Tado Jimenez (1974-2014)

Tado Jimenez, the Off-Beat Hero

February 7, at around 7:20 in the morning, a Bontoc-bound bus fell off a ravine, immediately killing fourteen passengers. One of the fourteen victims of corporate negligence and bureaucratic incompetence is Arvin Jimenez, more popularly known as a comedian with such the unforgettable nickname of Tado.

Tado is a lot of things to the people he has had an effect on. He was one-third of the inimitable cast of Strange Brew, the pioneering indie TV show that would be fondly remembered for the eccentric humor that was during its time was novel. He has acted in several movies, including Lav Diaz’s Hesus Rebolusyonaro (Hesus the Revolutionary, 2002), Yam Laranas’ Radyo (Radio, 2001), Doy del Mundo’s Pepot Artista (Pepot Superstar, 2005), and most recently, Brillante Mendoza’s Captive (2012). He also became an erstwhile annoyance of Vice Ganda when he proudly showed off his t-shirt which proclaimed a message that did not sit well with the popular host. The t-shirt was of course a product of Tado’s entrepreneurial efforts, since the comedian has a t-shirt shop called LimiTADO in his native Marikina, where he unsuccessfully ran for city councilor.

To most of us, it was Tado’s public figure that will be missed. In any alleyway in urban Manila, anybody with Tado’s physical features and arguably abrasive demeanor would have been dime a dozen. However, in the world of mainstream show business where fair skin, bulging muscles and mestizo features are essential, Tado can only be seen as a misfit. He wore the role of misfit with pride and a certain sense of rebelliousness. The name he chose for himself exemplified the image he wanted to drape himself with. Abrasiveness was part of his act. It was the unlikely cocoon from which butterflies of wisdom and advocacy were birthed from.

To those who were close to him, Tado represented that rare artist who was fuelled not by fame or fortune but by convictions. Tado was no ordinary comedian who was content with making a bad day a little better with laughter. He was an advocate, who made use of the popularity he invested in as a tool for revolution. His entire career was engineered to change mindsets and perspectives. Whether it is by exposing mainstream media for its myopic appreciation of gender advocacy or by throwing off-kilter ideas for businesses that initially seem funny but are actually brilliant, he has made enough of a difference to be remembered with equal amounts of reverence and levity.

“Tado is funny, and he is an activist. He is well-tuned to the country’s issues. If there was a rally, he was probably in it. Imagine, he is a rallyist with a sense of humor. It makes taking in life easier if you think about it,” recalled Zach Lucero, former radio jock for NU107, where Tado hosted Brewrats with Ramon Bautista and Angel Rivero.

“Lungkot ang nararamdaman ko para sa isang mabuting tao at kaibigan. Sana hindi ito madagdagan pa ng galit. Isa si Tado Jimenez sa mga taong nagpapaganda ng mundo na ito. Simula sa Strange Brew hanggang sa social work niya, makikita mo ang gaan niya sa puso. Malaking kawalan ang nangyari dito (Sadness is what I am feeling for the good person and friend. I wish that it will not be coupled with anger. Tado Jimenez is one of the people who makes this world beautiful. From the Strange Brew up to his social work, you will realize the heft of his heart. What just happened is a huge loss),” lamented Ping Medina, entrepreneur and actor, who Tado collaborated with in many of his advocacy efforts.

“It is when a friend like this passes on that we are reminded of how small and insignificant our own lives and our contributions are compared to his,” expressed Gabe Mercado, fellow comedian and entrepreneur. Mercado’s words speak volumes of truth especially with the knowledge that Tado, along with Lourd de Veyra, Noel Cabangon, Buhawi Meneses, and Ronnie Lazaro, founded Dakila, an advocacy group that uses culture, from films to music, to inspire awareness and change.

Dong Abay, poet and rock musician, reveals Tado’s philosophy when it comes to his comedy. Given his untimely demise, his words evoke common wisdom that we tend to forget given the hardships of living in a country that is riddled with problems: “Nais kong pagsaluhan natin ang mga masasayang alaala. Wala man tayong pera ay hindi naman tayo mauubusan ng mga pabaong ngiti. Mas panget kasi kung gutom ka na, nakasimangot ka pa. Pag nakangiti ka na hindi halatang kulang ang iyong pamasahe. (I want us to share with each other the happy memories. We may not have any money but we shall never run out of treasured smiles. It is uglier if you are not only hungry but also forlorn. If you are smiling, nobody will notice that you don't have enough money for your journey.)”

