In this conversation, CNTRFLD.ART speaks with Harvey Jang (張晃維 / Jang Huang-Wei) — a Taiwanese filmmaker whose practice bridges journalism and poetic documentary — about how stories begin, how images listen, and how cinema can make us feel culture rather than simply understand it.

Having spent nearly two decades behind the camera, Jang has transformed from a sharp-eyed news cameraman into one of Taiwan’s most empathetic documentarians. His films reveal not just what is seen but what is felt — tracing the sensory layers of everyday life, from the smell of Taipei’s night markets to the rhythm of an island funeral chant. Through his lens, Taiwan’s people, landscapes, and rituals become portraits of resilience, tenderness, and quiet transformation.

Across his acclaimed works — After a Hundred Years, Planting a Forest, The Revival of Xiao Liuqiu — Jang invites viewers to encounter culture through empathy and presence. In this dialogue, he reflects on his early years in broadcast media, his rediscovery of purpose through storytelling, and his belief that “every story begins with people.” What emerges is a portrait of an artist devoted to capturing the fragile connections that bind individuals, histories, and collective memory.

“A story can hold multiple, complex emotions at once — fear, warmth, innocence, guilt, and love. That experience made me especially sensitive to themes of light and darkness, loss and redemption. I think that was the beginning of my fascination with uncovering the subtle, authentic textures of humanity hidden within everyday life.”—Harvey Jang.

CNTRFLD. Can you tell us about your childhood and early life? How did growing up in Taiwan influence your interest in storytelling and documenting culture?

HJ. Looking back, my childhood was made up of the smells, light, and sounds of 1980s Taipei. In pursuit of a better education, our family moved from Yonghe to a so-called “star school district” in the city. My memories of that time are deeply sensory: the aroma of braised snacks from the noodle stall beside our house, golden crispy fried chicken legs packed in polystyrene lunch boxes, and the weekend family trips to the now-vanished “Chung Hua Commercial Complex”.

In those days, before the railways were moved underground, I would watch trains rumble through the bustling city centre. We’d go to the market to buy school uniforms, satchels, and canvas shoes, finishing the day with a plate of fried dumplings and a glass of iced soy milk served in a colourful cup. Those images and smells became my earliest imprints of Taiwanese culture — and taught me that a good story should awaken the audience’s senses and memories.

But if I were to name one childhood experience that shaped my way of storytelling the most, it would be a rainy winter afternoon when I was about five or six. I had secretly cycled out and lost my way. Alone in the dark and terrified, I was found by a kind-hearted secondary school girl who brought me home. Her family gave me dinner and let me watch cartoons, and for a moment I forgot all my fear. But when my mother and older sister finally arrived — anxious and tearful — I, in my childish innocence, complained that she had given away a whole crate of fizzy drinks to thank them. That night, I was punished by being made to kneel in the dark alley behind our house, once again confronting my fear.

That experience taught me early on that a story can hold multiple, complex emotions at once — fear, warmth, innocence, guilt, and love. It also made me especially sensitive to themes of “light and darkness”, “loss and redemption”. I think that was the beginning of my fascination with cultural documentation — a desire to uncover the subtle, authentic textures of humanity hidden within everyday life.

CNTRFLD. When did you first realise that filmmaking and visual storytelling would become your career path, and what inspired that decision?

HJ. Rather than saying it was the firsttime I realised it, it was more of a rediscovery— a turning point when I found direction again after a period of confusion.  Early in my career, I worked for several television stations. It was a time when the media industry was booming yet slowly becoming rigid. I grew increasingly disillusioned with the state of news reporting — its obsession with appearances, lack of verification, and tendency towards superficiality. I was part of the system, but I felt completely lost.

The true turning point came in 2009, when Jimmy Lai founded Next TV. It was a groundbreaking experience. He brought in not only resources unimaginable in the Taiwanese TV world at the time — such as providing every video editor with a Mac — but, more importantly, a completely different media philosophy. He respected professionalism and had a deep understanding of the power of images.  What truly enlightened me, however, was a short documentary project titled Hear His Voice — a three-minute portrait series. Its guiding principle was: “Interviewees may choose not to answer; we respect that — but they must not lie.” Through that project, I learnt that the real power of visual storytelling lies not in recording appearances, but in its ability to question, reflect, and touch the core of humanity. That experience reshaped me entirely and convinced me that this was the path I wanted to follow — a more honest, thoughtful, and compassionate way of telling stories.

CNTRFLD. Your work spans news media, documentaries, and independent productions. How did your early experience as a photojournalist shape your approach to documentary filmmaking?

HJ. Nearly a decade working in photojournalism laid the foundation for everything I do. It trained my eye for detail and sharpened my ability to react quickly under unpredictable circumstances. It also gave me a strong command of technical processes in visual production. Yet, that same experience revealed the limitations of news reporting — under the pressure of speed, stories often stayed on the surface, leaving little room to build genuine trust with interviewees. That realisation pushed me to seek a deeper, more sustained way of storytelling.

My documentary practice, therefore, can be seen as both a reflection and a transcendence of my news background. I combine the sharp observational instinct of journalism with the empathy and depth of interview techniques I learnt at Next TV. My current approach is about building long-term, trusting relationships with my subjects — to uncover the emotional and psychological layers beneath the visible event. Journalism taught me what to capture; documentary filmmaking taught me why and how to understand.

