SARI-SARING SINENG PINOY

     Tremendously played by Aunor, Socorro is a woman who generally likes to keep her emotions in check. Suzara makes her face the center of the movie. Many films refer to a lead character’s face – the reaction shot is not a new technique, but here, it’s about as well as it can be done. The real highlight of the film, though, is Aunor. Socorro’s complexity is phenomenally conveyed by Aunor, who is able to portray her character’s internal struggle with a few simple facial gestures. Socorro feels lived in and it’s the kind of performance that evokes a sense of familiarity and empathy with the viewer. Aunor commands the proceedings and Suzara lets you know it with lingering close-ups of her face, underscoring her beauty and boundless ability to make us care deeply no matter what role she undertakes. Aunor is always good, but performances like this suggest that for all her acclaim, she might actually be underrated. The movie works because of the beautiful brush strokes of Danny Dalena although Delgado clearly does a bit of painting and drawing himself. Suzara holds his camera still for long minutes at a time as we watch the blank page being turned into something beautiful. Many long moments go by without a word, it's that mesmerizing. Suzara's presentation is all matter of fact and in its matter of factness, Mga Uod at Rosas feels downright chaste. Suzara isn't a mechanical filmmaker, but there's a casual dexterity to the movie's craftsmanship; its aesthetics strike with a simplicity that belies its complexities as a work of art. Long takes, slow zooms and deep focus give Mga Uod at Rosas a sense of disciplined stillness, all the better to record the meticulous efforts of its two chief subjects as they make art out of life. There's more to Mga Uod at Rosas of course, but we take intermittent breaks to spend a moment here and there with Ding and Socorro. At the same time, the film does take its own twists and turns. If you suspect that his characters' faith will be tested and and hearts broken, you suspect correctly, just not necessarily in the ways you might imagine. Suzara has created his own work of art in directing Mga Uod at Rosas. Art and life are viewed as one and the same problem.

Production Design: Manny Morfe, Danny Dalena

Story & Screenplay: Edgardo M. Reyes

Director of Photography: Romeo Vitug

Film Editor: Ike Jarlego, Jr.

Musical Director: George Canseco

Directed By: Romy V. Suzara

     Joselito Altarejos' Greatest Performance (2076 Kolektib, Pelikula Indiopendent, Studio X, 2026) sets the stage for a movie wholly consumed by Sunshine Cruz's single, hypnotizing presence. Her Yvonne Rivera invites a tantalizing mixture of fascination and pity. Less nonfiction portrait than a poetic framing of domestic frustrations, Greatest Performance is a lot more than flailing show business aspirations. On the surface, Yvonne’s hardships aren’t unique. In Greatest Performance, Altarejos positions his star in the grips of inner turmoil while constantly battling to display self-confidence. As Yvonne revisits the possibility of returning to show business, the validity of her earlier efforts gradually come into play.  Though her complaints occasionally reach a pathetic extreme, the story’s dramatic weight holds: She’s the embodiment of genuine talent squandered by personal hangups and debilitating gender barriers, Yvonne is trapped somewhere in between the two. Altarejos fashions a narrative out of Yvonne's disarray by capturing her in small asides in between the greater developments in her emerging crisis. She reflects on her mistakes and rehearses. Even so, by virtue of Yvonne’s uneasy state of affairs, the movie delivers a canny look at the ills of the entertainment industry. Ms. Cruz expresses emotion no less candidly than she would in any context: Even her rawest confessions are delivered with an actorly awareness of dramatic consequence, there’s little doubting her ferocity as an actress. A performer is different, to be sure someone uniquely conscious of the various roles they must inhabit and trained to do so but in degree, not in kind.

