Introduction
Art is emotion. idea that this was a 1972 movie; I liked the idea of ending with
- Alfred Hitchcock
“Demokrasi apa?”
“Demokrasi terpimpin.”
“Terpimpin kepala hotak kau!”
- from 3 Abdul (1964), written and directed
by P. Ramlee*1
1.
Why 120?
I started collecting VCDs of old Malay movies in 2007, and
wound up with well over 200 titles. Most of the VCDs were
legitimate releases but some were (oh, what will you think of
me?) pirated. Then I started writing this book in the middle
of 2008.
The idea: to watch the movies in chronological order,
so that I could trace how things changed (or not) over time.
I was primarily interested to see how the world as shown in
those films was different (or not) from the one we have today.
I would start from the very earliest films — but, right away,
some difficulties presented themselves.
The first Malay-language movie was Laila Majnun.
Almost all books tag this as a 1933 release, but Jan Uhde
and Yvonne Ng Uhde in their book Latent Images: Film in
Singapore prove that the movie opened only on 27 March 1934.
Therefore, Laila Majnun is a 1934 rather than a 1933 film.
All feature-length movies in Malay that were released
from 1934 to 1947 appear to be lost forever. These 20 or so
movies had been consumed by the ravages of time (they were
on easily flammable nitrate film) or the Japanese Occupation.
Therefore, I began with the oldest surviving Malay
film, Cinta (1948). And I chose to end with Laxmana Do Re
Mi. When I started this book, I went along with the prevalent
* My unliteral translation on page 285
120 Malay Movies 12 Amir Muhammad
the year of my birth, for what is an ‘old movie’ but one made
before one was born? It was only later, after reading Mustafar
A.R. and Aziz Sattar’s Filem-Filem P. Ramlee, that I realised
Laxmana Do Re Mi was released in May 1973. It thus should
be known as a 1973 movie (albeit completed in 1972).
About 360 Malay movies were made in that period. I
couldn’t watch all of them, because a few dozen are lost! These
include the first colour movie Buluh Perindu (1953), the
first Pontianak (1957) and its sequel Dendam Pontianak
(also 1957). Some key works by prominent directors are also
missing, the most obvious being P. Ramlee’s first film in Kuala
Lumpur, Si Tora Harimau Jadian, and Hussain Haniff’s
Macbeth adaptation Istana Berdarah, both from 1964.
Even among the VCDs that I had, some were of such
bad quality that the actors sounded like they were speaking
in tongues, with too many accidental ‘jump-cuts’ due to lost
frames. So I had to ditch most of those, too.
I therefore knew that this book would not take the
form of a catalogue raisonné, or be an obsessively completist
compilation.
Then I decided I didn’t even want to write about every
single decent VCD I had. My attitude was to watch (or re-watch)
only the ones that interested me. I pretended I was an actual
movie-goer at that time rather than an archeologist who would
want to see just everything. So, for example, if I saw a few purba
(period) movies in a row, I could watch a few contemporary ones
to cleanse my palette, even if it meant missing some purba
movies now considered important. I had a similar attitude to
the movie stars. If I found the actress KB whiny and the actor
JS smarmy, I would skip many of their movies. Yes, it’s a totally
subjective selection.
So I set a target of 120 movies. Why 120? Well, it’s my
sarcastic way of saying that watching so many Malay movies
in a row would be akin to one of the tortures in the Marquis de
Sade book 120 Days of Sodom.
120 Malay Movies 13 Amir Muhammad
 Luckily, I was proven wrong. Many of these films were
so fun that it was with some reluctance that I emerged from
the experience of being submerged in them. Even the ones
that weren’t so great were often interesting in some way or
other. Perhaps I could have extended the book to 150 or even
160 titles. But then, what would the divine Marquis say?
2.
A Potted History of the Malay Studio System
Old Malay movies were made by studios that usually controlled
all means of production, distribution and exhibition. The
three most prominent studios covered in this book are Shaw
Brothers’ Malay Film Production (which made 162 Malay
movies), Cathay-Keris Film (which made 121), and Merdeka
Film Productions (which made 90, including 30 after the
period of this book).
Shaw Brothers’ film-making arm was set up by
Shanghai-born Runme and Run Run Shaw, who were already
film exhibitors in Singapore and Malaya, in the late 1930s.
Cathay-Keris started later, in the early 1950s, as a collaboration
between Loke Wan Tho (of The Cathay Organisation, which
distributed films) and the entrepreneur Ho Ah Loke (who had
produced Buluh Perindu). Loke’s father was Loke Yew, one
of the first prominent Chinese businessmen to have made an
impact in British Malaya, back in the 19th century.