CNTRFLD. Many of your projects focus on Taiwanese heritage and social issues. What motivates you to document these stories, and how do you choose the subjects you focus on?

HJ. The driving force behind my work is an endless curiosity about people. I believe that every issue — whether cultural, social, or political — ultimately comes down to human stories.

My choice of subject always begins with people who intrigue me. For example, A Forest of Seeds was born from my realisation of how little I knew about Taiwan’s Indigenous cultures. Through the lens, I wanted to understand a Bunun family restoring native forests on their ancestral land.  Sometimes, though, a story begins with a cultural puzzle that I find irresistible. The island of Xiaoliuqiu and its “Three Abundances” — temples, headmasters, and captains — is a perfect example. The cause-and-effect among these three forms a web of social logic that reveals the islanders’ resilience and values — a mystery that drew me in.

Ultimately, I believe a creator’s choice of subject is often a projection of their own life. In documenting others, we are in fact exploring and understanding ourselves.

CNTRFLD. Looking back at projects such as Planting a Forest or The Revival of Xiao Liuqiu, what do you hope audiences take away from these films about Taiwanese culture?

HJ. What I hope audiences gain from my work is not merely information, but a sense of empathy and feeling.  With A Forest of Seeds, I hope viewers come away with a deep respect for the Rukai people and their profound bond with their land — not just seeing the hard work of planting trees but also sensing their struggle to preserve tradition and navigate modern society.

In the Xiaoliuqiu stories, I want audiences to feel a unique form of cultural resilience — to understand how the islanders find a way of life amid the push and pull of fate (the sea), faith (temples), and hope (education). Beyond the fascinating legends, there lies a wisdom for surviving adversity.

Above all, my greatest wish is that, after watching my films, audiences become more willing to see — to recognise and cherish the complex, real, and profoundly human stories behind every event in their own lives.

CNTRFLD. You’ve collaborated with various domestic and international platforms, including ARTE, CCTV, and RTHK. How do you see your work contributing to international audiences’ understanding of Taiwanese society and culture?

HJ. To be honest, when I first started making films about local issues in Taiwan, I didn’t particularly think about how to make them understandable to international audiences. Even achieving a shared understanding withinTaiwan—for instance, between the north and the south—can be quite challenging. Although Taiwan isn’t a large place, differences in lifestyle, language, and even something as small as preferences for zongzi (rice dumplings) vary significantly. So, over time, I realised that whether I’m making work for local or international viewers, my attitude should remain the same.

At the heart of my practice is always people. Regardless of who or what I’m filming, my goal is to build a relationship through the camera. I place great importance on equality between the filmmaker and the subject. Contrary to what some might think, holding a camera doesn’t grant you power over others. I constantly remind myself to engage with those in front of the lens as equals.  I believe it’s only on that basis that people are willing to open up and share their genuine thoughts. For me, the most valuable and fulfilling part of documentary filmmaking lies in this process of building connection. Think about it — being able to meet people you might never encounter otherwise, and hearing them share feelings they may never even express to their families, is a rare privilege, especially in a society where genuine listening is becoming increasingly scarce.

As for my collaborations with international platforms like ARTE, these tend to focus on topical issues. For instance, during the COVID-19 pandemic, when foreign reporters couldn’t enter Taiwan, they wanted to understand how our disease prevention measures worked. Or after the outbreak of the war in Ukraine, we made films exploring how Ukrainians living in Taiwan advocated for their homeland, and how Taiwanese civil groups learned from Ukraine’s experience to prepare for possible conflict. These themes are inherently easier for international audiences to grasp.

In contrast, when I worked with CCTV on A Bite of China, I was more conscious of the political context. I knew that their official perspective often carried the “One Family Across the Strait” narrative, so during production, I tried to let the visuals speak for themselves. When faced with requests for overly staged or emotionally manipulated interviews, our team would be cautious. I still remember how the visiting Chinese director would forcefully demand that interviewees perform certain emotions — something our Taiwanese crew found unacceptable. We would stop filming and explain that we valued our interviewees’ feelings and well-being. That moment highlighted a key cultural difference between the two sides of the strait — in work culture and approach to storytelling alike.

So, returning to your question — have my works “contributed” to understanding Taiwan? I wouldn’t be so bold as to claim that. But I do believe that as long as we stay true to universal human emotions — family, friendship, love — which transcend borders, then even through a Taiwanese lens, those feelings can resonate across cultures. If my work can achieve that kind of connection, that’s all I could hope for.

CNTRFLD. When presenting deeply local stories to international audiences, what challenges have you faced, and how do you bridge cultural differences in your films?

HJ. That’s a very important question — how to tell local stories in a way that crosses cultural boundaries and reaches international audiences. It’s indeed a challenge. As I mentioned earlier, human emotions like love, family, and friendship are universal, and perhaps that’s our shared language. But when it comes to local stories — particularly rituals or customs rooted in specific cultural contexts — conveying them effectively requires careful thought. Take my documentary A Hundred Years Later, about the late master Lin Tsung-Fan, as an example. The film revolves around the Qian Wang Ge— a traditional funeral chant. At first, I wasn’t sure whether international audiences without that cultural background could grasp its emotional and spiritual significance.

A turning point came in 2024, when the “Wind in the Lantern Qian Wang Ge Troupe” was invited to perform at the Cultural Olympiad in Paris. I observed the audience — people from all over the world, many not of Chinese descent: French, Brazilian, and others. They couldn’t understand the lyrics, but they were deeply engaged, even tapping along to the rhythm. Later, when we interviewed them, they said that through the performers’ movements, expressions, and the music’s rhythm, they sensed it was a story about family.  That experience was enlightening for me. I realised that culture isn’t always something that can be explained through knowledge — it must be felt. It brought me back to the essence of documentary filmmaking: we use sound, image, editing rhythm, and even silence to create sensory experiences. So rather than worrying that foreign audiences won’t understand the Taiwanese lyrics, I focus on how to use the language of cinema — imagery, sound, atmosphere — to evoke emotion. Even if they’ve never been to Taiwan, they can still feel the humanity and spirit behind the ritual. That’s what I learned in Paris, and it’s the direction I want to pursue further: using sensory experience to bridge cultural divides.

CNTRFLD. Over the years, how has your filmmaking style evolved, particularly in combining observational techniques with humanistic storytelling?

HJ. I can share a bit about my journey from being a news cameraman to making observational, non-reportage documentaries — and how my mindset shifted along the way.

I often asked myself: am I making a news report or a documentary?
The difference, I think, lies in the “sense of inquiry” — whether we’re truly aware of what our work wants to say.  In news reporting, we often maintain a detached, neutral stance — taking what interviewee A says and what interviewee B says, and presenting both sides to appear balanced. But in documentaries, the filmmaker’s voice and perspective are crucial. We can clearly sense where the author stands and what they want to express. They’re not bound by journalistic notions of “balance”; instead, they highlight their personal view. The same subject can be approached from vastly different angles — and that’s what makes documentaries so fascinating.

That said, the two aren’t entirely separate. As the saying goes, “Every step leaves a trace.” Looking back now as a documentarian, my years as a news cameraman were invaluable training. The experience taught me to capture essential footage quickly and to ask precise questions under time pressure. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee satisfying answers — that’s journalism’s limitation. But that daily practice — anticipating a subject’s next movement, reading changing light, interpreting the meaning behind words — trained my reflexes, sharpened my sensitivity, and made my coordination almost instinctive.

So, journalism gave me technical skill and an acute sense of anticipation. Documentary work, with its longer timeframes, allows me to build relationships with my subjects, earning trust and deeper understanding. That mutual trust makes for more honest and layered responses — and creates room to capture more meaningful, poetic moments on camera.  In short, the two fields complement each other. Journalism laid my foundation; documentary allows me to go deeper — to explore the heart of the matter and, hopefully, reach a more profound level of storytelling.

CNTRFLD. What advice would you give to aspiring filmmakers interested in documenting culture or heritage, especially as they search for their own voice and direction?

HJ. There are so many talented young filmmakers today, both in fiction and documentary. Many of those in their twenties, fresh out of film schools, are quite different from those of us born in the 1970s. Back then, we tended to separate words and images — writing was writing, and filming was filming. But this generation, as digital natives, know exactly what they want and express it with remarkable energy and creativity. So rather than “advice”, I’ll share some personal reflections. If I were to say one thing, it would be: truly live. Experience life in all its flavours — the good and the bad — and stay present. Try to embrace everything that comes your way without worrying too much about what hasn’t yet happened. Trust that every challenge and difficulty will eventually settle, becoming fertile ground that nourishes your creative work and gives it depth and vitality.  Only by genuinely knowing and accepting yourself — all parts of yourself — can you find the creative path that is truly yours, one that allows you to shine.

CNTRFLD. Looking ahead, what are your hopes for your work’s development in Taiwan and internationally? How do you wish it to continue impacting audiences and society?

HJ. “Documentaries can change the world.” I’m not entirely sure I believe that — but I do believe that real power lies in collective action. When more citizens carry a sense of inquiry and pick up cameras to record what’s happening across Taiwan, that collective energy could transform not only Taiwan, but the world. So rather than having ambitions for my “works”, I think more about the act itself — the practice of documenting. I see it as something I’ve been consistently doing and will continue to do. I hope my persistence can inspire those around me — to feel my passion for documentation, and to realise that simply picking up a camera can be a meaningful act of change, one that affects ourselves and our future.

With digital tools now so accessible and affordable, the challenge no longer lies in technology, but in intention — what thoughts we hold when we record. That’s the “sense of inquiry” I keep emphasising.  If more people — regardless of age, gender, or occupation — start documenting their surroundings with that sense of inquiry, I believe it could help fill the gaps left by the decline of traditional media in Taiwan. It’s also a crucial form of civic engagement — holding governments, politicians, and institutions accountable.  So whether you’re young or old, especially given the challenges we face from an authoritarian power across the strait, I believe that if more people record and examine the political, economic, environmental, educational, and judicial issues shaping our lives, this collective awareness and action will be vital for Taiwan’s future — something truly worth striving for.

About the Artist.

Harvey Jang (張晃維), also known as Jang Huang-Wei, is a Taiwanese filmmaker and director of photography whose work spans over two decades across news, documentary, and independent film. Beginning his career in broadcast journalism in 2004, Jang developed a sharp instinct for observation and storytelling under pressure — skills that became the foundation of his later practice in humanistic documentary filmmaking.

