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CNA
11-07-2025
- Entertainment
- CNA
Out at 6pm, home by 11pm: Why alternative clubbing experiences are gaining popularity
Don't fancy a night out till 3am with hiked taxi fares and groggy mornings after? Now you can be in bed by 11pm after grooving to exceptional music with the slew of alternative party collectives popping up in Singapore. From coffee clubbing experiences to kid and pet-friendly raves, these collectives host a variety of party concepts at unique venues that typically end by 10pm, providing an alternate experience to your typical nightclubs. With more people working from home and rising transport costs, nightlife operators seem to be increasingly shuttering in Singapore and more are turning to these earlier, more unique party options. CNA Lifestyle attended two alternative parties and spoke with three collectives on this growing trend in Singapore. Here's what to expect should you choose to dance the (afternoon or evening) away at one: DRIP COFFEE WITH DEEP BEATS It's 2pm and the energy at the Beans and Beats sold-out one year anniversary coffee party back in May was unmistakable: Sunlight streaming in, hanging plants cascading from above the dance floor, warm lights casting a soft glow across the room, and the pulse of house music setting the tone. Hosted at Behind the Green Door at Duxton, there was generous seating from plush sofas to bar stools and cafe-style tables, creating a space where guests could lounge comfortably, rather than jostling for standing room at a typical nightclub. But the most distinctive factor – the gentle, comforting aroma of freshly ground beans in the air. As I approached the bar, I instinctively expected the usual sight of bartenders shaking up drinks. Instead, I was greeted by baristas standing behind rows of drip coffee machines, each one carefully coaxing flavour from lines of curated specialty beans displayed along the counter, serving a no-added sugar birthday cake coffee instead of alcohol to guests. While most partygoers were groups of friends and couples, dotted throughout were also solo flyers – some people-watching, some making friends, others simply enjoying the moment with their coffee and the music. As the afternoon wore on, the dance floor filled up quickly and the tracks became more bass-heavy and upbeat. Soon, most people were on their feet dancing, jumping, hands in the air, without the need for alcohol as a confidence booster. But it was the atmosphere that fueled the energy – inclusive, welcoming and authentic, with the freedom to dance at 4pm in the afternoon without judgment and without the need for alcohol. Co-founded by 21-year-old students Ethan Lee, Matteo Lie and Aden Low in 2024, Lee said that one of their intentions behind Beans and Beats was to share their passions for coffee as well as for music, especially genres that were not typically found in nightclubs. He said that they also wanted to create a space for people to socialise. 'I think in this age with social media, everyone is in their own world, so we wanted to provide an opportunity for people to be able to go out and interact in a non-pressurising environment,' Lee added. 'Also without alcohol, it provides an environment where people can really be themselves, without any fear or judgement,' he said. 'You can come alone and chill, there's really no expectations.' When asked whether the lack of alcohol as a social lubricant was a challenge, Lee said: 'No, actually, the real trick is music, it's really a DJ's skill.' 'DJs that are so good that they know how to control the crowd – I think the energy is really actually more up to the DJ than the drink,' he explained, adding that Beans and Beats had flown out international DJ Yello Music for the event. Lee shared that he feels that serving coffee as a substitute for alcohol does not make a very salient difference in the party experience. 'Alcohol is a depressant, caffeine does the reverse. If you tell me that people cannot have fun without alcohol, I think it's definitely a mistake. I wouldn't agree with the argument.' Attendees too feel an affinity to more unique party experiences. 'It's more inclusive,' said Thet Thet Aung San, 18. 'There are some people who don't drink alcohol, and they can just come here for the vibes and have fun without the pressure to drink.' Another attendee Sushant Dwivedi, 37, said: 'It's definitely something different. Weekends are very precious to people, and normally, when you go out on a Friday or a Saturday, your Sundays just come with recovery, depending on how much you drink. 'But it (afternoon or evening parties) just gives you a bit more flexibility to do more with your weekend,' he added. Lee said that their attendees at first mainly consisted of Gen Zs in their early 20s, but as the concept caught on and gained popularity on social media, they have been seeing an increase in age in their demographic, with people in their mid 20s to 30s coming to their events. 'Definitely the price point is one of the things that are driving people towards our parties as alternatives instead of nightclubs,' Lee said, adding that they try to keep ticket prices affordable – around S$15 to S$20, which are cheaper than nightclub tickets. Each ticket also comes with a free coffee. 