Similarly, Quark Henares, filmmaker, shares the precious words that Tado composed as a reminder as to how he chose to shape his career and live his life: “Kung ako ang pagpipiliin, gusto ko na maalala nila ako bilang hindi isang pulitiko kundi isang rebolusyonaryo na naghahangad ng tunay at ganap na pagbabago. (If I were to choose, I want myself to be remembered not as a politician but as a revolutionary with the desire for real and palpable change)” The words quoted by Henares would have served as the perfect eulogy.

Our eyes have been trained by mainstream media to appreciate beauty that is only skin-deep. Tado, with his lanky frame, long hair, and very Filipino looks, has taught us to look beyond what is easily covered by make-up and bright lights. Whether or not Tado designed his persona precisely to counter the shallowness that is enveloping our culture, his persisting existence within pop culture proves that there is indeed hope for a positive revolution, whether it be in how we want to be entertained or in something more relevant and pertinent.

Very few of us can ever claim to have lived a life for advocacy. Fewer can claim to have died for it. Tado can carry that rare honor to the sweet hereafter.

(An edited version was published in Rappler.)

Eddie Romero (1924-2013)

A Tribute to Eddie Romero

by Francis Joseph A. Cruz

He was the oldest in the crowd. Seated among an ambitious batch of wide-eyed graduates of a Mowelfund course was Eddie Romero, the venerated veteran filmmaker of such works like Aguila and Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon?. He was there as a guest of honor, a beacon of what is to come for the filmmakers who are about to test the skills they have mustered from several months of sitting through lectures and practical demonstrations. When he was acknowledged by the master of ceremony, he stood up with a certain air of dignity one expects from someone who has lived a full and productive life. Predictably, his mere presence drew a round of applause from the crowd.

Eddie Romero would still continue to grace film events, garnering the same acknowledgment from his peers and the public by virtue of the title that was bestowed on him by the Philippine government. In a film industry where dreamers are turned into auteurs by virtue of a novel story treatment, a powerful pitch, and a sizable film grant, Romero’s presence felt reassuring. He represented not only an era were Filipino films were golden and weren’t begging for viewership, but an artistry that was a product of time and hard work, with a little sprinkling of good old luck. One can only wish that the filmmakers who gave their automatic applauses upon the mere mention of his name acknowledged not only the grandeur of several of his works but also his admirable story.

It was his early literary work and somebody else’s love story that pushed a young Eddie Romero into the world of film. Legendary Gerardo de Leon, enamoured and impressed by a short story he read and a native beauty, visited Silliman University. There, he wooed his future wife, and convinced Romero, the son of a schoolteacher and a government official who was already making waves writing stories for various publications, to write for him. De Leon regarded Romero as his protégé. He was the literary voice that completed De Leon’s visual verve. After a few collaborations, Romero would be ready to direct his first film. However, the Pacific War happened, and his directorial debut had to be shelved.

After the war, Romero would return to his literary roots, serving as managing editor for a magazine. De Leon would again convince Romero to return to film. He would again write scripts for De Leon, then start helping in directing various scenes, before directing his first feature, a forgotten film called Ang Kamay ng Diyos. The rest, as they all say, is history. Romero’s career as a director is marked with achievements. In 1951, he won the directorial prize of the very first Maria Clara Awards, the country’s first formal film awards-giving body. He would later on win more gold-plated trophies and medals, the pinnacle of which is the National Artist Award in 2003.

Romero would be most remembered in the Philippines for his more elegant works. Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon?, a period satire that had a very young Christopher de Leon play a simpleton in search of national identity, has turned a religious experience for some since it mostly screens during the Lenten holidays when mindless entertainment seemed too sinful. Aguila has taken its place as one of the late Fernando Poe, Jr.’s most impressive films.

Interestingly, like his mentor De Leon, Romero is most remembered overseas for his genre works. Fortunately, even in that portion of his filmography that would have caused the most revered of filmmakers some sort of embarrassment, are quiet gems that reveal artistry amidst the primary need for pleasure and entertainment. For example, The Ravagers, a cheaply-made war, had Fernando Poe, Jr., who plays sidekick to John Saxon, outshine his lead in terms of bravura and romance. In an age of American thirsting for stories about their heroes’ bravery, here comes a film where a Filipino performs the more difficult stunts to win the heart of the Caucasian bombshell, leaving the American soldier content with just saving the day.

