“He rendered the foreign familiar without ever stripping it of its soul”: Wong Kar Wai, Bong Joon Ho and more on Tony Rayns

Remembering Tony

Hearing the sad news on a rainy day in Seoul, I find myself drifting back through old memories. Back to the day I first met Tony, thirty-two years ago.

It was 1994. Tony was proofreading the English subtitles for my film school graduation project. He was the second – perhaps the third – person who genuinely liked my awkward little student film.

So much has happened since then.

London. Seoul. Hong Kong. Busan. Vancouver.

Countless days spent talking about movies.

But it wasn’t just talk.

Tony left a direct mark on some of my films, especially Memories of Murder and Snowpiercer. In a way, he shaped much of my life as a filmmaker. He was someone who never stopped reminding me how to love cinema, and how never to lose my sense of cinematic adventure.

Oddly enough, I can’t remember what we talked about the last time we met, five months ago.

But I remember his last walk away from me. His back disappearing down a narrow London street.

Goodbye for now, Tony.

Until we meet again.

Night in Busan

My last encounter with Tony took place one evening in Busan many years ago. We were both far too drunk and never got the chance to properly bid farewell.

For decades, across the pages of Sight and Sound, Time Out, and the independent journal Cinema Rising, Tony watched, wrote, and translated. A free spirit in the realm of cinema, he guided festivals, shepherded audiences, and preserved what might so easily have been lost: the nuance, the wit, the silence between words. He rendered the foreign familiar without ever stripping it of its soul.

Rest well, Tony. Thank you for your years of support and your unsparing honesty, for which I will remain forever grateful.

Tony,

You were the first person who, at a cinema in Bangkok in 1999, welcomed a stranger with a VHS tape and actually watched it. You remained one of the first to see my films, offering advice and support over almost three decades. You’d say how hard it was to write about those films, yet you understood them more than me. My dear friend, you are the fuel that propels many of us forward. I thank you for our times in Tai Wu, and other Chinese meals across continents, over gossip about this messy film family of ours. I miss touching your belly as a silent way of asking ‘how are you, uncle?’ Nothing more. But the lights you have ignited remain in this quiet night.

He was a friend to everybody. Everybody loved him and respected him. I met him two or three times, and he just loved Hong Kong movies. He gave us a lot of respect and encouragement, and he was our friend. Making films in Hong Kong, we always felt quite lonely. It was hard to find good friends outside of our circles. But we had Tony Rayns. I was so surprised that he liked my films. He loved The Killer. He thought it had some moral problems, but was still a great movie. Later, when he moved to Canada, I met him again in Vancouver, and he encouraged me to keep trying. He said he liked my style. It’s a great loss of a good friend. He was one of the only ones that truly understood Hong Kong filmmakers, and he was a great help in introducing our films to the whole world. Losing a friend is hard, and I miss him. It seems as though we grew up together. He was the only friend for us, and that’s forever. A lot of my friends will miss him.