The Flowers of St. Francis (1950)

The Unfamiliar Fragrance of Faith
A Review of Roberto Rossellini’s The Flowers of St. Francis
By Francis Joseph Cruz

Francis, rising from prayer, is obviously distraught. His usually calm face is shaking in distress and moist with fresh tears. His prayer, where he lays face down on the ground murmuring “Jesus, nailed on the cross” in between sobs, is more o an act of contrition than a dialogue with God. A leper, his beggarly clothes barely covering the open sores that populate his flesh, walks by. Francis, upon seeing the beggar nearing his spot, covers his face in sadness. He follows the leper and stops to acknowledge him. The leper walks away. He again follows the leper and stops to acknowledge him. The leper walks away. Still undaunted by the repetitive inattention given to him by the leper, he follows him, stops, and embraces the outcast. The leper still walks away, but stops before he gets too far, and looks back at Francis. Francis remains and lays anew among the flowers under the night lighted by his Sister Moon.

The scene described above is merely one of the episodes plucked from The Little Flowers of St. Francis and The Life of Brother Ginepro, two important Franciscan texts that detail the life of the saint and one of his followers, and immortalized into screen by neorealist director Roberto Rossellini in his 1950 masterpiece, Francesco, giullare di Gio (literally translated as Francis, the Jester of God but more popularly known as The Flowers of St. Francis). Filtered from the scene or most of the scenes of the film is the comfort of resolution.

The episodes are mostly portraits of the monks’ daily life, characterized by their childlike naïveté and upright selflessness. In fact, all innocence, humility and goodwill, as exemplified by the leper’s unemotional reaction towards Francis’ act of piety, are often rewarded with indifference, annoyance and violence. The film, narratively unstructured and connected theoretically by an indefinable atmosphere of spiritual serenity, is historically placed between the period of Pope Innocent’s acknowledgement of Francis’ spiritual movement and the period where Francis orders his followers to preach in different parts of the world. With that historical perspective, the film persists as a document of faith, against an overpowering lack of any proof to the existence of a God as professed by the abundance of unkindness despite the dogmatic intervention of the Church.

The film was made during the time Rossellini was publicly decried for having an affair with Swedish actress Ingrid Bergman. The two were married to different people, but have met during the filming of Stromboli. Despite the emotional turbulence brought about by the scandal, The Flowers of St. Francis remains almost unnaturally serene. Not only that, Rossellini is a self-professed atheist. However, the film, with its clear and convincing exaltation of faith, is probably one of the most poignant and effective films about a religious figure of all time.

In comparison to the guilt-ridden and arguably hateful excesses of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ and the humanizing intimacy of Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ, Rossellini’s film seems inconsequential with its insistence on the mundane, the banal, and the quizzical spiritual implications of such simplicity. Yet, its lack of indulgence, its humility, and concern to the action rather than the effect, postulates the very essence of faith: that it is personal and does not require evidence. Had Rossellini decided to exalt Francis and his monks with the immensity of their work, then its definition of faith would have been compromised, making it less a film and more of a didactic Catholic propaganda.

The film ends with Francis and his monks, after giving away all of their possessions to the poor, decide to part to preach their ways. A monk asks where they should go. Francis tells them to spin until they are dizzy; the direction in which they land will be the direction they should go to and preach. They separate as Rossellini’s camera reveals the sky, calm yet uncertain. Faith is exactly that, calm yet uncertain. The Flowers of St. Francis gains more pertinence in these uncertain times, where faith, despite the ease of claiming possession of it, is an unfamiliar, if not completely rare, fragrance.

(First published in The A/V Club, Philippine Star, 26 March 2010)

Genghis Khan (1950)

Genghis Khan (Manuel Conde & Lou Salvador, 1950)

To describe Manuel Conde as merely a director is a sore misjudgment. Conde was much more than a director, he was an enterprising visionary, a man who stubbornly turned ambitions into grandiose art. Conde's Genghis Khan, the first Filipino film to screen in a prestigious international film festival (the film, re-edited with an English narration written by James Agee, competed in Venice 1952 and screened in Edinburgh in 1953), showcases Conde's intrepid spirit. Armed with only 125,000 pesos, a budget Agee described as "not even enough to open the gates of Hollywood in the morning," Conde transformed the hilly slopes outside Angono, a town just a few kilometers away from Manila, into the vast steppes where Temujin (played charmingly here by Condo) united the several opposing tribes under his rule.

