I have a proposition for you, the blond boy said down the phone. Are you free this weekend?
I responded with a tentative “I’m not going away,” (I had vague plans with Harvard, a promisingly tall dark-haired American boy).
“There’s an Indonesian music video-clip shooting this weekend and they need a bule guy and a bule girl and I’m wondering if you want to be my wanita (woman)?”
I was listening now.
He continued: “the storyline is that there are two girls fighting over me.”
And I was sold... I'm a sucker for art imitating life. Life of course being that in Indonesia, white boys are like superstars and no matter how average and ordinary looking they are, they will still have spectacularly gorgeous young Indonesian women falling all over them. And white girls like me, in the background, feeling decidedly confused.
In any case, the thought of the comedic value of appearing in an Indonesian music video clip for a love ballad was unbearably giggle-inducing and promised some comic relief to Jakarta life.
And I was sold... I'm a sucker for art imitating life. Life of course being that in Indonesia, white boys are like superstars and no matter how average and ordinary looking they are, they will still have spectacularly gorgeous young Indonesian women falling all over them. And white girls like me, in the background, feeling decidedly confused.
In any case, the thought of the comedic value of appearing in an Indonesian music video clip for a love ballad was unbearably giggle-inducing and promised some comic relief to Jakarta life.
Of course, first I had to meet the director, a yellow-fingered kretek-smoking creature who worked for one of the local TV stations. He picked me up in his Toyota Kijang under the usual confusing circumstances which inevitably resulted from my extremely incapable grasp of the Indonesian language. When we eventually found each other, he took me to have lunch with another of the directors, who proceeded to explain the plotline of the video clip. Through the haze of cigarettes and a language I don’t really understand, and with the aid of food props - krupuks, packets of crackers, bottles of soy and chilli sauce were arranged and rearranged in an enactment of what was to be the storyline - I was able to gather a few snippets of what was going on. The plot seemed to have changed into something much better – it now seemed that I would have the two boys fighting over me, and I would have the privilege of rejecting the blond boy, on film, for posterity. The plot was that the blond boy was going to be a new dashing (white) suitor on a faded blue scooter, trying to win me away from my Indonesian boyfriend (the lead singer of the band) who would inexplicably be riding in a hot red convertible BMW. It seemed that the lessons of this fairytale were a little mixed up, however at this stage I was confident that the storyline had me choosing the Indonesian boy in the hot red BMW.
“Can you bring me your portfolio?” One of the directors asked me in Indonesian toward the end of our lunch meeting.
“Uh, I don’t have it with me...” I replied, and then trailed off in the hope that the language barrier would somehow convey that I had an extensive portfolio of impressive work, which I had unfortunately left at home in Australia. This seemed to do the trick. At least, he traipsed me around to various corners of the TV station to meet seemingly random people, then took a number of photos of me on his phone, and eventually sent me on my way with instructions to be ready for the film clip on Sunday morning.
So the day came and we were in the car with Pak Deddy on our way to film the music video clip of an Indonesian love ballad by a band called Rupiah. The blond boy and I had listened to the song the night before and fallen over each other in fits of giggles at the prospect of pretending to be in love. Now the song was playing all day long and we were supposed to keep straight (adoring) faces locked on each other.
I was made up by the hair and make-up stylists to the Sinetron stars* who spend the day constantly trotting up to me in between takes and fluttering around me with combs and powder puffs and sticky lipsticks as I sweated away all their hard work under the hot Indonesian skies.
The day passed in a blur of confusion and giggles and ridiculous moments.
The blond boy was hungover and spent much of our free time sleeping on the couch, so I mucked around with the boys from the band, who were all entertained by the fact that I was very white and and very big and very blonde and barely spoke any Indonesian.
The blond boy - he is your husband? They asked me a number of times in Indonesian and English.
No.
Boyfriend?
No
Are you sure??
Laugh. Yes.
“Saya cinta kamu” (I love you) a text arrived from one of my new band-member friends during a break from shooting. I looked at him sitting on the couch across from me, phone in hand and both of us erupted into snorting laughter.
When we were filming I tried to channel all my non-verbal communication skills to work out what the hell was going on, and to attempt to be in remotely the correct position, with the correct look on my face. I was mostly unsuccessful.
“Ok Alison come here, now go there,” they ordered, often taking my arms or my hips in their hands and leading me around.
I spent most of the time squinting my eyes in bewilderment, trying to work out what was supposed to be going on as far as the storyline was concerned.
“Get out of frame, out of frame!!” They yelled at me.
“Ok, now in frame, in frame!”
Ack! Where was “frame?”
“Smile smile!”
“Why are you smiling? You’re not happy!”
I’m not happy? (But I have two boys fighting over me?)
The scenes seemed beyond ridiculous – one in particular had me sprawled on the edge of the pool, wearing a dress and high heels. The shot was set up in such a frenzy that before I knew what was going on, I was following one of the director’s hands with my eyes, by way of conveying my contemplative mood - gazing thoughtfully into the pool, across the pool, above the pool, and away into the distance, just to the right of the camera. All the while the blond boy was over in the corner, eating fried chicken and giggling maniacally at my poolside acting efforts.
In another scene the blond boy and I were in a bar having a drink, with my other suitor watching from behind, in a jealous rage. I didn’t even realise the other boy was behind us until the cameras were rolling and I was directed to look from the blond boy, to behind us, where the Indonesian boy was in full blue-steel Sinetron mode, scowling at me. Swallowing giggles, I was then directed to look back at the eye-twinkling blond boy, who was flaring his nostrils in restrained laughter at my puffed-up Ibu hair.** Then we had to clink glasses and pretend to be toasting something... “To blow jobs!” the blond boy announced loudly, and I snorted and felt the drink dribble out of my nose.
In yet another ridiculous scene I was riding with my Indonesian boyfriend (the lead singer) in a hot red convertible BMW. This boy was 23 but looked about twelve and was tall enough to be eye-to-eye with my nipples. I was asked to run my fingers through his hair and look at him adoringly - “like you’re my girlfriend” he said helpfully – and the entire excruciating time I felt like a pervy old lady taking advantage of some unsuspecting boy.
It was whilst shooting one of the final scenes that I realised something was remiss with the plotline. The blond boy and I were in a bar, locked in an embrace... and then we wandered off together, out of the shot.
“What a minute,” I said as we were walking off arm in arm, “am I choosing you??”
“Yep, looks like it,” the blond boy said, puffing out his chest.
“But I want to choose the Indonesian boy in the hot red convertible BMW!!”
“Can you bring me your portfolio?” One of the directors asked me in Indonesian toward the end of our lunch meeting.
“Uh, I don’t have it with me...” I replied, and then trailed off in the hope that the language barrier would somehow convey that I had an extensive portfolio of impressive work, which I had unfortunately left at home in Australia. This seemed to do the trick. At least, he traipsed me around to various corners of the TV station to meet seemingly random people, then took a number of photos of me on his phone, and eventually sent me on my way with instructions to be ready for the film clip on Sunday morning.
So the day came and we were in the car with Pak Deddy on our way to film the music video clip of an Indonesian love ballad by a band called Rupiah. The blond boy and I had listened to the song the night before and fallen over each other in fits of giggles at the prospect of pretending to be in love. Now the song was playing all day long and we were supposed to keep straight (adoring) faces locked on each other.
I was made up by the hair and make-up stylists to the Sinetron stars* who spend the day constantly trotting up to me in between takes and fluttering around me with combs and powder puffs and sticky lipsticks as I sweated away all their hard work under the hot Indonesian skies.
The day passed in a blur of confusion and giggles and ridiculous moments.
The blond boy was hungover and spent much of our free time sleeping on the couch, so I mucked around with the boys from the band, who were all entertained by the fact that I was very white and and very big and very blonde and barely spoke any Indonesian.
The blond boy - he is your husband? They asked me a number of times in Indonesian and English.
No.
Boyfriend?
No
Are you sure??
Laugh. Yes.
“Saya cinta kamu” (I love you) a text arrived from one of my new band-member friends during a break from shooting. I looked at him sitting on the couch across from me, phone in hand and both of us erupted into snorting laughter.
When we were filming I tried to channel all my non-verbal communication skills to work out what the hell was going on, and to attempt to be in remotely the correct position, with the correct look on my face. I was mostly unsuccessful.
“Ok Alison come here, now go there,” they ordered, often taking my arms or my hips in their hands and leading me around.
I spent most of the time squinting my eyes in bewilderment, trying to work out what was supposed to be going on as far as the storyline was concerned.
“Get out of frame, out of frame!!” They yelled at me.
“Ok, now in frame, in frame!”
Ack! Where was “frame?”
“Smile smile!”
“Why are you smiling? You’re not happy!”
I’m not happy? (But I have two boys fighting over me?)
The scenes seemed beyond ridiculous – one in particular had me sprawled on the edge of the pool, wearing a dress and high heels. The shot was set up in such a frenzy that before I knew what was going on, I was following one of the director’s hands with my eyes, by way of conveying my contemplative mood - gazing thoughtfully into the pool, across the pool, above the pool, and away into the distance, just to the right of the camera. All the while the blond boy was over in the corner, eating fried chicken and giggling maniacally at my poolside acting efforts.
In another scene the blond boy and I were in a bar having a drink, with my other suitor watching from behind, in a jealous rage. I didn’t even realise the other boy was behind us until the cameras were rolling and I was directed to look from the blond boy, to behind us, where the Indonesian boy was in full blue-steel Sinetron mode, scowling at me. Swallowing giggles, I was then directed to look back at the eye-twinkling blond boy, who was flaring his nostrils in restrained laughter at my puffed-up Ibu hair.** Then we had to clink glasses and pretend to be toasting something... “To blow jobs!” the blond boy announced loudly, and I snorted and felt the drink dribble out of my nose.
In yet another ridiculous scene I was riding with my Indonesian boyfriend (the lead singer) in a hot red convertible BMW. This boy was 23 but looked about twelve and was tall enough to be eye-to-eye with my nipples. I was asked to run my fingers through his hair and look at him adoringly - “like you’re my girlfriend” he said helpfully – and the entire excruciating time I felt like a pervy old lady taking advantage of some unsuspecting boy.
It was whilst shooting one of the final scenes that I realised something was remiss with the plotline. The blond boy and I were in a bar, locked in an embrace... and then we wandered off together, out of the shot.
“What a minute,” I said as we were walking off arm in arm, “am I choosing you??”
“Yep, looks like it,” the blond boy said, puffing out his chest.
“But I want to choose the Indonesian boy in the hot red convertible BMW!!”
I was appalled that I hadn’t even noticed I had made the wrong choice until it was already made and I was in the middle of it, stumbling over the camera dolly tracks as we walked off together out of frame. Sigh.
Lesson: Sometimes, when you don’t speak the language and you have no idea what the hell is going on, you just need to allow yourself to be pushed and pulled and directed around, while doing your best to stay out of frame when you’re not supposed to be there, and not ask too many questions about why you’re choosing a particular blond boy.
The music clip has yet to be released and it still elicits a cringe when I think of what the end result may be. I’m quite sure I will look for the most part bewildered and a little panicked ... and one scene will most likely show me with a drink coming out of my nose due to restrained giggles.
There will also be some stellar moments of me on the edge of a pool, looking off camera distractedly, trying to follow a random hand being waved through the air.
As a side note – Pak Deddy contacted me a number of times following the filming of this music clip, telling me that he wanted me to audition to be the host of a monthly jazz show at the TV station where he worked. I have since stopped answering these calls and dyed my hair brown.
------------------------------------------------------------
*Sinetrons are the melodramatic soaps on Indonesian television – the Indo version of Brazilian novellas, much more melodramatic than Australian soaps.
** Ibu hair is popular amongst well-to-do older Jakartan ladies, and involves the entire top section of the hair being puffed up in a wall stretching to the sky, secured with copious amounts of hairspray. I was also lucky enough to wear a side pony in another scene – it was a day of great hairstyles.
Lesson: Sometimes, when you don’t speak the language and you have no idea what the hell is going on, you just need to allow yourself to be pushed and pulled and directed around, while doing your best to stay out of frame when you’re not supposed to be there, and not ask too many questions about why you’re choosing a particular blond boy.
The music clip has yet to be released and it still elicits a cringe when I think of what the end result may be. I’m quite sure I will look for the most part bewildered and a little panicked ... and one scene will most likely show me with a drink coming out of my nose due to restrained giggles.
There will also be some stellar moments of me on the edge of a pool, looking off camera distractedly, trying to follow a random hand being waved through the air.
As a side note – Pak Deddy contacted me a number of times following the filming of this music clip, telling me that he wanted me to audition to be the host of a monthly jazz show at the TV station where he worked. I have since stopped answering these calls and dyed my hair brown.
------------------------------------------------------------
*Sinetrons are the melodramatic soaps on Indonesian television – the Indo version of Brazilian novellas, much more melodramatic than Australian soaps.
** Ibu hair is popular amongst well-to-do older Jakartan ladies, and involves the entire top section of the hair being puffed up in a wall stretching to the sky, secured with copious amounts of hairspray. I was also lucky enough to wear a side pony in another scene – it was a day of great hairstyles.
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