English Title: Drumbeat
Directed by Adolfo Alix Jr.
Cast: Sid Lucero, Jiro Manio, Coco Martin, Anita Linda

That the two films are often compared out of obvious similarities in theme and treatment proves to be mutually helpful. Tambolista and Tirador are worthy companions of each other; both have a remarkable pulse of the city’s fat-surrounded heart and filthy lungs, beating and breathing with all their remaining strength, capturing not only the stink of Manila we live with everyday but also the balance of compromise we often take for granted, a requiem that never ends. I know I went overboard in my review of Tirador, exaggerating descriptions and punctuating them excessively, but that was only because a film like that makes you want to drag anyone you meet into the theater, to see it, to experience it like you did, a frustration I had after leaving an empty cinema. While Mendoza’s film asphyxiates to the point of agreement, Tambolista lets its mild details drift until they find the right puzzle to connect. As a viewer it feels like being given a fabric to sew your own dress, complete with all the materials needed to mend, and whatever the outcome is reflects your understanding of the film.

Two brothers both need money; one for his dreams, the other for his sins. While the dream to buy a drum set can wait, abortion is an urgent case for the elder; he even considers selling his flesh to earn. What an irony to plan an abortion when your mother is in the hospital delivering your youngest sibling. And then a friend barges into their home to seek shelter, an escape after stealing cash and sleeping with his landlady, caught by her own husband who eventually kills his six-year old daughter. This friend is a mischief-maker; he leads the brothers into a crime they have never meant to commit, that of stealing their old neighbor’s cash that can save them from their financial troubles, and, out of diabolic reflex, killing her as well, which in turn provokes the old neighbor’s brother to commit suicide. Everyone thinks that he killed his sister because they always fight. But then the younger brother finds out. The friend tricks his accomplice, the elder brother, to meet him and his death; he knows he will tell the police. After knifing him several times inside a bathroom of an old moviehouse, he bumps into the younger brother who runs after him, cornering him, hitting him hard with his drumstick, screaming, weeping. That’s how the dress I have finished looks like.

The best thing about Alix is that he takes risks. By allowing Ave Regina Tayag’s tense narrative to build like dominoes about to fall down in a sudden tap, he follows Godard’s idea of requiring a story of a beginning, middle, and end but not necessarily in that order to echo the restlessness of his characters and the swallowing mouths of the city, so subtly delivered Tirador almost loses face in comparison. It coheres, but you will not see the edges despite the haphazardness on the surface, for there seems to be hidden hands at work, smudging the dirt until the blur belongs to the story itself, helping it out, reinforcing it. It is a triumph in every field – - Jiro Manio, Coco Martin, Sid Lucero, and all the supporting players, Anita Linda, Fonz Desa, Ricky Davao, Susan Africa, Simon Ibarra, and Mosang are powders of a firecracker reserved for a pyrotechnic display that once lit will explode marvelously in the dark sky; Albert Banzon, again, lends his eye for mystic visual magic to another great work; and Khavn dela Cruz seems to have his own show on the side, enriching the film with music of varying texture, the mix of ambient sound and impatient rhythm creates another character, apart from the multiple characters of its numerous narratives.

The convenience of the digital has made it possible to photograph the city with a style that corresponds to its intoxicating grimness; it has allowed filmmakers to shoot the dark alleys of Manila, the ubiquitous traffic, the old moviehouses that slowly fade in oblivion, the bookshops and convenience stores that disappear without our knowing, the moral poorness of the common Filipino and his predicament, the droplets of happiness that satisfy his little hopes. The digital is the salvation of our pipe dreams. In all its battering disorder and confusing hysteria, Tambolista is a daring experiment that succeeds.

English Title: Wave
Directed by Ron Bryant
Cast: Mark Gil, Eula Valdez, Charee Pineda

On what may have been the film that will nail his reputation, Ron Bryant scores a lopsided dissatisfaction, and on what may have secured his place in my reserved future viewings becomes a case of compromise, I am already having second thoughts. Alon still deserves to be looked at, and if one has managed to follow his works – - Ruptura as an amateur yet disturbing experiment, Baryoke as a beautiful piece of indulgence, and Rotonda as a messy tour-de-force – - it can easily be inferred that he is one of the better directors around, someone who promises a thorough understanding of cinematic language, but, as what Alon has meticulously proved, he can also be a stubborn artist whose ideals can fail in accordance with his subject.

