SARI-SARING SINENG PINOY

     What De Leon does as Mother Molly is revolutionary and astounding. She is a master of disguise and offers multiple layers that make it difficult to distinguish her real character. Mother Molly can be cruel with matter-of-fact comments and snark mockeries with words that are never wrong and denunciations that are transparently right. She is calculating and accurate in her plans. De Leon embodies Mother Molly’s determination and disappointment with mastery. The film’s supporting cast offers solid performances, including Jake Ejercito's Charles. A Very Good Girl blends the tropes seen in previous revenge films that tackle past traumas in an authentic way. Vargas' direction is far above the level anyone could expect. He clearly knows that there is power in not showing something on the screen and one of the most poignant moments is Philo reacting to a piece of news. While it encaptures the anger and frustration, the film is enriched with light-hearted moments making it one of the most original entries of the year. A Very Good Girl cleverly subverts our expectations - lulling the viewer into a false sense of security before expertly pulling the rug out from beneath us. But then Vargas hits us with that absolute gut punch. While primarily a revenge thriller, there’s no catharsis here – this is a study of how grief can consume and define you. Philo's emotions cloud her judgement and revenge overwhelmed her, she’s the perfect imperfect female lead and isn’t it about time women had their own antihero figure? Beyond all the distractions leading up to its heart-stopping showdown, A Very Good Girl sizzles with ambition and poses as a searing commentary on how and why gender politics are changing over time. And, of course, it shows how cinema has continued to be a powerful outlet to expose those damaging traditions, even when turning-the-tables still comes at a high cost. 

Directed By: Petersen Vargas

Screenplay: Marionne Dominique Mancol, Jumbo A. Albano, Daniel S. Saniana

Director of Photography: Noel Teehankee, LPS

Production Designer: Cheska Salangsang

Editor: Benjamin Tolentino

Musical Director: Andrew Florentino

Sound Engineer Boom Suvagondha

     Kung Kasalanan Man (Viva Films, 1989) is a movie where morality is grey and whether a character is likable is beside the point. But almost immediately, the film makes it clear whom we’re supposed to be a little more sympathetic. Should our loyalties be with Irma (Dina Bonnevie) or should they be with Jo, the impostor (also played by Bonnevie)? Soap operas tend to feel a bit off the rails — like they’re continuously improvising crazy developments in the plot to maintain our interest regardless of quality. Kung Kasalanan Man, in contrast, has twists that feel satisfactorily purposeful when they materialize, it’s like they’re falling into place. There is something good about Jo (Timmy Cruz) that is ultimately not so good. She can’t seem to be satisfied. She wants, she lacks. There’s an underlying resentment of what her best friend possesses. But in not recognizing, acknowledging what she has, Jo throws away all that’s worth having. A little bit into the movie, Jo is mistaken by Aling Miding (Vangie Labalan), one of Irma’s housemaids — an innocuous blunder that becomes an inciting incident. It plants a wicked idea in Jo’s head. Through reconstructive plastic surgery she became Irma and thus rid herself of all her woes. This scheme is so overwrought that, from a distance, it sounds like a dark joke — a satirization of how far a soap opera might go to get its audience agog. The plot sticks close to her and doesn’t stray to extraneous characters. We see her machinations of deceit up close and personal, but Bonnevie plays Jo’s desperation with enough pain to take her seriously: her emotional yearning for a life better than her own, though not resulting in excusable action, resonates. We’re not alienated because we can fundamentally understand her mode of thinking; for the less empathetic viewer, Kung Kasalanan Man at least establishes enough interest so that we can’t help but want to compulsively watch to find out how long Jo can keep up the charade. 

     After deciding that the one thing in her life she cares about — her boyfriend, Dan (Tonton Gutierrez) — still isn’t enough to reconsider the potential pitfalls of this outré scheme, Jo succeeds. She isn’t able to exult in the material joys of being Irma for very long. In the guise of her best friend she discovers just how much Dan loved her and this confirmation of a passion she’d taken for granted eats at her. Then we discover that she was jilted and beaten to a pulp by her lover, the sleazy Alvaro (Julio Diaz). Many melodramas find their principal characters saddled with hardship despite not necessarily doing anything wrong, which only makes them more sympathetic. Jo, by comparison, is like a spider who has gotten trapped in her own web. She would have been fine had she not spun anything in the first place. Bonnevie is sensational in both roles; when the camera rests on her face in close-up during a particularly emotive moment, there’s a floridness to her performance, but that’s part of what makes the movie so magnetic — Bonnevie knows how to complement the excesses of the plot. She’s adept at achieving emotional believability that also looks beautiful when played for the camera. As Irma she is bland, wistful, introverted—the sort of character she usually plays when put upon. As Jo, she swaggers, talks boldly and generally behaves toward herself—or she toward others. The direct juxtaposition of Bonnevie's two familiar types of roles, with herself—expertly photographed, incidentally—playing both of them, inclines to disconcert. The trick is too patent to be illusory, the situation too theatrically contrived. Gutierrez is agreeable as the object of both women's love and selfishness, though he is never any more than just an object, while Diaz registers masculine adulation. Eddie Garcia directing stylishly, shrewdly uses mirrors to remind Jo of all the deceit she has wrought. They’re like tangible manifestations of her inner consciousness and what she has done after a successful duplicity has put an arrogance in her step. There’s an otherworldly eeriness to the film’s menace, with its flouted ideas of an evil other around to seize one’s life, this feels ingeniously addressed by Jaime Fabregas' musical score. Garcia is bold enough to enlist the viewer on Jo’s side. Not, perhaps, in overt complicity, but rather in a deep-rooted emotional identification with her longing for a better life. Kung Kasalanan Man takes a darker and more jaded view of morality. Melodrama is a critical instrument of a society that has created it to show its desires, limitations and longings. 

Production Design: Manny B. Morfe

Cinematography: Joe Batac, Jr., F.S.C.

Sound Supervision: Rolly Ruta

Film Editor: Ike Jarlego, Jr.

Musical Director: Jaime Fabregas

Screenplay: Amado Lacuesta, Jr., Raquel Villavicencio

Directed By: Eddie Garcia

     Elwood Perez finds the right tone in Diborsyada (Regal Films, Inc., 1979). And it’s not always very easy to find because he wants to make his film both true and funny, not sacrificing laughs for the truth. Diborsyada resembles Divorce Pilipino Style (1976) not only in its insight and precise observation of behavior, but also with the emotional satisfaction it provides — Perez isn’t afraid to pull out all the romantic stops at the right moment. He wants to record the exact textures and ways of speech, the emotional complexities of his characters and point out the empty and hiding places in their lives. But Perez is not a slice-of-life artist. He starts from real and sooner or later arrives at a release and the movie depends on how well he controls the release. In Dibrosyada, he has prepared his ground so carefully that we not only care but even believe when (Gina) Gina Alajar falls in love with sexy businessman, Jim (Jimi Melendez). He was the perfect casting here and the Alajar character has been so wonderfully realized that we’d even buy it if she met and fell in love with Melendez as himself. There are scenes in Diborsyada so well written and acted that our laughter is unsettling, the laughter of exact recognition. The first scene of Gina with girlfriends Wendy (Deborah Sun) and Shirley (Bibeth Orteza) is presented with precise accuracy, all the words and attitudes ring true. The interplay between Gina, her mother, Seferina (Perla Bautista) and mother-in-law Jane (Marissa Delgado) is also wonderfully well understood. Great thought, care and love must have gone into the writing of Diborsyada, but great courage went into the acting too. Alajar takes chances here and never seems concerned about protecting herself and reveals as much in a character as anyone has. The luminosity in her performance was all the more joyful. It’s a lesson for critics on the dangers of assessing performance in a movie, a medium in which the actors may be more at the mercy of the other craftsmen than we can easily see. Perez decided to go with his intuition and he was spectacularly right. We have to understand how completely Gina was a married woman, it's a journey that Perez makes into one of the funniest, truest, sometimes most heartbreaking movies I've ever seen. 