'So I think it's something that allows people to enjoy the same kind of music that they may look for at a club, but at a lower price point and also at a time slot that doesn't impact their sleep schedule,' he said. Lee however, said that he does not see Beans and Beats as a countercultural or a reaction against nightlife in Singapore. 'I see this rather as just a healthy alternative to people who want something different,' he shared. 'I think the beauty of the concept is that it appeals to people who would not traditionally partake in nightlife as well.' DANCING IN DAYLIGHT Perched atop the hill at Haw Par Villa was the popular party collective, Ice Cream Sundays' party, Haw Par Thrilla, with the bass thumping, audible well before reaching the top. From 3pm, the outdoor space at the courtyard transformed into more like a day festival: Food booths, picnic-style tables filled with people playing casual games of chess and catching up. In contrast to the Gen Z-heavy sober crowd at Beans and Beats, Ice Cream Sundays drew a predominantly millennial audience and served alcohol. But this wasn't your typical party scene either – there were also toddlers, babies in strollers, and dogs alongside their owners. The afternoon dance floor stayed comfortably uncrowded. With the open layout under a tent, groovy house and disco set pouring from the speakers, the space was made to feel very inviting, leaving party-goers with more freedom to dance, making the party experience more authentic, unpretentious and rather joyful. 'We're both very pro clubs, but it felt like there was another layer to the music events scene that was not fully formed yet,' said co-founder of Ice Cream Sundays Daniel O'Connor who helms the collective together with fellow members Jake Camacho, Meltem Acik and Nick Bong. Started in 2016, the number of attendees for their parties grew from 60 people, to now, 1,200 tickets sold-out for their Haw Par Thrilla event. According to Camacho, party goers can often expect to hear a mix of disco, house and music often rooted in soulfulness. 'You don't have to be a specific type of person to appreciate what's going on or to have a good time,' Camacho said. 'You might just be sort of a casual puncher who is just looking for a place to chill on the weekend with good music, but at the same time, you could be a hardcore house and techno fan and you come to see a specific DJ or to hear a specific sound.' Closer to night time, the space started to adopt more similar characteristics to a conventional beach club; outdoors with neon lights glowing and crowds of people drenched in sweat dancing their hearts out till 10pm. 'I do think we are trying to present an alternative way to enjoy dance music,' said O'Connor. 'Our purpose is to bring people joy through music and interesting experiences.' 'Broadly speaking, that's the impression we would want people to have when they come to one of our parties – it's something that's not too edgy,' Camacho added. 'You don't have to be so cool to fit in or anything. It's just very inclusive and appeals to a lot of different types of people.' Similarly, another collective, Fivetotenpm strives to give goers a well-rounded, unique experience with their parties. Co-founded by five individuals, they host afternoon to evening parties just like Ice Cream Sundays, with a DJ set and various festival-like activities in the daytime that, as their name suggests, start around 5pm and end no later than 10pm. Their next event, Sunday Mess, will be happening on Jul 19. 'You kind of give people the option to pick your own adventure - if people want to come and drink at our party, by all means. But then at the same time, if you want to bring your kids here and you want to have a family day at our party, that's also an option,' said co-founder and resident DJ Aloysius, 26, who declined to share his last name. 'It creates a lot more possibilities of what a party space can be.' 'Whereas in a club, there's an age limit and it's always tied to that one experience,' he continued. 'Which is just that you'd expect to be in a dark place with a speaker thumping at you – it's just one vibe.' 'But when it comes to a day party, we have many options – we've thrown our day parties in basement bars where it's completely dark and super smoky to the point where you can't even see the DJ, whereas the last one we did in Dempsey it was outdoors, with nature at the back.' Aloysius explained that they curate the music they play and build the creative direction of the party around the venue they choose. Co-founder Belle, 25, who declined to share her last name, also added that people often have certain expectations during a night out, for instance the transport home being too expensive or inaccessible. In contrast to throwing it in the afternoons or evenings, shops are still open and party-goers still have time to hang out with friends after and not have to worry about the late nights and lack of sleep. More than the timing, it is also the community these collectives are able to build with their events that are drawing more people in. 'Every time we play a different sound, we actually see a different crowd - the crowd actually moves with which DJ we book and the sound that we play, people definitely come for the music,' Aloysius said. 'If you follow the music that you like and go to the events, you will kind of always find your community, which is strange and also magical.'