Since 2010, Jang has dedicated his career to exploring the textures of Taiwanese life — its people, rituals, and shifting landscapes — through film. His award-winning documentaries such as After a Hundred Years, Planting a Forest, and Communication are marked by a deep empathy for his subjects and a cinematic style that bridges the poetic and the real. He has collaborated widely with domestic and international broadcasters including Taiwan’s Public Television Service (PTS), Da Ai TV, CNEX, CCTV (China), RTHK (Hong Kong), and arte (Germany/France).

Jang’s filmmaking is guided by a belief that every story begins with people. Rooted in Taiwan’s cultural and social realities, his work captures moments of resilience, tenderness, and transformation that reflect both personal and collective memory. Whether documenting Indigenous families reforesting ancestral land or islanders preserving local traditions, his lens reveals an enduring dialogue between past and present — between light and shadow.

A two-time Golden Bell Award nominee (2025) for Best Directing and Best Cinematography, Jang continues to craft films that invite viewers to see — not only to witness Taiwan’s cultural richness, but to feel the humanity at its core. Through his practice, he preserves and reimagines Taiwan’s living culture, offering audiences both at home and abroad a rare, sensory encounter with its stories.

With thanks to Kuo-Lin Chang 莊國琳 for facilitating this interview.

Original Interview in Chinese

中文。

張晃維

1. 您能分享您的童年與成長經歷嗎？

在台灣長大對您對敘事和文化紀錄的興趣有何響？

回想起來，我的童年是由1980年代台北的氣味、光影和聲音所構成的。當時，為了追求更好的教育環境，我們家從永和搬到了台北市的「明星學區」。我對那個時代的記憶，總是伴隨著強烈的感官細節：家旁邊麵攤那鍋滷味的香氣、用保麗龍盒裝的金黃酥脆炸雞腿便當、以及假日時，父母帶我們去的、如今已消失的「中華商場」。

在那個鐵路還未地下化的年代，看著火車穿梭在繁忙的市中心，去商場裡買制服、書包、布鞋。最後吃一盤鍋貼、喝一杯裝在彩色玻璃杯裡的冰豆漿，這些畫面與氣味，構成了我對台灣文化最早的印記，也讓我相信，一個好的故事，必須能喚醒人們的感官記憶。

但若要說一個對我「敘事」方式影響最深的經歷，可能是在我五、六歲時，一個下著雨的冬日午後。我因為偷溜出門騎腳踏車而迷路了。在全然的黑暗與恐懼中，我被一位善心的女高中生帶回家，她的家人給了我溫暖的晚餐，讓我看著卡通，瞬間忘記了所有害怕。然而，當母親帶著大我一歲的姊姊，焦急地前來接我，我卻天真地為了她送給對方作為謝禮的一箱汽水而抱怨。那晚，我被罰跪在屋後的黑巷裡，再次面對恐懼。

這段經歷，讓我很早就體會到一個故事裡可以同時存在多種複雜的情感—恐懼、溫暖、天真、愧疚與愛。也讓我對「光與暗」、「迷失與救贖」這類主題特別敏感。我想，這便是我對文化紀錄感興趣的起點，去探尋那些藏在日常生活底下，複雜而真實的人性紋理。

2. 您何時首次意識到電影製作與影像敘事會成為您的職業道路？

是什麼啟發了您做出這個決定？

我意識到影像敘事將成為我志業的時刻，與其說是「首次」，不如說是「再次」。

它是一個讓我從迷惘中重新找到方向的轉捩點。

在我職涯的初期，我曾在多家電視台工作，那是一個媒體業蓬勃發展但同時也逐漸僵化的年代。我漸漸對當時許多新聞媒體滿足於表象、缺乏查證、流於淺薄的狀態感到幻滅。我當時雖然身在其中，卻感覺迷失了方向。

真正的啟發點，是2009年黎智英先生創辦的「壹電視」。那次的經驗是顛覆性的。

他帶來的不僅是當時台灣電視圈無法想像的資源—例如為所有影像工作者配備蘋果電腦，更重要的是一套截然不同的媒體理念。

他尊重專業，並對影像的力量有著深刻的理解。而在壹電視真正讓我「頓悟」的，是一個名為《聽他的聲音》三分中的人物短片記錄專案。它的核心精神是「受訪者可以選擇不回答問題，我們尊重，但底線是不能欺騙。」在那裡，我才真正學到，影像敘事最強大的力量，不在於記錄表象，而在於它是一種能夠探問、思辨，並觸及人性核心的工具。那次經歷徹底重塑了我，也讓我下定決心，這就是我想走的路，一種更誠實、更深入、更關懷人的敘事方式。

3. 您的工作涵蓋新聞媒體、紀錄片及獨立製作。您早期作為新聞攝影記者的經驗如何影響您對紀錄片製作的方式？

我近十年的新聞攝影經驗，是我所有工作的根基。它訓練我面對突發狀況時的敏銳觀察力與快速反應的能力，也讓我熟悉了影像製作的技術流程。但這段經歷也讓我看清了新聞產業的局限性：在追求時效的壓力下，報導往往流於表面，缺乏與受訪者建立真正信任的時間與空間。這促使我開始尋求一種更深入、更持久的敘事方式。

