SARI-SARING SINENG PINOY

     Domestic abuse has been portrayed on film before but never with this much complexity. Usually, we are treated to a parade of brutality, bordering on stylized cartoon violence. Director Maryo J. de los Reyes' treatment is completely different. He keeps the rough stuff to a minimum, though the emotional abuse is continually evident in this tale of two lovers caught up in their own personal tragedy. Logic becomes irrelevant when Rosalie is caught in the drama. Just as Adrian learns how to guard his anger, she flees to her family to hear what a bastard Adrian is. Then some dread tidal force draws them together again. The movie is not neutral. Rosalie (Snooky Serna) has a problem, but Adrian (Christopher de Leon) has a much graver one. He is a sick man, whose insecurity and self-hatred boils up into violent outbursts against his wife. It is clear that Rosalie should leave him and never return. De Los Reyes tracks the progress of the couple's attempted reconciliation and the wedge that it drives between Rosalie and Adrian. What makes the movie fascinating is that it doesn’t settle for a soap opera resolution to this story, with Rosalie as the victim, Adrian as the villain and evil vanquished. It digs deeper and more painfully. In a sane world, the end of the story would be Rosalie grabbing a few clothes and fleeing in the night, and Adrian forever out of the picture. But he pleads to return. He promises to change. He talks sweet. Her deep feelings for the man begin to stir. In Kapag Napagod ang Puso (V.H. Films Inc., 1988), which is about middle-class people, the story is less sensational but trickier, because Adrian is a complex man. He’s gentle at first—when his romantic pleas seem as if they may seduce her—but he turns vicious when she refuses him. We see that he’s really serious about controlling his anger, we begin to feel sympathy for him. We even pity him a little as we see how, step by step, his defenses fall, his lessons are forgotten and rage once again controls him. 

     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

     Thy Womb (Center Stage Productions Philippines, 2012) breaks new ground, pinpointing its attention to a lesser known region with sincere urgency. The woman at the center of this film is Shaleha (Nora Aunor) who, under Brillante Ma Mendoza’s skilled guidance is a mesmerizing, engrossing and beautifully realized cinematic experience. Aunor is hypnotic as Shaleha. We see the plot develop from her perspective and the story unfold from vantage points close to her face. Ensuing choices and consequences rife with tension and heartache, extreme close-ups convey Shaleha’s internal woes with an earnestness few working actors can match. In her most wrenching scenes, Aunor presents Shaleha as a woman drowning in waves of longing. Still, you feel for her because there’s no way to look into her eyes and dismiss the sorrow that has made a home there. Aunor is at the peak of her acting powers here, conveying incredible depths of emotion with a stare. Her day-to-day struggles, whilst not completely universal, encompass the role of a wife and a working woman–all things that Shaleha is expected to be. She has to be the primary earner, but also subservient to her husband, Bangas-An (Bembol Roco). Thy Womb clearly belongs to Shaleha and Aunor, who does career-best work here as the aging village midwife, whose every expression, every gesture is revealing and heartbreaking. Her body language speaks volumes. Shaleha is reserved and resilient. Her silences, her eyes and her restraint add gravitas to the character and the film. Aunor's performance is both authentic and effective. 

     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

     How do you talk about Kaya Kong Abutin ang Langit (V.H. Films Inc.) without talking about Maricel Soriano’s face? You can’t. Because its planes and curves, its expressions and opacity are such a central piece of the movie itself. A series of close-ups brings the high beams so intensely that she nearly overwhelms the screen. It almost feels like witchcraft. Each frame of her seems to be hand-tinted, as if she had ordered it. But it's Soriano’s eyes that viewers are most likely to remember—they dominate the screen.  But even when they’re hidden from us, we feel them still. By the time we reach that fateful scene in Kaya Kong Abutin ang Langit, we are keenly aware of the potency of those eyes, which gain in totemic force as the story unfolds. The doomed romance at the center of the movie is in fact launched by the bare, shameless gaze of Clarissa Rosales Gardamonte (Soriano), whose eyes land on Darryl (William Martinez). He has already been watching her for reasons of his own: in fact he has been staring at her in a delicious moment of narcissistic pleasure. In this battle of competing gazes, she wins, as Clarissa will win everything for the first half of the movie. Quickly, however, the very elements that drew them together in their first meeting lead to their immolation: Clarissa’s will to power, her possessiveness, her too-muchness, which threaten the relationship and more largely, the prevailing notions of femininity itself. Released in 1984 to great success, Kaya Kong Abutin ang Langit was directed by Maryo J. de los Reyes. Here, he offers us one of the most perverse and remorseless females, driven by the material, even relatable motivations of most lethal women—money, security, escape—and so Clarissa becomes not just the most dangerous woman but also, ironically, one of the most defiantly sympathetic. Thanks to De Los Reyes’ nuanced direction, as well as Jake Tordesillas' screenplay and Soriano’s tense and relentless performance, we find ourselves, in sneaking moments and in subtextual ways, understanding Clarissa’s frustrations as she fails, over and over again, in her attempts to conform and more intimately, to attain acceptance. 

     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

     Ask someone whether camp is best characterized by embarrassing, overwrought displays of joy or the schadenfreude of seeing society’s dregs either succumb to (or rise above) the constraints of their environment. You’ll find that it’s an easy question to answer: Both easily generate camp value, so long as the focus is on exaggeration. On the other hand, ask someone if it’s possible for the genre to convey a strong social message. Most will likely reason that the serious social message will be compromised by the strongly subversive antisocial camp value. Without dwelling on the question of whether camp value can be attributed to the intention of the filmmaker or a reaction by the viewer, suffice it to say that every postulation has its antithesis and for anyone who doubts that a film that’s soaked in camp can’t tackle a timely subject, here is Laruan (Falcon Pictures, 1983). Though suffused with guilty pleasures, director Emmanuel H. Borlaza’s film is also a devastating look at society’s unfair tendencies to make clear divisions between Madonna and whore labels. Carmi Martin is Joy, a beauty pageant aspirant who suffers a rape attack from photographer, William (played by Mark Gil, in another mannered performance). While there’s no shortage of similar tongue-in-cheek minstrelesqueries (Chanda Romero's Chelo chews some serious scenery as Joy's best friend), it’s also crystal clear that Borlaza buys wholesale into screenwriter Jose Javier Reyes' dissection of the fine line between image and reality. The message of Laruan, if I read it right, is less about the physical vulnerability of women than about the sexual hang-ups of eccentric young men. 

