Monday July 27, 2009
Friend to all
By ALLAN KOAY
One journalist remembers the happy times he spent with filmmaker Yasmin Ahmad.
Goodbye Yasmin
Farewell dear friend
Yasmin Ahmad, the Storyteller
I WAS very hesitant when I was asked to write a piece on Yasmin Ahmad. Should I make it something personal or just a dry account of her achievements? But then I remembered that one of her favourite sayings to everyone was to always follow your heart, and do what your heart tells you.
And so I decided that I would do just that.
Yasmin Ahmad 1958 – 2009 With someone like Yasmin, it was difficult not to bridge that distance that a professional relationship demands between a journalist and his subject. It’s simply because she was such a likeable person, someone with whom you instantly feel comfortable. And she treated everyone like they were her long-time friends, even if she had only just met you.
So inevitably Yasmin and I became friends. Unfortunately, in the last year or so, we grew apart, and had even exchanged some heated words.
When I got the shocking news that she was hospitalised and in critical condition on Thursday, there was no longer any question about putting our differences aside. I did, and went straight to the hospital that night. I couldn’t help but be affected by it all. Later that night, the memories came of the best times we had as friends, and I ended up not sleeping a wink.
I remembered the time when two friends from Singapore and I rushed to Kuala Selangor in the morning to go on the set of Mukhsin and watch her at work. I remembered when they finished a scene at a house in the middle of a padi field, we walked back to the vans as I joked: “The same family, the same characters. Again, it’s about love. You’re a one-trick pony!”
And she laughed: “But it’s true what! Ozu also did the same thing!” (referring to Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu).
This was the kind of jokey exchanges she always had with her friends, making fun of each other, sometimes even calling each other names just for the fun of it.
Little did we know, the next year, both of us would be at the 57th Berlin International Film Festival, where Mukhsin was competing in the Generations category. I remember sitting in the huge cinema hall, seeing Mukhsin play on the giant screen, hearing the laughter from the audience and then the applause at the end, and feeling extremely proud to be Malaysian.
And when I was in transit at the Amsterdam airport, I received a text message from her, saying that she was flying back to Berlin (she had flown home a day earlier than me). I asked why, but I already knew the answer.
The next few days were days of smiles and celebration, that Mukhsin was the first Malaysian film to win in any category at the Berlinale.
Mukhsin remains my favourite of all Yasmin’s films, not just because of my special memories and experiences with it, but because it is just simply a film that says so much with so little, like all great films. I didn’t take to her later work the same way, and I told her so. She took criticisms coolly, but she was also quick to remind me of how much others think Muallaf was her best work, when I told her it was her weakest. That was how proud she was of every film she made. Her defence of her work was always quietly firm and assertive but never confrontational.
But when you did something wrong, she never hesitated to tell it like it is and give you a piece of her mind. I can still remember the times when she reprimanded me for something I did. Of course, it got me angry that she would do such a thing to a friend, but I grew to appreciate that she would actually care enough to point out my mistakes.
But what I remember most is her quirky sense of humour, often self-deprecating. “I’m so kampung,” was her favourite way of describing herself. It was also what usually warmed people to her.
Once, in the middle of an interview, she wanted to shop for a pair of shoes, so I went with her to the department store, where she joked openly with the staff there, complete strangers.
She told a male store attendant that his female colleague was cute. “You better quickly woo her!” she told him. It wasn’t long before a small crowd had gathered around us, people who didn’t even know she was the Yasmin Ahmad. It was an amazing scene, she was like a conductor holding court in a symphony of laughter and smiles.
But late Saturday night, my friends and I had no more smiles or laughter. After I received the devastating SMS, my mind was clouded over with confused feelings. One acquaintance regretted never making good on his promise to have lunch with Yasmin, even though their offices were just next to each other. Another regretted not having a single photo taken with her.
“Because I thought she was going to be here for a long time,” he said.
And that is how we usually take people for granted. I have many things left unsaid and unsettled, and I always thought that one day, she and I would be able to look back at all the stupid, angry things we said to each other and laugh.
Like my friend, I made the mistake of thinking she would be here for a long time.
It’s perhaps an irony that I’m living out a Yasmin Ahmad commercial – taking someone for granted and only realising it too little too late, something she’d always warned us about. I can only thank her for all the fun and laughter she shared, the life lessons she imparted, and the many kind and loyal friends I’ve met through her.
But the biggest lesson to me is the one she gave in her absence now – to forgive more easily because life is short.
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Inspiring legacy
Goodbye Yasmin
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