Several stories have been told how Conde was able to turn his meager budget into a well-regarded historical epic. Utility men pulling wheelbarrows replaced dollies. The headlights of jeeps, trucks and other vehicles covered for the kleiglights Conde's production lacked. As wigs were expensive, a barber was hired to fashion the cast's hair into outrageous buns, ponytails, and other shapes, denoting their rank in society. Conde's wife sewed the elaborate costumes, designed by Conde's best friend and frequent collaborator, Botong Francisco, who based his detailed production design from his immensely extensive research. The most famous story behind the film production is when the film got acclaim from different foreign critics for its realism, more specifically with the small horses that supposedly were the same species of horses Temujin rode. These horses weren't the ones Conde originally intended, but because of his meager budget which prevented him from renting imported muscled horses, he was constrained to make do of the horses he gathered from Manila's Chinatown.

The film starts with the several leaders of the opposing tribes agreeing to stage a contest, the winner of which is agreed by all to rule over the land. Temujin, representing his father's tribe, naturally wins the contest, not through brute strength or skill but through intelligence. The contest showcases some of the film's funniest moments, where Conde colors the tale with some preliminary wit. When Temujin, with his lanky frame, is pitted against bigger and stronger opponents in pushing a boulder up the finish line. Instead of stubbornly dragging the boulder as all the other competitors are doing, Temujin takes the short wooden poles that divide the race paths as wheels for his boulder, outracing the rest and finishing first. When Temujin faces the other tribes' champions in a wrestling competition, he cunningly pits the other wrestlers against each other, dodging every blow until he is left with one opponent, whom he defeats by tickling him to death. Temujin wins the contest, assuring his tribe supremacy over Mongolia.

However, Birchou (Lou Salvador), leader of one of the competing tribes, follows the advices of his ambitious assistant, reneges on his promise and orders his army to attack Temujin's tribe one night, massacring many, including Temujin's father. The mood of Conde's film drastically changes, from whimsical to dark and foreboding. As Birchou's soldiers chase Temujin to the wilderness, Conde stretches his reach, staging the chase against a backdrop of treacherous mountains, where Temujin, starved, thirsty and trapped, defends himself. Conde also enlarges Temujin's personality and capabilities. From sly and cunning competitor, Temujin reveals himself an intelligent soldier and worthy leader, holding his own against Birchou's hordes, pushing boulders or shooting improvised arrows against his enemies. He is eventually captured, although he is later on released by one of Birchou's soldiers and returns to his tribe to claim his throne, defeat Birchou, and finally unite the Mongolian tribes.

More than half a century after its release, Genghis Khan still enchants. While the budgetary constraints are evident, like the fake boulders rolling and bouncing down the mountains as if they were weightless or the painted, although marvelous backdrops, the film has a timeless energy that still excites and amuses. The battle scenes have depth, with Conde's camera capturing the grassy landscape populated by sword fighters engaged in bloody combat. The romance is playful yet unobtrusive. Princess Lei Hai (Elvira Reyes), Birchou's beautiful daughter, mixes servile femininity with characteristic courage and spunk, keeping Temujin's serious loyalty to his fated directive easefully at bay. Inspired by the sweeping adventure films of Hollywood, Conde approximates the same formula by liberally adapting a portion of history, infusing it with gleeful romance and ribald but engaging action. Conde comes up with something better, a great film borne out of undisputed talent and miraculously good fortune.

48 Oras (1950)

48 Oras (Gerardo de Leon, 1950)
English Title: 48 Hours

The film starts with an attempted prison escape, wonderfully directed by Gerardo de Leon. Two men are chased by prison guards, and the warden is alarmed of the planned escape and orders the guards to bring them back at all costs. A treacherous corner frustrates their escape as prison guards block their way to recapture them and bring them back to the warden. The two men are Carding (Rogelio dela Rosa) and Melchor (Enrico Pimentel), innocent yet convicted for the death of Carding's wife and mother, respectively. The plot follows Carding as he tries to prove his innocence by escaping from the prison then, finding the true perpetrator of the heinous crime.

It's a very good film. De Leon directs with both practical and aesthetic flourish. The action scenes are intense. The battle scenes in Bataan followed by a daring escape from their Japanese captors is filmed with such astounding kinetic energy. De Leon would know where to put his camera to provide the most practical canvass; like where we see a bridge (where the Japanese soldiers are firing at the prisoners) and the river (wherein the prisoners are huddled together and trying to dodge bullets); or when the prisoners are finally captured and are about to meet their fate (we see the Japanese soldiers with their rifles pointed) only to be disrupted by the rescuers who annihilate the Japanese soldiers.

