SARI-SARING SINENG PINOY

     Because we are people with real lives and infinite similarities as a people, an audience or a country for that matter, movies of realistic fiction settings, spanning from comedy to drama and romance constantly earn their rightful piece of the artistic spotlight. They are personally engaging. These films move us. Chalk it up to the "human condition." Focusing on film as an audience, we constantly compare our own lives to what we are watching. Since life is hard no matter the setting, we often take stock in watching a film that either reminds us how good we had it or by contrast, offers relief that others had it just as hard or worse than we did. This is almost an automatic response for us as an audience and we are drawn to that feeling. Joel C. Lamangan's Fatherland (Bentria Productions, Heaven's Best Entertainment, 2025) avoids the linear and oscillates between Alex’s (Inigo Pascual) memories of his father Ipe (Allen Dizon). Lamangan and screenwriter Roy Iglesias know real-life events don't play out or turn out like they do in the movies. They aren't announced with inane plot-descriptive dialogue by supporting characters. Real lives move in moments and operate in nuances. Fatherland is about men and Lamangan weaves his narrative from two temporal threads. One is the story of how Alex begins the search for his father. The other is the story of Ipe, as lovers and family members remember him. The entire film is filtered through Alex’s consciousness, rendered in a way that affirms the basic condition of cinema—that every image is as present on the screen as every other image. Dizon has a seemingly impossible task of playing three different personalities, convincing us all that they’re in the same body and having them all come across as sincere and non-gimmicky. He is especially amazing to watch. There’s enough nuance in Dizon’s demeanor for you to really read into them and it’s fascinating to observe such intricate dynamics play out within a single person. He also plays Ipe’s alters, Fayez and Teban, performed with the same manic quality Dizon brought to his role in Abenida (2023). As we meet Ipe’s alters, the film becomes a stage for Dizon to unleash a repertoire of personas. 

     In the Digital Age, an era dominated by rapidly evolving information technology, it is hard to imagine how pieces of our cinematic legacy could disappear forever. After all, audiovisual materials can be digitized and saved using a cloud-based online video storage provider or for those of us who prefer tangible, local data storage to servers in off-site locations — on DVDs, external hard drives or flash drives. And once you have a digital copy, it will last forever, right? Well, not exactly. Digital archiving is not the answer to this ongoing problem of deteriorating film stock and lost titles. Digital storage media, none of them last a fraction as long as celluloid negatives and prints kept in cool, dry, cared-for archives. The “cloud” isn’t the answer and the pie-in-the-sky possibilities suggest that the process of migrating preserved digital copies of historically significant material will be ongoing as technology evolves in ever faster cycles. Much of our filmed history and cinema has already been lost forever. Estimates on the number of lost films vary, most of the films made roughly 100 years ago are lost. The number of films currently in need of preservation is overwhelming, particularly when considering the complexity and cost of professional restoration. If moving images survive, live on and remain accessible in our days it is due to the efforts of dedicated individuals who have worked against time, trying to rescue films regardless of their commercial value. Film degrades. If it’s not provided continuous maintenance and stored at a target temperature, the celluloid will degrade and become unwatchable.  

     Besides preserving decaying film before it disintegrates and tracking down lost movies, archivists have broadened the perception and the scope of the accepted film canon through the discovery of lost treasures. For restorers, preservation too often involves the difficult decision of what can be saved. In the Philippines, the humidity and the lack of funding pose formidable challenges, making restoration of existing work a luxury. Loss is the foundation of archiving. If you’ve experienced the loss of a cinematic gem, the fervent goal is to prevent such casualties. With every lost film, there’s more lost history. And what’s been found and restored opens our eyes. All restoration projects start with research like finding the best elements that still exist whether the original camera negative or the best generation available. The copies are compared, frame by frame and the restorer takes the best essence to make a hybrid. Physical repairs are made frame by frame using digital technology. The original filmmakers, if still available, are always consulted. The film may be restored digitally but it will be preserved on analog. The goal is to restore, not to perfection but to what the film probably looked like when it first came out. Film must be preserved, saved, and above all, shown. The influence of old films on new filmmakers is incalculable. If we’re ever to learn from the past — a big if, but perhaps it’s still too early to surrender to despair then their work matters and in the purest sense, its preservation is of the deepest political consequence. Through films we bear witness to atrocities and wonders, crimes against humanity and everyday joys. We learn where we came from and see what we dream of. 

     Made in low-key, vérité style, writer/director TM Malones favors an austere approach that relies on long, unblinking takes, uses no music that doesn’t occur within the action itself. Remote lands are often treasure boxes full of local lore. Set in Gigantes Island, an island chain within the larger Western Visayas archipelago in the Visayan Sea, Salum (Dark Media Productions, Bonfire Productions, Filmpost Studios, Puregold Cinepanalo Film Festival, 2025) uses complex aesthetic combinations of camera and light to infuse its beauty by combining poetic imagery with diegetic conversation. Malones' living tableaus seem almost expressionistic, capturing informal portraits of Kasko (Allen Dizon) and daughter Arya (Chiristine Mary Demaisip) through gesture. Salum locates the richness in its simplicity, offering such tender moments as the living treasures Kasko finds in the ocean depths. The underwater scenes play with a bloc of soft muffled tones, often bestowing a preternatural sensuousness to the lush, rippling images, both instinctive and carefully considered. Salum’s washed-out palette pop against the deep blue, almost as though one were looking through a viewfinder. Malones' light seems veiled and diffused, at times overwhelming in its beguiling intensity. Rather than the clichéd pinscreen of the tiny human figure dwarfed by nature, Malones favors closer shots that align humans and the environment challenging romantic notions with his camera. Isolated with the father-daughter pair freed from worldly concern or by the image of a frustrated Kasko diving into the murky depths of the ocean, Salum produces such resonant images at a pace that belies the more relaxed rhythms of its story. 