These Singapore studios had actors, directors and crew
under contract. The stars were paid regular monthly salaries
and lived in designated areas, with their image and public
appearances tightly controlled. So, for certain protracted
periods of time, you could instantly differentiate between a
Shaw film and a Cathay one by looking at not only the cast
but the recycled studio locations. At their peak (from the late
1950s to the mid-60s) audiences had new releases from these
competing studios practically every month. This was the golden
age of the Malay studio era.
120 Malay Movies 14 Amir Muhammad
But the studio system, worldwide, was already wobbly
by then. For example, the ‘vertical integration’ economic
model of these companies was the subject of anti-trust
legislation in the United States, which sought to break up
unfair monopolies. It was considered unhealthy for any one
company to control so much of an industry. (Locally, this could
be seen by how smaller, short-lived companies like Nusantara
and Maria Menado Productions had to swim with the two
studios or sink altogether.)
The case of the Malay studio system was fraught further
by internal factors (such as union disputes about working
conditions, especially at Shaw) and external ones that affected
distribution and exhibition (the Indonesian Confrontation;
the Separation of Singapore from Malaysia).
Merdeka Film Productions was the first studio in Kuala
Lumpur; it was set up in the early 1960s by the entrepreneur
H.M. Shah, who lured Ho Ah Loke away from Singapore to
be his partner. When the Singapore film-making branch of
Shaw ceased operation in the late 1960s, many of the people
employed there moved to join Merdeka. But by then, audiences
were staying away from Malay movies, which seemed cheap
and outdated. Merdeka wasn’t as well-equipped as Shaw and
Cathay were in Singapore, and the bosses wanted to keep
churning out movies at the old budget of $60,000 - 80,000
per title, almost always in black and white, which invariably
seemed shoddy compared to not only Hollywood but also the
colour imports from Indonesia.
The most expensive studio movie was Shaw’s Raja
Bersiong (1968), which cost $750,000 and took two years to
make. Although it’s an entertaining film, its box-office failure
helped to further hasten the demise of the studio system.
The old way of making movies effectively stopped being
viable in the mid-1970s. After that came the lamest period
of local cinema, the late 1970s and the 1980s, when small
independent producers tried to get films going. It’s true that
the cast and crew were now free to choose which company to
work for, which media to speak to, and which neighbourhood
120 Malay Movies 15 Amir Muhammad
to live in, but this resulted in what Kierkegaard called, in a
different context, the ‘anxiety of freedom’. Compare the films
made by A.R. Tompel in the studio era with the ones made
by his son A.R. Badul in the post-studio era and you will get
my drift.
3.
Historical Events as Seen in Old Malay Cinema
1948 to 1972/3 was a dramatic quarter-century in this part of the
world. Among the events that took place were the Emergency,
otherwise known as the anti-communist war (1948-1960),
the Independence of Malaya (1957), the creation of Malaysia
(1963), the expulsion of Singapore from Malaysia (1965), the
May 13 riots (1969), and the start of the New Economic Policy
(1970). Some of these events literally shaped our boundaries;
others definitely shaped the way we see ourselves.
Although most Malay movies did not comment directly
on these events, you can still get strong hints. Even lines like
“The rubber prices fell again” or “My husband was killed by
the communists” are indicators of the anxieties of the period.
Some topics are more cinema-ready than others. The
first two movies to deal exclusively with World War 2 came in
1958 (Matahari and Sergeant Hassan), 13 years after the
Japanese surrender. But, to date, there has been no movie to
deal exclusively with, say, the Indonesian Confrontation or the
May 13 riots. The failure of subsequent local cinema to engage
with big events is a sign that cinema became less relevant as a
discursive force.
Historical events could also impact the way a film
was made, shown or received. The Indonesian Confrontation
affected Malay film distribution because a lucrative potential
market was cut off. The only Indonesian co-production in
this book, Bayangan di Waktu Fajar, could not screen in
Indonesia until after the hostilities ended; back in Malaysia, it
flopped because people didn’t want to support anything from a
suddenly hostile neighbour.
120 Malay Movies 16 Amir Muhammad
Not many Malay movies commented on the 1957
Independence, because the films were made in Singapore
rather than Kuala Lumpur. But from 1963 onwards, there
was a rash of films that had optimistic scenes (which included
not only entire songs but small things like hotel signs) about
the excitement of being in a new nation. The films that
were made in KL also sought to boost the town’s image, to
show that this new national capital wasn’t that far behind
swinging Singapore!
It wasn’t just films with recognisably modern or
contemporary backdrops that could reflect the times. An
example would be Panglima Besi (1964), a purba movie
whose anti-war theme certainly reflected the tense period of
Konfrontasi, as well as lingering memories of World War 2 and
the Emergency.
4.
Seeing Stars
Stars are chosen for their charisma, which is another way of
saying sex appeal. The gorgeous men and women of the studio
era made the research for this book very painless. I chose
(although it’s not such a difficult choice) to respond to cinema
the way Pauline Kael did, as can be seen in the titles of her
books I Lost it at the Movies and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
In most of the films, the stars were bigger than their
roles. So I took the unorthodox decision of identifying the
characters in most of the 120 chapters by referring to the
names of the actors/actresses instead of the names of the roles.
It seems self-evident that a movie-goer, then and now, when
describing what movie he or she just saw, would say, “P. Ramlee
is a poor trishaw-puller who falls in love with Saadiah, who’s a
rich girl” rather than “Amran is a poor trishaw-puller who falls
in love with Azizah, who’s a rich girl.”
I realise this runs the risk of conflating an actor with
his role, but I think this elementary confusion actually
makes movie-going pleasurable, because it creates cinematic
shorthand. Most stars became identified with only ‘good’ or
120 Malay Movies 17 Amir Muhammad
‘bad’ characters; when we watch them, we remember all their
previous roles. Just a split-second of being shown the glowering
face of, say, Salleh Kamil or Mahmud June is normally enough
to establish their bad intentions. The exceptions I make are
for films in which historical or known mythical characters
are portrayed, or the rare moments where a new fictional
character becomes emblematic, such as Haji Bakhil or
Kassim Selamat.
It’s unavoidable that P. Ramlee is the most cited name
in this book (flip to the Index for proof). He dominated and
came to personify the Malay studio era as not only actor but
director, singer, composer and writer. The closest equivalent
to such a multi-tasker in world cinema is India’s Raj Kapoor.
Watching these movies in chronological order also enables us
to keep track of the fluctuations in P. Ramlee’s weight: the
wiry youth blooms into a well-padded adult before slimming
down and then ballooning again. This book looks at every
surviving movie P. Ramlee directed, but there are also
twoother directors who are represented by almost their full
filmographies, K.M.Basker and Hussain Haniff, because I find
their work veryinteresting and they both similarly had ended
their careers by 1973.
There are also many other stars whose charisma
blazed through the screen, and whose movies I always looked
forward to. Chief among them are Siput Serawak, Nordin
Ahmad, Latifah Omar, Saadiah, Ahmad Mahmud, Normadiah,
M. Amin, Rokiah, Yusof Latiff, Saloma, Ahmad Osman,
Sarimah and Mahmud June. Although frequently relegated
to comic supporting roles, Siti Tanjung Perak, S. Shamsuddin
and Ibrahim Pendek are usually delightful and have greater
range than they’re normally given credit for.
120 Malay Movies 18 Amir Muhammad
5.
Sex & Sexuality in Old Malay Cinema
The sensual portrayal of romance, as can be seen right
from Cinta, is something to be celebrated. Village women
in kemban sarongs and flowers in their hair who cavort
with bare-chested men may not have been strictly accurate
representations of how Malay villagers behaved, but these
fantasies were definitely pleasing to the eye.
The Malay studio films could be seen as sexually tame
when compared to what was happening in Europe or Japan at
the same time, but sex as represented by a sly pantun or a well-
timed cutaway to a blooming flower could do the job just as
well. Among the sexiest pairings in this book occur in Cinta
(1948), Aloha (1950) and Panggilan Pulau (1954) — and
that’s just in the first 20 chapters.
In some ways, Malay cinema was more adventurous
than Holywood movies of the time. Sumpah Orang Minyak
and especially Serangan Orang Minyak (both from 1958)
dealt with rape, still a taboo in American studios then.
Another taboo-buster would be the sympathetic adulterers
that we see from 1952 onwards, with the creative peaks for
me being the cheating man in Cucu Datuk Merah (1963)
and the cheating woman in Cinta Kasih Sayang (1965).