     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

     Danny L. Zialcita's Si Malakas, Si Maganda at Si Mahinhin (Trigon Cinema Arts, 1980) tells the tale of two people, Billy de Gracia (Dindo Fernando) and Jane de Joya (Elizabeth Oropesa), both practicing homosexuals who uncharacteristically meet, live together, marry for convenience, fall in love, propagate and come to terms with each other. Unemployed and firmly out of the closet, Billy doesn't mind going into Jane's to shape up her life. Shortly, Jane's sexual preferences are revealed with the arrival of her date, Candy (Alma Moreno). The scenes depicting all of this, as well as a deftly handled subplot, seem to drag, becoming self-indulgent and presumptuous only when dealing with the first months of marriage and expectant fatherhood. Here, the movie hits us over the head with the fact (dealt with up to this time in an appealing matter-of-fact way) that he's gay, she's gay and look! they can get married, have sex and isn't it great, they're normal? The screenplay and Fernando's performance in these scenes play up the misplaced awe and false airs that should not be there. The fact that Billy falls in love with a woman, stops sleeping with guys and is happy doesn't make him special. The movie seems to think so and attempts to prove this in several scenes. When Billy finds out he is going to be a father, he acts like he's done something no one else has done before. Suddenly, he and Jane are perilously close to conventional domestic strife. Expectant fathers (and mothers) have a right to be proud and happy, but being fanatical about it just doesn't fit. 

     Pito ang Asawa Ko: Huwag Tularan (VP Pictures, 1974) is a humpback movie, portending Vic Vargas' plunge from the summit of celebrity, which now adds only to the film's retroactive, plaintive appeal. The protagonist, Douglas' outwardly together but inwardly brittle emotional state is underpinned by Vargas’ equally fragile state, as we know now that this film was pretty much the last of his where he was the major star many of us never forgot and always hoped would return to. Pito ang Asawa Ko: Huwag Tularan is a most unusual movie, a slapstick tragedy and superior to its reputation, in thematic concerns and lead performance. Vargas is crucial casting because it would be churlish to deny that it would be imaginable, inevitable even, for him to be an equal-opportunity womanizer who all kinds would respond positively to, as he is both handsome and charming. His eyes are smiling, all right, but even when wounded, his Douglas doesn’t use his male prerogative to lash out or torment; he gently pouts like a misbehaving dog or an admonished child, all while still looking like Vic Vargas. Douglas is an inveterate womanizer who desperately struggles with his own romantic indeterminacy. Douglas is so frustrated with his powerlessness to satiate his endless desire for romantic connection. He keeps falling all over himself and director Ishmael Bernal in fact traps Douglas with no head reshaping itself from a frying-pan shape at the end of this slapstick farce. Vargas simply has perpetual opportunities inaccessible to mere mortals and in any specific moment, his Douglas is exclusively immersed in creating a genuine connection, not using a woman as an instrument, a vessel – in Vargas’ situation, anyone might do the same thing. Bursting with sundry screwball comedy elements and sequences, Bernal's film might affect one’s response because Douglas, from the very beginning doesn’t feel like a pure comedy device but like a real person. The impossible question that Bernal poses in Pito ang Asawa Ko: Huwag Tularan is what’s the difference between truly loving women and merely making love to women?  Who is the lover, who is the womanizer? His answer is Douglas loves women, every inch of them and makes love when he feels it will be a reciprocally positive experience, which might sound supercilious and self-aggrandizing.

     The romantic comedy is the weakest and laziest genre around, perhaps even more so than horror remakes. There are only a handful of formulas that are repeated with only the tiniest bit of effort. First, there's the lie plot, in which one character can't tell the other character the truth for fear of some terrible consequences. Then there's the supernatural romantic comedy, in which some magical circumstances lead someone to true love. Perhaps worst of all are the meet-hate movies in which two people spend the entire movie fighting before falling in love. Rare are the movies in which two people simply struggle with the stupid, complicated problems of everyday life, such as personal experience and emotional wounds. Writer and director Jose Javier Reyes' Bukas na Lang Kita Mamahalin (Viva Films, 2000) is such a movie. One would be hard-pressed to expect much from an Angelu de Leon-Diether Ocampo vehicle centered on a gimmicky friends-with-benefits exploration. But Reyes maintains a buoyant tone throughout, capturing millennial life with squeaky clean affection for the city’s perfectly manicured delights. Caustic before gradually letting down its defenses, Bukas na Lang Kita Mamahalin is as exceedingly modern in its premise as it is traditional in its destination. True love, no matter how it might begin, is funny like that. In bringing together Abby (De Leon) and Jimboy (Ocampo), first as acquaintances, then as bedmates, then as potentially something more, the picture confidently does so without much tug or pull on the screenplay's natural feel, low-key tone and frequently very amusing sensibilities. Abby and Jimboy are smart, ambitious individuals—but they're also engaging, unpretentious and just the kind of characters one is happy to watch for the better part of two hours. 

     Negrense food is an integral part of Under a Piaya Moon (Puregold Cinepanalo Film Festival, Bakunawa Films, Green Pelican Studios, Jungle Room Creatives, Cloudy Duck, 2024) almost like the main character itself. This is evident not only in the storytelling, mainly centered around the meals and the inner-city pastry competition, but also in the very shots of the film. Food is the protagonist, with a lot of close-ups of Stephen (Jeff Moses) cooking and the camera following the food as it goes through all the necessary steps of the preparation. The camera hardly ever stands still: particularly in the scenes where food is filmed, the camera is always tracking to follow the subject matter, making the whole film a lot more dynamic and interesting. The camera movements make us feel like we are part of the scenes, like we are also standing in the kitchen and about to taste the food. The film is also excellent in portraying the atmosphere of Bacolod City during the 1980's, as every element of the production design creates the period allowing the audience to be transported back in time and space, to another epoch. Foodies will devour every second on screen of this delectable ode to the love of the culinary arts but love takes on a different capacity here as the culinary wizardry becomes quite literally, a love language. It’s quite astonishing to see Lolo Poldo (Joel Torre) and Lola Fina (Chart Motus) move around the kitchen, elegantly industrious with the camera moving freely between them, over their shoulders and by their hands, it is a beautiful show of culinary dressage. There’s not a hint of traditional plot until about twenty minutes into this genteel but impassioned romance and that challenge is already set for the viewer. Under the assured and patient direction of Kurt Soberano, Under a Piaya Moon is a captivating celebration of Negrense cuisine. While the formidable lead easily win us over, the true star is the food. Every step involved— from selecting the ingredients and cooking everything perfectly to the grand presentation, the ultimate savoring of flavors is cherished. Under a Piaya Moon is truly a feast as the camera moves nimbly through the kitchen, capturing all the work that goes into each delectable dessert. We get to hear each slice, sizzle and splash while enjoying the stunning array being lovingly prepared and eaten with gusto. 