The story of Romero’s career is one that is unheard of today. He was patient. He took time to blossom, to earn his laurels. This dedication to the craft, which took him several years and a World War to develop, gifted him with an enduring career. He started scripting films before the war and released his last film, Teach Me to Love, in 2008. His career lasted several decades, spanning all of the so-called golden ages of Philippine Cinema. He has seen it all. He has seen the triumphant premieres of Gerardo de Leon’s films. He has seen those films rot away to oblivion. He has seen Lino Brocka making waves for adventurous films in international film festivals. He has also seen the same Brocka direct popular melodramas for cash-hungry capitalists. He has seen Lav Diaz and Brillante Mendoza get critics’ approvals everywhere. He has also seen the empty local cinemas that screen those admired works.

Romero has indeed lived a long life. Through the films he has left behind and the dreamers he has inspired, he will continue to live longer. Rest in peace, Mr. Romero.

(First published in Supreme, Philippine Star, 1 June 2013.)

Marilou Diaz-Abaya (1955-2012)

Marilou Diaz-Abaya and the Story of my Cinephilia

by Francis Joseph A. Cruz

I hate to admit it but the first Filipino film I ever paid money to see was Carlo J. Caparas’ Tirad Pass (1997). It was a school requirement, something I had to write an essay on. I remember the historical drama to be as unremarkable as my bored teacher’s unmemorable lectures. Prior to Tirad Pass, I was fed with Disney and Spielberg and I was satisfied. After Tirad Pass, I was still fed with Disney and Spielberg and I was still satisfied. Caparas’ film did not move me enough to re-think that Philippine cinema was anything but the inane slapsticks, the unrealistic melodramas, and the lewdly titled teasers that were then showing in the cinemas. Lino Brocka meant nothing to me. Ishmael Bernal, Mike de Leon, and Mario O’Hara were names that will not draw a reaction from me. My private school education and the class insecurities that such education forced upon me and I am now so ashamed to admit I used to possess did not give me the opportunity to be at least aware of those great Filipino artists’ existence. I was ignorant, pleasantly bamboozled by the candy Hollywood has been serving me.

Then Jose Rizal (1998) screened. It was another historical drama. It was another school requirement. What differentiated Jose Rizal from Tirad Pass was the very noticeable skill in which it was mounted. There was elegance in the way the film depicted the national hero. It was elegance that was comparable to the many big-budgeted Hollywood period pieces. The next year, Muro-ami (1999) screened. The images that filled up the silver screen were not only grand and beautiful, they were indelible. Cesar Montano, who donned Spanish era-formal wear, was now in rags, readying his overused goggles before recklessly diving into the sea with an army of youngsters. A couple of years later, Bagong Buwan (New Moon, 2001) screened. This was the first time I ever saw Mindanao in the big screen. With the exotic mix of local color and wartime dangers, I was sufficiently enchanted. Those films of Marilou Diaz-Abaya gave me enough hunger to seek for more, starting with Moral.

The very first time I saw Moral was in college, during a film session handled by a Filipino professor who also dabbled in filmmaking. I was already familiar with Diaz-Abaya, having seen and enjoyed her Metro Manila Film Fest entries. Jose Rizal and Muro-ami however did not prepare me for the effect Moral (1982) would have on me. I was immediately enchanted by the palpable intimacy of the storytelling. It left me thirsting for more. I searched for Brutal (1980) and Karnal (1983), both films treading the same vein. Along the way, I caught Laurice Guillen’s Salome (1981), Ishmael Bernal’s Himala (Miracle, 1982) and Lino Brocka’s Maynila sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag (Manila in the Claws of Neon, 1975). This was the same time I was obsessing over Wong Kar-Wai and Krzysztof Kieslowski, purchasing with whatever I can save from my humble allowance each and every DVD copy of their films. This was also the first time I saw how it was so difficult to be hopelessly in love with your own cinema, with all the Hollywood flicks overpowering the local ones, most of which were commercial junk anyway, with all the readily available foreign films on the latest format and the abject lack of Filipino classics on any format.

