In absence of clear cultural policies, Indonesians cultural activists often protest. After more than 60 years since our independence, debate on the directions of Indonesia’s modern culture continues to roll. But to date, nothing has come out satisfactorily for all parties involved. “What if the absence of directions on cultural policies in our country turns out to be necessary? Because of that absence, all of us move toward to finding our identity,” is Riri Riza’s remark regarding our current development in the industry. We need to be “grateful” for the fact that, in our film industry, there are filmmakers who produce sex, horror, and other market-responsive genres. With their presence, we can assess and balance out the good from the bad. “We’ll be dead when all we have is religious films. Or when all films are meant to be normative like Laskar Pelangi (The Rainbow Troops), we’re doomed! At least we’re not a puritan country,” he criticized Indonesian films, including his own works.

Muhammad Rivai Riza, widely known as Riri Riza, is a phenomenon in Indonesian film history. As a director, he’s undeniably one of the movers and shakers of the industry’s resurrection. Together with Mira Lesmana, Nan Achnas, and Rizal Mantovani, he ventured to make the film Kuldesak (Cul-de-sac, 1998)—a collaborative film project made with independent production—which was screened in Studio 21 Cinema to proportionate the domination of Hollywood films during the time. According to Riri, they had only one dream, “For Indonesian films to be screened in cinemas, competing openly with Western films.”

Born in October 1970, he grew up choosing the film industry to feed “inspirations” to society. He proved this with the making of Petualangan Sherina (Sherina’s Adventure), which turned to be the initial boom in Indonesian film industry during the post-reformation era.  An ex-drummer of a cover version band famous during the 1990s, he later directed several films with exceptional themes not commonly found in our film industry. One of them is Gie, which depicted the dark history of the 1965 coupe. His huge success was achieved when he made Laskar Pelangi and its sequel, Sang Pemimpi (The Dreamer). Both films are viewed by more than 4.5 million audience—a figure never before attained by his predecessors in the industry. However, with such tremendous market success, how does one Riri Riza see and conceptualize the function of film as a cultural undertaking that doesn’t stop at commercial areas?

Jurnal Footage is pleased to take an opportunity to interview this friendly figure in his office at Miles Production. During this encounter we try to see the other side of Riri Riza on: his ideological views, his thoughts on culture, his choice of film “language”, and his notion on Indonesia film industry. The interview took place on March 8, 2010 and is represented by Hafiz (Editor-in-Chief), Akbar Yumni (Editor), Otty Widasari (Forum Lenteng Akumassa Program Coordinator) and Bagasworo Aryaningtyas (Forum Lenteng Research and Development Assistant Coordinator) who recorded the discussion with a video camera.

Hafiz: Your decision to enroll at IKJ (Jakarta Art Institute), what’s behind it? It seems that becoming a filmmaker is a particular passion for you?

Riri: Why I enrolled at IKJ in the first place? I reserve a considerable amount of interest to several aspects of art. The largest is of course in music. Secondly, in visual art and photography. What I mean is that I’ve always felt challenged to observe anything connected with art, at that time. I once visited the Museum of Visual Arts downtown at Kota, I saw the paintings of Affandi and Sudjojono (both pioneers of Indonesian modern visual art—ed.). At another time, I visited the museum again and saw the painting of Raden Saleh. Recently, now, when I go there, I no longer see that painting. Probably stored in a special room now. But that painting is spectacular! Then, I was also in confusion with regard to finding a school to attend. Either I’d be untalented basketball player or a not-so-smart science student. I attended a serious high school (Labschool in 1988—ed.). All I know was photography and music would be my only salvation. See, when I went to IKJ, I found that film is a combination of sorts. One can say film is the most ideal form of all aspects of art. Of course, adding to it, its ability to narrate. We can tell stories through film. Through the lectures on film history, I’ve come to know and acknowledge this certain country, this culture, and crucial events of the world in a considerably compact format. An hour and a half… two hours… we come to understand many things. Even more, not only events, but also the emotions behind the event. So, that was what I firstly see as my connection with film, its strengths. With film, you can narrate of something so huge. Sometimes with regard to history. Not only small histories, but history of a nation and society. When I was in IKJ, Teguh (Teguh Karya—ed.) came and talked about a film, November 1828. He talked about Diponegoro, war, Islam’s subsequent developments, and Javanese kingdoms. I thought: insane! Upon watching Kartini, for instance, the film draws us to a period of thought and tumult in a story in which we have drama, cinematography, photography, etc. I enrolled at IKJ during which time a lot of people was talking about the film Cut Nyak Dien. It’s an important film, being the first film to lever our pride to have a dignified Indonesian film. I remember when I was a translator in a workshop organized by a filmmaking school in Australia, one of them said to me, “You watched Dances with Wolves (directed by Kevin Costner in 1990 and won the 1990 Academy Award and 1991 Golden Globe Award—ed.), and you were touched by it. And I—a citizen of the Western world in which that film was made—was touched by Cut Nyak Dien.” It’s very eye-opening. So, back then in the visual arts library (at the Faculty of Visual Arts, IKJ—ed.) they had books and magazines on American independent films. There were articles on Spike Lee and Jim Jarmusch. Then, another important thing that I remember, when I went to Goethe Institut Jakarta (German Cultural Center in Jakarta—ed.) to attend Wim Wenders Film Festival. The producer attended the festival. Together with Ugeng (Ugeng T. Moetidjo, now a researcher at Forum Lenteng—ed.), we interviewed the producer. Wow… it’s spectacular! I’m probably inspired by the interesting, commercial aspect of film industry. When I graduated from IKJ, I saw that I need to be a director for commercial films! Of course, with respect to the history of film itself. Which means, films have always had significant contribution to culture. That history is recorded well in many films. Films contribute a great deal to the political and social change in so many places. That I respect! And I believe that film can reach a wide market.