     Actor Soliman Cruz looks to be having a field day behaving badly as filmmaker Mar Alvarez, the personification of the cruelty women experience in the industry, while Oliver Aquino is totally committed to Drew's trajectory. In more precocious hands, Altarejos' densely self-reflexive premise could come across as coldly eggheaded, but his formal conviction and profound empathy for his subject ensure the film never feels ruled by its concept. The helmer also acts as his own editor and writer, and his crisp, refined work in both those departments contributes to the films' simultaneous sense of intimacy and intent examination, but his camera’s investment in Ms. Cruz is unwavering — and she returns it with equally committed dependence. Greatest Performance convincingly reconciles private passion with public desire by suggesting that, for women in particular, the 21st-century limelight is always on, no matter the setting or venue. Altarejos' extraordinary collaboration with Cruz is a playful, provocative examination of self-performance. As much as Greatest Performance is a rare and singular portrait of a woman struggling to stage a comeback, it succeeds best as a layered commentary on the many facets of performance. Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of Greatest Performance, in the end, is how much of a true collaboration it is between filmmaker and subject. Ms. Cruz stands as Altarejos' creative equal: an emotionally charged, complicated and melancholic spirit who lives through intersecting roles in order to find her own peace of mind. Exhilarating and unnerving in equal measure, Greatest Performance is the rare film that could be said to capture life in its purest, most lyrical form.

Director/Writer: Joselito Altarejos

Directors of Photography: Manuel Garcellano, Marco Bertillo Mata

Editor: Joselito Altarejos

Sound Desigbn: Alex Tomboc, Bebet Casas

Musical Score: Arbi Barbarona

Production Design: 2076 Kolektib

     Adolfo Borinaga Alix Jr.'s Poon (Banana Entertainment, C-Frame Production, 2025) is an exceptional horror film, but not in the way most would assume. Its general horror content may have been recycled from previous movies and its inner intelligence and coherence may no longer awe discerning horror fans that have followed recent Filipino movie trends. Nevertheless, where Poon truly impresses is in its setting-construction, in the unhurried building of atmosphere, in the attention to detail and characterization, and of course, its top-notch acting. Alix delivers a formally confident story within a detailed family dynamic and thoughtfully conceived visual metaphors to reflect them. The horror erupts from his characters, their relationships and behavior toward one another, as opposed to some random external force exacting its influence on the family. Their broken feelings lay the groundwork for something even more terrifying, all of it pouring from raw emotions, captured by the impressive cast. In the first scene, the family is struck by a tragedy. Peping (Ronaldo Valdez) a man whose domineering presence has tormented his wife, the distraught Berta (Gina Pareno) for some time. Sol (Jaclyn Jose) is suffused with torment of the most lived-in kind. Ria's (Janice de Belen) own relationship with her husband, Daniel, may have troubles, too (weighty ones, given that he’s played by the ever-somber Allen Dizon). Ria's eldest child, Carlo (Will Ashley), the disaffected teenage son, whose younger sister, Faye (Althea Ablan) with the dead stare of a statue, begins to experience visual manifestations. The house becomes an ominous focal point for their despair. As Ria and Mae’s (Ara Mina) tensions with their sister Adele (Lotlot de Leon) grow more extreme (she suffers from shocking nightmares), Faye’s tendency to sleepwalk adds another unpredictable variable to the growing impression of a hidden force overseeing their lives. And then it happens—a disturbing accident sets the horror into motion. Alix plays well in this sandbox, slowly pulling his cords tighter and tighter until the tension threatens to snap everyone in two. But the more we see, the more we become aware of something sinister in the air. Jerry B. Gracio's screenplay masterfully keeps us off balance, preventing us from knowing if we’re seeing something real. Part of what makes Poon so unsettling is its stubborn refusal to reveal what subgenre it's playing in. Is it a psychological horror? A standard haunted house? A possession thriller? Something else? As soon as you think you’ve got a handle on what this movie is and what it’s trying to accomplish, it suddenly switches gears and begins playing in an entirely different milieu. This allows Alix to mix and match tropes to fit his ultimate aim, and while we might not always be shocked by what comes next, we’re often surprised by why it happens.