     The going is sometimes pretty rough, especially when Gina's trying to make sense out of things after Mike (Michael de Mesa) leaves her. What does the movie really say, about women in our society? It's not a message picture — it’s supposed to make us feel what the woman in this situation (and therefore many women in the same situation) might go through when a marriage ends. Diborsyada is wise to spend enough time at the top establishing the marriage as an apparently happy one, the sex between Gina and Mike, as her husband is as easy and familiar as it is occasionally erotic. The scenes with Melendez are perhaps the trickiest in the film. There’s the temptation to accuse Perez of an improbably happy ending. Having given herself to one man, unwisely as it turned out, Gina will now keep permanent possession of herself. She has to take two chances: the chance of falling in love and the chance that Jim won’t settle for less than all of her.  He is a man who is perfectly right and perfectly wrong for her. Gina takes chances, keeping her independence while shouldering the burden of his dependence on her (and the shots are the visualization of her choice). Alajar's out on an emotional limb, letting us see and experience things that many actresses simply couldn't reveal. Perez takes chances, too. He wants Diborsyada to be true. We have to believe at every moment that life itself is being considered here, but the movie has to be funny, too. He won't settle for less than the truth and the humor and wonder of Diborsyada is that he gets it. Perez's achievement is distinctively choreographic, For all the trenchant conversation, he sets the characters into mad motion, alone and together — jogging, dancing, fighting, strolling and embracing. When the unmoored Gina finds a new lover — her struggle for independence, after a life of comfortable subordination, resumes and it’s as much a matter of her physical space as her emotional one. And Perez does it in a movie so firmly in control of its language, body movement, personal interplays and its most fleeting facial expressions that we’re touched by real human sensibilities. In Diborsyada, Elwood Perez and Gina Alajar discover beautiful and worthy things about women.

Sound Supervision: Rolly Ruta, Vic Macamay

Production Design: Ulay Tantoco

Director of Cinematography: Johnny Araojo

Screenplay: Toto Belano

Music: Lutgardo Labad

Film Editor: Rogelio Salvador

Direction: Elwood Perez

     Lawrence Fajardo is a subtle filmmaker reveling in the depiction of everyday life acted out amongst traditional activities meant to reflect the changing cultural landscape that often place its inhabitants at uncomfortable odds. Prinsesa (Cinema One Originals, Self-Service Productions, Solito Arts,  Pixel Art Media Production Co., 2007) starts out with the Philippines in political and economic turmoil, a difficult time of recovery and transition. The simple but effective approach and stylistic rigor with which Fajardo controlled his framings are very much evident here. Early in his career, he sought to find and develop a way of seeing and showing the world that felt right to him as it happened, the use of long shots, taken with a mostly stationary camera from an unusual angle in relation to the characters in frame; simple cuts rather than fades, wipes or dissolves, montage sequences of landscapes not only to begin films but also to provide punctuation and linkages between narrative scenes, a preference for ultra-naturalistic, everyday dialogue, often of the most seemingly trivial kind and a related preference for low­-key, almost de-dramatized stories evocative of the ordinary lives who make up the major part both of the population and presumably, of Fajardo’s audience. The relationship between a parent and a child is wired for heartbreak. In fact it translates human emotion and experience in ways few movies have. Go beyond the apparent simplicity and you will discover immense sophistication at play in their construction and meaning. Take, for example, the subtle treatment of the interrelated themes of loneliness, nostalgia and familial responsibility. But Prinsesa isn’t a child-in-peril melodrama or a punitive fable of parental irresponsibility. Its structure emerges through a pattern of perceptions and moods. Sometimes Princess (Katrina "Hopia" Legaspi) and her father, Mar (Romnick Sarmenta) fail to connect. Sometimes they’re silly and sometimes they relax into an easy, almost wordless intimacy. Capturing the thick, complex reality of their bond — registering its quick, microscopic fluctuations and tracking its slow tectonic shifts — is Fajardo’s great achievement. And Sarmenta and Legaspi’s as well. They are so natural, so light and grave and particular, that they don’t seem to be acting at all. It’s hard to find a critical language to account for Prinsesa’s delicacy and intimacy. This is partly because Fajardo is reinventing the language of film, unlocking the medium’s often dormant potential to disclose inner worlds of consciousness and feeling. 

     Though the film’s real focus is on what will happen between Princess and her father and even that aspect is quite complex enough in itself, given that both have a habit of concealing their real feelings, the relationship is endlessly reflected in and refracted through the experiences of the other characters in the film: not just his sister Marie (Shamaine Buencamino), but friends Enrico (Archi Adamos) and Cisco (Andre Solano). These characters’experiences and words of advice serve a number of functions: they flesh out and enrich the story, they provide the hesitant Mar with an array of options to consider; they show that his problems are common and far from extraordinary and they ensure that we don’t identify or sympathize too simplistically with either Mar or his daughter. Fajardo makes us feel deeply about his characters and does so by being honest rather than by manipulating the viewer. If we are enormously moved at the end of his film, it is not because anyone pushed the right buttons but because we have seen something that strikes us as truthful. There are, I’d suggest, various reasons for this impression of veracity. First, is the subtle way in which Fajardo contextualizes his story and characters within the wider world. Second, there is his abiding penchant for restraint and understatement, most evident in the performances. What Sarmenta does in this role goes beyond good acting. It's a risky move. He bares his soul as Mar, displaying a vulnerability that is certainly not easy to unearth from one's self. The way he acts is often loving and caring. He holds back his feelings to try and make a good life for his daughter, but ultimately it's the fact that this life is causing him such pain. Sarmenta is channeling something from within, beyond just acting. He and Legaspi both leave parts of themselves embedded into the film itself. Buencamino has always impressed, offering an assessment that is extremely true. Though the narrative content might be suggestive of a weepie, for the most part, Prinsesa is anything but. What’s resonant is that we are made to realize that words are both self-indulgent and true at one and the same time. There’s no sentimentality, only profound compassion.

Director: Lawrence Fajardo

Director of Photography: Jun Aves, Lawrence Fajardo

Screenplay: Jade Snow Calderon, Lawrence Fajardo, Dado Lumibao, Jim Flores

Production Designer: Lexter Tarriela

Editors: Lawrence Fajardo, John Wong, Conrado M. Zaguirre Jr.

Sound Design: Jobin Ballesteros

Musical Score: Jimmy Bondoc, DJ Myk Salomon, Jobin Ballesteros

     Lino Brocka's Pasan Ko ang Daigdig (Viva Films, 1987) is a remake of an already-terrific film, the 1956 Sampaguita picture Gilda with Lolita Rodriguez and Eddie Arenas, is one of the finest melodramas of its day so it's no little thing that Pasan Ko ang Daigdig improves upon the original in almost every way, the sophistication of its writing and the metanarrative complexity of its drama. In a role that tests every single skill Sharon Cuneta ever displayed as a performer, her apologetic nervousness, her ability to swiftly inhabit wounded melancholy with a speed that suggests it was always secretly hiding there (aided by how haunted and solemn her face is), her gift for frustrated reaction shots timed perfectly for pathos and of course, her one-of-a-kind stage presence. Her first number (the film has no book numbers, which makes it even clearer that these are showcases for Cuneta) pouring her soul and Lupe's into belting Araw-Araw Gabi-Gabi, as the camera steadily tracks her, until she strikes a final tableaux using her body to channel the energies flowing through her. There's no exhausting how immediately it proves Lupe's talent. As the driving engine for the whole movie, Pasan Ko ang Daigdig does trade pretty heavily on Cuneta's star power, but it's never just red meat for the fans. She's making very clear decisions about how she'd play the numbers, how Lupe would play the numbers and proceeds to sock us in the face with nonstop singing.   