Hafiz: The decision to be a director in the industry, did you find out when you were at IKJ or academically? Or elsewhere?

Riri: I think it has a lot to do with academics. You see, there was a lecturer that I think was teaching me about film art to the extremes, Pak Chalid (the late Chalid Arifin, a French film school graduate art director-ed.), a lecturer of film history. He said, to the contrary, “Film is film per se, it has to be commercial!” Why? Because there is no cheap film. No film is not labor intensive, that doesn’t involve a large number of people. Film materializes when it communicates to its public, when it can deliver a message to public. What I mean by public here is the mass. So, as hard as it can be, people in the history of film such as (Federico) Fellini, (Jean-Luc) Godard, (François) Truffaut, they think about their market. They think about to whom they communicate with. Most of them aimed for large market, which means it can be very specific. But at the same time, tried to aim all the people of that particular taste to go see the film. Such is the character of a film.

Hafiz: I once had a discussion with someone regarding the concept of being a director. To my thinking, a director is someone with interdisciplinary approach. I mirrored to our founding fathers. They had rather rich aspects in making film. Hence, I imagine a director is a maker of cultural statement. Regardless of it being commercial and industry-associated or not. What do you think?

Riri: I agree. He (a director) has to have something to say. About his era, the times he lives in, and the world in which he makes works. I agree! Yet during its development, we can’t stop at reality. Film is getting more and more commercial because our society is getting more commercial as well. When we talk about culture, that’s the reality in society now. Perhaps there’s an effect of globalization, Americanization to be exact, especially in a place like Indonesia. Since mid 1980s, Indonesia opened its gate as wide as it can for American culture to invade through film. There was no quota for film import because one of Soeharto’s (Indonesian second president—ed.) family member wanted to run a film business. He might even have stocks there. Then we have private television stations, lawful license regulations which have control over limitations of media through television and radio—which was, back then, the sole monopoly of Soeharto’s government because one of his children wanted to run a television business. So, the people who had things to say in films since mid 1980s, they shifted. From an era of our founding fathers where they talked about idealism, strivings, social manifestos, fights for freedom, nationalism, etc shifted to—well, if not an expectedly healthy combination of commercialism and idealism—to a total commercialism! I was born in that era. I can’t deny the fact that—what was considered by the founders of our film history as cultural statement of the director, or his auteur—it has shifted. I made film during 1995-1996, that was the peak moment of the shift-wave. Private television stations went bonkers! We had a generation termed as ‘escort’, back then. Everybody wanted to go to malls, everybody wanted to adopt Western culture especially its visual culture. The peak was indeed when I started to make film. That’s what happened uncontrollably because we didn’t have the chance to make “corrective” strategies to tackle that.

Hafiz: Yes, that’s why I think that an auteur has to be a filter. To me, director is someone big because film is a very complex aspect. It has music, visual art, theater, literature, drama, etc. Not to mention its content. The problem is, when there’s a big wave of capitalism or Americanization as you said earlier, there are two options: do we join the wave or do we filter? By filter I mean not in a commercial sense. That I want to know, Ri. In this case we indeed need to be objective. There are choices, of course, which are extreme and non-negotiative.

Riri: If you ask me: “Which side are you on?”, I’m clearly of the earlier group. We made Kuldesak (directed by Riri Riza, Nan Achnas, Mira Lesmana, and Rizal Mantovani in 1998—ed.) simply because “We want to exist”. Since 1990 to the time of my graduation, when I started to make my own small documentaries, we never had Indonesian film screened in Studio 21 Cinema. So back then, we seemed to have a humble libido: “We want our films there (cinema)!” If they screen a film directed by an American in theater 1, we can at least be screened in theater 3 or 4. That’s what we wanted. It was indeed a “different” thing, I admit, from what our other friends did, such as what Arya Kusumadewa did, screening his films in guerilla from campus to campus. That didn’t happen in this country alone. In several Asian countries, Malaysian films were firstly screened in small festivals. But the impact I feel from assuring that my film is distributed widely in cinemas is way bigger because the number of audience is larger. The number of people who feel the impact and be moved by the film becomes bigger. I start to get addicted to it. That’s how we filter our films! By this I mean, we make films with statements, that’s for sure. The films I made, since the beginning up to date, are often without genre, I term that as “round”. It’s hard for me to fit into fixed genres such as horror, crime, or thriller. I end up in a combination of genres, or at least I make dramas. Probably that’s the filter. We don’t follow the patrons of the industry, or categorizations created by the voice of dominant critics of the world. Genres are created by critics, so they can work within the framework, to easily communicate their mind and criticism to audience. So audience would read them and, eventually, decide whether they want to see a certain film or not. See, the critics are the first to develop those definitions. What we try to do is to filter that mainstream by making films that don’t follow the molds of the industry, standardized by America. That’s it. But there’s not a single film I made, from the first until now, since I made Kuldesak, Petualangan Sherina, Eliana, Eliana, Gie, Tiga Hari untuk Selamanya (Three Days to Forever), Untuk Rena (To Rena), Laskar Pelangi, to the latest (Sang Pemimpi—ed.), none is formatted—together by Mira and I—to be, in short: extreme underground movement. Eliana, Eliana was made to be released for three screens (cinemas) only, but still, for cinemas. So people can come, buy admission, then enter and watch.

