Dark Fruits

Who are you?

It is fairly meritorious what Alvin Yapan has done, he took the elements of common Filipino fear and infused it into his current Cinemalaya offering, Ang Panggagahasa kay Fe, under the banner of pontifical local feminism no less. As with small-town frights, the bucolic atmosphere is first scratched by a gossip, seemingly innocuous whispers, a small bird disemboweled on the clean grass. Then it begins, under the picnic cloth of hardworking rural artisans and artificial marital civility lie a darkness that if viewed closely, is scarcely different from the desire that created it.

And how cleverly the disconcerting insinuations have been woven, which along with a few stylistic flourishes, effectively comprise the better half of the film. It almost has that Blair-Witchian factor, I never took a second thought on how disturbing a patchily woven basket of mangosteens could be. Along with some sibilant window calls stitched on a quiveringly restrained but brilliant musical score, the production has achieved a contextually nuanced film that burrows itself into a reluctantly curious consciousness. Yapan is truly a director of his time, technically proficient and with a flair for emotional urgency. Yet the film is not entirely preachy, not exactly what I would expect from something endorsed by the Women’s Crisis Center. Still it is a cautionary tale, shattering the stereotype that all abused women are bleating weaklings. Irma Adlawan’s Fe is no wilted lamb, but her helplessness provides another crude specter of societal inequity, just the type of message the foundations are gunning for. Hence it is unclear if the movie’s core lies in eliciting fear or social outrage. If you wish to scare, suck blood, if you want a rally, paint with it. One must not push to do both. The ambivalence could certainly be off-putting to the pedestrian gatherer, but what do you expect from an indie film?
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Another aspect of Panggagahasa that fulfilled expectations was the title character. Rapture, rape, and the ravenous were all portrayed with an unyielding constancy that only Adlawan could deliver, the male characters only served as rocks on the opposite sides of the fulcrum. Ever since Pusang Gala, Adlawan has already exhibited a noteworthy thespian range that could approximate the breath of the modern Filipina’s psyche. In this movie that frail and elusive landscape is accentuated more with excruciating quietude than screams of pain, truly a Filipina proclivity. Black-eyes veiled under stupid excuses, ignorance mistaken for womanly trust, so silent the usages of that unfunny wound. The pleasure is portrayed similarly, but the fact that it was portrayed at all is reason enough for celebration. True to his artistic predilections, Yapan is tastefully fearless in his endeavors. The rape scene was graciously no Irreversible and the longer take of Fe burying the black fruits of her trepidation yielded so much more of the intrinsic state-of-affairs of an abused individual.

Mainstream horror films could certainly learn from this movie. Presently there is a cavity that is clawing to be filled. The franchise should start realizing that in fear, less is more. Directors from Thailand understand this, so why is the catching up so belated. This is what Yapan employed which made his work quite effective that is until the ending, definitely risky and perhaps potentially disastrous almost to the point of negating the effect that the entire movie has accumulated. But the risk is a product of his generation. Weaned with magical realism his was an expected seduction, ultimately to show the object of dread only for it to share an almost avuncular caveat to the furniture-making enemy lover. It could have been worst. I thought Fe was going to get banged on the newly carved Sala piece. In the end, post-modern directors cannot help but to be ironic, whether they decry postmodernism or not. It’s charming though. Why choose your carabao-oriented husband Dante (Nonie Buencamino), or Arturo (TJ Trinidad) for that matter when you can have a real man, one who’s not really a man, who lives in a tree of undying love. Who says there’s no romance in fear?
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Written by: Alex Milla (Guest Critic)
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* Ang Panggagahasa kay Fe (The Rapture of Fe) will be shown in Robinsons Indiesine from November 11-17, 2009 (Official Website)

Dark Fruits

But... I prefer watermelons

It is fairly meritorious what Alvin Yapan has done, he took the elements of common Filipino fear and infused it into his current Cinemalaya offering, Ang Panggagahasa kay Fe, under the banner of pontifical local feminism no less. As with small-town frights, the bucolic atmosphere is first scratched by a gossip, seemingly innocuous whispers, a small bird disemboweled on the clean grass. Then it begins, under the picnic cloth of hardworking rural artisans and artificial marital civility lie a darkness that if viewed closely, is scarcely different from the desire that created it.

And how cleverly the disconcerting insinuations have been woven, which along with a few stylistic flourishes, effectively comprise the better half of the film. It almost has that Blair-Witchian factor, I never took a second thought on how disturbing a patchily woven basket of mangosteens could be. Along with some sibilant window calls stitched on a quiveringly restrained but brilliant musical score, the production has achieved a contextually nuanced film that burrows itself into a reluctantly curious consciousness. Yapan is truly a director of his time, technically proficient and with a flair for emotional urgency. Yet the film is not entirely preachy, not exactly what I would expect from something endorsed by the Women’s Crisis Center. Still it is a cautionary tale, shattering the stereotype that all abused women are bleating weaklings. Irma Adlawan’s Fe is no wilted lamb, but her helplessness provides another crude specter of societal inequity, just the type of message the foundations are gunning for. Hence it is unclear if the movie’s core lies in eliciting fear or social outrage. If you wish to scare, suck blood, if you want a rally, paint with it. One must not push to do both. The ambivalence could certainly be off-putting to the pedestrian gatherer, but what do you expect from an indie film?

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Another aspect of Panggagahasa that fulfilled expectations was the title character. Rapture, rape, and the ravenous were all portrayed with an unyielding constancy that only Adlawan could deliver, the male characters only served as rocks on the opposite sides of the fulcrum. Ever since Pusang Gala Adlawan has already exhibited a noteworthy thespian range that could approximate the breath of the modern Filipina’s psyche. In this movie that frail and elusive landscape is accentuated more with excruciating quietude than screams of pain, truly a Filipina proclivity. Black-eyes veiled under stupid excuses, ignorance mistaken for womanly trust, so silent the usages of that unfunny wound. The pleasure is portrayed similarly, but the fact that it was portrayed at all is reason enough for celebration. True to his artistic predilections, Yapan is tastefully fearless in his endeavors. The rape scene was graciously no Irreversible and the longer take of Fe burying the black fruits of her trepidation yielded so much more of the intrinsic state-of-affairs of an abused individual.

Mainstream horror films could certainly learn from this movie. Presently there is a cavity that is clawing to be filled. The franchise should start realizing that in fear, less is more. Directors from Thailand understand this, so why is the catching up so belated. This is what Yapan employed which made his work quite effective that is until the ending, definitely risky and perhaps potentially disastrous almost to the point of negating the effect that the entire movie has accumulated. But the risk is a product of his generation. Weaned with magical realism his was an expected seduction, ultimately to show the object of dread only for it to share an almost avuncular caveat to the furniture-making enemy lover. It could have been worst. I thought Fe was going to get banged on the newly carved Sala piece. In the end, post-modern directors cannot help but to be ironic, whether they decry postmodernism or not. It’s charming though. Why choose your carabao-oriented husband Dante (Nonie Buencamino), or Arturo (TJ Trinidad) for that matter when you can have a real man, one who’s not really a man, who lives in a tree of undying love. Who says there’s no romance in fear?

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Written by: Alex Milla (Guest Critic)

A Stronger Foundation

Let's talk more often

Laya is not the carefree type of woman. She is a deconstruction of the female psyche. She thinks like a man and her principles are similar to men. This is how she is and has become. She confesses that her father sleeps with her when she was a child. Mangatyanan is the second film of the Camera Trilogy directed by Jerrold Tarog. The first film Confessional, I did not like. In fact, I was really insulted. It is not about the technique that I did not like. I just always consider stories to be crucial element in films. Mangatyanan made something exquisite. The mixture of our dying culture and the human condition are combined to exteriorize the frailties of our existence.

Why did I admire Mangatyanan and not Confessional? Confessional is pretentious. It was trendy during the time wherein most film enthusiasts are so frustrated with how our films have become. In effect, they have a high regard for brave filmmakers. But that was just a fad. Now, I think the majority of film aficionados could easily mock the brave. When filmmakers go back to the essence of film which is to tell meaningful stories, regardless of whether it is brave or candid, it will be praised for its ingenuity. Mangatyanan is an example. It definitely has a good story. It is about us. They talk about the people who are not merely fixated into life’s trivialities just for the heck of individualism. Now, we have a character that has the right to be who she is. The protagonist of the film, Laya Marquez played by Che Ramos has the bravura in extending certain aspects of humanity that is too soaring to be synthesized. It is hard to understand the courage of the principles she has acquired, but that is the blood of the film. This is the life that should flow into our own existence.

The mere fact that Jerrold Tarog’s name has registered into my memory, that a certain filmmaker has a recall could be very important. Tarog has definitely improved and has fused his technical expertise with a good story (Ramon Ukit). A trilogy in general has a common theme. They are not expected to be a continuation of the first or the second. Famous filmmakers have done this way of focused storytelling. Ingmar Bergman has made a trilogy that centers on a spiritual theme (Through a Glass Darkly — conquered certainty, Winter Light — penetrated certainty, The Silence — God's silence — the negative imprint). It is also same with a more contemporary approach by Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Death Trilogy (Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel). Tarog made use of the camera in order to base the commonality of the previous story with the recent one.

Laya is also suffering from an injury that now haunts her. His father Danilo played by Pen Medina is dying and her mother played by Irma Adlawan tries to patch things up. Laya resists without giving her reasons. She shuts herself from her ‘obligations’ and goes up quickly to Isabela for her job assignment. Little is told about her even with the insistence of her boss played by Neil Ryan Sese to open up. It is only in her conscience that we are introduced to Laya, a woman that tries to be normal for society’s sake but will never forgive a father who taught her what she is today. But the consistency of her courage will also have its toll. The tribe is headed by Mang Renato (Publio Briones III) who is very strict and devoted to the ritual. Through the ritual, Laya gets more bravery to face a daunting task to resist her own predilection.

Mangatyanan could still have the vibrant social commentaries relayed in Confessional. But in this one, it is more subdued in the context of political beliefs. Well, it is already in our blood to relate every aspect of our lives to the political arena. Mangatyanan on my perspective has deeply penetrated the harshness of our own beliefs. We have no right to human condemnation but we are reaffirmed by the task in hand which is to forgive. I have to say that most of the films in the Cinemalaya competition are really good. But Mangatyanan excels from the rest of the films in competition.
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Charlie Koon's Rating:

Wet Dreams May Come

Sweety Tweety

Come being the veiled operative, the arrival of mainstream movie veteran Joel Lamangan into the indie arena with his seminal (pun unintended) work Walang Kawala has left many a moviegoer tightened to the coil and ready to be cloyed by the subsequent votive designs of a master of populist directing. His pseudo-sophomore work Heavenly Touch (Fuschia not included) has all the makings of a crowd pleaser, with the crowd being mostly homosexual men, and the pleasure being solidified and assembled on a conveyer belt of contemporary gay-themed flicks whose production rate can be likened to China-bred teddy bears. If the demand is indeed related to the implacable concupiscence of a predominantly male audience, then the supply has little reason of abating.

The movie centers on the lives of robust young men working as masseurs in the seedy but ostensibly clean “Heavenly Touch” spa run by the perpetually fan-wielding and diminutive Mama Orange (Jim Pebanco) and his tyrannical not-so-campy masculine counterpart Sir Tong (Jeffrey Santos). Their able-bodied employees are displayed like vacuous dolls behind a glass pane, and like the industry that prides itself on the dispensability of its human resource, Sir Tong does not hesitate to discipline his nubile wards with casual fatality. Though a more sensitive dimension is conveyed through a romantic dynamic between the two, the portrayal of Sir Tong and Mama Orange in the movie is a fascinating reflection of the sexual politics that predominates among gay Filipinos. To summarize, effeminates are seen as weaklings, with predictable desires and informidable but amusing personalities, while bisexual mustache-clad men are imposing, albeit malicious, assholes, but ultimately more desirable. Of course the crucifix of seduction is planted on the masseurs themselves, hard-up and fresh-cheeked detachables that cater to a more primal logic conveniently stored in every ticket-payer this side of the pink district. This is the very essence of Lamangan’s cinematic language, he practically wrote it, the sweet and universal poetry of the shirtless male constitution. Though true poetry is of a more rarefied ilk, Lamangan makes no apologies in giving the public exactly what they asked for, and that is something you can bring straight to the bank. He employed them all, along with some of his favorites, the scandal king Paolo Serrano, the frontal nudity king Marco Morales, the monotonic and awkward king of the moment, Mr. Lakan male pageant winner Joash Balejado. Throw in a pair of clichéd queens predictably acted by Paolo Rivero and that other gay guy giving away expensive merchandise and you have a full house. And that is exactly what Lamangan intends to achieve. It may be an iffy gamble but his delving into a more concentrated target market may reveal more than his artistic experimental proclivities. The fact that he is able to make such movies, release them with no perceived trammeling from the ratings board, and have them run for more than a week is sheer evidence of his considerable hold on the industry. The power is there, and perhaps the patronage, but does Lamangan have what it takes to elevate his work to a higher tier, more than Mano Po 3000 uberload or Manay Po 10? Does he care? The fact that he endeavored to tread on this side of the river implies that he does. And he knows well enough how tricky the river bends.

Inevitably Lamangan’s Heavenly Touch will be compared to others of its flock, to the Chionglo and perhaps even the Brocka films that virtually created the genre. The subject matter itself is almost identical to Brillante Mendoza’s Masahista though that is where the similarity ends. The two films represent two different schools of thought, Lamangan’s plot-driven traditional film-making (though not without its surprises carefully calibrated to shock the jaded moviegoer) and Mendoza’s stylistic exhibitionism rank with fancy angles and sprawling particularities. The latter being buffeted with shiny trophies and pretty plaques, mostly international, while the former being more accessible to the masses, the divergence hints a wobbling diversity within contemporary Philippine cinema. Hopefully it will not be inimical to the industry as a whole. While some things are changing, Lamangan’s socio-political expressionism that teeters on the edge of redundant melodrama underscores his reliance on recurrent themes and cookie-cutter archetypes that are not always redeemed by his talent for characterization. He mixes it up a bit and breaks some of the rules, but in the end his intrinsic almost perfunctory desire to placate the audience is indomitable. He even made two hot guys fall in love, placing them on a bus bound for a golden world of reciprocal passion and resolved conflicts, a certified wet dream both timeless and meretricious. It is a mollified version of his previous indie adventure, cherry-topped with a happy ending that eluded a disappointed swarm of romantics. Even the weak female archetype in the person of Irma Adlawan, the powerless mother-spectator, was content in the end, despite watching her only son evanesce indefinitely with a man-whore. It’s ingratiating to be sure, but if I were asked who among the current Filipino directors society should cryogenically freeze for the sake of our culture’s posterity, I would personally elect Joel Lamangan as one of my top choices. Embedded in his DNA are the desires and weaknesses of an entire nation, an organic admonition to the future Philippine stock. If that’s not worth preserving, I don’t know what is.

Written by: Alex Milla (Guest Critic)

Just a Coincidence?

Race to the finish line

Padyak is not a very bad film nor is it very a good film either. What you will expect from Padyak is a different film narrative. The film is derived from a Palanca Award winning literary piece; therefore it explicates the peculiarity of the story structure. The good side of encrusting the film with epigrammatic interconnected stories makes the entire film experience stimulating. But there is also a fallback. The variety of stories offered by the film is too lengthy. It demulsifies the idea they had in mind and in effect, the crust of the story becomes loose. This creates a stigma to the audience that once they are beginning to be cranky, they detach their selves to the possible ‘feel’ for the film.

Noel (Jay Aquitania) is a pedicab driver that wishes to study with the help of his earnings and the love and support of his mother Pacita (Irma Adlawan). One day, he helped a customer named Helga (Katherine Luna) with her groceries up to her condominium unit. They have a chat about anything under the sun. Soon enough, Noel gets information that Helga fell from the building. Noel seems to have been struck with the awareness that life could end and contemplates the meaning of his own existence.

The film has other meatier stories within it and there is a hint that it is related to Noel’s life: A bloody ménage-a-trios affair of a drug addict (Rita Avila) and her younger lover (Arnold Reyes) who is in love with the maid (Mercedes Cabral), a somewhat silly children’s cooking segment where Angel Jacob (reprising her role as a cook?) has a semi-dysfunctional family, and a schizophrenic geeky wanker played by Baron Geisler.

Padyak lingers towards the genre existentialist film, with a probable background of social realist pragmatism. There are insights on Noel’s life who he thinks his way of life could not be substantiated to have meaning but rather opts to reflect on the shortcomings it has given to him. To justify his importance, the writer concocts unfamiliar people that might coincide to the aim of this parable.

I have no qualms with how Aquitania has freshened up the character. He gives rawness and excitement to this ordinary guy. I am also amazed with the risks made by Avila. She deserves to be applauded for her uncanny portrayal of a sadistic junkie. Although Geisler gives out an invigorating yet campy portrayal of a person suffering from dual personality, the attitude is there but the direction could have been more polished.

As the story progresses, I sensed something could have been wrong with the film. There is a need to reassess the story treatment. The pacing is just slow and downright sprawling. The way the scenes unfold might have been composed for non-linearity’s sake but as an audience, there could be more ways to make it cohesive (not on a technical way of writing) but to make a right kind of flavor to the interrelated scenarios. There are films that has done multi-layer stories and it must decide from the very beginning what they really wanted to point further.

At the end of the film, we are reminded that our existence makes this world a better place. We are unaware of this as we human beings are living our own lives. Seeing the world turn makes it meaningful and if ever there are doubts, we begin to see the gray side of coincidence. But this ordinary guy seems innocent to skeptics and philosophers. Doing what is right is natural to human behavior. Although there are numerous mishaps within the film, Padyak has the persona of a human full of flaws. It might interest viewers if it could have been made with a more careful rendition.

Charlie Koon's Rating: