I had waited, and waited, and waited. It happened...and then I waited again.
The wait was, at times, sheer agony. Since I got wind of it, in fact. Since one year ago, when what seemed like a brilliant idea wrapped inside a ludicrous timeline infected me with enthusiasm.
There were moments when temptation certainly hits me, pulling at the strings of my heart. Go on, said the voice inside. It's not going to hurt.
But I had refused. I had resisted. I nearly fell, but I stood tall.
In case you guys were wondering, I'm talking about a movie called Munich. Made by Steven Spielberg, and starring Eric Bana, Geoffrey Rush and Daniel Craig, it centres on the revenge assassinations arranged by the Mossad after the 1972 Olympic massacre of Israeli atheletes. It was nominated for several major awards at the recent Oscar ceremony.
For the longest time, I myself had wanted to do a movie about Munich - subject of interest for me. When I heard that Steven Spielberg got himself on the case, I was split. A part of me couldn't wait. A powerful true event that impacted the world, in the hands of an equally powerful filmmaker – no, make that storyteller – dictates an equally powerful movie that could change the world.
The other part of me thought, “Fuck, he stole my idea.”
So the movie was made. Against a stacked timeline (Spielberg was also doing War of the Worlds and producing Memoirs of a Geisha at the same time), it was released in time to be considered for the Oscar awards. It was released in the cinemas, and in Malaysia, on the streets. It was calling out to me, the pulling at my heart's strings, the apple to my Eve.
But I had refused. I vowed to catch it in the cinemas, on the big screen, if it's the second to last thing I did.
This I did. And it was good. Very good. Even if I never live to tell the tale of Munich in my own way, I don't have to. Three hours later, I walked out the cinema that early Wednesday morning, feeling that it was worth the wait.
I felt vindicated.
And it was a very good feeling.