1   Life on a String (by Chen KaiGe, 1991)

      On April 27 in 1992, I asked ten of my classmates to watch a film at the Capitol Theatre. That year, I had for some reason joined a scriptwriting workshop.

      As the course concluded, it so happened that the “International Film Festival” had begun, and cinemas across the city buzzed with the screening of almost a hundred films, united by the spirit of collaboration, sharing venues, and creating a season of excitement.

      The films came from all corners of the globe, measured not by commercial success but by their distinctive styles and personalities. Among my companions were both older and younger peers, with my age falling right in the middle. Naturally, the task of purchasing tickets and organizing fell to me.

      Chen Kai Ge's “Life on a String” was one of the few Chinese films on the program, and since our workshop was conducted in Chinese, attending a Chinese film seemed only fitting. After some discussion, we agreed to meet at the theatre at eight-thirty to collect tickets, settle the payments, and exchange greetings.

      On regular days in the classroom, everyone rushed in and out. It was touching to see that despite not being particularly close, the majority of my classmates showed up on time that evening, except for one. In an era before mobile phones were commonplace, I hesitated, pondering whether to wait for the last classmate or to move on without her. What should I do with the extra ticket in my hand?

      By nine o'clock, the crowd at the entrance had dissipated. I decided to forfeit the ticket.

      As I peered inside, an old man and a young boy, both blind, stumbled along a yellowed path on the screen. The audience lights had dimmed, and in that enveloping darkness, I moved my feet in rhythm with the film's blind characters.

      Finding my seat, I settled in as a youthful, yet stubborn voice pierced the silence:

    “When the 1000th string breaks,
     open the hidden drawer.
     When the drawer opens,
     take the prescription.

     Show the prescription,

     receive the herbs,

     See the world

     with your eyes wide.”

      

      Days passed in a clumsy dance of hardships. When they reached nine hundred and ninety-nine broken strings, the mischievous boy used a slingshot to break the last string for the old man. The next day, the old man excitedly went to the market to buy medicine, only to be told by the shopkeeper, “Where's the prescription? This is just a blank piece of paper!”

      The old man, bewildered, returned to the village, but still he rewarded his apprentice with a large kite……

      What message does “Life on a String” convey? Or what does Chen Kaige wish to express through Shi Tiesheng's novel under the same title? Is there an intrinsic connection to Maeterlinck's play “The Blind”? Did it draw inspiration from something, and where does it transcend? I found myself immersed in the film's atmosphere of existential despair, unable to shake it off.

      As the screening approached midnight, my classmates hurried to catch the last bus. No one lingered for a late-night snack or deeper conversation.

      I've always been somewhat slow to grasp things, both significant and trivial. In my haze, even when I caught fleeting insights, I hesitated to confirm them, often seeking the wisdom of those around me.

      “Did you enjoy this story?” I asked a classmate on the way to the bus station.
     “It was okay.”
     “What moved you most about the film?”
     “Well...… the Chinese girl was beautiful.”

      Ah, he was referring to the lead actress, Xu Qing. I was taken aback by his response, momentarily speechless.

      In 1985, Shi Tiesheng finished writing “Life is Like a String.”
     From 1987 to 1990, Chen Kaige studied in the United States.
     In 1989, the Tiananmen Square incident shook Beijing.
     By 1991, Chen Kai Ge completed shooting “Life on a String”, but at the time, it was not officially screened in China.

      Can this chronological order help us clarify our thoughts and grasp the film's essence? What does the director want us to believe? What should we no longer believe? Or what must we still believe?

      The bus arrived, and I hopped on, concluding our gathering—perhaps it was a farewell of sorts. After that night, my classmates and I no longer met up.

      Nonetheless, on the tiny island of Singapore, each person's fate arrived effortlessly. The classmate who remarked, “The Chinese girl is beautiful,” soon left for Beijing to study film production. Another earned a PhD and became a university lecturer, while one became a renowned journalist, and the one who didn't show up became a steadfast columnist for a local newspaper...…

      As for me, I remain unchanged, seeing the world like a blind person, whistling as I walk my path through my life.