Bryant is good with multiple actors – - Rotonda and Baryoke benefit from the layers of their narratives, evoking a coherent argument in various perspectives of their characters’ lives – - but rather ineffective in minimalist scenarios. It opens with the familiar shots of the sea, the crashing waves, then a voice suddenly breaks the monotony, a poem being recited, the longing of a loved one, painful words. A young woman follows her dog, which leads her to a man in his house, a taciturn fellow who looks mysterious to her. They talk and easily become friends because of her vexing eagerness. She returns and next thing you know he is teaching her how to cook, sitting with her in front of the beach, and fighting about the possibility of them being together. The film has a drastic turn, in the least impressive way, when the young woman discovers that he has a wife, a sick, dying wife at that, on her bed upstairs. The wife looks forward to her death, asks her husband to consider his relationship with the young woman, what could be more gratifying than your own wife pushing you to have another woman at your side once she’s gone? Nothing, because that’s not the case, our man is not a ladykiller, he is a principled man. There is no hint of inconvenience in their relationship, all three of them, and it seems that the dying woman wants her fair share of pain, she is ready to die. At this point I forgot to tell you that the young woman is just in vacation, so she has to leave, back to the city, and study as a nurse. When she comes back to the house near the sea, several years after, as the waves reassure her of their constant guidance, she can only make out the loss of an important fragment of her past and nothing else; she stood still.

The story sounds convincing but five minutes through the film I can already sense what’s massively wrong with it: Charee Pineda. She has mouthed what comes to mind as the most annoying “hi” in cinema you’ll ever hear; she has broken the strength of this film into a million pieces, whatever left is trite and uninteresting. Too bad not even Mark Gil and Eula Valdez can overcome her irritating presence; she annoys more than she delivers. Bryant employs his usual sweep of long takes and slow burn in less satisfying effect; I long for interest, there is nothing in it that has that, it is still the stuff we see in TV. The pain will always be present; it’s up to us to play with it and make it the most important thing in the world. In Baryoke, the linger becomes an integral part of its narrative, its waywardness is the story, its characters’ lives determined by both chance and decision, its tedium is its strength; in Alon, what surfaces is obstinacy, and that being consistent is not good enough; it loses grip despite the force it gives on its handling. In the blink of an eye, the beauty that has been keeping our attention in steady escapes.

Directed by Richard Somes
Written by Richard Somes and Dwight Gaston
Cast: Ronnie Lazaro, Joel Torre, Tetchie Agbayani, Aleera Montalla

In Philippine folklore, the aswang is generally used to describe different types of night creatures that feed on human innards and blood. From the popular manananggal and mangkukulam to the werewolves and shapeshifters that vary according to one’s regional background, the aswang is understandably a striking facet of local belief that manage to endure through the years. In our continuous ascent to the standards of Western living in exchange for cultural amnesia, it must be noted that the aswangs are doing us a favor of sustaining this heritage, the very few of what our grandparents have passed to us back when Gabi ng Lagim, salawikain, bugtong, korido, and sarswela are getting the attention they deserve the same way brick games, Atari, and Gameboy had during their time, only to be trampled upon by role-playing games and portable playstations. Interestingly this bloodthirsty figure has that strong and timeless halo over its head that it remains the most exploited character in Pinoy horror stories, from short pieces of fiction to TV serials, in every Halloween episode of magazine shows and documentaries, news reports of terror in provinces, and without cracking the obvious, where else could it be given such esteemed overuse than cinema, the annual Metro Manila Film Festival that breathes life to endless Shake Rattle and Roll flicks that scare less than their ability to frustrate.

What has long been missing in these efforts is depth; what should be less explored are the aswang’s grisly exploits, the number of dead increasing every day, children, pregnant mothers, their intestines scattered in the fields; what must be thought of is giving it a fresh yet unconventional dimension, a revision of an overused plot by reflecting on the harsh realities that the aswang and its family has to face, not only cardboard scenarios and poorly executed sequences as a result of shallow brainstorming and weak social observation. Given it has the benefit of that unpardoning contrast, still, Yanggaw succeeds in defining a myth by acknowledging its psychological nuances, that by commanding the most perfect ensemble of actors in a narrative of unstoppable force, it has put forth what I proudly believe as one of the finest revelations in the fickle landscape of contemporary Philippine cinema.

It is quick to introduce the conflict; the mystery is easily established in the first sequence. But from there it chooses to emphasize the buildup, from how an ordinary family in a remote town lives a difficult but happy life on their own to the moment when they discover that one of their members is afflicted with the disease, the poison that runs through her blood that makes her crave for human flesh. The transition from the peaceful household, mirthfully punctuated by the father offering every one a gift after winning a stake, a piercing farewell to their unfelt emotional misery, to the massive disturbia that follows after the monster has become full fledged, until it starts to escape by the room’s window, until it returns with its fangs still drenched in blood and hair in warlike disarray, until the corpses in the town start to pile up, until everyone becomes suspicious, until it begins to harbor the darkest guilt, until the monster has to be tied up, until it has to be let loose because of the father’s hinge on his principles, until the monster begs for its death, until the father decides against all laws of his abiding life to slaughter it, in a severe force that turns him into an animal of supreme bestiality, until every memory of it becomes a nightmare that only afterlife can erase.

The pacing in that critical transition transforms Yanggaw from a lowly, piteous flick into an admirable effort to resuscitate the hackneyed genre, where there is only one or two serious filmmakers who truly embody a sense of maturity, giving another meaning to both horror and suspense, and Richard Somes, whose prior experience in production design has lent a great deal of credibility in his first full-length, belongs to that very few. The acute similarity of horror stories to crime fiction, let’s say Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot series, is the emphasis given to murder. Whereas detectives are responsible to bring justice in accordance with the law, using several clues that come along their way, the principal character in horror, the murderer itself, creates the tension, provides the clues and wreaks havoc to the community. It is a play between the active and passive roles of their characters wherein a reversal of role is likely in the end. In thrillers, we uncover the crime bit by bit until we reach the truth; in horror, however, the crime is right there in front of us, clearly asking for our reaction, us waiting for another turn of event that will lead to its conclusion, it is what I believe is the price of seeing the murder, of keeping the truth in ourselves that we need to face the consequences with them. In this regard the horror genre seems to work its assailing blow, not to condescend to the limitless possibilities in suspense thrillers of course: the psychological. It starts from the nightmare and springs forth to various threads, personal relationships, social betrayal, moral uprightness, and more importantly, spiritual obedience. The good thing about Yanggaw is that while it is more of a tragedy of a Filipino family, specifically in a town where faith is as unquestionable as the need for food on their table, it doesn’t press too much on religion, so what happens becomes more tangible and relative.

History check, this will need your memories of previous aswang movies. There is no need to cite a specific one for, as you will find out, the idea is somewhat familiar. Before, the aswang is a stranger, someone in the town whom no one knows much about, and her existence (right now I wish to bring into light the fact that every aswang in every aswang film ever made is a she, would it make a difference to have a male manananggal?) provokes nothing extraordinary, she is just like everyone, except for her nocturnal quench for blood. She may even be a figure of purity, remember Aiko Melendez as a nun in Shake Rattle and Roll IV. This is clever, for this what increases her peril as a character, what diverts the attention to anyone but her, she as the unusual suspect. But the problem is the only thing that the story wants to deliver is the scare, the untying of the knot, the exposition and chase scenes done in the sloppiest way possible. It is a tiring excuse that stretches the vestiges of the genre, doing nothing good in particular. In Yanggaw, however, the aswang becomes familiar, she is among us, we see her transform, we see her chase children, we see her as she rocks the bed with chains on her arms and legs, we hear her cries and screams, we know her, she is familiar, Somes has made her so close to recognition we forget that she is a monster. The aswang has been given life, through her family, the decisions of the father, the misgivings of the mother and the sibling, the terror in the community, even the details of her murder. The illusion becomes truth. Yanggaw prefers depth to schlock, and the longer you watch the more you realize that it is not so much about the aswang herself but the family that adopts her new persona, their lingering struggle. Once our belief has been suspended, there is really no turning back.

I am tempted to call it a gravely satisfying work but the resolve of the narrative, particularly on how it relies on editing to heighten the drama, is a bit misplaced. A longer version is said to be prepared by Somes, and that may provide the timely orgasm in the film’s end. Ronnie Lazaro and Joel Torre don’t have to do anything more to prove that they are indeed the greatest actors of our time, that if we start mentioning names, every one, even Christopher de Leon, will pale in comparison, and Yanggaw makes you feel honored just by their presence. The volleyball game between the two camps has that flinch of unsettling strangeness; it makes the remote town far more remote. That it is in Hiligaynon (in an unspecified place somewhere in Panay Island, particularly where aswangs are predominant) does not seem to put any pressure on its mix of professional and new actors; Tetchie Agbayani is regal, utterly convincing, Erik Matti as the violent whip healer is surprisingly effective, Gio Respall and Monet Gaston add credibility to their family’s demise, and Aleera Montalla is appallingly menacing, she is the vamp of our nightmares. Claravall and Sacris fashion a distinct eye for visual character, their light and darkness are moving as if they are part of the story themselves.

As the MMFF is about to commence a few weeks from now, it is agonizing how this brave trailblazer will be neglected by the most. As for my part, I tell you, Yanggaw is peerless, it shows not the limitations but the possibilities of the genre it has raised to hell, it is a fuck you to every Shake Rattle and Roll movie made and will ever be made (incidentally Somes had a segment for the franchise three years ago), and it has a terribly magnetic vision almost close to Masaki Kobayashi’s Kwaidan, the godfather of horror films. If the pen is still mightier than the sword, then dear reader, after the aswangs have made me proud, I rest my case.

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