Hafiz: Real films, yeah?

Riri: Yeah, because I think that’s all there is in making films. If film is unwatched inside or outside the world in which it’s made, do not ignite a discussion nor become an object of critic, I think that’s useless. If film can only be viewed from afar, talked about in foreign fields far from the place it originates, I don’t think it has yet to become a “film” because it does not communicate with its society and its cultural environment. Especially if we’re talking about auteur and cultural statement. If cultural statement is made to be heard in some faraway place, I don’t see it fit. Cultural statement has to be one to fix, or to correct or to be “something”.

Hafiz: Yes. The problem I see for the first time I saw your films, such as Sonata Kampung Bata, Petualangan Sherina, Eliana, Eliana, Gie, and lastly Laskar Pelangi, I try to trace back—as a film buff and someone who’s interested in the juggle of film “language”—and look for a contribution from this particular Riri Riza. Your contribution as an auteur. Culturally—regardless of how often the media review Laskar Pelangi—seeing it from its impact, to criticize our educational system, I think it’s “legit”. I’m truly happy. But on the other hand, I still want to read because I think film is a language. In films there are signs. There are signs that you feed me and the audience with. And I saw some things are missing in between those parts. I did see some that are quite significant, Eliana, Eliana. I see that as your feed to public. It may as well an object of study. Did the industry cause those missing parts?

Riri: I think there are many possibilities. For instance, I wrote the script for Eliana, Eliana myself. I intensely involved in its development process from a one-page concept to the finalized script. My other films say, Gie, may have something else. I wrote that myself. It’s also another example where I juggled by myself from zero to finish. But not all of my films are like that. I realize that in concept, in terms of workmanship or characteristics of a director, he undergone a number of phases; lots of developments, conditions, perhaps the ones affected by the development in the industry itself or in himself, his personality. Probably there’s something in these phases, from one to the next, what is it that he’s looking for? Later on other phase he will return to himself and start another chain of questions. I think I will always get “in and out” of there. And as audience, critics, they just wait because I don’t intend to make film aimed to satisfy others. When I made Eliana, Eliana, I received several awards, everyone came and asked, “What will be your next film? We’re looking forward to seeing more of this kind of work.” Then I said, well… of course, I answered in a friendlier manner, but bottom line I said, “Who are you to expect my other work to be of such kind?” I will let myself get carried by the stream, to say of “the air that I breathed” back then. And it’s interesting… much to my surprise. I mean, I made films for more than ten years, my point is to be excited everyday. I want to enjoy. And that I did. So, sometimes it can get really hard, isn’t it? For instance when I brought Tiga Hari untuk Selamanya for development funding from Hubert Bals Foundation and the other one was from Global Initiative, New York. That’s crazy, Fiz, the way we have to answer a set of questions. Like an exam. Making film turned into something like an exam. “What’s your concept? What’s your statement? Why do you incorporate sex in the film? What for? What do you want to say?” And I was like a madman. Since the beginning, I wanted to make this film because I had a very high level of enthusiasm. Yet all these funding boards asked me questions, some were beyond my capacity. I had to have arguments and, eventually, too many justifications.

Hafiz: Something to come up with?

Riri: Exactly! See, I don’t want that. Neither do the audience. Sometimes we already have or understand the formula. If you want 500 thousand audiences, you have to make the first ten minutes this way. Later in the fifteenth minute, insert this. Then, in the thirtieth minute, do this. I once studied scenario and master, that’s scriptwriting. That’s what I learned. I learned about market’s expectation. The market, or audience, turns sour once they see character development. If you want them to get excited and happy, you gotta put “this” in that certain minute! So there are formulas. Sometimes that’s what gets us lost. As for me, I still try to make something that I enjoy. And at the same time, my small community here (Miles Production—ed.), my producer has a tandem writer who comes to read our scripts. We have a production manager, a secretary who watches sinetron everyday, we give them scripts. All of them give me feedbacks on the thick-and-thin of my work. I have to admit, not all of my works have personality as high as the others. There are some films that, let’s say, where a certain space was given to me by these persons (Miles Production—ed.) to make them more personal. But there are other works which have “collective” awareness to, “Please read this, please give some contribution, please keep this film not to exceed…” Sometimes the cost… For example Laskar Pelangi, that cost 9 billion, Sang Pemimpi 12 billion, Gie 8 billion. But others like Eliana, Eliana took smaller budget. But again, as small as it can be, it still cost 800 million! Sometimes I think… Crazy! I never imagined how an 800-million worth of money looks like. Yet now I can spend that much money to produce a film?