2   Eternity

      The Capitol is more than just a cinema. From May 25 to 31, 2018, the theatre transformed into a book fair exhibition hall. At the fair, I purchased “Eternity” and received a ticket for a lecture. On June 14, the theatre became the stage for Long Yingtai's reader meeting for “Eternity.”

      I had been reading Long Yingtai's works for quite some time.
    In “Wildfire” (written in 1985), I discovered the vigor and courage of youth.
      In “Dear André” (written in 2007), I encountered the honest exchanges between a modern mother and son.
     In “The Great River and Sea of 1949” (written in 2009), I grasped the silence of ordinary individuals beneath the blaring horns of “politically correct” rhetoric.

      At the start of the meeting, Long Yingtai skilfully warmed up the crowd, asking everyone about their memories of the Capitol Theatre.

      The design by a British architectural firm laid the foundation for Neoclassicism. Looking up, the main colours of gold and green, along with the intricate ceiling reliefs, revealed the Persian heritage of the original owner, businessman Namazie. The Capitol Theatre, inspired by New York's Roxy Theatre, opened its doors in 1930, boasting 1,600 seats and standing out as a gem among Southeast Asia's cinemas.

      Long Yingtai continued to guide the audience in reminiscing about the films they had watched here. Responses flooded in:
     “Kingdom and the Beauty”
     “The One-Armed Swordsman!”
     “007!” ...…

      In the 1960s and 70s, watching movies was a popular pastime. I too watched films, though mostly at small theatres showing a couple of screenings near my home. I envied the students from nearby prestigious schools like RI, St. Joseph's, and St. Nicholas, who frequently visited the Capitol for movies.

      Reflecting on my past, I wondered: what was the first film I watched at the Capitol?

      Suddenly, the Pegasus reliefs on the columns flanked me, propelling me into a tunnel of memories. In 1973, while in high school, our class monitor organized a trip to see “Don Quixote.” We had just studied the Renaissance in history class, learning about Cervantes, “Don Quixote,” and humanism. So, after class, a group of us marched into the theatre, completing a rapid literary overview.

      The “Don Quixote” I watched that year was a musical film, featuring the titular character on a gaunt horse, brandishing a lance against windmills, while a chubby servant followed obediently, and the heroine sang high notes, flaunting her curves. For us simple schoolkids, it was less entertainment and more a challenge to our sensibilities. I couldn't comprehend the ironic plot, the chivalrous spirit, the film's earthy style, or the undertones of a tragicomedy. I entered in a daze and left in a blur, but I felt enlightened, having stepped into a grand theatre and seen the world.

      At the venue, Long Yingtai gently led us in reading excerpts from “Eternity”, her new book written in 2018.  I had already finished the book before entering this gathering. Tonight felt like accompanying a prince in reading, and I found it rather dull. While observing how Long Yingtai advanced the event, my mind wandered elsewhere, reflecting on my own thoughts. The modern person's greed often manifests as multitasking.

      “Eternity” carries the subtitle “A Letter to Meijun,” and I was curious: Is it so common in the West for children to call their parents by their first names? When did this trend begin? What societal psyche does it reflect?

      Quietly, I began scrolling through my phone, gazing into the distant scenery...…

      “The whole world can call me by my name, but I have only two children who can call me 'Mom.' If they also called me by my name, I would feel so defeated.”

      “I only shout 'Mom' when I get lost in a department store. My voice is too similar to other children; otherwise, my mom wouldn't find me.”

      “I call my father by his name because he doesn't deserve to be called Dad."

      “Only parents who cannot communicate well with their children expect to change their approach to achieve their goals.”

      ...…

      Reading these amusing and varied opinions, I couldn't help but chuckle, perfectly syncing with the laughter resonating throughout the venue.

      At this moment, Long Yingtai had finished distributing her gifts, and it was time for questions……

      I genuinely wanted to ask her whether she called her mother Meijun before or after her mother suffered from severe dementia.

      In Western society, the habit of children calling their parents by their first names is not an inherent tradition. Currently, amid the rise of liberalism, some families practice such norms, but it is not unusual. However, the initiators are typically the parents, and it should be a mutual agreement. Having been steeped in Eastern traditions, would Meijun accept such an arrangement? Otherwise, these letters would merely end up as the author expressed: “Unread”, “Unanswered.”

