This year at the London Film Festival, Stranger Eyes emerged as a compelling embodiment of three prevalent themes – not just within the festival but across some of the most significant films of 2024. Like a cinematic crossroads, it crystallised the year’s broad concerns into a single, resonant narrative.

The films of 2024 may well be remembered for their focus on duality – split lives, fragmented narratives, and parallel existences. This theme of duality often appears as two sides of the same coin: contrasting atmospheres that either complement or obscure one another, surfaces that differ yet serve similar purposes, or stories that intertwine and transform like a process of metamorphosis. Titles such as Kinds of Kindness (Yorgos Lanthimos), The Substance (Coralie Fargeat), Marco, the Invented Truth (Jon Garaño and Aitor Arregi), Grand Tourer (Miguel Gomes), Caught the Tides (Jia Zhangke), Anora (Sean Baker), Emilia Pérez (Jacques Audiard), Nickel Boys (RaMell Ross), Trika (Milko Lazarov), Aïcha (Mehdi Barsaoui), When Fall Comes (François Ozon), and Universal language (Matthew Rankin) take on these ideas with depth and nuance, offering audiences layered, thought-provoking narratives.

At the same time, a second thread weaves through many of these films: the contagious nature of emotions, horrors, depression, or violence. These forces ripple from one person to another – even stretching across generations. The chilling effect of this theme is on display in films like Hard Truths (Mike Leigh), Smile 2 (Parker Finn), Cloud and Chime (both directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa), I Saw the TV Glow (Jane Schoenbrun), Longlegs (Oz Perkins), and The Surfer (Lorcan Finnegan).

Finally, a third recurring motif is entrapment – an ominous aura that ensnares characters in seemingly unavoidable fates. In several of these films, protagonists are bound by circumstances beyond their control, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and inevitability.

In Stranger Eyes, directed by Singaporean filmmaker Yeo Siew Hua, the themes of voyeurism and surveillance assume centre stage, portrayed not merely as invasive or addictive but as inherently contagious phenomena that complement the broader motifs mentioned earlier. Its characters are initially subjects of voyeuristic observation but gradually become voyeurs themselves. They are watched, and they begin to watch; their lives reflect and distort each other, creating a cyclical dynamic that blurs the boundaries between observer and observed. This interplay underscores how deeply interwoven the acts of watching and being watched can become, encapsulating the unsettling power of these intertwined gazes.

Cinema’s history has been interlaced with the themes of voyeurism and surveillance since its earliest days. The act of observing – whether revelatory, thrilling, or inevitably destructive – has been masterfully depicted in films such as Rear Window (Alfred Hitchcock), Blow Out (Brian De Palma), The Lives of Others (Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck), Peeping Tom (Michael Powell), The Conversation (Francis Ford Coppola), and Red (Krzysztof Kieślowski).

By its very nature, the medium invites audiences to peer into lives, moments, and emotions from a safe distance, making voyeurism a fundamental part of its narrative fabric. Indeed, at times, voyeurism and surveillance have formed the very essence of cinematic storytelling. Beyond that, cinema serves as a mirror – reflecting our desires, ambitions, and shortcomings. It critiques our actions, challenges our achievements, and offers a space for introspection and self-awareness.

Stranger Eyes

Above all, it is the observant eyes of visionary filmmakers – those who meticulously study and understand the subtleties of human behaviour, relationships, and interactions – that allow cinema to truly resonate with audiences. Through the lens of these perceptive detectives of human nature, our lives are transformed into stories. Directors like Éric Rohmer, Mike Leigh, Woody Allen, Jacques Tati, and Hong Sang-soo excel in this craft. Their films capture characters and situations so authentic and familiar that we feel as though we are watching our own lives unfold – albeit through the stranger’s eyes of an artist who sees more deeply than we ever could.

Yeo Siew Hua is a keen observer deeply immersed in the history of cinema. While his fascination with thrillers and detective stories is evident in the atmospheres he creates, his cinephilic passion extends far beyond recreating familiar genre tropes. Drawing inspiration from cinema’s history and its unique capacity to mirror society, he uses the medium as a tool for critical reflection on both personal and national narratives.