可以說，我的紀錄片製作方式，是在新聞經驗的基礎上，進行了一次深刻的「反思」與「超越」。我將新聞的敏銳度，與在壹電視《聽他的聲音》專案中學到的同理心、深度訪談技巧相結合，形成了現在的工作方法：致力於和拍攝對象建立深刻的互信關係，去挖掘事件表象之下的深層動機與情感。新聞經驗教會我「拍到什麼」，而紀錄片的訓練則讓我學會思考「為什麼要拍」以及「如何去理解」。

4. 您的許多作品都聚焦於台灣的文化遺產與社會議題。是什麼驅使您去紀錄這些故事？您又如何選擇聚焦的主題？

驅使我去紀錄這些故事的核心動力，是對「人」的無盡好奇。我相信所有議題，無論是文化、社會還是政治，最終都是人的故事。因此，我的主題選擇，總是從那些吸引我的人物開始。例如拍攝《種一片森林》，是因為我意識到自己對台灣原住民文化的認知是如此蒼白，我渴望透過鏡頭去理解一個我所不熟悉的、正在原住民傳統領域中種回台灣原生種樹林的布農族家庭。

但有時候，選擇是源於一個充滿魅力的文化謎題。像小琉球的「三多」傳奇，廟多、校長多、船長多就是一個絕佳的例子。這三者之間的因果關係，交織出島嶼獨特的生存邏輯與價值觀，像一個謎題般吸引著我去探究。

最終，我相信創作者選擇的題材，往往也是自身生命的一種投射。在紀錄他人的過程中，我們其實也在探問與理解自己。

5

回顧如《種一片森林》或《小琉球神起》等作品，您希望觀眾從這些影片中對台灣文化帶走什麼理解或感受？

希望我的作品能帶給觀眾的，不僅僅是資訊，更是一種深刻的「同理心」與感受。

以《種一片森林》來說，我希望觀眾能帶著一份對魯凱族與其土地深厚連結的「尊重」。不只看見他們種樹的辛勞，更能感受到他們守護傳統的價值觀，以及身處當代社會中的思索與掙扎。

而對於小琉球的故事，我希望觀眾能「體會」到一種獨特的文化韌性。去理解島民如何在宿命（海洋）、信仰（廟宇）與希望（教育）的拉扯中，找到自己的生存之道。那不僅是一個有趣的傳說，更是一種面對艱困環境時，所展現出的生命智慧。總歸而言，我最大的期望是，觀眾在看完影片後，能願意在自己的生活中，去「看見」並珍視每一個事件背後，那些複雜、真實而動「人」的故事。

另外，我想再分享三部正在製作的長片

第一部是從2021年拍攝至今的片子，叫做《百年之後》

這部片的主角，是我在稻米之鄉台南後壁，認識的一位年輕人林宗範。在他年輕的身體裡，彷彿承載著一個百年傳統的蒼老靈魂，他是台灣正逐漸消逝的「牽亡歌團」喪葬儀式的年輕傳承者。

這個儀式的根源，可以追溯到早期酬神廟會的陣頭表演。當時有一齣戲碼，描述一位女性因思念亡夫，而求助於「觀尪姨」（一種女性靈媒），讓丈夫的靈魂附身，藉以對話、一解相思之苦。而有趣的是，這個以女性故事為核心的儀式，卻長期依循著「陣頭幾乎由男性擔綱」的舊規。一直要到民國54年（1965年）左右，在台南的善化、下營一帶，才出現第一批由女性擔任的牽亡角色。

在儀式裡，我看見他是亡靈的引路人，口出號令就能讓家屬跪服，擁有不容挑戰的權威。但當法衣脫下，他又變回一個農家子弟，必須跟家人下田，在無垠的稻田中勞動。那種神聖與日常之間的巨大反差，深深吸引著我。

而真正驅使我拍攝下去的，是他身上更深層的矛盾。他不只要面對傳統技藝沒落的困境，還要應付村莊裡那種緊密到令人窒息的人際關係，特別是鄰里對他婚事的探問。這一切的背後，是他作為一名同志，無法輕易言說的秘密。

這讓我非常好奇：在一個承載著「男扮女裝」歷史的傳統儀式中，他這位年輕的傳承者，是如何安放自身的性別認同？當他的歌聲在撫慰亡靈與生者時，這份儀式性的療癒，是否也成了他超渡現實苦悶、安頓自我靈魂的方式？我想，這就是一部關於傳承、身份，以及在傳統與現代的巨大夾縫中，一個年輕人如何尋找救贖的生命紀錄。

其實在2023年，我曾以這個故事完成了一部14分鐘的短片，作為對宗範家庭與工作的初步速寫。但隨著拍攝的深入，我發現故事的格局正在擴大。2024年，我跟隨宗範與他帶領的「風中燈牽亡歌團」，一同前往法國，記錄他們代表台灣登上巴黎文化奧運舞台的過程，那是一次非常獨特的軟實力外交展現。同時，我也意識到，要完整理解宗範所背負的傳承重量，就必須看見他身邊的人。因此，我也開始拍攝團裡的其他四名成員，特別是其中三位資深女性團員，她們親身見證了牽亡歌團的興衰與轉變，她們的故事，也從不同角度映照出宗範在延續傳統這條路上的艱鉅挑戰。

