Cannes # 7

Cannes has become a rather strange destination for me. Over my 7 visits in 3 years, I’ve developed a somewhat muted contempt for the place and even more so the 16 hours needed to get there. Yet it is undeniably a pretty little town in the South of France with great food and most of the time, great weather.

Not this time though. The weather was grim, cold and wet for pretty much the whole MIPTV market. Add to that a packed 3 days of high intensity meetings and it was less fun than usual – which was not unexpected, given that it’s my first time there as a producer.

Gone are the airport limousine transfers, swanky studio apartments, leisurely breakfasts, parties and meetings of an ‘introductory’ or ‘touch base’ nature customary with my previous employment. Now it’s bus rides to and fro the airport, apartments that feel like high class cells, cereal and milk breakfasts, tense operational and sales meetings, high-stress pitches and obligatory networking sessions where downing more than a couple of glasses of wine really wouldn’t do a lightweight like me any good if work is to be done.

That said, there is definitely a palpable sense of purpose to each day and meeting, a rush when the distributor tells you another sale has closed, an excitement when a pitch goes well and a keener anticipation as business opportunities present themselves.

It’s not all good news of course. There are pitches that went flat, thorny issues brought up by partners that need to be resolved, and perhaps a genuine appreciation of how competitive and tough this business is.

For the first time in 3 years after coming back from Cannes, I’m getting the feeling that a whole lot of work needs to begin on Monday morning.

The landlord’s primary weapon against intruders.

 

Tokyo ‘08 Retrospect: Harajuku

I’m blogging from Changi Airport’s spanking new Terminal 3. That’s a first. It’s been a airport-friendly few months for me, which I don’t mind although I’m not mad about flying – mainly because I’m not a sleeper.

It’s April and I’ve done New York, Toronto, Tokyo, off to Cannes in an hour and looks like it’s Seoul next month. I need my Krisflyer Gold, dammit.

Here’s a new addition to my Album of Wrong from the recent Tokyo trip. Makes you kinda glad it’s only a holiday.

I’ve got the tissue, but he’s got the issue.

 

New Surroundings

For those who possess a natural curiosity for the tamed lives of civil servants in the media industry, particularly those involved in our fledgling local animation scene, they might have heard that I’ve recently gone to the dark side…or the light side, depending on how you look at it. I’m not quite sure myself.

Basically, I’ve swapped a cushy government job for a paycheck that’s struggling for air to do what I love – working in a real animation company. Bite me.

I’ll fill in more on the day-to-day of the new job in the coming weeks and months. What struck me from day 1 and something I’m still intently observing is the dichotomy between my old and new surroundings.

I’m talking about switching from the modern, pristine I.T. sanctuary that is Funan Mall to the Mos Eisley of all things electronics, the infamously famous Sim Lim Square.

To say these are two different worlds would not be an understatement, the products on their store shelves not withstanding.

In Funan, laptops and LCD monitors sit proudly behind the safety of intricate window displays, like models basking in glamour, while the same products are laid out on cheap tabletops at SLS, naked and exposed to the frivolous fancy of customers trying to kop a feel.

While foreigners in Funan stroll casually along the aisles of I.T. shops with lighting so bright it’ll pierce your eyes, they look infinitely more lost in SLS, navigating through the galaxy of characters and shops that sprawl the six floors and the back alleys, some of which feel like graveyards for hardware.

There are no fancy cafes and restaurants, Danish ice cream stalls, trendy hair salons or supermarkets in SLS (unlike in Funan), and people tend to sneeze in your face. Chinese ladies selling learning software give me funny looks sometimes and I have to be careful of paper cuts from flyers being shoved in my face whenever I’m near an elevator.

But I’m warming up to SLS I must say, and that’s down to one thing – its food court. Compared to the sanitized, bland and tasteless fare of Funan’s food court, SLS’ is a godsend, the kind of hearty fare that’s good for the soul (maybe not so good for the cholesterol level).

And anyone living in Singapore will know – if you find a great food court, everything else around it is secondary.