Polygamy (which is outlawed in most other societies)
is front and centre in Madu Tiga (1964), a sparkling comedy
I defend although it runs the risk of sexism. Several other
movies deal with polygamy in not such a flippant manner,
including Kasih Tanpa Sayang (1963) and Bukan Salah
Ibu Mengandung (1969), both of which also take on the
thorny topics of sexual infertility and impotence. Even incest
is featured in Kasih Tanpa Sayang and Kalung Kenangan
(1964) and provides a twist in Gelora (1970).
The movies become raunchier as they go along, thanks
to the gradual relaxation of social mores as represented by the
sexual revolution. They also needed to be spicier to compete
with TV. So we get films like Bukan Salah Ibu Mengandung,
120 Malay Movies 19 Amir Muhammad
Dr. Rushdi (1970) and Gelora; two of them aren’t available
on official VCD and one is heavily censored! A sign that we
have regressed to a new puritanism, perhaps.
Most of the creative personnel were men; there’s not
a single female director in this book. But although there are
many examples of passive, long-suffering female characters,
there are also stronger, more independent types: the
protagonist of Matahari comes to mind, not to mention the
campier Nora Zain — Ajen Wanita 001 (1967). The ‘hooker
with a heart of gold’ trope as shown in Dosa Wanita (1967)
and Aku Mahu Hidup (1970) also examines conventional
notions of ‘good’ and ‘bad’, with both those films reserving
their harshest judgements for social hypocrisy. There are
also intelligent critiques of gender disparity in films like Sri
Mersing (1961) and Lancang Kuning (1962), both purba
melodramas in which strong-willed women are punished for
daring to make their own choices, and it’s obvious that the
sympathies of the movies lie squarely with the women rather
than those doling out the punishment.
Even more adventurous would be Sumpah Wanita
(1960) and Sayang Si Buta (1965) which daringly conflates
the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ to quite a heady effect. We should also
not forget the rapacious undead female in Hantu Jerangkung
(1957) and Sumpah Pontianak (1958), which can be seen
as morbid acknowledgments of female power, albeit of the
screeching variety.
As for sexuality, it won’t surprise you to know that
things stay very hetero. Panji Semerang (1961), adapted
from an old Javanese text, breaks from the mould by having a
cross-dressing hero/ine who is the object of amorous attention
from a king who mistakes her for a man. I identify Hang
Tuah and Hang Jebat as being homoerotic although most
would prefer to see them as rather intense ‘buddy movies’. I
nevertheless make the claim that the first gay male character
is in Kaki Kuda (1958), which is also the raunchiest sex
comedy we have; and the first lesbian is in Nora Zain —
Ajen Wanita 001.
120 Malay Movies 20 Amir Muhammad
6.
Feudalism & Politics in Old Malay Cinema
Sex is well and good, but I think the dominant story of this
book is the Malay response to feudalism.
The earliest movies, like Cinta and Nasib (1949) are
all set in purba kingdoms, in which the king or sultan is the
ultimate source of not only political but moral authority. The
monarch can simply do no wrong. The highest position that a
villain could occupy is that of Bendahara, the equivalent of a
Prime Minister.
And then, from 1956, something started to change. In
that year, Hang Tuah presented the ostensible hero as being
a rather conflicted defender of the feudal order, as personified
by an impulsive and gullible sultan. Tuah starts to wonder
whether he’s doing the right thing, as evident in the final
question that he aims squarely at the audience. This same
story was presented in a much more blatantly anti-feudal way
in Hang Jebat (1961) which boldly presents the archetypal
rebel as a hero and the sultan as a weak-willed despot.
Sultan Mahmud Mangkat Dijulang (1961) and Dang
Anom (1962) also pick the myths most likely to paint royalty
in the worst light possible. In the first, the sultan is so vile
and greedy that he has a woman killed just because she ate a
fruit from the royal orchard. In the second, a different female
commoner meets a nasty end because she won’t succumb to
royal horniness.
The comedies Musang Berjanggut and Nujum Pak
Belalang, both from 1959, also poke fun at the fallibility of
sultans. In fact, the heads of state here are very easily fooled,
and they literally have to get down on their hands and knees
in front of commoners.
It’s not just the purba movies. The contemporary
drama Antara Dua Darjat (1960) is an almost hysterical
denunciation of the feudal vestiges of the 20th century. Even
a republican like myself found this a wee bit heavy-handed.
What was going on between 1956 to 1962 to create this
unprecedented rash of anti-feudal films? They can best be
120 Malay Movies 21 Amir Muhammad
appreciated in the context of Malay intellectual and literary
works, by the socialist-minded Kassim Ahmad and Usman
Awang, that sought to educate ordinary people to be free
from repressive, outdated ideas of authority. The creation of
a new nation-state would necessarily be a time to re-evaluate
old ideas and decide which ones to discard. These progressive
movies are a sign that cultural life at that time was in an
exciting stage of ferment.
