The Call After

The phone rings, and I know it is her.

As much as I never want to speak to her again, this is the call that I have been waiting for. I let the phone ring a little longer than usual, and answer with a silence.

 

'Daniel?'

 

She calls me by my name.

 

I manage a 'Hi'.

 

'Listen, I just called to say that, for what it's worth, I'm really sorry…'

 

And my mind drifts off. Talk is cheap, especially when they come from the lips of a slut. But I can't blame her. I saw the train coming from a mile away and I sat on the tracks and had a sandwich.

 

'… I really hope that one day you be able to forgive me.'

 

Her voice is slightly coarser than usual.

'Daniel?'

 

The betrayal. You build your life around someone, some ideal, only to realize a beach wedding with twenty tables has its foundation in sand.

 

'In all honesty, you are forgiven. But I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore.'

 

A heart is not meant to love and hate someone at the same time.

 

She says nothing, and my heart pounds.

 

'I really think you need to leave your job?'

 

And she cries. And I cry.

 

We talk for another twenty minutes, and it is just like nothing ever happened. But there is no anesthetic for this hurt, and as I hang up, I realize how difficult a concept forgiveness is.

 

Saying it is one thing, but truly forgiving someone, is something else altogether. I know the time will come when I have to deal with all of this, but I think I have grieved enough for the night. I shut my eyes.

I see her face, her smile. God.

I smile at the irony.

My Streets

My night begins, with a long drag.

I love these streets that I roam.  A far cry from what we are used to on this silly island, some of us call home.  In the darkness, the sheep's skin shed and the wolves, let loose.  These streets that we prowl, a different orgy of smells - part sewer, part Beef Hor Fan - a different symphony - part moans, part whispers, part cries.

Truly, uniquely Singapore.

Everyone here has a different way of getting by.  I knew of a girl once who used to sing Hey Jude whenever she felt miserable.  An imported talent, a China girl, who spoke no English except, 'And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders...'  What a miserable sight, to see a girl fumble over the lyrics of a Beatles song, in a dark alley, cigarette in one hand, fake LV clutch in the other.  It all got to us after a while.  No one on our streets needed reminding that their life was... different, from the fairy tales and the castles and the princes and the white horses that galloped through our childhood.  No one likes a whiner.

But in time, her song became part of the cacophony of our street, along with the blare of the horn of the illegal Malaysian durian seller, who, like us, was trying to make a living the best way he knew how.

Then one evening, the singing stopped.

And that's how we knew she left.  Going on to better things, fleeing the country, starting anew, were all the phrases that were used to describe what happened to Jude.  I think she simply understood what Paul McCartney was trying to tell her.

No one lives here for long.

Touching Down

It is a bizarre feeling this; the beat an unseasoned heart skips as the plane touches the tarmac for the first time. The streaks that once sped by my window turns out to be a row of lampposts. Orderly. Such a cliché to describe this island as such, that along with 'clean', 'green', 'death penalty'. Truth of the matter is, I hadn't known I would land on this little island, and didn't bide much time to read up about it. In fact, all that I know of this tropical place is from an Anthony Boudain article I chanced online, while researching a recipe for Brian's tiramisu birthday cake. Singaporeans are apparently the most gastronomically attached people in the world. I don't think they will take too kindly to my intolerance towards spiciness.

The clock is ticking. I have fifteen hours of an unplanned holiday, my first holiday in seven years and it happens by accident. A transit. If all goes well, by this time next year, by Christmas next, Christmas being only two days away, I'd be in a Café, a small place you pass on your way to somewhere, somewhere in New Zealand.

People ask why New Zealand and I really have no better excuse other than it seems as far as I can be possibly be from LA. Course I don't say that. It is always some phantom relative I never knew existed till their names left my lip. My Uncle Bob from Wellington, Aunt Esther in the South Islands. Bob, I need to do better than that. But they are often enough. People nod in public acceptance, but in private they know, because they like me struggle, but unlike me, they persist. Seven years of persistence is enough.

The plane lumbers to a stop. My night begins.

Trailer, India and our release date

Trailer's up if you've not notice. The song in the trailer is sung by one of my favourite bands in the States called The Mountain Goats; it's always been a dream of mine to have one of their songs in my film so when it came down to choosing that one song that I'd pay the copyright for, it was really a matter of which of their songs I'd use.

I'm writing this from India and this place is really quite enthralling. Rode pillion through the streets of Chennai on the first day here, one hand on the belt of an Indian guy named Krishnan, the other trying to take what pictures I could with my camera. Yah, there are times when seeing the way people live makes you thankful for what you have, but there are also people I pass on the streets of Chennai that make me envious; some look so happy in an uncomplicated sort of way that it really puts your life and what you do in perspective. 

Release date for the film is either the 16th or the 30th; depending on when Wayne Wang decides to leave town. He's having a retrospective of his work with Golden Village and we really don't want to compete with him for publicity.

Anyhow, that's the spiel for now. 

Cannes in hindsight...

So I really need to find the time to update this blog more often, but it's hard to find the time to do anything when you're so pre-occupied doing everything to get a film off the ground. :-I While I was in Cannes, I had dinner with Davien and I was telling her that I really did not expect the whole process to be as long as it has been; it's really a super marathon more than it is a sprint. But things are slowly winding down, and I can almost see the light at the end of a tunnel.

Cannes, Cannes, Cannes was fun. It was busy as hell first trying to get people into the screening rooms of my film, and then trying to hand my film to important enough people to consider for distribution. Now, it's really just a waiting game, but having been doing this film thing for some years now, I've learnt not to expect anything. It's an evil necessity.

I really do hope my film goes to Telluride though. It's the greatest film festival in the States that's held in Colarado over Labour Day weekend. Man, if that happens, it'll all be worthwhile.

People often ask me how I expect my film to do in Singapore, given that it is such a different style of storytelling, and in all honesty, I don't expect that it'll do all that well; meaning, in Singapore, I don't expect that people would flock to theaters to watch the film, like they would a Royston Tan/Jack Neo film. When I was pitching the idea of my film, I often refered to it as a cross between Coffee and Cigarettes and Before Sunrise. Coffee and Cigarettes made a total of $2000 at the box office in Singapore, so yah...

It's not always an easy thing to watch a conversation film; most people will find it boring and understandably so, but it's the school of filmmaking that I endorse, that I love. Films like My Dinner with Andre, Coffee and Cigarettes, Days of Being Wild, Masculin/Feminine, The Breakfast Club, Before Sunrise, Walking and Talking, Juno, do it for me more than the Spidermans, or Ironmans, or whatever big film they're trying to make into a franchise.

I always like to think that a person is made up by the films that he watches. I can tell whether I can get along with someone by looking at his/her DVD collection, whether he thinks Infernal Affairs, The Departed is a better film. I used to room with someone who thought The Departed was a better film than Infernal Affairs, and conincidentally, I hated her. :-)

When it's all said and done, I think I'll look back at this three and a half year journey fondly. Next film will either be a Cluedo/Murder mystery or a Romantic Comedy called 'The Habits of Five Kinds of Men (in Bed)'.