     There is an enthusiasm for the culinary and a delicacy to how these delicacies are filmed with long takes moving back and forth. However, what stands out is Soberano presenting the sensation of cooking and food as a force to communicate something. The nearly imperceptible movement of time is also crucial to the film. Soberano takes an almost Miyazakian approach to pacing and plot by having characters sit in mundane moments and gliding over excess backstory. We watch pastries being carried from the kitchen and served with care. The performances are remarkable. Motus is perfectly cast as Lola Fina, exuding radiance and tragic emotions in her moments of frailty. These moments aren’t common occurrences and doesn’t last very long but when she hurts it is so impactful that when she gets back to herself, one can’t help but anticipate a time when the weakness triumphs over her for good. Torre's Lolo Leopoldo is befitting of a life partner. There is admiration and a transparency to his emotions that lead one to believe this relationship’s had time to evolve which, it has. Torre and Motus can spur endless moments and emotions just by looking at each other. While the food preparation may seem complicated and time-pressed, the overall mood in the kitchen is harmonious. The would-be apprentice, Stephen is particularly impressive. The characters live in a tender, gauzy world; though it's not one without challenges and heartache, they nevertheless find in food a way to treat all ills, celebrate all milestones, understand all conflicts. In their world (and one I wouldn't mind visiting), well-made food—and the time and care it takes to create it—is not a chore or an indulgence. It is a sign of appreciation and respect, a way to acknowledge all that we are blessed with for sustenance. Here, gathering around food is a ritual, almost ceremonial inviting everyone to the table. Under a Piaya Moon relishes the beauty of natural light with sumptuous cinematography. The film’s idealized and romanticized light suffuses the screen with warmth and tenderness that suit the subjects wonderfully. Under a Piaya Moon is a delectable feature, a celebration of Bacolod gastronomy and its historic, culinary traditions. It is not just about the taste of food, but of love, beauty and human connection, offering a deeply gratifying viewing experience. 

Directed By: Kurt Soberano

Written By: Vicente Garcia Groyon

Director of Photography: Nathan Bringuer

Production Design: Jed Sicangco

Editor: Kurt Sobrano, Rodney Jarder Jr.

Sound Design Supervisor: Roem Ortiz

Original Musical Score: Paulo Almaden

 

     Misteryo sa Tuwa (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1984) follows Ponsoy (Tony Santos, Sr.), Mesiong (Johnny Delgado) and Jamin (Ronnie Lazaro) as they stumble upon a suitcase in a wrecked plane – with the narrative detailing the myriad of complications that ensue after they decide to keep the money. Writer/director, Abbo Q. dela Cruz in his filmmaking debut, delivers a slow-moving yet mostly compelling drama that benefits substantially from its stellar performances, as Santos and Delgado deliver often captivating work that goes a long way towards cultivating a sporadically enthralling atmosphere. It’s clear, as well, that Lazaro is equally good as Jamin. Alicia Alonzo (Pinang) and Amable Quiambao (Ada) have big scenes that, in other hands, might have led to grandstanding. They perform them so directly and simply that we are moved almost to tears. The characters are rich, full and plausible. The direction and screenplay are meticulous in forming and building the characters, and placing them within a drama that also functions as a thriller. Mystery over the true identity of some characters, Lito Anzures’ villainous turn as Castro is all exaggerated verbal and physical tics. And two confrontations in the woods–one suspenseful, one heartbreaking. The materials of Misteryo sa Tuwa are not unfamiliar, but rarely is a film this skillful at drawing us, step by step, into the consequences of their actions. The inherently compelling subject matter is heightened by an ongoing emphasis on overtly captivating interludes and sequences, and there’s little doubt that Misteryo sa Tuwa eventually does become a far more tense experience than one might’ve initially anticipated (ie Dela Cruz transforms certain moments into almost unbearably suspenseful set pieces), focusing on more realistic violence--violence that has consequences. We're plunged intelligently and realistically into their small-town lives. When we're into the story, we willingly and easily go with them. Misteryo sa Tuwa faces its moral implications, instead of mocking them. We are not allowed to stand outside the story and feel superior to it; we are drawn along, step by step, as the characters make compromises that lead to unimaginable consequences.

     Presented in an aspect ratio of 1.85:1 and granted a 1080p transfer, Abbo Q. dela Cruz's Misteryo sa Tuwa arrives on digital HD courtesy of  ABS-CBN Film Restoration. There are some extremely light vertical lines that occasionally pop up. Tiny flecks can be spotted as well. Detail and image depth, however are very pleasing. Generally speaking, contrast levels also remain stable throughout the entire film. The blacks are well balanced and there is a good range of healthy whites and grays. There are no traces of problematic degraining corrections. Also, sharpening adjustments have not been performed. There are no serious compression issues, but I did notice some extremely light strobing during the last half of the film. Still, overall image stability is very good and the film has a very pleasing organic look. Kantana Post-Production Co., Ltd. have performed various contrast adjustments and noise corrections, as a result, certain scenes look smoother. Film grain also appears slightly better resolved. Damage marks and cuts occasionally pop up here and there. Lastly, there are no serious stability issues. Misteryo sa Tuwa looks slightly softer but tighter and definitely not contrasty. The LPCM 2.0 track is solid. The dialog is crisp, clean, stable and very easy to follow. Its dynamic amplitude is rather limited, but has very pleasing depth and fluidity. Clarity and depth are good,  there's very light background hiss that makes its presence felt. It is not distracting, but more sensitive viewers will obviously notice when it becomes more prominent. The overall dynamic intensity is quite limited, this should not be surprising considering the fact that it was produced in 1984. As straightforward in narrative as it is gut-wrenching in effect, Misteryo sa Tuwa is a movie you watch with a mounting sense of dread.

Sound: Ramon Reyes

Production Design: Don Escudero with Rodell Cruz

Cinematography: Rody Lacap

Music: Jaime Fabregas

Edited By: Jess Navarro

Written & Directed By: Abbo Q. dela Cruz

     Antoinette Jadaone's Sunshine (Project 8 Projects, Anima Studios, Happy Infinite Productions, Cloudy Duck Pictures, 2024) captures a young woman who knows she’s on the precipice of immense change, but when it comes it hurts, yet she's ultimately strengthened by it. Followed by an unexpected pregnancy, Sunshine Francisco’s (Maris Racal) dreams of making it in the world of gymnastics and penetrating the national team in hopes of competing for the Olympics, is forced to make grown-up decisions despite being a kid herself. What’s most interesting about Jadaone’s screenplay is how it challenges our perceptions both positive and negative. She's clearly out to elicit a response, not so much in a provocative way but a therapeutic one. No matter how balanced you may try to be as a viewer, you’re going to choose a side predicated on your own experiences (and perhaps even your own gender). And you may feel like the side you’re on is unfair in some moments and justified in others. As Sunshine seeks comfort, both her and the audience are able to see how much she’s changed. The moments spent with her sister, Geleen (Jennica Garcia) are affecting, because they show Sunshine caught in flux between her past and future. The story’s conflicts expose the shortcomings of her character and ultimately begs the question who is the person she is about to become. After a shocking revelation (one that literally unfolds with all the grace of a door being thrown open and does that shock ever work), Sunshine and Miggy (Elijah Canlas) begin to cut at each other, Jadaone soon makes a strong case for Sunshine having to sort out her own pain. Racal delivers a performance that builds in intensity and depth as the film unfolds and captures the nuances of quiet strength and vulnerability. The specificity with which she approaches the character keeps her believable at every turn. It helps when an actress fully understands the role placed before her. Another fantastic bit of acting comes from Garcia as Geleen specifically when she figures out that her sister is pregnant. 