The Age
01-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
Sex kitten Emmanuelle returns as a sad product of modern sexuality
It is hard to imagine now, when any kind of pornography is just a click away, what an impact Emmanuelle had on its release in 1974. The breathy, gauzy account of the sexual misadventures of a young French expatriate wife in Bangkok was not the first soft-porn film to jump into the mainstream – the more explicit Deep Throat and Behind the Green Door beat it by a couple of years – but it was altogether a more beautiful package. It was also a hit, reaching number three at the US box office that year. Numerous sequels and knock-offs followed, while the original continued to be shown at a cinema in the Champs Elysees for 13 years. Why did it work? Emmanuelle was based on a trashy novel, first published in 1959, by a pseudonymous 'Emmanuelle Arsan' who later turned out to be a French diplomat stationed in Thailand, presumably with time on his hands. It wasn't a good film. It was atrociously dubbed. But it had high production values, exotic cultural notes, some solemn theorising about the nature of the erotic (giving it a drop of European seriousness) and winsome Sylvia Kristel – a Dutch model who wanted to break into acting – under the camera's constant caress. Emmanuelle 's endless simulated sexual encounters look astonishingly cheesy now. They are also unmistakably a male fantasy: a woman's supposed sensual awakening entirely orchestrated by the men around her. At first, she fiddles with other trophy wives, before being taken up by an elderly roué who steers her to an opium den where he invites a couple of patrons to rape her. Kristel argued against this scene, which now looks as dreadful as it sounds, but director Just Jaeckin said they had to do it because it was in the book. He said later he just wanted to make 'something soft and beautiful, with a nice story'. While Kristel would star in three sequels, he refused to make another one. Emmanuelle was not the springboard either had imagined; Kristel was never taken seriously as an actor, while Jaeckin's career as a photographer was permanently stunted by his brush with the raincoat brigade. Given this history – not to mention the convulsions in gender politics of the intervening 50 years – it was certainly a surprise when Emmanuelle was revived by French producers, this time to be directed by the impeccably feminist Audrey Diwan. It was a bold idea. Diwan won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival in 2021 with The Happening, a powerful film about a young woman seeking an abortion in provincial France in the early '60s. She came to Emmanuelle, she says, from a position of relative ignorance. To this day, she has seen only 20 minutes of Jaeckin's Vaseline fantasy. 'I clearly understood this wasn't made for me as an audience, like I was not invited,' she said at last September's San Sebastian Film Festival, where her film screened on opening night. She was intrigued, however, by the idea of discussing the erotic from a woman's point of view, still more by the challenge of finding a cinematic language that would make that possible for modern audiences. 'The movie of the '70s was strong because it was about opening the frame. Whereas I want to restrain the frame. Now everyone can see everything, does it still work? That was the first thing.' She read the book, then let the character – or whatever Emmanuelle might become – sit with her. In the script she eventually wrote with Rebecca Zlotowski, Emmanuelle is no longer a trophy wife. Now played by Noemie Merlant, she has a high-flying job – literally – visiting and evaluating luxury hotels, where armies of service workers ensure that every detail of life in the bubble is perfect. Her destination is not languorous Thailand but bustling Hong Kong, where she is tasked with finding a reason to sack the Rosefield Hotel's manager Margot (Naomi Watts). On the way, in an echo of the opening scene in the first film, she has sex with a stranger in the plane's toilet. The original Emmanuelle declared herself only interested in pursuing pleasure. In Diwan's film, she grits her teeth through the act, then returns to her seat with an expression of dull disappointment. The former sex kitten is now a picture of emptiness. Merlant, who is most immediately recognisable as the feisty painter in Portrait of a Woman on Fire, says she immediately recognised herself in the new Emmanuelle. 'At the beginning of the movie, you have this woman who did not feel anything belonged to her, including her body,' she says. 