His debut feature, A Land Imagined, which won the golden Leopard award at the Locarno Film Festival 2018, solidifies his reputation as an emerging director who leverages the intrinsic qualities of cinema. In A Land Imagined, Yeo employs a Lynchian atmosphere, using the framework of a detective story to gradually shift into a surreal and dreamlike exploration. What begins as a thriller transforms into an introspection of labour conditions and the complex socio-economic structures underpinning modern Singapore. What makes A Land Imagined particularly fascinating is its ability to feel almost like a documentary in certain moments, capturing the stark realities of life in Singapore. At the same time, it shifts seamlessly into a cinematic and surreal realm, blurring the line between reality and imagination. Ultimately, the film is not just about Singapore as a nation but also about the individuals who physically and metaphorically built it, giving a voice to those often overlooked in the city-state’s narrative.

Similar to A Land Imagined, Stranger Eyes initially presents itself as a genre film, telling the story of a family searching for an abducted child while following a suspect. However, as the film unfolds, it transcends the surface-level thrills of a genre study, exploring the effects of surveillance, human vulnerability, and existential questions about parenting and loneliness. The movie’s shifting perspectives, pervasive sense of entrapment, and vague atmosphere evoke comparisons to the works of directors such as Hitchcock and Lynch, echoing their influence and the conventions of classic thrillers.

Yet Stranger Eyes – like A Land Imagined – moves beyond the shadow of these prominent directors. It also reveals the impact of Far East Asian filmmakers such as Wong Kar-wai, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, and Tsai Ming-liang. This fusion of Eastern and Western cinematic traditions enriches the film’s thematic depth and visual style. 

The casting of Kang-sheng Lee as one of the main characters underscores Yeo Siew Hua’s deep study and appreciation of Tsai’s films. Lee’s performance, paired with Yeo’s nuanced approach to surveillance, avoids the clichéd portrayal of a “creepy stalker.” Instead, there’s a profound loneliness about his character, as if his actions are driven by a deeper recognition – perhaps seeing his own past reflected in the young couple he observes. His surveillance feels less like an intrusion and more like a cautionary act, almost as though he’s silently warning them: “Be careful, don’t repeat the mistakes I made.” The turning point of the story occurs when this character first encounters the younger man in a store and begins following him, seemingly drawn to something hauntingly familiar. Observing the couple forces the older man to confront his regrets, and his recordings take on a new purpose – a message meant to prevent others from repeating his fate.

A Land Imagined

Given the remarkable promise demonstrated in his two films, I was eager to explore the mind behind these captivating stories. At just 39 years old, Yeo Siew Hua currently resides in Buenos Aires, Argentina, although his projects often draw him back to East Asia. I had the privilege of speaking with him about his cinematic journey, the ideas fuelling his work, and the international cast and crew that help bring his visionary narratives to life.

What makes Stranger Eyes truly compelling is its resolution. By the end, the younger man seems to understand the silent warning. He reconnects with his wife, breaking what feels like a generational cycle of disconnection and loneliness. In this way, the act of watching becomes deeply meaningful – it transforms into a lesson and a tool for growth. The cycle of isolation is broken, offering hope for the next generation, symbolised by their daughter. He stands out as one of the rare characters in 2024 films who might be able to break these flawed cycles. At the very least, he observes carefully, learns from his and others’ experiences, and applies those lessons – a quality that I find truly aspirational.

That is my wish, and I hope it’s not just wishful thinking. By watching a film like this, and perhaps cinema in general, I feel a glimmer of hope that through these stories, we might find reflections of our struggles or even spark thoughts that inspire us to explore solutions to the miseries we face in our world. In that sense, Stranger Eyes isn’t just a film; it’s an invitation to see more clearly and, perhaps, to live more empathetically.

– H.S.

Your films, Stranger Eyes and A Land Imagined, reflect a deep cinephilic appreciation for storytelling, incorporating elements reminiscent of iconic filmmakers and diverse genres. The influence of David Lynch is clearly evident in both of your films. Stranger Eyes evokes the suspense of Hitchcock’s Rear Window, the psychological intrigue of Haneke’s Cache, and elements from Nolan’s Following. Additionally, it contains echoes of Kieślowski’s A Short Film About Love and Hitchcockian voyeurism, reinterpreted through Brian De Palma’s Body Double, and even traces of Andrea Arnold’s Red Road. What motivated your entry into filmmaking, and how have these influences shaped your creative vision and artistic approach?

My interest in filmmaking has been moulded by a combination of early passion and a slightly different academic path. After completing film school at the local polytechnic, I pursued my further studies in philosophy at the National University of Singapore. Allowing me the space to investigate more deeply into the human condition, which I believe influenced my approach to storytelling. You’ll find a certain line of questioning in my films; about the world and the themes I explore. 

You’re definitely not the first to notice the myriad other films Stranger Eyes seems to allude to, even though it’s not really a conscious decision but I guess it’s not important if it’s conscious or not. What struck me most was how cinema has always been fascinated with the voyeur and themes of surveillance. It isn’t anything new except that I’m part of this ongoing conversation, placing these ideas in the current context.

A Land Imagined

We live in a time of unprecedented surveillance, where the act of watching and being watched has become deeply part of our daily rituals. This is a moment unlike anything we have experienced before as a civilisation. I’m interested in exploring what this constant state of being monitored and observed is doing to us as individuals and also as a society. Conversely, we ourselves are watching each other more than ever before because of social media and I am deeply concerned with what this constant watching of others is doing to us as well. I guess these films that came before mine were interested in these topics too but they weren’t living in a time when everyone is carrying a camera in their pockets.

In Stranger Eyes, you explore the dynamic of watching and being watched – this act of observing and being observed, which is deeply intrinsic to the nature of cinema itself. The theme of voyeurism in your work, juxtaposed with the general art of cinema and the enjoyment of watching movies, is not only addictive but also contagious. It extends beyond mere observation; it becomes a mirror that reflects aspects of ourselves…

You’re absolutely right, and I’m really glad you picked up on that point. I’ve always believed that the act of watching others is fundamentally tied to self-discovery. As human beings, we’re inherently intersubjective; we understand ourselves not in isolation but through our relationships and interactions with others. For me, the most profound self-discovery happens when we encounter “the other.” It’s not just about self-reflection in a vacuum, which will only spiral towards a closed loop of introspection.

I try to blur the boundaries between identities, exploring the porousness of those borders. It’s a theme I’ve been grappling with for a long time – how we define ourselves in relation to others and the complexity that emerges from that dynamic.

Both A Land Imagined and Stranger Eyes use shifting perspectives to explore the story from multiple angles, moving between characters to reveal their motivations and lives. For instance, A Land Imagined focuses on the victims – the migrant workers – while offering only glimpses into the detective’s personal life, whereas Stranger Eyes transitions between the grieving family, the obsessive watcher, and the victim. Was this approach to shifting perspectives intentional, and did you aim to highlight certain characters to underscore the themes of each film?

The investigator, for me, has always been a surrogate for the audience. They serve as an entry point, someone the viewers can easily relate to. I’m acutely aware that my primary audience tends to be from the middle or upper-middle class – people who can afford to go to the cinema. In that sense, the investigator embodies their perspective, someone stepping into a world that is often unfamiliar or distant from their own experiences.

I seek to use that surrogate to bridge the gap between the audience and “the other.” In A Land Imagined, for instance, the investigator’s journey is not so much about uncovering the mystery of the plot as it is about immersing the audience into the lives of migrant workers – people who are often overlooked, both in society and in cinema. For me, the investigator doesn’t need to be a deeply complex character because their role is to guide us into this other world.

A Land Imagined

With Stranger Eyes, shifting perspectives is what I intend. For me, it’s essential not to present the audience with the illusion of a complete picture, because we never truly see the full story from a single point of view. We often project our own experiences, biases, and assumptions onto what we observe. That’s a central theme in my work – the idea that we think we see everything, but in reality, we see very little. Our understanding is always fragmented, filtered through our own lens.

I feel like today we’ve replaced the act of watching with scrolling, thinking we know people based on snapshots of their lives. But that’s clearly superficial. In Stranger Eyes, I wanted to create an experience that exercises patience and observation. The film challenges the audience to engage with the shifting points of view and also changing modes of storytelling. It’s an invitation to slow down, to see and to confront the limitations of our own perspective.