     A familiar blend of horror tropes is expertly employed by Alix without the usual gimmickry: the eerie appearance of a figure from a distance and the room with a disturbing secret. Strange things start happening to the family, particularly surrounding Sol's daughter. With her husband now gone, Berta delivers an outpouring of her family’s troubling history with tragedy and inexplicable death—a history she has perhaps never verbalized. And just when we think we understand the film’s horror rules, the rules change and it develops into something far more disturbing than we could have imagined. Poon isn't non-stop ghost action. It's more like a psychological thriller established, at first, as a family drama–but one that carefully builds the tension and anxiety to unbearable levels until something completely terrifying happens on the screen. Nevertheless, the film’s purpose, built in gradual pieces throughout, leads to disturbing sights and revelations, the unflinching and uncanny sort. Alix demonstrates with this astoundingly confident film that he’s more capable of orchestrating emotion, the fantastical and the appalling in a prolonged mood of uncertainty—all leading to a chilling grand design. The unbalanced approach to storytelling is perfectly matched by Alix’s cast, who seem to all implicitly trust their leader and are willing to follow him down his terrifying rabbit hole. Ablan impressively manages to be deeply sympathetic and fundamentally unsettling at the same time, De Leon delivers an intense, phenomenally complex performance. It’s Jose’s film though, drawing on such a well of emotions, she’s stressful to look at even in static imagery. And yet, as in most of her performances, there’s a resilience, in that tough pragmatic gaze. Sol is damned if she’s going to be a victim. Poon is an assault on your emotional response. And that’s where the film really shines–its ability to create emotional turbulence and how strange it is to associate those feelings alongside traditional horror-given emotion; fear. Poon is also a film that examines how a father’s past can haunt a family after his death, proving that the sins of our parents have lasting effects on our own psyches. The pain and the demons in Poon aren’t only literal; they’re the same ghosts that torture families struggling with grief. The realism, the death and the pain of Poon are nearly impossible to separate. 

Direction: Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr.

Screenplay: Jerry B. Gracio

Director of Photography: TM Malones

Editors: Xila Ofloda, Mark Llona

Music: Eigen Ignacio

Production Design: Jay Custodio

Sound Design: Immanuel Verona, Fatima Nerikka Salim

     Pila fashions itself as a social drama about the poor, but it also has plenty to say about the indignities of aging and where the two intersect: turns out being elderly and poor are a deadly combination. Regina discovers she has missed the digital revolution. When you’re poor, problems have a way of compounding. It’s as frustrating as it is relatable. And probably necessary. The true power of this gentle, realistic film that displays the kindness of others and human hope, lies in showing ordinary people struggling on a daily basis against the system, that is paradoxically designed to keep them in the same miserable place. The scenes are mounted in such a compelling way that speaks volumes. Indeed, and throughout his solid career, Alix never needed special effects or modern techniques to create a powerful film. He just focuses on simple characters, which we can easily identify ourselves with and exposes their plausible problems with heart and emotion. Despite the film’s deliberate pace and quiet tone, Alix isn’t interested in letting anybody off the hook with a happy ending. Escapist cinema, it is not. But with Pila, he is using the medium for one of its most crucial purposes: to shine a light on injustices he sees around him, as well as on our capacity for human decency. The greatest virtue of Pila is its patience in confronting painstakingly the incremental humiliations visited on the neediest in society. Alix's film is about empathy, a portrait of ordinary people, blunt, bracing yet loving and far, far from mere polemic.

Screenplay: Ralston Jover

Director of Photography: Nelson Macabatbat, Jr., LFS

Production Designer: Adolfo Alix, Jr.

Music: Mikoy Morales

Sound Design: Immanuel Varona

Directed By: Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr.

     What makes writer/director Zig Dulay's Huling Halik (Lexuality Entertainment, 2011) work so well are the tiny details packed within each scene; the blocking of actors within a frame, a particular line of dialogue, a glance or a longing look. The characters in orbit of the affair know how damaging it is to them and others, but the allure of lust is too strong. Dulay knows this and uses that on the viewer. We know as well as the characters that they shouldn’t abide by JM's (Kenjie Garcia) every wish, but Dulay and his cast make us absolutely want them to. That duality is part of Ili's (Joeffrey Javier) arc. He is clearly a victim of JM's emotional onslaught yet, he can’t seem to break away from him. The intricacies of such delicate themes are in full view to dissect on their own accord. Garcia imbues JM's behavior naturally. He dominates any space he enters. You feel that JM is a young man who is in love with the idea of love and his slow descent into desperation for love is intoxicating to watch. But even the most enlightened of young people still have feelings that can get hurt, despite their intellectual rejection of traditional social mores. Dulay gives his actors the space to develop complex characters that make us feel their unhappiness and disillusion. The film captures the mood of relationships in transition without ever being condescending or judgmental. That’s why the sex scene is so pivotal to Huling Halik as a whole. You need to believe this attraction between them to make sense of everything that happens next. Brutal honesty melds with nuanced passion to create a staggering emotional intensity, culminating in a resolve that is nothing less than heartbreaking. 