'She doesn't get pleasure; she tries to make others satisfied. She is a robot. For me, it makes a lot of sense, so I said yes.' Merlant started modelling when she was 17. On her first job, she was sexually assaulted; when she told her agents what had happened, she was told it was her fault for not refusing clearly enough. This must be adult life, she decided; she would have to protect herself. Like Emmanuelle, she says, she shut down. 'For years I couldn't cry any more. It's like the only place I could cry was when I was shooting in films. And laugh. Like I could be alive only when I was shooting.' She played another role in everyday life. 'The role society gave me when I was young, the role I played for others, for men, not for myself.' What she wanted in reality, she says, eluded her. 'We have been used for men's pleasure for centuries,' she says. 'We don't even know what we want. That's what I felt. With the #MeToo movement, I realised that things were not right.' Emmanuelle's quest is to find her way back to her own desire. ''How do I get there? It takes time and then I'm going to say what I want out loud.' This was very strong for me.' Watching Emmanuelle drift to the toilet on the plane is Kei (The White Lotus ' Will Sharpe), a Japanese engineer whom she later meets in the hotel. He is as sexually numb as she is, but he is interested in her life; he questions her with gentle curiosity, peeling away her layers of icy control. Like the raddled Mario in the first Emmanuelle, he introduces her to an Asian underbelly of grubby, druggy mahjong dens, a world away from the opulent artificiality of the hotel. Unlike Mario, he is not a voyeur or a sadist. 'He is here for her, he wants her to have space,' says Merlant. 'He is a listener. And, most of the time, we are not listened to.' When her Emmanuelle does say what she wants, it is as if a wall has crumbled. Loading The new Emmanuelle was rejected by the bigger festivals, Cannes and Venice; when it finally had its premiere, some reviews were startlingly vicious. 'I think people are not happy to see a movie where Emmanuelle is sad and empty,' says Merlant. Diwan says, however, that younger generations – for whom '70s nostalgia means nothing – relate strongly to the characters' loneliness. Many say they don't want to have sex at all, which she puts down to fear: they are afraid of falling short of their online images. Maybe they are as sad as Emmanuelle; at least we can talk about it.
Sydney Morning Herald
01-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
Sex kitten Emmanuelle returns as a sad product of modern sexuality
It is hard to imagine now, when any kind of pornography is just a click away, what an impact Emmanuelle had on its release in 1974. The breathy, gauzy account of the sexual misadventures of a young French expatriate wife in Bangkok was not the first soft-porn film to jump into the mainstream – the more explicit Deep Throat and Behind the Green Door beat it by a couple of years – but it was altogether a more beautiful package. It was also a hit, reaching number three at the US box office that year. Numerous sequels and knock-offs followed, while the original continued to be shown at a cinema in the Champs Elysees for 13 years. Why did it work? Emmanuelle was based on a trashy novel, first published in 1959, by a pseudonymous 'Emmanuelle Arsan' who later turned out to be a French diplomat stationed in Thailand, presumably with time on his hands. It wasn't a good film. It was atrociously dubbed. But it had high production values, exotic cultural notes, some solemn theorising about the nature of the erotic (giving it a drop of European seriousness) and winsome Sylvia Kristel – a Dutch model who wanted to break into acting – under the camera's constant caress. Emmanuelle 's endless simulated sexual encounters look astonishingly cheesy now. They are also unmistakably a male fantasy: a woman's supposed sensual awakening entirely orchestrated by the men around her. At first, she fiddles with other trophy wives, before being taken up by an elderly roué who steers her to an opium den where he invites a couple of patrons to rape her. Kristel argued against this scene, which now looks as dreadful as it sounds, but director Just Jaeckin said they had to do it because it was in the book. He said later he just wanted to make 'something soft and beautiful, with a nice story'. While Kristel would star in three sequels, he refused to make another one. Emmanuelle was not the springboard either had imagined; Kristel was never taken seriously as an actor, while Jaeckin's career as a photographer was permanently stunted by his brush with the raincoat brigade. Given this history – not to mention the convulsions in gender politics of the intervening 50 years – it was certainly a surprise when Emmanuelle was revived by French producers, this time to be directed by the impeccably feminist Audrey Diwan. It was a bold idea. Diwan won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival in 2021 with The Happening, a powerful film about a young woman seeking an abortion in provincial France in the early '60s. She came to Emmanuelle, she says, from a position of relative ignorance. To this day, she has seen only 20 minutes of Jaeckin's Vaseline fantasy. 