Hafiz: So, what’s the excitement you previously mentioned?

Riri: I experience that as time goes. For instance when I finished making Petualangan Sherina in the year 2000, I was excited to make a low budget film. Something visually edgy or wanting to trespass the boundaries of convention. Something darker. Handheld camera. A strong visual approach. A complex conflict. Moral questions not normally asked. Parents against children. Parents scolding their children. Things like that. When I made Tiga Hari untuk Selamanya, there was sexuality. I wanted to make a film that questions the accepted standard normalcy with regard to teen sexuality. And also casual usage of drugs. A story, basically! Most of the time I imagine a story. I want to tell unconventional stories. But with assurance that it will still excite Indonesian viewers which I know very well. Most audiences come from young age-range, thirteen to twenty-five. Most of them listen to pop music. Don’t read newspapers. Averse themselves from serious questions in life. So I mixed all those combinations. Whereas someone like me, I still read, sometimes I still have time to read philosophy book. I dive into politics. I like to read on what happened with regard to the kidnap of many activists in Indonesia. So, what I needed to do is to find the balance between the heavy stuff and the lighter ones.

Akbar: Actually, is there a definition on who is Indonesian audience? Or Riri Riza’s audience? Can you roughly define that?

Riri: I’m sure there is. We do that exercise all the time, in almost every film project. Who would want to watch this? Everytime I have a one-page concept, up to a complete script, a question will always rise: “Who would want to see this kind of film?” And it’s down to the numbers! Sometimes I calculate, let’s say Mira thinks, “Well… Three-hundred thousand tops!” When we brainstormed for Laskar Pelangi, we thought Andrea Hirata’s (author of Laskar Pelangi the novel—ed.) readers—whose print run number and readers are quite huge—would fall around 350 thousand. All of them would want to watch. We know! Let’s say each person bought a copy of the book. They might take five relatives to watch the film together. So maybe we can double the number. If the readership falls around 350 thousand people, we might be able to target 700 thousand viewers. From there, we trace it back. We have to be audience-oriented, it’s impossible not to! We can’t say that Riri’s audience or Indonesian film audience remains the same. It’s dynamic. We experienced that. When we made Petualangan Sherina, we launched a Hollywood-style promotion. Not only that we sell the story; we also sell the cast, we sell the director, we make songs and everything. We were a bit cocky upon seeing that Miles audience or my audience has reached 1.6 million people. I thought, “Next time I make film, all 1.6 million would definitely go and see the film!” Yet when I made Eliana, Eliana, it only reached 20 thousand viewers! Where did the other million go? So, I learn that all the time. And that it’s important. If you ask who they are, it will change along course. We can’t make sure that—well, I don’t know about James Cameron, Sylvester Stallone, or Jean Claude van Damme, it’s said that they have their audience already, but it’s a completely different institution from ours. They might already calculate everything. As for me, never. I always consider the story. As mentioned, for Laskar Pelangi and Sang Pemimpi, the criterion is the readership. Currently I’m developing a script for Bumi Manusia (This Earth of Mankind, the first book of Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s Buru Quartet—ed.). How much is Bumi Manusia’s print run? Who would be interested to watch? We calculate that carefully so we can persuade people that we aim to invest in the filmmaking. It’s either, “You can definitely regain your money back from this film!”, or “Here, we will put up your company’s name as big as possible in the film posters, but don’t expect you’ll get your money back.” Because almost all films cost a huge lot, and that’s the main objective.

Akbar: Then, regarding the statement that film can lead to social change—do you still believe in that statement with the unstable condition regarding audience size?

Riri: Always have to believe. That’s why I talked about excitement. I think, what excites, and will always do, in making film is because I can contribute. At least it gives me a sense of pride and I can say, “That’s my film.” To date, I feel that the films I made are making me proud. They are, at least, averagely fruitful. Well, people sometimes text me, or send a message through Facebook, email, that they have seen the film and liked it. Until today, there are people who still love Petualangan Sherina. There are people who love Ada Apa Dengan Cinta? (What’s Up With Love?). There are people who still look forward to see Gie aired on TV every August. So, I guess it’s that. Its social role is rather fuzzy to observe because we don’t have a certain study institution who analyzes it. But at least we have some students who make our films as subject matter in their theses and analyses. At least we have that. I never really calculate the impact. For instance, Laskar Pelangi made students actually want to go to school. Or Sang Pemimpi made people want to attend high-standard universities.

Hafiz: I will go back to your works. As I mentioned, there’s a difficulty in reading your works. For example, on the story base, as you said. I watched Laskar Pelangi. I know how the story goes. But I also have certain expectations on how the Riri Riza I know would direct the film. Is this a negotiation of codes (film language—ed.) that you once had, as I know it, with the investors or the market, that has made it eroded? This is just my thought. I once discussed with a friend—who’s also a friend of yours—about Gie. I watched on DVD. One of our discussions was, “Why does Riri Riza—the one we know—turn this way?” I mean, on one hand, you have a huge bargaining power in the cultural field. You’re trusted by investors and capital owners; trusted also by audience because there’s one Riri Riza behind this film. After watching it, we thought, “Riri made a mistake, why?” For example, selection of cast. When I was in high school and during my early university years, I was crazy about Soe Hok Gie (from the book Catatan Harian Seorang Demonstran [Annotations of a Demonstator]—ed.) “This guy is so me.” In my mind, Soe Hok Gie is someone not of celebration and celebrity, for example.