Let’s start with A Land Imagined, a pivotal project in your career, especially since it won the Golden Leopard at Locarno. What fascinates me about the film is how it explores a lesser-seen side of Singapore – one that might be unfamiliar to audiences outside the country. You highlight the lives of foreign labourers who are literally building the nation yet exist on its margins. There’s also a poignant moment in the film where a character describes Singapore’s “soul” as being pieced together from parts of other countries, like Korea and China, which is a powerful metaphor for how the country itself has been constructed. As a Singaporean filmmaker, what inspired you to tell this story? 

I’ve always been deeply interested in ideas of nationhood and territories. The title A Land Imagined itself references Benedict Anderson’s concept of imagined communities, which has always been something I’ve reflected on. As someone living in Singapore, I’ve witnessed firsthand how the country is a constructed entity in many ways. When I was younger, much of the land we now occupy didn’t even exist – it used to be sea. The very ground we stand on has been created through land reclamation, and this transformation has always fascinated me.

Singapore is a country built beyond natural boundaries, territorial limits, and even demographic realities. Its demographic makeup is itself a construct, shaped by policies that intentionally created a multiracial and multicultural society. In many ways, Singapore is entirely imagined – an idea that someone conceptualised and then brought into existence. That was the starting point for A Land Imagined. I wanted to make a film that was almost entirely shot on reclaimed land, exploring these constructed spaces that symbolise Singapore’s ongoing reinvention of itself.

During my research, I visited various sites of land reclamation, both new and old, and that’s where I encountered the migrant workers. They were the ones working on this “imported” land, shaping and building it. Over two years, I spent time visiting them every week, getting to know them, listening to their stories, and gaining a deeper understanding of their world. These encounters profoundly influenced the direction of the film. Singapore doesn’t just import land – it also imports labour to build that land. This dual process of importing both land and people to construct the country was a powerful metaphor for me, and it became central to the film’s narrative.

The stories the migrant workers shared with me – their living conditions, their struggles, their exploitation – moved me deeply. It became clear that they were the true protagonists of this story. While the film begins with an investigator, the role of the detective is more of a narrative device, a way to guide the audience into this world. The real heart of the story belongs to the migrant workers, who make up 20-25% of Singapore’s population. They are an integral part of the nation, yet their contributions and struggles often go unseen.

As someone from Iran, where the economy is struggling, I’ve often heard Singapore cited as an inspiring example of what a nation can achieve – how it transitioned from humble beginnings to becoming one of the most progressive and flourishing economies in the world. However, as your film poignantly shows, every form of progress comes with a price. It seems that, for any civilization to rise, there are others – whether individuals or communities – that are sacrificed along the way.

Your film highlights something universal about the way nations develop and progress – how their foundations are often built on the labour and sacrifice of marginalised communities, particularly immigrants. This history has repeated itself in various parts of the world. For instance, if we look at the construction of the FIFA World Cup stadiums in Qatar, the parallels to A Land Imagined are striking. Similarly, we see echoes of this in countries like South Korea and China, where rapid development has often come at a significant human cost. Even in cinema, other filmmakers have touched on this theme, emphasising the sacrifices made for the sake of progress.

What resonated deeply with me in your film is this idea that Singapore’s impressive development, much like that of other nations, rests on the unseen and often unacknowledged labour of those who are marginalised. The soil itself, metaphorically and literally, seems to be built upon the backs of people who vanish into obscurity, exploited and discarded in the process. This idea feels both deeply specific to Singapore and strikingly universal. Would you say that this tension between progress and human cost is central to your work, and do you see this dynamic as something inherent to all modern development?

I think you are onto something. In the film, we discover a body in the sand which plays on the metaphor of a burial – of the unseen and unacknowledged labourers being buried in the very land they work on. This idea of the burial, or covering up in layers of history, is very central to the critique in A Land Imagined.

The metaphor of the sand – of people being buried in the very soil they help create – is central to the film’s critique as it speaks to how prospering nations are often built on the exploitation of the impoverished, the invisible labour of those who remain marginalised. This is a harsh truth about development: the cost is often hidden, buried beneath the surface, so that only the flourishing exterior is visible.

