Singapore-born, New York-based filmmaker Kirsten Tan is known for creating films that deeply contemplate what it means to be human. From growing up in Singapore to spending time in South Korea, Thailand, and New York, Tan’s journey has shaped both her identity and her art. She reflects on solitude, storytelling, and the power of cinema to help people feel their lives more deeply.

Born and raised in Singapore, filmmaker Kirsten Tan recalls “always feeling a little stifled [and] a little suffocated” by the “socio-cultural rhythms of the city”. As she puts it, “when I was a student, I knew I wanted to leave”. Tan has been a cinephile for as long as she can remember. “I knew from a very young age that I wanted to make films,” she said, describing herself as being “addicted to cinema as a medium”. Film became her window to the world: “through cinema I understood culture, understood history, understood life”. Yet in Singapore, she found no “valid path forward” in pursuing film as a career, and no older filmmakers to emulate.

“Through cinema I understood culture, understood history, understood life”

After studying literature at the National University of Singapore and film at Ngee Ann Polytechnic, Tan embarked on a year-long residency in South Korea, an experience that marked a pivotal shift both personally and professionally. The solitude of living abroad gave her a sense of self-determination, free from familial or societal expectations. “As an artist, it’s important to understand what solitude feels like,” she reflected, recalling the strange mix of liberation and unease in being “semi-terrified” by the feeling that if she disappeared one day, “no one would even know”.

South Korea also expanded her cinematic horizons. “Learning about Korean cinema was great when I was living there because there were just so many great Korean filmmakers,” she said. For the first time, she was publicly recognised as a filmmaker – “this is Kirsten Tan, the filmmaker" – a validation that allowed her to fully embrace that identity.

Following South Korea, Tan spent several years in Thailand, attracted to what she describes as the “looseness of living” and freedom from rigid social codes, before pursuing an MFA at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts. She has remained in New York since, though her projects continue to take her around the world. “Everywhere I go, something about the place enters my system,” she reflected. “Everywhere I’ve lived has changed me a bit as a human, and therefore as a filmmaker”.

“Everywhere I’ve lived has changed me a bit as a human, and therefore as a filmmaker”

For Tan, “ideas literally come from everywhere”. The challenge is not in thinking of them but “knowing which to follow”. Her films often contemplate existential questions: “What does it mean to be alive? What does it mean to be human?”. She describes her work as “humanist” and “socially engaged,” and notes that her queer identity has deepened her affinity for outsider stories. “Because of my queerness, I have always just naturally resonated with outsiders and outsider stories,” she explained.

Collaboration is another cornerstone of her practice. “The beautiful part about filmmaking is that it’s a collaborative medium,” she says, speaking with admiration for the “amazing cinematographers, art directors, stylists, and so on” that she works with. At the same time, she is candid about the industry's challenges. “Not everyone enters filmmaking with idealism,” she noted. “There can be a lot of power players, and unfortunately, the film industry is one with a high percentage of narcissists”.

Tan is currently working on a film, Crocodile Rock, which explores queer culture in 1990s Singapore and delves into the story of the city’s longest-running lesbian bar. She first learned of it after the 2022 repeal of Section 377A, a colonial-era law that criminalised sex between men. She states that this was a time when “people started talking a lot about queer issues”. She notes her surprise at how older queer women knew of the bar well, yet it was unheard of in her generation. “In certain generations above me, they were just so used to erasing themselves and their stories, and not talking about it outside the community,” she observed. “As a result, there are a lot of gaps in Singaporean queer narratives that still have to be bridged”.

“At the heart of Tan’s practice lies a simple hope: that her films help audiences feel their own lives more deeply”

The film explores not only the hidden world of lesbian bar culture but also how queer women of that era perceived themselves. Some distributed condoms during the HIV/AIDS crisis, acts that read as advocacy today but which they never labelled as activism. “For them, it was just something they did,” Tan explained. By weaving these generational shifts into the narrative, Crocodile Rock is both historically rooted and deeply personal. It seeks to preserve queer memory while interrogating how identity and visibility evolve across eras.

At the heart of Tan’s practice lies a simple hope: that her films help audiences feel their own lives more deeply. “Maybe certain experiences that have happened in my films are reflected in their own lives, such that they feel maybe a little less lonely,” she said. For her, cinema’s power is its ability to create shared experiences. “It’s almost like a mirror effect - if someone you know has experienced a certain thing already, then you feel less lonely,” she reflected. “Films can do that”.