 

Tokyo ‘08 Retrospect: The Pressure of Greatness

Ghibli Museum, Mitaka, Tokyo

24 March 2008

I left Ghibli Musuem in a somewhat sombre mood. I had little to say to my friend whom I went with, and was quiet for most of the long walk back to Mitaka station. It confused me why I was feeling that way – almost depressed. I struggled to find an answer.

My thoughts searched back to the afternoon’s visit. For 2 hours or so I walked the halls and corridors of the museum, passing by Ghibli’s famed creations, concept art, original storyboards and handwriting from Miyazaki himself, seeing the research, dexterity, talent, love and heart that went into making these timeless animated films.

I saw the uninhibited joy of children surrounded by their favourite Ghibli characters, without a worry in the world except how to get themselves on the catbus and go flying with Totoro.

I could see the wonder in the eyes of adults seemingly lost in a world that calls out to their memories, beckoning them to let their childhood return for a few moments, for they have never quite gone away – only forgotten.

As I board the train back to the city, my thoughts return to the present and it struck me: I wanted to visit Ghibli Museum because I love the films and thought I’ll have a good time and be inspired. Truth is, inspiration was never the problem. The effect on me was much more profound. I felt the presence and more significantly, the pressure of true greatness. And It was terrifying.

But as I passed stations after stations, the fear subsided, replaced by a clarity and sense of pride – almost beaming pride – that I’m in the same profession as the magicians and storytellers at Studio Ghibli. The important thing is not that I even contemplate achieving what they have done, but that I felt their spirit and understood their purpose.

It fortified my resolve to produce the animated feature film that I was so voraciously writing and visualizing in my head not so long ago. Recently however, that project has at best ghosted in and out of my thoughts and dreams. Such is the toll of a new job and its worries.

Making an animated film would be nothing short of a herculean task on so many levels. In my heart though, I know that if my film touches just one person in the theatre the way Ghibli’s works touch a generation, it would have been worth every drop of sweat and tear to make it happen.

 

Saturday Service

Damn it’s getting hard to keep this blog updated. The new job’s picking up speed like a train that’s just left the station, but more on that next time.

SO – was at a party last Saturday. Rare indulgence for me these days, to be honest. But hey it’s an old church about to be pimped up into a new joint and looks like a venue where a psychopath might turn up with a chainsaw, so why the hell not?

You can look at it two ways:

1) Cool and beautiful people who look like they’re actually of legal drinking age with terrific music on deck. Awesome party.
2) Satanic orgy (in a church!) that’s a prime target for destruction if God had a satellite laser guided particle beam weapon.

Either way, we made it out of there and lived to eat prata and nasi goreng for supper – which could still kill us one day with a jammed artery.

 

NYC / Toronto

Every February for the last 3 years, I find myself braving the harshest of weather conditions in New York City, all for the sake of creating quality TV entertainment for children.

You can almost always count on something going wrong in NYC in February as it bears the full brunt of winter. 2 years ago I was caught in the worst blizzard on record that closed all 3 airports, including the one where my departing plane spent almost 3 hours being de-iced before the flight was eventually called off. No fun, I assure you.

‘07 Blizzard. View from Airport hotel room.

Last year, my hotel had an electrical fire at 4am the night I checked in. Still stoned from the 19-hour flight, I  thought I was dreaming as hotel security came on the PA system, somehow managing to sound both relaxed and rattled at the same time. It wasn’t until I saw the fire engines downstairs and the smell of smoke from the corridor did it strike me. Foolishly, I went back to sleep and lived to tell the tale.

Pic courtesy of my ex-colleague who evacuated to the Sheraton Lobby as soon as the fire notice came on the PA, clearly intending to NOT DIE.

This year, fears of another blizzard seized again as it snowed on the first day I got in the Big Apple. This was followed by ice-cold rain the whole of next day (day 1 of the conference). Misery would have felt snugly at home.

A familiar sight this year.

For some reason bad weather seems to follow me around like a lovesick puppy in NYC. On Saturday as I left for Toronto the skies were as clear and blue as ever. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never felt quite welcomed there. Maybe I’ll give its summer a chance one of these days.

