For me, there is no objective work, including works of art. The involvement of elements such as thoughts, feelings, experiences, skills, physical, and spiritual factors, which fuel and ultimately influence the work’s construction and presentation strategy, is an unavoidable form of subjectivity. Furthermore, the creation of a work is the result of the will of its creator. Therefore, it is difficult to judge a work by separating the creator. However, it is important to remember that when linking these two elements, we must also be aware of the contexts that existed at the time the work was created. For example, a creator who at one time thought A, over a certain period of time, might change to B, or C, or so on. Also, as another example, a similar work, when created and presented at time A, will have a different impact at time B. Therefore, for me, considering spatial and temporal dimensions, including but not limited to when the work was created and distributed, and where it was created and distributed, is essential for properly assessing a work.

With that conviction, I would like to present my observations on the films Daun di Atas Bantal (1998) and Kuldesak (1998), and invite you to reflect on them together. These two films were produced at a time when Hollywood films dominated Indonesian cinemas, and the New Order regime (Orba) stifled freedom of expression. Furthermore, these films were finally released after the May 1998 Reformation, when it was assumed that freedom had been achieved.

The question is, did the euphoria of freedom accompany Daun di Atas Bantal and Kuldesak?

Daun di Atas Bantal (1998)

Before making Daun di Atas Bantal, Garin Nugroho had made several documentaries and fiction films (I had to separate the two for convenience later). These include Cinta dalam Sepotong Roti (1991), a road movie that travels through Jakarta, Cianjur, Yogyakarta, Madiun, Surabaya, Malang, and Banyuwangi; Surat untuk Bidadari (1994), set in Sumba; and Bulan Tertusuk Ilalang (1995), set in Solo. Garin Nugroho then returned to his hometown of Yogyakarta to make Dongeng Kancil untuk Kemerdekaan (1995), a celebration of Indonesia’s 50th anniversary. A documentary commissioned by NHK (a Japanese television channel) that focuses on street children there, the film itself was banned from broadcast by the New Order regime because it was deemed to portray Indonesia negatively. I should mention that I haven’t seen the documentary at the time of writing this due to a lack of access.

Before examining his work, it’s important to understand who Garin Nugroho is so we can assess his approach to the films he directs. He graduated from the Faculty of Film and Television at the Institut Kesenian Jakarta (IKJ) in 1985 and the Faculty of Law at the Universitas Indonesia (UI) in 1991. Furthermore, based on several interviews, he has had the privilege of reading books, watching films, and studying other arts since childhood. With such resources, he has enormous potential for the Indonesian arts ecosystem. However, regarding his shifting location practice and diverse issues (his subsequent filmography also demonstrates this), what is his agency? Regarding Daun di Atas Bantal, it’s important to remember that Garin Nugroho was never a street child. This means he has no empirical experience with the issues he addresses. He is an outsider who exists in the lives of street children for a specific purpose. So, how does he position himself in relation to these street children? This is important to ask because such work can easily slip into exploitative practices, whether the artist and the subjects of his work are aware of it or not.

Furthermore, there’s another important aspect to consider: the contribution of Christine Hakim, the producer and one of the main actors in this film. She was initially inspired by the documentary “Dongeng Kancil untuk Kemerdekaan.” She admitted that she had just learned that such problems were not only occurring abroad, but also in Indonesia. She hoped to raise awareness among more people. Therefore, she asked Garin to create an extension of the Kancil project. Aware that the documentary had been banned from screening, she assured Garin that she, as producer, would handle the matter. Therefore, I assume the strategy of transforming it from an explicit documentary into a feature-length fiction film was an effort to avoid falling into the same trap (read: being banned).

Another thing to note is that, initially, she had no intention of playing any role in the film. He admitted that she felt a burden in having to act and be a producer. Perhaps because this was her debut as a producer, she didn’t want to divide his focus. Or perhaps it was because of the indication I mentioned earlier, regarding her gap to the issue she wanted to amplify (she clearly had that distance). However, at the suggestion of the Japanese distributor, to facilitate distribution—if not sell it as a commodity—she requested that Christine Hakim, a figure already quite familiar to Japanese audiences, also play a role in the film. Perhaps considerations such as the need for broader advocacy amplification, additional funding, or other reasons ultimately changed her mind. Given these circumstances, it’s also worth asking: how does Christine Hakim’s presence impact a film that claims to be an adaptation of a true story? Or even, how does her presence (and that of the rest of the film crew) impact the real lives of these street children?

Turning to the film, the filmmaker’s claims within it are intriguing. At the beginning, they state, “This story is adapted from a true story about street children and is played by street children living in the area where the incident occurred.” Whether consciously or not, this choice will influence how the audience processes everything presented later. Then, the claim at the end of the film, “This film is dedicated to street children in Indonesia who have become victims of the insurance mafia, and to street children around the world who are also victims of various forms of violence and injustice in their rights to life.” This affirmation of the filmmaker’s bias—regardless of whether it is honest or not—will ultimately influence the audience’s perception of their portrayal throughout the films. The question is, why are these two statements presented in the film? Moving on, there will likely be two questions that arise during and after watching the film, stemming from these two statements: which parts are real and which parts are fictional.

Looking back at the film, of the four main characters in this film, the first to appear is Asih (Christine Hakim), a foster mother for the street children in this film (played by real street children). If we measure the portion of her presence on screen, she is the most compared to the other three street children who are the main characters, Kancil, Heru, and Sugeng, who will die one by one as the film progresses. There is almost no warning before each of them dies, just like that, unexpectedly. Perhaps, it is meant to say, “Well, that’s how it is in real life; no one knows when and how death will come.” Because of this, we find it difficult to find the character development of these street children. At most, we can catch, “Oh, street children are not always naughty, they also have a human side.” However, what is intriguing is that what seems to develop is Asih’s character, who previously found it difficult to believe and was often annoyed by the behavior of the street children; at the end of the film, she is the one who stands up and faces the camera, expressing her sorrow for the death of the three of them. She even receives additional character development stimulants from her husband and his boyfriend, who are portrayed as jerks. So, who is this film really about? Are these street children’s roles—until their deaths—merely to trigger the development of the other characters played by the famous actresses (Christine Hakim)? Also, we should have questioned why Asih’s character was deemed necessary to be present in this film’s universe. Now, imagine what it would be like if real street children watched this film and saw how they were portrayed?

Another thing that bothers me is why, when Garin packages it as “fiction,” he still applies documentary “logic” (wanting to show/illustrate what actually happened). In fact, the deconstruction of reality, which can be realized through “fictionalization,” is a potential that can be maximized by fiction films. He is reluctant to identify or reveal the causes of all the problems faced by street children, which he has actually witnessed and summarized through “Dongeng Kancil untuk Kemerdekaan.” He lacks the imagination to imagine what reality should be like in the real world. He is instead more interested in focusing on emotional jolts that have little impact. As a result, he doesn’t position “Daun di Atas Bantal” as a complement to “Dongeng Kancil untuk Kemerdekaan,” but rather as a longer, more well-known substitute, which premiered at Cannes Film Festival in the Un Certain Regard program, won an award at the Tokyo International Film Festival, and (finally) made it to Indonesian theaters.

If there’s anything worthy of appreciation, it’s the technical aspects. Many of the images are captured statically from a distance. There’s very little camera movement. The sound recorder is also placed close to the camera, so when characters speak far from the camera, we can’t hear them clearly. Things are revealed implicitly through montage, not through explicit dialogue. The filmmaker positions himself as an observer, and asks us as the audience to do the same. However, is it necessary to offer an apology like, “Well, this was made when Soeharto was still in power. It’s natural, then, that they chose not to highlight the instruments of power explicitly in their film, so that it wouldn’t be banned again?” If the reason is a matter of courage, I think this is a decline compared to his previous work, Surat untuk Bidadari, which more boldly touched on the issue of development in a place far from the center of government, through the main character, a small child who strives for honesty. Therefore, I doubt that this film successfully advocates for the issue of street children in Indonesia, or anywhere else.

Kuldesak (1998)

“Released in the reform era of 1998, Kuldesak was Indonesia’s first independent omnibus film to be screened in theaters and is widely recognized as marking the birth of a new generation of Indonesian cinema,” says a post on Miles Films’ Instagram to celebrate its 25th anniversary. The film was directed by four young directors at the time: Nan Achnas, Mira Lesmana, Riri Riza (all of them graduated from IKJ’s Film Faculty), and Rizal Mantovani (who did not study film formally). It tells the story of the lives and struggles of young people in Jakarta in the 1990s: a young man who wants to steal his father’s money to make a film; a young musician who idolizes Kurt Cobain and struggles to find happiness; he believes in the fortunes of a homeless man on the Circle K porch; a female ticket keeper obsessed with television shows and living next door to a gay couple; and an office worker who is raped one night while working overtime and seeks revenge.