     Beyond competition, she is well matched by Marilen Martinez's Ruffy, who makes her plunge with panache, leaving a blazing trail of sound professional acting behind. Casting aside familiar trappings, they emerge as players of the subtlest quality registering the finest shades of emotion. Brocka's skill with actors is still apparent. Loretta Marquez's Metring evokes an intense feeling of sympathy and helplessness over being unable to save herself from her all too human weakness. Mario Montenegro has a couple of terrific scenes as Lupe's record producer, Don Ignacio. Princess Punzalan is quietly wonderful as Luming. The filmmaking generally isn't show, outside of the numbers, but Brocka and his crew do exactly the right amount of work to frame the character drama for greatest effect. It's an account of the romance of a singer headed for stardom and her admirer Carding (Tonton Gutierrez), a long-time friend and neighbor waiting tables at the night club where she performs, would have very little force or freshness in this worldly wise day and age if it weren't played within the surroundings of significant performance. So it is this build-up that gives background to the film's poignance. What's fascinating is that Pasan Ko ang Daigdig gains a large measure of its sadness from the way necessity has dictated their presentation.

Production Designer: Edgar Martin Littaua

Sound Supervision: Vic Macamay

Director of Photography: Rody Lacap

Film Editor: Ike Jarlego, Jr.

Musical Director: Willy Cruz

Screenplay: Rene O. Villanueva, Orlando Nadres

Directed By: Lino Brocka

     Once upon a time long, long ago, fairytales were more than just imaginative flights of fancy. They weren't cute or cuddly, aligned with strategic marketing to create excellent cross promotion and/or marketing advantages. No, back when they were first formed, fairytales had more in common with urban legends than they did with wish fulfillment, ego integrity and lessons about sharing. If they were anything, a fairytale was a parable, a clear cautionary example of avoiding certain situations and individuals wrapped up in prosaic pomp and circumstance. They also stood as a manner of social redistribution, a chance for the commoner to laugh at the crown or sneer at the wealthy and privileged. Today, all that’s gone. In its place are politically correct platitudes and non-violent positivity. From the moment Tala (Felicity Kyle Napuli) discovers the Fairy's (Jasmine Curtis-Smith) lair, we witness the kind of vital visual splendor that has been missing from most productions. Thanks to Kenneth Dagatan’s wonderful combination of the sinister with the sublime, the whimsical elements become deep and rather disconcerting. Like the Brothers Grimm before him, here is a filmmaker who wants to give fairytales back their teeth. The journey at the center of the story is meant to symbolize the internal struggles that any young person must face when confronted by the grown-up world. Indeed, Dagatan argues that what Tala and her brother Bayani (James Mavie Estrella) faces is the temptation of choice and the confidence to decide direction for oneself. Courage is a key element in the narrative themes. We are supposed to see self-sacrifice and bravery parallel and surpass the brutal tactics resulting in a realization of what truly matters in a time of war. Take the relationship between Ligaya (Beauty Gonzalez) and her husband. In order to survive, she must trust her husband, Romualdo (Arnold Reyes) and it’s a price she’s willing to pay with her own expiring existence. 

     In Jay Altarejos' sharply simple The Last Resort (Goblin FIlms, 2023), Oliver Aquino and Erin Ocampo star as Robert and Emily, a struggling couple recovering from infidelity, whose marriage counselor recommends a getaway to get them back in sync. From the beginning, the movie points the viewer in the direction of uncomfortable truths. Most of the action takes place in a bucolic hideway where the unhappy couple goes to work on their relationship. The Last Resort employs endless restraint and builds chilling anticipation with its fraught, personal consideration of intimacy and philosophy. The set-up, reminiscent of some of Hitchcock's films, works like a well-oiled stopwatch: once the situation starts, it cannot be stopped. The film unfolds with a sense of inevitability and while the events are odd, they never lose their logic. The Last Resort is a romance, a thriller and a drama, with characters who are sketches approximating human beings, but played with sadness by the two lead actors. Not knowing the plot going in was part of the film's pleasure and it's enough to say that nothing is what it seems. There are no other guests, it's just Robert and Emily. Cinematographer Manu Garcellano fills the screen with strange points-of-view giving a horror-movie perspective. Are they being watched? On their retreat, Robert prepares a special dinner for Emily. They drink wine and loosen up. 

     The dynamic between Aquino and Ocampo is tense and sad, bringing relief and release, a sense that they are beginning to remember why they got together in the first place. That night, they rediscover a playfulness in their relationship. They even have sex. The entire film rests on the chemistry between Aquino and Ocampo. They create a very real relationship with a sense of shared joy in one another's company and myriad problems threatening to derail the entire thing. Robert and Emily are not extraordinary characters, but the situation in which they find themselves in is. The Last Resort is so concentrated on the characters that there is nowhere to hide. Paolo Paraiso is perfectly cast as Fred, the enigmatic resort owner and it is a treat to watch Rolando Inocencio’s caretaker, Bianong wear a very different skin. Even as the film tends to separate itself from its initial explorations of a marriage on the rocks for less esoteric waters, considering the circumstances, The Last Resort is exciting filmmaking. It expertly utilizes creative ideas and not at the expense of organic character development. While I can't divulge much else for the sake of keeping the plot a surprise, I will say that the resort has something unexpected in store for the young couple.

Production Designer: Jeric delos Angeles

Musical Scorer: Arbi Barbarona

Editor: Jay Altarejos

Director of Photography: Manu Garcellano

Screenplay: Memot Rivera, Jay Altarejos

Directed By: Jay Altarejos

     When Darna (Viva Films, 1991) goes for campy laughs, it falls flat on its face. That's a shame, because there's a place, I think, for a female superhero and Nanette Medved, who plays Darna, has the kind of freshness, high spirits and pluck that would be just right for the character. As it is, Medved is the best thing in the film. The movie starts to break down with the introduction of Pilar Pilapil as Valentina and the even less fortunate introduction of her sidekick Vibora, a bitchy snake puppet voiced by Ruby Rodriguez. We do not watch Darna movies to laugh condescendingly at the characters, which is what the screenwriter, director and even some of the actors have started to do. The gift of Vilma Santos in her best scenes and when the filmmakers allow it, is to play Darna without laughing, to take her seriously so that we can have some innocent escapist fun. Medved has the same gift, she shows super-athleticism when Darna needs to get someplace and throw down. But she also has an almost balletic manner when she is just having fun, Medved really shines. There is, of course, a lot of character moments that happen with Darna and Valentina in their own right, both individually and with their own supporting cast of characters. The film’s tone has been infected by the silly comedic approach employed in Darna at Ding (1980). The dialogue veers toward campiness and jokiness. Even during the climactic struggle, there’s nothing resembling suspense or tension. With a villain as over-the-top as Valentina, it’s impossible to accept that the stakes are high. Darna mostly suffers from lack of recognizable characters. It has been said many times that a hero is only as good as their villain and that is a very true statement. Pilar Pilapil is excellent as Valentina and probably gave the entire movie's best performance. Any potential melodrama and subsequent audience enjoyment in the interplay between Medved and Pilapil is undermined by the attempts to emote on the part of both actresses. It is rare for a superhero film to feature both a female protagonist and antagonist, but however inspired this conceit in characterization, the result is bland. Darna, in contrast, establishes its antagonist as a character who is invariably serious in her nefarious actions but it never reaches the depths of evil she strives towards. 