The second prison escape is even more exciting. It all begins with careful whispers between the inmates culminating to the actual escape where the inmates dodge the searchlights and the prison guards. Nearing a successful escape, an inmate gets left behind which alerts the entire prison; bullets are shot feverishly and every one of the inmates are either dead or captured, except for Carding.

It's not only the singular set pieces that contribute to the film's tense character. The entirety of the film itself is an engaging chase against time. Carding, mortally wounded, has only forty eight hours to bring out the truth behind his wife's murder. His dilemma is two-fold: his mortal wound would only allow him to live for the said amount of time, and it is also the same amount of time until Melchor is executed.

De Leon sprinkles the film with plenty of close-calls, like the scene where a mumbling doctor who sneaks away to alarm the police of the escaped felon; or that tense confrontation between Carding and the goons of Andres (Oscar Keesee), the real murderer and treacherous war buddy of Carding, or Carding's battle with death, only to be rescued by a trustworthy priest. De Leon clearly understands the requirements of the genre and he sufficiently addresses such, draping the film with sublime attention and detail that is required of film noir.

The final confrontation is stylish. Set in an office filled with clocks, Andres has Carding's kid as hostage and Carding only has his wit and an injured shoulder to direct his precious gun with. De Leon again showcases his aesthetic and practical sensibilities (with a tinge of inspiration from John Ford); which makes this confrontation extremely exciting. Light is used as an essential element, bullets aren't perpetual commodities, emotions are heightened (invested from the many moments de Leon allows us to believe and empathize with his characters), and we become aware of the time element (this confrontation is a close call; and would be the fateful end or start to him and Melchor's life). De Leon utilizes punctuality in that climactic confrontation (although visually stylish, de Leon does not overindulge in style and keeps the action rolling and unpunctuated).

Of course, it ends wonderfully and happily (Carding reunites with his son, and is regarded the brave soldier instead of a criminal). 48 Oras (48 Hours) is such an exhilarating experience; too bad it'll probably turn into a vinegary mess in a decade's time, or less.

Mutya ng Pasig (1950)

Mutya ng Pasig (Richard Abelardo, 1950)
English Title: Muse of Pasig

Part of the charm of watching Richard Abelardo’s Ang Mutya ng Pasig (Muse of Pasig) today, is witnessing the habitable state of the Pasig River a few decades ago. The film opens during the town’s fiesta --- the citizenry in hordes (some of them floating in the river’s sparkling waters; unthinkable today since the waters have lost its sparkle with the accumulation of grease, trash, and other stuff throughout the years) celebrating Mercedes (Rebecca Gonzalez) and Delfin (Roger Nite), the lovely couple crowned as the fiesta’s muse and escort, respectively.

The film follows the turn of events that would separate Delfin from Mercedes, who ends up marrying Don Modesto (Jose Padilla, Jr.), the town’s doctor who harbors a secret affection for the town muse. Tormented by jealousy and uncertainty, Don Modesto banishes Mercedes and their newborn baby (characterized with a birthmark; not a mere plot contrivance since it also facilitates Modesto’s questioning of the child’s paternity when he says the child was born under shadowy circumstances, thus the birthmark). The baby grows up (now played by the Delia Razon), and is named Consuelo by the kindly couple (played by Tolindoy and Angge, comedians with perfect wit and comedic timing) who found her floating in the river and adopted her, and becomes the sweetheart of Basilio (Teody Belarmino), coincidentally the son of Delfin.

The film’s much more than a time capsule of the former luster of Manila's most prominent river. It’s actually a lovely confection --- melodrama in heaps with a tinge of the surreal (Mercedes’ face appearing from the floating water lilies in the river; Don Modesto relives his unjustified banishment of Mercedes through what looks like a thought bubble) and the folkloric (the film is weaved from the tale of a mermaid who appears in the river at night, luring men to their deaths through her beautiful singing). It’s all balanced carefully by Abelardo, who deftly tells the story with genteel frankness (much like a storybook unfolding with exciting and imaginative vigor).