Riri: You mean the actor?

Hafiz: Yes, the actor. There were a lot of things going on in my head, as a particular reader. Everything is then destroyed by this film. Right there and then I asked to several friends who also read Gie. They said, “It’s crazy, why didn’t Riri cast an ordinary guy? Just a regular Chinese, it will be far more effective. The tense will build up even more. Why did he have to cast this ‘celebrity’?” Then I said, perhaps there were negotiations, but I was not sure.

Riri: That’s precisely what I mean with how film has to utilize its characteristics as a film. I’m talking about commercial film here! My film is meant and made to be a commercial film, with all its elements. First, there has to be clarity in the narrative so audience can encode it as a drama. Second, there has to be plot or characters in it, also to allow the audience to encode it as a drama. Third, there has to be a sort of vote-getter so people would want to come to cinemas and watch it. How regretful I’d be if I didn’t consider that. I’d only reach some 20 thousand readers of Gie, whereas I ignored the potentiality of people being infected by Soe Hok Gie’s idealism and thinking—as large number as 13- to 22-year-old age-group which probably adds up to two million people. I rather “please” or “invite” two million people—who hopefully are infected by the spirit that Gie possessed—than Gie admirers who protest, “Are you crazy? Nicholas Saputra, a German descendant acting as a Chinese!” I said, “I’m not thinking about you! People like you are only as much as 15 to 20 people. Why should I please you?” I made this film not to satisfy Gie admirers, but to infect our youth with Gie’s spirit. Hopefully they will see that here, in our country, a mass homicide aimed toward the communists which numbered to millions of lives once took place. Because they don’t know, Fiz. So they know that one can shape one’s idealism not only by marching the streets. One can also hike mountains and see that Indonesia has an incredibly beautiful landscape.

Hafiz: But do you still believe in these certain figures?

Riri: Of course! That’s what I learned at IKJ. We know there’s a star system in America. We know there’s an American film star who affects cinematography of the film. If he has a scar on his left side, all angles should be taken from the right. And it happened in old films, ever since films started to emerge, the golden years of Hollywood. All periods in cinema history everywhere around the world consider its stars. Someone like Jean-Paul Belmondo starred in Jean-Luc Godard’s film. So to me, it’s absolutely no problem. My film does not only entertain the critics. Of course I want my films to be reviewed by people like J. B. Kristanto, Bre Redana, and Seno Gumira Ajidarma. But at the same time, what’s more crucial to me is to get those high school students—who are familiar with Nicholas Saputra—come to the cinemas and watch Gie. I don’t know if they threw up in the twentieth minute because the film took too long, but who knows, maybe there were others who thought, “Damn, this guy is interesting” then head to Gramedia bookstore to get a copy of his book. That’s what we do this whole time. I’m sure there will always be such criticism. No problem. Even the people from Netherland who grant me funding were astounded, “You chose to cast this very young fellow.” Then I explained that Indonesian market for films is shaped by years of certain cultural strategies and that there’s no other way for me not to “fight”. I will never be an underground person. Being an underground filmmaker in Indonesia means that there will only be small groups of people who give you a damn, most of them are underground communities themselves. Of course we’re talking about different facts today. Communities are now moving so much. Internet networking is huge, anything can happen. But when I began making films, I need to truly acknowledge that market. That reality. And it’s very interesting to me. I saw youths are starting to talk about Gie. People like Eros (guitarist of the band Sheila on 7—ed.) who makes music, he never knew that we have a figure like Gie in this country. Now he’s getting influenced. And to me that’s important.

Akbar: With regard to Gie, which contains political context—exactly how do you define Gie? What ideals did you have in mind?

Riri: For us, the work is the most important. There are only few people who know Gie when we ventured to make the film. Go ask ten people on the street, no one would know him. Maybe if you stretch it to a hundred people, there are two out of a hundred who eventually know him. So, what we did is we tried to shuffle the patterns or conventions regarding what we can make film of in Indonesia. Correctly (according to conventions on standard film production as applied in the industry—ed.). Not in an underground movement sense. For underground films, you can shoot a film with a mini DV or just about anything. But I wanted to make a “settled” film. In line with standard conventions which will make people go to cinemas and make them say, “This film is as worthy as… I watched this film for fifty thousand rupiahs. Do I get that same thing here, compared with Mission Impossible 3 in the next studio, with the same fifty thousand rupiahs?” The same sound. The same technical cinematography, approach, and everything. The same fifty thousand rupiahs spent by the people who watch a Hollywood film in theater 2, if my film is playing in theater 1. What differs is that it has a story of Indonesia’s dark side there. There’s a story of how Indonesian people have castes. Unlike in India, where castes are conceded, here they’re not! Chinese are clearly second-class citizens in Indonesia. People address them openly as “Chinese”. Whereas Javanese or Bugis people, nobody would address them as “Hey, you Bugis!” But a Chinese in Indonesia is addressed disrespectfully, “Heey, you’re Chinese, eh?!” If a Chinese acts slightly off-tangent, he will definitely get beaten up. That’s the reality. So, if we want to narrate Indonesia’s dark side without getting any sponsorship from the government—like the film of G30S/PKI (1965 September Coupe)—make a sub-standard film. Because, to be honest, I never have the guts to watch Arya Kusumadewa’s films. I don’t have the strength, eventhough I think his idealism is tremendous. His messages, ideas, insanities, they’re all unconventional, independent, and underground. I need some strength to watch it. I need excitement upon watching good films within conventional standards.

