Riddles of My Homecoming (Arnel Mardoquio, 2013) November 12, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian cinema, Cinema One, Noypi.
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Written and directed by Arnel Mardoquio
Cast: Fe GingGing Hyde, Perry Dizon, Madz Garcia, Jillian Khayle Barbarona, Jeff Sabayle
Riddles of My Homecoming is a beautiful title, like a line from an ode or elegy written ages ago, waiting to be lifted by a curious reader. As the film cracks open many of its sorrowful ambiguities, it seems that there is more pressure for director Arnel Mardoquio to create something to match the elegance of these words than to carry the well-defined politics of his previous film, Ang Paglalakbay ng mga Bituin sa Gabing Madilim. He finds painful comfort in abstraction, in images following a careless rhythm, in characters guided by voices. Riddles is hazy, elusive, and unreachable, dabbling in sensations and obscurities, but its surface doesn’t pull any surprises, its tone never betraying its modesty.
It argues: How can one depict the soul of a struggle without resorting to a personal language, without consulting a map whose locations are now ruins? Towards the end it whispers: The places are no longer here but their imprints remain, but what are imprints for?
To make people remember, or to make them remember not to forget, is what Mardoquio, with his gentle temperament, seems to say. His vignettes flow with dreamy pleasure; its edges are rough and pointed but they give off a warm and uncompromising feeling. Some stories are clear as they engage in universal themes (attraction, sex, murder, war, freedom) and some tread on unfamiliar territories, leaving a trail of puzzle pieces whose entire picture never form, but whose impact, conveyed through mysterious objects and behavior, is completely felt: fractured but whole.
Hinting at many things, it hits only a few, but those few manage to creep on one’s skin. Mardoquio shapes a silent film around subjects that require voices, people whose histories are defined by their sound, surroundings whose noises make up the legend of a land. But he gives them another tongue, offers them the gift of speech, and declares their independence.
A large part of Riddles is shot in Compostela Valley, where typhoon Pablo left hundreds of people dead and thousands of families homeless in 2012. Ravaged and razed, it’s a province that heaves a sigh whenever one reaches it, its bumpy and potholed terrain like a face full of pockmarks and scars, tired from having weathered too many battles. Mardoquio has chosen a place that has its own light, and Compostela Valley, with its bleak forests, pale skies, and murky waters, is a reminder of collapse and resignation that can erode any surface, that can empty any space that has an indistinguishable entrance and exit. The film’s baffling nature is given as it tries to condense many ideas, many failures of man between past and future, but it is never superfluous, never in its mosaic of phantasms can it be called thin or dull.
“It’s a short film. Don’t blink,” Mardoquio says in his introduction at the screening. And indeed it’s short: short compared to its ambition, short compared to the scale of his sociocultural issues, short compared to the breadth of its madness. It demands to be taken seriously, but it’s wrong to think that it is always serious. Riddles is a predictable route for Mardoquio—where else can he go after the marvelously radical arc of Ang Paglalakbay?—but he is steadfast in his activism, in his aching need to be heard. It is a cheerless vision driven by anger and regret, but for several moments it is tempted to make itself clear, to solve its own riddle, only to find itself unable, disabled, looking ahead with its eyes closed.
Babagwa (Jason Paul Laxamana, 2013) October 9, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian cinema, Cinemalaya, Noypi.
Written and directed by Jason Paul Laxamana
Cast: Alex Vincent Medina, Joey Paras, Alma Concepcion
There is a tendency to question the merits of Babagwa on account of its unpleasant ending, but even with such lapse it’s hard to deny its earsplitting accomplishment. Seething with fervor, three-fourths of it is downright terrific: a persuasive, willful, and unapologetic display of skill that few local films in recent memory have come close to achieving. Everything seems to have been arranged to emphasize the impression of astuteness, pushing until it destructs itself. It’s proof that flawed movies provide stronger depictions of obnoxious realities, as though their faults were part of a scheme that makes the viewing experience rewardingly unsettling.
Depth, luckily, is not a concern. Writer and director Jason Paul Laxamana does not scrutinize his subject: his primary intention is to lay the narrative down with force and doggedness. Babagwa’s lead character, Greg, is a swindler. Aided by his two cohorts, he befriends people using a false Facebook identity and makes them believe that in this day and age emotions are foolproof. He specializes in sending romantic signals and ensuring that they reach their target. As soon as his prospects show a moment of vulnerability, sweet nothings are exchanged, then sexual innuendos, and lastly, bank account numbers. He gets by through this horrid scam, a livelihood wholly dependent on fraud, a web of duplicities made stickier by an excessive faith in the innocence of feelings.
A rational claim is that Babagwa, like most narratives that cause tremendous discomfort, is a horror story. Its haunted house is the Internet, and Facebook is its most visited room. It is impelled by a series of actions that escalates until the mood no longer feels comfortable, until drastic decisions are made and the turn of events moves obliquely in fast forward. What brings the frightening feeling is how the characters, motivated by terrible reasons, feed on the terror they create before going on autopilot. When Greg entertains the thought he will be forgiven for the harm he has done by doing what’s right, he runs around like a headless chicken: an impostor falling into a trap he himself has set up, a con artist oblivious of his own naïveté. Arriving at a crossroads, the movie builds up to a thrilling conclusion that offers numerous exits, only to settle unwisely for the nearest one.
Its nuts and bolts, so tight before the reveal, are covered with rust in an instant, and this stain, aside from raising doubts, also adds to the icky aftertaste. Granted, that catch at the end is supposed to be clever—a way of showing a reversal of fortune, a nearly fatal stab of karma, clearly intended to mess things up further—but it rubs distastefully because the film has gained so much steam that it deserves a riper sense of closure. The ride would have been more satisfying had Laxamana let the cunningness go and shifted his focus to a resolution that does not resolve anything; cutting it abruptly or leaving it open, in fact, would have made an exceptionally fearful impact, for apathy trumps any form of payback or vindication. The final act is played out with the fat lady (not singing but) drawing the curtain of what feels like a joke, turning a convincing story into a cautionary tale, giving unsolicited advice whose moral righteousness softens the blow.
The fuss over the ending is warranted because it brings out what makes Babagwa an engaging piece of work. Bold, defiant, and aggressive, it doesn’t run for cover or ask for sympathy. Its propensity to go over the top pays off, aware that its display of vanity is designed to overwhelm the viewer. The pleasure of seeing Alex Medina, Joey Paras, and Alma Concepcion pull each other’s leg shows that catfishing is indeed a serious business, and that the Internet, the most extensive cradle of recent civilization—complete with history, culture, economic means, sociopolitical structure, and crimes—is also a place where only the fittest survive, a place where one lives and dies. And those left behind (people, things, and memories) have the ability to forget and take the next step, seemingly unfazed to let sleeping dogs lie.
Laxamana is driven by a filthy desire to provoke and he does so without hesitation, allowing his happy-go-lucky spirit to capitalize on the fear of everyday correspondence. By breathing life into Bam Bonifacio—showing him around his condominium unit, dressing him up, and adding details to his fictional charmed life—Laxamana makes the crime even more palpable, leaving deeper teeth marks as the juxtaposition of two lives (Bam and Greg) underlines the desperation that draws them together. The sex scenes between Alex Medina and Chanel Latorre, filled with wet kisses and nipple licking, border on soft-porn, coming across as dirty and titillating without being repulsive. With these two key portions of the film, there’s a conscious effort to set things in motion, to keep itself away from anything dull, but the end of the game, as Greg regards his destination to be, is only the start of something else.
On the Job (Erik Matti, 2013) September 12, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Noypi.
Written by Michiko Yamamoto and Erik Matti
Directed by Erik Matti
Cast: Joel Torre, Piolo Pascual, Gerald Anderson, Joey Marquez
The hype surrounding On the Job confirms that a sizeable fraction of Filipino moviegoers, contrary to popular belief, is not in front of a display window looking for something good: it is on an island waiting for rescue. This audience, whose taste in cinema is diverse and self-assured, is a proud bearer of positive news. Any hint of deliverance, whether it’s the sound of a moving object or a slight change of light, suggests emancipation, and the timing and technical skill of On the Job happen to fit the mold it has in mind for years.
In light of the issues confronting the country at present, the film’s resonance is impossible to overlook. The association between the social unrest it depicts and the impassioned reviews is persuasive, but it also has a tendency to magnify its actual merits. Clearly, On the Job is a far cry from Sister Stella L. and Orapronobis—both movies carried out under a strong political climate, their stories depicting a deeply rooted struggle, their sentiments continuing to echo with fear—but director Erik Matti does not envision his film to be either, and that decision works somehow in his favor.
There is no denying that Matti is not keen on insights: he is more concerned with viewer interest. He is after amusement, that delight of seeing pleasure in the faces of his audience as he gets away with his smoke and mirrors. His fascination with genres over the years has served as an inadvertent preparation for this—from action and horror to fantasy and erotica, he understands the tropes and squeezes entertainment out of them—and On the Job not only marks a turning point in his career: it also becomes his status symbol.
The shower of praises it receives, however, implies a certain misguidance—a misreading of Philippine cinema’s condition, quite similar to a doctor prescribing dentures to a patient with a healthy set of teeth. Most of the manic reviews speak of banalities and fall short on describing the virtues of the film. Worse, they raise alarming concerns. For example, why does faith in Philippine cinema being restored turn up? Why do some people take pride in disliking Star Cinema releases yet when a decent one comes about, they make it a point to express full ownership of it, loudly and smugly? Why is On the Job—a passable prison drama, a passive political picture, and a telling thriller with impressive splotches of hardboiled noir—being deemed a manna from heaven? What is the point of using it to decry and invalidate other local movies?
One argument hardly raised, which is probably the most pertinent as far as the current state of Philippine cinema is concerned, is that there exist (and there have always been) worthy movies outside Cinemalaya. They are few but they are being made. Demonizing Star Cinema and the Metro Manila Film Festival is easy, but gray areas such as grant-giving bodies that do good and cause harm at the same time are given the benefit of the doubt, rarely argued, and left untouched. On the Job has taken years to complete and has been to hell and back, amid all the logistical nightmares and financial risks involved, but it only goes to show that it can be done and it’s realistic to set high expectations.
Needless to say, its centerpiece is its brazenness. It creates a picture that never for once looks like it needs any help, leaving the viewers with an impression of freedom and luxury. It holds them by the neck and steer their emotions to one specific route. What Matti does is untighten the screws in succession, first the ones in the corners and then those in the middle; but along the way one screw refuses to be undone, and that’s where the narrative stores some surprises, unleashing them slowly in the final act, the characters finding themselves on a dead-end street and between concrete walls.
A second viewing of it highlights the buildup of relationship between the two hired killers. The result of such development is rather strange, for the death of one of them is less striking than the death of the character pursuing them, the latter creating a fork in the road while the former coming across as something supplementary, like a whimsical afterthought. As the second death is revealed, the impression made by the first is still there, and the effect of how it wraps things up feels slight. Writers Michiko Yamamoto and Matti may have anticipated this effect, hence their footnotes show eagerness in establishing a resolution through a grand gesture, owing to the genre’s requirements.
There is also a special significance attached to the no-nonsense parade of grit, emphasized by the urban setting. Manila exudes so much flavor that the story would hardly make a dent in the viewer without it. The geographical dynamics slides on the glossy surface and leaps from it, making room for a lot of pursuit and gunshots that never feel out of place, the elements in the backdrop rearranging themselves surreptitiously. On the Job’s finest moments are those that allow the city, specifically the culs-de-sac and buildings occupying it, to create necessary distractions and participate in the action. Should one pay attention to the stylish enactment of its major sequences—the shootout in the public hospital, the chase at the train station, and the gunfire outside Manila City Hall, not to mention the evil pair of rain and traffic being indifferent to everything—one feels a spark of splendor, a momentary blanket of thrill, as these scenarios are seldom captured in local movies. Seeing them onscreen causes a sudden jolt, like the taste of hot sauce in a slice of five-cheese pizza, waiting to be acknowledged as they hit the senses, strong and aching for water.
Putting more emphasis on its technical proficiency is the manner in which the production design of Richard Somes rounds out the camera work of Ricardo Buhay, particularly in bringing to life a prison built from scratch. Buhay does justice to Somes’s meticulous visual details, showing the gracelessness of objects left to smear on their own, uncared for and unwashed, unacquainted with social order like the inmates around them. The narrative moves forward confidently because Buhay and Somes are able to make the tone of the film consistent, the exterior and interior sequences achieving fluid transitions. Furthermore, the tracking shots do not feel like decorations; they create a pleasant contrast with all the shooting and running, the camera looking for an angle of attack and finding it, surprised at its own discoveries.
