From Malaysia to Dreams of Japanese Cinema: A Filmmaker & Editor’s Journey

Could you introduce yourself?

My name is Sid Shekar. I’m a 30-year-old Malaysian filmmaker, currently based in Malaysia. I went to film school in my mid-20s and graduated with a film degree. I’ve been working in film production, advertising, TV, and media for the past 12 years. So, it’s been quite a long time. I recently traveled to Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka in Japan in March last year. I had several reasons for going, but one of them was to explore the art culture there. It’s such a rich culture, one that I deeply appreciate as someone who grew up watching Kurosawa films. One of my personal favorites is Sanjuro. I love it because it’s not so much about violence, but more of an action comedy. It was very entertaining and something I grew up on.

Before you decided to go to university, did you make films as a hobby?

Yes, I did. I actually come from a creative family. My father is a photographer that is quite established in my country. So I grew up in that environment, watching the shift from film photography to digital. I saw my father working constantly as I was growing up. My mother used to be a chef and later a food stylist. She worked alongside my father for about 20 years. Together they covered a lot of projects. Growing up in that environment, you could say I didn’t exactly follow in my father’s footsteps. I didn’t become a photographer, I became a filmmaker instead. For me, filmmaking had more beauty in telling a story across time, rather than capturing one single moment. My father’s ideology, like most photographers, is that you tell a story with one photo. But for a filmmaker, you tell a story across 25. And if you’re wondering why 25, it’s because in cinema, one second equals 25 frames.

So you mean, you tell a story in one second.

Exactly.

You worked in several companies after graduating?

Yes. Actually, I started freelancing when I was 18, even before I went to university. I entered university at 22 and graduated at 25, but I was still freelancing the whole time. My specialty is editing. I’ve been an editor for 12 years. Most of the time I don’t even need to be on set, as I handle the post-production.

So when you were younger, did you ever imagine yourself becoming a photographer?

No, not at all. When I was young, I wanted to be a paleontologist. I wanted to dig up dinosaurs after watching Jurassic Park. Later on, I thought about becoming an actor. But I realized I was more drawn to being behind the camera rather than in front of it. The way I see myself as a storyteller is this: we are keepers of memory. Where do memories go when we forget them? They become stories. Stories are where all memories live. So for me, many of the scripts I’ve written or films I’ve shot are essentially memories. Fragments of people, parts of myself, small pieces that become immortalized as stories. I’ve always been drawn to the raw aspects of human behavior—the most unfiltered moments. That’s where a lot of my short film scripts come from. These are universal feelings that transcend language. For example, when you meet someone you really like but you’re not at the right point in your life to be with them, you feel you’re not good enough. I think everyone in the world has had that moment. It’s universal. Many of my stories revolve around themes like searching for yourself, loneliness, lost romance, questioning your existence. These are feelings everyone experiences, whether you’re American, Japanese, or Malaysian. At some point in life, we all question our place in the world.

So that feeling you want to capture and share with the world is also what we feel.

Exactly.

What is your feeling when you’re creating films about these kinds of things? I’m asking because earlier you said your themes often involve struggle and deep emotions. But in my question list, I have one asking: What is the happiest moment of your creative journey? So I wonder, what would that be?

Well, they’re both connected. It’s not really about “happy” or "sad”. When I make more serious stories, it’s my way of highlighting things people tend to ignore. But in the end, I leave it up to the audience, whether they want to believe what I’m saying or not. That’s their choice. That’s the whole point of documentaries. You shouldn’t be selling your ideology. You should bring knowledge and awareness to people. But if you ask me about the happiest things I’ve filmed—actually, it’s animals. Many years ago, when I was working in TV, I had the chance to film wild elephants in Malaysia. It was beautiful. I even got to bathe a baby elephant, and it made me so happy I cried. But then I listened to the rangers’ stories. This was at a rehabilitation center where they rescue elephants, care for them, and release them back into the wild. I met a baby elephant named Langsat. His story was heartbreaking. His mother had been killed by poachers. When they found him, he was still standing by his mother’s body. He was only a year old. They brought him to the center, but he was traumatized. Refusing to eat, suffering, until he bonded with one caretaker. That man became like family to him. But a week before we arrived, the caretaker had a heart attack and became bedridden. Langsat stopped eating again. He was devastated. It showed me just how much animals can feel. Humans are the only species that can choose to be cruel, but also the only ones who can choose to be kind. And honestly, sometimes I don’t even bother recording. I just want to watch with my own eyes. That’s why I don’t take photos of my dinner, or post Instagram stories of festive moments. I’d rather enjoy the moment with the people I’m with. For me, that’s more important.

That’s very interesting to hear from someone who works behind the camera. Maybe this is just my prejudice, but a lot of TV shows feel fake.

Oh, everything in Reality TV is fake. I can say this because I used to work in it. I did travel shows, modeling shows—everything was scripted. Very rarely is anything you see on TV real. Even documentaries have scripts, though they’re a little different.

Do you ever get tired of it?

Of course. It’s exhausting. The difference between making projects you love and projects you do for clients is huge. You’ll never enjoy every client project, but you need them to survive. Some you’ll like, some you won’t. But the most important thing is to always do your best, because it reflects on you. If you do bad work, why would anyone hire you again? So you give your best for client work. But for your own projects, you go even further—because those are deeply personal.

Out of all your client or company work, what was the best project?

The best work I did was at a company called Rocket Fuel Entertainment. We made lifestyle shows, and one of them was a rap show called Enam Belas Baris (16 Baris). It means “16 Bars” in Malay. Rappers would come on and freestyle. I really enjoyed working on that. Another project I liked, though it was extremely tough, had me working office hours from 10 a.m. to 6 a.m. with basically only four hours of sleep a day. TV was very demanding back then, about 10 years ago. I’ve also worked in social media and advertising. Social media was the worst. I hated it. The reason I quit was creative differences. The company prioritized output over quality, and when my seniors stopped caring, the whole team stopped caring. That reflected in the work. I felt my skills weren’t respected. And respect goes both ways.

Then what about the toughest moment in your career? A moment when you felt you couldn’t go on?

That’s a fair question. I think every editor feels that editors are the backbone. We’re the ones at the very end, making sure everything fits together. Yet we’re often given the least respect. Even though editors are the second-highest paid role after directors, we’re treated poorly. The worst times are when clients keep sending endless revisions and expect them overnight like we don’t sleep. I’ve even gotten calls at 3 a.m. asking for edits within two hours. Sometimes you just have no choice but to do it. But often, it’s not about deadlines—it’s clients protecting themselves, not caring about the people already working hard. That’s unfair. There’s a rule I follow: you can only pick two between fast, cheap, and good. If you want it fast and cheap, it won’t be good. If you want it fast and good, it won’t be cheap. That’s the reality. When I had junior editors under me, I always told them: don’t overwork. If clients send late-night requests, do it tomorrow. Rest first so your brain is fresh. Otherwise, the work will suffer.

Do you have your own team or studio now?

Not anymore. I used to have a team for bigger projects, outsourcing different people as needed. But my best friend and I have been working together for almost 12 years. We met in college, and ever since then, we’ve collaborated on many projects.

Is it better to work with your friend than by yourself?

It depends on availability. But I always enjoy working with him. We naturally balance each other. I’m very strict and I make sure everything gets done on time. He’s more relaxed, telling people, “Don’t worry, you can finish later.” That balance creates a good atmosphere for the whole team. It’s like parental roles: one strict, one relaxed. It keeps the process enjoyable.

What role do art and creativity play in your life?

When it comes to films I love, or directors who inspire me, one of the biggest is Wong Kar Wai. He’s a Hong Kong film director, and I connect with him because I’m half Chinese and half Indian. I’m kind of an outlier in both cultures. I don’t fully belong to either side. My Indian heritage traces back to India, while my Chinese side comes from Hong Kong and Guangzhou. So I have a very rich family history. Over the past 12 years, I’ve made three documentaries. Two of them focus mainly on sociological or society-based issues. In particular, I documented the lives of people who are homeless. I spent about one to two months filming, interviewing, and listening to their stories. And honestly, it was heartbreaking. When you spend that much time with people, you stop seeing them as “just some guy on the street, probably crazy or on drugs.” Instead, you start to see someone you can relate to. Because at any point, your life could turn out that way too. And for me, it nearly did at one point.

Did you choose those topics yourself, or were they given to you?

I chose them. And one of the documentaries ended up being nominated in two countries, at film festivals in Hong Kong and Barcelona. Another one even won an award locally in Malaysia. Those projects felt very important to me because they allowed me to highlight the things we don’t often talk about, the things that get forgotten or hidden. Not many people have a voice to say them. And that’s the whole point of art: you get to express things you don’t normally get to say.

So when you went to Japan last year, you said the art culture felt very rich. In what sense did you feel that?