The rest, I guess, is history. Mario O’Hara released Babae sa Breakwater (Woman of the Breakwater, 2003) and I, hopefully along with the five other strangers who bought tickets and saw the film with me, were swayed by the master director’s weaving of native magic, realistic poverty, and novelty songs. Mike de Leon released Bayaning Third World (Third World Hero, 2000) and I saw how a singular vision, absent any form of studio funding, can produce such a startling piece of work. Maryo J. de los Reyes released Magnifico (2003) and I saw how a veteran filmmaker working with a then unknown screenwriter can move hearts without traditional histrionics and ridiculous plot movements. Quark Henares released Keka (2003) and I saw how young directors can infuse new ideas and vitality to an industry that was reportedly in its deathbed. Lav Diaz released Batang West Side (West Side Avenue, 2001) and I saw how Philippine cinema can do without boundaries set by the Hollywood monster.

I do not know Diaz-Abaya personally. I only know her from the films she has made. Ikaw ang Pag-ibig (You are Love, 2011), her swansong, is a film that I have been struggling to appreciate. It is as beautifully-acted and elegantly paced as all her previous works, despite the obvious modesty in the production. The film is very vocal about Catholic faith, to the point of being preachy. It is perhaps the mixture of that quality of the film and my current state of cynicism that left me unmoved. Looking back, I cannot help but remember the hopefulness of the film, the way Diaz-Abaya courageously depicted cancer as but a path to greater faith. In a way, one can say that she was already beyond the trivial but nagging concerns of the world and was more interested to what personally matters to her.

Diaz-Abaya left us with films that matter. Her final years teaching filmmaking in Ateneo de Manila University and her very own film school produced filmmakers of various styles and interests like Henares, Marie Jamora, Jeffrey Jeturian, Sherad Sanchez, and Gino Santos. Philippine cinema will always remember her as a stalwart pioneer and selfless teacher. I, however, will remember her as the filmmaker who chose to venture on, telling her peculiar stories with her peculiar way, in the midst of overwhelming junk.

I may have outgrown my love affair with Diaz-Abaya’s post-May Nagmamahal Sa Iyo (Madonna and Child, 1996) films with repeated viewings, but I cannot deny their role in my growth as a Filipino cinephiles. I cannot deny the fact that it is because of Diaz-Abaya’s faith in the Filipino audience that allowed her to make films like Jose Rizal, Muro-ami and Bagong Buwan despite the audience’s clamour for brainless comedies and tired dramas that I saw beyond the unfortunate tropes of a then-failing Filipino cinema. She was the motherly gatekeeper to my passion for my nation’s films. Through her ever-distinguished insistence on quality and taste, I got to know Brocka, Bernal, O’Hara, Gallaga, Guillen, De Leon, and so on. Thank you and farewell.

(First published in ABS-CBNNews.com.)

Dolphy's Last Hurrahs

Dolphy's Last Hurrahs

by Francis Joseph A. Cruz

In 2000, Dolphy played Walter Dempster, Jr., more popularly known as Walterina Markova, as an old man in Gil Portes’ Markova: Comfort Gay. His sons, Jeffrey and Eric, played Markova in his younger years. It is a lovely performance, one that I thought quenched the film’s chronic thirst for levity. What is most striking about Dolphy’s turn as the elder Markova, still fabulous despite or probably because of his being holed up in a retirement home designed for geriatric gays, is that it signalled the comedian’s twilight.

He was no longer Facifica Falayfay, the exuberant crossdresser who caused parades of laughter. He was no longer John, the hardworking husband of Marsha, who represented every Filipino’s humorous struggle to survive honourably. He was no longer Kevin Cosme, the proud father of Bill, Bob, Bing and Baldo, who kept his family intact despite the daily threats of the rampaging train, and the hourly problems every family man has to face. The impossible has happened. Dolphy has gotten old. He now has a lifetime of lessons to impart. He has turned into the Philippines’ favourite grandfather.

Sure, He did a couple more sitcoms and shows for ABS-CBN. There was Home Along the Airport, an attempt to revive the Kevin Cosme franchise. There’s also John and Shirley, an attempt to revive the John Paruntong franchise. However, it seems the market has changed. The barrage of fantaseryes, telenovelas, and reality-based television shows has nurtured an audience that did not respond to comedies and sitcoms that very well. Comedies were best served in tiny morsels, in the form of sketches and occasional jokes. Sadly, the shorter, the safer, the more profitable.