     The push and pull of Sunshine and the young girl (Annika Co) illustrates the struggle to reconcile her youth with the immense weight of her decision. Midway through the establishment of Co’s character as introduced in the first few frames of the film is that she may or may not be Sunshine’s unborn child. The film is not attached to an ongoing debate or a mainstream agenda and seems like it was made completely outside of those confines, which is often rare. Sunshine is a movie about the uses and occasional uselessness of language, with stop-and-go verbal cadences that seem particularly attentive to what its characters say and don’t say. Sunshine honors feeling, passion, discomfort and hurt, and drops the audience into this world without an explanation. That style carries over to Pao Orendain’s equally raw cinematography, capturing Manila from the almost dusty sidewalk pavements. It’s a smooth snapshot of the fleeting yet monumental moments of despair and self-actualization. So much of what passes for Filipino cinema focuses on our trauma. Sunshine's tendency to guard her innermost thoughts and feelings is not a defense, she can hold her own with anyone, but it’s instructive to see why she clams up around Coach Eden warmly played by Meryll Soriano and best friend, Thea (Xyriel Manabat). Rather than stitch it into the fabric of the characters’ lives as reality does, it often sticks out like a sore thumb soliciting sympathy while minimizing all other empathetic avenues. Sunshine is not without its rough moments—there's an honest examination of unwanted pregnancy and abortion. This re-calibrates the characters as people who are dealing with human issues. Sunshine comes to life in dialogue of brash vitality and passionate understanding; the actors aided by Jadaone’s attentive direction, realize these scenes with energy that the overarching plot often omits. Sunshine captures that unexpected, earth-shattering moment in life when you realize adulthood, real adulthood, is not so simple. It’s difficult, it’s scary and it’s heartbreaking at times. That’s what Racal’s beautiful performance conveys. When Miggy turned his back on their relationship once it reaches a pinnacle, you feel it in your gut she’s stuck alone with overwhelming emotions.

Written and Directed By; Antoinette Jadaone

Director of Photography: Pao Orendain, LPS

Production Designer: Eero Yves S. Francisco, PDCP

Editor: Ben Tolentino

Musical Scorer: Rico Blanco

Sound Designer: Vincent Villa

 

     Jackstone 5 (Apex Creative Production, Inc., 2025) starts out like one of those reunion movies where friends from long ago gather again to settle old scores, open old wounds, old romances and make new beginnings. All of those rituals have been performed by the end of the film, but curiously enough, the movie isn’t really about what happens. It’s about how it feels. This is a story more interested in tone and mood than in big plot points. The first act is devoted to introductions and plot problems are assigned to various characters. The second act develops the problems and the third act solves them with appropriate surprises. By the end, we can expect that one couple will reconcile, one will begin a new romance, one will find a new truth and at least one old secret will be revealed. Oh, and a skeleton will be taken out of the closet. All of those things happen in Jackstone 5 but in a strangely low-key way. The movie is written by Eric Ramos and directed by Joel C. Lamangan (who also appears in the film). It is human nature to form groups and be loyal to them. There are real groups, like families and artificial groups, like friends you grow up with. The artificial groups create instant traditions and in remembering them you are pulled back for a moment when all life seemed to be ahead of you. Now it seems more precious and that promise more elusive than ever before. Five gay men revisit their past, reexamine their present and prepare for a better future. They represent a vivid assortment of diverse characters which includes freewheeling Felix (Eric Quizon), Remy and Pido (Jim Pebanco and Gardo Verzosa), whose (friendship) seems to be in trouble, straight acting Naldo (Lamangan) and the insensitive Bruno (Arnel Ignacio). They rediscover themselves, the people they once were and the people they could once again become. They learn that life isn't about demarcation lines. It doesn't have arbitrary starts and stops that correspond with an age, an education, a look, a feel. Life is organic, a complex element that builds off itself where everything that's to come is shaped by everything that's been. 

     The movie deliberately captures a subtle complexion that allows it to exist sort of in a bubble in time, a bubble that has become stagnant but suddenly stretches back and if they can understand where they are and why beyond the physical sense, they'll remain in that bubble that will stretch along with them for the rest of their lives. It's kind of genius to get to know the story of these characters from the perspective of adults looking back. There's a lot of delight and laughter as the friends reconnect, but there's also plenty of drama that needs sorting out as well. The movie meanders, but that's the point. Life evolves but also stays the same. It can be recaptured by a sight, a sound, a smell and carried forward not as a mere reminder of a point in time, but as a living part of something larger that just sort of got pushed by the wayside, not completely erased with the passage of time. It might be a little hard to buy that they can remember with such vivid detail the various ins and outs of their childhood experience, but the cast does a fine job of selling the idea that they can and indeed have. The movie enjoys a very organic, natural flow. It's more about feelings and ideas that sort of just swirl around and becomes a little more evident with each passing moment. There's a genuine sense of reconnection between them and a very real, very tangible excitement about returning back to a place that in their hearts they still call home. Ignacio, who could have played his role half-asleep, still manages to show a gleaming pleasure in his moments of broad farce. And each of the performers registers strongly in their big moment. Of the entire cast, Quizon and Verzosa stand out in showy roles, they get to be great, because Lamangan doesn’t need them for anything structural. Pebanco renders an entirely disciplined performance that underlies the vulnerability of his character. Lamangan gives his lines personal rhythm and brittle snap and as the lonely singleton, Ignacio demonstrates that he is an able physical comedian. Jackstone 5 is imbued with optimism and positivity, and as long as you have the right support system, anything is possible. 