Akbar: With regard to conventions, did it ever occur to you that there’s stereotyping in Gie? For instance when Gie was asked by one of the characters, “Are you left or are you right?” To me, it’s stereotyping. It’s one of the examples. And there are also a lot of scenes in the film which, to me, can be accounted for as stereotypes. The label “red” for communists, for example, and some others. Did you take this into consideration when making the film? How political event turns populist?

Riri: Indeed I did, because film is a populist media. You have to remember my history, who I am. My first film was a children’s musical. I’m not a political film director. I never try to label myself as political filmmaker. I got a lot criticism back then. “Who the hell are you, dare to make a film on the 1965’s coupe?” I remarked, “Who the hell are you, to think that 1965’s coupe was all yours to discuss?” Do I have to a member of the People’s Democratic Party to make a film on political movement? Who to decide? To me, it makes things less democratic. In this democratic era, anybody can make anything. See, it’s just a choice. As I said to Hafiz earlier, Gie is deserted by some because it’s too general, too generic in description. But I have in mind an audience different from what our other friends have in their minds. I wanted to aim people who listen to pop music. People who never had the image at the back of their minds that even communism has “grey” or even “white” area. Not all communists are “black”. Because all high school students from my era, of my generation… It’s crazy! To them, all communists are eye-gouger. People who kill. That particular audience is the one I aimed. It’s hard to imagine them reading Catatan Harian Seorang Demonstran because they’ve never been taught to read. Not everything worked. You can’t claim that this goal is achieved a hundred percent. Gie reached only 350 thousand viewers. The target was actually a million since Nico starred in Ada Apa dengan Cinta? which was quite popular. We thought at least Nico’s fans would want to watch. Apparently not! So, it’s basically a learning process. Man, I made only ten films so far. What to expect? That we know everything now that we’ve made ten films? Highly unlikely, I’m sure. We have to make ten other mistakes, then we can truly get “it”. Take Wim Wenders, he made a lot of trial-and-errors until he finally got “it”. Even now, if you ask him, “Have you found what you’re looking for? Who are you? What’s your statement as an auteur?” he would respond, “Are you crazy? How the hell should I know? I’m a seeker.” And I’m convinced even more that I “seek”. Until I die, I probably won’t find it. But what matters is, as a filmmaker, you have to have excitement that each time you’re doing something big. At least for yourself.

Hafiz: Yesterday I had a discussion with a friend that eureka moment alone is an excitement, not to mention production process up to release date. But in all those phases there’s an integration of various disciplines. I myself make films, usually documentaries. But in my mind it’s always fiction because I play around in an area of fantasy. I hold my ground in reality, but I play around with fantasies. There are kinds of fantasies such as: fantasy on the audience, fantasy on commerciality, and fantasy on aesthetic imagery. To me, there still has to be a sort of wrapping not unlike a sponge that absorbs. As you said, “Who the hell are you?” “I want to make this! I believe it’s an important work for society.” Kind of the same, isn’t it? It’s just that there’s an absorbance process that we try to take care of. I’m not talking about your works alone, Ri. Back to what we discussed about cultural statement, it’s actually inappropriate to compare things like this, but we’re gonna have to go back again, Ri. For example, the films of our founding fathers. Their cultural statements are thick. Is this all the cultural statement that our friends of the 1990s’ generation can make? Is this all we can get? I’m not talking in a criticizing context. But don’t we have anything else?