     Bringing empathy to JM, Garcia gives one of the best performances of his career. He is visibly working through a never-ending stream of complicated emotions. He harbors a suppressed melancholy at every turn. Even a minor interaction is tinged with soul-bearing honesty, creating an emotional mystery of sorts whose answers always lie on the tip of the movie's tongue. JM dominates the frame and that’s because he’s the driving force here, the one whose attraction sets the stage for all that follows. Acting opposite him is Javier, whose own character’s journey is fascinating. Don’t mistake his quietness for weakness, as Ili seems to be the ultimate voice of reason in the film. Dulay applies personal vulnerability to the characters, the emotional motifs in Huling Halik are splashed with little complication. JM and Ili move and breathe like real people, allowing their lives to surpass the singularity of romance. Along the way, this romantic tale is wryly amusing, curious and very beautiful to look at, whether its the actors or Baguio itself. It's notable that, despite the character fueling the action, the film is not histrionic. What makes it come alive, ultimately, isn't the physical nudity, but rather the emotional nudity displayed by Garcia and Javier. Huling Halik tackles the themes of fidelity, love, sex and bisexuality while embracing the messiness of relationships. There's not a single scene that overstays its welcome or moves too slowly. It’s nearly impossible to capture the essence of Huling Halik into words, as it’s essentially defined by the many contradictions that make us human. It can be charming and passionate, but it’s also quiet, intimate and heartbreaking, often at the same time. We see its characters when they’re vulnerable, carefree, impulsive and horny, but they can also be cruel to one another when they let their ego take over. There’s a whole lot of emotion in this sexy, endearing, devastating film. Dulay and his incredible cast compellingly explore that idea in the sexiest and most thought-provoking manner possible. You’ll fall for the characters, but you’ll also fall for the slyly intelligent filmmaking too. 

Cinematographers: Marc Patiag, Tristan Garcia, Zig Dulay

Production Designer: Kenneth Villanueva

Editor: Zig Dulay

Sound: Dennis Dimaandal

Music: Gary Granada

Writer & Director: Zig Dulay

     Enough worthwhile elements are present to make the shaky execution seem all the more disappointing. Day isn't able to bring much depth to Olivia, a character who makes up half of a cliché, same goes with Sonoda’s Isabela. Suarez (Angelica Cervantes), a female NBI agent forms the emotional center of an investigation into wrongful death. All About Her focuses on the systemic, unchecked violence committed against women. It reveals interest in the interiority of law enforcement personnel—especially young women. As the film progresses, we find out that Isabela and William (Tony Labrusca) spend the evening in an abandoned vacant lot with William, brutally beating her. True abjection cannot be experienced by male characters in cinema. Even when robbed of their weapons or jobs or status, men are still in possession of a metanarrative of power—they’re not the right candidate for catharsis. This metanarrative is made up of a constellation of details. The movie’s structure probably does not require the man to experience sexual violence, as if often requires of its women protagonists. One reason why we never see men gripped by fear in our popular narratives is that men like to feel powerful and most of the time, they’re the ones telling the stories. But genre awareness can give us more than the dynamics baked into a movie’s plot. Genre is a comparative idea—you have to see across movies in order to get a hold on a genre, which inevitably means that some details get flattened out. What movies do with our anxieties (why do cops kill?) changes from work to work and from year to year. If we are to learn anything new about our own hopes and fears for law enforcement, we have to find a new point of entry for movie-making: not cautionary pornography. There’s something else going on here and masculinity is at its heart. The movie that can wring catharsis out of that will be a long time coming.

