Thank you for your lecture today Dr Yeoh, I could see the effort you put into this week (and all the other weeks actually).
I think the word that will stay with me after today's lecture is Linger.
To get the nostalgia out of the way:
A famous camp song that I got to sing in my distant past is a tidy little song called, well, Linger. It goes like this:
Hmmm, I want to linger.
Hmmm, A little longer.
Hmmm, A little longer,
Here with you.
Hmmm, It's such a perfect night.
Hmmm, It doesn't seem quite right.
Hmmm, That this should be,
My last with you.
Hmmm, And come September,
Hmmm, I will remember,
Hmmm, Our Scouting days,
Of friendships true.
Hmmm, And as the years go by,
Hmmm, I'll think of you and sigh.
Hmmm, This is good night
And not good bye.
Hmmm I want to linger.
Hmmm A little longer.
Hmmm A little longer,
Here with you.
Nostalgia, am I right?
On a humid summer night, I was coerced to sing that cliche around a campfire, with all the swaying required to put a little kumbaya in all our tiny little hearts. Yet, I was moved. Clearly, because I wrote a blog post about that song the moment I got back home.
That's a magical little feeling, isn't it.
That feeling you get when you know that the end is near, when the night is about to come to a close. When the campfire is an ember of itself. When the camp counsellors run out of firewood.
You know that you will keep in contact with your friends. In fact, the campfire usually occurs during orientation, so you have years left with your pals. But, there's something about camp, about that liminal space, that made me want to... linger.
Fast forward to the last day of school, the day the army releases you, the weekend spent beside a hospital bed. I wanted to linger all the same.
There's something special about knowing the end to something. Knowing the exact dates to the demise of a cinema, for example. There's something so precious about that knowledge, that it pushes people to linger. It pushes people to take a thousand photos, to go to clubs for the very first time, to drink the night away, and in some instances, to make a film. To capture 'its' state right before 'its' end.
Throughout the film, we talk of ghosts and lonely figures strolling down narrow corridors in search of something. The shots of the film are stationary and held for a little too long. The camera lingering obtrusively, as if it were one of the voyeurs that lurked in the shadows of that decrepit cinema. It is dark for most of the movie, the picture lit only by the playing movie screen. We are transported into the fiction of these characters we follow: though there is only a hint of a narrative, we eventually come to understand, at least, the basic motivations of each character. By the end, the narrative brings us a somewhat compelling end. Yet, it takes out 3 minutes of film time to show a shot of the cinema, from the point of view of its screen. It takes out 3 minutes of film time that could have been spent on tying up loose ends or to build toward a more satisfying conclusion.
Why?
Why do we see its seats? Why do we see it with the light on? Why does the shot continue on even after the lady has swept the floors?
Why does he linger?
We are fickle bunch aren't we. Humanity, constantly fixed on progress yet still having to deal with the baggage of nostalgia. Sweet, sweet nostalgia. We know we must move on, but not before taking a snapshot of what was. To prolong time itself.
For film-lovers, the space of the cinema is never the reason one 'goes to the movies'. But there's just something about
those seats with defined butt imprints that you just settle into,
the smell of popcorn and its complementing sticky floors,
sounds of sodas slurping accompanied by crying children who laugh,
and laughing children who cry.
Boys and girls that giggle at swear words,
Parents laughing a little too loudly at children movies,
The silence (or whooping) that spreads across as a character removes his/her top,
and the clapping and cheering when fanboys witness the millenium falcon.
There's something about going to the movies that beats the experience of watching it alone in a bedroom.
And that something is why the camera continued to shoot.
That something is precious and worth keeping.
So he lingered on those cinema seats, as he said a final goodbye.
Goodbyes are hard, and goodbyes, take time.
I think the word that will stay with me after today's lecture is Linger.
To get the nostalgia out of the way:
A famous camp song that I got to sing in my distant past is a tidy little song called, well, Linger. It goes like this:
Hmmm, I want to linger.
Hmmm, A little longer.
Hmmm, A little longer,
Here with you.
Hmmm, It's such a perfect night.
Hmmm, It doesn't seem quite right.
Hmmm, That this should be,
My last with you.
Hmmm, And come September,
Hmmm, I will remember,
Hmmm, Our Scouting days,
Of friendships true.
Hmmm, And as the years go by,
Hmmm, I'll think of you and sigh.
Hmmm, This is good night
And not good bye.
Hmmm I want to linger.
Hmmm A little longer.
Hmmm A little longer,
Here with you.
Nostalgia, am I right?
On a humid summer night, I was coerced to sing that cliche around a campfire, with all the swaying required to put a little kumbaya in all our tiny little hearts. Yet, I was moved. Clearly, because I wrote a blog post about that song the moment I got back home.
That's a magical little feeling, isn't it.
That feeling you get when you know that the end is near, when the night is about to come to a close. When the campfire is an ember of itself. When the camp counsellors run out of firewood.
You know that you will keep in contact with your friends. In fact, the campfire usually occurs during orientation, so you have years left with your pals. But, there's something about camp, about that liminal space, that made me want to... linger.
Fast forward to the last day of school, the day the army releases you, the weekend spent beside a hospital bed. I wanted to linger all the same.
There's something special about knowing the end to something. Knowing the exact dates to the demise of a cinema, for example. There's something so precious about that knowledge, that it pushes people to linger. It pushes people to take a thousand photos, to go to clubs for the very first time, to drink the night away, and in some instances, to make a film. To capture 'its' state right before 'its' end.
Throughout the film, we talk of ghosts and lonely figures strolling down narrow corridors in search of something. The shots of the film are stationary and held for a little too long. The camera lingering obtrusively, as if it were one of the voyeurs that lurked in the shadows of that decrepit cinema. It is dark for most of the movie, the picture lit only by the playing movie screen. We are transported into the fiction of these characters we follow: though there is only a hint of a narrative, we eventually come to understand, at least, the basic motivations of each character. By the end, the narrative brings us a somewhat compelling end. Yet, it takes out 3 minutes of film time to show a shot of the cinema, from the point of view of its screen. It takes out 3 minutes of film time that could have been spent on tying up loose ends or to build toward a more satisfying conclusion.
Why?
Why do we see its seats? Why do we see it with the light on? Why does the shot continue on even after the lady has swept the floors?
Why does he linger?
We are fickle bunch aren't we. Humanity, constantly fixed on progress yet still having to deal with the baggage of nostalgia. Sweet, sweet nostalgia. We know we must move on, but not before taking a snapshot of what was. To prolong time itself.
For film-lovers, the space of the cinema is never the reason one 'goes to the movies'. But there's just something about
those seats with defined butt imprints that you just settle into,
the smell of popcorn and its complementing sticky floors,
sounds of sodas slurping accompanied by crying children who laugh,
and laughing children who cry.
Boys and girls that giggle at swear words,
Parents laughing a little too loudly at children movies,
The silence (or whooping) that spreads across as a character removes his/her top,
and the clapping and cheering when fanboys witness the millenium falcon.
There's something about going to the movies that beats the experience of watching it alone in a bedroom.
And that something is why the camera continued to shoot.
That something is precious and worth keeping.
So he lingered on those cinema seats, as he said a final goodbye.
Goodbyes are hard, and goodbyes, take time.
if anyone can appreciate your words, i can! lovely :)
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