Toronto wasn’t any more fun, weather wise. In fact it’s colder than New York, with temperatures dropping to -10 degrees on a couple of days. It sounds bizarre, but it actually got warmer when it snows. I’m sure there’s a perfectly scientific reason for that though…

View from Toronto hotel room. BBQ was unexpectedly cancelled.

Apart from the cold and the fact that it feels like a planet away geographically, I like Canada. Things seem a little more laid back, people are more polite, and the place generally feels more livable (compared to the US) for me. Well, Toronto at least, even if Vancouver and Montreal often get a stronger rep.

And it was great to finally be able to just hang out with the Decode folks who are irrepressibly fun and terrific hosts. Just another reminder of why I love the business, sticky contracts and heart-attacking deadlines aside.

Rolling deep with the Decode posse. Bling not provided.

Beth’s lovely kittens, Max and Cowboy.

Finally, in the grand tradition of Things-Going-Wrong-During February-Travels, my luggage didn’t make it back to Singapore from Toronto. So here I am, wondering when the Airport will call with the good news and if an insurance payout wouldn’t be that bad a thing.

 

SQ 26

There are little lotteries you always wish you’d hit when flying. Here’s my personal rundown in order of jackpot size:

1. An impossibly beautiful woman takes the next seat (this is harder than getting hit by a meteorite. Mostly I get people with chronic coughs or who can’t stop farting).
2. Business Class upgrade (I actually got this once on route to Sydney. Was in Bermudas so my good fortune was glaringly obvious to the other ‘real’ Biz Class folks).
3. Attractive and friendly stewardesses. Again, hard to come by these days it seems. By friendly I mean conversational. You stand a better chance with the leading stewardesses.
4. 4 empty seats in a row (see pic).
5. Emergency exit seats. Aside from the legroom, during take-off and landing you can chat up the stewardess strapped in on the jumpseat who is temporarily incapable of any evasive action.

Top 5 morale-killers on a flight:

1. See point 2 above for the kind of neighbours I usually get.
2. The seat in front of you drops down and almost hits your face a nanosecond after the seatbelt sign goes off after take-off.
3. Lavatory seats that look like they’ve just experienced a mudslide.
4. Snorers who render noise-canceling headphones useless.
5. Babies. You know it’s true.

 

Housin’

I live with my parents.

It’s a beautiful house. I’ve actually only realised how much flowers there are around the place when my Mum refreshed them for Chinese New Year.

Frankly though, I suspect my folks are trying to throw me out. Ok, maybe that’s exaggerating it. What they’re really hoping for is that I settle down (that’s getting ‘married’ for those who are more comfortable with that term) and get my own place – which means I’ll move the hell out.

I don’t think I’m a pest to my folks. I help my Dad with his computer problems (many of which I have no solutions to), and Mum with her English lessons and usage of her almost prehistoric Nokia mobile phone.

But understand this: the house is my Mum’s domain. I’m merely renting a room for free. More often then not, I get in her way (which is why I try to stay in my room). This was never more evident during my recent hiatus from work when I spent 2 months at home being a human barrier to her domestic roads around the house. She was less then thrilled to be honest. The manor belonged to her and her alone in the day, the cat not withstanding.

There were times when I think she just pretended I was at work. Case in point: I go downstairs at 1pm and see her eating takeaway lunch bought from the coffee shop. Nope, didn’t ask her son if he was starving before she went out to hunt.

When…IF I do move out one day, Dad would probably want to sell the house and buy a condo overlooking the ocean. He says it all the time.

He may have to find another way to finance his condo and possibly live alone though, because I’m pretty sure Mum will not move an inch. The house is her life. She attends to it like a painter applying colours to the work of his life. Weekends are spent cleaning the house, putting touches here and there, moving things around to keep the place sprightly, and any shopping trip invariably yields another bargain ornament for this Christmas tree that is her castle.

Dad and I always tell her to take it easy with the housecare. It’s not like we throw parties every weekend (Mum would turn homicidal if that happens). But over the years we’ve grown to accept that as tiring as it looks for her sometimes, it’s simply another kind of leisure – like Ikebana, except you’re basically dressing up a pile of bricks.

All she asks is that we don’t get in the way.

Off to arctic New York tonight. Hoping for interesting stuff to blog about along the way.