Young Critics Circle member J. Pilapil Jacobo, in the lead of his review, thinks that “On the Job preoccupies itself too much with the techniques of cinema which make ‘action’ a legitimate object of Filipino film that its so-called treatise on Philippine violence barely works even as police reportage.” What makes this argument regrettable is the presence of valid arguments that fail to register because they are not substantiated in the remainder of the essay. The preoccupation with techniques is true, but in defense of On the Job, irrespective of how its pack of supporters tries to make sense of its relevance, there is never an instance in the movie that suggests it’s a “treatise,” that it’s purposely making a grand statement on sociopolitical issues. In fact, it’s a film whose consciousness of its nature is obvious—“I’m a fucking movie, goddammit!”—and above all else, Matti has not veered away from his personality: he remains a filmmaker inclined to work on formulas and make a compelling picture out of them, by hook or by crook.
On the Job may not be “intelligent enough to launch a ‘critique’ of establishment,” but at this point, when the arts have most likely reached their most dramatic peak and society has seen its best and worst people and experienced its nastiest nightmares, isn’t it reasonable to suppose that intelligence, the boon and bane of human existence, has been prized too highly all these years? Is it unfair to presume that the kind of cinema that bears fruit is not conscious of what it can do for its people but one that is aware of its limitations and acknowledges them? On what condition can criticism not just be content with complimenting but also complementing a national cinema?
It’s a frustrating ball game when the need arises to distinguish art from entertainment for the sake of favoring the former, some people forgetting that entertainment is in fact an art: a discipline that follows a set of aesthetic principles for it to succeed, making use of skills and techniques to deliver its desired effect. It’s unfair to look down on it as a form of expression just because the gratification it offers is deceptive, and a judgment is not any less convincing or credible if enjoyment, no matter how short-lived it may be, is used as a focal point of critical discussion. The main weapon of On the Job is its unapologetic preference for action, its clear-cut view of crime and redemption, and its apparent lack of disguise. Gunmen don’t talk nonsense when they are being cornered, the police arrive when there’s still something else to do, Manila stinks when it rains. There is nothing tricky about it, so one must not overrate its own sense of importance, or belittle its plain straightforwardness.
Ang Mundo sa Panahon ng Bakal (Mes de Guzman, 2013) August 28, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Noypi.
Written and directed by Mes de Guzman
Cast: Jess Evardone, John Paul Escobedo, Abdul John Candelario
In the uneven terrain of Philippine cinema, dominated by films that require committee endorsements before getting made, Mes de Guzman’s movies provide directions to a highland, someplace where human relationships, placed in the artless backdrop of the countryside, are complex in their simplicity. De Guzman has the ability to pare down his stories without truncating the scale of his subjects, doing it without adding unnecessary theater or touches of exoticism intended to dress up the unpleasant. His films are set in rural neighborhoods where one sees the surroundings in a state of ruin, either due to abuses committed to nature or because of neglect by the state government.
The elements in his movies are quite predictable—poverty as an accepted norm, inherited by generations of family members; death as something inevitable, a natural termination of suffering; and children as players caught in forbidden games, their innocence lost and exploited—but de Guzman has a way of depicting small lives and showing the thorough implications of their fates.
The Earth Trilogy, comprised of Ang Mundo sa Panahon ng Yelo, Ang Mundo sa Panahon ng Bato, and Ang Mundo sa Panahon ng Bakal, whose tangents touch the curves of Diablo and Sa Kanto ng Ulap at Lupa, is distinguished more by breadth than by ambition, marked specifically by the girth of the world being presented: the way it measures around the milieu of destitution in the provinces. These films reek of anger and frustration, but de Guzman—a farmer, a short story writer, a novelist, and a longtime resident of these neighborhoods—is a pacifist, which shows in the mildness of his temper and in the authenticity of his characterizations. This disposition, however, does not prevent him from making statements against oppression and its extensive history, no matter how slight they may seem to the casual moviegoer. His body of work as a filmmaker, a distinctive rendering of the modest and the miniature, contains some of the sharpest observations on the Filipino condition, presenting sides of social dysfunctions often taken for granted.
Ang Mundo sa Panahon ng Bakal, for instance, does not go far from the boundaries of its predecessors. The hills and mountains are still there, surrounding the community; the fields are bare and untended; the view of the clear blue sky does not look complete without the trees; and the roads remain unpaved and unnoticed. There is a boy at the beginning who walks around telling neighbors about an upcoming wedding, asking them for help. The lead character, Carlito, works at a junk shop that manufactures illegal guns, which the owner sells to alleged gang members in the area. Middle-aged and living with his parents, Carlito has a girlfriend whom he wants to marry, but for some reason he is apprehensive about telling his mother and father. From there, stories are thinly scattered and their connections unfold leisurely. Until the end, the picture stays in de Guzman’s territory.
Similar to his previous movies, the pace of Bakal is slow and consuming, sometimes to the point of inducing sleep. It is not because of dullness but due to the insistence on capturing the sluggishness of provincial life. It is a treatment that de Guzman does naturally (or to some extent, deliberately), a language whose surface looks easy to polish but actually entails a certain sensibility. This sort of rhythm has come to define his movies, but as much as it highlights the understated horror of rural life, inclusive of the poetry and metaphysics that go with it, it also leaves the viewer in a disordered shape, the futility of the situation bearing the heaviest effect.
A legitimate concern is that watching de Guzman’s movies is hardly about learning something new: it is about witnessing how life sets up a dead-end and traps its defenseless characters. He can tell different stories but with similar resolutions, and the permutation is infinite unless the system changes and addresses the problem, which is unlikely to happen soon. In this regard, de Guzman can be seen as a darling of auteur theorists: his films are full of echoes, their themes and motifs bounce to each other, the dialogues are straightforward, the worldview is consistent, and the visual style is rich in symbolism. No one can dispute the authorship of his movies, and each film in his body of work reinforces the other.
But his weakness also comes from this persistence. Most of the time the closure of his narratives is not commensurate with the degree of emotional buildup that occupies them. His conclusions are often unrewarding because to some extent the viewer is no longer involved, mentally or emotionally. He or she is inclined to drift off, for the story no longer seems to be on the ground, losing its way and never reaching its destination. When the final moments come in, there is only a vague sense of recollection, and that profound effect can easily be mistaken for gravity. To some audience members, this shortcoming is pardonable, especially when it is considered in the grand scheme of things, in how de Guzman has managed to introduce discussions of issues in the regions; but such failing needs to be raised in order to understand his significance as a filmmaker much better. And indeed, more than anything, De Guzman (like Diaz, Jeturian, Mendoza, and Mardoquio) is an important filmmaker: his movies are flawed but mature, they test one’s patience but they need to be seen.
The Earth Trilogy presents a bleak look at the lives of struggling Filipinos in the countryside: young and old, deprived and impoverished, hopeful and hopeless. Survival and suffering are key subjects, de Guzman showing the nature of resilience with limits, whose terminus, for better or for worse, only means death for his characters. Its finest accomplishment is the genuine restraint despite the grand themes of poverty, child labor, capitalism, free trade, sorrow, resignation, birth, youth, and death, de Guzman being able to tell stories with an appropriate tone. No question: the power of these movies originates from his experience and wisdom. There is a lot to admire in the sparseness of Bakal, the delay of tragedies, the meager servings of happiness, the precision of details, and how the tokens of subsistence move from one person to another, as though in the neighborhood nothing was really lost because everything was passed around: possessions, words, news, relationships, crimes, souls, anecdotes, fears. In its long-winded journey in a tiny space, the bulk of one’s life is spent waiting for good fortune, which never comes at the right time.
Porno (Adolfo Alix, Jr., 2013) August 8, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinemalaya, Noypi.
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Written by Ralston Jover
Directed by Adolfo Alix, Jr.
Cast: Carlo Aquino, Angel Aquino, Yul Servo, Rosanna Roces, Bembol Roco
The bulk of Adolfo Alix’s features in the past few years is marked by a dynamic front, built on concepts that survey relationships in which chance plays a crucial role and simple decisions have life-changing consequences. These ideas are steered by characters placed in situations that call for breakdowns of diverse temerities. From the restraint of Ananda Everingham’s inscrutable ennui in Kalayaan to the intensity of Cherry Pie Picache’s maternal sorrows in Isda, their big scenes often have a lasting effect, one that casts a shadow on the entirety of the film. In his recent output Alix has shown this knack for creating better baits, those spectacles that make the audience feel uncomfortable because of their beauty and absurdity, those clever decoys that, after watching the teasers, seem to promise fulfillment without reservations.
But there is always something in his movies that prevent them from being great: a glaring mistake in characterization, a change of tone in the dialogue, a sloppy direction of a crucial sequence, an uncanny resemblance of elements to other films. One or a combination of these disturbances adds up and points to a glitch in his worldview, in his filmmaking perspective. Having completed more than 20 films in eight years, Alix is proof that ripeness can’t be hurried, that a finished work deserves more time, even if it only means letting it still and untouched. His latest film, Porno, whose actual core is different from what its title proposes, carries that regret in seeing a work filled with potential but diminished by a tendency to legitimize its nature, the substance of which is drained before it ends.
It’s frustrating because the resources are just waiting to be exhausted. No matter how imposing the parts may be, the actors manage to pull it off, if the acting alone, with no regard for the movement of the material, is taken into consideration. Angel Aquino takes her time before she is able to settle in the role, but when her character’s predicament sinks in, she delivers something perplexing, which allows the viewer to understand the reason for casting her. Carlo Aquino, on the other hand, may have nothing left to prove as far as acting is concerned, but in Porno he’s onto something: his presence oozes with sexuality that catches almost everyone in the audience by surprise, giving off that inexplicable attractiveness never seen in any of his previous movies. And Yul Servo, for some reason, still has it, despite his puppy-dog eyes being more expressive than his delivery of lines.
But along the way the capacity of the actors, not to mention the stylish cinematography of Albert Banzon, becomes too given, something that can be easily taken for granted, because Alix decides to put strong emphasis on the advancement of the story: to layer the drama and make the explicit sex scenes legitimate. For there is too much liquid in the material, the narrative flows nowhere, and it is eventually wiped off by a number of disorienting supernatural elements, an attempt to provide texture and a link to existing realities. But what’s the point of this if the result is an utter mess of half-baked obscurity and ill-conceived theater? Why waste exciting plot points with cheap shock and hazy conclusions? Why are precious opportunities of spectacle (for instance, Carlo Aquino’s dubbing session) cut for the sake of providing details of his shady life, which, when seen, present nothing new?
Clearly this is Alix and writer Ralston Jover’s prerogative, but if they are after something profound, the profundity is not worth it. Their mistake is falling back on tricks that are supposed to add to the fascination, to punctuate the filth and its striking quality, but they only manage to ruin the suspension of disbelief. Instead of seeing them walk from one segment to another with natural slither, the characters are being given problems that force them to assess their situations. Their strings show on several occasions; their voices quiver because they are being directed. Should one make a connection between the two, this is the most obvious: in porn, the onlooker doesn’t usually care about the subject in the clip. The emotional investment is low, and seldom does the viewer feel compelled to think about it deeply afterward. Whether he or she does it to get off or to pass the time, it doesn’t matter. Porno rubs on the same idea. Thy will be done and there is nothing much in it after.
Purok 7 (Carlo Obispo, 2013) August 5, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinemalaya, Noypi.
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Written and directed by Carlo Obispo
Cast: Krystle Valentino, Miggs Cuaderno, Arnold Reyes, Angeli Bayani, Julian Trono
Madness is present in Purok 7 but it does not manifest completely. It is dispensed in fragments and through hints, from the two young siblings left to fend for themselves to the deeper sociopolitical current that allows this scenario to happen. Director Carlo Obispo does not ignore issues at hand, but he keeps pushing them away from the center, focusing instead on the resilience of its characters and the lightness of rural life whose effect, when taken as a whole, has a tendency to weaken certain aspects of the film. Due to the milieu’s lack of strong characterization, what stands out after the conclusion is the modesty in trying to pull it off, and the consequence of such warm and good-natured disposition, that pervasive mildness from start to finish, is an immediate feeling of guilt, that distressing sense of having done something wrong, should one decide to speak up and make an unfavorable assessment of the film.
