Double Exposure: Phạm Thiên Ân and Kimi Takesue

Double Exposure

Double Exposure: Phạm Thiên Ân and Kimi Takesue

DOUBLEEXPOSURE

Double Exposure

BY

Ari-Duong Nguyen

Metrograph’s Double Exposure column, in which two filmmakers interview one another about the craft.

Phạm Thiên Ân films are playing now at Metrograph as part of Fire Over Water: Films of Transcendence. Kimi Takesue’s Onlookers screens as part of the same series, while the Kimi Takesue Showcase streams on Metrograph At Home from February 16.

Phạm Thiên Ân and Kimi Takesue both make cinema about, and for, the human search for meaning. Their work investigates what connections one can make with the world around, and inside, of them. 

In the NYC-based Takesue’s new, third feature Onlookers (2023), she meditates on the mixed desires unlocked by tourism, by observing travelers in Laos. Takesue employs stillness, accentuating the interactions between Laotian locals, sightseers, and their surroundings. Playing as part of the same series at Metrograph, Phạm’s Camera d’Or-winning feature debut Inside The Yellow Cocoon Shell (2023) follows thirtysomething Thiện, as he attempts to answer questions of faith through an odyssey into his past. If Takesue’s documentary is an excursion that reveals surprises at every checkpoint, Phạm’s fiction film resembles a durational stroll with an incredulous yet pensive guide, who ventures deeper and deeper into the realm of mystic possibilities and miraculous interventions. 

I hosted, and interpreted, a conversation between Takesue and Phạm on their respective features, as well as previous works like Takesue’s 95 And 6 To Go (2016), Where Are You Taking Me? (2010), and Phạm’s shorts Stay Awake, Be Ready (2019) and The Mute (2018). We discussed their common commitment to observational modes of filmmaking, their appreciation of everyday’s poetics, and their processes for constructing sublime cinematic worlds.—Ari-Duong Nguyen

onlookers journal

Onlookers (2023)

ARI-DUONG NGUYEN: I’m interested in the idea of slowness in both of your films. Kimi, you mentioned in one interview about Onlookers that you wish to give the audience time to watch each frame unfold. Your process seems to involve a lot of waiting, and observing, after each shot is composed, and viewers are invited to wait with you. Nothing is particularly slow about the actions shown, but we move from one scene to another patiently. For Ân’s film Inside the Yellow Cocoon, that the viewer is able to follow the camera’s movement creates a sense of slowness. Your plot also takes time to develop. There are similarities and differences in both of your approaches, which I’m curious to hear more about. 

KIMI TAKESUE: I work in an exploratory way where I’m responding to the environment. In the context of Onlookers, there’s nothing specific that I was after. I’m looking at everyday moments one might easily overlook, the poetry of little moments that we often bypass. When I’m traveling, my sight is really activated because it’s a new place; I can enjoy that form of intense observation, and of being really present, so that I, too, can see these moments.

In terms of structure, I think about those tableaux that almost replicate a postcard, static images where something unfolds within the frame. There’s a tension between naturalism and stylization. I have a very formal authored frame, but what is happening in that frame is completely spontaneous and unpredictable. I’m curious about how Ân approaches this tension—he’s working in fiction, whereas I’m working in documentary. But I think of these tableaux’ in reference to the French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, who talked a lot about “the decisive moment,” as decisive scenes where something particular unfolds. I let the entirety of that action unfold, and you as a viewer have the opportunity to really engage with the image. But it must have a kind of aesthetic precision. There’s content that I’m interested in, obviously, but aspects like choreography, light, color are so important, as they are in Ân’s films. For me, his camera moves through space a lot, instead of choreography within the frame like mine. 

PHẠM THIÊN ÂN: Thank you, Kimi, for your comparison. I resonate with what you said. In your film Onlookers, I find the spontaneity beautiful, always in the right place to reveal such impressive images. In my films, I favor scenes that allow me to do the same, like when Thiện encounters the bird in Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell. Or in my short Stay Awake, Be Ready, there was so much happening in the background, completely out of my control—I loved it. 

As I observe, I allow the audience a chance to observe with me, and to experience a world they haven’t known. Slow cinema allows me to create uniquely immersive worlds. Slowness creates mystery, allowing the audience to play detective, and encouraging them to go deeper, to seek something within this world. I found myself doing the same in Kimi’s film.

KT: I hope you can expand on the relationship between naturalism and stylization in your films, because they’re executed so beautifully in terms of framing and choreography. Yet you have a deep-seated sense of appreciation for real moments that feel authentic. That’s difficult to do in fiction, to find that balance between naturalism and the incredible aesthetic and stylization that you have, particularly in your use of the long take. 

stay awake

Stay Awake, Be Ready (2019)

PTA: After [making] my short films, I realized I navigate towards a direction both naturalistic and stylized, as you said. That possibly came from my experience as a wedding videographer. A wedding video needs authentic moments of the couple—they are not actors, so they just need to express that authentic emotion and I am there to “frame” it, creating a beautiful image. I experimented with that in my shorts, but there is more that is out of my control on the set of a feature film. I waited intensely for moments where the weather, people, animals, everything aligned. In my many takes of a scene, I only stopped reshooting once I found something sacred that could not be captured in any other take. 

KT: That balance is so delicate, and it’s so hard to successfully achieve without being pretentious. I think you do it beautifully.

ADN: Ân, speaking of weddings, I noticed that you often structure your narratives around a person’s life-altering moments, which we also see in The Mute and Stay Awake, Be Ready. The stories center around situations with heightened emotions: weddings, deaths, funerals, a lover’s rejection, accidents, family break-ups, etc. Yet, your focus is on the more mundane details, sometimes making these universal experiences seem mystical. 

PTA: That’s correct, I conceptualize my cinema as turning mundanity into something more grandiose. Like turning the pebbles on the side of the road into gold, or as the Bible verse goes: “The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; the Lord had done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” I observe people on the fringes of society, or a slice of a personal milestone, and seek in it a sense of empathy. It is hard to find empathy, for the contemporary world moves so rapidly. It is only accessible when we slow down. 

ADN: Kimi, I’m wondering if you can elaborate on your approach to making a cinematic portrait? While 95 And 6 To Go is a meticulous, intimate, and, at times, humorous portrait of your grandpa, Where Are You Taking Me? feels like a portrait of the Ugandan people at a very specific point in history. While portraits usually call into question the agency of the subject, and the filmmaker’s intentions towards them, in your films I can see your appreciation for the details of the subjects’ everyday lives, but I also came to love how present you are, especially when they’re shown reacting directly to you.  

KT: Like Ân, much of my interest in portraiture is guided by empathy and in giving attention to people who are often overlooked. This can even happen in one’s family. 95 And 6 To Go is a portrait of my Japanese American grandfather in Hawai’i who was a postal worker, and who I had underestimated in so many ways. Growing up, I always saw him as a pragmatic man lacking creativity, so I was shocked when he became interested in the screenplay I was writing and began generating clever ideas for the script. I began filming him; the camera became a catalyst for me to see him in his complexity.

Where Are You Taking Me? was filmed in Uganda, and in it I focus my attention on moments of everyday life that could easily be missed, and also highlight different aspects of the cross-cultural encounters, exploring the interplay between the observer and observed. I’m particularly interested in the communication that happens outside of language, and is conveyed through gesture, body language, and the gaze. I often show the ways that the returned gaze changes and evolves over time. For example, there’s a scene where a young man is calling out to potential customers for his minibus taxi. He notices me and at first gives me a flirtatious wink—then his reaction shifts to curiosity, slight annoyance, then boredom. I love to show the spectrum of human emotions and to implicate the viewer in the act of looking.

where are you taking me 2

Where Are You Taking Me? (2010)

ADN: In both of your recent features, you express a sense of wonder towards the world that urges the viewer to find symbolism in the smallest things. For example, how Kimi films the monks sweeping in Onlookers, or the women offering alms to the monk each morning: whatever chaos might happen in these conflicting worlds of tourists and locals, the offering of alms still appears like clockwork. Similarly, there are many moments of magic in Ân’s film, like the encounters with buffaloes, roosters, even the fish inside the bucket, which completely enchanted me.

KT: Going back to what Ân said about finding the sacred in the everyday, I think so much of what I’m seeking is those little moments that really do have something sacred about them. And yet, you’re trying to also not be heavy-handed, too symbolic. For me, I really appreciate those situations where I get to experience time differently, where I am able to observe intensely and be in time. [With the alms] It’s such a symbol of difference and beauty in terms of ritual, in terms of color, in terms of the grace of that act, in the morning, going through the process of gathering alms. I’m also completely seduced by that beauty because one cannot help but be an outsider. But I’m also critiquing the complications around the ways it can be fetishized, exoticized, commodified, turned into spectacle. Within the film, I try to show the counterpoints. Rather than focusing on the monks, I focus on the people who are waiting to give alms and what that reflects about the culture of patience and generosity. And, again, a kind of generosity of time. Visiting Laos, this was one of the things that made a great impact on me. 

PTA: In Kimi’s film, the contrast between the tourists and the locals appears so gently. Similarly, I never place heavy emphasis on the symbolism of my images. They happen by accident mainly, mostly unscripted. I start living with the characters when I began filming; I try to look in places that the character would go to, for images and symbols that make an impression on me because of their proximity to the characters’ worlds. 

Kimi, I’m wondering, in Onlookers, what made you decide to stop and set the camera to wait? And did the set-up of your camera need camouflage? I felt there were barely any curious looks? 

KT: Onlookers was shot over two different trips to Laos, each visit about four weeks long. I never conceal myself while filming, and I include moments when people look back at me and into the camera. Through these shifting “chains of looking,” the audience is reminded of their gaze as an onlooker, too. I work in a fairly inconspicuous way since I am shooting alone with a small camera. This intimate form of filmmaking lends itself to unique encounters, particularly with children, who are equally curious about me. On one hand, this style of filmmaking is a quiet form of mediation, but it is also incredibly stimulating because so much unpredictability is unfurling before my eyes. The film comprises vignettes that work like paintings in motion and all the aesthetic elements must cohere: color, light. composition, choreography, and content. And when this happens, it is magic.  

Ari-Duong Nguyen is a Vietnamese independent film writer and curator based in Brooklyn.

the mute 1

The Mute (2018)