This is the first of three pieces published in collaboration withQueer East Film Festival, whose Emerging Critics project brought together six writers for aprogramme of mentorship throughout the festival.
Qinghan Chen
This year, Queer East presents amore defiant stance to the public. Ifelt it within the first three minutes of Takeshi Kitano’s Kubi, the festival’s opening film. When aheadless corpse suddenly appeared on screen, Icovered my eyes and nearly screamed out loud. In the next two hours, heads were severed with the flash of blades; homoerotic scenes were folded into the political intrigue. Iclosed my eyes more than once, retreating into the darkness, anchoring myself emotionally. When adisfigured head was kicked off-screen, the film ended. Ifully understood what curator Yi Wang had joked about in his opening introduction: if you feel uncomfortable, please close youreyes.
In the cinema, Inever know whether each passing moment will shock or stun me. Moving images pour down like awaterfall, an overused metaphor for queer desire, yet they are still potent enough to shatter my boundaries. But Ican choose to close my eyes. With this act, my attention shifts away from the images on screen and turns inward, toward my own body. As aresult, Ibecome more aware of my existence. It feels like my eyes are building atemporary shelter, guarding my perception and granting me respite. When Iam ready, Ican open my eyes and jump back into that fleeting in-between space between myself and the screen. Perhaps Icould discover new interactions between films andspace.
I experienced aperfect accident after traveling an hour and ahalf to reach the ESEA Community Centre, where the short film programme Counter Archives was held. The screening room is anarrow space with askylight, loosely covered by apiece of black fabric. Due to British summer time, the lingering daylight disrupted the images on the screen, making them blurry and erratic. Yet this imperfection created aunique feeling for me.