     The director has a keen eye for blocking, carefully composing some shots so we have to rely on reflections and background figures. Dizon's magnetic performance brings to life one of the greatest depictions of flawed fatherhood in recent memory, as he brims with both an ineffaceable warmth and an endearing ruggedness. Dizon’s Kasko is far from the perfect dad, but we are drawn into his concerted effort to not only be a great parent but a best friend to his daughter. Demaisip’s Arya radiates with an innate curiosity, as her expressive, yet understated performance perfectly captures the sheer multitude of what Kasko means to her—and the profound impact it will have on her. Simply put, it’s one of the strongest performances in recent years. Salum excels off its two dynamic performances, taut direction and lush cinematography. It’s no surprise that it all beautifully coalesces in a cathartic swell of emotions that crashes down on its audience with immense power, unearthing all the faint and fleeting images we have of the people who mean the most to us. It truly is an astonishing achievement. Events play out at an unhurried pace, but the film certainly leaves a lasting emotional impression. Salum is left open-ended and that’s a perfect conclusion to this portrait of a father and daughter relationship. Deftly constructed and utterly heartbreaking, Salum announces Malones as an eminent storyteller of prodigious powers.

Director of Photography: TM Malones

Production Designer Kyle Fermindoza

Editor: Tara Illenberger

Sound Design: Fatima Nerikka Salim, Immanuel Verona

Music By: Armor Rapista

Written & Directed By: TM Malones

     There was a time when you couldn’t see classics such as Himala, Oro, Plata, Mata and Manila by Night. Now, these films are just a click away. But will a cinephilic culture continue to surround them? Does it matter if that culture continues to shrink as long as it’s enthusiastic? In the realm of film history appreciation, the reverse seems to be true, more films are being saved and restored than ever before. It remains an open question how many people will continue to watch them over time. Cinephiles get excited about the ability to access a range of classic movies that they often forget who gets alienated in the process. But if you were to drop the average layperson looking to learn more about film history into its offerings, let alone the classic film titles available they might get lost in the sheer amount of choices available. As the history of film expands, there will be a flattening of values. Some films continue to live on because of previous critical momentum. But as more people become less conversant in the language of classic Filipino films, the qualities that make them exceptional will most likely become increasingly obscure. Streaming sites need content that can serve the function of keeping users glued to their screens. Dwell time means engagement and revenue. The goal is to keep you occupied for hours and to keep you coming back. 

     These days, if there are enough celluloid assets of a movie, there is no excuse for them to ever become lost. The technology just didn’t exist to digitize them. The time required and cost of these restorations keeps coming down. Before, it could take up to a year to restore a film, now they can be done much, much faster. There’s no reason to think that trending direction is going to change. We’re in a golden age of film restoration, because now we’re able to see these films look better than they ever have. They’re scanning original negatives, if they can be found, at 4K resolution making us see all the little details. Now, it is an incredible time to be discovering older cinema. And that’s actually part of the reason these titles will remain accessible. Studios with major libraries have preservation budgets, but this new impulse toward volume means those budgets aren’t going away as long as the current streaming model exists. Viva Films and FPJ Productions are preserving their entire library. Every title may not get a full restoration, but they are digitally enhanced with a new high definition master. ABS-CBN Film Restoration package archive titles and remaster them while creating new artwork and extras. Today’s drive toward film preservation and restoration has been catalyzed by filmmakers singing the praises of movies that influenced them. And rising filmmakers need to know about the classics to fuel their own visions. There’s a certain amount of rules that come with the craft of filmmaking. Filmmakers won’t know whether or not something has been done before, unless they study Philippine cinema history.

     Lino Brocka finds the right tone in Dalaga si Misis, Binata si Mister (PLG Films, 1981) and it’s not always very easy because he wants to make his film both true and funny, not sacrificing laughs for the truth. But what was the right tone? Armed with Jose Dalisay Jr.'s screenplay, Brocka delivers an exceedingly (and sometimes excessively) subdued endeavor that benefits from its assortment of first-class performances and there’s little doubt, certainly, that Christopher de Leon handles his character, Dick Navarro quite gracefully, wearing an impenetrable, guarded expression and playing everything very close to the vest. Nora Aunor’s completely captivating work as Dick’s ex standing as a continuing highlight within the proceedings. She is undoubtedly responsible for the picture’s most indelible, show stopping moment, as Doria attempts to win her husband back. The oddest thing about Dalaga si Misis, Binata si Mister is how many small things about it are needlessly thoughtful and complex, even though the film is mainly a very simple if well-made example of what adult entertainment looked like in the 80s. The entire film is spent showing how Doria and Dick navigate both their mixed emotions and strong attraction to one another. Dalaga si Misis, Binata si Mister manages to be fast and funny while it breaks new ground. There's a kernel of truth here. There are a lot of good laughs, too. And there is also an important problem, but it doesn't manifest itself until the story is well under way. It gives us the release we need and sets Aunor’s personality for the movie’s second act with scenes of loneliness and the beginning of emotional recovery. Brocka 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 and emotional complexities of his characters. 

     Carmi Martin delivers a particularly sharp characterization during the first part of the story and unconvincing in the second, through no fault of her own. Nervous, demanding, high-strung and nevertheless charming, her Laila is all wrong for Dick — that's what makes their affair so unexpectedly touching and gives the story so much life. When the movie begins to insist that these two were made for each other, it gives the lie to all that has gone before. This feeling is intensified by the fact that neither character changes much during the course of the story. It doesn't help that the only amorous interludes occur very early on. Aunor takes chances here, never concerned about protecting herself and reveals as much in a character as anyone ever has. Doria is out on an emotional limb. New lovers dreading ex-wives must invariably summon someone like Aunor to mind. She is letting us see and experience things that many actresses simply couldn’t reveal. 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 craftspersons than we can readily realize. Rather than solely embodying the strength and confidence of a single protagonist, Dalaga si Misis, Binata si Mister mobilizes Doria’s arc as a signifier of feminist freedom without becoming didactic or trite. De Leon's performance begins very well and very seriously — all the laughs are built around him and he reacts calmly and cannily with an eye toward self-preservation. When Doria and Laila finally turn up in the same place, though, it's time for Dick to show the strain or to show the conflict, or to show something, De Leon lies low. Brocka perfects the ending by de-centering his perspective and the audience-centric satisfaction of a nihilistic open-ended conclusion, allowing the protagonist the final say regarding her personal satisfaction.

Screenplay: Jose Dalisay Jr.

Based on a Story By: Efren Abueg (Serialized in Liwayway Magazine)

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

Music: Rey Valera

Film Editor: Efren Jarlego

Production Design: Joey Luna (P.D.G.P)

Sound Supervision: Rolly Ruta

Directed By: Lino Brocka

 

     If the broad, life-affirming outlines of In His Mother's Eyes (7K Entertainment, 2023) are familiar to the point of banality, in the hands of actors as gifted as Maricel Soriano, Roderick Paulate and LA Santos, this tale of sacrifice and sibling rivalry achieves moments of real poignancy and power. There are few things as hard to play as genuine selflessness, but Paulate, without a trace of sanctimony, makes Bibs' goodness utterly natural. You can see why Santos's Tim would find comfort in his Uncle Bibs. He's rooted in the present and open to experience in ways his mother will never know. Soriano, all edges and nervous, guilty motion, makes us believe in Lucy's transformation without going soft. She's tough and abrasive, and she'll stay one. It's rare to see a film with such honest, transparent emotion and to spend time with actors who don't feel the need to cloak intimate feelings in irony. Paulate is especially moving, perhaps in part because we know him primarily as a comedian and forget all the tender emotional values he brings to drama. Soriano's ability to transform herself is remarkable. She manages to portray a quiet strengthIn without ever letting you doubt that her character is very ill. In point of fact, Tim's autism isn't really the story's main concern. Writers Jerry Gracio and Gina Marissa Tagasa are more interested in the relationship between Lucy and Bibs, and Tim's relationship with the world in general. Director FM Reyes overworks the close-ups, hits too many notes on the head, but he knows enough not to get in the way of his three superb stars, who put on a display of emotional fireworks that is lovely to behold. 

     In His Mother's Eyes has a child whose behavior is unpredictable. With a rich vein of bleak humor, the film is about the healing power of sacrifice. In His Mother’s Eyes has so much star power. The famous faces make it difficult, at first to sink into the story, but eventually we do. The characters become so convincing that even if we’re aware of Soriano and Paulate, it’s as if these events are happening to them. Once Lucy and Bibs are reunited, the material boils down into a series of probing conversations. There is a lot to say and Reyes lets them say it. How do families fall apart? Why do many have one sibling who takes on the responsibilities of maintaining the family home, while others get away as far as they can? Is one the martyr and the other taking advantage? Or does everyone get the role they really desire? What In His Mother's Eyes argues is that Lucy by fleeing the home, may have shortchanged herself and that Bibs might have benefitted. Or perhaps not, perhaps Lucy was better off keeping out of the way. There is a point in the film where such questions inspired parallel questions in my own mind. All families have illness and death, and therefore all families generate such questions. The true depth of In His Mother's Eyes is revealed in the fact that the story is not about these questions. They are incidental. The film focuses instead on the ways Lucy and Bibs deal with their relationship–which they both desperately need to do–and the way Tim learns something, however haphazardly, about the difference between true unhappiness and the complaints of childhood. This emotionally affecting drama makes the point that the love we give to others is the only thing that makes life worth living. In His Mother's Eyes is full of complex, well-observed emotion and gives us the rare satisfaction of respecting its characters, forgiving their flaws and contradictions and celebrating their capacity to love.

