Shirkers

When I was 18, a long time ago now,

I had the idea that you found freedom by building worlds inside your head.

That you had to go backwards in order to go forwards.

That little kids had the answers to everything.

When I was 18, I had so many ideas,

I hardly slept at all.

In the summer of 1992,

my friends and I shot a road movie on the streets of Singapore...

that was to become a kind of urban legend.

That movie was called Shirkers,

a word which means "running away,

avoiding responsibility,

escape."

I wrote the script and played the heroine,

a 16-year-old killer named S.

Nobody was making movies like that in Singapore.

So, we were pioneers.

The film was a time capsule of a Singapore

that was both real and imaginary.

Back then, the thing I wanted more than anything was to make a movie.

But I never imagined it would end this way.

Twenty-five years later, I find myself on a strange backward journey,

replaying the past for clues.

Okay, I listened to your tape that you did in your room.

I loved it. I like being your best friend.

You're my best friend.

I like knowing that you're around.

I like knowing that we're connected,

that we're partners in crime.

Make me another tape, please.

I miss you.

I learned to stop thinking about that time...

to pretend it never happened...

which was, of course, impossible.

Shirkers became a secret history,

shared by a small group of us.

And it would haunt us

and bond us

and tear us apart.

- Whenever you're ready. - Now.

Jasmine and I were enemies before we were friends.

You thought I was an enemy, but I don't know if I thought you were an enemy.

Uh, yeah.

We stayed enemies until we were 14.

When we were growing up in the 1980s...

the state and the family were constantly in your face.

Singapore was so uptight, its government even banned chewing gum.

If Americans believe they are exceptional,

let me tell you,

Singaporeans know we are exceptional.

A sweaty little island in 1965,

Singapore became one of the richest countries in the world by the year 2000.

When Jasmine and I were 14,

we discovered unusual movies and unpopular music.

And as weirdos, we became best friends.

We came from very different backgrounds...

but we were thick as thieves.

My family was intense.

My parents' marriage was collapsing even before I was born,

and so I was raised by my grandparents.

When it rained, our front lawn looked like chocolate milk.

In 1981, my grandfather insisted on having these pictures taken...

because his beloved house was about to be torn down.

In 1985, the house was replaced by this condo.

It still flooded, but it was no longer chocolate milk.

I was always expected to shine.

Which was exhausting.

I needed a way out.

So, of course, I liked Jasmine's family.

They were warm and undemanding

and didn't care if we built crazy shrines in Jasmine's room.

We had the God of Theater...

and the Goddess of Scriptwriting.

We showed up at school dressed up as nurses.

And I challenged the authorities at the Film Society.

Dear Sandi: We will certainly try to acquire the films you've requested.

I desperately wanted to make movies.

I gave imaginary interviews as imaginary filmmakers.

Hi, I would like to share with you my movie

Magic Fire Brain, which, uh, is completely original.

There were lots of crowd scenes.

I read American Film and Film Comment religiously.

But it was impossible to see these movies unless I got very creative.

I established a clandestine videotaping syndicate

with my cousin Vicki in Florida...

just so I could watch Blue Velvet.

Jasmine and I devoured what people around us ignored.

We started writing for BigO,

Singapore's underground rock zine, when we were 14.

BigO was run by Philip Cheah, in all his poker-faced glory,

and he would make us tapes of Patti Smith and The Velvet Underground

and quiz us on them before he would let us join their club.

In Singapore, you had very strict censorship across music and film.

A lot of the great classic albums were still banned.

We saw the revolution that took place in the UK and in the US,

and we wondered whether that could actually happen here.

We created elaborate collages for BigO,

which they all hated.

I think we were way too punk for them.

They were a lame boy's club anyway.

So it was always us...

against the world.

Our greatest achievement was publishing our own zine, The Exploding Cat...

on the photocopier at the National Library.

Exploding Cat was our attempt to catalog everything that angered us,

that made us laugh.

The Cat became its own thing.

We received letters from New York, London...

Paris, Jerusalem,

even prisons in three different states.

Above all...

it was a catalog of us.

Me,

my friends,

our tiny island in the center of the world,

charting our own destiny...

in 1989.

The next story is chapter 39.

Hang on, just one more thing.

Back in those days, I was obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye...

and Salinger's idea of saving children.

So I trained my baby cousins to never grow up.

...people talk.

- Wen... - Yes.

Say something.

I'm going to color.

Or if they had to grow up, to grow up different.

"Hysterical" was superior to "ordinary."

I hate you.

Even "depressed" was superior to "ordinary."

You no good mangy mutt!

You're stupid.

A long time ago, in early '91, we took the filmmaking class,

probably the first filmmaking class available here.

In this classroom and the adjoining classroom as well.

So there was a whole bunch of us, you, me,

a whole strange assortment of persons.

Our teacher was Georges Cardona, a man of unplaceable age and origin.

I think we ought to make a film about the guy

who measures the visibility in Singapore.

He projected himself to be an American filmmaker,

and was there to teach us, impressionable 18, 19 year-olds,

about film production in Singapore.

We met Sophie at the class.

She was so nice and stable and trustworthy.

I wasn't sure she would make a good friend.

Georges brought the three of us,

Sophie, Jasmine and me into his inner circle.

Cecilia runs a video bordello.

My impression of Georges, uh,

first and foremost, was his eyes, very metallic.

It was almost ice, icy blue.

He spoke in a very slow, calm, measured tones.

And I just remember, even at that point,

this kind of dissonance, you know,

the eyes seemed so cold

but his demeanor seemed so warm.

And he had this ability

that when he spoke to you,

you felt that you were his sole focus.

Georges was like no other adult I knew in Singapore.

He liked to just sit and watch the light change.

He took us to shoot colorful Hindu festivals

that my family would have found frightening.

He talked about movies the way I wanted to talk about movies.

He loved the French New Wave.

And soon, so did I.

When the film class ended at nine or ten at night...

we would drive around the island with Georges.

We kept him out late, even though we knew he had a wife and a baby

waiting for him at home.

- And I barked. -

Can you hear the crickets?

We went looking for ideas.

We went looking for wild dogs.

Bang!

Were you rolling?

Yeah.

Sandi, I didn't know you were into this.

Oh, stop it! I'm not in the mood tonight.

Nice soundtrack.

Hurry up.

We're speaking loudly.

And all the lovers are sort of aggravated with us and they have cleared the area.

He was my first friend who was a grown man.

He picked us.

But he let us feel like we picked him.

Those night drives bled into my dreams.

Of course I wanted to make a road movie.

Instead, I went away to a strange, cold place.

England.

I thought I would find my tribe.

But I had left them.

Jasmine went to New York...