     To encapsulate Darna's loose, frustrating conception of camp, I must describe what is unquestionably the film’s piece de resistance, Darna’s love interest, George (Tonton Gutierrez). A  commotion ensues as he professes his love for Darna. Lamangan meant to create drama, effectively absorbing us in the adventures of a superhero flying in on the winds of the second wave of feminism. But his work lacks any playfulness or self-conscious humor. Lamangan doesn’t bother adding dimension to flat comic figures. It’s almost puzzling how the filmmakers could craft all of these fantastical conceits to fizzle out with such conspicuousness. Thrills are largely absent, clashes between good and evil are terrible (perhaps due to alternately inconsequential and frivolous motives) and notions of sacrifice, redemption and desperation are meaningless in the face of spontaneous and unexplained (and otherworldly) conflicts. If there’s one bright spot to be found, it’s Willy Cruz’s score. One of a small group of in-demand composers in the mid ‘80s, his work here is distinct yet musically linked. Entangled in the plot is a mess of magic, drama and countless unnecessary additions that only make the film less enjoyable. What’s more disappointing is that most of these decisions don’t necessarily move the plot forward. If anything, the film is halted in its tracks by the awkward jokes and choppy special effects. The oddest casting is two-fold. Edu Manzano plays Dominico Lipolico. He's fine in the part, but his talent is wasted as he plays it completely straight. Bing Loyzaga doesn't have anything going for her, but in a film like Darna, she is wasted because her character is not believable, making her Purita pointless.

Production Designer: Benjie de Guzman

Costume Designer: Ernest Santiago

Cinematographer: Ramon Marcelino

Sound Supervision: Rolly Ruta

Film Editor: Ike Jarlego, Jr.

Screenplay: Frank G. Rivera

Directed By: Joel Lamangan 

     The function of remembrance is an enigma in Yung Libro sa Napanood Ko (Viva Films, Whiskey Marmalade, 2023) which is small and domestic. Bela Padilla (credited as Bela) wisely expands the themes of personal memory to include collective memory as well, though it’s essentially a love story, Yung Libro sa Napanood Ko is grounded in the mechanics of human interaction, thought, repression, denial and acceptance. The film holds incredible promise for writer-director Padilla, evoking stylistic simplicity and emotional complexity. Normally an actress, she conveys a pondering despair. We see great concentration on the space between individuals and the emptiness left inside. Padilla's deceptively simple direction suggests her place resides behind the camera, even though her career thus far has been in front of it. Yung Libro sa Napanood Ko is not an all-out stylistic embrace, but rather a sleight influence in tone. Characters seem to converse and evoke delicate emotions with their silence. Padilla says something profound by hardly saying anything, but allowing us to see how devastating it is to forget so much about one’s self. As Lisa Villamor, a succesful book author and a K-Drama fan, Padilla can seem lost one moment but then, as an intention pierces through her cloud of unhappiness, becomes crisp and incisive. The fading of memory, the mixture of loyalty and selfishness, these are not subjects you would expect a young filmmaker to understand or even to take much interest in. Yet, Yung Libro sa Napanood Ko is a small-scale triumph that could herald a great career. In general, she works close to her actors and is confident enough to let scenes remain ambiguous—the meanings build slowly, by accretion. Apart from a few scenes, Padilla tells the story from Kim Gun Hoo's point of view in the person of Korean actor Min Gon Yoo. Gun Hoo loves Lisa, he finds a way for personal survival and a love for someone lost to flourish together. 

     Yung Libro sa Napanood Ko has the courage to simply observe the devastation of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). There are few great love stories replayed, few books written, flashbacks as enjoyable for the victim as they are for us. There are only the victims going far, far away as if they have fallen into a black hole. The performances here are carefully controlled, as they must be, so that we see no false awareness slipping out from behind the masks; no sense that Lisa is in touch with a more complete reality than, from day to day, she is. No sense that Gun Hoo is finally able to feel consolation, contrition or anything else but inescapable loss. No sense that Lisa's mother, Mary (Lorna Tolentino) deceives herself for a moment, that Pio (Boboy Garrovillo) understands his wife's behavior. The one aware character is Sandra Jeung as Omma, Gon Yoo's mother who gives her son practical advice. She has empathy and pity for him, and Jeung finds that precise note. Padilla clearly knows where to place the camera and how long to let a moment linger to produce maximum emotional impact without ever stooping to sentiment or melodrama. Bela Padilla still young, always until now an actress emerges here as a director who is in calm command of her material. The movie says as much for her strength of character as for her skills. If Padilla’s cunning complexity provides the film’s ethereality, then Gon Yoo’s unwavering love anchors it in place. It’s their connection, finely wrought by Padilla’s grace earns the film its final tears.

Sound Supervision: Aian Louie Caro

Music By: Kean Cipriano

Editor: Renard Torres

Production Designer: Ericson N. Navarro

Director of Photography: Rommel Andreo Sales

Written and Directed By: Bela

     Miss Rita Gomez, with an angry mouth and the steeliest of gazes brings so much energy to Gamitin Mo Ako (V.H. Films, Inc., 1985) because the movie badly needs a center of gravity. As directed by Ishmael Bernal, this is perhaps the most telling, economical image of Miss Gomez the movie has to offer, followed by a montage detailing Toyang's daily regimen that is equally sharp-edged. It appears as if the movie will concentrate on Miss Gomez's overweening drive and perhaps attempt an explanation of her eccentricities. But this doesn't happen nor does the film become the story of her daughter Josie (Stella Suarez Jr.). The movie is so shapeless and unfocused that it never decides whose story to tell. It offers disconnected glimpses of Toyang's life. There is nothing to string the episodes together into a coherent drama and no insight into the characters. If the movie opted clearly for Josie's point of view, then Toyang could successfully be presented as a cipher. But Josie is neither a match for her mother nor a well-defined character in her own right, so Miss Gomez's Toyang easily steals all the thunder. And as presented here, she handles everything with a desperate, perfectly unexamined intensity. Toyang reveals her true self in fits of rage and torrents of verbal, emotional and physical abuse to Josie. Her abandon in giving herself over to such emotions is accompanied by an air of calculation that is her most astonishing trait. She can switch gears in an instant, moving from tremendous sensuality if she thinks it will do her some good, to motherly love or even terrible anger. 