A Film By: FM Reyes

Screenplay: Jerry Gracio, Gina Marissa Tagasa

Directors of Photography: Neil Daza, LPS, Rap Ramirez

Production Design: Marxie Maolen F. Fadul

Editor: Vanessa Ubas de Leon

Music Composed By: Carmina Robles-Cuya

Sound Design: Albert Michael M. Idioma, Garem Roi B. Rosales

     We have seen many directors deliver great pieces of work through modernized folk horror, however, many more have gone under the radar. All of these capture a wide variety of tales about isolation, religion and the essence of nature by using elements of folklore to invoke dread, fear or a sheer sense of unease. Going through a similar route comes Adolfo B. Alix, Jr.’s Mananambal (BC Entertainment Production, 2025), creating an atmospheric sensation that immerses you in the story more than the viewer initially anticipated. It might get under the audience’s skin, however, both in frustration because of its slow-burn approach and narrative repetition. Some montages take more time than they need to. The film is at its best when it embraces its environment that fills the screen with unease–the sensory experience that the story brings. Alix builds tension not necessarily slowly, but calmly and cautiously. He waits and lets the film’s ideas gradually carry the story and its characters, only to then raise the hairs on your neck when you least expect it. Mananambal focuses on the repercussions of hiding from danger instead of recognizing its existence. Alix has a unique directing style and it translates here. And the film has this drama that is sorely missing in most modern horror. Lucia (Nora Aunor), conceals her daughter, Alma (Bianca Umali) in the forest, devoid of contact with other people. This is not a story I can relate in any detail without giving away the twists that occur when Alma is pushed into a corner. Mananambal has less gratuitous violence than the average horror movie. Every bloody episode advances the story. There’s a cold beauty in the way the film has been shot, allowing us to experience the rawness and wonder of nature through Alma’s eyes. Alix has created a brand of horror film that poses lots of imponderable questions about the relationship between mothers and daughters. It asks if there is an inviolable core of goodness or badness within people that can survive the most bitter, violent experiences.   

     Lucia has an instinct striving towards the good while Alma has been permanently scarred, both physically and mentally. When Lucia is first recognized for instance, nobody spells out for the viewer what her significance is. Her presence alone and the reaction to it says everything. Much later, we do learn more in a situation where such knowledge would naturally come to the surface. Alma benefits from social change in a way Lucia either cannot or will not. Alix highlights why forgiveness and reconciliation is often a responsibility foisted upon the next generation, while it’s perhaps obviously easier to forgive someone who didn’t try to burn you alive, even if they did it to someone else, Alma explores the world with a cleaner slate than her mother, at least for a while. Aunor's remarkable performance as Lucia reminds us once more of how completely devoted she is to every role. She can do more with a glance, a simple shift in her eyes, than most actors can in an entire film's worth of screen time. She is capable of slowly revealing her vulnerability - another trait that sets her apart from other actors. Umali shines in a convincingly distressing performance, one that hopefully gets her many more offers for other dramatic roles. From the intimate cinematography, Mananambal excels at providing a very different level of fright. It’s through this dynamic that Alix examines the reverse perspective as children learn to forgive their parents, be it for beliefs they attempt to pass on. Alix and his editors don’t hold your hand as they guide you through the trickier, stream-of-consciousness final passages of the movie, whose scares are punctuated by moments of transcendent visual poetry. Eventually, Alix miraculously finds a way to make you feel pity and tenderness for Alma, as she rues her life and what she’s destroyed and lost. A harrowing story for Alma emerges that brings us closer to understanding her own trauma and why she’s resigned herself to a life of ritualistic destruction. Mananambal is a decidedly unorthodox type of horror, one that won’t work for those seeking superficial jump scares. But taken on a metaphysical level in tandem with the film’s motifs and themes, it all works together to create a symphony of dread, right up until the moment when it all comes to a head and real blood is shed.

Sound Design: Jannina Mikaela Minglanilla

Editing: Xila Ofloda, Mark Sucgang, Mark llona

Music: Mikoy Morales

Production Designer: Jhon Paul Sapitula

Director of Photography: Nelson Macababat Jr., LPS

Written and Directed By: Adolfo B. Alix, Jr.

     Maning Borlaza's Stolen Moments (Regal Films Inc., 1987) is melodramatic in the traditional sense, not in the modern pejorative sense, in that it concerns issues of class division and sexual yearning. Alex Bernabe (Miguel Rodriguez) wants a good job, lots of money and a pretty wife on his arm. And he could have it if not for his embarrassing lower-class impulses. His identity is the very thing that prevents him from attaining what he desires. The story crescendos as Alex comes closer to realizing his ambitions. And just as an opportunity presents itself, his past mistakes threaten to derail his progress, resulting in a dramatic downturn. Borlaza composes shots that magnify Alex’s status in an unsympathetic world he nevertheless desperately wants to get inside. This lets us understand Alex’s attraction to plain Marietta (Rio Locsin), but also his desire for the pampered Carol (Alma Moreno) and why it consumes him to the point of destruction. Despite a prohibition against male suitors by Marietta's Aunt Saling (Perla Bautista), an encounter lands Alex in her room and the two spend the night together. It is here where the stained hand of movie fate intervenes on Stolen Moments, aligning to give Alex what he momentarily wants, only to hold that against him later. When he is with Carol, Borlaza bathes him in light. These sequences are overwhelmingly sensual and intimate, Rodriguez showing us just how significantly he was remaking not only screen acting, but also definitions of masculinity. His men were not afraid to expose their vulnerability to the point of emotional ruin. 

     Lawrence Fajardo emphasizes the gleaming, soulless surfaces in Walker (VMX, 2025), a film accurate and attentive enough to convey the appalling emptiness of streetwalker Alex's (Robb Guinto) world. Walker is attractive to look at, shot in a fluid, semi-poetic style. The story is told in fragments out of chronological sequence. The spectator is obliged to work at piecing them together. As criticism, however, if criticism this be, Walker is ultimately timid and evasive. It relies far too much on its self-consciously oblique approach, which tends to take center stage and far too little on genuine insight into the world it represents. This is a self-conscious film from a gifted director who has often been prepared to go where the mainstream doesn't flow. Successful in both, Fajardo has balanced his ability to make commercial hits with his desire to do more personal and innovative films. This one offers an interesting idea but falters in the casting. Once the novelty of the casting wears off, the performance offers nothing to hold onto, no meaningful insight into either the character, Alex or Guinto herself. There are layers upon layers here, Guinto taking on a serious acting role in which she plays a woman whose job is to make herself an object of male fantasy. Alex (and one can’t help but imagine, Guinto) are indistinguishable: blank, dull, prone to choosing her words carefully and choosing the most banal ones imaginable. On the rare occasions when the conversation shifts to alternative topics, it is seldom enhanced. 

     In what is either a commendably honest internal critique or more likely, an attempt to head off inevitable complaints about the performance, the film practically assures us, she’s playing someone who’s completely affectless. Either way, we’re left with little more than the pretty surfaces, which those inclined could presumably see at greater expanse in Guinto’s work. It would have been possible, I suppose, for Fajardo to work his way around the collapsed star at the center of his film if the characters in her orbit brought something to the encounters, as if she were a mirror held up to their desires and disappointments. But the rest of the cast spends most of their time, like us, marveling at how closed off she is. The movie is short on information about the actual business of being a walker. The filmmakers seems to be supposing that the awfulness of most of these people means there is no high drama to be extracted from their lives. Does Mara's (Stephanie Raz) murder, for example or the fate of the innocent and not-so-innocent individuals, offer no material for tragedy? Is there something fundamentally different about the whoring that Guinto’s character does versus the whoring that everybody else in the film does? Bringing bits and pieces of this unpleasant, narcissistic life in Walker, for example, is not a satisfying substitute for explaining why such a social existence came into being and why it fell apart. No perspective at all, in this instance, means ignoring certain larger realities. Walker  proves that a visually striking film can be made on the fly. But grab-and-run is a more fruitful strategy for images than scripts.

Sound Design: Nicole Rosacay

Musical Scorer: Mbella SineScore

Production Design: Ian Traifalgar, Endi "Hai" Balbuena

Editor: Ysabelle Denoga

Cinematographer: Albert Banzon

Screenplay: Jim Flores

Directed By: Lawrence Fajardo

     In a movie about someone with cancer, a delicate balancing act takes place and determines if the production falls into intolerably melodramatic territory or emerges as something that connects with viewers on a deeper level. Go too broad and you’ll fall into a series of clichés, but put the material in the hands of strong characters developed by even stronger actors and you have something like Lemuel C. Lorca's Paquil (Resiko Entertainment Productions, 2025). Former actress Cristina (Beauty Gonzalez) discovers she has cancer — an affliction that changes her relationship with overbearing mother, Bing (Lilet Esteban) and musician Paolo (JM de Guzman), who wants to help her in the only way he really knows how. Gonzalez delivers a largely genuine, layered performance. Her character rides the emotional roller coaster one might expect from her situation — shock, depression, isolation and most glaringly, anger. Cristina has trouble expressing emotions and the cancer forces her to lash out about what she’s feeling. Clearly the flip side to De Guzman’s strengths, Gonzalez at times seems to be playing catchup to his free-flowing interplay whether she likes it or not. De Guzman further demonstrates his superb ability to find the comedy in individuals programmed for deadpan objectivity. Their scenes together are particularly brilliant in how they push beyond the first joke. When Paolo’s attempt to kiss Cristina comfortingly falls flat, De Guzman is splendid in his discomfort, betraying Paolo’s growing affection for her. Somehow all of those involved have managed to avoid the temptation to inflate their experience.This is not an easy story to tell by any means. 

     Both Archie del Mundo’s screenplay and Lorca’s direction struggle with aim and avoiding cliche, a pitfall Paquil falls into repeatedly. There are the sappy, predictable moments with Cristina looking stoic and of course, revelations and pontifications on the meaning and fragility of life. Lorca aims high and comes close to his mark on occasion, but the often cringe-inducing near-misses outweigh the hits. The story raises some practical problems. Cristina’s cancer functions primarily as a plot device. Details of her progress and continued treatment are postponed and in general, she seems in good health for a terminal cancer patient. Cristina and Paolo’s time together depends on illness to elevate an ordinary romance into transcendence. Paquil incorporates an ambitious set of events and by the end, some work better than others - while a few are overtly ham-fisted and jammed into the story. However, Del Mundo’s script also evinces touches of real grace by confronting its conflict head-on, often painfully so. Paquil emphasizes to heartbreaking effect the soul-crushing loneliness any cancer sufferer has to deal with. Filled with a cast of such talented players, entertaining moments are sprinkled throughout and you get the feeling that, with a push or a prod in one direction or another and a clearer aim, it might just have hit its mark more often than it does. It’s easy to reinforce the film’s message that having cancer makes you realize how important it is to define and redefine your connections and who means what to you. Paquil is a rare movie—one that is honest. It’s a truly moving story that, despite a tendency toward the facile, never relies on tricks to make us feel something. 

Music: Paulo Almaden

Editing: Lemuel Lorca

Sound Design: Immanuel Verona, Fatima Nerikka Salim

Production Design:Carmela Danao

Director of Photography: Marvin Reyes

Screenplay: Archie del Mundo

Directed By: Lemuel C. Lorca

     Though the title teases at religious allegory, Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr.'s Pieta (Alternative Vision Cinema, Noble Wolf, 2023) is far from your average scripture. With no room for hackneyed preaching or politics, the film's faith system is wrapped in a verité-style drama, in which sacrifice and persecution are indistinguishable. Characters find redemption through punishment and seek truth through manipulation. Alix prefers his characters to speak more through deed than word. Often delving into deeply transgressive corners of the human psyche, Pieta never goes where we expect it to. And it has some important things to say about revenge and sacrifice. Alfred Vargas as Isaac is a marvel to watch. His transformation is almost impossible to tear away from. Isaac's problems turn out to be of a more internal and existential origin than in any outward pressures weighing him down. Vargas’ intensity is well matched by Nora Aunor, bringing a sense of disturbing mystery to Rebecca whose relationship with her son takes a surprise twist as Isaac suddenly remembers an incident from his youth. Every so often, bursts of affectionate spontaneity erupt between Rebecca and Isaac, demonstrating the genuine love and bond that they share – and yet, the connection remains fragile, derailed so quickly whenever either one of them slips through the emotional cracks that ennui has eroded into their core personalities.

     Nothing in director Lawrence Fajardo's features approaches the power and skill of The Hearing (Cinemalaya, Pelikulaw, Center Stage Productions, 2024) which represents a major leap forward in all departments. Proving himself an astonishingly accomplished director as well as a measured storyteller. While this is unquestionably an issue film, it tackles its subject with intelligence and heart. Fajardo uses a trial to structure the film, though this isn’t a courtroom drama and those scenes are wisely kept to a minimum. He does a superb job through a mixture of shrewd editing and a multitude of sounds, generally keeping the camera just below or above twelve-year-old Lucas' (Enzo Osorio) head. In following his young protagonist and his mother Madonna (Mylene Dizon), Fajardo articulates the impossibility of the lives bestowed upon them. It’s a deeply assured piece of direction and though it only plays a few emotional notes, they are ones that won’t soon leave your memory. The Hearing gives us course after course of heart-wrenching scenarios tied to the POV of its child protagonist that it’s hard to get a sense of any course of action than the one chosen. This is not an easy movie by any stretch of the imagination. Lucas' situation goes from dire to almost unwatchable. The director allows us to enter into the boy’s mind. We watch this movie not as concerned adults but as complicit secret-sharers and that makes all the difference. But the polemical is never as powerful as the personal and Fr. Mejor's (Rom Factolerin) part of the story illuminates the whole with nauseating clarity. They welcomed him because he was their conduit to the church on which they counted for solace and support. By the time it's told, his unnerving air of detachment has been shown to be emblematic of an indifference endemic in the church itself. Fajardo isn’t interested in giving the audience the kind of relief so absent from the children Lucas represents. 

     Ginhawa (Cinemalaya, Black Toro Productions, 2022) is a captivating underdog story charting familiar ground, but in a way that feels organic, for the most part. The screenplay by writer/director Christian Paolo Lat and co-writers Mia Salisbury, Lester Caacbay and Anju de Vera works best when it focuses on the burgeoning relationship between Anton (Andrew Ramsay) and Jepoy (Shun Andrei Bacalla) as they embark on their journey. Their relationship evolves and gets put to the test. It's fortunate, then, that Anton and Jepoy remain compelling characters and most importantly, palpably human, except for an injury that Jepoy sustains later in the film and unrealistically survives. Characters arrive to make their lives difficult at the start while others stay hidden until it’s their turn to do the same. So Anton and Jepoy are more or less sandwiched by oblivion. Forwards and backwards hold no solace. The only place where they’re seemingly safe is on the boxing ring itself. And they do have some fun, trying to make the best of it. But you can’t ignore your fate forever. Eventually you have to face the demons and pick a direction. They’ve each led a life that was never built with an escape hatch. It won’t therefore be difficult to figure out any narrative progressions. Has Anton given all he has just to sacrifice his soul for nothing more than a chance at happiness? Or will he find the courage to stand-up to the world that’s done everything in its power to keep him down? Just because you won’t find any profound revelations doesn’t mean the experience is without merit. 

     One could argue that the script’s shortcomings are the actors’ gain since they’re each asked to render the emotional beats authentic despite their convenience. It helps that they all know their failings internally no matter how vehemently they argue against them. Ramsay has the juiciest role. He’s the really dangerous one, when push comes to shove brought home by an inevitable violent climax that features a superb supporting performance by Dido de la Paz as the dreaded Coach Jun. Bacalla is a quiet authentic presence, weighted down with pain and it is touching to watch him loosen up as Jepoy’s bond with Anton deepens. Duane Lucas Pascua gives a fascinating performance as Anton's older brother, Saul. The anxiety is always flickering deep in Pacsua’s eyes, even at his most brash and loud. And though his role is brief, Rolando Inocencio’s Tiyo Noel deftly conveys righteous indignation. Lat's direction is intimate and lived-in, he seems at home in the grungy rooms and streets. He doesn’t glamorize the bloody results of boxing, either. He has a way of showing tenderness and brutality in alternate scenes, with music layered into the basest of scenes. There’s little doubt that Ginhawa improves substantially as it progresses, as the movie’s effectiveness is, in its early stages, undercut by an emphasis on overly familiar plot elements and character types. It has a nice, low-key vibe to it. By the time it reaches its somewhat spellbinding third act and downright powerful finale, Ginhawa has cemented its place as an erratic yet completely rewarding little drama that’s ultimately much better than it has any right to be.

Directed By: Christian Paolo Lat

Written By: Christian Paolo Lat, Mia Salisbury, Lester Caacbay, Anju de Vera

Director of Photography: Dominic Lat

Production Design: Melvin Lacerna

Editor: Alec Figuracion

Musical Director: Pau Protacio

Sound Design: Jannina Mikaela Minglanilla, Garem Rosales

     It’s devastating, the way director Maryo J. delos Reyes depicted how the domino-effect destruction of 1995’s Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig (Regal Films, Inc.) came within milliseconds of never happening. Spanky (Christopher de Leon) could pick up and perish the idea of sleeping with exotic, enticing Donna (Alma Concepcion) — returning home determined to reawaken his wife’s passion. Likewise, Mae (Lorna Tolentino), could reduce the rage at discovering his infidelity — resolving to attempt reconciliation and not avenge a fling that blossomed into full-fledged intimacy. Delos Reyes has never been much for subtlety, but when is true sexual passion not abandoned inhibitions and wild expression? He understands, though, that the psychology of erotic fantasy has as much potential to obliterate as to titillate. Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig never arouses, judges or mounts a morality play. It’s a dark, delusional piece of sultry fantasia that doesn’t condemn or condone Spanky or Mae’s choices. It simply presents people surprised by the ease with which they transgress and allow little white lies to fester into gigantic, tumorous deceptions. Delos Reyes has always been a stylish filmmaker, but he gives Sa Ngalan Pag-ibig much more than surface elegance. His choice of angles and colors, his use of shadows and especially his mastery of editing all work to create a unified psychological texture. He's aided by an unusually honest and perceptive screenplay by Raquel Villavicencio and Wali Ching, and by De Leon and Tolentino whose performances go to a place of complete emotional nakedness. There's a remarkable sequence in which Mae goes to Donna's apartment. Her emotional state is one anybody could recognize, though it's hard to put a name to it. She's trembling and we can feel it. Not every filmmaker can convey that physical sense. Delos Reyes takes us inside it, so that we understand what it would be like to be her, to inhabit a body electric with nonstop longing. It's not an enviable state. It's more like a fever. Tolentino is asked to run the full spectrum of emotions, from unexpected joy to emptiness to heartbreak and her every step is a flawless grace note. As Mae becomes more and more aware of her husband's deceitfulness, the anger, hatred and insecurities that come with it are palpably felt by Tolentino's powerhouse turn. Delos Reyes contemplates newer models when he first lingers on Tolentino's sex appeal but, in the end, the actress fights back with evocative blood-splatter. 

     A word should also be said for De Leon, here eschewing all his usual tics. Spanky knows Mae too well and the big confrontation scene is affecting because it turns on the heart of the dilemma. A man who loves his wife so much versus a man who exists entirely in the present. While Concepcion has no problem making any man vulnerable, in Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig, she easily captures her character giving Donna the demeanor of a free, uncomplicated but somewhat mysterious woman who enjoys the games she plays. Perhaps the most humanistically genuine motion picture Delos Reyes has yet put to celluloid, Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig takes an unflinching and emotionally rattling look at the recklessness of infidelity and how it can destroy the lives of all three parties involved, leaving no one satisfied. While thriller elements are introduced into the story over an hour into the proceedings, Delos Reyes resists the temptation of resorting to horror movie cliches. Here, his intentions are set on a notably higher and more thought-provoking wrung. Sex is not just a passing fancy, but profoundly disruptive, not life enhancing but life shattering and what's broken cannot be remade. The fling cannot be unflung. A skipping record is Delos Reyes' transitional element between Mae’s comfort and fear, a Model of the Year trophy, the haunting reminder of nature bringing and tearing lovers apart. Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig represents the best of both worlds. It excites the emotions in the way a good melodrama should, but it also stirs the quieter feelings of pity and helplessness we associate with tragedy. It's the rare kind of movie that comes along only a handful of times-- gut-level entertainment that's oddly profound. It is not often that viewers are gifted with a rare adult film that presents a serious view of sex, love and relationships. As a showcase for marvelous actors at the top of their game and a poignant portrait of a family in the midst of unraveling, Sa Ngalan ng Pag-ibig gets it just right. 