Screenplay: Eric Ramos

Director of Photography: TM Malones, Journalie Payonan

Editing: Vanessa Ubas de Leon

Music Scorer: Mikoy Morales

Sound Design: Fatima Nerikka Salim

Production Design: Cyrus Khan

Directed By; Joel C. Lamangan

     Adapted from Himala: Isang Musikal, the 2003 stage play, Isang Himala (CreaZion Studios, UxS Stories, Kapitol Films, CMB Film Services, 2024) is a film that stubbornly refuses to shake its theatrical roots. Director Jose Lorenzo Diokno strives mightily to make the material cinematic, trying any number of tricks at his disposal. Even more successful are the film’s complicated long takes, encouraging an ebullience in viewers that’s likely of a similar (if lesser) character to what audience members in 1982 felt when experiencing the film, Himala firsthand. It’s bound to Nora Aunor whose performance adds a note of tragedy to the character’s fate. It’s a lot of weight for a musical and as a film, Isang Himala feels like a play that is weighed down rather than a film that unfolds naturally. But here the seams of the theater keep showing at every turn, so on film, Isang Himala rarely feels free. Not in the way Aicelle Santos' Elsa seems too studied in her opacity – not a sign of Ricky Lee’s own sly handling of her on the page – as a character, she plays to sensibilities that seem out of place. Elsa seems too keyed into the projections and not the central complications of the role, but it’s a stolidness that is centered by the surety of the music. And that’s something the film hedges on and that Santos' performance flounders with. Isang Himala is a heavy musical. It is unrelenting in the way that its ending gives us no catharsis. Everything is so tightly wound; even the hints of levity sustain themselves on undercurrents of desperation. Diokno’s direction leaves the actors carrying that weight and it’s too much to carry. The film is aesthetically and tonally flat, with a sheen of browness which is the worst thing for the kind of pulsating crescendo that informs Diokno’s drama. But that’s not to say that Isang Himala isn’t still a partially successful adaptation, if only for the pleasure of hearing Lee’s bracing words delivered by Bituin Escalante and Kakki Teodoro. In fact, Teodoro is a live wire that ping pongs from manic outbursts to soulful, tear-streaked monologues, from carnal lusting to tragic resignation at a moment’s notice. Teodoro commands the film, leading the vast majority of scenes and staking her claim in the story. Her character Nimia recounts traumas and dreams, and opines about the ambition she has to transcend the limitations of imagination. Escalante and Teodoro's efforts reflect a performative staginess that doesn’t entirely work within the cinematic setting, even as they remain accomplished efforts. 

     That dissonance is further punctuated when considered alongside the work from co-star David Ezra playing Orly, who deliver no less affecting but a comparatively subdued performance. But it’s the lead role that’s severely lacking and no amount of fabricated prestige can change that. It’s this inadequacy that suggests Diokno and his team weren’t all entirely on the same page, which makes for a frustrating viewing experience. Isang Himala's digital filmmaking likewise serves to highlight the artifice of the entire production, lending the ironic semblance of a stage play despite all of the nifty camerawork. And yet, Vincent de Jesus’ music consistently make their way to the fore; Lee has a remarkable ability to effortlessly and eloquently weave such varied topics as religion, art and exploitation into powerful unity. Lee’s work is as relevant as it ever was, revealing both the subtle and obvious ways that power is wielded to stir anger and hopelessness, which is in turn too often unleashed upon those facing the very same struggles and hardships. And therein lies the problem: this adaptation is unwilling to risk much in cinematic transposition and thus putting all of the responsibility on the performers to provide the juice. It’s the same problem audiences have watched play out across any number of film adaptations. There’s a jarring oddity to the filmmaking when each pivotal turning point is framed with the same kind of boxed in camera work. This story is about people and the ways they externalize their grief, pain and anger. And, yet, Diokno privileges close-ups. His instincts seem out of sync. Yes, the story is moving towards that final operatic tragedy but we are not marking time until then. The story needs to live, breathe and feel. On screen, everything feels small and crowded. A story of rape retains the same cadence. When the music begins to play, the actors sell the enthusiasm but the filmmaking itself doesn’t feel like it’s tapping out keys or feeling rhythm. It’s dutiful and earnest but it’s not lively. Santos' hurt and pain, even when the direction traps her – can be unpredictable. It can be desperate and it can even be unhinged. Escalante and Teodoro holds the key to the film’s engagement. They inhabit the tiredness of their existence without announcement. Diokno insists on opening up the muscal, literalizing Elsa’s heartache, but the moments with Nimia have a naturalness that does not need to be emphasized. They just are. The real miracle comes in the brief moments the film allows them to just exist. As filmed theater, Isang Himala lacks the exciting personal dynamics seen in the art-making processes.

Screenplay By: Ricky Lee, Jose Lorenzo Diokno

Lyrics and Music: Vincent de Jesus

Production Design: Ericson Navarro, PDCP

Cinematography: Carlo Canlas Mendoza, LPS

Film Editor: Benjamin Tolentino

Music: Teresa Barrozo

Sound Design: Albert Michael M. Idioma, Emilio Bien Sparks

Direction: Jose Lorenzo Diokno

 

     For centuries, vampires have provided handy metaphors for social and physical dilemma, but in the stylishly muted romance The Time That Remains (Netflix, Black Cap Pictures, 2025), the threat is personal. Fusing multiple genres into a thoroughly original whole, Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr. has crafted a beguiling and cryptic look at personal desire that creeps up on you with the nimble powers of its supernatural focus. The director combines elements of film noir and the restraint of gothic horror with the subdued depictions of Filipino culture… the comparisons go on and on, but the result is wholly original. From the first frame to its last, the movie establishes a spellbinding atmosphere with long takes, deep shadows and music cues ironically positioned against the cerebral quality of the storytelling, hinting at the vitality threatening to burst forth from its lethargic universe at any moment. The movie's constituent parts reflect a mishmash of pop cultural artifacts, both in the larger plot structures the films calls back to and the smaller elements of its design. All these elements are admirably stitched together by Alix's strict handling of tone. The Time That Remains isn't a chaotic genre mash-up that relishes every cultural reference, but a work where every individual element is sacrificed to the larger cause of creeping us right out. Alix fleshes out the somber life of mysterious vampire, Matias (Carlo Aquino). Though his origins remain obscured, as he trails locals late at night, Matias quickly turns into the face of repression burdening all of them. When he watches Lilia’s (Jasmine Curtis-Smith) behavior, it’s the first indication of a light at the end of the tunnel, a means of righting the wrongs in this broken world. But it’s not until he forms a curiously moving romance with Lilia — The Time That Remains truly moves beyond its elegant form and develops an emotional core. Hidden underneath the surface is a definite social commentary on issues like mortality and humanity’s self-destructive nature. 