The almost republican sentiments of those films
became more nuanced in Lancang Kuning (1962) and Raja
Bersiong (1963), which painted the sultan neither as total
hero or total villain, but as men who should be judged by their
actions. It’s unfortunate that in the ensuing decades, there
have been attempts to revive the automatic moral authority
of the Malay monarchy. A relapse into total feudalism would
be disastrous.
Our politics as represented by the Alliance (later
Barisan Nasional) shows undoubted hallmarks of feudalism.
This is probably aided by the fact that the first Prime Minister
happened to be a member of royalty, although subsequent
PMs have similarly shown no qualms in using undemocratic
laws to silence dissent. A hallmark of a feudalist government
is one which keeps telling the people to be ‘grateful’.
The actor-directors S. Roomai Noor and Jins Shamsudin
became active in politics, but there aren’t many references to
actual political parties or activities in the movies themselves.
Mogok (1957) seems unusual now because it has a backdrop
of industrial action; strikes were certainly not an uncommon
feature of life then, and the strong role of trade unions was
even spoofed in Ali Baba Bujang Lapok (1961).
There’s even a joke about UMNO in Pendekar Bujang
Lapok (1959) that provided much joy to anti-Establishment
types on the Internet decades later. Once again, the purba
movies can also be read as political; for example, there’s a
distinctly power-to-the-people sensibility in a speech given
by the hero in Dua Pendekar (1964), which warns the
120 Malay Movies 22 Amir Muhammad
government to be more helpful to the people if it wants to
retain their support.
Speaking of politics: Tunku Abdul Rahman was
probably the first head of government in the world to write two
screenplays that got produced while he was in office: Mahsuri
(1959) and Raja Bersiong (1968). Both stories were myths
from his home state of Kedah, which raises the interesting
question of federal versus state identity.
7.
Religion in Old Malay Cinema
There are a few movies set in a vaguely pre-Islamic era,
starting with Cinta where the characters worship a stone idol.
The most lavish depiction would be in Raja Bersiong
(1968), which (unlike the 1963 version) makes it clear that the
myth took place when Kedah was a Hindu-Buddhist kingdom.
The reason this movie is hardly shown on TV anymore is
because we are now not allowed to depict Malay-Muslim actors
taking part in non-Muslim religious rituals.
Four movies in this book detail the coming of Islam to
the Malay world: Iman (1954), Semerah Padi (1956), Isi
Neraka (1960) and, most controversially, Noor Islam (1960).
The fact that their release dates roughly coincided with the
string of anti-feudal titles shows that they, too, were part of
a re-evaluating process that an incipient nation was going
through. Islam in all four cases represented a punitive justice
system that is applicable to all, regardless of social rank. Even
a king or a headman’s daughter should not be spared from the
extent of the law if they went against religious strictures.
The fact that Islam is foregrounded in Malay cinema
so early might seem to go against the conventional idea that
Islamist awareness in Malaysia started only in the 1970s,
partly as a response to the political agitation in Iran. (Although
the Islamic opposition party PAS started in 1951, it would not
be a mainstream political force in its first decade.)
120 Malay Movies 23 Amir Muhammad
 Perhaps Islam, in this instance, can be seen as a strategy
of anti-colonial or post-colonial resistance, as an assertion
of fundamental difference from the colonial order. This is
seen most explicitly in Noor Islam, which shows Islam as a
religion of the underclass that is rising against a complacent
and rickety system upheld by the rich and powerful. But then
again, although Iman and Semerah Padi were big hits, their
championing of hudud laws didn’t make people more likely to
vote for PAS.
Although religion isn’t foregrounded so blatantly, the
bifurcated structure of Raden Mas (1959) enables it to be set
in both the pre-Islamic and Islamic worlds. The story spans two
generations and the continuum also acts as a neat summary
of the continual evolution of Malay (or, in this case, Malay/
Javanese) society.
Comedies like Nasib Si Labu Labi (1963) puncture
the idea that men who have gone on the Haj pilgrimage
are necessarily the most upright of people; and a few more
like Ahmad Albab (1968) poke fun at the Arabian settings
that are often complacently taken as shorthand for Islamist
propriety. These movies healthily show that it’s the substance
rather than the form which should take precedence if we were
to judge someone’s true religious credentials. The privilege
customarily accorded to males in cases of polygamy are also
critiqued in Seniman Bujang Lapok (1961) and Bukan
Salah Ibu Mengandung.