Because of that and his health, Dolphy worked less. He became more of a beacon than the celebrity in its traditional sense. He symbolized pure entertainment. Each and every ad of ABS-CBN would have Dolphy smiling relentlessly and invitingly, almost certifying the nobility of the network, no matter what the public may think. He just had so much goodwill, he was willing to share it, to networks, to friends who ventured into politics, to whoever may need it. The generosity he was known for throughout the prime of his career extended even further. He quietly fostered charitable foundations, providing more than smiles but sustenance to the masses who supported him the most.

Dolphy made five films after Markova: Comfort Gay. In 2002, he starred in Home Along the Riber, directed by his son, Eric. The title obviously mined the popularity of one of his most famous sitcoms. Home Along the Riber had Dolphy partnered with the last of his many loves, ZsaZsa Padilla. In the film, Dolphy played a variant of Kevin Cosme, only this time, he advocated environmental protection, telling his usual jokes while brandishing audience-friendly lessons on how to keep the surroundings clean for future generations.

In 2008, Dolphy played guru to Vic Sotto in Dobol Trobol: Let’s Get Redi 2 Rambol (2008), directed by Sotto’s favourite director, Tony Y. Reyes. While Sotto is a formidable comedian himself, the film makes apparent the ease Dolphy does his comedy. Dolphy makes replayed old jokes fresh. It’s a sloppy film but there’s something truly memorable in the way Dolphy shares his stage, never overextending his humor to overshadow the talents of his partner. One can only reminisce on the numerous duos Dolphy was part of.

Perhaps the most ambitious of Dolphy’s later works is Eric Quizon’s Nobody Nobody but Juan (2009). The title references to the Korean dance song that became so popular during the film’s release. The film, unlike many of Dolphy’s films, was not a series of jokes weaved together by a flimsy plot. It actually had a brilliant idea in its core. Dolphy played a patient in an American convalescent home whose only connection with the Philippines is Willie Revillame’s noontime gameshow. Through his clever machinations, he finds himself back in the Philippines, desirous to be part of his favorite show. However, he bumps into pals from a very distant past, played by Eddie Garcia and Pokwang, which forces him to resurrect a former romance. Unfortunately, the film’s execution was less ambitious, resulting in a film that again relied too heavily on the goodwill of Dolphy to succeed.

Father Jejemon (2010) is Dolphy’s final starrer. It also gave Dolphy his final controversy. In the film, the comedian plays a parish priest who finds himself at odds with a local land baron. Like most of Dolphy’s comedies, the plot only serves as a frame for the legendary funnyman’s antics, the best of which involving Fr. Jejemon’s clumsy hands, a host, and a pair of bountiful breasts had humorless Catholics rabidly denouncing the film as sacrilegious. However, one cannot deny that this is truly Dolphy, finding humor in the most unlikely of places and to resist it is simply to resist humanity.

Simply put, no matter what one thinks of these final films of Dolphy, no matter what one declares the films as ludicrous, ridiculous, and haphazardly done, one cannot simply deny that they were mounted to make people laugh, and they did.

In Albert Martinez’s Rosario (2010), Dolphy goes back to his being a beacon, a totem of respect and awe. He plays Hesus, the titular character’s son, who serves as narrator of the film. The comedian retires to tell history, to tell stories of the past, to connect the youngest generation to the ones we may opt to forget. Like children eager for adventures and love stories, we surround Dolphy, waiting to laugh, to cry, to imagine a world back then when all that mattered was happiness.

No, Rodolfo Vera Quizon was not only husband to his various loves, father to the many children he supported, and grandfather to the children of his children, he was the nation’s spouse, father, and grandfather. We can only mourn for him the way we mourn for the closest of our relatives. Through his art and his nature, he has become that much part of us.

(First published in Supreme, Philippine Star, 14 July 2012..)