But guilt is healthy, and guilt has some measure of levelheadedness in it. The aspect of Purok 7 that works is the insistence on making it appear slight—the absence of hysteria, the idyllic surroundings, the way the images teem with light—and crucial to this is the performance of Krystle Valentino, whose smile and gestures are distinguished by the moving touch of innocence required for the role. She takes advantage of her anonymity by letting the audience feel her ordinariness, her physical presence complementing her emotional presence, her limitations catching up with her excesses, and like Obispo she has a way of delaying a meltdown without directing too much attention to herself. Her finest scenes are those awkward moments with her object of affection, those excitements that look natural on her and the disappointments that make her stumble. It’s an exaggeration to call her great, but Valentino delivers the goods needed: she pulls surprises whenever the film extends its lull.
And these intervals of lessened activity tend to prolong, with less concern for actions that urge the viewer to have a thorough understanding of the siblings’ situation than for actions that make the viewer sympathize with their difficulties. That impulse of compassion is there all throughout, and it turns into empathy—Diana and Julian’s longing for their mother’s return, their short time at the carnival, their father’s frustration at the city hall, Diana’s infatuation with Jeremy, her daydreaming, her unspoken dreams, her uncertain life ahead—but there is a missing beat that disengages the link, whose cause may be hard to identify.
In this regard, one cannot forego a number of considerations: first, the overemphasis on the “humanity” of characters as opposed to the reinforcement of a credible and absorbing milieu (nothing of such sort comes after the interesting sight of children at play in the first sequence); second, the misplaced snippets of music and the upsetting flatness of sound that get in the way of appreciating several scenes, disturbing the tone of silence and conversations (both of which are major concerns easily forgiven by some); and third, the portrayal of Diana’s best friend that has cerebral palsy, so badly acted that it puts Purok 7 in an unflattering position when it gets compared with Magnifico (an association made more obvious by that detail).
Obispo handles tragedy with understatement, and that choice of perspective is admirable: it’s a treatment that does not resort to appealing to emotions but manages to touch on the heart of the matter. But when those dance numbers halfway through the movie engage the audience more than the thought of a mother about to be killed in China, it’s quite unsettling to be confronted with a bigger share of guilt than deserved, not in terms of size but weight, not in terms of body but soul, and there seems to be something unjust in that conduct of sensitivity between the life present in the film and the life present in the theater, both avoiding to be neither here nor there.
Transit (Hannah Espia, 2013) August 2, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinemalaya, Festival, Noypi.
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Written by Giancarlo Abrahan and Hannah Espia
Directed by Hannah Espia
Cast: Irma Adlawan, Ping Medina, Jasmine Curtis-Smith, Mercedes Cabral, Marc Justine Alvarez
It is rather unreasonable to pass judgment on Transit without first acknowledging its merits. Confident in taking on a subject bigger than her skill, writer and director Hannah Espia manages to depict the plight of Filipinos in a foreign country without making her audience feel estranged. The reach of her film and its implications create an effect that lingers, one that leaves an impression of totality, particularly in illustrating that Filipinos, regardless of their whereabouts, have a faculty for enduring distress and grief. Nationality is a nagging facet of Transit, and rightly so; but far more interesting is the depth of urban sociology and anthropology that makes the drama believable, the actors being able to extract overtones of similar quality to complement each other. There is hardly a false note in the film, none that risks making offense, and it’s to Espia’s credit that despite being shot mostly in Israel it feels like home, the sense of belongingness and propriety brought forth by the predicament of the characters, as though they left the Philippines and carried all their emotional luggage.
The troubles of the Filipino family and community in Tel Aviv are unmistakable: they are there and they need to be dealt with. They are not refugees but seekers of livelihood, willing to commit themselves to precarious subsistence with guaranteed employment for fear of returning to a homeland that promises nothing. The horror of living in Manila is different from the horror of living in Tel Aviv. Horror may vary in quality but seldom in effect: the Filipino has no choice but to conform. Unlike Manila, Tel Aviv is a city where No is a definite answer and a child is likely to compare a Bar Mitzvah to circumcision. Unlike Tel Aviv, Manila is a city where Yes is often given but offers no security. Airports connect cities but not feelings. When Joshua asks worriedly, “What if my memory of Israel fades away?” it is a valid concern but also a helpless plea, something which even his father is powerless to answer. Transit is a collection of sad stories by characters who do not demand much from life, but obviously life doesn’t care: it doesn’t have ears.
Once it’s settled how well-made the film is, the viewer can see the larger frame where the picture is mounted. What doesn’t work for Transit is despite the play with structure, five stories told separately with overlapping scenes, it is not a compelling watch. Once the narratives are established, the conflicts become foreseeable—Yael’s issues with her mother, Tina’s pregnancy, Eliav’s collapse on the floor—and they settle for a nondescript high point. Modesty is preferred to lies and surprises; submission is favored instead of struggle. What moves the film along is not the decisions made by the characters, which could have been more striking, but the drama already existing, a storytelling tradition that most local filmmakers tend to consider more sincere. Furthermore, the repetition of scenes is not as effective as most people claim; in fact, it only provides unnecessary reiteration of nuances, opportunities which could have given way to additional layers of strain in the characters. It may be harmless, but seeing it executed five times magnifies the blemish.
It is rarely discussed as it may seem trivial, but it must be said that there is something inherently wrong with putting notes at the end of a movie. Transit is strong enough to not merit an explanation; any viewer moved by such depiction of injustice will be driven to learn more about it, to ask questions at the forum or to read up online. Offering this information is similar to putting the film inside a re-sealable bag, secure and impenetrable in the meantime, but what’s the point of this journalism, if not for supplementary drama? It is discomforting when it assumes responsibility for real-life problems: art and entertainment can only do so much. Transit is rich in details but lacking in actions, bearing a gentle mix of beauty and subtlety that gives precedence to weight, hoping for a deep and emotional impression on the viewers. While it is successful in many respects—the breathtaking feel of its outdoor shots, the use of Hebrew by the actors, the appearance of Toni Gonzaga, the violent little wars inside the violent big wars, the hurt of losing your home without realizing it—it is also imperative to see through its magnificence and continue to squint.
It Takes A Man and A Woman (Cathy Garcia-Molina, 2013) April 5, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Noypi.
L is for Laida or for Looking back?
Written by Carmi Raymundo
Directed by Cathy Garcia-Molina
Cast: John Lloyd Cruz, Sarah Geronimo, Isabelle Daza, Matet de Leon, Joross Gamboa, Gio Alvarez
Today it is hardly a matter of offering something new and different. Most viewers are not exactly looking for movies that are wiser than they are. Some take pride in liking stories that make them feel comfortable with their insecurities, entertainments that, to put it bluntly, drown in gravy. Star Cinema executives insist on formulas for a good reason, and despite making bold decisions—bold, by their standards—like killing KC Concepcion’s character in Forever and a Day or letting the public sympathize with a kept woman in The Mistress, it’s still difficult for them to let go of grand stereotypes, for in movies neither science nor literature is stronger than theater, and dramatic art, for all it’s worth, has the ability create a cultural identity, one that It Takes A Man and A Woman and its predecessors, A Very Special Love and You Changed My Life, have managed to do in five years.
Identity: big word, as Laida Magtalas would say. But the mainstream, with its consistent output and unwavering worldview, has always had a strong individuality. One can make a study of Star Cinema releases and feel a sense of fullness. Whereas independent cinema thrives on growth and novelty and nerve, studio movies are loath to enter and explore imaginative terrains because they don’t need treasures: they are already assured of the totality of their values. They operate in the same vein as religion, self-aware and self-flagellating, and the people behind them believe that “conviction” is closer to “convict” than to “convince.” Regardless of their deficiencies, however, it’s a mistake to deny them of existence. Being exposed to the intellectual luxuries of art-house cinema and giving it complete trust and dedication—to the point that even flagrant blunders are considered wise—the middleclass mind has the tendency to dismiss the lightness and smallness of ambition on the big screen, attributing satisfaction to guilty pleasure. It’s a gesture that smacks of pride and hypocrisy, a cosmopolitan attitude that wallows in vanity. At times some viewers mistake their erudition for understanding, and the humility to recognize an identity that displays genuine passion, refusing to render it valid or endorse it, is decried.
But there is nothing to lament about as far as repercussions are concerned. What works for Star Cinema is not the quality of each release but the efficiency of technique which allows its team to influence the taste of the moviegoing public. It Takes A Man and A Woman is the third installment from the romantic-comedy series starring John Lloyd Cruz and Sarah Geronimo, and despite taking four years to follow the highly successful You Changed My Life, it’s obvious that their fans are more than willing to wait. Should the long lines at theaters and the favorable feedback from social media be considered, its success is expected, as though writer Carmi Raymundo and director Cathy Garcia-Molina were carrying out duties that could yield only positive results.
Needless to say its success is also earned. Creating the sense of identification that people have with Laida Magtalas and Miggy Montenegro is not achieved overnight. Back then it’s a risky move, considering that John Lloyd is more closely associated with Bea Alonzo and Sarah with Gerald Anderson, and these movies have an air of being done on the side. Raz de la Torre, who introduced the characters in A Very Special Love in 2008, would be happy to know that if there’s a list of the most memorable film characters in the last ten years, one doesn’t need to pause and say Laida and Miggy. The response is instinctive: Laida and Miggy are lovable even at their worst.
Without question the audience is rooting for them, but only on the condition that their reconciliation must not be easy. Miggy’s present is in a shambles. He lost his father, cheated on Laida, and failed his family’s business. Laida has spent a couple of years in New York, and in addition to emotional baggage, she brings home her phony American accent. She agrees to work again for Miggy’s publishing firm, this time to help it close a deal with an international company, to save it from an imminent closure. At this point the Flippage plot already feels overworked, but using it seems to be the only way to renew the elements from the past without too much trouble. With this arrangement, understandably, tension remains between the couple, and the film builds its foundation on that, as Laida tries to be professional and Miggy makes an effort to fix his life.
Everything boils down to proving two things: one, that Laida deserves love and two, that Miggy deserves forgiveness. Having this spine to substantiate their actions, the narrative is at ease exclaiming truisms and aphorisms because there is a paperweight to put them in place. The consequence of this is that the kilig, at the beginning, becomes a formality, a little rigid and uncommitted, and it takes some time before it leaks naturally. The kilig, which is the brio of Sarah-John Lloyd movies, teases by coming later than expected, but when it arrives, peaking at that moment when they sleep beside each other, their faces in opposite directions, and wake up in a warm and tight embrace in the morning, it doesn’t know how to stop. The last thing that Laida and Miggy’s romance needs is reestablishment, but the pleasure of watching them comes from stating the obvious.
While some people complain about local movies being made for foreign audiences, it’s strange that no one is pointing out the clear and indisputable fact that here’s a film whose sensibility appeals only to Filipino viewers. Its humor is very specific, from the nature of the quips to the timing of their delivery. At some point the audience members feel that they’re being too impressionable, too gullible in fact, but a quick thought dispels it and says that there is nothing terrible about the feeling. Frankly, who else can relate to the wonderful music and lyrics of “Kailan”? Who else can appreciate the enjoyment of seeing Zoila and Friends make fun of Laida, and realize that Joross Gamboa (from the Star Circle Quest batch that includes Hero Angeles, Sandara Park, Roxanne Guinoo, and Melissa Ricks) may actually be its most talented discovery? Who else can feel that “Kiss Cam” moment is so contrived yet its spontaneity is also hard to resist? The bureaucracy of love and courtship between Laida and Miggy, the red tape that stops them from being together, the little twists of fate that mark them for life—they are served in raptures. The movie looks back as much as it looks forward. And rightly so because viewers don’t need big reasons: they watch Laida and Miggy for what they are and what they are not. Its imperfections are part of its charm, and along the way it conditions the audience to forgive them.
It is worthy of note that this preference for sugarcoating details and turning trivial scenes into crucial plot points is the same device employed by Be Careful With My Heart, the hit TV series starring Jodi Sta. Maria and Richard Yap, which, apart from being a phenomenal success, is a welcoming change in the kind of stories being produced for television. On the show are two characters, Maya and Ser Chief, whose initial relationship, like Laida and Miggy, is based on work. Now studying to become a flight stewardess, Maya used to be a nanny at Ser Chief’s household. She has taken a liking to him since their first meeting, more so when she gets the chance to interact with him regularly. No one calls him Ser Chief except Maya, and it has a ring to it that the viewers of the show find cute and sweet. Like Laida, Maya is a simple and idealistic girl determined to reach her dreams. Like Miggy, Ser Chief is a charming and sometimes sullen businessman, damaged by certain things from his past. Their story is not driven by villains and histrionics, or by quick pacing and dark secrets. They come to life by indulging in slices of it—sending and waiting for text messages, exchanging glances, preparing coffee, feeling awkward in front of each other—and the result is possibly some of the most exciting and rewarding scenes on television at present.
This style resonates to local audiences who have grown tired of trite narratives and generic cliffhangers because its mundane quality is closer to life, evoking the thinness and richness of it, the complexity of tiny maneuverings, the seeming faintness of fate. The fixation on lighthearted conversations is exerted with care, trying to produce a weighty impression by downplaying the drama and rimming the shallow eccentricities of the characters, the foolishness of their actions adding to their charisma. There is nothing lazy about this; it is one way of exercising control over the many directions that the narrative can take, letting the viewer pick up small details and piece them together to establish emotional links. The sleight of hand involved in making things appear slight, whereas in actuality turns are being made and deviations being observed, is far from groundbreaking, but it merits praise nevertheless.
There is elegance in working out this kind of transcription, and a two-hour movie may find it hard to distinguish excesses from nutrients. Many argue that It Takes A Man and A Woman should have ended in that sequence at the airport, and it might have been more fulfilling that way. It leaves the story on cloud nine, in a state of heavenly spectacle that evokes fantastic fiction, not for its elements but for its effect. All of a sudden time loses its way and sits on a bench, waiting for a breakdown to happen, knowing that only something irrational and perverse can make things right.
And it does happen. In movies singing and dancing is acceptable, but singing and dancing at the airport, where people are rushing to get to their flights and where silence and order are valued more than anything else, is outrageous. Even John Lloyd Cruz in real life is powerless to pull that off. But here it happens, to delightful, magical, and heartrending effect. Laida receives the love she deserves, and Miggy receives the forgiveness he works hard for; and seeing that moment take place by two sets of audience cheering for them, in the film and in the theater, inside the story and outside it, is the peak of being witnesses to their romance, that whatever comes after it will pale in comparison, will be too weak to register, and will only serve as graffiti. There is nothing clever or ironic about their fate—their ending is already known even before they are created—but recognizing its reality creates an impression of finality, because finality is not only the state of seeing the finish line but also of seeing things at their peak, of reaching the most significant point in a journey, of being able to realize that love built on artifice is still love, that any tainted feeling is pure, and that something—some thing—is always a joy for ever.
Aberya (Christian Linaban, 2012) February 10, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema Rehiyon, Noypi.
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Written by Christian Linaban and Ara Chawdhury
Directed by Christian Linaban
Cast: Will Devaughn, Mercedes Cabral, Iwa Moto, Nicholas Varela
Aberya can be faulted for nursing a wealth of clichés and for the way director Christian Linaban clings to them to push his four narratives, oftentimes to the point of failing to see how ridiculous and empty some sequences turn out to be, having too many clouds to obscure their sense, relying heavily on sensations instead of substance. Despite not having a solid core, it displays a kind of energy and rhythm that can only come from someone with a hand huge enough to hold the material together. Contrary to certain remarks of sloppiness, it manages to exert control over the scattered, oddly shaped fragments and interlock them with the bigger, more muscular ones, allowing itself to move forward with little concern for excesses. The visual exercise has nothing much to say—apparently having a message is hardly the film’s intention, bent as it is on showing off instead of exploring—and the entertaining manner in which it unravels the densities of its characters leaves no room for introspection. There is unity in its staleness, an order from its chaos. And just for that terrific segment starring Nicholas Varela, a culmination of Linaban’s promise and his ability to fulfill it, Aberya is worth the trippy cruise.
Rochel (Matt Baguinon, 2013) February 8, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema Rehiyon, Docu, Noypi.
Written by Pol Singson
Directed by Matt Baguinon
Produced at the Franco-German-Filipino 2012 Documentary Workshop
In the morning of Feb. 29 last year, a dead body was found in a private lot in Barangay Batong Malake in Los Baños, Laguna. The police identified the victim as Rochel Geronda, a 14-year-old student at Los Baños National High School and a sampaguita vendor. Her jogging pants were used to strangle her, knotted so firmly that it suggested the cause of her death. Her blouse was folded neatly and rolled up to her chest. Bruises covered her arms, hips, and feet. Her bra was found behind her neck and her underwear was pulled down. A sharp object seemed to have hit her head.
On her way to the crime scene, Rochel’s mother, Lani Geronda, was prepared to see the worst. When she arrived she immediately checked Rochel’s genitals, thinking that some objects had been inserted, but she didn’t find any. The body had been washed clean. There was a clear sign that she was raped, but her genitals weren’t defiled, as she feared they would be. What surprised her was the swarm of flies on Rochel’s eyes, their noise seemingly louder than that of the onlookers huddled in the area.
It was likely that Rochel was killed the night before. She was last seen at around 8 o’clock, when she left her house in Riverside Subdivision to visit a nearby Internet shop. The police later found out that she didn’t make it to the establishment. Three weeks after her murder, two suspects were arrested: Fredolin Presenta, a security guard, and Alberto Sigue, a farm caretaker. Presenta, the assailant, owned the flashlight that was found in the lot and Sigue helped him dump the body and hide from the authorities.
Months before Rochel was killed—in October 2011, specifically—another rape-slay incident took place in Los Baños. The corpse of 19-year-old UP student Given Grace Cebanico was found on Apec Road, with bruises and stab wounds all over her body, her hands tied behind her. There was a bullet wound on her forehead and a masking tape covered her mouth. Two men took turns raping her. In July of the same year, Bradley Inway, 16, and Gilbert de Ocampo, 23, were found dead on IPB Road in the university compound, less than 50 meters away from where Given Grace’s body was located. Inway and de Ocampo were thought to be victims of summary execution, which the police denied.
But the tragedy in Los Baños didn’t stop there. A few days after Rochel’s death, another UP student, Ray Bernard Peñaranda, was held up and stabbed by two men on a motorcycle. He was dead on arrival at the hospital.
Los Baños is no Ciudad Juárez, a city in the state of Chihuahua in Mexico where hundreds of women had disappeared and had been killed since 1993, but this succession of crimes in a once peaceful community is alarming enough to send people to the streets and demand a call for action. In light of Rochel’s case, the Laguna police director reshuffled the officers deployed in town and ordered some to undergo training, but clearly this is not a lasting solution. Whereas these incidents reveal a major shortcoming of security, it is not an issue of the local police force being completely incompetent but being caught off guard, unable to respond as effectively as they could because they are used to violent crimes happening only on occasion and between long periods of time. It doesn’t sound like a valid excuse, of course, because it isn’t, but taking this into consideration can partially explain why the killings have ceased recurring for the time being, unlike in Ciudad Juárez where female homicides continue and become intolerably dreadful over the years.
But then again crimes, oftentimes driven by desperate economic situations, are also cultural and political. They are specific in every nationality and neighborhood, the factors that contribute to their occurrences dependent on many aspects, and even the effect on the families of the victims is varied, the acceptance ranging from profound resignation to counter-violence to death itself. The only thing certain is that death, especially when brought about by a gruesome murder, always leaves an impression on both the individual and the community, and it persists.
The documentary Rochel, directed by Matt Baguinon and written by Pol Singson, may have started on this effect. It’s obvious that their proximity to the subject, them being UP Los Baños students, has enabled them to adopt a suitable sensibility, the kind that is propelled by social duty, and their youth has helped the film materialize almost immediately, resorting to resources at hand to pursue their careers without losing their initial objective. After all, documenting Rochel’s case does not require a strong personal voice. What it needs is a distinct smidgen of maturity to handle the sensitive material, which can be easily exploited for dramatic purposes, an ability to do emotional math to reach a sum that does not betray the actual events involved. This maturity comes with wisdom, as most viewers aren’t convinced without difficulty, and singling out Rochel’s case as opposed to Given Grace’s or Peñaranda’s poses more questions and raises more doubts than the filmmakers could imagine, a decision reflective of their artistic preoccupations. One can infer reasons, but hard to dismiss is the compliance of the main subject, Lani Geronda, whose unaffected manner lends the film its most persuasive quality.
On paper, Rochel sets out to paint two key portraits: of Rochel, a loving daughter and hardworking student, through the testimonies of people around her, and of Lani, a mother at the worst phase of her life, through her everyday activities. Onscreen, the absence of the former provides contrast to the presence of the latter, and the whole feels fractured but complete.
The filmmakers are able to draw interesting nuances from everyday actions: Lani waking up at 3 a.m. to prepare her children’s breakfast and uniform, reviewing their lessons, reminding them repeatedly to study hard and avoid trouble, accompanying the three of them to school but not without praying together before leaving the house, spending time with her grandchildren, doing the laundry and watching her small store when she gets home. They pursue Lani because she understands not only the intentions of the movie but also its artifices. She isn’t dismissive of suffering—in fact, she builds her defenses around it. Her honesty shines through, her relentless faith in god never off-putting, and her will to live to continue the search for justice is stirring in its openness. By placing Lani at the center, Rochel’s death becomes more resonant, the loss even more pronounced because of how meaningful the fourteen years had been and how, if only she had not been murdered, the succeeding years would have been steeped in optimism, hope being every poor family’s sense of new beginnings.
Baguinon and Singson recognize the sturdy groundwork, so they focus instead on creating a structure that will stand on it, which will not only serve as a visible exterior but also as a bridge to an isolated territory, a place where most media stories are having a hard time dipping their toes into. In addition to detailing the circumstances around Rochel’s life and death through the people closest to her, it sketches a map of emotions surrounding her absence, the singular and submerging feeling that hovers after her passing, the nondescript way it walks in and out of a person’s consciousness.
The storytelling, however, suffers from a few hiccups. Opening with messages of concern from Boy Abunda, Gloc-9, and several resource persons, the film rests on the mistaken need to have this introduction, more or less making the viewer aware of the scale of the situation. Apart from that, it has no purpose, and it seems to put an air of vanity to the issue about to unfold. One can feel that this idea of heightening the drama to connect better to a young audience and make the narrative more accessible becomes too persistent, as illustrated by the use of maudlin music in numerous scenes, either to underline the family crisis or draw attention to the poignancy of little things. For example, one of the most effective moments in the film is when Lani is seen playing with her grandson, Wilmer, and the two are enjoying each other’s company. That long sequence is not accompanied by anything—the candidness of their actions is striking enough. On the other hand, that part when Lani decides to watch a video of Rochel and her other grandson, Dayo, wipes her tears, the music in the background emphasizes the scene too much, making it feel unnatural and contrived. Granted, it gives the audience its first actual glimpse of Rochel’s face, but it pushes too much, disrupting the tone of the documentary.
It’s only fitting that Baguinon and Singson decide to end with a family affair. With her sons, daughters, in-laws, and grandchildren, Lani pays a visit to Rochel’s grave on All Saints’ Day. They pray and talk to Rochel. There is nothing much to say but words of longing and promise. For several minutes, the filmmakers manage to isolate the Gerondas and their emotional state, as if telling that they are alone in their pain, which is actually truer than any medical or autopsy report, that in such time of terrible apathy and darkness their sorrows can’t be shared. Death brings people together, it seems to say, but only the family members can bear the cross on all sides: the weight is seldom in the middle. Evidently these intimate moments are more meaningful to the bereaved than to the audience, and the film is able to send a bit of that burden to the viewer. For a moment it brings to light the documentary’s main weakness: it strikes shadows, not human flesh. It doesn’t sniff around and follow trails. It doesn’t sink its teeth into the industrial landscape of Los Baños. It deliberately shows dramatic shots of streets and sidewalks instead of rendering the depth of the town’s monotony. Its restless editing tends to miss several highlights. But these failings only emphasize the film’s modest accomplishments, the sincerity of its makers, and the genuineness of its intent. Its scope is hardly encompassing, but what it manages to deliver is firm and levelheaded. Rochel not only recalls an incident but also offers a look into the future, a view of a bleak house, and in it a family about to realize how fast life is fading away.
Joel Torre: A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS February 2, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Interview, Noypi.
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It must have been one of those rainy afternoons in September when I had the chance to speak with Joel Torre in his house in Mandaluyong. The interview took less than an hour, excluding the photo shoot, and it was a privilege to have a nice conversation with an actor whom I respect a lot. As expected, Joel was a gentleman, charming and never intimidating, and the pauses he made before answering some questions left an impression on me, as though I managed, in a few instances at least, to pose queries that allowed him to reminisce memories he had long forgotten and was then willing to share. The feature appeared in the magazine more than a month later.
One look at Joel Torre and there is hardly any hint of glamour. His presence rarely intimidates. His gray beard and mustache accentuate the smile on his face, and his afternoon get-up, a black polo and a pair of jeans, makes him a charmer, a handsome actor whose reputation has grown finer over the years. He seems very comfortable with interviews, however repetitive and intimate the questions may be. Sometimes he pauses to recall a long-forgotten memory, but most of the time he shares stories like a father speaking to his son about his fondest experiences: sweet and straightforward.