A Land Imagined

Singapore is often seen as a model of progress and prosperity, and in many ways, it is. But there’s another side to that story, one that is rarely acknowledged. Many Singaporeans themselves have never been to the industrial west of the country where I shot the film. This area, devoid of local residents, is home to migrant workers living in harsh and overcrowded dormitories. When I was there, I felt like the foreigner – it’s a part of Singapore where even many locals never step foot.

The conditions I saw there were shocking and starkly at odds with the image of a sophisticated, cosmopolitan Singapore. That dissonance – the contrast between the polished exterior and the hidden reality – was something I wanted to confront in the film. For many Singaporeans who watched A Land Imagined, it was the first time they saw how these workers lived. That’s significant, because so much of this is kept out of sight. The sacrifices made by these workers, the exploitation they endure, and the inhumane conditions they live in are concealed to preserve the seamless image of progress.

For me, making this film was about bringing those hidden realities to light. It’s about asking the audience to reconcile the country’s prosperity with the cost of achieving it, and to consider the human lives that are often buried beneath that success.

How did winning the Golden Leopard at Locarno impact you and your career? I imagine it must have been a significant milestone, both for you personally and for the film.

Winning the Golden Leopard was a big deal for me and the film. It was picked up by festivals all over the world and secured us international sales. Perhaps the most unexpected outcome was its release on Netflix. If you’re familiar with Netflix’s catalogue, you know they don’t typically pick up art-house films like that. This made the film accessible to audiences globally, that’s something that has never happened to my film before. It’s also the first time a Singaporean film won the top award at a big festival like that and I guess that’s kind of a big deal for us back home.

As you’ve mentioned, Stranger Eyes was initially developed before A Land Imagined but took five or six years to come to fruition. Do you think the film would have been made sooner if the pandemic hadn’t occurred, especially given the success of A Land Imagined? Did that recognition help move the project forward, or was the delay mainly due to research and pandemic-related challenges?

The success of A Land Imagined gave me the credibility and opened doors to realising Stranger Eyes that had previously been closed to me. However, the pandemic also played a big role in shaping the project. It wasn’t just about the timing – it fundamentally changed the way we think about certain themes in the film, especially surveillance. 

When I first wrote Stranger Eyes 10 years ago, the discourse around surveillance was very different. Back then, we were still debating whether we should allow privacy to be compromised, whether the encroachment of surveillance into our lives was acceptable. That’s the version of the film I wrote as a much younger person.

But during the pandemic, there was a seismic shift. Suddenly, surveillance wasn’t just accepted – it became a moral responsibility. People were expected to self-survey for the sake of public health: to download apps, report their movements, and share their contacts. It was no longer about resisting surveillance; it was about navigating it as part of life.

By the time we finally returned to Stranger Eyes, I had rewritten it multiple times, not just updating the characters and story to make them more relevant to me as a filmmaker now, but also reflecting this shift in how we coexist with surveillance in our lives. Today, it’s not just about being watched by the state but also by corporations and even each other through social media. This evolution became integral to the final version of the film – it was about adapting to a world that had fundamentally changed, both in terms of the filmmaking landscape and the themes I wanted to explore.

How and why did the collaboration with Taiwan come about?

Taiwan isn’t a far departure from Singapore culturally. Singapore has a significant Chinese population, and we share cultural and linguistic ties. There’s a natural coherence there that made it a great fit for partnership.

Another factor, I must admit, was the chance to work with Lee Kang-sheng. I’m a huge fan of his work, and being able to involve him in the film was an incredible opportunity. Collaborating with Taiwan gave me access to a broader talent pool and resources, as well as its rich cinematic history. 

As a cinephile and movie critic, I’ve followed Kang-sheng Lee work for years, particularly through Tsai Ming-liang’s films. From Rebels of the Neon God and The River to more unconventional works like The Wayward Cloud and Days, his presence on screen is unforgettable. His face, so enigmatic and unreadable, carries a quiet mystery that seems to fit perfectly with the tone of your film. He’s an actor known for his incredible flexibility and patience with directors. Just think about Stray Dogs, where the camera lingers on his face for almost more than 5 minutes at a time – you can feel every bit of his endurance, even though harsh conditions like strong winds or those long, static takes that demand so much subtlety.

It must have been a unique opportunity to work with someone of his calibre and experience. Given that you’re from a younger generation, I’d love to hear how you approached casting him, what drew you to his work, and how the collaboration unfolded during the making of Stranger Eyes.

I’ve always been a fan of Lee Kang-sheng’s work, and while writing Stranger Eyes, I had him in mind at some point. His presence seemed like the perfect fit for the role of the voyeur. His enigmatic quality and the depth he brings to every performance made him the ideal choice. 

Thankfully, after reading the script, he loved it and went out of his way to make it work. He made accommodations with his schedule and fees to ensure he could be part of the project. His enthusiasm for the story was both humbling and incredibly validating. The moment he stepped on set, he brought a completely new dimension to the film – something that simply couldn’t be written into the script. His performance went beyond what was on paper.

A Land Imagined

Kang-sheng has this extraordinary ability to infuse humanity into his characters, even ones that might otherwise come across as unsettling. His portrayal of the voyeur was so moving that I found myself falling in love with the character despite his inherently “creepy” role. Kang-sheng’s nuanced performance made the voyeur relatable and deeply human, which added layers of complexity to the film.

When you watch him on screen, it’s impossible to separate him from the body of work he carries with him. His gaze, his body language – these are tools he’s mastered over the years, and they were exactly what I needed for this role. It can be intimidating to work with someone you admire so deeply. But thankfully, he is not just an exceptional actor, he is also a generous collaborator and a kind person. Working with him moved me profoundly.

Your cast is remarkable, with some truly memorable performances. Vera Chen, who plays the grandmother, is not only an incredible actor but also a director in her own right. Then there’s Anicca Panna, your first female lead. It’s impressive how much talent and professionalism you brought together for this film.

Among the standout performances, I have to mention Pete Teo as the detective. He created such a unique take on the character – calm, understated, and even funny at times, which isn’t something we usually see in detective roles. He embodied that sense of patience he talked about, letting the story unfold naturally while maintaining a cool, almost detached demeanour. 

Yes, Pete Teo, who plays the detective, is an incredible actor and a veteran of the Malaysian film industry with an impressive body of work. His vast experience and natural charisma added significant depth to his role. I’ve always wanted to work with him but never had the chance until now. Anicca too, was very impressive. She hasn’t done so many films before this but is why I think there is a freshness about her that I was so drawn to.

What I found particularly intriguing about Stranger Eyes is how it plays with the idea of identity across time. At certain moments, I began to wonder: are these two characters – the younger man and the older voyeur – actually the same person? There’s something almost cyclical, as though we’re watching a repeated history or a mirrored existence. For instance, the scenes where they echo each other’s actions, like dipping biscuits into coffee or sitting / standing across from each other in different occasion, feel almost like reflections.

There’s also a fascinating moment when the younger character enters the older man’s home, finds the DVDs, and the older man’s mother addresses him as if he is her son. That scene, along with the ending – where the young man’s mother with the disability reappears – creates this eerie feeling that time has folded upon itself. It made me wonder: were you intentionally exploring the idea of these two men representing different stages of the same life or a history that repeats across generations? And given you mentioned rewriting the script several times, were these concepts always part of the story, or did they evolve throughout the process?

You’ve hit on something very central to the film. From the very beginning, I intended to create a story where time and identity fold onto each other, almost like a temporal mirror. These two characters – the younger man and the older voyeur – are reflections of each other. They are both windows looking into one another, almost like glimpses of a potential past and future meeting in the present.

I believe that when we watch someone so intently, we unconsciously project ourselves onto them. This act of watching isn’t passive; it’s transformative. We pick up gestures, habits, even ways of being, almost like an act of mimicry. Over time, the boundaries between the self and the other blur. That’s the transformative power of observation.

In the film, this is why the younger character continues to watch the older man, even after he’s resolved the mystery and found the daughter. There’s no instrumental reason left – he’s watching purely out of curiosity. And when you observe someone with such sincerity, you begin to lose yourself. You become absorbed into them, and they into you.