Mario O'Hara (1946-2012)

The Great O'Hara

by Francis Joseph A. Cruz

He was seated in front of us, inside one of the many rooms in the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Mario O’Hara, respected writer of most of Lino Brocka’s greatest works, inimitable director of such classics like Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos (Three Years without God, 1976) and Fatima Buen Story (1994), outstanding thespian, and arguably one of the most important figures in Philippine cinema, was there in front of us, convincing us to greenlight his next film entitled Henerala. I was then part of the committee that gave grants to filmmakers wanting to make films, and I was ashamed to be in the unjust position of listening to the great O’Hara explain why his proposal would make a good film. I was already convinced then. Henerala could have been a masterpiece, the one film that painted heroic Gabriela Silang, always seen angry while mounted on her even angrier steed, as a sensual human being who was horny for and madly in love with Diego. Still, there I was, listening to him as he animatedly serenaded us of what the film that would now never be made could have been.

The great O’Hara was taken from us too soon. At age 68, while the entire country was steadfastly praying for Dolphy, he quietly said farewell. It is quite amazing how he died the same way he magnanimously lived his life, just there, quiet in the background. While Lino Brocka was being praised everywhere, while Nora Aunor was amassing legions of fans, O’Hara, an Adamson drop-out in a country that was dazzled by the liberal geniuses of the State University and the conservative wisdom of Ateneo, was just humbly working, churning out masterpieces after masterpieces without hardly a sense of the acclaim those masterpieces could have garnered for him. Sure, he was championed and earned the respect that he deserved. However, he never became a celebrity, or even a figurehead. He did not need it. He only needed to work.

His films are never personal visions. They never felt trapped in a world that he and the people who knew him inhabited. His films were either artful crowd-pleasers or relatable art pieces. They evolved whenever the audience or the market evolved. In the 70’s and 80’s, when the Philippines was busy struggling under the dictatorship, he wrote Insiang (1976) and directed Bagong Hari (The New King, 1986) that showed a world of characters that struggled even harder. In the 90’s, when the only films that could compete with Hollywood were children’s fantasies and soft pornography, he gave us Johnny Tinoso and the Proud Beauty (1994), Manananggal in Manila (Monster in Manila, 1997), and Sisa (1999), which featured a Sisa who had breasts the size of melons.

He made Babae sa Breakwater (Woman of the Breakwater, 2003), which brought the Philippines again to Cannes after decades of absence. Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio (The Trial of Andres Bonifacio, 2010) had him experimenting with digital cinematography and the result was more than exhilarating. When the country decided to leave the cinemas for the comforts of their homes, he directed Sa Ngalan ng Ina (In the Name of the Mother, 2011), a television series that not only heralded Aunor’s return to Philippine showbusiness but also showcased the artistic capabilities of Philippine television most local networks could ever imagine because they are too busy being pandering to the stupidity they have cultivated.

The characters that O’Hara wrote and gave life to are never heroes or villains, they were imperfect human beings victimized by circumstance. The Japanese soldier who raped a village girl of Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos is capable of real love. The baby-faced killer of Bagong Hari graduates from his violent encounters as a hero. The leper he played in Brocka’s Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang (You were Weighed but Found Wanting, 1974) is the film’s most tragically human figure. The unfortunate dwellers of the Breakwater in Babae sa Breakwater had joie de vivre the most fortunate of us can't never even imagine. The courageous founder of the Katipunan in Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio had the humanity to cry and beg for his life.

O’Hara’s astute understanding of our collective imperfections is laudable. He had no qualms in breaking perceptions, in defying conventions, in shocking conservative sensibilities, to point out that the weaknesses that are only part and parcel of our being only made in the likeness of God are not something to be masked or hidden but exposed and expressed in film and fiction.

After his pitch, O’Hara said his farewell and uneventfully exited the room. I could not help it. I had to excuse myself. Like a rabid fan, I rushed towards O’Hara and awkwardly attempted to start a conversation. “Hi Mario, I am a big fan. I thought Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio is absolutely great.” That was all I could say. In my mind, I wanted to probe his creative processes, I wanted to ask so many questions, I wanted to die out of sheer embarrassment of being put in a position a few minutes ago that I could never imagine I deserve, but sadly, those short and uncreatively constructed sentences were all that my brain could process to deliver to my mouth. He embarrassedly laughed and politely said thank you. He then asked me where the nearest restroom was. I pointed him towards the one beside the gift shop. He again smiled at me and whisked towards the restroom. I excitedly returned to the one of the many rooms in the Cultural Center of the Philippines, ready to hear out a dozen more pitches. Henerala would eventually get the greenlight, but because of lack of investors, he could not make it. I guess we just live in such an unjust, unfair world.