Even when all the characters are seemingly modern
Muslims, atavistic superstition in the form of black magic
can still exist, as seen in Gerimis (1968) and Sial Wanita.
The latter film, in particular, takes a stand against backward
beliefs that are contrary to the progressive spirit of Islam.
120 Malay Movies 24 Amir Muhammad
8.
Ethnicity in Old Malay Cinema
The Malay studio movies of Singapore featured a
predominately Malay cast even though the city by that time
already had an ethnic Chinese majority.
This might explain the peculiar phenomenon today of
these films being culturally claimed by Malaysia instead of
Singapore. Most young Singaporeans would not be very aware
of these movies, while most Malaysians would be familiar with
the more famous titles. Singapore is fond of starting its national
narrative in 1965, the year of its Separation from Malaysia.
This means that the ‘real’ Singaporean film industry somehow
started only with the Chinese-language films of the 1990s; the
1970s and 1980s offered very slim pickings. This is a shame
because, despite the ‘Malayness’ of the studio movies, they are
a part of Singapore history.
There were racial (Malay-Chinese) riots in Singapore
in 1964 and in Kuala Lumpur in 1969, but the movies,
obviously mindful of censorship, did not foreground or even
acknowledge them.
Small hints of racial tension actually pop up in purba
movies. There’s a dark-skinned Indian who is subjected to
merciless teasing by the Malays in Mahsuri (1959) which is
ironic considering that early Malay civilisation owed a great
deal to the Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms that are now part of
India. Just as the Chinese-majority Singapore has trouble
coming to terms with its Malay cultural past, so too do Malay
Malaysians get squeamish when it comes to acknowledging
their own Hindu-Buddhist cultural heritage.
Another hint occurs in Tajul Ashikin (1963) when
budding Malay merchants are drowned out by the more
ostentatious Chinese. This shows the Malay fear of being
‘displaced’ in their own land by new arrivals who seem
to be much better at business. Although ameliorative-
action policies were necessary to bring the mainly poor
Malays up to par with the rest of the population, right-wing
demagogues have seized upon this insecurity to keep Malays
120 Malay Movies 25 Amir Muhammad
continually paranoid. This focus on ethnicity has made
Malaysians less conscious of having a common history and
shared destiny.
The wisest statement on the melting-pot of Malaysian
society occurs in Ali Baba Bujang Lapok. The deliberate
mish-mash of cultures in the movie is emphasised with
unexpected poignancy when a Chinese trader adds up not
only his age but that of his father to answer the question of
how long he has lived in the area. This blurs the line between
‘immigrant’ and ‘native’ and it is precisely this blurring that
must continue until all Malaysians feel they have the same
stake in the nation.
I chose to call this book 120 Malay Movies because
more than half of the movies were made before ‘Malaysia’ was
even created. (Plus, they were made in Singapore.) So what
they had in common were the language and ethnic milieu
they showcased. But I believe ‘Malay’ can mean something
wider than mere ethnic parochialism. Recall that the People’s
Constitution as drawn up by the leftist Putera-AMCJA
coalition in 1947 defined ‘Malay’ as anyone who was born in,
or chose to become a citizen of, Malaya. This idea didn’t catch
on, which doesn’t mean it never will.
Two movies here foreground interracial love stories:
Sesudah Subuh (1967) and Gerimis. The first film has a
twist ending which reveals the relationship to be a kind of
sham, but the second roots squarely for the couple to stay
together, and we are rewarded with an ending of idyllic
happiness. Both movies, however, show the non-Malay woman
(willingly) making concessions to her Malay male partner.
9.
Non-Malay vs. Malay Directors
The earliest Malay movies were all directed by the same man.
His name was B.S. Rajhans (1903-1955). Born in India, he
came to Malaya in the early 1930s and directed Laila Majnun
(1934). He returned to India later in the decade but then
120 Malay Movies 26 Amir Muhammad
came back to direct Menantu Derhaka (1942). Although
both films are lost, most of the ones he directed from Cinta
onwards remain.
Raphael Millet in his book Singapore Cinema hails
Rajhans as the “founding father of Singapore cinema” but it’s
ironic that in Malaysia (which has, after all, culturally claimed
the Singapore films in Malay) no one mentions his name. This
relates to the reluctance of local film bureaucrats and even
academics in Malaysia to acknowledge the work of the pioneer
ethnic Indian directors (two of whom, S. Ramanathan and
K.M. Basker, were even born in Malaya!)
