’Abang Adik’: NYAFF Review

Dir. Jin Ong. Malaysia. 2023. 115 mins

Stories of brotherhood that take place in run-down environments are so common in cinema that it’s difficult for even the most accomplished filmmaker to sidestep melodramatic cliché. Yet writer-director Jin Ong has so much to say about inequality in contemporary Malaysia that his neo-realist debut feature Abang Adik confidently rises to the challenge. 

Real expressive power

Having passed Malaysia’s notoriously restrictive censorship process, Abang Adik will prove to be a conversation starter domestically given its unflinching depiction of the plight of stateless individuals. At present, this potent blend of topicality and street poetry is wowing the festival circuit; it received the top prize at the New York Asian Film Festival shortly after being showered with three awards at the Far East Film Festival. Since this level of acclaim guarantees keen interest from high-end specialist distributors and prominent streamers alike, Abang Adik should find a receptive international audience regardless of how it is released.

The subject matter is an extension of Ong’s output as a producer, with his credits including such humanistic dramas as Tan Seng Kiat’s Shuttle Life (2017) and Teddy Chin’s Miss Andy (2020); the former dealt with the travails of a low-income family, while the latter concerned a trans woman seeking social acceptance. Elements of both reoccur in Abang Adik, as does the setting of Kuala Lumpur and the casting of actor-singer Jack Tan. Despite these similarities, Ong asserts himself as a distinctive voice in Malaysia’s indie sector by imbuing this tale of two undocumented youths with real expressive power. 

Events mostly occur in the Pasar Pudu district, which is known for its wet markets but also houses multiple nationalities who exist below the poverty line. Two such inhabitants are Abang (Kang Ren Wu) and Adik (Tan), undocumented orphans who adopted each other as ‘brothers’ when growing up. The slightly older Abang is further hindered by having been born deaf, but still scrapes an honest living. In contrast, Adik is a risk-taker who peddles fake documents and prostitutes himself when in need of quick cash. Differences aside, the ‘brothers’ have developed a symbiotic dynamic and look out for one another regardless of the consequences. 

The first half is a slice-of-life drama which flits from Adik’s association with gangster Kamarul (Bront Palarae) to Abang’s efforts to obtain an identity card with assistance from selfless social worker Jie En (Serene Lim) and their relationship with motherly transgender prostitute Money (Tan Kim Wang). At midpoint, this loose narrative takes a sudden turn into thriller territory when a shocking act of violence ruptures the bond at the film’s core. 

Ong is quick to establish a palpable sense of verisimilitude by opening with an intense sequence which depicts Adik serving as Kamarul’s representative in a human smuggling deal which goes south when the police turn up. The assembled migrants are certainly the most exploited in this nefarious arrangement, but the pressure clearly felt by Adik and his contact immediately conveys a world where everyone is getting by at various levels of illegality. This sequence and a subsequent tenement raid by the authorities fuse on-the-fly documentary practice with a dexterous navigation of urban topography, Indian cinematographer Kartik Vijay breathlessly illustrating how society’s invisibles are essentially trapped by the very dilapidated structures that they seek refuge in.

There may be a pervading air of helplessness, which is underscored by Jie En’s best efforts being trivialised by her boss, but Ong nonetheless captures moments of lightness and even pleasure in this densely populated melting pot. An emphasis on kind gestures, the preparation of thrifty meals and frequently overlapping languages (Mandarin, Cantonese, Malay and English) show how this makeshift community is largely united in struggle. In addition, Vijay’s grubbily gorgeous cinematography bathes the Pasar Pudu in a range of colour schemes with plenty of warm earth tones, suggesting the influence of Philippine indie cinema from the seminal works of Lino Brocka to Auraeus Solito’s dark comedy The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros (2005). 

Within this milieu, the focus is on the borderline co-dependent relationship between Abang and Adik (literally “old brother” and “younger brother”) which is movingly sketched by Wu and Tan. If the key theme is identity (or official lack of), then it is Abang and Adik’s assumed identity as ‘brothers’ which not only enables them to survive but provides mutual motivation to obtain identity cards, albeit by different means. Their ritual of cracking boiled eggs over another’s foreheads is more tender than it sounds, while any form of communication always has a sense of shared history. Often clothed in scruffy T-shirts emblazoned with the names of other places (London, Brooklyn), Tan nails Adik’s rebellious streak and yearning for escape; Wu’s simply astonishing performance is a delicate slow burn which culminates in a searing monologue delivered convincingly in sign language.

Abang Adik forsakes some of its gritty flair in the protracted coda as Ong leans into some of the tropes that he had previously skirted. There is also a shift to formal compositions and a noticeable reliance on the score by Ryota Katayama and Wen Hung, which is otherwise used sparingly. Yet as tragic inevitability takes hold, the beautifully synchronised lead performances ensure that Ong’s plea for a fairer Malaysian society comes with profound resonance.