When I was in film school, I wrote a paper on Hayao Miyazaki—specifically on his artistic vision for many of his Ghibli films. Writing that paper gave me deeper insight into his thought process and ideas. The way he came up with his stories was very unique. It’s very post-war Japan in many ways, reflecting the country’s rich history. Kurosawa, too, highlighted a lot of this history. And most people don’t realize it, but Kurosawa was heavily inspired by American Westerns. He added his own twist and storytelling style, which helped create the very popular samurai films of that era. It’s something I deeply respect and love as a filmmaker myself. The art culture in Japan is also very rich in terms of support and encouragement for artistic communities—whether painters, photographers, videographers, or filmmakers. I think it’s a very beautiful process, especially when it comes to Japanese cinema and art. For me, the beauty lies in simplicity. That’s the most beautiful thing about Japan. And I think it also translates into many cultural aspects.

Did you feel that when you visited Japan?

Oh, absolutely. It was very evident, even in the way food is prepared. It’s the beauty of simplicity. Being Southeast Asian, I’m used to food where flavor is essential. Our dishes are very complex and beautiful in their chaos. Whereas Japanese cuisine is beautiful in its simplicity. A lot of people tend to compare chaos and disorder with structure and simplicity. But in my view, they’re not opposites, not two sides of the same coin. They are, in fact, the same thing inhabiting one body. There is beauty in both. And I think that translates into Japanese art as well as Japanese food.

You’re studying Japanese now, right? Planning to move?

Yes. I’m aiming to move to Japan by the end of next year. That’s why I’ll be visiting again in November, to have business meetings with people who might bring me over. In Japan, so much depends on trust and connections. It’s not just about applying for jobs. The film community is small and very trust-based, similar to Malaysia. So building relationships is key.

I see. What was your favorite food?

My favorite food? Oh yes, tonkatsu! Tonkatsu ga suki desu. It’s such a simple fried pork dish, but so good. By the fifth day in Japan, though, my Southeast Asian craving for chili really kicked in. I managed to find a shop in Akihabara that sold spicy ramen. When I had it, I felt back to normal, like my cravings had finally been satisfied.

Do you have any dream clients or dream projects?

(laughs) Honestly, the dream client would be one who says, “No changes, this is perfect.” But that doesn’t exist. Beyond that, I’d love to work in Japan’s film industry. I feel I’ve learned all I can in Malaysia, and I want a fresh perspective. I’ve always admired Japanese cinema, and I’ve met some Japanese filmmakers who visited Malaysia, including the producer and screenwriter of A Mother’s Touch. We still keep in touch. I’d love to learn their style of storytelling, which I find very beautiful.

Moving to Japan will be a big decision. Are you scared or excited?

A mix of all three—scared, thrilled, and excited. What worries me most is leaving my mother and grandmother behind. They’re both elderly, and I’ve been caring for them. But my mother tells me not to sacrifice my happiness for her. She always encourages me to move forward. I respect her more than anyone. When my parents divorced, she took on the responsibility of raising me and my sister alone. She sacrificed her happiness so we could have ours. That’s why I take her traveling whenever I can. Last year I brought her to Japan in spring. She wanted to see the cherry blossoms, but we went too early. The trees in Ueno were bare. We laughed about it. This year I’ll bring her again.

That’s beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

I think deep down, all of us love our parents more than we realize. The greatest gift isn’t something grand, but it’s the small things. Taking them to dinner, a walk in the park, simply spending time. After losing a few important people in my life, I realized how little time we really have. That’s why I do my best to spend it with the people I care about. There’s a short film I’m writing that I want to shoot in Japan. It’s personal, connected to someone who was very special to me that I loved and lost. She gave me so much courage. She was half-Japanese, and she was mute—she couldn’t speak. Yet she always expressed so much without saying a word. That was beautiful. I may not have been able to protect her, but she gave me the strength to pursue Japan.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Don’t worry. I don’t expect anyone to fully understand. All I ask is empathy, not sympathy. Sympathy is pity. Empathy means you’re willing to feel what I feel, to step into my shoes. Only we can truly understand ourselves.

We’re almost out of time, but I’d like to ask my favorite question: what would you tell your younger self, before it all began?

I’d tell him not to have so much ego. Be humble. Be patient. A friend once explained struggle like this: imagine a box with a button inside, and a ball bouncing around. At first, the ball constantly hits the button, it hurts every time. But as time passes, the box grows bigger. The ball still bounces, but it hits the button less often. The pain never disappears, but it gets easier. You just need patience. Let yourself feel the pain, that’s the only way to move forward. Trust yourself.

That’s a beautiful way to put it. Is there anything you’d like to share with the world at the end?

If you’re an artist, remember: pain is art, and art is pain. Just because no one notices you now doesn’t mean they won’t notice you in the future.