     Curtis-Smith truly does a remarkable job here in the role of Lilia. Aquino is excellent as well. The two craft a charming chemistry that lends an authenticity to their relationship which really makes you feel like they have a strong level of comfort with one another. The supporting cast is uniformly fantastic too, with an especially deadpan turn from Christine Reyes and a much needed kickstart from Bembol Roco, who gives the film a bit of energy as it heads into its third act. Similarly appealing is the film’s conception of Baguio City. It mirrors the life the vampire used to have, a life of innovation and progress that becomes antiquated as the world forgets and moves on. It is desolate and seen largely at night — a moody atmosphere heightened by the movie's cinematography. Baguio is seemingly fading away into history and the few people who remain seem content retreating to their respective hiding places. There's rarely any interaction between characters that isn't somehow contractual. A scene at a tattoo parlor is one of the few featuring more than three characters as Matias goes about the routine of scoring blood from Ami (Reyes). This absence of intimacy gives the vampire's every appearance a charged energy. Filmed in the shadows, he's a menacing presence that endangers the complacent behavior we otherwise witness. Matias also initiates the only meaningful interactions that we see in the film, whether in a nascent romance or in a heartfelt chat with Lilia. The surreal nature of the city coupled with Alix's limited use of dialogue and exposition, also means The Time That Remains invites plenty of possible allegorical interpretations — not that Alix is keen on affirming any of them. In other moments, he battles our desire to over-interpret, positing the vampire and the superficial residents Matias torments, as merely ravenous, motivated not by any code but by lust and desire. Alix is known for making films of a slower, more contemplative pace and what he creates here is a sweeping and moody anti-horror movie. Alix has a talent for making it seem like the revelation of his grand vision lies just around the corner, even if it never comes. But mostly it's because, though the scenery seems familiar, the path Alix is on with The Time That Remains feels entirely his own.

Written By: Mixkaela Villalon, Jerry Gracio, Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr.

Director of Photography: Odyssey Flores

Production Design: Jerann Ordinario, Maria Criselda Dacanay

Film Editor: Mark Victor

Sound Design: Allen Roy Santos

Musical Score: Paul Sigua, Myka Magsaysay-Sigua

Directed By: Adolfo Borinaga Alix, Jr.

     Playing an emotionally repressed middle aged man doesn't sound like much of a stretch for Jay Ilagan, but for the first time in his career, he fully sustains and builds on that tension from scene one to the final fade-out of actor/director Pio de Castro III's feature debut, Soltero (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1984). It is an outstanding performance from Ilagan, not especially because it is a departure for him, but because the part itself is such a perfect match for his habitual and superbly calibrated ­performance register: withdrawn, pained, but sensual, with sparks of wit and fun. Surrounded by people but lonely and alone, Crispin might as well be invisible; so he leaves things unsaid with family and colleagues. Soltero is slowed by its own beauty, but it is salvaged by a trio of majestic scenes. In one, Crispin in a phone call from his mother (Irma Potenciano), during which his voice must betray nothing, leaving his face (on which the director is smart enough to keep the camera to do all the work); in another, the gentle sadness of an evening with RJ, whose own loneliness of abandonment is as inconsolable as Crispin’s. Chanda Romero’s performance finds the woman’s heart, though, even as she reveals a selfishness that is as monstrous as it is oddly innocent. Innocent, too, but oddly wise, is Christina (Rio Locsin), demonstraing grace, intensity and a relentlessness that is less evocative than romance of a most sentimental type. And a hopeless romantic is what Crispin with the object of his romance taken from him and a world at large that refuses to recognize its legitimacy or his loss. De Castro focuses on details, he's visualized Bienvenido M. Noeirga's screenplay with every shot precisely framed — the overall effect is the disjointedly peculiar focus of a psyche that is overwrought and acutely, painfully aware of everything around its profound isolation. If the obvious symbolism of Crispin crying inside his white Volkswagen Beetle is a hackneyed device unworthy of the rest of the film, De Castro overcomes it with a stream-of-consciousness style that is both stylish and heartfelt. As the smog in Manila causes such beautiful sunsets, sometimes awful things have their own kind of beauty. De Castro has found the beauty in despair without cheapening either. Soltero is centrally about someone who's finally learning to live in the moment — a moment that has been made, on screen, at once wrenching and ravishing.

     In 2013, Typhoon Haiyan, an extremely powerful and catastrophic tropical cyclone devastated Southeast Asia, particularly the Philippines. Taklub (Center Stage Productions Co., 2015) is set against this backdrop. Directed by Brillante Ma Mendoza, Taklub is a testament to the combined efforts of ordinary individuals, bound by humanity in the crucible of disaster. No single movie can tell every point of view, every experience, every loss, every triumph or every story. What one single movie can do is raise our remembrance and honor what transpired on that fateful day. What one single movie can do is give at least one true story with profound respect and realism. Most importantly, what the beauty of any movie can do is remind us all of the hope and survival that rises from the depths of tragedy and loss. What is portrayed and performed in Taklub carries enough intensity, challenge and emotion to stir and reward your investment. But instead of playing for tension, Mendoza goes for character and atmosphere. It’s all superbly acted. Julio Diaz and Aaron Rivera play sheer tearful anguish in such strong believable ways. I have to admit to being blindsided by its real emotional power. There are moments here of such profound despair and heartbreak, but in the end I found honesty and compassion. It could well be Diaz's finest hour, delivering a performance with a sledgehammer emotional punch. Simply having to enunciate what has happened overwhelms him with grief and fear. In an arresting performance, Rivera catapults to unanticipated and unseen emotional heights selling Erwin's dedication to his family and also to doing the right thing, and that’s what makes Erwin such a special character. For him, this isn’t just a fight for survival or for his family, it’s a significant transformation for him as a person.

     The film’s most dramatic sequences focuses on Bebeth. Flinging herself, ego-free and vulnerable into Bebeth’s shredded soul with utter conviction, Nora Aunor embodies everyday maternal heroism. Hers is a performance that couldn’t exist without access to the character’s emotional truth. Thanks to her ability in conveying empathy, courage and motherly love, Aunor has created a moving tribute to the real-life woman she portrays and every single soul affected by the horrific natural disaster that was Typhoon Haiyan. Her utterly exhausting and convincing portrayal of a tragedy-stricken mother is enormously amazing and carries the entire film. For Aunor, it’s as if pain is a renewable resource for her characterization skills and of late, she seems to have specialized in the allure of the imperiled solitude with all the physicality and interiority required, whether or not the movies themselves are any good. Aunor brings that same full-bodied intensity to Bebeth. As survival cinema, Taklub has a certain unpredictable energy which Aunor embodies with a combination of compassion and exasperation. It’s the aftermath, however, in which we learn the root of Bebeth’s experience, that exposes Taklub for the well-intentioned film about grief that it is. Mendoza's direction is utterly unflinching, getting us as close to feeling Bebeth's pain as possible through the medium. The screen will always act as a barrier to a certain extent, it is almost as though we are there experiencing the reality ourselves. Honeylyn Joy Alipio's screenplay never overplays its hand when it comes to sentimentality. Its particular masterstroke is its tight focus on Bebeth (not trying to shoehorn all manner of others into the tale) while showing how her plight compares and contrasts with Larry and Erwin in the same situation. Nevertheless, the pathos is warranted as the film’s residue of sadness presented sufficiently within the context of the inhumane storm that ruined precious lives. Part of the appeal of this powerful drama is that it puts the viewer right in the moment at every stage, using authentic locations and survivors to hammer home the reality of this tragedy. 

Director: Brillante Ma Mendoza

Screenwriter: Honeylyn Joy Alipio

Director of Photography: Odyssey Flores

Production Designer: Dante Mendoza

Editor: Kats Serraon

Sound Engineers; Andrew Milallos, Addiss Tabong

Musical Director: Diwa de Leon

     Too many movies are afraid to show us a complete wretch, not Huling Palabas (CreatePHFilms, Tilt Studios, Kayumanggi Kolektib, 2023). Unclogged from the outcast-to-film pipeline comes the delightfully unpleasant Andoy (Shun Mark Gomez), a high school cinephile personified. Writer/director Ryan Espinosa Machado finds uncommon honesty even if the coming-of-age story eventually falls into some of the more palatable pitfalls its strident star would rail against. Andoy is an awkward teenager who loves movies, but Machado imbues Huling Palabas with a dignified unlikability—a confidently written and performed character who’s at times a jerk to his best friend, Pido (Bon Andrew Lentejas) and an emotional leech draining Ariel (Serena Magiliw). It’s realistic, unflattering and too true to life to be anything but personal. It’s perversely satisfying to see Gomez lean fully into Andoy’s disdain for his Robin Padilla wannabe, Uncle Julio (Jay Gonzaga). He’s impatient, his eyes greedy for the next moment where he will become the center of attention. It’s a great performance, tightly roped in by Machado’s direction. As an uneasy chemistry develops between Andoy and Isidro (Cedric Juan), it’s clear that he is forming a crush and that he’s enjoying having someone around whom he can genuinely look up to, but when Machado chooses to take the film into dark places, he does so in unexpected ways. He handles the shifts in tone with impressive ease and they’re well suited to the coming-of-age theme at the center of his work. Despite the bleak subject it touches on, the film always retains its energy and humor, just as Andoy remains likeable (at least from a distance) no matter how obnoxious his behavior may be. But even its small chuckles are more meaningful because they feel like logical progressions.

     The film’s pulled-taut characters walk around wearing armor made of irony, each waiting for someone or something to hit the release valve and let their furious monologue escape. When Andoy finally breaks down or when Ariel steals the movie with a revelation, or when Pido snaps at the little shit he’s been hanging around with, you exhale—finally. But in these moments, Huling Palabas wavers. The hurt resonates, but the fallout is cushioned by cinematic airbags. You don’t want to overly punish Andoy for being the way he is, but when the film’s hard edge relents (often in some of the more broad comedic scenes) it undermines its more harsh truths. Magiliw’s wry, magnetic performance sometimes feels in service of a character who, despite his own lampshading, cannot escape the cinematic pull to coddle and educate an ill-equipped boy. Huling Palabas may be Andoy’s vision of the world, but his feel-good finale would have the cinephile in him rolling his eyes. But he’d love the rest of the movie he lives in. Machado’s filmmaking, his sense of place and his placement of sensory details build out a time capsule, plated with nostalgia and tarnished by hindsight. It doesn’t have a romantic view of high school or even a romantic view of the movies, but it does have a romanticism about its fringe-dwellers. You’re not stuck being who you were in high school, but who you were in high school never quite goes away—not from your personality and not from the “you” that those who once knew you remember. Excavating that bittersweet history, of insecurity and shame and, misanthropy rather than burying it, allows Huling Palabas to speak clearly to those who’ve also erected protective walls of pop cultural passion, without sacrificing the prickly parts that make its observations so sharp.

Film Composer: Erwin Fajardo

Sound Designers: Immanuel Verona, Fatima Nerikka Salim

Editors: Cyril Bautista, Kurt Abraham

Director of Photography: Theo Lozada, LPS

Written and Directed By: Ryan Espinosa Machado

     Alkitrang Dugo (N.V. Productions, 1976) is, in essence, a primal myth. It follows a group of young athletes stranded on an uninhabited island after their plane crashes, claiming the lives of both their pilot and coach. Luis (Eddie Villamayor) seems like a natural leader - he's smart, fair and good at planning, able to think not only about the immediate needs of the group but about the bigger picture, the importance of rescue. There's a rival on the island, however, and that's Andy (Roderick Paulate), who quickly wins the loyalty of many with his focus on hunting, feasting and dancing. Complicating the picture are socially unskilled Nilo (Toto Jr.), natural second in command Brooks (Efren Montes) and thoughtful outsider Lando (Zernan Manahan). Despite the fact that, between them, they have the skills needed to get by pretty comfortably in the short-to-medium term, the stage is set for conflict. From nowhere come disagreements and disputes. They do not realize the trouble is within themselves.The tone of the film is different, reflecting cultural changes that had taken place during that time. The notion of childhood innocence was beginning to fade from the public consciousness and has faded further since. Consequently, the boys' descent into savagery feels less like a comment on childhood; in its place, the metaphor that director Lupita A. Concio touched on at the very end resonates more strongly, with the children, unattended coming to resemble adults. Alkitrang Dugo could best be described as psychological horror, made more visceral by the sight and sound afforded by cinema. 

     To Concio, the children didn’t hit marks or try to construct their emotions in a role but rather if given the right circumstances would react with an unfiltered instinct needed for the story. The performances are remarkably organic with the trio of core characters standing out. Villamayor—who plays the mature pragmatist and elected chief, Luis—brings with him the right amount of sincerity as the one boy who tries to preserve a sense of democratic order. His opposite is represented by Andy (Paulate) who leads his fellow athletes—later rebranded in a fascistic manner as hunters—to the brink by reverting back to an anarchic primitive existence, fashioning spears and donning warpaint with fellow hunters and eventually forming a much more powerful rival tribe. In the middle of it all is Nilo (Toto Jr.), the four-eyed outsider who embodies the malaise of the outcast with the authentic awkwardness of a truly troubled adolescent trying to cling to some sense of morality amongst the chaos. This cunning corruption of paradise—a miniature Fall of Man—forces us to pit purity versus primitivism in the most direct manner of questioning our own nature and whether we would also be capable of such behavior. Concio embraces the illusion of vérité as a device to render expressionism with a sense of terrifying immediacy and palpability. There are many moments in Alkitrang Dugo that are unshakably beautiful and disturbing, allegorical yet weirdly real. Concio renders savagery with the despairing eye of a humanist and with the irresolvable ambivalence of an artist.