A particularly obnoxious essay in the film journal of
UiTM Shah Alam (a university open only to ethnic Malays)
even claimed that Malay cinema really only ‘began’ when
Malays became directors. This is bollocks. Anyone who watches
the movies in chronological order would see that the earliest
Malay directors actually built upon what the earlier Indian
directors did; there is no obvious point of rupture. How can
anyone watch Penarik Beca (directed by a Malay in 1955)
and not notice the obvious thematic and stylistic continuation
from a film like Miskin (directed by an ethnic Indian in 1952)?
Equally obnoxious is the FINAS book Malaysian Films:
The Beginning. These are extracts from the chapter ‘Foreign
Influence and Direction’:
“Why were directors from India who knew
little or nothing about Malay culture chosen to
direct Malay films? ... The Indian influence in
Malay films made in Singapore was pervasive
... Thus, in the Malay films of the early 1950s,
there were scenes contradictory to the culture
of the audience. For example, the film Putus
Harapan ended with P. Ramlee singing a
song ‘Tidurlah Permaisuri’ upon the death
of Rokiah Jaafar. Customarily, in the Islamic
community, the hour of death would be
filled with prayers. In another instance, the
audience were not too happy with the costume
120 Malay Movies 27 Amir Muhammad
 of Latifah Omar in the film Panggilan
Pulau. These reflected elements of Indian
culture which had been allowed to seep into
the films.”
More bollocks. Did the folks of FINAS not realise that
most of the films that were later directed by Malays didn’t
customarily have prayers recited at death scenes either? Ditto
the matter of costumes (Latifah in that film wasn’t even
playing a Malay Muslim). Isn’t there such a thing as dramatic
licence? There are even two suicide attempts in (the rather
good) Bukan Salah Ibu Mengandung, the directorial debut
of the FINAS chairman Jins Shamsuddin; why didn’t the
book bitch-slap him for “scenes contradictory to the culture of
the audience”?
If the authors of that book insist on Islamist values,
they should probably have checked out Iman, which was
made in the same era. But it was by an Indian, so the title is
missing from that book. But Isi Neraka, directed by a Malay,
is (right on cue) applauded for its “Islamic values”.
10.
Cinema in Old Malay Cinema
The people who made Malay movies didn’t live in a hermetically
sealed world. One of the most popular stars, Saloma, actually
got her screen-name from the Rita Hayworth movie Salome,
which should give you an indication of how cinema makes
national boundaries porous.
Many of the scenes and even entire stories were adapted
from films in India, Hong Kong and Hollywood. (Wuthering
Heights was a particular favourite, for some reason.) It was
up to the genius of each creative team to localise the stories
well enough to seem original. For example, the ‘mirror scene’
in Nasib Do Re Mi (1966) is done so well and so knowingly
that it would be more accurate to say it’s a homage to, rather
than rip-off from, the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.
120 Malay Movies 28 Amir Muhammad
In studio movies, stories (even the blatantly adapted
ones) tended to be crafted competently enough to provide
basic narrative satisfaction. At its simplest level, this meant
that we can be counted on to root for the good people and
get angry at the bad ones; and not to be too bewildered by
a particular event. Plot points and backstory tended to be
repeated to make sure we get them. This type of skill should
not be underestimated! Check out Shaw’s comeback to Malay
cinema (through the Astro-Shaw company) with Nafas Cinta
(1999) and you can see how much more sloppy and incoherent
the newer film is, despite its all-local creative team.
The earlier films tended to have a stagey quality but
this was common in cinema the world over. Things became
more adventurous with time, although the tight budgets and
time constraints (each film had to be shot in three weeks)
would always inhibit anything too wild. Perhaps the most
‘cinematic’ director here is Hussain Haniff; his expressive
use of camera and editing rarely made his work seem routine
or predictable.
I am particularly interested in how Malay movies
referenced earlier Malay movies. Intertextuality would be
inevitable in a small industry in which everyone else would
be your colleague or rival (or both). Penarik Beca mentions
Iman, Seniman Bujang Lapok promotes Panji Semerang,
and Laxmana Do Re Mi mentions Anak Buluh Betung
(1966). Even more intriguing is how a line from Masuk
Angin Keluar Asap (1963) spoofs something we notice in
Nasib Si Labu Labi (1963), made by a rival studio.
Quite a few of the filmmakers would have been
competitive enough to want to outdo the others. They might
take something that ‘works’ in another movie and then seek to
improve on it. This is the approach I have taken in structuring
this book: I tend to show how a movie would build upon (or
degenerate from) a movie that came before. This means that
each movie is never a self-enclosed, solipsistic entity but
a cultural product that is in conversation not only with its
intended audience but with other cultural products. (I ripped
120 Malay Movies 29 Amir Muhammad
off this idea from Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon, a book
I never finished, although I now have the pleasure of having
it in the Index of my own book.) Films, just like audience
members, usually don’t live alone; they have parents, partners
or children.

11.
Then and Now
So, what about my mission? Did I find out how the world
of those movies is similar (or not) from the world we live
in today?
I will answer with an illustrated anecdote. The film
Iman has a scene in which the Devil seeks to impress Ahmad
Mahmud, who has just signed a pact with him. The horny fellow
(I mean the Devil) waves his hand and promises to conjure up
“mahligai yang paling indah (the most beautiful palace)”. Lo
and behold! A structure rises from the ground, in a matter
of seconds.
On the one hand, you have to give the Devil his
due: his method of construction doesn’t involve the
exploitation of migrant labour. It also, aside from the
puff of smoke in the beginning, doesn’t seem to involve
much damage to the environment: no trees were felled.
This structure is meant to be grand, imposing, and
totally out of character with its surrounding area. There
would be no love here, just diabolical ambition. (What do
you expect when the Devil is your architect? He didn’t even
consult the client, but went ahead and built just-like-that!)
What I couldn’t help noticing is its similarity to the
Prime Minister’s Office in Putrajaya:
12.
I Would Like to Thank ...
A shy bloke named Kamal Hidayat maintains a site called
Filemkita.com. Although he hasn’t updated it in years, it’s a
pretty comprehensive resource for the older local films. He
didn’t get any funding for it; he did it as a hobby. Even the
FINAS-funded Sinemamalaysia.com.my has fewer films (from
the studio era) in its database. If you don’t believe me, try
checking how many of the 120 movies in this book are on the
latter site. I can assure you they are all in Kamal’s.
I don’t personally know most of the people in this book.
This is because I am not in the habit of seeing or talking to
dead people. I’d also rather not bother the ones still alive with
interview requests. The way I see it, if I were one of them, I
wouldn’t want to keep dwelling on movies I made 50 years
ago. I’d rather concentrate on my gardening, grandchildren or
diabetes medication. But, of course, these movies would never
have happened without them, and also the unsung behind-the-
scenes people who shall remain unsung here because I couldn’t

120 Malay Movies 31 Amir Muhammad

be bothered to include the names of Continuity People or
Dubbing Editors. But, seriously, I salute them, too!
One of the people I did have the pleasure of knowing
was Hamzah Hussin while he was at FINAS and when I used
to go there often in the late 1990s. He was full of stories about
the Cathay-Keris studio era, which he recounted with youthful
and often naughty enthusiasm. I had not actually seen any of
the films he wrote by then (this was before the VCDs became
available) and watching them after his death makes me wish I
could continue talking to him.
I’d also like to thank the earliest readers of this book for
their advice and comments, most of which I incorporated but
some of which I rashly discarded. Thank you to Richard Wong,
Chet Chin, Eugene Chua, Julia Mayer and Ruysan Sopian.
Thank you also to Liza Manshoor for working on this book for
... gosh ... it seems like years!
See you at the movies! Or the VCD store.
Amir Muhammad
July 2010
120 Malay Movies 32 Amir Muhammad
A Note On Spelling
Many of the names in this book are spelled in more than one
way in movie credits as well as press and biographical material.
This is because they were usually screen names and were not,
for the most part, a matter of official record. I just went with
whatever seemed nice to me! So you will get Mahmud June
(instead of Mahmood June or Mahmud Jun); Rose Yatimah
(instead of Roseyatimah); Malek Selamat (instead of Malik
Selamat); and so on. Perhaps the most unusual choice I made
was to stick to Siput Serawak (which is how her name appears
in most of her movie credits) rather than Siput Sarawak,
although, just to make things complicated, I maintained her
daughter’s name as the more familiar-looking Anita Sarawak.
For the movie titles, I usually chose the modern spelling
that Malaysians started using from the mid-1970s onwards:
hence, Cucu Datuk Merah instead of Chuchu Datok
Merah. I did make the occasional exception; for example,
I think Bujang Lapok looks better, and certainly funnier, than
Bujang Lapuk.
120 Malay Movies 33 Amir Muhammad