The purpose of Looking at a Memory is not just self-indulgent. I mean, it certainly is self-indulgent, but it serves as a real reflection of my own life from infancy to now, and ignoring the less positive feelings I've experienced in the time would be disingenuous to the very experience of growing up. The premise for Looking at a Memory has always been clear to me, ever since I stumbled upon the actual photo album which comprised of pictures of my father holding me as a baby above the pool, me and my siblings running about naked in the bathroom, and other images that seemed almost fake.
The challenge of writing the story was trying to make it not too much about myself. That's difficult because it came from, well, myself. The obstacle was that I was perhaps too emotionally invested in trying to convey my story that the finished product I would end up with would be maybe detached from the average person's relationship with their father. I don't want to indict the entire Asian culture but there's something about Asian parents that make for ripe drama, detached from the world of Western struggles. The very language of love is different with Chinese parents.
For many years, depicting the unique relationship between Asian parents and their children have been a particular interest of mine. Ask any Asian child whether or not their parents have ever said direct affirmation to them and I'd be pretty sure the answer is no. Just two years ago, I watched this video:
Growing up, watching Disney shows and movies, the idea that parents would just casually say "I love you" or the sort was perplexing. In my mind, it never registered to me that my parents didn't love me just because they didn't say it aloud. But as I've grown up, it's been difficult to remind myself of that all the time, particularly in the times that their behavior isn't so collaborative. I cried watching that video because I could imagine my parents calling me and struggling to tell me that, or even worse, my parents dying without ever saying it. Maybe a year after, I was at a party with only Chinese friends, around my age, and we did played some games which included dares. They chose the dare for me, to call my dad and tell him I loved him.
The entire time, I was nervous. When I said it, my dad only chuckled, but it was like a huge weight had unloaded from my body. The point is, Asian families don't really show affection so boldly. Therefore, the ending of my screenplay is easily the most self-indulgent part of it, having the father say "I'm proud of you". But it's self-indulgent in two dimensions, one because I think it'd be nice to have that moment but two because I think it's ultimately what my father really feels deep down inside. And that's the motivation that keeps me moving, it's what motions me to try to live up to expectations that were never explicitly set to me.
One time, I was reading the translator's notes on a Japanese novel which described his style as "unapologetically Japanese". I thought for a second, what does that mean? I think I sort of understand it now. I think of directors like Wong Kar-Wai or Zhang Yimou when I think about Chinese cinema. But rather than being shaped by the conventions of nationalistic imagery, they have shaped the imagination and boundaries of Chinese cinema. Ultimately, this screenplay aims to depict a myriad of familial relationships, but it's an individual story ultimately. It's why the ending of the screenplay is perhaps pessimistic in a sense, ending on an aside, the child failing to say his real emotions to his father. Growing up is an ongoing struggle, I don't imagine me or the character will get over our struggles any time soon. And we still have a lot of growing up to do.
I wanted to capture the essence of maturing and the essence of tender love, not a perfect story about reconciliation. And I have to say, I think I did a very decent job.
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