Mercedes’ apparitions are hauntingly beautiful. She appears garbed in an elaborate dress singing the titular song (composed by Nicanor Abelardo, brother of the director and treasured musician); the intricate melody can only be heard by those who matter (Don Modesto who sadly peers from his window; Consuelo who is mysteriously drawn to the river and the water lilies that populate its waters; later, to Basilio and those looking for her). It’s a lovely diversion from folkloric tradition --- the mermaid’s allure to eager men becomes a desperate wife and mother’s pleas to correct the errors of the past.

You understand the pain, and even that endless longing, that withstands death, that withstands the cruelty of her banishment (one of the film's most exciting and visually powerful sequences is when Mercedes is sent away --- she runs underneath the violent downpour of rain, and chased by Don Modesto's dog through the river banks).

Mutya ng Pasig may not be as sleek as the clever dramas of our contemporary film age (you can’t deny that there are sequences which hamper the film’s flow). However, its timeless feel is undeniable. There’ll always be a lingering sense of wonderment whenever the story unfolds; or a sudden rush of excitement when the father is reunited with his daughter; or that well-deserved gush of emotions when the ailments caused by human fallibility is suddenly cured, and forgiven. It is, quite simply, magical.

Scandal (1950)

Scandal (Akira Kurosawa, 1950)
Japanese Title: Shubun

In 1950, Akira Kurosawa, disgruntled and disappointed at the irresponsibility of the press which is slowly being Westernized, released Scandal. Several years after Japan was occupied by the Americans, Japanese society has been changing rapidly, including an infusion of a American-influenced commercialization of exposed private lives, notwithstanding whether such tales are true or not. Tabloids champion sensationalizing personalities, exchanging privcy for rabid and lucrative interest on gossip. Kurosawa's Scandal is the auteur's reaction to such burgeoning Japanese phenomenon. Sadly, five and a half decades after the film was released to the public, humanity still takes pleasure in revealing private lives and escapades, whether the stories are fictional or true. A billion dollar industry thrives in releasing such news to the public. Simple gossiping has evolved into a desperate weapon for the weak: personalities going on the air, or using respectable newspapers to air their petty quarrels by unleashing to the scandal-hungry public hurtful lies. It has turned into a blackmailing tool and one is urged to do everything to protect one's reputation.

Akira Kurosawa's Scandal outwardly concerns itself with the legal battle between Amour, a Japanese tabloid company, and painter Ichiro Aoye (Toshiro Mifune) and singer Miyaki Saijo (Shirley Yamaguchi). The latter couple having innocently met in a mountain resort town has been caught together in a room by two enterprising photographers. The photograph is later submitted to the tabloid company, and a story is written alleging that the two are lovers. Naturally, the story was a blast and it made tons of money for the company, and gave Ichiro and Miyaki bad publicity. Ichiro threatened to sue, while Miyaki, who is afraid of further ruining her reputation, is reluctant.

The bigger concern of the film however revolves around Ichiro's hired lawyer Hiruta (Takashi Shimura). Hiruta is introduced in the film at first, as comic relief. His poverty is humorous; his fumbling ways hilarious. From comic relief, the lawyer shapes as the film's central character: a tragic figure who is in the middle of a battle between good and evil. The lawyer is shown as inherently suffering from the temptations of rising above his impoverished state, but at what cost? He has a daughter who is suffering from tuberculosis, and an unkempt office that is a clear result of his incapacities. His poverty and his weakness leads him to become a double agent, accepting a huge bribe from Amour to deflect Ichiro's claims against the tabloid company. It is obvious that Kurosawa's heart goes out to this morally embattled character, and quite admirably, his tale worked wonders for this socially relevant film, doubly layering the film with further issues that are grounded on the frailties of humanity rather than mere social awareness.

Scandal is pretty much a film that is rich in emotions while raising a statement on the ills of society. Kurosawa details his activism against the degeneration of Japanese society by providing a tale that tickles the heartstrings rather than focusing on the technicalities of courtroom practice. Actually, the courtroom scenes are filmed in a way that it pushes away from procedure, making use of such as breaks for humor or plot movement. Hiruta eventually wins his case, not through skills and know-how, but by a relevant turn-around. With a heartfelt speech that releases tension from his much-troubled soul, Hiruta reclaims his humanity. While Scandal is point-blank a hardhitting examination of society's petty fetish with what is scandalous and what is discovered with other people's private lives, the film is much more a humanistic tale of redemption rather than a socially conscious melodrama.

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This post is my contribution to Filmsquish: Akira Kurosawa Blog-a-Thon.