What Stays: Remembering Malik
I remember staring at my computer screen in disbelief. The facts didn’t process. The news headline: Oscar-Winning, Searching for Sugarman director, Malik Bendjelloul, had been found dead in Stockholm, Sweden. I felt numb.
The next day, when I read he had taken his own life, I cracked open. At least that’s what it felt like. I sobbed. For the next week, I tried to understand a world in which Malik no longer played a part. I didn’t want it to be true. (I had lost a friend from college a few days before. I felt raw; the world felt unjust. I cried late at night, in bed, unable to sleep.)
I only met Malik once. It probably goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: I can’t fathom what his family, his friends, and his girlfriend feel. To be gutted after one meeting pales, immeasurably, in comparison to their loss. But it speaks to Malik.
He made such a lasting impression. For the rest of my life, he will be one of the most charming people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. One of the most handsome, and one of the most beautiful of spirit. I know this to be true.
We met in July, in East Hampton in 2012. I was working for the programming department of The Hamptons Film Festival and Searching for Sugarman was screening as part of our summer doc series.
I was more than a little intimidated by his good looks and his talent. I wanted to introduce myself at the party afterwards, but I was too nervous. My silk dress has crumpled in the heat. My hair was misbehaving in the humidity. I remember thinking that these things mattered.
My colleague was determined that I not shirk off. I trailed slightly behind her as she walked over to him, introduced both herself and me, and then she moved along.
Malik was so easy to talk to. Any sense of self consciousness evaporated. Any notion that a talented filmmaker would not want to be bothered by the likes of me, at that time an intern, dissipated. He was a lovely human being, and one felt it immediately.
We both talked animatedly and wildly with our hands. I’m surprised no trays of champagne fell victim to our conversation.
We spoke about writing. The importance of making art. How hard and lonely it could, but also how wonderful it could be to share something, that which can make us feel more human, with others. I told him that a lot of my writing was feminist in nature, and he told me I was doing such necessary work. He took me completely seriously. Never once did I feel like I had any less reason to call myself a filmmaker than he did. He told me the story of making Sugarman, which if you don’t know, is an incredible example of tenacity, dedication, and also, very simply, a love for storytelling. But he was also incredibly humble. He asked so many questions. It was such a life affirming conversation. Someone came up to introduce him to a group of people, and he apologized more than once for having to move on.
We were going to meet up for a drink or coffee in the city a week or so later. We had Facebook chatted after we met, and I remember messaging with him, as I was walking out a screening of Dasies at BAM. I can still hear my excitement echoing across the marble floor, over analyzing each one of his exclamation marks.
It never came to fruition. He was very busy. Or he sensed my enraptured, school girl crush on him. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. I do know that I would have loved to have seen him again, just one more time. It is the same way anyone who ever met him surely feels.
A friend of his told The Guardian: ‘If you spoke five words to Malik, you fell in love with him.”
It’s not my place to ask why. Depression, which he had begun to suffer from, is a relentless beast. One doesn’t give up fighting it, one is beaten down in trying to resist it. I try not to think about the way that he died. It’s just so less significant than the way that he lived.
Any time someone leaves an impression on you, it remains. It’s a time stamp, whether big or small, on our souls. Meeting Malik stays with me. His hands gesturing. His thoughtful stance. His warmth and energy. His passion and kindness.
He is so utterly alive in my mind, and he always will be.
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(If you or someone you know needs help please call the suicide prevention lifeline. 1–800–273-TALK (8255). If it seems hard or hopeless, no one should trivialize that. If you just want the pain to end, that’s understandable. But, you will be so truly missed if you decide to go.
Here’s an incredible essay about how one young woman struggled with depression and through a misunderstanding with her dentist learned the depth of that truth. You can also read Chris Gethard’s incredible letter to a fan who reached out to him for help with suicidal feelings. There are people who understand. There is hope, I promise.)