      In the audience, I refrained from raising my hand to ask. Not every matter requires a confrontational approach, and not every question has a single prescription. 

      Understanding the cultural differences and varying perspectives allows for reflection and learning. Raising a hand to ask is a choice, but not doing so is also a choice. In the balance of choices, it’s essential to consider harmony and understanding.

      The refurbished Capitol Theatre remains elegant. As I slowly descended the stairs, I was pulled in by a wave of quantum entanglement, and I recited aloud from my high school texts……

    “The Way that can be told is not the eternal Way.
     The Name that can be named is not the eternal Name.
     The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth;
     The named is the mother of all.
     Observe without desire,
     to see the hidden mystery;
     Observe with desire,
     to understand the manifestation.
     Two of the same but differ in name

     View both angles to see the whole.”

3    Don Quixote

      After Raffles came into the picture, the banks of the Singapore River were filled with warehouses and commercial hubs. The colonial government, from a defensive perspective, chose Fort Canning to establish the governor's residence, which became the administrative centre.  

      Chinatown, Little India, and Kampong Glam each housed communities of Chinese, Indians, and Malays. The Capitol Theatre was not situated in a commercial centre or within a residential community.                   

      Geographically, it resembled a stopover, allowing people pause to sip a cup of coffeewhile commuting between their homes and workplaces. With so many prestigious schools nearby, perhaps it was a similar consideration. It neither wasted valuable commercial land nor overlooked the overlapping areas of diverse communities for educational purposes, easing government administrative management.

      I was a child born in the countryside, growing up in the outskirts of Singapore. I attended schools far from the city, rarely “going into town”. Among these rare, once in a year occasions was just before school started.When I walked to Bata's main store next to the Capitol Theatre to buy a new pair of shoes, which was my sole purpose. The other was on Chinese New Year's Eve when the whole family visited Chinatown's new year market. Regardless of whether I bought shoes or strolled through the market, the bus would always pass by the Capitol Theatre. Yet, I had never asked my parents for tickets to see a movie. Why? Beyond understanding my parents' modest income, I likely felt an overwhelming sense of inferiority in front of the grandiose Capitol Theatre.

      However, I held an unquenchable curiosity about the schools nearby. The castle-like buildings were surrounded by low walls, and although there were many entrances, they remained tightly shut. Occasionally, I would catch glimpses of girls with impeccably styled hair and boys with confidence striding briskly outside the walls, whether poised or graceful, and I felt a surge of admiration. I genuinely marvelled at the distinct aura of students nurtured by prestigious schools.

      Years later, I discovered a city dweller lurking beside me and promptly asked, “Do you often go to the Capitol to watch movies after class?”

      The city dweller replied, “From the lab window, I can see giant movie advertisements. I see them every day. As for others, I don't know; my dad is strict. After school, I’m immediately taken home. There isno freedom at all!”

      St. Nicholas School, particularly the city within a city, was a boys' domain. In the 1960s, I was allowed to enter the city without disguise for a music theory exam. But on exam day, while checking the bulletin board for my name, time slipped away, and I hardly observed the campus.

      On Children's Day in fifth grade, I “went into town” again. The teacher appointed me as a goodwill ambassador to deliver cookies to an orphanage. However, stretching my neck and glancing around, I could only see the mottled shadows of the trees in the courtyard. The peeling gray walls inside and outside seemed scarcely different.

      Was there anything fun in the city within a city?

      An old girl who used to study at St. Nicholas remarked: “ Don't think it that way.

      Even we city folks have many forbidden areas. The students taking English as a first language had more priority compared to the students who took Chinese as their first language. The teachers restricted us the use of their facilities. The Nuns had their own convents, and the orphanage had its boundaries too. Looking back, there wasn’t much fun at all.”

      I was startled! Was this a reflection of Qian Zhongshu's “Fortress Besieged”?

      Words. Novels. Images. Films. Reality. Sometimes organic, sometimes chaotic, sometimes overlapping, sometimes deconstructed, sometimes transformed..….

      When did I unwittingly step into this picture, becoming Don Quixote?