     Toyang copes with the overwhelming feelings of powerlessness and vulnerability by angrily and violently asserting control in the realm where she wields power and fury, her household. Suarez gives Josie a sullen cast, but Miss Gomez is an even better battle-ax later on. By the time Toyang seems to have softened toward Josie makes her final scene particularly bewildering. Toyang did need more humanity than Bernal allows her in order for Gamitin Mo Ako to have any claim to coherence or continuity. Even soap opera needs soul. A performance like Gomez’s isn’t something one will ever shake off and that it would become the filter through which her entire career would forevermore be viewed. Which is one major reason why Gamitin Mo Ako registers as questionable on camp value. And why anyone who ironically loves the film should still probably admit that the guilt in guilty pleasure resides within themselves and not the filmmakers. What could possibly be more insulting than to say that a work of art is so much a failure that it even fails at providing a sensibility that celebrates failure. Toyang is a monster and Josie is a pretty, long-suffering dope who might inspire more sympathy if she were not directed to be distant and veiled. The movie doesn't even make narrative sense. Success follows crisis without any pattern. Gamitin Mo Ako also offers few insights into Toyang's relationship with other characters. There’s Sammy (Al Tantay), her lover who's an enigma. Bernal and screenwriter Rolando S. Tinio fuse this formal schizophrenia with a cruelly episodic structure sneakily turning Toyang’s plight into an endless series of character sketches in some gruesome variety revue. Gamitin Mo Ako is a painful experience that drones on endlessly as Toyang's relationship with her daughter, Josie, disintegrates from cruelty through jealousy into pathos. It is unremittingly depressing, not to any purpose of drama or entertainment, but just to depress.

Production Designer: Elmer Manapul

Sound Supervision: Rudy Baldovino

Film Editor: Amang Sanchez

Musical Director: Willy Cruz

Director of Photography: Manolo R. Abaya

Screenplay: Rolando S. Tinio

Direction: Ishmael Bernal

     Carlos Siguion-Reyna's feature film debut Misis Mo, Misis Ko (Viva Films, 1988) mediates on the value of sincerity and honesty in relationship. Amado (Edu Manzano) and Rebecca (Dina Bonnevie) are not fully reformed or flawless people and they navigate clumsily through this journey together, deliberately expressing their feelings however uncomfortable, jealous, curious, angry or simply thrilled they feel. Misis Mo, Misis Ko is a comedy of manners, after all, and the awkwardness of their initial fumblings is the source of much of the film’s comedy. What they eventually come to realize, however, is that their attraction does not in any way diminish their love for one another. Denying exploration of this attraction is a stance that is firmly ingrained in society and pushing against it comes with plenty of backlash, but ultimately choosing to live by whatever rules make sense for you and your partner is the real key to a healthy relationship, regardless of whether or not it fits into someone else’s worldview. Amado and Rebecca end up finding even greater happiness as they unlearn their previous worldviews and embrace open and honest communication for one another. Amado and Rebecca do have to talk through feelings of jealousy and confusion with one another making the movie a very honest portrayal of  a relationship that has transcended jealousy. 

     Misis Mo, Misis Ko also follows Rafael (Ricky Davao) and Cynthia (Jackie Lou Blanco) who find themselves rapidly unraveling at the seams. The movie allows its characters to speak to each other highlighting difficulties that are so rarely talked about for women and couples and how challenging it can be to override the feelings that are so presently reinforced by culture. Bonnevie's Rebecca never loses the earnestness in her intonation with a disarming maturity that tells more about her faculty if given time to mellow. Manzano exerts his charm eloquently and a hirsute Davao impresses with a patina of self-awareness. But the  film's biggest asset is the transcendent Blanco. Her Cynthia is arguably the most conventional and relatable character among the four and she gives a galvanizing, uncompromising thrust that grants first-timer Siguion-Reyna’s boundary-exploring dramedy some thumping heartbeats. The juxtaposition of these two couples seems to suggest a value judgement on Siguion-Reyna's part, many couples attempt to hide or bury feelings and thoughts that they find guilt-inducing or unspeakable. The four finally recognize by the end of the film that denying love for others is useless and they allow unspoken feelings to be laid out fully on the table. Siguion-Reyna has his actors in uncomfortably long takes. When the same exercise is presented at the ending, however, their gaze feels like a warm embrace, bringing the arc of the film (and therefore its message) full circle. We need to really see each other and seek genuine connection with whoever we feel a connection with.

Production Design:  Charlie Arceo, Leo Abaya

Director of Photography: Manolo Abaya

Sound Supervision: Rolly Ruta

Film Editor: Jesse Navarro

Musical Director: Ryan Cayabyab

Screenplay: Bibeth Orteza

Directed By: Carlos Siguion-Reyna

     Miss Granny (Viva Films, CJ Entertainment, 2018),  Bb. Joyce Bernal's Filipino adaptation of the hit South Korean comic-fantasy film, begins with the recollection of seventy-year-old widow, Fely (Nova Villa), that before she had a son, she couldn’t imagine living past thirty. Yet she survived enough hardships to evolve into a tough woman who says what’s on her mind, steamrollering and upsetting almost everyone in her path. Meanwhile, Ramon's (Nonie Buencamino) wife, Angie (Lotlot de Leon), develops a heart condition exasperated by her mother-in-law's nonstop nitpicking. When she ends up hospitalized, Angie's doctor says that if she doesn't live a life filled with less stress, her husband will end up a widower. He makes the difficult decision to send his mother away, promising that when his wife recovers, they will bring her back home. Buencamino does a wonderful job playing Ramon. During this melancholic moment, Fely comes across the Forever Young photo studio and decides to have her portrait taken. When she exits, she becomes her twenty-year-old self named Odrey (Sarah Geronimo) and though she may resemble Audrey Hepburn, with her gamine body and wispy bangs, she is decidedly uncoy. Odrey is coarse and crabby and has nothing to lose; she’s a grumpy grandmother with perfect teeth and a flexible physique. As Odrey, she joins her grandson Jeboy’s (James Reid) heavy metal band and transforms it into a pop group, all while winning Jeboy's affection and Lorenz (Xian Lim) a young man who runs an American Idol - style television show. When Jeboy initially flirts with her, Odrey deals with it hilariously, recalling to herself that his game is as clumsy as that of his grandfather — her deceased husband. Soon, the two take on a more sibling-like relationship, helping Jeboy transform his band into an (almost) overnight sensation. Meanwhile, Bert (Boboy Garovillo), an older friend recognizes that she’s her younger self. 

     While the broad comedy is entertaining (a youthful Odrey blowing on her grandson’s food and force-feeding him), the film also takes unexpected darker turns. “Nobody raised her son better than I did — that’s why he is so good to me!” Fely shouts during a disagreement with Ramon. This weird comedy meanders into heartfelt, complex areas about the regrets, attachments and abandonment of the aged. Geronimo does a wonderful job playing Odrey. Feisty and adorable, she has the mannerisms of a septuagenarian down pat. Some of the film's best moments are the musical numbers. Geronimo sings all her own songs displaying a pure, lovely voice that harkens back to a time when vocalists could sing beautifully without any assistance. Ultimately Miss Granny is shamelessly sentimental about the virtues of maternal sacrifice (we’re supposed to forgive Fely’s behavior when her single mother backstory is revealed) and the sanctity of the family. There are more than a few holes in the story’s logic, it’s contrived in spots to prevent the narrative from coming to a dead halt where characters acted like normal people, and its increasingly elaborate production numbers leading up to the big show panders to younger viewers. But films like Miss Granny live on the appeal of the performers, and Geronimo almost single-handedly saves the day with her pitch perfect and often hilarious spin on the young Fely.

Directed By: Bb. Joyce Bernal

Screenplay: Jinky Laurel

Director of Photography: Rody Lacap

Musical Director: Len Calvo

Sound Engineers: Albert Michael Idioma, Lamberto A. Casas, Jr.

Editors: Chrisel G. Desuasido, Bb. Joyce Bernal

Production Designer: Shari Marie Montiague

     Peque Gallaga and Lore Reyes' Magic Temple (Star Cinema Productions, Inc., 1996) is a glitzy, glamorous and rollickingly fun fantasy film that doesn't match for story their other well-known fantasy masterpiece, Once Upon A Time, although Magic Temple does one-up the 1987 classic in a number of areas, notable among them the immaculately-designed creatures that populate the film. Though still a dark story with traditional motifs and characters, Magic Temple does well to lend a lighter side to the proceedings. Song and dance, comedy and action all blend into the overreaching fantasy story arc and to very good effect. It's clear from the beginning that Magic Temple sets out to deliver a good old time at the movies and it doesn't disappoint. Escapist entertainment in the truest sense, Magic Temple brings to life a world populated by good and evil, and cuddly and scary characters where danger and laughs all await those that dare enter its inviting yet perilous and altogether fantastical world. The kingdom of Samadhi is populated by a host of fascinating characters. Magic Temple is a rare movie where even tertiary characters with a few fleeting moments of screen time enjoy such a robust and memorable presence allowing the creative minds behind-the-scenes to shine. Jason Salcedo (Jubal), Junnel Hernando (Sambag) and Marc Solis (Omar) deliver the goods. The three protagonists does well to convey thoughts, both theirs and the audience's. Their effort is breezy and sure, and gains a confidence that serves them well as the film moves on to the climax. Jackie Lou Blanco's Ravenal delivers a cheerful effort as a villain that's done a dastardly deed but has so much sinister fun in the process that it's hard not to like the character on some level. Aside from the cast, Magic Temple's most notable feature, particularly when viewing the film in retrospect is its decidedly 1990s flair. The film's song-and-dance numbers cannot help but engender an instant flashback to the era.

     Magic Temple's restoration pays off in a big way on high definition. The image is noticeably tighter, sharpening up many of the finer details like clothing lines, hair and environmental details. The leap isn't as drastic in foreground elements, but it's worthwhile. The high definition's benefit seems more clear in objects further from the screen, where the uptick in clarity is significant. Colors are more nuanced. They're not punchier, but the palette enjoys a clearly greater range of subtle shadings that give the movie a fuller look, but at the same time one that's slightly less aggressive. The palette feels more natural and the color hasn't pushed the image to overheating. It's a very natural image, beautiful in motion, and perfectly complementary of the movie's many areas of exploration. Black levels are excellent, flesh tones retain that slight rosiness. Viewers aren't going to walk away disappointed. Magic Temple is a good movie that's been given a fantastic restoration. The picture quality is a work of art and the two-channel sound embodies all of the good qualities the track has to offer, including spacious front side presence, a healthy and balanced support structure and more pleasantly robust bass. Clarity is terrific, smaller support atmospherics are well integrated and positioned. Dialogue is clear and detailed, always well prioritized. This is an exceptional soundtrack that, literally, brings a new layer of excellence to Magic Temple's sound experience.

Sound Engineer: Albert Michael Idioma

Editor: Danny Gloria. FEGMP

Music By: Archie Castillo

Production Designer: Rodell Cruz

Director of Photography: Joe Tutanes, F.S.C.

Screenplay: Peque Gallaga, Lore Reyes

Directed By: Peque Gallaga, Lore Reyes

     McArthur C. Alejandre's Call Me Alma (Viva Films, 2023) has the energy and almost surreptitious illumination of the best improvised work. Daniel “Toto” Uy’s cinematography gives the film an exacting look that cuts nicely against the gathering force of Ricky Lee's screenplay. With a combination of power and grace, Jaclyn Jose delivers one of the more memorable performances of her career as Sheila. This is no small feat, given the depth and breadth of Jose’s filmography and her consistent ability to produce great work. She’s such an instinctive actress that never hits a false note. Jose finds unexpected avenues into her character, a challenging role that requires her to show a mental deterioration that’s inherently internal. When the reality of her situation begins to set in, Sheila’s fear and anxiety turn, at times to hysteria. In other hands these moments could veer into melodrama, but Jose earns the viewer’s empathy. Her glossy circumstances disappear into the background, and all we see is an ailing woman, overwhelmed by her fate. While Alma (Azi Acosta) speaks, Sheila’s face reflects a complex interplay of emotions. The idea of recriminatory conflict between mother and daughter seems fair enough as Jose and Acosta invest their roles with undeniable emotional conviction and impact. 

     Shaking off the solemnity that smothers many well-meaning, high-minded family film, Sarah... Ang Munting Prinsesa (Star Cinema, 1995) revels in an exuberant sense of play, drawing its viewers into the wittily heightened reality of a fairy tale. The material, like the title, is a tad precious, but the finished film is much too spirited for that to matter. Sarah... Ang Munting Prinsesa also arrives without the benefit of big names making it even more of an unself-conscious delight. As directed by Romy V. Suzara, the film takes enough liberties to re-invent rather than embalm Frances Hodgson Burnett's assiduously beloved story. There's a hint of magical realism to the spring and fluidity of Suzara's storytelling and it breathes unexpected new life into this fable. The tale unfolds in a fanciful, expressive and handsome set that's almost entirely green. This building is the girls' school to which Sarah Crewe (Camille Prats) is relegated after an exotic childhood spent in India. And it has been ingeniously rendered to inspire all the awe and terror a child in such altered circumstances might feel. In this film's harmonious world, anything can conspire to intensify the characters' thoughts. Suzara makes that clear from the opening sequence that sets the prevailing tone of inviting artificiality. Left in England to be educated while her father, Capt. Crewe (Mat Ranillo III) takes care of his mining business, Sarah finds herself under the wing of Miss Minchin (Jean Garcia), the schoolmistress whose fondness for her students is directly linked to their parents' financial standing. Since Sarah is rich enough to earn the nickname of the title, she is very well-treated, at least while the money holds out.

     Admired by schoolmates who wear matching middy dresses, Sarah is given ostentatiously grand quarters that befit her initial status. In keeping with the story's spirit of noblesse oblige, she finds time to befriend younger girls and charm them with her storytelling skills. Sarah also makes friends with Becky (Angelica Panganiban), the school's scullery maid who becomes her greatest ally once she experiences a severe reversal of fortune. Sarah is both patrician and bereft, with only the magic of her own daydreams to sustain her. As written by Shaira Mella-Salvador, the film injects some elements of contemporary reality into a tale that could well have remained unrelievedly quaint. Less an actors' film than a series of elaborate tableaux, it has a visual eloquence that extends well beyond the limits of its story. This restoration is a bit brighter, but I have to say neither the brightness nor the color grading struck me as unusual or inauthentic looking. While contrast is good, the increased brightness can tend to slightly blanch some scenes, but again I found nothing overly problematic in the presentation. Detail levels are excellent throughout and routinely high in close-ups where everything from the opulent fabrics in the sumptuous costumes attain an almost palpable ambience. Grain resolves naturally, though it has moments of definite uptick in some selected scenes. Sarah... Ang Munting Prinsesa features a 2.0 mix that fully supports the gorgeous music of Nonong Buencamino. Dialogue is presented cleanly and clearly and the track shows no signs of damage. To see Sarah whirling ecstatically in her attic room on a snowy night, exulting in the feelings summoned by an evocative sight in a nearby window, is to know just how stirringly lovely a children's film can be.

Sound Supervisor: Ramon Reyes

Production Designer: Manny Morfe

Editor: Edgardo "Boy' Vinarao

Musical Director: Nonong Buencamino

Director of Photography: Ely Cruz, F.S.C.

Written By: Shaira Mella-Salvador

Directed By: Romy V. Suzara

     Ishmael Bernal builds and reinforces a mood with unexpected techniques that are simple, personal and resoundingly effective from the movie's opening moments. There are no suffocating close-ups in Hinugot sa Langit (Regal Films, Inc., 1985), instead, individual shots are long and leisurely. The camera movement flows, following the characters as they move about their world. Gradually, this lived-in feeling allows us to inhabit their world, too, and with that comes, not just an understanding but an actual feel for what it must have been like. Perhaps unsurprisingly, offscreen space plays an essential role in the film’s construction. Cinematographer Rody Lacap works with a mostly fixed camera here; the unconventional framing makes us aware of a larger environment and context. In one of the film’s most extraordinary sequences Carmen (Maricel Soriano), is sitting at the doctor's office. Her mind is elsewhere. She is worried. If things go wrong her life could be ruined. Bernal places Carmen at the center of the frame and shows her in a long take as the conversation happens. This is an aspect of consciousness, a moment in life, that we've all experienced. We've all been scared and feeling outside the general mirth. Yet, I've never seen this reality conveyed in a Filipino movie before. The scene is unbearably tense, not because Bernal shows us that Carmen is tense, but rather because he puts us at the table with her, and he does so long enough that we soon feel what she is feeling. The near-constant tension between narrative and image, between what we expect to see and what we are actually shown, makes Bernal’s insert shot all the more essential. Virtually every shot has something novel about it, either in its technique, emotional weight, psychological perception or a combination of all three. 

      Few films have never been as visually enthralling as Lawrence Fajardo’s latest. Everything from camera angles to scene transitions exudes longing. Sugapa (Viva Films, 2023) is an ill-fated romance, and that desirous mood grows until it overwhelms. It's a film about yearning and dependence, which later translates to love, both of which is attainable and unfeasible for lead characters Ben (Aljur Abrenica) and Ana (AJ Raval). The somewhat languid nature of their romance is never stale, nothing seems forced or exaggerated. Sugapa has Fajardo at his most restrained narrative-wise, yet that doesn’t affect the prowess of his directorial abilities nor the thematic expansiveness of the story at hand. Most cinematic romances tell us what to think, having characters state what they feel early on or inviting us to share lustful gazes. Fajardo does it the hard way, building up a complex psychological relationship in which sexual desire feels like an emergent characteristic rather than a starting point. When Ben and Anna focus on one another, the result seems so specific, so intense, as to be incompatible with any other aspect of life. It is also the kind of relationship which can make other people – including the audience – feel shut out, even rejected. The tension between the two extends like a taut wire that sits burdened under the weight of miscommunication, but also threatens to snap at the peak of their vulnerability. A shift in the second half recontextualizes aspects of the first half, but in this shift, Ana's story is more heightened. Over the course of Sugapa, Fajardo continuously elevates what we're watching and the film is never too much to handle. 

     Lino Brocka's Nakaw na Pag-ibig (Associated Entertainment Corporation, 1980) is a work of beauty, tenderness, power and insight. It is a tribute to deft dramatization that the principals are projected fully as the maelstrom of life in which they are trapped and with which they are unable to cope. One may argue that Brocka has given only surface treatment to the society which appears to propel Robert de Asis (Phillip Salvador) to his tragic end and accentuated his love affairs, groping for a higher rung in the social ladder. That it becomes apparent, is basically captious. Robert is obviously an intelligent young man whose background has not equipped him for anything better than menial endeavor. And it is not surprising that the lonely, brooding Robert will find an answer to his crying need for companionship in his drab, unlettered and equally lonely co-worker, Corazon Rivera (Nora Aunor). The forces pushing him to the final, horrible retribution are obvious and a tribute to the naturalism of Theodore Dreiser as he is suddenly exposed to the overwhelming opulence of Cynthia Ocampo (Hilda Koronel) to whose love he succumbs. Corazon becomes a nagging, inconvenient, and homely presence next to Cynthia's beauty. As Robert’s romance with Cynthia blossoms and he falls in love firmly secures the possibility of his better life in high society. At the same time, Robert repeatedly lies and breaks promises to Corazon, refusing to marry her. His desire that she just go away transforms into a murderous impulse when Corazon threatens to endanger any goodwill he’s established with Cynthia’s family. Rather than break it off, he strings her along—and so, quite understandably, she expects Robert to marry her. Since his basic upbringing does not permit him to callously desert Corazon—now frantic with the knowledge that she is bearing his child—he takes surreptitious steps to remedy his untenable position. This phase of his ordeal is a wholly tasteful and compelling handling of a delicate situation. The questions of his morals and intrinsic cowardice here are placed squarely in the eyes of the viewer. With similar integrity, the drama depicts Corazon's death and the subsequent mounting terror and confusion of her lover, faced with the enormity of the tragedy and the reiteration of the insidious thought that while he did not commit murder he must have willed it.  And, Robert, grappling with a transgression he cannot fully comprehend, is a pitiful, yet strangely brave individual as he explains his act and convictions in court. 

     Salvador's portrayal, often terse and hesitating, is full, rich, restrained and, above all, generally credible. Equally poignant is Aunor's characterization of the ill-fated Corazon. Aunor, in my opinion, has never been seen to better advantage than as the colorless factory hand, beset by burgeoning anxieties but clinging to a love she hopes can be rekindled. Under Brocka's expert direction, Koronel's delineation of the rich and beauteous Cynthia is the top effort of her career. It’s a shaded, tender performance and one in which her passionate and genuine romance avoids the bathos common to love as it sometimes comes to the screen. Salvador immersed himself in the weak and insecure morality of his character, resulting in a nervous, sweaty performance. Aunor downplayed her looks with almost no makeup, playing it frumpy and pathetic. But the understanding of their respective characters varies. Aunor played her role from start to finish as a dreary, but no less empathetic innocent in love who was seemingly destined to be disappointed by Robert. Brocka understood Corazon and directed her to be a lusterless character. Salvador played his role under the notion that Robert is unsympathetic, unsophisticated, and ambitious, not realizing that his good looks would do a great deal to counteract his interpretation. Nakaw na Pag-ibig tapers its concentration on the central romance, a cruel affair on Robert’s part that, today, the audience nonetheless wants to see because of the legendary stars involved. This is despite Cynthia's underdeveloped character being a little more than an attractive status symbol to Robert, and despite Aunor's excellent turn as a pitiable victim. Even today, watching the otherwise capable film is an exercise in the appreciation of fine acting and competent direction, as opposed to a heartfelt tragedy, salient sociopolitical text, or believable romance.

Screenplay: Eddie Naval Based on a Story By Theodore Dreiser

Director of Photography: Conrado Baltazar, F.S.C.

Music: George Canseco

Film Editor: Augusto Salvador

Art Direction: Joey Luna

Sound Supervision: Ben L. Patajo

Directed By: Lino Brocka

     One thing is certain: director Bobby Bonifacio, Jr. comprehends stifling dread in the most profound sense. With a grief-soaked story of ancestral vulnerability (you can’t pick your relatives, can you?), his terrifying and startlingly confident, Numbalikdiwa (2006) proved as much. Bonifacio fidgets with that peculiar breathlessness once again throughout Kahalili (Viva Films, 2023), a cinematic sacrament that dances around a fruitless relationship in dizzying circles. But be prepared to feel equally suffocated (albeit, a chosen, cultish kind) all the same. In the midst of wide-open surroundings we may be, but Bonifacio still wants us to crave and kick for oxygen, perhaps in a less claustrophobic and more agoraphobic fashion. The tangible dread in Kahalili—oftentimes charged by tight choreography and atmospheric compositions—is so recognizably out of Numbalikdiwa that you'll immediately distinguish the connective headspace responsible for both tales. And yet, this psychedelic thriller is different by way of Bonifacio’s loosened thematic restraint. You won’t exactly feel lost while disemboweling Bonifacio’s inviting beast, this is also a fitting way to describe the location where most of the story unfolds. There is only a slack sense of yesterday and tomorrow in Bonifacio’s locale of choice where an endless string of hallucinatory traditions are exercised in broad daylight.  

