In a development that has sent Singapore's national psyche into a tailspin more dramatic than a cat in a tumble dryer, a Chinese box office smash has, apparently, reignited the city-state's simmering identity crisis. The film, a historical epic about a Ming Dynasty admiral, has left Singaporeans questioning whether they are, in fact, Chinese, Southeast Asian, or just very efficient robots programmed to complain about the MRT. The government, naturally, is poised to issue a strongly worded statement and possibly a new SG50 commemorative T-shirt.
Let us, for a moment, consider the absurdity of a feature-length motion picture causing an existential panic in a nation whose founding myth involves a Stamford Raffles disembarking in a swamp. The film, a lavish production that probably cost more than Singapore's entire defence budget, has lovingly depicted the exploits of a Chinese explorer who sailed the seas before the British were even a twinkle in a powdered wig. And Singapore, a nation that has built its entire identity on being a global hub for everything from shipping to durian-flavoured coffee, is suddenly experiencing what psychiatrists might call 'ancestral vertigo'.
But here is the delicious irony. Singapore, a place that prides itself on being a 'melting pot' (a phrase that makes sense only if you have never seen a real melting pot, for it would be a mess of charred vegetables and screaming), is now grappling with the fact that its dominant ethnic group has a cultural homeland that is, geopolitically speaking, a bit of a helicopter parent. The film has triggered a bout of navel-gazing so intense that one could mistake it for a yoga retreat. Op-ed pages are groaning under the weight of anguished essays asking 'Who are we really?' while the government hastily convenes a task force to 'recalibrate national narratives'. I can almost hear the sound of fine china being nervously stacked in the Singapore History Museum.
The real problem, you see, is that Singapore's identity was never meant to be examined too closely. It is like a Christmas bauble: shiny, pleasant, but hollow, and will shatter if you drop it. The film, with its stirring depictions of Chinese maritime glory, has inadvertently shone a spotlight on the gap between the state's multiracial rhetoric and the lived reality of a society where speaking Mandarin is about as rebellious as wearing a tie. Suddenly, Singapore is forced to confront the question: can you be ethnically Chinese but culturally uniquely Singaporean without slipping into a crisis of confidence that would humble a teenager?
And let us not forget the irony that this crisis is being fuelled by a film from a country that Singapore often regards with a mix of admiration and wariness, like a small terrier eyeing a larger, more well-fed Labrador. The Chinese film industry, unleashed from the shackles of communist propaganda (or at least given a slightly longer leash), has been producing epics that make Hollywood look like a caravan of amateur puppeteers. And now, these celluloid dreams are invading Singapore's consciousness, causing the city-state's identity to wobble like a jelly that has been left out in the sun.
But worry not, for I suspect this crisis will pass, as all existential crises do in Singapore, with the formation of a committee and the issuance of a glossy report. Perhaps they will commission a new national anthem, one that includes a line about being 'determined to be confused'. Or maybe they will simply ban the film and declare a public holiday for 'Who We Are Day'. Anything to get the punters back to queuing politely for bubble tea and complaining about the humidity.
In the meantime, I shall be in the bar, raising a glass of probably counterfeit gin to the glorious absurdity of it all. To Singapore, a nation that can be unsettled by a movie. To the Chinese film industry, for reminding us that history is a weapon. And to anyone who has ever stared into the void and found it tastes faintly of chicken rice. Cheers.