Riri: You mean, can we expect more? I think there are lots of things in it. You see all of them (founding fathers of Indonesian film—ed.), very few of them came from film field only. Usmar Ismail was an Islamic organization activist, also a journalist. He also dived into politics. Asrul Sani as well. Not to mention Pak Djaja (Djaduk Djajakusuma—ed.). Sjumandjaja had his education in Moscow. He had high art sensitivity that traced back from his ancestry. They lived in a completely different era. To me, it’s totally different. What happened in Indonesia during the 1980s to date, it changed the way the whole generation thinks. You can only expect that your children will have better reading materials since their early age. As for me? To be honest, I grew up in a profound New Order climate. I was taught to read the Koran. I had to be able to read it without even comprehending its meaning. I attended schools that didn’t teach us to read on the history of Indonesian literature. What can you expect? Let alone Indonesian films. You can obviously see from other Indonesian films production. Try to conduct this kind of interview with say: Manoj Punjabi, Gape Samtani, Chand Parwez. Just try. And you’ll understand what you can actually expect from our friends like Hanung Bramantyo. What kind of space does he have for freedom? They don’t have partners for “dialogue”. I came from a community which I think is very lucky of me. Mira listens to even better music than I do. She reads Milan Kundera, Tolstoy, Pramoedya Ananta Toer. I don’t think other producers do. What can we expect, Fiz? So I think, if you want to, you gotta take over. People with stronger analyzing capabilities have to take over. That’s what happens in Malaysia. Amir Muhammad (Malaysian director—ed.) is not originally a filmmaker. He’s a reviewer, critic, literary book critic and also a columnist. Yasmin Achmad as well. She has 20-year long track record in the communication field. They then dived into film. But Indonesia is generally better. In Malaysia, around 60-70 commercial films are produced each year. Yet each one is flop. Even when they make commercial films, they’re still flop. In Indonesia, what happened with Hanung, Joko Anwar… who else makes commercial films… Ifa Isfansyah… they’re better. Their films reached up to 1.5 million audiences. So they made it as commercial filmmakers. In Malaysia, they failed. See, sometimes we’re too critical with our own, especially when it comes to pop culture. If you go to Thailand, you’ll hear us comment, “Thailand filmmakers are great. Their films being screened in Cannes (Cannes Film Festival—ed.), Berlin (Berlin Film Festival—ed.).” They are only the selected few. In other countries, people like me who dive into commercial field are usually beaten up by Hollywood. In Indonesia, we compete with Hollywood. Mira and I were dead worried to learn that Sang Pemimpi was screened in simultaneous time with Avatar. Avatar is a machine, not a film. Yet we compete to that. In other countries, it would just drown. So, I think, what happened in Indonesia—your expectation on cultural statement such as the ones we’ve read and seen in Usmar’s film Krisis (Crisis), Tamu Agung (The Exalted Guest)—I think it’s hard to apply these days, especially in a country where we don’t have any policy in regard to culture. In other countries, people like Nan Achnas and Garin Nugroho are granted with funding, either from their central or regional government. Or cultural grants such as endowment fund channeled by private institutions. It’s not as easy here. Ford Foundation is not able to give a whole grant for film production because we don’t have channels to distribute our films to art house cinemas. We only have Kineforum here. How many audiences can you expect to come to Kineforum? Five thousand? Hardly. A thousand tops. You have it screened for the whole month, non-stop, and people keep coming, it would only reach a thousand. That’s in Kineforum. What kind of cultural statement can we expect from a thousand people? A film like Babi Buta yang Ingin Terbang (The Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly, directed by Edwin, 2009—ed.) received funding. But apparently it’s very small, as much as 25 thousand euros. Whereas we can see he made the film in 35 mm, with very good image quality. That’s tough. Twenty-five thousand euros is too small. We’re eventually beaten up, aren’t we? I mean, people like Edwin are marginalized here. He can’t have his films screened in cinemas because he had to pass censorship. People who can wrestle and dodge with such issues are people with extra abilities, like Nia Dinata, Nan Achnas, and Mira Lesmana, because they know the politics. They know their game of tug-of-war. As for indie films, for the truly idealistic, independent filmmakers in which statement is key, it’s tough! They can’t break it. They’re constantly blocked.

Hafiz: You mentioned policy, that we have no cultural strategies. How do you think it is?

Riri: I’m definite that we can’t count on the government. Let’s not waste time to even bother to dream about it, with the current government and parliament, to think that they will suddenly have awareness of this problem. I don’t think so. So, everything depends on how we can map out our own tactical strategies to position ourselves in the market. I’m sure there are many chances because, nowadays, digital technology allows us to produce film with less cost. Not extremely low cost, though. If you read recent papers, there are some films such as Belum Cukup Umur (Underage) that Nayato (Nayato Fio Nuala—ed.) made, a horror film. It’s pretty scary. I spent only fifteen minutes in the cinema, paid 15-20 thousand rupiahs, I was scared. But, imagine… The film was shot only in five days. Made for less than one billion rupiahs. They made it. If there’s such person of huge creativity, who can shoot a decent film with clear narrative, with a good statement, why not? We can surely break it through, can’t we? But we don’t have that yet. All independent filmmakers who started since ten years ago—such as Four Colors or else—none has succeeded to make a low-budget film, shot with P2 (digital video camera—ed.), truly independent, be screened in cinemas and succeed. None yet. We also look forward to it. I mean, “Come one, prove it. You can make films.” Say, a film about kidnapping that you can shoot for five days, as John Casavettes did in the 1960s. Shoot for two days, then break for a month. Another shoot in two days, another break for a month. But the end result is a film that makes you go, “Damn!” And the fact that’s it’s an important film! We supposedly have that. I’m sure we can have that. We ought to. But, well… it’s tough. Here, what comes out of it, is talent. Once one act, one will immediately be approached by Star Vision (film industry—ed.). Insane! They give you 35 mm camera, let you shoot with cinemascope. People like Pao (Faozan Rizal—ed.) is pampered, in the way he was provided “big” equipments, and he thinks that it’s a chance to explore and create works. That’s realistic, and it makes money. You get the dough. So, as usual, it’s the big stream drowning the little stream. This little stream doesn’t have a chance to rise up for a little while, then dive again and swim around to look for a certain rock that… That doesn’t happen here. Big stream always wins.

Hafiz: How do you see the new generation of our filmmakers?

Riri: Me, I’m very happy. We still have some good ones. It’s proven. Few days ago, I was invited to Geneva for an Indonesian film program. They can see, “You have a big hope.” One, we have a huge underdeveloped market. Indonesia has only 600 screens for the potential 25 million viewers. Let’s not talk about 250 million viewers. The ones who have enough money to go to cinemas are only up to 25 million people. But it’s huge. The screens available are only 600. The possibility to have 1000 to 2000 screens is very likely. Two, we have our own native language. Most countries like Australia or some countries in Europe can’t compete with Hollywood because they use the same language. It doesn’t make sense to make film with similar cultural characteristics. For example, Australian films. Australians can be emotionally and culturally satisfied upon watching Hollywood films. We can’t. Out of ten people, probably there are only five, or even two to three persons who can be satisfied upon watching the English-speaking Hollywood films. The rest are lost in Western films. They surely want to see Indonesian films, don’t they? With a language of our own. With problems and stupidities of our own. Of course I’m happy. I’m not one of those pessimists in regard to the growth of Indonesian film because I see there’s balance. Some make trashy films. Yet we have two or three (good—ed.) directors. There’s quite a many who fight for what they believe in. We have Edwin, Mouly Surya, Joko Anwar. We have people who can actually say, “No! I want to make another kind of film. I don’t want to make that kind of film!” They’re under thirty. That’s not bad, right? In some other countries as well. Korea, for instance, an example of what we usually romanticize. But actually, in Korea, the budget granted for film industry is tremendous. The state spends a huge amount of money in it. Australia, too. Almost all Australian films are endowed with funds from the government. Singapore is starting to do the same. But what’s the consequence? They no longer think about their market! “Why should I think of the market? I make films as my masturbation. I got money from the government!”

Hafiz: The same thing occurred in Brazil. During the 1970s, one of the state policies was to provide funding for filmmakers. In the end, directors became uncreative in the context of considering the market, also in their choice of film language, because the experiments they did were facing the wall.

Riri: Yes, there are always possibilities. What if the absence of directions on cultural policies in our country turns out to be necessary? Because of that absence, all of us move toward to finding our identity. I think it’s good that we have filmmakers who produce sex films. At least we’re not a totally puritan country. We’ll be dead when all we have is religious films. Or when all films are meant to be normative like Laskar Pelangi, we’re doomed! We ought to have horror films, sex, sexploitation, all those degrading films, “those people” still need to exist. So we can balance it out and separate the good from the bad. So we can have a discussion of, “That’s a crappy film, and this one’s slightly better.” Not thoroughly, just slightly better.

Akbar: I watched Drupadi (Draupadi). Can you explain the cultural context you mean here?

Riri: I’m not a Javanese. I see that from the context, “Who’s my audience?” Where most films are screened. When we talk about “horror” such as Drupadi, what I think is easily encoded by audience is mysticism because I didn’t want to present direct ghosts. I wanted to make something that resemble what I have in mind regarding mysticism. And I had an experience with it. I mean, eventhough I’m not a Javanese, but the so-called spirits to whom we can ask about “things” do exist. In Makassar culture we also have that. Padang ethnic also have that. So, I wanted to learn about that. I see no problem because I’ve always worked within a community this whole time. I’ve worked with Javanese, Sundanese, women, and men. Drupadi was written by Leila Chudori, not me. I can trust her credibility, she understood what she’s writing. I was the visual interpreter. That’s a whole different area, being a director for that film. There’s script, text, and I was the visual interpreter. I braced myself. “You’re sure, right?” I said to her upon reading. I took the short chapter about the dice game. That’s what I wanted to dig and explore. What can one do… When a concept arises, what emerge more are the ones within “majority room”. What is this thing called Islam, Java, and mystic? The majority head-count will still determine what ideas to emerge in popular culture, which in this case is film. It’s probably different with other alternative culture such as video or others. It’s even more for me, who dive into commercial films. Since the very beginning, it was the first obvious thing.

Hafiz: Last question. How is the plan for Bumi Manusia? Can you tell us a little more?

Riri: Its scriptwriting process has actually taken some time, since around two years ago. The writer is Jujur Prananto. Mira and I were involved in the process. We have our own imageries. It’s a “periodic” film, right, with regard to all background, set, costume, language; but it’s not the first. I myself explored films like Kartini, November 1828, then Cut Nyak Dien. The period falls around the same era, during the late 1800s to early 1900s. I did visual researches as many as I can from pictures, film footage, history books of the era. Colonial culture. How was the relationship pattern between the Dutch and the Dutch Indies during the time? Unhurriedly we start to look for locations to shoot. Start to picture who’ll be the players, to cast Minke and Nyai Ontosoroh.

Hafiz: When will you start shooting?

Riri: Probably mid next year. So I have around a year and a half to do what we gotta do. Gie took two and a half years, back then. Practically did nothing. I was starved! Hahaha, to prepare it. Well, just gotta do it!

*) This interview is edited from its original transcript without any deliberate attempt to moderate the content.

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