So, you’re absolutely right: there’s a sense that the younger man could become the older man, and the older man could be seeing his younger self reflected back at him. It’s as if their identities are merging, folding into one another through this act of mutual observation. This concept of self-discovery through the other has been a recurring theme in my work, and it became even more pronounced as I rewrote the script over time.

Could you tell me a bit about your collaboration with your director of photography? I understand you worked with Hideho Urata on both A Land Imagined and Stranger Eyes. Given his recent work on Plan 75, which was Japan’s submission to the Oscars last year, it’s clear he brings a wealth of experience. It seems like you’ve built a strong creative understanding over time. How did that relationship influence the visual style of this film?

Working with Hideho Urata has been a fantastic experience. As you said, Hideho is Japanese, but he’s been living in Singapore for over 10 years, maybe closer to 15, so he’s very much in tune with the cultural nuances here. We’ve developed a very strong working relationship over time, and that made the process on Stranger Eyes incredibly smooth.

Hideho is not just technically brilliant but also deeply thoughtful about the story and characters. One of the key ideas behind the cinematography is perspective. Conventionally, one might shoot all angles from one side of the set before flipping over to the other in an attempt to simplify lighting and setup. However, Hideho emphasised the importance of shooting the eyes of the characters first in order to understand how the characters were perceiving their environment, before turning the camera over to cover what they were looking at. For a film about ways-of-seeing, it was crucial that we try to capture an authentic point-of-view. This approach allowed the actors, particularly the extraordinary Lee Kang-sheng, to lead the scene with their genuine reactions and interactions. We wanted to avoid imposing any preconceived notions on their performances, which could detract from the authenticity of their expressions.

Beyond cinematography and acting, music and soundtracks notably shape the atmosphere of your films. Given your keen interest in music, highlighted by your documentary on an underground music band in Singapore, how do you collaborate with your composers to achieve such impactful soundscapes? Considering you’ve worked with different composers for your films, I’m particularly interested in how these collaborations influence the auditory landscape of your projects.

For Stranger Eyes, I was very keen on capturing a sound that felt inherent to Southeast Asia, something that emerged organically from the setting itself from the space. We chose the gamelan as one of the main instruments because its unique quality – more atonal and rhythmic rather than melodious – perfectly captured the essence of the environment we were depicting. It’s not just about creating thrilling music; it’s about ensuring the music embodies the fabric of the space where the story unfolds.

Working closely with the composer, we focused on how to harness these atonal beats to drive the film’s auditory experience. Instead of a conventional orchestral score, we wanted something that felt more raw and integral to the Southeast Asian context. This collaboration was crucial in developing a sound that didn’t just accompany the visuals but was a fundamental part of the film’s narrative and thematic structure.

 As you’re currently based in Buenos Aires but frequently travel to Singapore, could you give us a brief overview of the film industry in Singapore? Specifically, what types of films are being produced? How are the new generations approaching filmmaking? And what is the current balance between art house films and mainstream cinema?

The film industry in Singapore is different from many other places because it’s a very small country. Due to the limited size of the domestic market, many filmmakers adopt a more international approach to their projects. This is why co-productions are so vital; they open up opportunities beyond our borders.

There are very few filmmakers who focus solely on domestic comedies strictly for the local audience. The market is too small to generate significant returns. As a result, Singaporean filmmakers often aim for a broader reach, seeking international festival entries and distribution to ensure their films get global exposure.

The landscape is changing rapidly. Compared to just a decade ago when there were hardly any formal film education, now we have burgeoning film schools and a wave of young, talented filmmakers emerging. These new voices are energised and ambitious, and it’s reflected in the increasing presence of Singaporean films on the international festival circuit. Just a few years ago, seeing a Singaporean film at a major festival was rare, but now it’s becoming much more common. Things look promising, and I’m pretty excited to see what happens next.

About The Author

Hamed Sarrafi is a UK-based cinephile, critic and translator. He has written and translated for Iranian newspapers and magazines for 20 years and more recently has established his podcast, Abadiat Va Yek Rooz (Eternity and a Day), in which he reviews movies and film festivals and also interviews filmmakers and fellow film critics. Sarrafi is particularly interested in interviewing emerging directors on their social and political views. His interviews have been published in Cineaste, Notebook (Mubi) and Cinema Without Borders.

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