    We follow  Martha (Stephanie Raz), Bonifacio’s second fearless female lead after Meryll Soriano, playing a character marked by something unspeakable. In a deeply scarred, emotionally unrestricted performance—you might hear her screams in your nightmares, Martha isn’t on her own, she's with her self-absorbed longtime boyfriend Carlos (Victor Relosa, convincingly egotistical). When Martha arrives, a couple, Isabel (Millen Gal) and Rod (Sid Lucero) respectively, Bonifacio forgoes the aforesaid narrative economy for something sinister. The sneaky hex Bonifacio casts has that tight grip, on both the characters and the audience. Sex and death, a source of so much pain and anxiety are here as part of life's unending cycle. Kahalili is in no rush to solve its mysteries. The third act is full of surreal images of revelry and ritual sacrifice. The unburdened surplus of lengthy customs does overshadow some of the film’s potentially ripe avenues of interest. But the invigorating reward here is the ultimate sovereignty you will find in Martha, a surrogate for any woman who ever excused an inconsiderate male, rationalized his unkind words or thoughtless non-apologies. Raz knows it in the film's final shot. And you will know it too, so intensely that her freedom might just feel like therapy.   

Sound Design: Armand de Guzman

Music: Emerzon Texon

Editors: Nelson Villamayor, Noah Tonga

Production Designers: Sigrid T. Polon, Junebert Cantilla

Director of Photography: Michael Hernree J. Babista

Screenplay: Juvy Galamiton

Directed By: Bobby Bonifacio, Jr.

     In Lino Brocka's Maynila sa mga Kuko Ng Liwanag (Cinema Artists, 1975), Manila is a libertarian dystopia where poverty breeds its own predators and victims as the city's poor grasp for the little wealth that hasn't yet been distributed. When Julio Madiaga (Rafael Roco Jr,), a young man from the province arrives in Manila to search for his lost love Ligaya Paraiso (Hilda Koronel), he's robbed of what little cash he has. Forced to work so he can afford the bare necessities of life, Julio finds a job in an unsafe construction site in which the workers allow their employer to pocket a chunk of their pay for fear of losing their only job. Soon, Julio finds himself working as a male prostitute even if it requires a different kind of sacrifice. Brocka's Manila is ambivalent to Julio's pain and its indifference, the city stamps out every glimmer of hope in his life. There's a deep undercurrent of anger and frustration to Julio's journey. A casual conversation between construction workers is followed by a fatal accident when a rope holding a bucket of water is released and falls from the height of a few stories. At this moment, the smooth, neorealist-influenced camerawork is traded for a quickly edited shot/reverse-shot montage between the bucket and the face of the man standing below it. The bucket hits him and he dies. Stupid, meaningless and avoidable. This harsh, stylized moment of violence, one of several, contrasts with the more subdued tone of the rest of the film. It's a signal to the audience that no matter how hard the characters struggle, this world is indifferent to their pain. Even as Julio scours the city, building relationships with people he meets and getting closer to his goal of finding Ligaya, these short fits of violence and emotion disrupt the complacency of the characters to their situation, suggesting that there's tragedy to be found in their acceptance of such a fate. Maynila sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag, with its extended scenes of working-class struggle punctuated by moments of harrowing, highly stylized violence suggests that violent reactions should be expected from a society that preys on the vulnerable. By the time Julio reaches his final confrontation with Ah Tek (Tommy Yap), an act of stupid, violent catharsis feels like his only possible course of action. 

     Lupita A. Concio’s Minsa’y Isang Gamu-Gamo (Premiere Productions, Inc.,1976) is one of those films whose great qualities put its elements in sharp relief. Proof is in Nora Aunor’s performance, a chameleonic disappearance into the role. The way she inhabits Corazon de la Cruz with wounded grace is overwhelming work. Concio employs long takes that lets her breathe, and uses close-ups sparingly, but with tremendous effectiveness. A shot of Corazon and her mother Chedeng (Gloria Sevilla) by the window, watching a funeral pass by ranks among the best moments in the careers of those involved. Additionally, Marina Feleo Gonzalez’s dialogue is natural and smart, delivered by Aunor with masterly authenticity. She achieves an outstanding height in this performance. Her voice is tender, lilting, mellifluous. Aunor carefully unravels her character with surgical precision that seems to elevate her character, one which could easily be written off if done by actresses of lesser talent. Aunor has shown throughout her career that she can do anything. Her face, a mobile canvas onto which she paints angst, confusion, and deep melancholy, is masterly. Minsa’y Isang Gamu-Gamo features what still remains Aunor’s most complex film performance, solidifying her as an actress of tremendous faculties and overall technical prowess. Her range evokes envy and her presence is indomitable. Aunor’s moving treatment of the material is some of the finest screen time she has ever occupied. It established her reputation for tugging at the heartstrings in with a unique kind of emotional control. Concio knows how to draw outstanding performances from talented actors. Jay Ilagan conveys Boni's humanity with heart-warming profundity. As Carlito, Eddie Villamayor is intelligent and affecting, but not cloying. It also helps that Perla Bautista and Paquito Salcedo are so good at what they do that they can summon a legacy of hurt with as little as a broken smile.

     Minsa'y Isang Gamu-Gamo is presented on Blu-ray courtesy of Kani Releasing with an AVC encoded 1080p transfer in an aspect ratio of 1.85:1. The following is from the insert booklet, 

"This transfer of Lupita A. Concio's 1976 Minsa'y Isang Gamu-Gamo (Once a Moth) originates from an incomplete 35mm print held by the ABS-CBN Film Archives supplemented by elements provided by the Film Development Council of the Philippines (FDCP). Due to the advanced deterioration of the latter element, the first half of the first reel-the initial nine minutes-appears here as significantly soft and distorted. After careul consideration of the film's historical significance and our belief in the importance of Sagip-Pelikula, ABS-CBN's ongoing restoration project, we have elected to release the film as is on home video with additional context for the restoration-and its material limitations-provided in the supplemental features. Please approach the transfer with understanding and empathy." 

Saturation levels are good and nicely rendered. Greens, blues and reds in particular pop with considerable authority. I noticed some slight fluctuations in color temperature, and a couple of dark moments have a slightly blue tinge at times. Clarity and grain can also vary as the film ventures between more controlled interior locales. There is only one standard audio track on this Blu-ray release: Tagalog LPCM 1.0. Optional English subtitles are provided for the main feature. The lossless audio track is very good. Excluding one short segment where a light echo effect appears during the exchanges otherwise, stability is excellent. The music is nicely balanced as well. Dynamic intensity is limited, but given the organic nature of the original sound design this should not be surprising. The end of Minsa'y Isang Gamu-Gamo is startingly moving. The feelings Concio evokes in the last scenes are earned: they encapsulate the whole story, and it stays with you long after the movie is over.

Musical Director: Restie Umali

Film Editor: Edgardo Vinarao

Screenplay: Marina Feleo-Gonzalez

Cinematography: Jose Batac, Jr.

Direction: Lupita A. Concio