Growing up in Bacolod, he thought his name, Jose Rizalino, was a little strange. His classmates at school had more common first names: Angelito, Ricardo, Miguelito, Ronaldo. Whenever that usual debate about choosing a worthier national hero comes up, Joel remembers, like the smell of an old blanket, that he would always be on Rizal’s side. “I’d rather follow the footsteps of Rizal than Bonifacio’s. His beliefs are closer to mine,” he says. Not only do they share the same name but they also share the same birth date: he was born on June 19, 1961, exactly a hundred years after the revolutionary hero’s birth.
His face lights up when he recalls an anecdote during Ninoy Aquino’s burial in 1983. “I was with Mike [de Leon] and we were talking about changes brought about by the political climate that time. I told Mike, perhaps randomly, ‘You know, I think I am destined to play Jose Rizal.’ And I was right. The way I look at things now, nothing happens by coincidence.” More than a decade later, de Leon made Bayaning Third World, arguably the most clever film that tackles the Rizal myth, a postmodern labyrinth in which two filmmakers search for the hero, played by Joel, and pick up the crumbs of his identity.
This peculiar kinship has given Joel opportunities to play Rizal in a number of films, plays, and television shows, so numerous in fact that he has portrayed the life of the national hero in almost every genre and approached them from various point of views. His interest in the arts, not to mention his exposure to them, started early. His family owned a moviehouse in Cadiz, a town near Bacolod, which was called Ramona. They used to go there every weekend, and instead of going straight home, young Joel would pay a visit to the theater, which showed action and comedy films like Tarzan, Green Beret, and Tony Ferrer movies. At four years old, he was watching The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins, smitten by the allure of the silver screen.
Ramona was bought by investors and closed down sometime in the ‘80s, a few years after Joel graduated from college. He was already active in a theater group before then. He was seven when he joined the Genesius Guild, where he met one of the most important people in his life, Peque Gallaga. Peque had seen his first play, All the Way Home, and being friends with his family, the director went straight to his house after the show, congratulated him, and said, “I want you to be in all my plays.” It didn’t take long before Joel saw himself spending his summer, Christmas, weekends, and all his free time in the guild, participating in small community programs and large-scale productions, such as Fiddler on the Roof and The King and I. Young Joel had fun despite the busy schedule, and he was thankful for the rigorous training that became handy when he started being involved in making movies.
He completed his college internship under Peque’s guidance, learning the ins and outs of filmmaking first-hand (Peque was directing Champoy that time). Oftentimes he was assigned in the art department, helping out in the production design and running little errands. Before his breakthrough role in Oro Plata Mata, he appeared in Bernal’s Bilibid Boys and Brocka’s Gumising Ka Maruja, where he played bit parts. Asked about his first movie, Joel fumbles for memory. “It was in a short film also directed by Peque, shot in 1969 or 1970 when I was eight or nine years old. I can no longer recall the title. Basta I play a boy who accidentally shoots his brother. That’s the only thing I remember. In fact, I almost forgot about it, until the guy who plays my brother reminded me of it six years ago. He died last year.”
Forty years after the release of Oro, Joel constantly appears in movies and on television. The reason for his popularity even at present is that his image has become synonymous with permanence, almost to the point of being taken for granted, and his contributions to Philippine cinema have earned him the right to be called an icon. Along with fellow Ilonggo Ronnie Lazaro, he has become closely associated with the independent cinema that boomed in the early 2000s. Filmmakers attest to his professionalism, and how, without much effort, they are able to get the acting they want from him, sometimes more than what the roles require.
But the term “independent” is nothing new to Joel. From the beginning he has always been an independent actor, deliberately shying away from the glitz of show business. His experience in theater productions has taught him to value every project he accepts, whether mainstream or independent, lead role or supporting role, 35mm or digital. “When [our group] arrived in Manila, we were so ready. We knew the standards and we aimed to raise the bar. Peque set it for us, 110 percent. We were an amateur theater group doing professional work. There was never a transition or adjustment. I always gave everything I could regardless of the project.”
His latest film, Amigo, which he co-produced, is directed by John Sayles, one of the leading figures in American independent cinema. Joel just arrived from the States after attending some film festivals and he was pleased with the response of the people, some of which were not even from the Filipino community. “Amigo taught me the other side of filmmaking. It’s an expensive movie to make, but it’s still independent because John had the freedom to do anything he wanted. He’s the director, scriptwriter, producer. . . he’s responsible for the distribution, editing, lahat. And all the hard work paid off because of the glowing reviews from the critics. Foreign writers singled out my performance in the film. So what’s there to ask? Come to think of it, there’s more pressure in Amigo than in Oro. Ako yung Amigo dun sa pelikula e. I have a bigger role than Chris Cooper.”
What he likes about the recent new wave in local cinema is the sheer number of films being produced. According to him, quantity is a good sign that the industry is doing well. On the other hand, what he doesn’t like about it is that there is no fixed distribution. There is also no venue to show these films, which leads to the sad reality that they don’t get enough support. “Dapat collective e. We need the audience to come in. Mahal mag-advertise. As you can see, Ang Babae sa Septic Tank is doing great, but it was backed up by Star Cinema in terms of promotion.” He is hopeful about the direction that Philippine cinema is taking at present, but he is disheartened by the system. “Kulang ang sistema. Walang unyon. Laging may unjust labor practice. Kawawa din yung mga maliliit na tao na laging napupuyat sa trabaho. At sana tinatangkilik din ng tao ang mga pelikulang ginagawa natin.”
As an actor, however, Joel considers himself lucky that he still gets to do things that he wants. When he’s not taping for 100 Days to Heaven, a hit primetime soap on ABS-CBN, he stays home until lunch. He runs some errands, goes to the bank, or calls the commissary. He’s also very busy with his business, JT’s Manukan, which is soon to open new branches in Katipunan and McKinley Hill. “Sa totoo lang, ayoko na magpuyat. I’m not getting any younger. Madalang na ang projects, so I spoke to my wife and we decided to open the Manukan. Sinuwerte at naging successful naman siya.” Managing a business is not easy, but he enjoys it. He now has more time to relax and spend with his children, sometimes even go out of the country on vacation. “Nothing to think about. Minsan masaya na nasa bahay lang,” he shares with a smile.
Word has also gotten around that he plans to direct a World War II movie, which will be co-produced by Mike de Leon. But it hasn’t materialized yet. “Matagal na yun, kaso wala talagang budget. I wrote a few scenes, but I need to take a sabbatical to concentrate on finishing it.” He says he can’t let go of the concept. As of the moment, the project is too big and ambitious, and titles such as Forgotten Heroes, Beterano, and Death March are being considered. For a man with such passion for the arts and whose career has spanned generations from the great Manuel Conde to the soon-to-be-great Xyriel Manabat, nothing seems impossible, given the right time.
Published in UNO November 2011; all photos from Bayaning Third World
We Yell Like Hell to the Heavens: The Top Albums of 2012 January 22, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Music, Yearender.
Well, look who made a belated list.
2012 didn’t pass like a breeze. The days came in with unbearable force and slowness, a torturous year when I begged nights to end as soon as they started. Only concerts made me sober, hence my splurge on gigs, and I’m thankful for having friends who joined me in my madness for live music. In many ways 2012 was a turning point, the year when I lost the most important person in my life and when my dreams collapsed on their own, but it was also the year that had to happen, a time that made me realize the importance of concession, the inevitability of reaching such decision, and the need for a wise albeit weary acceptance of defeat. Sadly I didn’t have better options. It took me a while to say that I am doing well, and I guess the business of saying that to people closest to me slowly became natural, for it was an attempt to go past that point where hell is not other people but myself.
Needless to say, the albums below had been wonderful companions, many of which, if I were to be sentimental about it, helped me through. I remember all of them with fondness, sometimes with pain and regret, but often with a smile on my face, because even discomfort makes me grin or laugh. Some of these records serve as time stamps, leaving very distinct impressions on my mind. For instance, I was listening to Album #42 on the bus when my two sisters and I went out together, something which rarely happen these days, and Album #34 when I was on the car with my coworkers during those long drives from Taguig to Quezon City. My favorite record to listen to at the airport is Album #3. Once, when I was on the plane to Cebu it made me feel so happy and giddy that I cried. When my mother was at the hospital, I listened to Album #33 constantly, and several days before she died Album #5 was with me all along, holding my hand as I tried to hold back my tears. Listening to Album #46, #45, #28, #23, and #20 still makes me sad up to now, but nothing beats Album #2 in being so heartbreakingly beautiful.
But surely I had crazy moments, times when happiness was hard to contain, days when I looked high without being under the influence. Album #6 is the first contender for album of the year, pure crystal meth from start to finish, and heaven knows I’m miserable now for missing out on their Hong Kong gig today. Album #49 and #44 are punk rock at its wildest, and Album #39, #31, #21, and #9 are my ever-dependable hip-hop pills. Album #41 isn’t as bad as many critics and fans say it is (in fact, it has a lot of enchanting moments) and Album #25 has haters who may not have even listened to it in full. Normally I won’t put two albums by one artist but I made an exception: Album #30 and #12 are inseparable, brilliantly delivered by a musician who always comes up with heartfelt compositions. And of course, what to say about Album #4? It’s a landmark record whose commercial failure is completely upsetting, but in years’ time music snobs will look back and be blinded by its sheen. How about Album #1? Well, not even the end of the world could stop it from being on top of the list. It’s the record that I had been waiting for months, and when it came it ruined me. After several weeks it put me back together, then ruined me again.
So without further ado, here are the top albums of 2012, the best EPs, a list of the year’s overlooked songs, the most memorable concerts I attended, and more than 170 links to tracks I love, all in one post. See you again next year, friends!
50. BABY, Tribes
49. HOLOGRAMS, Holograms
48. EVANS THE DEATH, Evans the Death
47. ANGELS OF DARKNESS, DEMONS OF LIGHT II, Earth
46. A CHURCH THAT FITS OUR NEEDS, Lost in the Trees
45. PORT OF MORROW, The Shins
44. OFF! OFF
43. I BET ON SKY, Dinosaur Jr.
42. THE GHOST IN DAYLIGHT, Gravenhurst
41. CENTIPEDE HZ, Animal Collective
40. WHO NEEDS WHO, Dark Dark Dark
39. 4EVA N A DAY, Big K.R.I.T.
38. GIVEN TO THE WILD, The Maccabees
37. SUN, Cat Power
36. SOMETHING, Chairlift
35. SHUT DOWN THE STREETS, A.C. Newman
34. DEVOTION, Jessie Ware
33. THE SOMETHING RAIN, Tindersticks
32. THE HAUNTED MAN, Bat for Lashes
31. good kid, m.A.A.d city, Kendrick Lamar
30. OCEAN ROAR, Mount Eerie
29. THE IDLER WHEEL IS WISER THAN THE DRIVER OF THE SCREW AND WHIPPING CORDS WILL SERVE YOU MORE THAN ROPES WILL EVER DO, Fiona Apple
28. RHYTHM AND REPOSE, Glen Hansard
27. TRANSCENDENTAL YOUTH, The Mountain Goats
26. THE SEER, Swans
25. BORN AND RAISED, John Mayer
24. ‘ALLELUJAH! DON’T BEND! ASCEND! Godspeed You! Black Emperor
23. I KNOW WHAT LOVE ISN’T, Jens Lekman
22. THE FLOAT, Rebecca Gates and the Consortium
21. LIFE IS GOOD, Nas
20. SHIELDS, Grizzly Bear
19. A THING CALLED DIVINE FITS, Divine Fits
18. RUNNER, The Sea and Cake
17. AMERICA, Dan Deacon
16. SWING LO MAGELLAN, Dirty Projectors
15. OPEN YOUR HEART, The Men
14. TRAMP, Sharon Van Etten
13. UNTIL THE QUIET COMES, Flying Lotus
12. CLEAR MOON, Mount Eerie
11. WIXIW, Liars
10. KOI NO YOKAN, Deftones
9. RETURN OF THE PHUNKY JUAN, Dash Calzado
8. TRANSVERSE, Carter Tutti Void
7. TAMA NA ANG DRAMA, Ang Bandang Shirley
6. CELEBRATION ROCK, Japandroids
5. PUT YOUR BACK N 2 IT, Perfume Genius
4. KISS, Carly Rae Jepsen
3. WAKING SEASON, Caspian
2. MID AIR, Paul Buchanan
1. CAPACITIES, Up Dharma Down
BEST EPs: UNDERSEA, The Antlers; SILENT HOUR/GOLDEN MILE, Daniel Rossen; KAYA MO MAG-SANDO? Pedicab
BEST OST: THE MASTER: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, Jonny Greenwood
BEST ALBUM COVER: NO LOVE DEEP WEB, Death Grips
ANOTHER P-P-P-PLAYLIST (Best Songs not on the Albums and Tracks Shit)
1. “Under the Westway,” Blur
2. “Ill Manors,” Plan B
3. “Only In My Dreams,” Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti
4. “Angels,” The xx
5. “Lost,” Frank Ocean
6. “Duquesne Whistle,” Bob Dylan
7. “The Celestials,” The Smashing Pumpkins
8. “Clique,” Kanye West (feat. Big Sean and Jay-Z)
9. “R U Mine?” Arctic Monkeys
11. “Do Ya Thing,” Gorillaz (feat. Andre 3000 and James Murphy)
12. “Anna Sun,” Walk the Moon
13. “I’ve Seen Footage,” Death Grips
14. “I’ll Be Alright,” Passion Pit
15. “Adorn,” Miguel
16. “Heaven is a Ghost Town,” Minus the Bear
17. “Arena Rock Encore with Full Cast,” The Cribs
18. “Sixteen Saltines,” Jack White
19. “Watching You Watch Him,” Eric Hutchinson
20. “Hey Jane,” Spiritualized
MOST MEMORABLE CONCERTS
1. Radiohead. The King of Limbs Tour. Nangang Exhibition Hall, Taipei, July 2012. With Ayn.
2. The Smashing Pumpkins. Oceania Tour. Araneta Coliseum, Quezon City, August 2012. With Megan.
3. Sigur Rós. Valtari Tour. Fort Canning, Singapore, November 2012. With Ayn and David.
4. Morrissey. World Trade Center Manila. May 2012. With Megan, Beverly, and Jerrold.
5. Up Dharma Down. Capacities album launch. One Esplanade, Pasay City, November 2012. With Ayn and Bolix.
6. Keane. Strangeland Tour. SM Mall of Asia Arena, Pasay City, October 2012. With Ali.
7. Lady Gaga. Born This Way Ball Tour. SM Mall of Asia Arena, Pasay City, With Ayn, Leo, Dohna, and Ate.
8. Sting. Back to Bass Tour. Araneta Coliseum, Quezon City, December 2012. With Tish and Tita.
9. Snow Patrol. Fallen Empires Tour. Araneta Coliseum, Quezon City, August 2012. With Ayn and Ali.
10. Toe. NBC Tent, Fort Bonifacio, Taguig City, March 2012. With Gian.
11. Pupil. 70s Bistro, Quezon City, May 2012.
12. James Morrison. The Awakening Tour. Araneta Coliseum, Quezon City, October 2012.
*Pop* Goes My Heart: The Top Tracks of 2012 January 11, 2013Posted by Richard Bolisay in Music.
Without further ado, here are the 25 songs that made the previous year sunnier and happier, the 25 songs between “Gangnam Style” and “Pusong Bato” that ruled the airwaves and the Internet, the 25 songs that lightened the world a bit and made everyone crazier than before. No guilt, all pleasure!
[The Truth About Love]
Although Robyn can make “Try” a much sultrier ballad, putting emotional twirls at the end of each line and turning “try try try” and “by by by” into something softer but more cutting, only P!nk can deliver its aches like a boxer: intense and livid, but also mindful of which rib to crack.
24. “TRIUMPHANT (GET ‘EM)”
Mariah Carey feat. Rick Ross and Meek Mill
Whoever thought of planning to release a Mariah single on which she happens to come out as the featured artist must receive 50 percent of this song’s royalties, because seriously, Rick Ross and Meek Mill may own “Triumphant” but Mariah, being the diva that she still is, is unfazed. She beams with self-confidence and is bent on showing that she can give Rihanna a run for her money with just a shiny chorus and an impassive repetition of hooks.
23. “AS LONG AS YOU LOVE ME”
Justin Bieber feat. Big Sean
The Biebz’s second single from his third studio album contains some of the most awful lyrics of the year—a cringe fest, to be honest, from the icky “As long as you love me, I’ll be your platinum, I’ll be your silver, I’ll be your gold” to the gross “I’ll be your Hova, you can be my Destiny’s Child on the scene girl”— but with the brilliant lo-lo-lo-lo-love hook, the giddy clapping, those freaking dubstep frills, and the revolting thought that Justin Bieber is still loveless (just broke up with Selena yo), how can it not be a pleasurable three and a half minutes?
22. “CALL MY NAME”
[A Million Lights]
At this point Cheryl Cole seems to be in the brink of exhaustion, trying to stay in the game despite the multiplying number of pop stars being born every year, but when she delivers “Call My Name,” a Calvin Harris-produced track armed with a chorus to weep for, a manic pixie earworm that spins restlessly, the dance floor is full of go once again.
No question this is JoJo in her finest form: slow and sexy R&B does not only suit her—it changes her. On “Demonstrate” she sounds at ease shifting from one falsetto to another, the classy way she hits the notes an indication of an interesting musical direction. She keeps up with the overwhelming stagger-step beats, sweeping the song clean with a subtle finish.
20. “THE BOYS”
Language doesn’t seem to be that much of a barrier, considering the English version of “The Boys” is able to take along the rapturous rhythm of the original, crammed with a range of whips and thumps that a feisty nine-piece group can offer. Although the military beats sound derivative, they provide the song an edge of familiarity, the flow of lines from one member to another as slick as the movement of their hips.
19. “SOVEREIGN LIGHT CAFÉ”
Unmistakable is the wistfulness of this song, the sentimentality it attaches to sights and experiences, the memories that singer Tom Chaplin are reminded of when he visits them on his mind while on a busy tour, the comfort they bring, those charming spots in East Sussex, that café on the Bexhill seafront, the changing city kept beautifully intact by an English band that continues to grow.
18. “WANT U BACK”
[Sticks + Stones]
“Want U Back” is not something a casual listener takes seriously upon first listen. It shares the vexing quality of Ke$ha’s singles, only Cher Lloyd’s youth displays itself up-front, allowing her bitter rants to explode into pieces. She’s so keen on making frustrated grunts that they turn out to be the song’s main highlight, making it a giddier and crazier ride.
17. “I LOVE IT”
Icona Pop feat. Charli XCX
No song released in 2012 can match the force and ferocity of this unexpectedly wrecking club jam from Swedish pop duo/bitches Icona Pop. Filled with knives and cannon balls—“I crashed my car into the bridge, I watched, I let it burn / I threw your shit into a bag and pushed it down the stairs”—the effect of its repetitions is nothing but exhilarating, and when their fury ends there’s no other option but to go through it all over again.
16. “SHE’S SO MEAN”
The funny thing about “She’s So Mean” is that it’s a work of forty-something dudes almost in the afterlife of their careers, yet it also sounds like something that The Click Five or The Cab, possibly at their most inspired, could come up with, the cutesy lyrics never getting in the way because Rob Thomas and company know how to woo a girl just by tickling their instruments, the drums and guitars in particular.
15. “NEXT TO ME”
[Our Version of Events]
This what makes the landscape of pop music so irresistible: the emergence of talents with amazing vocal gifts and songwriting chops. Emeli Sandé is definitely on top of many of them, and fortunately in the years of Adele’s reign the soar of her voice stands out. On “Next To Me” she sounds so poised and spirited that the man she’s singing about must be so blessed to have her on his side.
14. “EVERYTHING IS EMBARRASSING”
This track is here because even though it’s not as mainstream as the others on the list, it suggests an interesting direction that pop music should take. “Everything is Embarrassing” is a piece of gem that seems to be stuck in its time, the melodrama of Ferreira’s words and delivery drowned in an ambiance of colorful and tuneful splashes, making it heavier but cooler, its presence like a brisk wind passing by.
13. “ROMAN HOLIDAY”
[Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded]
A provocateur par excellence, Nicki Minaj has successfully reached a point when she can create smash hits without stealing the limelight from someone else’s singles. Her second album is full of them, any of which could be on the list, but its irreverently outrageous opener happens to take a piece of everything, touching on the wild, baffling, crazy, and clueless. From the theatrical rap delivery to the stunning transitions between verses, it’s pretty much a display of zing and verve, putting in a famous Christmas tune and referencing a controversial pedophile in a matter of seconds. Only a brilliant artist can deliver a wrecking ball this sick.
Maroon 5 feat. Wiz Khalifa
How the hell did Adam Levine and the rest of Maroon 5 get away with something as ludicrous as this? Well, obviously, by stick-to-itiveness. Some of his sentiments are embarrassing—“Oh you turned your back on tomorrow, ‘cause you forgot yesterday / I gave you my love to borrow, but you just gave it away”—but when his face, body, and nasal singing are taken into consideration, it’s kind of pointless to resist. The guitars and piano conspire to create an arrangement that coats more sugar than needed, and the result is delicious.
11. “LOVE SEA”
“I was not looking for artsy-fartsy love,” sings Anders SG on “10,000 Nights of Thunder.” And Alphabeat’s singles, mostly cheery but also filled with longing, aren’t looking for anything artsy-fartsy either. Their lyrics are warm and relatable, carried by simple melodies that hang onto a sparkling chorus. “Love Sea” is a genial example of their ability to make platitudes sound refreshing, and at the same time it shares the glitters of Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know,” the song like a bubble taking a long time to burst.
Julie Anne San Jose
[Julie Anne San Jose]
It’s a tough call. Julie Anne San Jose’s breakthrough hit “I’ll Be There” shares the sweet and novel wonders of Heart Evangelista’s “One,” Jennylyn Mercado’s “Kahit Sandali,” and Yasmien Kurdi’s “In The Name of Love,” but its lack of bridge, whose presence could have brought the song to wholly different heights, is too glaring not too notice. The follow-up single “Enough” makes up for this, leaving the mushy terrain of “I’ll Be There” and exchanging it for a bolder front, almost to the point of being too annoyingly driven, its glossy production values matched by San Jose’s confident singing. Her rap verse after the bridge is a risky move, but she pulls it off even without taking a deep breath.
9. “NATIONAL ANTHEM”
Lana del Rey
[Born to Die]
Like her other singles, “National Anthem” touches on obsession and loneliness, and here Lana del Rey is a lady with an insatiable greed for riches, clinging to her man and asking him to give her a Chevron and a standing ovation. Her self-centeredness is her strength: she loves herself so much she wants him not only to adore her but also to be patriotic to her, every time and everywhere, like a dying soldier to his country. She has earned the right to receive luxuries—at her best, she knows how to pretend emotion and make it appear regal, the foolishness of her words owing to her mania for success—but when it’s time to return the favor, she never disappoints. This song proves that.
8. “CATCH MY BREATH”
[Greatest Hits: Chapter One]
There’s a strain in Kelly Clarkson’s singing that is not supposed to work to her advantage, but surprisingly it does. Her set of pipes is her massive weapon, and on “Catch My Breath” she puts it to great use, standing out amid the EDM flourishes and becoming its focal point. She has written inspirational songs before about her journey, but this one sounds fresher than the first.
7. “GIVE YOUR HEART A BREAK”
As far as pop singles go, Demi Lovato has been easily eclipsed by her Disney contemporaries. But after the release of “Skyscraper” and “Give Your Heart A Break,” not to mention her stint in the second season of The X-Factor USA, she seems to have landed on a position that Miley Cyrus and Selena Gomez have never been to, that distinct feeling of progression made evident by the kind of songs she takes on. While “Skyscraper” is a test of vocal vulnerability, “Give Your Heart A Break” challenges her with grander choruses, surrounded with a more complicated arrangement of strings, drums, and violin. There’s a fire in her voice that makes it a tad intimidating, but it’s infinitely better than anything with Auto-tune.
It’s hard to believe that The Killers could still come up roses after a terrible third album and a hiatus, but “Runaways” is nothing short of exhilarating, the effusive slushiness of it, instead of mashing the material, imposes a kind of emotion that requires a stadium full of people to feel. It’s the closest to a Hot Fuss euphoria that skeptical followers of the band have long wanted to experience again.
[Looking 4 Myself]
Comparisons have already been made, so one might as well be blunt about it: “Climax” is better than all of The Weeknd’s songs combined, and that’s because its brilliance isn’t daunting. It’s a dashing single in an elegant tux, Usher’s best in years and producer Diplo’s first marvelous stab, a four-minute bruise-cruise packed with exciting highpoints. Of course, there’s no way Usher will let go of being sexy, but he is careful with his transitions as he comfortably moves in and out of falsetto. The moment he yells “at all” and Diplo accompanies it with escalating synths and a heavenly second voice, the song rips in a fraction of a second, and then some islands begin to form.
4. “LIVE WHILE WE’RE YOUNG”
[Take Me Home]
Insanely good-looking faces and sexy voices aside, the success of One Direction owes to songs that tease about wanting to get laid. Some of them are easily achieved, thanks to their music videos and live performances, but the most successful efforts, the trio of “What Makes You Beautiful,” “One Thing,” and “Live While We’re Young,” are subtle invitations to sex, their lyrics carefully worded so that pre-pubescent girls and gays (even adults) will still be allowed to hear and enjoy them. The first single from their sophomore album is built on sexual nudges, a collection of come-ons introduced by a cleverly used Clash guitar riff and pulled together by a blissful chorus, the boys basking in the hedonism of youth and the shortness of it. At one point they say, “I know we only met but let’s pretend it’s love,” and it feels like an ordeal because pretending to love them is rather difficult.
3. “I LOVE YOU”
The sky’s the limit for 2NE1, their brilliance somewhat reminiscent of Girls Aloud’s in the first half of the 2000s, loved not only for their consistent placement in the charts but also for their innovations in the pop scene, delivering songs that expand and go outward, awe-inspiring compositions that take risks and produce breathtaking results. Like “Biology,” “I Love You” has more than three hook verses, and the four ladies travel from one to another with oomph and ease, the listener lost in the seamless intricacy of it all. By the time it reaches its loudest at 2:45, it lands on its most elegant part and emits sparks.
2. “CALL ME MAYBE”
Carly Rae Jepsen
It’s only more than a year old by now, but it seems that everything has already been said about “Call Me Maybe.” Is there any stone left unturned? Any nook as yet undiscovered? Perhaps. But any kind of fumbling only adds to its composite quality. No one can say how time will treat it, but as early as now it’s easy to tell that it will age well, people will look back and say, “That’s it!” with a silly smile, because the moment “Call Me Maybe” came and conquered, it rolled like a snowball trundling across the globe, getting bigger and bigger every time it’s played and parodied, a phenomenon of staggering proportions so enormous that months later even its bloated state is a charming sight. It’s a piece of manufactured merchandise that listeners have embraced and endorsed, but more than just a commercial item it’s a cultural product, a huge and unmistakable one, which intimidates only the snobbish. This song has reserved its place on radio for more than 50 years, but in the heart of its generation, it knows no expiry date.
Possibly the only presence that’s bigger than “Call Me Maybe” in 2012 is Taylor Swift, and for good reasons. Her fourth studio album is her best to date, filled with tracks that flirt with perfection, neck and neck with Kiss as the top pop record of the year. She did not cross over from country to pop-rock—she owned both. She pulled it off the way she parted ways with her boyfriends, sharp and self-assured, and there’s no denying that she uses these highly publicized break-ups to market herself better. She has created an indelible image that teens can easily relate to, giving the impression that she has actually learned from these experiences. She’s a clever bitch, but one that’s hard not to love.
“We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” is too snarky, and it’s the kind of cheery derision that she must put to rest from time to time (it’s a fan bait, of course) considering she’s capable of doing something grander and more expansive like “State of Grace” and “Red.” The latter, which finds her playing with a bunch of crayons and similes, puts together one of her best songwriting efforts in many years. She knows that as much as she aspires to be Joni Mitchell or Carly Simon, she can never be either of them, but she has reached a point where her two idols, no offense to both, have become irrelevant to her accomplishments, creating an impact on a significant group of listeners that Joni and Carly didn’t in their heyday.
“Red” is the finest pop song of the year because it does not only make use of physical triggers—apart from its catchy hooks and lyrics, it boasts a bridge that gleams with seemingly nondescript brilliance, allowing the song to soar and alight on the ground in seconds, and a post-chorus that proves an abundance of thought, an excess that doesn’t feel like one—it also shows a deep affection for the genre that’s been easily taken for granted by listeners and critics alike, its singer completely aware of her massive influence, and instead of competing with her contemporaries, she does something that most of them are loath to do, and that is, to make a return to basics. Without a doubt, the pop throne is now hers.
Let Us Compare Mythologies: The Top Filipino Films of 2012 December 30, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Noypi, Yearender.
In the introduction to his first collection of writings, Anthony Lane asserts that “the primary task of the critic is the recreation of texture—not telling moviegoers what they should see, which is entirely their prerogative, but filing a sensory report on the kind of experience into which they will be wading, or plunging, should they decide to risk a ticket.”
The critic being described exists in Philippine cinema, and there are a few of them stuck in the mangroves and observing the flow of water as they write their reveries. Their sensory reports are awaiting readers, logophiles who are crazy about newfangled encounters with the anatomies of cinema.
But the critic must also be an explorer, an indefatigable traveler. He or she should discover unknown countries, stay there, and talk to their people. These foreign regions are the life support of any national cinema. As valuable as the canons may be, these new films and filmmakers are more persuasive signs of progress.
Once flags are lodged in these countries, he or she must also know the right time to leave. Sentimental attachment weakens the critic, but weakness is always a good trait to have, only if it’s served in reasonable servings.
The most important thing is to have a constant belief in an unthinkable possibility, an idea lifted from Lane himself, that moviegoers can be stretched, and they can learn to love it. The critic must have faith in this, or else the local scene will soon become a lonely vacuum.
Below are ten homelands. None of them are perfect, but all have fascinating towns and cities, each boasting attractions that every reader who reads the critic must find time to visit. The first thing to do is sail north and scroll down. The places are positioned according to experience, but don’t hesitate to disobey as deemed necessary.
10. KAMERA OBSKURA, Raymond Red
There must have been a time when moviegoers enjoy a dose of mawkishness and simplicity, a period when the idea of art does not aim to confound but to instruct, and it’s OK because people get something from it regardless of the unnecessary flourishes. Moreover, there is a clear recognition of a larger canvas and the significant points it raises, not only on political history but also on the temperament of the medium. Kamera Obskura relies heavily on artifice—the strings it pulls and the rumpus it creates attract too much attention—but its message is loud and clear. Musing on a possible failure, its sender Raymond Red wonders: what’s wrong with didacticism if it manages to divide audiences and make them argue? Why give subtlety too much credit? What could be more enlightening than the assertion that there is a higher purpose than art? The answers remain unsent.
9. THE ANIMALS, Gino Santos
The Animals is riddled with problems of varying intensities, mostly regarding its inconsistent maneuvering of plot and characters, but these missteps only emphasize the disposition of its filmmaker: a young man fresh out of film school wanting to prove something, a need so palpable that while sitting through the movie, the viewer becomes more concerned with him and how much he is going to fuck the whole thing up than with his group of well-to-do kids. The film throws a tantrum from time to time, but one cannot ignore its unmistakable voice, the current that runs through the narrative and keeps it moving. The youth should never lose that: the courage to be rude and the guts to offend, because when’s the next time that such behavior will be acceptable? Gino Santos depicts rats in cages and beasts in their little wilds, but he is also their keeper, guiding them into places where monsters bite without warning, and where parents, blindsided by time, let this horror happen.
8. ANAK ARAW, Gym Lumbera
It’s easy to fall into the trap and say that Taglish reflects Gym Lumbera’s pensive side and Anak Araw his lighthearted personality, but this assumption not only limits further reading of his work but also fosters a kind of thinking that gives more credit to the façade than to the foundation. It actually yields a finer insight if the viewer decides to transpose the two. For one, Anak Araw provides a semblance of structure that allows his experiment to extend to various directions, his hands always looking for a place to make contact. The positioning of its elements is far from random, and its sense of humor is not as effortless as it seems to be, considering the poles that Lumbera manages to draw together. He continues to dampen the ache and sorrow that seep out of the black-and-white images, his language hungry for recognition despite the seeming haze, presenting a piece of history orphaned by its people but imposingly complete.
7. JUNGLE LOVE, Sherad Anthony Sanchez
Champions of Sherad Anthony Sanchez’s movies may consider Jungle Love a minor piece of work since there’s hardly anything in it that can’t be put into words—finally! something slightly comprehensible!—but it’s also the reason for its charming brilliance. It’s a shrewd portrait of young lovers catching up on old mysteries, of hapless cadets and well-endowed women sharing silence and sensations, which contains some of the most rewarding and strangest depictions of sex and coquetry in local cinema. Sanchez manages to create a pleasantly intelligent discourse without paralyzing his audience, allowing them to penetrate it and sprawl in all directions, leading them to a terrain that’s not exactly graspable but comfortable nonetheless. The tracking shots of the jungle provide a light, supple texture, making it seem like the viewer is entering Herzog territory, a place that foreshadows casualty, and fortunately Sanchez permits such pleasures to repeat and linger. This being a movie of treacherous slopes and faint come-ons, the presence of an insanely catchy novelty song is manna from heaven.
6. PASCALINA, Pam Miras
Pascalina does not give a good first impression. Its grainy, home video quality is enough to throw someone off, and Pascalina happens to be one of those frustrating characters whose ill fate can’t be helped. But Pam Miras is smart enough not to resort to cheap tricks and bloodletting to pull the viewers in. Instead, she makes her narrative swell until it bursts with tension, creating a rickety, airless, and claustrophobic cavity in which her characters slip into without noticing it, her main character being the only person to realize the descent. Shireen Seno and Malay Javier, using a Digital Harinezumi, favor compositions that look as though they were infested by maggots—the shots are dingy but strong, a fundamental force in carrying out the beast that Pascalina ignores—and Corinne de San Jose casts a chill over the rubble, creates more corpses, and hides them in the dark, her sound design hovering until the film finds Pascalina shaking hands with the devil.
5. GIVE UP TOMORROW, Michael Collins and Marty Syjuco
In hindsight, the Chiong murder case, from the moment it first came to public attention in 1997 to the release of Paco Larrañaga’s death sentence in 2004, was a dog and pony show. It exploded and scattered its shrapnel to every nook and cranny of the Philippine justice system, a grim and painful reminder of an organized snafu that required gods and monsters to accomplish, tightening the knots of an unforgivable criminal gaffe instead of helping loosen them. In Give Up Tomorrow, the situation being dissected is messy. Arguments pile on top of one another incessantly—each of them forming the trajectory towards the center, Paco’s innocence bearing the clearest but most disputed evidence—but the documentary makes a strong and convincing point by showing how clean-cut it is. Producer Marty Syjuco and director Michael Collins are driven by a hazy glimmer of hope, and rather than doing an autopsy they perform a CPR, veering away from mere journalism and carefully guiding the viewer into a cold, unsettling conclusion that pounds the truth that justice, regardless of partakers, shouldn’t be arbitrary. Their film presents a world where the hideous becomes bearable, and this kind of tolerance is more revolting than the crimes and misdemeanors that their seven-year search has managed to uncover.
4. ANG PAGLALAKBAY NG MGA BITUIN SA GABING MADILIM, Arnel Mardoquio
At times, the surface of Arnel Mardoquio’s fifth full-length feature would be so frightfully calm that its characters also tend to notice it, and they make some noise to break free from the stifling atmosphere, revealing parts of themselves that have long been seeking release. So when the big moments take place, they don’t really leave an impression of size but of spontaneity, war being life itself, a stage of never-ending battles and losses, and Mardoquio, without betraying the intricacies of his subject, melts this exterior as the narrative unfolds, the stuff underneath bulging with apprehension and dread.
3. PUREZA: THE STORY OF NEGROS SUGAR, Jay Abello
Jay Abello is a skilled cinematographer, and although Pureza features beautiful images of the Negros landscape, they are hardly the highlight of his exhaustive documentary. He’s more concerned with digging—histories, communities, dynasties, voices, culture, crimes, injustice, yarns of stories, huge chunks of contradictions, the embarrassment of riches, the thrust of being born poor, the numerous divides created by sugar as the region’s goldmine, the lives of people it continues to affect at present, from the families of hacienderos to the impoverished farmers who own a piece of land but can’t make a decent living out of it—he discovers all of these, which makes the film too heavy to carry, but he never stops. Pureza is driven by Abello’s resolute desire to answer a simple question, but along the way it unearths tragedies of the worst kind, a pile of incongruities in the sociopolitical topography of the country eaten by neoliberal trade and neocolonialism, a grave national problem being neglected ever since. After connecting the dots, the film’s final image assumes the form of a recognizably Filipino cluster fuck, one that has taken countless lives and many lifetimes to happen.
2. COLOSSAL, Whammy Alcazaren
“Colossal—but all on paper,” writes Noli Manaig about Whammy Alcazaren’s debut film. Five simple words, but strong enough to inflict hurt on the young Alcazaren. Manaig pens an eloquent review, but one can’t miss the tone of derision that permeates it, the way he attributes most of the film’s praises to how people always take into consideration the director’s age, basically a factor that Alcazaren can do nothing about. After highlighting an extremely favorable comment, Manaig takes the bull by the horns and presents his detailed but generally unfriendly assessment. But here’s the thing: in light of that appraisal, an important incident, something rare in local cinema, takes place. A seemingly slight but crucial exchange has materialized between an articulate film critic and a promising filmmaker, the latter armed with his overwhelming poetry and images, and the former with his persuasive skepticism, and both manage to build strong defenses of their own. That’s a welcome development, right? It’s something that needs to happen more frequently. But in an argument between two figures, who’s more convincing?
Well, Colossal lives up to its name in many ways, but it must be said that it’s the kind of work that reeks of privilege. The resources needed to make it—the intellectual attitude, the emotional control, the access to historical material—wave its hands nonchalantly at the audience. Belonging to a family of esteemed professionals and artists, Alcazaren makes use of the medium, succumbs to an eclectic mindset, and does something strange and beautiful with it. Colossal observes grief, alluding to C.S. Lewis’s book on the subject, and is narrated single-handedly by an old man who muses on a medley of stories, a shapeless monologue seeming to exist independently from the visuals. Alcazaren creates brave new worlds by luxuriating in monochromatic curlicues, at one point playing with lines to form constellations, and structures his film with conscious regard for its architecture, each sequence like a concrete block waiting to be filled with cement. It turns into a concentration of riches, overseeing a contagion of maladies in a place where maps are not needed, just silent understanding. There is only a suggestion of grief—perhaps in Alcazaren’s mind, to confront it is to betray it—but even its lightest tinge is imposing enough.
1. FLORENTINA HUBALDO, CTE, Lav Diaz
Lav Diaz’s movies feel like they are set at the end of the world—their place and time harbor a sense of resignation and denouement, what with the consuming display of despair and stone-cold violence, most strikingly the passage of time in preparation for what seems to be an impending doom—and his characters are either unaware of it or they don’t care about what’s coming. The latter is more likely, considering that time and space in Diaz’s films are not ideas but companions, visible and perceptible, their existence so physical that the medium, and the language consequently, concedes to the need for a more accurate depiction of emotional decay, one that respects time by allowing it to appear as an element closest to its spotless form.
Even Florentina Hubaldo, the subject of his most recent film, would have expressed how much she wanted the world to end had she been more articulate, had she found a way to escape the life that her abusive father ruined for her so early. But her confinement is seeking finality, and that finality is death, so Diaz is only as helpless as her, pained at the sight of his creation, and the only happiness he could give her, aside from the cheerful sequences with the Higantes, is that moment when she and her daughter are seen together, smiling as the boat passes by, freed from the grief of the world. The post-nominal letters in the title are the same cuffs that tie Florentina to her bed, only this suffix consigns her into a beastlier lodging, sharing the fate of the gecko that never stops making a sound until someone finds it. Someone does find her eventually, only her respite is not long enough to make up for the things she has lost.
Like Diaz’s other films, Florentina Hubaldo, CTE contains the nuances and challenges of great literature. It doesn’t beg to be watched in its entirety: its strength is its ability to remain powerful despite the inevitability of missing sequences due to its length. But sincere admirers of Diaz never call it length: they call it dimension, the distance from end to end not measured by minutes but by experience, and waiting for the film to unfold is similar to reading a novel without actually holding one. Diaz turns the pages and they fuel a dying bonfire. Unknown to him, they burn but never turn into ashes.
For future reference: The Top Filipino Films of 2011 December 25, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Noypi, Yearender.
Old habits die hard, and one of them turns out to be one year late.
1. LAWAS KAN PINABLI, Christopher Gozum
2. BIG BOY, Shireen Seno
3. TUNDONG MAGILIW, Jewel Maranan
4. ISDA, Adolfo Alix, Jr.
5. ELEHIYA SA DUMALAW MULA SA HIMAGSIKAN, Lav Diaz
6. X-DEAL, Lawrence Fajardo
7. BAHAY BATA, Eduardo Roy, Jr.
8. PAHINGA, Khavn De La Cruz
9. WON’T LAST A DAY WITHOUT YOU, Raz Dela Torre
10. EX PRESS, Jet Leyco
Mamay Umeng (Dwein Baltazar, 2012) December 13, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Noypi.
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Written and directed by Dwein Baltazar
Cast: Gerry Adeva, Sue Prado, Crizzalyn Enriquez, Ramona Revilla
Many writers have pointed out the beauty and subtlety of Mamay Umeng, and without a doubt Dwein Baltazar’s debut feature is a beautiful and subtle film. In fact, despite the lack of narrative action, it has the ability to hypnotize the viewer, thanks in large part to Neil Daza’s striking camera work and to actor Gerry Adeva’s indelible presence, which lingers even after the screen fades to black. Baltazar’s portrait of Mamay Umeng is as clinical as an autopsy, basically providing a 70-minute glimpse into an old man’s life as he waits on his death, but she leaves plenty of room for introspection, capturing everyday moments and making them resonate, her discipline as a filmmaker as recognizable as her subject’s frailness. It’s the kind of film that’s willing to sacrifice plot development and character arcs for the sake of effect—that mental and emotional impression based on the totality of a piece of work—and on one hand, bravo, it succeeds, congratulations, but on the other: is that it? To what end? The problem with the idea of filming life as it happens is that it becomes the basis of everything: the director has to stand by it and the viewer, seeing how its stubbornness will never waver, concedes to it and becomes subservient to the point of resignation. A story about waiting doesn’t have to emphasize waiting to illustrate its point—a lot of precious opportunities are lost because of this mistaken idea—and the decision to observe and idle instead of making an effort to drive the narrative into far riskier territories, may they be physical or emotional, only scratches the surface: it will create a wound but it will heal very soon. Mamay Umeng is fraught with affecting displays of sadness, but one can’t help feeling that they stand out because the scenes around them are bare, that they are restrained because there’s a pervasive fear of ruining the tone of the movie, that in essence the film is trying to leap but it can’t leap because it would rather go around, afraid of losing what it has accomplished. And by all means that’s a sadder thought.
Mariposa sa Hawla ng Gabi (Richard Somes, 2012) December 11, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Noypi.
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Written and directed by Richard Somes
Cast: Erich Gonzales, Mark Gil, Alfred Vargas
Mariposa sa Hawla ng Gabi has the makings of a fine action movie, but along the way it is hindered by its tireless underpinning of mood, oftentimes forgetting that it has a story to tell, which is a pity because its narrative is captivating. A young woman, played by Erich Gonzales with a mix of charm and grit, sets out to explore the sudden death of her sister. As she seeks help from people, she gets caught in a warren of corrupt men and their evil activities. Opposite her is an eccentric with a horrible obsession, a crazy character played by Mark Gil, and the film builds up until the two of them meet and eventually part ways, with blood in their hands and faces. Noir is a rarity in contemporary local cinema, and Mariposa is the genre at its grimiest: it reeks of sludge and vomit, every scene feeling like a note from the underworld, a page from a maddening novel on anarchy. Director Richard Somes is easily enamored by visuals, but he has a problem making the scenes work together. Although Mariposa has its share of gripping moments—narrative crests scattered in the beginning, middle, and end—it becomes weak due to his disregard for pacing, the potboiler never quite boiling because the meat turns out to be half-cooked, the soup lacking a pinch of salt.
Anak Araw (Gym Lumbera, 2012) December 6, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Indie Sine.
Written and directed by Gym Lumbera
Cast: Jay de la Vega
Anak Araw is the first of Gym Lumbera’s two movies to be screened this year, and should one be inclined to look for something out of the ordinary in local cinema, his work could offer a welcome respite. See, experimental filmmakers have never had it easy, both in terms of audience and affirmation, but their existence makes any national cinema richer, their presence like dark shadows in a haunted house, intimidating but actually friendly. In Anak Araw Lumbera feels trapped in the strange art form but he makes the most of his time by amusing himself. It’s more entertaining than poetic, more charming than beautiful, and more external than internal, though all of these assumptions can easily be disproved. He shares fragments of history, sometimes turning them into splinters from the future, from watching the funeral of comedian Togo and hearing Nat King Cole sing the classic “Dahil Sa ‘Yo” to the sight of kids falling into the water and a band merrily playing in the forest, not to mention the hilarious visual of a boy crawling and making the sound of a goat, he distills the humor from them until the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts, Lumbera revealing himself and showing his ass dimples.
Alagwa (Ian Loreños, 2012) December 5, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Noypi.
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Written and directed by Ian Loreños
Cast: Jericho Rosales, Bugoy Cariño, Leo Martinez, Carmen Soo
The best parts of Alagwa are those that linger on the relationship between the father and his son, moments that stay with the viewer because they tiptoe around the drama and attack it at the most vulnerable time. They are compellingly executed but tempered enough not to stretch the movie’s early highlights. It also helps that Jericho Rosales and Bugoy Cariño are mainstream actors: they exhibit a kind of discipline that has a tendency to please: their performances are trimmed well and their ability to hold an emotion and sustain it for a certain period adds to the effect of the buildup towards the tragedy. Both are aware of their position at the center of the movie, sometimes changing places from left to right, so the fulcrum never weakens, or at least it gives the impression of steadiness. But director Ian Loreños knows that at some point he’ll enter a gray area where even the talent of his actors can’t pull him out. The predictability of the narrative does not hamper the film—the parallel cutting to several sequences in the future intensifies the conflict and changes its texture, despite being an unadventurous structural device—but its producers’ advocacy, which becomes controlling in the middle until the end, does. Listen, it’s a good cause: it presents the enormity of child trafficking and the numerous lives it ruins, the horror of seeing it happen and not being able to stop it. But an effective advocacy in film doesn’t show its hands; it sends strong air punches until the viewer writhes upon feeling them. The drama becomes stilted in the second half because it decides to put forward its intent with little regard for the sobriety of reason. Alagwa shares the madness of Secret Sunshine, the acclaimed 2007 movie by Lee Chang-dong, but whereas the latter latches on dragging the story of a grieving mother, Loreños’s film stays away from any form of inactivity, determined to keep the narrative afloat and moving all the time. Fortunately it’s all done in good taste, leaning more on eliciting compassion than logic, the Filipino spirit being the sentimental and hyperbolic kind. Proving this is the decision to end it at an almost improbable point, a crucial conclusion to a story whose emotional graph is dotted with red marks. But thank god Jericho Rosales can act: he nails that scene like gangbusters. Fucking waterworks.
Palitan (Ato Bautista, 2012) December 3, 2012Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Indie Sine, Noypi.
Written by Shugo Praico
Directed by Ato Bautista
Cast: Alex Vincent Medina, Mara Lopez, Mon Confiado
What’s very disgusting about Palitan is the cycle of abuse it creates, that after taking advantage of Mara Lopez’s body through a series of prolonged sex scenes that borders on the indecent and lascivious (in short, pointless and offensive) and making her believe (as an actor and a person) that she is carrying out the role for the sake of the film and not of the filmmakers (which is utter bullshit) it forces the viewers to partake in its obscenity and lets them feel as though the desecration committed to her were happening for a good reason, that the movie, in its insistence on overplaying the tension between the two men, uncovers the rottenness of its purpose systematically, and instead of paying homage to Scorpio Nights (a masterwork of heavy political insight) it actually embarrasses Peque Gallaga and his film to the core. Ideally, one shouldn’t waste time trying to discuss an obviously bad movie (oftentimes talking and writing about it could lead to more upsetting discoveries, like how the female character, even in her final shot, is treated like a piece of meat, void of sincere humanity) but Palitan is working under the pretense of artistic worth (how else can its acceptance into a festival be explained?) and that fact alone poses serious danger, since it has been made with the help of institutions that believe in its ideologies, and there exists a league of minds that will respond to it with a hard-on and a folly of tolerance, rationalizing the film by virtue of subjectivity, to the point of defending its prurience. As expected, Ato Bautista and Shugo Praico top everything off by concluding the narrative the way men who use their balls more often than their minds do: give the woman a gun to kill the perverts who violated her. And that act only confirms how her character is made of cardboard (or of something flimsier) and defiles her even more because it reduces her existence to an entity as insignificant as a grain of sand, and her creators (smiling as they write her in paper) are pleased with that: they subsist and thrive in smut, their egos (and cocks) always in need of stroking.