French filmmaker Jean-Claude Lubtchansky made movies with esoteric, spiritual themes set in exotic lands. I was told he was making a documentary on Buddhism, part of which would be shot in Thailand. Could I assist?
“He wants to create a magical set showing a large group of monks praying with a fabulous temple backdrop at magic hour,” said an email I received from a go-between. “Also, a scene with some monks in the forest.”
Buddhism had drawn me to Thailand in the first place. Even though I couldn’t say that’s what kept me there, I readily accepted the job. After details were negotiated, Lubtchansky and producer Carlos Vejarano hired me to work on the Thailand segment, though filming would extend to sites in India, Nepal, and Bhutan.
Planning began months before the crew’s arrival. Thomas Kelly, a veteran photographer who first came to Nepal as a Peace Corps volunteer in 1978, served as an initial liaison, emailing frequently. Two months before the crew’s arrival, Thomas flew to Bangkok to discuss locations. I short-listed monasteries I thought best suited for filming. Thomas photographed the locations and, after returning to Kathmandu, printed tidy summaries matching images with prose descriptions and monastery schedules.
Arranging a film permit and work permit waivers involved countless emails. In Bangkok, I needed a licensed production company to submit forms, so I contacted Tom Waller at DeWarrenne Pictures. Tom reiterated the need for crew photos, passport scans, a synopsis, and an equipment list. Finalizing the package proved elusive, week after week.
In the meantime, I read up on Lubtchansky. He was 80 at the time and had started strong, editing the 1963 film Lord of the Flies. He later earned acclaim as a documentary director, particularly for his films on Greek-Armenian mystic G.I. Gurdjieff. His documentary on Buddhism, funded by the Axis Mundi Foundation, was intended for Buddhist audiences at private screenings.
The day the crew was set to fly to Bangkok, the permit still hadn’t been issued. Waller told me not to worry—he was confident we’d have it in time.
When I finally greeted the director in Bangkok, fresh from Paris, I felt a shock of recognition. His shaved head, handlebar moustache, and tranquil demeanor reminded me of Gurdjieff himself. Carlos Vejarano, tall and silver-haired, headed the Geneva-based Axis Foundation. Like Lubtchansky, he exuded calm, and later I learned he managed the Seychelles island estate of Lillian Bettencourt, L’Oreal heiress and once the second richest woman in the world.
Richard Temple, a London icon expert, joined the crew due to his long association with vipassana retreats in Thailand. Completing the team were Mikael Lubtchansky, the director’s bearded son, on camera, and William Long, a young Australian, who was handling audio.
At our first dinner, Lubtchansky made it clear they didn’t want rituals or sermons. “We want monks who are practicing the tradition and who can show us their practice by example,” he said solemnly. “And it has to be real.”
That night, I wondered if I could deliver. I had monasteries lined up and had been assured that monks would participate. But we’d be shooting during the Magha Puja festival, one of the most visually stunning in the Buddhist calendar. I wasn’t sure if that was what Lubtchansky had in mind. Nor was I certain the permit would arrive in time.
The next morning, a government minder met us at the airport with sealed envelopes—permits in hand. We were legal. In Chiang Mai, two vans awaited to take us and our gear to Mae Rim and Dhamma Drops, a modern retreat center linked to Buddhist activist Sulak Sivaraksa. Monk Phra Ta welcomed us warmly. Despite the center being partially under construction, he had arranged for 20 monks to be filmed meditating in a teak forest, a mango grove, and a riverfront pavilion.
The monks meditated silently under mosquito nets in the forest and later in the grove and pavilion. The visuals were striking. Yet over lunch, Lubtchansky seemed subdued, and I sensed the scenes had not met his expectations. We left a donation and headed to Wat Umong.
Wat Umong, founded in the 15th century and revived in the 1970s by Buddhadasa Bhikkhu, offered a more storied setting. The abbot lent us monks who practiced walking meditation around a stupa in golden afternoon light. Later, we filmed monks in the monastery’s ancient brick-lined tunnels, once reserved for royalty. Footage of them sitting in side chambers and walking single-file through fading light felt cinematic.
We traveled next to Chom Thong and the Northern Thailand Insight Meditation Center, where Thanat and Kathryn Chindaporn hosted us. A full moon loomed, and a grand ceremony was scheduled the next day. Hundreds of monks would chant as a golden spire was installed. A dream for most filmmakers—but not Lubtchansky. He wasn’t interested in chanting.
Kathryn recommended Wat Tham Thong, a forest hermitage nearby, where monks would likely be meditating. Lubtchansky agreed. We rose early and joined a silent meal before meeting Ajahn Tong Sirimangalo, the abbot and one of Thailand’s foremost meditation masters. Though Lubtchansky had initially wanted to avoid monastic talks, I persuaded him it would be rude not to meet the abbot.
Ajahn Tong, aged and stoic, chanted briefly before turning to our questions. “Everything you need to learn about Buddhism is within this body and mind,” he said. “No need to go anywhere. What you seek is here.”
Our final location, Wat Tham Thong, nestled against limestone cliffs, delivered visual drama. Resident monks lined up at dawn for alms beneath a jagged rock face. Lubtchansky showed little interest in the ritual, so I led him to explore nearby caves. We hoped to find meditating monks, but the caves were empty.
Luckily, the abbot lent us monks who climbed to a high cave and meditated in a semicircle. The team filmed them in shifting light, but the visuals felt like earlier scenes. I wasn’t sure Lubtchansky was getting what he truly wanted. His words echoed: “It has to be real.”
Bored, I wandered off along a forest path. It climbed steeply above the Mae Jaem River before vanishing into thick leaf cover. Slipping on the dew-slicked ground, I tumbled down to the riverbank. As I stood and brushed myself off, I saw a monk.
He sat on a boulder mid-river, motionless, wrapped in a thick blanket over faded robes. His skin was dark and weathered; his garments dyed the ochre hue of jackfruit wood. A tudong monk, I guessed, practicing austere forest asceticism.
Despite my noisy fall, he didn’t move. I raced back to the crew and brought them to the spot. Within minutes, they had camera and sound rolling. For the next hour, they filmed the monk from every angle as the sun dropped. He never acknowledged us. Never opened his eyes. Never stirred.
“That was the money shot,” Mikael said at dinner back in Chom Thong.
And I believed him.