Sound Engineer: Joe Climaco

Production Designer: Benjie de Guzman

Director of Photography: Charlie Peralta, FSC

Film Editor: George Jarlego, FEGMP

Musical Director: Jimmy Fabregas

Screenplay: Raquel Villavicencio, Wali Ching

Directed By: Maryo J. delos Reyes

     Most movies succeed or fail because of the way they tell their stories and develop their characters. Balota (Cinemalaya, GMA Pictures, GMA Entertainment Group, 2024) does introduce remarkably three-dimensional characters, but it tells their story in an awfully off-hand sort of way. People who view movies only on this level and ask questions, are cutting themselves off from the unique experience offered by Balota. Loose ends in the plot would be important if the film depended on telling a story. It does not. The new experimental films and several of the unconventional, recent feature films don’t always make their points this simply. Instead, they draw the audience into a series of seemingly unrelated events and make their point by the way these events butt up against one another. The thread running through is that they’re events happening at the same time as the events in the plot. They establish a climate for the story. Emmy's (Marian Rivera) acts do not take place simply because they are invented. Writer/Director Kip F. Oebanda makes it clear they take place because they’re the sort of acts that are in the air. Almost all movies could take place anytime and nearly anywhere. A series of faceless heroes and heroines have their crisis, solve it, move on. There is a vague romantic subplot that surrounds Balota, but Oebanda leaves the details of the relationship up to interpretation. He isn’t concerned with plot mechanics, other than the central theme of Emmy's social conscience. He saw her as a human being manipulated and influenced by events.  

     Oebanda's camera ended up getting caught in the maelstrom of violence and what’s surprising is that his approach is so rare. Perhaps all directors secretly enjoy playing God, controlling events, dipping down into the screenplay. They don’t like their movies to give the impression they’re not running things. Oebanda's directorial posture in Balota is, however, frankly that of an observer. He is as surprised by the events in it as we are and he’s at pains to make them seem as random. He doesn’t immediately supply us with connections, but rather makes us work to piece them together and it isn’t until more than half an hour into the film that we realize how these characters’ lives will begin to intersect and create a narrative we can follow. Instead, he uses his opening scenes to establish a climate within which the movie will take place. This sort of direction requires more work from the audience and can offer greater rewards. In the conventional story framework of most movies, the audience can be completely passive, allowing events to unfold as if they made sense. Oebanda's film is one of several movies that knows these things about the movie audience. To understand the way Balota is put together is to understand something about the way events get transferred onto film. Conventional movie plots telegraph themselves because we know all the basic genres and typical characters. Rivera, maintaining her character, rushes through the chaos of the actual conflict, delivering a natural and phenomenal performance as Emmy. The violence becomes part of the story, yet it exists outside of it, as well. That’s Balota's message on the level of story. It can also be seen as Oebanda’s message on the level of technique. Balota is important and absorbing because of the way Oebanda weaves all the elements together. 

Sound Engineer: Albert Michael M. Idioma, Nicole Rosacay

Musical Composer: Emerzon Texon

Editor: Chuck Gutierrez

Production Designer: Eero Yves S. Francisco, PDCP

Director of Photography: Tey Clamor, LPS

Written and Directed By: Kip F. Oebanda

     Nympha (Regal Films, Inc., 1980) is a silly, classy, enjoyable erotic film that was an all-time box-office success. It’s not remotely significant enough to deserve that honor, but in terms of its genre, it’s very well done, filled with attractive and intriguing people and scored with brittle, teasing music. It’s a relief to see a movie that returns to a certain amount of sexy sophistication. This tale of a young woman discovering herself was a headline-grabbing sensation when sex in films had gone mainstream. Its characters inhabit a world of wicker furniture, soft pastels, vaguely Victorian lingerie, backlighting, forests of potted plants and lots of diaphanous draperies shifting in the breeze. It’s a world totally devoid of any real content, of course and Nympha (Alma Moreno) is right at home in it. She’s the eldest daughter of Don Bernardo Monteverde (Johnny Wilson), a shipping magnate allegedly raped by one hundred young men. This experience propels her into a dizzying series of sexual encounters that range from the merely kinky to the truly bizarre. The screenplay from Toto Belano brought some class to the continuous bumping and grinding while Joey Gosiengfiao's direction shines the spotlight on the female star that gave the film much of its success. Nympha is executed with a patina of respectability. The cinematography takes advantage of the scenery, the dialogue is polished to the point of pretentiousness and there’s tact to the film’s atmosphere that definitely sets it apart from crasser approaches. This being said, much of the material feels ridiculous, offensive or hopelessly naïve by today’s standards, lending the film a veneer of sophistication, which if you looked a little closer doesn't ring true. If we were to be grown up about sex, then we must be as liberated as Nympha.