Directed By: Joel C. Lamangan

Screenplay: Quinn Carillo

Director of Photography: Journalie Payonan

Editing: Hannah Buhrman

Production Design: Cyrus Khan

Musical Scorer: Dek Margaja

Sound Design: Paulo Estero

     Lanaya is consistently less interested in action than consequence and less interested in scene than scenery. The deliberate restraining of action until the final act may put some off. Yet these are small chips in an otherwise tightly woven tapestry of craftsmanship and thematic richness. It’s an alternate narrative track that suddenly frames Kaloy’s story as something larger, more willing to puncture the spells of anxiety that it’s cast. Even when a major plot thread is abruptly resolved, the move pays off in a coda so sly that you almost don’t hear the sound of hearts cracking. What initially seems like a series of cryptic aside soon turns into a bigger-picture revelation about what writer-director Clyde Capistrano has been chasing all along: the passage of time and how it never really heals all wounds. But it is a point that bears repeating, especially when echoed in a movie as graceful and gratifying as this one. Wrangling together this many moving parts is no easy task. Yet watching Capistrano succeed is nothing short of fascinating. He works with an unhurried assurance, following his own set of rules at every narrative turn. At no point does he or his movie seem bound by formula or expectation. It brings a certain freedom to his filmmaking and storytelling. Thrillers often spend their whole runtime building tension for a dramatic payoff. The power of resistance is not always measured in success, but through the human heart’s refusal to bow down to tyranny. With Lanaya, Capistrano exhumes the past as the basis for a purely fictional story and in doing so articulates how fiction can be even more valuable as a vehicle for truth than it is as a tool for covering up. What ultimately elevates Lanaya is its refusal to simplify. It’s expansive, sometimes unwieldy and deliberately dense, but always purposeful. Capistrano understands that authoritarianism thrives in complexity, confusion and fear and his film mirrors that reality with confidence and clarity. 

Written and Directed By: Clyde Capsitrano

Director of Photography: Nap Jamir II

Production Designer: Melvin Lacerna

Music Composer: Kara Gravides

Editor: Jordan Arabejo

     Who would have thought of Robb Guinto for the role of Brenda? I was intrigued with the casting choice. And let me tell you, what many, including myself, thought might have been a flash-in-the-pan dramatic turn in Memories of a Love Story (2022), is proven to be anything, but having seen her performance in Desperada (LDG Production, 2026), Guinto is developing some strong dramatic acting chops and more than proves herself here. As Brenda, her greatest strength and where she excels is with creating and delivering palpable anger and rage. You feel her pain. She makes Brenda’s frustration very real. You empathize. But what I truly appreciate with her performance is that Guinto never boxes herself in so as to make you pity Brenda. Somewhere inside her, all along, there is the hope of a different life, almost overshadowed by the fear that she does not deserve it. Guinto shows us Brenda’s ferocity, her vulnerability, all the ways she has been beaten down and all of the strength she has to keep coming back. The result is a story that is touching and inspiring, that really struck me while watching. When it comes to joy and happiness and any sense of ease within the character, there is always a sense of uncomfortableness that bodes well, but on the whole, a solid grounded powerful performance rooted in courage and conviction. Watching the relationship between Brenda and Mama Miriam played with careful balance of trepidation and strength by Sue Prado, shows a wonderful chemistry and watching that develop is something that I would have liked to see more. Prado has this uncanny ability to retain her uncertainty while trying to balance it with the responsibilities of adulthood within a character. While Mama Miriam is in a relationship with Sister Carol (Mercedes Cabral), around Brenda, Prado gives Miriam this new mother nervousness that makes your heart stop. 

     As Lucio, Yasser Marta is one tweaked out mess. You have no sympathy or empathy for the character and at times, it feels as if Marta takes Lucio so far out into left field that it feels disingenuous. However, to his credit, he immersed himself not only in his own physical transformation but emotional transformation as well. The result is startling to the point of unrecognizabilty. It’s been all self-denial, lack of responsibility, no self-reflection and to do so would probably break him so he just refuses. Hesus, willing to make sacrifices for Brenda is played by Mhack Morales with enormous compassion and strength. Desperada moves at a healthy pace, involving the viewer with a growing case history that gains compassion as it gathers focus. Dennis C. Evangelista scripted a compelling emotional story and director Luisito Lagdameo Ignacio immediately fills in the few options a runaway like Brenda has. Ignacio, particularly in the film’s second act pulls off something rather remarkable in terms of point-of-view; he shows women critical of the shelter that has saved them, almost as if Brenda develops a kind of skepticism. Credit is due to Prado as a woman who has opened her house and turns it into a shelter. Careful with regards to storytelling, the subtle elements work and the film does not feel as if it’s a kind of poverty porn, but unfortunately it lets Lucio off the hook too easily. Critical of the system, Ignacio tells this story interestingly, but it is the galvanizing force of Robb Guinto who catapults Desperada above the heartbreaking level of soap opera with a lancing effect. Even on the verge of mental collapse, she picks up the pieces and moves on gallantly, her face a three-act play of mortal tenderness.