第二部要分享的我剛完成初步的田野以及片花企劃的新作《山之眠所》

在媒體業深耕二十餘年，我的人生在中年戛然而止。那段時間，我看遍了全台各地因開發而起的土地迫遷，看著相似的劇本不斷輪迴；諷刺的是，一紙資遣通知，讓我從一個記錄「迫遷」的記者，成為被時代「迫遷」的人。當一個以「述說」為天職的人忽然失語，這份深刻的徒勞感與迷惘，將我引向一個最沉默的地方：台南南山公墓—這裡彷彿是我記者生涯所有提問的終極縮影。

然而，在走訪中，一位受訪者的話語重構了我的創作核心。他說：「政府跟你講那種大的東西，不要被騙了。那種東西都是假的。只有我跟你現在此時此刻在這裡的對話，那是真的……如果我們連最基本的連結都不存在，那你就不需要跟我討論後續的事情。」這段話讓我頓悟：問題的根源不在於缺乏宏大的論述，而在於我們社會中「最基本的連結」正在被快速切斷。因此，我決定徹底改變創作方法，捨棄旁白，讓自己成為一個沉默的在場者。我的任務，不再是「述說」，而是用鏡頭去守護那些真實、微小、正在發生的「連結」。

《山之眠所》便是我對此的回應與實踐。我的鏡頭成為觀眾的眼睛，一同走進這座被城市視為「嫌惡」卻又充滿生命力的場域。在這裡，我們遇見了被遺忘的靈魂與執著的守護者：有居住在墓區、被社會邊緣化的無家者；有世代守護祖墳、拒絕遷葬的家族；有思想前衛、認為「精神永存比墓體更重要」的學者；還有一群老兵的後代，他們繼承了先人在此放牧的記憶，如今嘗試讓羊群與墓園共生，守護著這片獨特的歷史地景。他們的故事，與文史工作者的奔走疾呼、周邊居民對開發的殷切期盼，交織成一幅複雜而矛盾的當代圖像。本片不試圖為公墓的存廢提供解答，而是希望透過詩意的影像，撥開大眾的恐懼與偏見，呈現一個宛如公園般、萬物和諧共存的真實樣貌。這趟旅程最終也回歸到我自身：一個本想紀錄「終結」的人，卻在尋找他人聲音的過程中，找到了自己「重生」的可能。

在拍攝《山之眠所》的過程中，我看著許多墓碑上刻著來自中國大陸的祖籍堂號，也因此不斷聽見一種聲音，用這些印記來告訴台灣人：「你們就是炎黃子孫，兩岸同屬中國人。」我發現，這樣的政治操作，確實混淆了很多台灣人對於自己與這塊土地的認同感。但若仔細走訪南山，你會發現一部更真實的台灣史：這裡早期的先人們，分別歷經了荷治、明鄭、清代、日治到民國時期。台灣本質上就是一個不斷疊加的移民社會，而南山的存在，本身就證明了台灣這塊土地無可取代的主體性。

這也讓我意識到，許多台灣文化的樣貌之所以模糊不清，很大程度上可以歸因於其長期懸而未決的主權狀態與國族認同議題。而這份思考，直接引導我開啟了下一部作品的探索——《神契》。

《神契》這部作品，正是我對於此一文化困境的「正面回應」。透過塑神師李育昇的創作視角，去探討一個核心命題：一個從中國傳承而來的民間信仰，如何在台灣這片土地上，長出屬於自己、全新的樣貌？

正如「文化人類學」的創始人之一的法蘭茲·鮑亞士（Franz Boas）所說，文化並非固定不變的，而會隨著時空情境不斷接觸交流而持續演變。

李育昇的創作，就是這個論點最鮮活的證明。他立足於傳統信仰，卻深刻地觀察並參與當代的公民行動，創作出反映台灣近代政經環境變化的護法神形象。

例如，他將謝范將軍（七爺八爺）之間「生死相隨」的情誼，重新詮釋為帶有「男男情懷」的「古典男男CP組」，並視其為當代的「同志守護神」。這個詮釋並非憑空杜撰，而是回溯了台灣早期因男性移民眾多而存在的「契兄弟」文獻。他說：「所謂民間信仰，就得是在這塊土地的民間發生的事。」這種定義，以及台灣作為亞洲第一個婚姻平權國家的社會現實，都讓這個詮釋只有在台灣才可能發生。

又例如，他將媽祖身旁的千里眼、順風耳將軍，透過移除祂們臉上象徵禁錮的耳環與金箍，轉化為守護人民「視聽與言論自由」的護法神。這件作品，正巧與當時台灣社會反對毀憲亂政立委的公民行動產生了深刻的連結。

李育昇出生於1983年，成長於台灣解嚴前後的巨大轉變中。他對國族的深刻危機感，始於2003年SARS期間台灣成為「亞細亞孤兒」的孤立無援，並在2014年太陽花學運時徹底爆發。他意識到，必須做些什麼來凝聚台灣的共識，而民間信仰，就是他找到的槓桿支點。他曾說：「若是能從這裡撬動台灣跟中國的不同，建立正確的論述，我們的後代就不會再被中國遺毒所迫害。」

他的創作能量，也與當代台灣的軟實力緊密相連。從為變裝皇后妮妃雅打造飛上世界舞台的「台灣藍腹鷴」戰袍，到堅持將服裝設計做工留在逐漸沒落的永樂市場，與當地師傅合作，都體現了他對這片土地的承諾。

