Finding My Voice: Between Cultures and Cinema
Despite having a lot of friends, on the inside, I was always the kid who didn't quite fit.
Half-Filipino, half-white, and wholly confused about where I belonged. My passports collected visas the way other kids collected basketball cards—Manila one year, Warsaw the next. Third Culture Kid is the official term, but it felt more like "kid who's perpetually the new kid."
The upside? I became fluent in the universal language of not belonging.
When you're constantly moving, you develop this hyperawareness of impermanence. Friendships, homes, favorite restaurants—everything comes with an invisible expiration date. Nothing hits you with that reality quite like saying goodbye to your best friend knowing full well that "we'll stay in touch" is a promise neither of you can keep in a pre-internet world.
It was films that gave me something to hold onto.
The Red Balloon (1956) - Dir. Albert Lamorisse
The first movie that ever wrecked me was The Red Balloon (1956). I was maybe seven when I watched it and something about that silent friendship between a boy and his balloon touched a nerve I didn't know I had. When the bullies destroy the balloon, I remember feeling this white-hot anger that surprised even me. But then those other balloons come to rescue the boy, lifting him above the city...
That film became my emotional blueprint. The magical friendship, the inevitable loss, then literally flying away—it was my life story in 34 minutes.
I was living in Warsaw, Poland, at the time and the heaviness of history hung in the air like invisible smoke. You could feel what was once there, what had been destroyed, what would never return. That sense of historical weight led me to The Spirit of the Beehive (1973), where cinematographer Luis Cuadrado (who was going blind during filming—talk about metaphors) created this honey-colored world where the past is always present, where empty rooms feel haunted by whoever just left them.
Dazed and Confused (1993) - Dir. Richard Linklater
This feeling of looking for something that isn't there anymore became central to how I approach storytelling. It's why Richard Linklater's Dazed and Confused (1993) hit me so hard—it's essentially a film with characters acutely aware they're living through moments that are already becoming memories. The camera captures that last-day-of-school feeling so perfectly it hurts..
Few films capture the tension between belonging and displacement better than David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia (1962). Here was T.E. Lawrence, a man caught between two worlds—British by birth but increasingly drawn to Arab culture and identity. That scene where he stares at his reflection in the blade of his dagger, no longer recognizing himself, might as well have been me staring into mirrors in different countries, wondering which version of myself was the real one. The vast desert landscapes aren't just spectacular cinematography; they're spaces of transformation where identity becomes as fluid as the shifting sands. Lawrence's famous line—"I'm different"—became something of a personal mantra during my teenage years.
Chungking Express (1994) - Dir. Wong Kar-Wai
Wong Kar-Wai's Chungking Express (1994) came later, showing me how to make loneliness feel vibrant and alive. There's this shot where Faye Wong dances to "California Dreamin'" while cleaning Tony Leung's character, Cop 663's apartment—a moment of pure joy happening in someone else's empty space. That's essentially my childhood: finding moments of connection in places that weren't mine.
Peter Weir's The Year of Living Dangerously (1982) spoke to me as a half-Asian kid trying to figure out where I fit while the world around me was in turmoil. Mel Gibson's character is the outsider trying to understand a culture in crisis, while Linda Hunt's Billy Kwan (still one of the most fascinating casting choices ever) navigates being of mixed heritage in a place that doesn't fully accept either side of her. I revisit this film whenever I need to reconnect with that feeling of being the perpetual observer.
Remains of the Day (1993) and The Last Emperor (1987) both tackle themes of identity that's defined by artificial constraints—whether it's class in British society or the isolation of China's forbidden city. Both focus on characters living within systems that ultimately don't serve them, something any third culture kid understands instinctively. You learn to perform belonging without ever fully feeling it. Again two films temporally set in times of great upheaval.
And then there's Tarkovsky's Mirror (1975), which I didn't understand at all when I first watched it, (probably still don't) but felt completely in my bones. The non-linear structure, the way memories bleed into each other, the sense that time isn't a straight line but a pool you can dip into at any point—that's exactly how my childhood memories work. Warsaw blurs into Jakarta blurs into that summer in Switzerland when my hair was that weird length because I wanted to grow it long.
These films don't just influence my work—they formed my understanding of what cinema can do. They taught me that film isn't just about telling stories; it's about creating sensory experiences that make viewers feel seen in ways they can't articulate.
When you grow up between cultures, you develop this keen awareness of the unspoken rules that govern different societies. You become fluent in reading rooms, noticing subtle social cues, understanding what's beneath the surface. I feel like that's kind of what filmmaking is—telling stories in the space between what's said and unsaid, what's shown and not shown.
My films tend to focus on characters caught between worlds, people carrying the weight of what was and what could be. I'm drawn to stories about impermanence not because I'm obsessed with loss, but because there's something universal in that experience. Everyone knows what it's like to watch something slip away, to feel time passing through your fingers.
The kid who never quite fit anywhere grew up to make films about not quite fitting anywhere.
So here I am, still collecting passport stamps, still drawn to stories about people and places in transition. If you've ever felt caught between worlds, or if you just like films that linger with you long after watching, you're in the right place. This blog is where I'll share the films, moments and visual language—the textures that help me make sense of a beautifully impermanent world.