Story & Screenplay: Dennis C. Evangelista

Director of Photography: TM Malones

Editing & Sound: Gilbert Obispo

Music: Mikoy Morales

Production Design: Cyrus Khan

Directed By: Luisito Lagdameo Ignacio

     This insight deepens a scene in which Adrian seduces Rosalie with shallow romantic gestures, but it’s a stance that also positions the film perhaps too explicitly as a rumination on the female gaze and its controlling male equivalent—this obviousness spills over to other scenes as well, mostly the sophomoric and condescending pseudo-psychological insight offered by scenes that have Adrian coping with his seemingly uncontrollable and unexplainable rage. The movie doesn’t go in for elaborate set-pieces of beatings and bloodshed. He is violent toward her, yes, but what’s terrifying is not the brutality of his behavior but how it is sudden, uncontrollable, and overwhelming. The cast is utterly compelling. Serna is powerful as Rosalie, a woman who slowly, through hard lessons, is learning that she must leave this man and never see him again and not miss him or weaken to his appeals or cave in to her own ambiguity about his behavior. She may think (and some viewers might think) that she is simply a victim, but when she returns to him, she gives away that game. She knows it’s insane, and does it, anyway.  As Adrian, De Leon makes his anger absolutely convincing and that is necessary or this is merely a story. At once vulnerable, confused and yet still very scary, even when he's being nice, he brings home the anguish of a man married—perhaps irretrievably—to violence, but who is trying to escape from the cycle. The difference is that Serna's Rosalie is less confident and more implicated. That creates a complex response. We sympathize at times with both characters, but curiously enough, we are more willing to understand why Adrian explodes than why Rosalie returns to him. Surely she knows she’s making a mistake, yes she does. They both know they're spiraling toward danger. If only knowledge had more to do with how they feel and why they act. These subtle performances add a layer of subtext to the characters that gives the film a passionate cultural sensibility while also keeping it universal and identifiable. All this talk of violence may give the impression that Kapag Napagod ang Puso is downbeat when, in fact, it is not. There is much to be said for the bravery of the characters that is cathartic and yet laced with hidden truths.

Production Design: Lea Locsin

Screenplay: Jake Tordesillas

Music: Mon del Rosario

Cinematography: Ely Cruz

Editor: Edgardo (Boy) Vinarao

Direction: Maryo J. de los Reyes

     Mendoza knows how to use visual and dramatic means to make a milieu palpable to an audience by providing an introduction to the complex blend of emotion that permeates the film. His incredible artistry and narrative complexities are often overlooked for the visceral quality of his cinema. His particular tone balances the onscreen expressiveness with the heightened emotional states of his characters. The conversations between Shaleha and Banagas-An are some of the best parts of the film-their talk is at once poignant, punctuated by long silences. Much of the film’s emotional impact manages to feel entirely earned. The scenes showing Shaleha's ice-cold indifference to Bangas-An is well achieved, creating a strong and disturbing degree of sympathy for the treatment of women by society. The hushed score during moments of true emotion never manages to eclipse the very real human stories that it accompanies, nor are the experiences ever trivialized. Interestingly, the film’s final scenes are set against the backdrop of Bangas-An's marriage to Mersila (Lovi Poe). In trying to understand Shaleha, who lives with willing resignation to her fate, she sets her husband free. Whether that’s a failure of imagination on Shaleha's part or a success depends on your point of view. And while a single viewing of Thy Womb may not be enough to appreciate the intricacy of these characters or the journey they take, revisiting the detailed and mesmerizing world of the film would be a rare kind of pleasure. 