李育昇所做的，正是將傳統信仰的種子，種入台灣民主、自由、平權的土壤中，讓它開出全新的花朵。今年八月，他也帶著這些作品前往大阪世博，向世界展現這股「愈在地愈國際」的文化能量。我想透過《神契》這部片，紀錄下這個珍貴的過程，並與觀眾一同見證，台灣的文化如何在信仰、政治、與創作的同行中，重新審視自己，並定義自己。

6. 您曾與國內外多個平台合作，包括 ARTE、CCTV 與 RTHK。您如何看待自己的作品對國際觀眾理解台灣社會與文化的貢獻？

老實說，我在拍攝這些關於台灣在地議題的作品時，一開始並沒有特別去考慮如何讓國際觀眾理解。因為光是要讓台灣內部，例如南北之間，達成對某些文化細節的共識，就已經很有挑戰性了。台灣雖然不大，但南北的生活習慣、語言腔調、甚至對粽子的口味偏好都有明顯差異。所以，我漸漸覺得，無論是對國內還是國外觀眾，我都應該抱持相同的態度去面對。

我的創作核心，始終是回歸到「人」本身。不管拍攝對象是什麼身份、做什麼事，我都希望能透過鏡頭去經營我與他們之間的關係。我非常看重拍攝者與被攝者之間的平等，而不是像有些人認為的，拿著攝影機的人就掌握了權力。我始終提醒自己，要以對等的方式去面對鏡頭前的人。

我相信，唯有在這樣的基礎上，對方才可能願意分享內心真實的想法。對我來說，紀錄片最有價值、也最讓我滿足的地方，就在於這個建立連結的過程。你想想，能有機會認識這麼多原本一輩子可能都遇不到的人，聽他們說出可能連對家人都沒說過的心底話，這在一個越來越缺乏傾聽的社會裡，是多麼珍貴的事。

至於和國際平台的合作，像是Arte，大部分是比較議題性的。例如COVID-19期間，外國記者進不來，他們想知道台灣防疫是怎麼做的；或是烏克蘭戰爭後，關於台海危機、「疑美論」，我們拍攝了在台烏克蘭人如何替自己國家支援發聲，以及台灣民間如何吸取經驗，做好面對戰爭的準備。這些題材本身就比較容易讓國際觀眾理解。

而與CCTV合作《舌尖上的中國》時，我就比較有意識地去應對。我知道他們的官方角度常帶有「兩岸一家親」的政治目的。所以在拍攝時，我會盡量讓畫面自己說話，對於一些過於刻意、想要營造特定氛圍的訪談要求，我們會比較謹慎。印象很深的是，當時來訪的中國導演會非常強硬地要求受訪者表演出他想要的情緒。這對我們台灣團隊來說是難以接受的，我們會選擇暫停，並溝通說明我們非常注重受訪者的感受與狀態。這其實也反映了兩岸在工作文化上的一個重要差異。

所以回到問題本身，我的作品是否有「貢獻」？我不敢這麼說。但我相信，只要能真誠地回歸到人與人之間共通的情感，無論是親情、友情還是愛情，這些是不分國界的。如果我的作品能透過台灣的視角，去呈現這些普世的情感與連結，或許就能在某個層面上，讓不同文化背景的人產生共鳴，這大概就是我所能期望的吧。

7. 在將深具地方性的故事呈現給國際觀眾時，您曾面臨哪些挑戰？

又是如何在影片中跨越文化差異的？

您提到了一個很重要的點：地方性故事如何跨越文化差異，讓國際觀眾理解。這確實是一個挑戰。雖然我前面提到，人跟人之間共通的情感——像是親情、友情、愛情——是不分國界的，這或許是我們共通的語言。但具體到地方性的故事，尤其是帶有特定文化脈絡的儀式或習俗，要如何傳達，確實需要思考。

以我拍攝林宗範老師的《百年之後》為例，這部片的核心是「牽亡歌」這個喪葬儀式。一開始，我確實不太確定，沒有相關文化背景的國際觀眾，是否能理解這個儀式的意義與情感。

不過，一個關鍵的經驗來自於2024年。當時，「風中燈牽亡歌團」受邀到巴黎文化奧運演出。我在現場觀察到，台下的觀眾來自世界各地，很多都不是華人，有法國人、巴西人等等。他們雖然聽不懂唱詞，卻看得非常投入，會跟著音樂打拍子。事後我們去訪問他們，他們說，透過表演者的肢體、表情，還有音樂的節奏，他們大概能感覺到這是在講一個關於「家庭」的故事。

這次經驗給了我很大的啟發。我意識到，文化這件事，或許不完全是靠知識性的解說去傳達，更多時候是需要去「感受」的。這讓我回想到紀錄片的本質，我們擁有的工具—聲音、影像、剪輯的節奏、甚至留白，其實都是在創造一種感官的體驗。所以，與其煩惱外國人聽不懂台語唱詞，不如思考如何運用這些電影的語言，讓他們即使沒來過台灣，也能透過畫面、聲音、氛圍，去「感受」到這個儀式背後的情感，去「感受」到台灣的文化。我想，這就是我從巴黎文化奧運的經驗中學到的心得，也是我未來在創作時，會更努力去嘗試的方向：用感官的體驗，去跨越文化的隔閡。