'I clearly understood this wasn't made for me as an audience, like I was not invited,' she said at last September's San Sebastian Film Festival, where her film screened on opening night. She was intrigued, however, by the idea of discussing the erotic from a woman's point of view, still more by the challenge of finding a cinematic language that would make that possible for modern audiences. 'The movie of the '70s was strong because it was about opening the frame. Whereas I want to restrain the frame. Now everyone can see everything, does it still work? That was the first thing.' She read the book, then let the character – or whatever Emmanuelle might become – sit with her. In the script she eventually wrote with Rebecca Zlotowski, Emmanuelle is no longer a trophy wife. Now played by Noemie Merlant, she has a high-flying job – literally – visiting and evaluating luxury hotels, where armies of service workers ensure that every detail of life in the bubble is perfect. Her destination is not languorous Thailand but bustling Hong Kong, where she is tasked with finding a reason to sack the Rosefield Hotel's manager Margot (Naomi Watts). On the way, in an echo of the opening scene in the first film, she has sex with a stranger in the plane's toilet. The original Emmanuelle declared herself only interested in pursuing pleasure. In Diwan's film, she grits her teeth through the act, then returns to her seat with an expression of dull disappointment. The former sex kitten is now a picture of emptiness. Merlant, who is most immediately recognisable as the feisty painter in Portrait of a Woman on Fire, says she immediately recognised herself in the new Emmanuelle. 'At the beginning of the movie, you have this woman who did not feel anything belonged to her, including her body,' she says. 'She doesn't get pleasure; she tries to make others satisfied. She is a robot. For me, it makes a lot of sense, so I said yes.' Merlant started modelling when she was 17. On her first job, she was sexually assaulted; when she told her agents what had happened, she was told it was her fault for not refusing clearly enough. This must be adult life, she decided; she would have to protect herself. Like Emmanuelle, she says, she shut down. 'For years I couldn't cry any more. It's like the only place I could cry was when I was shooting in films. And laugh. Like I could be alive only when I was shooting.' She played another role in everyday life. 'The role society gave me when I was young, the role I played for others, for men, not for myself.' What she wanted in reality, she says, eluded her. 'We have been used for men's pleasure for centuries,' she says. 'We don't even know what we want. That's what I felt. With the #MeToo movement, I realised that things were not right.' Emmanuelle's quest is to find her way back to her own desire. ''How do I get there? It takes time and then I'm going to say what I want out loud.' This was very strong for me.' Watching Emmanuelle drift to the toilet on the plane is Kei (The White Lotus ' Will Sharpe), a Japanese engineer whom she later meets in the hotel. He is as sexually numb as she is, but he is interested in her life; he questions her with gentle curiosity, peeling away her layers of icy control. Like the raddled Mario in the first Emmanuelle, he introduces her to an Asian underbelly of grubby, druggy mahjong dens, a world away from the opulent artificiality of the hotel. Unlike Mario, he is not a voyeur or a sadist. 'He is here for her, he wants her to have space,' says Merlant. 'He is a listener. And, most of the time, we are not listened to.' When her Emmanuelle does say what she wants, it is as if a wall has crumbled. Loading The new Emmanuelle was rejected by the bigger festivals, Cannes and Venice; when it finally had its premiere, some reviews were startlingly vicious. 'I think people are not happy to see a movie where Emmanuelle is sad and empty,' says Merlant. Diwan says, however, that younger generations – for whom '70s nostalgia means nothing – relate strongly to the characters' loneliness. Many say they don't want to have sex at all, which she puts down to fear: they are afraid of falling short of their online images. Maybe they are as sad as Emmanuelle; at least we can talk about it.