Director: Brillante Ma Mendoza

Screenplay: Henry Burgos

Director of Photography: Odyssey Flores

Music: Teresa Barrozo

Editor: Kats Seraon

Production Design: Dante Mendoza

Sound Design: Albert Michael Idioma, Addiss Tabong

     We may even find ourselves quietly admiring Clarissa or at least retaining some awe of her, as she rejects and overturns the social expectations that have stifled and nearly crushed her. The first clue to Kaya Kong Abutin ang Langit’s subversive, sympathetic view of Clarissa lies in its narrative frame. The movie unfolds in flashback, as Nancy (Gina Alajar) narrates her sister’s tragic tale. She is the only one who knows the whole story and any insight into Clarissa will have to be gained through the story’s seams. But Clarissa doesn't follow rules. Her adoptive parents, Monina and Ralph Gardamonte's (Liza Lorena and Robert Campos) accident is, by all standards, an unforgivable act, but one that is so badly monstrous that it inspires a kind of horrified wonder as Clarissa lingers like an awful dream for the rest of Kaya Kong Abutin ang Langit. In a bit of narrative cunning, however, we now share a secret with Clarissa and therefore experience the same smack of irony that she does upon realizing that even homicide has not solved her problem. Even if we conceive of Clarissa as the villain, her open declarations of discomfort and entrapment feel wildly subversive. She tells Nancy that she hates being poor, a shocking declaration that underlines her narcissism. At the same time, however, the declaration—offered as the camera emphasizes Soriano’s costumed bulk and her character’s unhappiness—also serves as a sly acknowledgment of something she may have felt at one moment or another. Clarissa says the things women think but cannot say. Her unspeakable acts may have offered a cathartic relief from gender imperatives and an exorcism of their own forbidden feelings and longings. We feel her in the cruel irony of the closing moments. Such happiness is forbidden to Clarissa, who wanted too much, her arms stretched, up into the heavens.

Sound: Vic Macamay, STAMP

Production Design: Butch Garcia, PDGP

Director of Photography: Joe Batac Jr., FSC

Film Editor: Edgardo "Boy" Vinarao, FEGMP

Music: Willy Cruz, UFIMDAP

Screenplay: Jake Tordesillas, SGP

Directed By: Maryo J. de los Reyes

     Borlaza treats Martin very gingerly. There are times he seems to be protecting her by cutting away to other actors, when one would expect the camera to stay on her. Gil does as well as can be younger expected with the role of the rapist. The revelation of Laruan is Angela Perez who plays Flor, Martin's younger sister in the film. She has some difficult scenes and handles them like a veteran, she’s unaffected and convincing on camera and whether she knows it or not, she can act. Perez is interesting to watch. Poised to thoughtfully address the dual victimization women face in cases of sexual assault—the crime itself and later, the victim blaming —Laruan hoped to provoke the kind of cultural controversy and heated social conversations, but the only dialogue prompted was widespread criticism of what many saw as a tasteless attempt to exploit a serious issue by using social relevance as a smokescreen for a routine rape-and-revenge flick. By the time the melodrama has come to its conclusion, not even Joy herself is confident that her image as a sexual object doesn’t trump her emotional wreckage. In fact, Borlaza only seems to drive that point home by concentrating less on Joy’s inner torment and more on oblique angles of the mise-en-scène that mirrors the ’80s Philippine pageant world. But a last-act twist changes the whole tone of the movie, turning the enterprise into a popular (at the time) revenge flick at the cost of coherency. It's then that Laruan implodes. By the time Borlaza fastidiously ties up the loose threads other films in that vague decade would’ve left dangling. It’s clear that he doesn’t want the audience to dwell much on the specifics of the plot but, rather, translate the fundamental critiques of judgmental dependence on image tropes into their own experiences. That Borlaza hides this bitter message in camp—a genre that depends on its viewer acting on their image-reading, cynical impulses—is ballsy genius. 

Sound Engineer: Vic Macamay

Production Designer: Ben Payumo

Cinematography By: Rosendo (Baby) Buenaseda

Film Editor: Ike Jarlego, Jr.

Music By: George Canseco

Screenplay: Jose Javier Reyes

Directed By: Emmanuel H. Borlaza