8. 多年來，您的電影製作風格有何演變？

特別是在結合觀察式拍攝技巧與人文敘事方面

我可以分享一下，從過去新聞記者的身份，轉換到現在這種非報導式的拍攝紀錄，這個過程中的一些感受與轉變。

我到底是在拍『紀錄報導』，還是在拍『紀錄片』？

那個重點其實就在於「問題意識」。就是我們清不清楚自己這部作品要說什麼？

通常「紀錄報導」，比較像是站在旁觀的角度去接收訊息。比如說，現在很多新聞為了平衡報導而平衡報導，他們就是把A受訪者說的照單全收，B受訪者說的也照單全收，然後把兩邊的答案放到新聞片段裡。

但紀錄片是什麼？我覺得紀錄片在整個拍攝過程中，拿攝影機的「作者」本身的觀點會非常重要。我們可以清楚看到作者站在什麼位置，他想要說什麼。他不必去顧慮所謂新聞倫理的平衡報導，他要強調的是作者的觀點。同樣一件事情，紀錄片能切入的觀點和站的位置就可以很不同，這也是紀錄片有趣的地方。

但話說回來，有時候說它們很不一樣，但它們又沒有那麼不一樣。人家說「凡走過必留下痕跡」。我覺得，以我現在作為一個紀錄片工作者的角度回頭看，過去在新聞台擔任攝影記者的資歷，對我現在的拍攝過程非常有幫助。

一方面，新聞工作的訓練讓我在短時間內就能抓拍到需要的畫面，也能在有限的時間內精準地提問。

當然，這不代表我一定能拿到精準滿意的答案，這是新聞的局限。但那種需要在極短時間內預判被攝者接下來的動作、現場光線的變化、他現在說這句話是什麼意思…這種每天不斷重複的拍攝、採訪所訓練出來的反射動作，包含我的敏感度、腦袋的運轉、以及四肢的反應，都能很快地整合並做出反應。

所以，新聞訓練帶給我的是技術上的熟練和一種預判的敏感度。這讓我在拍攝紀錄片時，技術上比較沒有問題。而紀錄片相對充裕的時間，則讓我可以好好地和拍攝對象彼此認識、經營關係。也正是在這個互信的基礎上，才能問到更真誠、更深刻的答案，畫面上也能夠有更多時間去捕捉到更有意境的瞬間。

總結來說，這兩者是互補的，也是相輔相成的。新聞的歷練打下了基礎，而紀錄片的空間則讓我有機會去深化關係、探索更核心的問題，最終希望能達到一個更好的層次。

9. 對有志於紀錄文化或遺產的年輕電影工作者，您有什麼建議，尤其是在尋找自身聲音與職業道路的過程中？

其實現在有很多年輕的電影工作者，無論是拍劇情片或紀錄片，都非常優秀。我認識一些二十幾歲、相關科系畢業的年輕人，他們跟我們1970年代出生的人很不一樣。我們那時候可能還分文字歸文字、影像歸影像，但他們是數位影像時代的原住民，很清楚自己想要什麼，也很有力量、很有生命力地透過影像去表達。所以，與其說是給「建議」，不如說是一些我個人的體會吧。

如果真要說些什麼，我想最重要的，還是好好去體驗生活，去感受人生百態中的各種滋味。試著去接納所有迎面而來的好與壞，專注在此時此刻，不要過度為還沒發生的明天焦慮。只要相信，所有經歷過的挑戰，最終都會沉澱下來，成為滋養自己創作最豐厚的土壤，讓作品更有底蘊、更有生命。我想，唯有真正地認識並接納全部的自己，清楚自己是誰，才能找到那條屬於自己、能夠綻放光彩的創作之路吧。

10. 展望未來，您對自己的作品在台灣及國際的發展有何抱負？您希望它如何持續影響觀眾與社會？

「紀錄片是可以改變世界的」。我雖然不是百分之百全然相信，但我更傾向於相信，真正的力量來自於更廣泛的行動。當有越來越多的公民，都願意帶著「問題意識」，拿起影像工具，開始在全台灣各個角落記錄、行動的時候，那股匯聚起來的力量，就不只可能改變台灣，甚至也可能改變世界。

回到這個問題本身，與其說是我對「作品」有什麼抱負，不如說我更看重的是這個「行動」本身，而我認為，我一直都在落實這個行動。我當然也希望，透過我的持續行動，能夠感染身邊的人，讓他們感受到我對紀錄的熱情，也讓更多人體會到，「拿起攝影機」這個看似簡單的動作，其實是一個可以帶來改變、影響你我及未來的行動。

現在數位工具這麼普及，拍攝的成本也遠比以前低廉。我覺得真正的關鍵，已經不在於技術門檻，而在於我們拿起手機、相機去記錄時，腦袋裡裝的是什麼樣的「想法」？也就是我一直強調的「問題意識」。

如果今天能有更多的公民，不分年齡、性別、職業，都願意帶著這種問題意識去記錄周遭，我認為這股力量足以彌補台灣新聞媒體體系崩壞後所留下的空缺，同時也是監督政府、政治人物與官員非常重要的公民行動。

因此，無論是年輕人還是長輩，尤其在我們必須共同面對對岸那個意圖侵略我們的獨裁國家時，如果大家都能帶著問題意識，去記錄、去審視與我們生活息息相關的政治、經濟、環境、教育、司法等種種議題，我相信，這對台灣的未來而言，絕對是一件至關重要、並且值得我們努力去推廣的事。