic positivity, embodied by Firstman, whose toxic trait of not seeing through Silva’s sadness, makes a classic case of contemporary capitalism’s demand for people to be happy. And finally, the sadness of inequality, as embodied by Vera, who just wants to do her job but is thrown in a series of unlucky events, that led her to her own fall.

The culprit for these gradations of sadness remain unwritten and unsaid, but implied when Vera said that the police in Mexico City are unreliable and, given her stature, she would eventually be jailed over an accident. The system is flawed, and the value system, askewed, as if Silva is saying, everybody and everywhere is fucked up. Silva’s rotten corpse on the rooftop symbolizes the rottenness of this displaced sense of justice in an unkind, disunited world.

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Film Review: Shake, Rattle, & Roll Extreme (2023)

Shake, Rattle, & Roll Extreme (dir. Jerrold Tarog, Joey De Guzman, and Richard Somes, 2023) – **** – Shake, Rattle, & Roll Extreme (2023) represents the latest installment in the enduring horror franchise, Shake, Rattle, and Roll. Continuing the tradition of its predecessors, it consists of three short films that explore various tropes within Filipino horror.

In the first segment, Glitch, viewers are introduced to the trope of demonic infestation and oppression. Departing from the conventional psycho-social interpretation, Glitch showcases a demonic entity capable of inflicting physical harm on both spaces and bodies. The demon lurks in the shadows, poised to attack any unsuspecting characters. One particularly intriguing aspect of this episode is its use of the internet as a conduit for encountering the demon. Drawing upon the concept of cursed websites (see discussion by Chief Catholic Exorcist Fr. Syquia), the film explores the digital realm as a gateway for demonic entities. However, the portrayal of the demon itself lacks depth, revealing a lack in the film’s research compared to James Wan’s Conjuring series, which depicts more convincingly Catholic demonic possessions.

The following episode, Mukbang, emerges as a stronger segment than its predecessor. With its contemporary flair, it resonates particularly well with Gen Z audiences. This segment offers a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes lives of social media influencers as they converge for a collaboration project in a house teeming with otherworldly entities. Drawing on underground dwelling mythology and the concept of body snatchers, Mukbang taps into one of the oldest folkloric elements—cannibalism. I think the downside for this episode is it did not sustain the mode of the creepiness of the dungeon, since it focused on the social media aspect of the story.

The standout episode, for me, is the zombie-slasher segment titled Rage, starring Jane De Leon. Drawing inspiration from Western folklore, Rage reimagines the zombie apocalypse with a virus of extraterrestrial origin fueling the zombies’ rage. Unlike the two other segments in Shake, Rattle, & Roll Extreme, Rage is different in its depiction of a dystopian world. Although Glitch and Mukbang concentrate mainly on supernatural themes set in contemporary contexts, Rage carries the viewers across a post-apocalyptic landscape built by the horrors of zombie infection.

On the contrary to these familiar environments that are associated with Glitch and Mukbang within which they occur, Rage takes place in a totally different reality marked by chaos, hopelessness and struggle for life. This shift enhances both horror genre’s inherent tension and dread as well as augmenting depth to the narrative.

In addition it is not just an imaginary backdrop of the story but it is an integral part of it too. Thus through dilapidated landscapes, deserted structures and remnants of a community lost, one can see how desperate their situation really was. The bleakness of the setting mirrors the internal turmoil experienced by the protagonists as they confront the existential threat posed by the zombie horde.

Shake, Rattle, & Roll Extreme (2023) continues the franchise’s legacy of exploring diverse horror tropes within the Filipino context. While each segment has its strengths and weaknesses, the anthology as a whole offers an engaging and thought-provoking viewing experience for horror enthusiasts.

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Film Review: Dune: Part 2 (2024)

Dune: Part 2 (2024, Denis Villeneuve) – ****½ – Denis Villeneuve’s adaptation of Dune arguably transcends previous attempts to capture the essence of Frank Herbert’s literary masterpiece. Villeneuve truly understands the visual politics of Dune, to the extent that he contributed to the rethinking of what it takes to become a messiah-from-below.

For enthusiasts well-versed in the lore of Dune, the source material itself possesses an epic quality, spanning millennia in the emergence of a subterranean messiah figure. Paul Atreides, known as Muad’Dib, embodies this archetype—a liberator revered by the Freemen, and the prophesied Kwisatz Haderach of the Bene Gesserit lineage, capable of manipulating the fabric of time.

Dune, both the book and the movie, is a tapestry woven with strands of heretical philosophy, exploring the concept of a super-ego entrenched within the hysteresis of the ego. To build a metaphysical lore, Herbert (with Villeneuve following through) condenses the notion of the messianic in signatures and gestures: the taming of Shai-Hulud (their becoming-One), Paul’s survival in the spice-rich desert, his resurrection from the dead, and the overcoming of the dialectic of gender (Kwisatz Haderach).

Simultaneously, the narrative also plays on political allegory, with an almost Shakespearean in scale, detailing struggles for power, lineage corruption, and themes of revenge and redemption. One realizes, at some point in the book or the two-part film, that Paul’s journey embodies a double negation—a rejection and reaffirmation of his predetermined path as a male heir to the throne and the progenitor of the Golden Path, through the reclamation of his identity as a self-made Freeman – his past negated in order to negate the present path, to create anew.

Muad’Dib is everything and nothing – a paradox. His ascension does not mark the culmination of the narrative, but rather the beginning of a (horrific) generational legacy that extends beyond his lifetime. Herbert’s subsequent volumes solidify this contradiction as a historical truth of its own world-history.

Villeneuve’s adaptation, culminating in Part 2 of the movie, truly rethinks the notion of such a contradictory messiah-from-below. He smartly employs a musical approach to visualization, crafting a new sense of scale through vibratory expressions. Villeneuve orchestrates the desert as an acoustic body, as the skin of the earth, the site for remaking the world-from-below.

In Part 2 of the film, Villeneuve brings us closer into the gravity of becoming-messianic, magnifying the ‘messianic’ through oscillations between miniaturization and magnification, through the fabulation of affect and multi-dimensional interplay of being-with-the-Earth and the lines of flight of the prophetic.

In Villaneuve’s depiction, Muad’Dib truly becomes the desert mouse who will conquer the universe, not from the stars; he is not the Superman descending from the heavens, but the messiah who emerges from desert-island of the lost history, the wurm who will eat the stars above and enact the desertification of the universe, as he should be.

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Film Review: A Man (2022)

A Man (Kei Ishikawa, 2022) – **** – A Man, adapted from the eponymous novel by Keiichiro Hirano, delves into a profound exploration of the temporality of identity. Both the film and the book collaboratively introduce the concept of formal identity being threatened by politics of historical temporality.

The narrative centers around a case of identity theft. A widowed woman encounters and weds a man named Daisuke Taniguchi. Following an accident, she discovers that the man she married is not Daisuke Taniguchi but an entirely different person. Thus unfolds the mystery plot, unraveling the deception with the assistance of Akira Kido, a lawyer from the insurance company. The story leads to the enigmatic past of a man named Makota Haru, who, in an attempt to escape his dark history, changes identities twice to start anew.

The desire for a fresh start inevitably prompts some to renounce their very identities. The film ponders this possibility while also exposing the pitfalls of identity politics in connection to the more objective historical time. Altering identities challenges the very fabric of the law itself. For Akira, this radical way of life is symptomatic of a larger existential tragedy in contemporary Japan. Citizens go to great lengths to disown their past, liberating themselves from the burden of inheritance, which is intertwined with the desire to live alternative lives. This crisis reflects contemporary Japan’s struggle to overcome alienation as an inherent condition of existence.

Ultimately, the film proposes an alternative perspective on identity — to lead a fruitful life, one must surpass the limitations imposed by the governance of identities. It encourages us to look beyond life’s superficial aspects, referred to as ‘faciality’ by Deleuze and Guattari, and delve into the essence of temporal objectivity as the basis for the quality of life. Certain objective qualities, such as love, must necessarily transcend identities. They are governed not by the proximity of the name or the face, but by the generality of its concepts such as fatherhood, solidarity, collectivity; one that congeals a totality and superstructure above and beyond its base. Such is the dialectics of history overtaking individualities.

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