Quoting from the book 20 Kuldesak, published to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the film’s release, there are four work ethics that are key to their success: Networking, Moving, Strategizing, and Rebelling. These four things are truly interesting to use as a starting point when attempting to make a breakthrough in Indonesian cinema at that time, even if they are applied to their full potential today. The strength of their network can be seen in how the initiators, Nan, Mira, and Riri, later joined by Rizal, were able to gather and convince the crew and cast to work on the film voluntarily in a chaotic financial and social environment. Regarding their actions, the book mentions that this is reflected in their spontaneity and quick response in dealing with location-related problems (roads blocked by demonstrations, for example). The strategy they employed was an effort to create a film that stemmed from their boredom with cinemas showing Hollywood and television broadcasting soap operas. Furthermore, in the book 20 Kuldesak, it is explained that they also considered how the production and distribution of the film would proceed: engaging major studios and production houses, contacting private television stations and the owner of the 21 cinema chain, and even securing funding from the Hubert Bals Fund in Rotterdam (listed in the film’s credits). Furthermore, what they rebelled against were the formal and informal rules imposed on them when they wanted to make a film (for example, before becoming a director, they had to work as an assistant director, and before that, as a script writer), something they believed had been perpetuated by previous generations.

In contrast to Daun di Atas Bantal, the desire to represent themselves as young people at that time was through fiction, rather than documentary. This meant that from the beginning, they constructed their own narrative about themselves at that time, influenced by their past and simultaneously envisioning their future. In terms of packaging, this film is indeed unique. And indeed, as an omnibus film, even contemporary audiences might frown at first. It doesn’t simply end with A, then B, and so on. Four different films are stitched together into a non-linear structure. They intersect, overtake each other. Their portions are also different. And interestingly, until the final credits, we don’t know the title of A or who directed it. With such a construction, the goal I grasp is an attempt to merge individuality, so that it can be seen as a whole structure. A kind of implementation of what they claim at the beginning of the film, “a collective work.” And this collectivity is emphasized by the invitation at the end of the film, “Please sit down for a moment to express appreciation to those who have supported the realization of this film.” How they wanted audiences at that time to learn to appreciate the hard work of filmmakers, but instead, they used a dictating method. Belittling the audience as if they didn’t know the etiquette of watching, then forcing the audience to comply with their wishes. And in fact, the directors knew very well that Indonesian society had a culture of watching films theatrically for a long time, since the colonial era. What they didn’t realize was that they were copying Hollywood film language completely, which caused the death of the Indonesian film industry.

Unfortunately, with such a rebellious vision, there’s one crucial thing they failed to think through thoroughly, namely, the narrative aspect contained in the film. In a discussion session celebrating the 20th anniversary of Kuldesak at Kinosaurus, it was clear that Riri Riza (the only director of four present) understood the history of Indonesian cinema. How Usmar Ismail’s initial goal in making the film wasn’t to gain profit, compete with audience numbers, or perhaps other superficial measures of success. However, this feels contradictory when we see the contents of Kuldesak. Similar to Daun di Atas Bantal, it is stuck on presenting a re-imagining of the lives of young people at that time. It presents the struggles, but doesn’t dare reveal the causes, one of which is the socio-political conditions of the time (even though they experienced them themselves). There are characters who commit suicide, are murdered, and are raped, but they simply respond to it. As a result, it’s difficult to empathize and then consider what should be done to address the unrest and the fate of these young people. Also, I could say, they sort of internalized the contradictory agendas launched by Soeharto and his cronies (for example, opening up massive investment opportunities for foreigners until their products flooded the market, but also creating the Indonesian Production Exhibition (PPI), which seemed to soften the first action). All references from the West are scattered, even portrayed as cool through the dialogue, gestures, and construction of the film. For example, there is a dialogue from the young man’s friend who wants to make a film “A little bit western is okay, that’s how the current generation is. It’s a developing country after all…”. A statement that belittles society and theirself, which is certainly counterproductive. Continued with “The film must represent its time. You don’t have to be Teguh Karya, Eros Djarot, Sjumandjaja, or another director who always wins at festivals, ah, Garin Nugroho. Give the audience the choice…”. This cynicism is attached to a character who seems caricatured. Is it so that the names mentioned will not take it seriously? Another example is the dialogue from the same character, “when will an Indonesian film achieve success at an award like the Oscars… just dreaming about it.” This, in fact, shows the mentality of the entire film and its creators. It doesn’t break through anything, it’s just stuck in another dead end (culdesac). The choices are not much different from those of the previous generation. In fact, it could be worse than the names mentioned in the dialogue (Tjoet Nja Dhien (1988) by Eros Djarot, which was selected at the Cannes Film Festival, Surat untuk Bidadari (1994) by Garin Nugroho, which won awards at the Berlinale and Tokyo International Film Festival). Why do they seem ahistorical, and as if they are reluctant to learn and follow in their footsteps? Is it because they only know Hollywood, so they have to win an Oscar before they are considered cool? If that was indeed their dream, the background could have been the victory of the Western bloc, a remnant of the Cold War, which led post-colonial nations to revere and align themselves with the West in terms of modernism: the United States was the benchmark for modernity, so everything there was considered cool. If so, then the four directors were caught up in that kind of legitimacy.

If you wonder why they failed to rebel against it, perhaps it was because their minds were preoccupied with “how to make a film,” neglecting “what kind of film to make.” It’s also possible they thought the opposite, but it’s difficult to see how it was implemented in this film. It’s nothing more than a platform to look cool, to look different from its predecessors. They’re obsessed with playing with technicalities. They’re namedropping famous Western names like Tarantino and Scorsese. Perhaps, the hope was that audiences at the time would react with “wow,” or “damn.” Not only that, but there’s even one character who, in common parlance, is called “Keminggris (mixing English and Indonesian in their daily life).” Oh, how inferior. Also, the gay couple, who seemed to be merely tokens to appear progressive, were portrayed similarly to the street children portraying Asih. Kuldesak seemed to be nothing more than a Hollywood film made by non-Caucasians.

According to Riri Riza, cinemas may have succeeded, judging by the number of viewers, which exceeded 100,000. This was the result of a yearlong distribution of just three copies of the film. This was a significant achievement at the time, considering that cinemas were previously dominated by Hollywood films and the financial crisis. However, their efforts to break through were not accompanied by good quality. As a result, they would be accompanied by apologies, rather than real change.

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The Sin of Both Films

“Daun di Atas Bantal” and “Kuldesak” both make claims. Some are made through texts appearing at the beginning and end of the film, while others are presented from outside the film. Is this their way of presenting the filmmakers’ subjectivity? If so, isn’t what’s more important than a claim at the beginning and end of a work, what lies in between? How can we measure whether the claims align or contradict each other? Are they unable and confident to prove that “in-between” space, and therefore feel the need to make claims? That the film is based on a true story and dedicated to its subject; that the film was made collaboratively for significant change. Or, if these claims were removed, could we feel the same way as the claims, just by looking at the in-between? If not, there’s a problem with the work, which then extends to the creators.

Returning to the initial question of whether these two films represent and demonstrate signs of freedom after the demise of Indonesian cinema due to the fascist-capitalist system, it seems difficult to believe this. The faith demonstrated by the creators of Daun di Atas Bantal and Kuldesak carries too much residue of the fascist-capitalist system that shaped them. Garin, Nan, Mira, Riri, and Rizal failed to liberate themselves before addressing the issues of street children and youth identity. This impacts their work: cinema that fails to emancipate. Instead, it demonstrates a heroic attitude: Daun di Atas Bantal intended to be an advocate, Kuldesak became a channel for rebellion, for unknown reasons.

However, we must remain objective and note that Garin has consistently made documentaries and feature films independently since the 1980s, unable to screen them through the Group 21 cinema network, the only screening channel for the general public at the time. He was aware that his films would struggle to be accepted in the mainstream, despite their international recognition. As a result, he resorted to distributing his films to film festivals (usually overseas), special events, holding private screenings in communities, and other means. Unfortunately, while we can understand that the end result was not explicitly a punching-up attempt to circumvent censorship, he ultimately resorted to exploitative actions against street children that were perhaps unintentional, perhaps stemming from insensitivity, or other negotiations related to funding.

Garin, who deliberately pursued law school because he felt studying film alone was insufficient, struggled when he tried to advocate for street children through Daun di Atas Bantal. Then, the four directors who initiated Kuldesak, relying on their university studies and/or self-taught work and youthful passion, failed to free themselves from the shackles of the system they themselves condemned. The regime that made them struggle: Garin’s films struggled to be screened—some were even banned in Indonesia, the Kuldesak group even resorting to making only one film about the question of their own identity.

Unfortunately, perhaps because both were considered pioneers and saviors of post-reform cinema and were accepted by many (including themselves), what happened to Indonesian films afterwards was inevitable. They continued to produce the very thing they were trying to criticize: films that functioned only as commodities and escapism from reality. And they did it themselves. The enthusiasm that was initially inspired by cinematic movements in other countries, such as Italian Neorealism, the French New Wave, the Hong Kong New Wave, and others, simply evaporated. They failed to create a new wave that could reform Indonesian cinema into an offer and invitation to critique. So, don’t expect any change to our reality in Indonesia, as long as the media consumed by its citizens is still dominated by something obscure and exhausted, something that doesn’t dare to face reality.

References