Screenplay: Nicanor B. Cleto Jr. Inspired By William Golding's "Lord of the Flies"

Cinematography: Joe Batac Jr.

Music By: Lutgardo Labad

Art Director: Ben Otico

Film Editor: Ben Barcelon

Directed By: Lupita A. Concio

     For the most part, Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa (New Sunrise Films, 2022) wobbles along while struggling to find a balance between the more heartfelt story of Ara Lumawig (Rita Daniela) and other characters central to the film and the determination of screenwriter Eric Ramos to paint a convincing story of the issues plaguing small town educational system and corruption. Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa takes on a serious topic, but fret not; the film is an absorbing, marvelously-acted piece of work that entertains without ever feeling like a school assignment. Director Joel C. Lamangan sees his characters as flawed people, but most of them are also inherently good.There is no question which side the viewer is supposed to be rooting for, though it helps that the protagonists are so easy to pull for as underdogs trying with all their might to make a difference in their children's and students' lives before it's too late. Ara's frustration leads her to befriend Ka Ambo (Lou Veloso) and together with Father Caloy (Jim Pebanco), they rescue a failing school and re-design it to foster effective learning. Obviously, Ara's educational reform is opposed by corrupt public official, Indang (Dorothy Gilmore). While it's a reasonable argument that Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa comes down pretty hard on its issues, Lamangan at least makes a decent effort to provide some balance for the film. It's clear that the real culprit here is the resistance to and fear of change, although it would be impossible to deny that Lamangan paints Lou Veloso's Ka Ambo as a man whose ideals remain uncorrupted over the years but, it's also acknowledged, mostly through the character of Pebanco's Father Caloy. Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa focuses on solving problems rather than assigning blame. The failings of the education system in the Philippines, for which there is plenty of blame to go around, are self-evident.

     Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa exploits an outrage that is experienced on a daily basis. But its clarion call is hampered by simplifications and distortions. The film’s heart is certainly in the right place not so, always, its head. But social-issue movies can have real societal impact. That’s why Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa deserves to be taken seriously and criticized seriously on its own terms. Lamangan has beautifully cast the film with actors and actresses who take average material and turn it into an involving and entertaining film. Pebanco for the most part is remarkable as the town priest. He gives a heartfelt performance that makes you wish you'd have someone like him to help you get through life. The film is stolen, however, by Daniela's magnificent turn as Ara, a public school teacher struggling with issues in the classroom. Her body becomes a cinematic vessel of apathy, frustration, sadness, grief and determination. As young Betchay, Felixia Dizon is simply wonderful with a performance that exudes both the innocence of childhood and the tattered edges of a child. Albie Casiño, who plays Teddy is able to see both sides of the argument being presented in the film. Jak Roberto is fine as Lt. Randy Meneses, but the romantic subplot that forms between himself and Ara is a non-starter that could have been excised with few changes made to the rest of the narrative even though it places them in an almost entirely predictable story outline. Lamangan proved that he's gifted at directing young people and he's also able to make complex subject matter accessible for a wider audience. Every aspect of a picture works in tandem to create a complete whole. Lamamgan does simplify the issues here, but he doesn't dumb them down. Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa leaves a lasting impact because Lamangan beautifully weaves compelling characters into an intelligent and thought-provoking film that will tap into both your heart and mind.

 

Screenplay: Eric Ramos

Director of Photography: T.M. Malones

Editing: Gilbert Obispo

Production Design: Jay Custodio

Music: Von de Guzman

Sound: Christopher Mendoza

Direction: Joel C. Lamangan

     The parent-child relationship has been quintessential cinematic fodder for decades. Filmmakers have kept digging into it, but rarely have they engaged with the messy, unwieldy duality and thrusting complexity hidden and entrenched within it. To do that requires honesty that isn’t afraid to acknowledge the tight spots lodged underneath the façade of affection and emotional ties. When and how does a mother-daughter relationship hurtle into becoming something that threatens to cut off almost every other relationship? What are the niggling insecurities and the throbbing loneliness that mask that suffocating bid for possessiveness?  In Isla Babuyan (Solid Gold Entertainment Production, 2025), director Jose Abdel B. Langit demonstrates an audacity by being willing to plunge into such questions. When the film opens in Paraiso, we are hurled into Rose (Lotlot de Leon) as she gets ready for the arrival of her estranged daughter, Anastasia (Geraldine Jennings) from London. She immediately comes to recognize her mother's insistence on hovering over every aspect of her life. Anatasia’s sense of autonomy is intrinsically linked to her mother’s goodwill and the connection she has forged. The dynamics between the two are ruptured by Jordan (Jameson Blake). As he pursues an interest in Anastasia, Rose finds herself confronted with the unsettling possibility of losing control over her daughter. Langit captures the mother’s fear of witnessing her daughter being wrenched away. She struggles to come to terms with Anastasia’s perceptible curiosity in another person and doesn’t hide her resentment of Jordan. Rose crumples when her daughter seems to be looking elsewhere and not her way. Anastasia enjoys the short sailing expeditions with Jordan, but when Javier (Paolo Gumabao) comes into the picture, he is thrown into unease. 

     The scenes where the three are present together roils with undercurrents as Langit subtly etches the myriad shades in the relationships colliding with each other, chafing for more visibility and attention. Javier sparks disagreements and jealousy between Anastasia and Jordan, and one can easily spot the toxicity lurking in every aspect of their relationship. Resentment, passive-aggressiveness, a lack of respect for boundaries – they’re all there, but in a very relatable way. There’s friction and tension that shoot through the cracks in every exchange underneath the gauze of niceties. Soon even the pleasantries are skipped. It’s obvious that both Rose and Anastasia are characters of flesh and blood. That said, their world is effectively a gilded cage, even if they live on the margins of society. Isla Babuyan creates an atmosphere where the viewer feels as trapped as Rose. The film could easily have veered into telenovela territory, but the director mostly avoids sentimentality. And, crucially, Rose and David (James Blanco) have a believable mix of love and hate with memories, experiences and resentments always bubbling just under the surface until finally, inevitably, they erupt. When Langit lets the explosion rip through in a confrontational scene where Rose and David's second wife, Margaux (Nathalie Hart) go at each other with their misgivings and fury, it is bursting with raw, undisguised emotion bobbing up from the very pits of vulnerability where mean, hurtful words are tossed. Isla Babuyan is stunning in its uncompromising devotion to not cutting away from emotionally acute needlepoint-like moments, conceding gradual privacy and dignity for its characters to grow and forge selfhood through painful realizations.

Screenplay: Jessie Villabrille

Director of Photography: T.M. Malones

Editing: John Anthony L. Wong

Production Design: Jay Custodio

Music: Dek Margaja

Sound Engineer: Paulo Estero

Directed By: Jose Abdel B. Langit