 

The Handycam to Own All Handycams

A bunch of ridiculously good-looking 20-somethings with relationship issues throw a party at a trendy New York apartment before a giant sea monkey shows up to destroy the city.

This J.J. Abraham-produced flick is basically Godzilla meets Felicity seen from an insanely violent Handycam perspective. If you felt sick watching The Blair Witch Project, Cloverfield will make you barf up last week’s lunch.

Abraham’s intent for this movie is to create an American monster that taps into the fears of the present consciousness, much like how Godzilla – a radioactive, toxic lizard – was created soon after the Hiroshima bombing. Hence an 80-storey terrorist tearing up New York City. That’s Hollywood’s ‘Making Relevant Movies 101’ for you.

But – anything new in a genre movie is welcome these days and the relentless hand-held style gives the film a jolting, visceral energy that grabs you by the throat and tosses you around like a chew toy (if you like that kind of stuff…). And there are some decent scares too. The only real downer for me is the cast who project less credibility than a teenage celebrity blogger. Monster movies need regular Joes, not generically hip and absurdly gorgeous trust fund babies.

This is probably the only monster movie where the monster isn’t the star. Neither are the characters. The real hero here is the Handycam that provides the ‘first-person’ view for the entire movie. This baby is the Rambo of Handycams – able to withstand falling cities, artillery bombardments and sky-scraping monsters, not to mention having an incredible battery life.

It ain’t a phoney – it’s a Sony.

 

Charisma as Natural as Gravity

One night, as I’m standing on LaSalle Street in Chicago, trying to line up a shot for “The Dark Knight,” a production assistant skateboards into my line of sight. Silently, I curse the moment that Heath first skated onto our set in full character makeup. I’d fretted about the reaction of Batman fans to a skateboarding Joker, but the actual result was a proliferation of skateboards among the younger crew members. If you’d asked those kids why they had chosen to bring their boards to work, they would have answered honestly that they didn’t know. That’s real charisma—as invisible and natural as gravity. That’s what Heath had.

Heath was bursting with creativity. It was in his every gesture. He once told me that he liked to wait between jobs until he was creatively hungry. Until he needed it again. He brought that attitude to our set every day. There aren’t many actors who can make you feel ashamed of how often you complain about doing the best job in the world. Heath was one of them.

One time he and another actor were shooting a complex scene. We had two days to shoot it, and at the end of the first day, they’d really found something and Heath was worried that he might not have it if we stopped. He wanted to carry on and finish. It’s tough to ask the crew to work late when we all know there’s plenty of time to finish the next day. But everyone seemed to understand that Heath had something special and that we had to capture it before it disappeared. Months later, I learned that as Heath left the set that night, he quietly thanked each crew member for working late. Quietly. Not trying to make a point, just grateful for the chance to create that they’d given him.

Those nights on the streets of Chicago were filled with stunts. These can be boring times for an actor, but Heath was fascinated, eagerly accepting our invitation to ride in the camera car as we chased vehicles through movie traffic—not just for the thrill ride, but to be a part of it. Of everything. He’d brought his laptop along in the car, and we had a high-speed screening of two of his works-in-progress: short films he’d made that were exciting and haunting. Their exuberance made me feel jaded and leaden. I’ve never felt as old as I did watching Heath explore his talents. That night I made him an offer—knowing he wouldn’t take me up on it—that he should feel free to come by the set when he had a night off so he could see what we were up to.

When you get into the edit suite after shooting a movie, you feel a responsibility to an actor who has trusted you, and Heath gave us everything. As we started my cut, I would wonder about each take we chose, each trim we made. I would visualize the screening where we’d have to show him the finished film—sitting three or four rows behind him, watching the movements of his head for clues to what he was thinking about what we’d done with all that he’d given us. Now that screening will never be real. I see him every day in my edit suite. I study his face, his voice. And I miss him terribly.

Back on LaSalle Street, I turn to my assistant director and I tell him to clear the skateboarding kid out of my line of sight when I realize—it’s Heath, woolly hat pulled low over his eyes, here on his night off to take me up on my offer. I can’t help but smile.

- Christopher Nolan

 

© 2008 Newsweek, Inc.