Fast Forgetting
Take your mind back to the opening scenes of 2003’s Lost in Translation. Bob waking up to blurry lights, people, roads and vehicles of the Tokyo two decades past.
Imagine viewing that scene, from its protagonist’s shielded, cozy perspective, in a theater. The fleeting background of faded neon, rectangular cars, and formal wear in motion as perceived by an outsider just waking up. An introduction to an alien setting. Well, alien to some.
Imagine its impression on someone who has never left a rural East African village. Or say, its familiarity to a person in geographically and culturally adjacent Seoul. To individuals separated by time, place, culture and contexts. People out of phase with one another. To say nothing of any understanding they carry, or lack thereof, of the urban agglomeration presented on fast-forward.
I sometimes reflect on how far apart places feel, not only in distance but in time. Each location with its own developmental clock, ticking at a different pace than everywhere else. On paths varied, non-linear and branching, each scripting a unique history.
And what of objects that adorn these land- and time-scapes? Placeholders or conveyors of atavistic memory stained across eras. Items associated with more than just feeling, carrying the scars of their functions, age and owners—of the tendrils of time surrounding them. No wonder there is such great emotion elicited when visiting different sites, especially those we have occupied regularly, either physically or in dreams. Stepping through doorways to recalibrate our recollections.
At least that is what comes to mind when viewing films like Yumeng He’s The Other Side of the Mountain. Contemplative and intentional, a moving portrait to a personal history experienced secondhand. Yumeng follows her father, Cheng, as he makes a journey on behalf of his mother to her childhood home. A pilgrimage she cannot make herself. Cheng speaks with his mother’s friends, connects with locals, sightsees, sketches, and supports Yumeng in the construction of an ode to a different time. One hidden away not unintentionally:
The film has a few layers, but one thing stood out to me when I came across it. The people going about their day-to-day in their dilapidated but rich surroundings—aged and saturated—with purpose and in connection. The third places emphasized throughout where young and old alike gathered, whether it be huddled over tea or smartphones.
I envy them. It has been many years since I have engaged in community-making outside of work. But I wonder where their focus lay. The present can be distracting. Noise and screens aside, hurrying about seems to have collective consent. There is always something to worry about or somewhere to be. No escape to leisureland for those of us seeking a pause.
In the concluding scene, Cheng hands his mother a figurine from her childhood home. She accepts the object in palmed hands. We do not need to see their expressions to understand the weight of the moment, or the precious nature of memories unearthed through that small action.
Cheng remarks on the tourists gazing at the ceiling of the nuclear facility:
“Perhaps they are looking at a past. They see from afar, because in a way, it’s not theirs.
Beneath the surface of fast development is fast forgetting. Like them, neither of us has experienced this past first-hand. We are looking back at it through a one-sided account.
We are living in a time full of records. We document endlessly. At the same time, we are being documented, forgotten, and deleted.”
In the end, these stories will ebb. Our creations, orbits, and communities are destined to be ephemeral. Cultural and temporal snapshots, in our own lives and others’, to which we must bear witness. Lest their value be lost.
As Yumeng notes rhetorically, “Can we see through the present?”
Another great video, also featured on Aeon a while back, evoking similar feelings: Regulars.
And worthy Measures entries from the aforementioned Lost in Translation: