Men in Trees

Good boy Bad boy

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” - Henry David Thoreau

Desperate men are the most interesting species of men, at least in the theatrical sensibility. Usually dominated by a hard-boiled adrocentrist and suitcasey predisposition, normally tuned men are so difficult to capture in a colorful point of view, if they are captured at all, without the color reverting to a shade of gay futility. Apart from the sacrosanct movies of Fernando Poe and the like, men who have successfully summoned themselves in order to slay towering white handkerchiefs with womanish heads, the sheer absence of a good dude flick has the industry scrounging for fresh mojo. Astig is shrewd to fill the void, helmed by GB Sampedro and produced by the Queen of Men himself Boy Abunda, the debut of this TV oriented fraternity has the audience dashing for a second run.

The movie itself is cut into four slightly intertwining episodes, almost-Amores in its rendering but still accessibly linear thanks to Charliebebs Gohetia’s editing. The gruff and unsilken demonstration of filth and testosterone is predictable enough. These men are out to survive. The streets are rough and they have to be rougher, a survivalist mentality that permeates through the film’s entirety. But as the bricks start to crumble, the unfolding somewhat effortlessly belies the staunch but artificial rigor of the permanent Man along with his preciously defended manhood. Inevitably the latter becomes another pawnable item of the city’s vicious and voluptuous grinding.

It was refreshing to see a few mainstream actors in the process of actual thespianism. The dirty-tongued Dennis Trillo was robust and multi-faceted enough to stand as the definitive paragon of the stubborn boyness that unravels under the weight of his own dire consequences. Young men are most difficult to effectively characterize under normal circumstances without coming off as formulaic. Their desires are boxed and predictable, their reaction times calculatedly similar. The stereotypes of the weak and the strong are too two-dimensional to employ in any meaty portrayal. In this movie the addition and intimation of male emotion paradoxically adds strength to the characters. It’s always the tension of feeling that kills them in the end. A strong man is the suffering man, amusing to watch and terrific to behold in its fetish proportionality.

Aside from Trillo’s irrepressible brio and Sid Lucero’s obstinacy, the middle two episodes as presented by Edgar Allan Guzman and Arnold Reyes showed more of the despondent man, bedfellows of hard living and everything in between hard things. To relinquish one’s penetrative role as bleatingly portrayed by Guzman in the fluid-ridden movie house is a prime example of a sacrifice done on the strain of a family’s common hunger. Crying and nakedness are rampant, and the women aren’t so bad at it either. Add a few sprinklings of the occasional ill-placed but good-intentioned famous person’s cameo and you have a collective acting ordeal that could possibly surprise the mainstream observer but may casually bore the jaded indie activist. Certainly this movie is not Cinemalaya’s most cerebral, perhaps a mock symbolism of masculinity itself, but the primal grace is evident enough to enthuse. Ultimately, it is a reflection of how far humans can go and how scared we are of the predator from the bottom of the tree.

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Written by: Alex Milla (Guest Critic)

Reel Freedom

Trio Mio

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And so the night came when all the free peoples of our beautiful home-metropolis detached themselves from the substrate of their functional particularities in order to hark to another form of substantiated simulacrum which the philistines refer to as ‘indie culture’. There they were, the milk-lipped movie enthusiasts pseudo-mingling with the culturati of the blogosphere, all in their cat-eyed, long-haired, vitriolic glory. The air was rife with the colors of freedom, and so it should, as Raya Martin’s much anticipated and grant-bestowed Independencia puts the waiting crowd in a rare thirst, that which can only be quenched by a decent independent movie or as a matter of fact, a free movie, the latter being immune to any scruples of public decency and choosiness.

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But as it turns out the audience did make a choice. Perhaps palled by Hollywood’s asphyxiating tinsel truck or the flesh parade of the quotidian Filipino indie film, they are starting to realize that maybe it’s time the directors stop fucking up and start making real movies. Whether Martin is the bearer of good things to come has yet to be seen but at least the good tidings are at hand. His film scintillates in a stylistic sense. The studio scenes are both innocuously attractive and deliberately nostalgic, trying to evoke no doubt the irony of the Philippine-American war set in an extinct aesthetic of a made-up American movie reminiscent of Hollywood’s early, in-studio period. Succinctly, the whole movie feels like a perambulating diorama. The claustrophobic forest with its synthetic weather and painted backdrop introduces Martin to an international audience as well as to his own countrymen as a technically proficient twenty-something colt with a flare for sepia tones and Lutgardo Labad’s classical music. Certainly the soundtrack is eerily gorgeous and the scenes maintaining a static loveliness thanks to the unmoving camera (again part of the aesthetic irony) but the film in general lacked the sensual violence that could catapult Martin’s work into the realm of masterpiece.

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But the movie itself is not a failure; it is in fact direct evidence of Martin’s increasing maturity. He opted for a more conventional plot, quite peculiar since the movie was intended for Canne’s Un Certain Regard which tends to be more experimental. The scenes were less sprawling, less Antonionian, and certainly followed a clear and accessible trajectory. The subject matter also lacks the self-indulgence of a lot of Filipino indie films. The merits are still rather closeted but ineluctably undeniable. It has always been the opinion of this blog that the public has been yearning for stories to be told. Never mind art, never mind the idiotic prettiness that flowers in the breasts of dead rats and subtle angles. The days of the art films are over, should be over. If a director wants to find true art, he should look for it through the eyes of his tangible audience, not in the limpid pools of his own abstractions.

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And such palpable forces Martin’s characters find themselves in. Confronted by the encroaching realities of war, a mother and her son are forced by their own volition to live in the forest, left with their human devices in an inhuman wilderness. They are typical Filipinos, moved by a typical hunger and a typical lust. It was intriguing to watch Sid Lucero, a young and obedient naïf, masturbating on the riverside, not a staple scene for most period films. The acting was itself like that of a 19^th century play with de Rossi shining as the most natural despite the classical dialogue. Characterization in general is presented in two layers, the one seen by the outside world and the other intrinsic landscape conveyed through dreams and taciturn stares. Though the ending required a little prestidigitation, overall the characters are moved by the hackneyed and powerful hand of nature, to which they respond as the plot does, with a very Filipino sense of dignity and equanimity. Women are raped, seniors expire, children, like sylvestrian ghouls, come and go like the blinding dusk-edge, but the banana leaves must still be laid, the twig floor swept with the good ol’ broom. It is always a difficulty to live despite of your freedom. Before sidling towards the movie house I noticed Anita Linda entering the restroom, it was probably a sign telling me that though the movie I was going to watch free of charge, some things cost more than we expect.

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Written by: Alex Milla (Guest Critic)

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Notes:

Independencia is shown in the recently concluded 14th French Film Festival held in Shangri-La Plaza, Mandaluyong during the Philippine Independence Day (June 12).

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Independencia also competed in the Un Certain Regard section of the recently concluded The 62nd annual Cannes Film Festival held from May 13 to May 24, 2009.

No Mercy

Little Drummer Boy

Tambolista is a film directed by Adolfo Alix Jr. It is dark, immoral, and brutal. It’s as if the lids of hell where left open showering humanity with evil deeds and grave purposes.

The main character is Jason (Jiro Manio). He dreams of having his own drum set. He lives in a filthy town in Manila. Despite being deprived of wealth, he is eager to be a drummer and saves money to buy his own drum set. But a sudden turn of events cajoled him to lend the money to his brother Billy (Coco Martin). Billy needs money for his girlfriend’s abortion. Flash-forward - the other character is Paolo, (Sid Lucero) a friend of Billy. He is a homeless hustler, a petty criminal. He used to reside with an old matron. But things changed when the husband returned. He was forced to leave the house. He suddenly asks Billy to stay in their house for a few days. He had known of the siblings need for money. He right away schemes a plan... plan that they will forever regret in life.

Black and white films are one of the best styles for me. It is blaring with beauty and it transcends firm mystery. And the film is noirish. Unfortunately this gets the least of my favor from Alix’s entire filmography. I remember the works of the talented Brocka and Bernal which elegantly captured the morbid situation of humanity. In comparison, Tambolista looks like a fragment from previous works. Its usage in contemporary films will lead to sheer retrogression.

Manio and Martin are established independent actors. They don’t fail to surprise and amaze me. Although I am not impressed with Lucero’s acting skills. Obvious enough, his character is so wicked; portraying it literally evil is so one-dimensional. Paolo is a fellow victim of inhumanity; so a little charm might help to perk up the role’s intricate personality. The veteran actress Anita Linda as the dominant grandmother is simply stunning. She curses every other word. It’s so rare to hear a well-respected actress in a disgraceful act.

Tambolista in the English language means drummer. I too, once liked to be a drummer. Drums were like the musical instrument of egotism. The execution of this instrument is crucial as this involves genuine skills to play it with ease. Lack of familiarity might lead only to aggravation of noise. Again, Tambolista is the least I like from the works of this promising Filipino director. But the fine acting is enough reason why you shouldn’t dare miss to see.

Charlie Koon's Rating: