An Unfinished History
Tokyo, towards the end of October. The city welcomes thousands of people who have come for what seems a simple pursuit: watching films. But behind the big screen, dimmed lights and applause after a screening, an international film festival is busy with other activity.
Producers look for distributors, directors seek audiences, companies look for partners, and films from around the world compete for a chance to be noticed. It is where art meets the market, ideas meet reputation, and idealism occasionally has to acquaint itself with an invoice.
From 26 October to 4 November 2026, the Tokyo International Film Festival (TIFF) is holding its annual event once again. Among the films competing in its main competition is Merah Sebelum Fajar (Red Before Dawn), the latest work by Garin Nugroho, who wrote and directed the film.
The film had its world premiere in Tokyo, Japan, on 27 October, before reaching Indonesian audiences more widely. In other words, it was shown to the world first, and only afterwards presented to viewers at home.
Garin has brought a film that does more than add to the festival’s programme. It tells a story about Indonesia in 1946, when independence had been proclaimed but the country had yet to find peace.
Garin is hardly a newcomer seeking entry to the festival circuit. Over decades, he has built a reputation as a director drawn to the intersections of history, culture, politics and artistic experimentation.
His films do not always offer the comfort of a plush cinema seat. He often invites audiences into more complicated spaces, where symbols speak, history leaves wounds, and people cannot readily be divided into heroes and villains.
That is why his new film’s presence in Tokyo is worth attention, although a director’s reputation does not automatically guarantee the quality of every work.
What makes the news notable is that Merah Sebelum Fajar is one of 15 films selected from 1,892 submissions for the 39th TIFF’s main competition. According to the festival’s official figures, the submissions came from 112 countries and territories.
The figure of 1,892 conveys how crowded the queue of films seeking a place is, while the 15 selected films show how narrow the competition’s gateway is. Garin’s film is among the few to have made it through the selection process.
One point needs clarifying so that our pride is not built on inaccurate figures. Some reports have said that 1,892 films came from 31 countries. TIFF’s official information distinguishes between two figures: the festival received 1,892 submissions from 112 countries and territories, while its main competition selected 15 films representing 31 countries and territories.
This is not a trivial administrative detail. Achievement calls for figures to be handled accurately. We may sound the gong of pride, but its mallet should not be made of faulty statistics.
Being selected is not simply a matter of submitting a form, paying an entry fee and waiting for the organisers to announce a name. Festival selectors must consider artistic merit, narrative strength, originality of perspective and a work’s relevance to the global cinema landscape.
We do not know in detail why the selectors chose Garin’s film. There is no need to invent praise as if we had sat with them in the selection room. The facts we can rely on are significant enough: among thousands of submissions, Merah Sebelum Fajar secured a place in the main competition.
So why has Garin brought his film to Tokyo? Does he want to sell it, build his profile, or simply add to his list of achievements? The questions sound cynical, but they touch on the realities of the film industry.
A film needs an audience, and audiences do not necessarily come just because a director has good ideas. Films also need distribution channels, production partners, promotion and opportunities to reach wider markets. International festivals provide a space where all these interests can meet.
TIFF itself is not merely an awards platform. At the same time as the festival, Tokyo also hosts TIFFCOM, a content market bringing together rights-holders, producers, buyers, distributors and prospective partners from different countries.
Industry participants can discuss distribution rights, production partnerships, financing and opportunities to adapt works. A festival can therefore open a door to the market, although taking part in the competition does not in itself prove that a film has been sold or secured a distribution contract.
Pitting art against commerce, then, traps us in a false choice. Garin may seek artistic recognition as well as commercial opportunities. Producers may hope their film wins an award and recoups its costs. Neither aim cancels out the other.
Indeed, the more widely a film reaches audiences, the greater the chance that its ideas will cross linguistic and national boundaries. The question is not whether filmmakers want to make a profit, but whether market considerations cause them to lose the courage to tell their stories.
We should also distinguish reputation from quality. A festival can provide a platform, bring a work to the attention of critics and open up international discussion. But reputation is not a certificate that makes every scene automatically good.
Nor is an award a magic letter that exempts a film from criticism. We must still assess how its story is constructed, how its characters develop, how image and sound work together, and whether its intended message reaches the audience.
A festival opens the door; the film itself must prove what it has to offer. At this point, we reach a more interesting question: why has Garin once again chosen history? Why not a contemporary family story, an urban romance or a drama about people grappling with smartphones?
The answer may lie in the belief that the past is not an antiques warehouse, useful only for display during independence commemorations. History is a laboratory of human life. It lets us see how people make decisions when rules are unsettled, power is contested and the future offers no certainty.
The choice of 1946 is significant. The proclamation of 17 August 1945 marked the birth of the Republic of Indonesia, but political declarations of independence did not immediately bring security and unity.
The young republic faced a struggle to defend its sovereignty, armed conflict, diplomatic challenges and tensions among groups with differing views.
Independence had been declared, but the kind of shared life the country sought to build still had to be fought for. In such circumstances, the lines between courage, fear, self-interest and betrayal were not always clear.
Garin’s film is set in that uncertain period. According to the festival’s official description, it follows a young geologist named Frans, played by Nicholas Saputra.
The geologist undertakes a mission across Sumatra to Yogyakarta to deliver an investigative document. The journey unfolds amid the turmoil following independence.
Production notes also introduce characters from different social backgrounds and with differing views, including Kamila, Tirta, Hadi and Anis. They must contend not only with the difficulties of the journey but also with differences in belief and mutual suspicion.
This is where history has the potential to become more than decoration. A secret document may drive the story, but its greater meaning may lie in the people who have to carry it.
That raises questions: what does the struggle mean if everyone has a different definition of how to save the country? How does a person decide where their loyalties lie when those beside them have interests they do not understand? And how can a nation build trust when threats come from outside and take root among its own people?
These questions make the 1946 setting feel relevant to human concerns in any era. We need not equate Indonesia today with the circumstances of a newly born republic. The historical context is different, as are the political and social challenges.
Nevertheless, questions of trust, conflicting interests and the difficulty of building shared purpose can prompt discussion across generations. History is relevant not because the past repeats itself exactly, but because it helps us recognise patterns of human behaviour that keep appearing in new forms.