Mario O’Hara had to pee. He also had to die. He was human after all. In fact, there was so much humanity in him, his works radiate with it.

(First published in Supreme, Philippine Star, 30 June 2012..)

Dolphy, National Comedian

Dolphy, National Comedian

by Francis Joseph A. Cruz

In 1928, Rodolfo Vera Quizon, Sr. was born in Tondo to a ship mechanic and a tailor. Because of the odd job of selling peanuts, butong pakwan, and other snacks to movie patrons that he ventured to take on during his formative years to augment his family’s humble income, he was predisposed to love cinema. While working as a stevedore, shoe-shiner, and driver, this love for cinema would eventually push him to try his luck in theater, cinema’s closest relative. He would eventually learn comedy from famous duo Pugo and Togo, and become known as Golay.

Quizon inevitably found his way back to cinema. Starting with bit roles for the very popular films of Fernando Poe, Sr., he would then be discovered by Doc Perez of the famed Sampaguita Pictures who would give the budding a comedian a broader canvass to refine his talents with. With a blossoming career in films, Quizon smartly used his nickname, Dolphy, as his screen name.

The rest, as corny as it may sound, is history. However, unlike the history that the country tends to conveniently forget, Dolphy’s history is something the nation fondly recalls. His trailblazing performance in Mar S. Torres’ Jack en Jill would introduce to Philippine cinema a brand of comedy that finds itself still potent to this day especially with the recent successes of Jade Castro’s Zombadings 1: Patayin sa Shokot si Remington and Wenn Deramas’ Praybeyt Benjamin. Arguably, Dolphy’s hilarious portrayals of the so-called parlorista gay in most of his more popular works may have resulted in an unfortunate public consciousness of limiting homosexuality to the type that Dolphy depicted in cinema. However, Dolphy’s mostly sensitive portrayals, coupled by his endearing public persona, would also elicit an understanding as to the humanity of the Filipino gay man in general.

This is most apparent in his brilliant portrayal of Coring in Lino Brocka’s Ang Tatay Kong Nanay. Coring, a parlor owner who unabashedly lives to the fullest a very carefree gay life involving nightly gimmicks with friends and seasonal sashays as pretend-Miss Universe queens, finds himself suddenly restricted from his pleasures when his former lover leaves his baby with him. Forced to bring up the child oblivious to what he thinks are hobbies of his which might confuse the child, he becomes a pained irony, a gay man whose very traditional view of the world is contrasting with his own sexuality. An unapologetic melodrama, Dolphy easefully injects the role with a sophistication that only a true artist can do so.

Dolphy, however, did not carve his career from merely mining one stereotype. He also developed another stereotype which he conveniently explored in his television shows, from the legendary John and Marsha with Nida Blanca to Home Along da Riles with Nova Villa. Dolphy is perhaps the quintessential Filipino family man: a hardworking breadwinner, usually unlucky in terms of material fortune but extremely lucky in terms of family. There are the usual quirks like the wealthy mother-in-law or next-door neighbor, who would constantly remind Dolphy of his station in life, the roster of oddball friends, who would support Dolphy both in the manufactured trials and his comedy, and the very familiar trials that are laced not with the actual unbearable burden of being poor but with levity and humor.

Dolphy also symbolized Filipino ingenuity. He paraded his comedic skills in films as localized and usually more interesting versions of Batman, James Bond, and Dracula. Usually lacking the extravagant budgets of their Hollywood counterparts, Dolphy makes do with butchered titles like Alyas Batman en Robin, Dolpinger, and Drakula Goes to R.P. and a whole arsenal of indefatigable slapstick and genuine wit.

It may seem that Dolphy’s artistry is unrefined and pandering to the convenience of the masses. However, Dolphy never really strayed from what is pop. He did not have any pretensions of doing art for the sake of art. It just so happened that his fluency in his craft, his tempered navigation of his lengthy career in both films and television, and his legacy of performances that are undoubtedly his, can be argued to be regarded as marks of an artistic vision that is not unlike the ones from the artists who can easily be classified as such.

The Philippines is country that has been known for its people’s ability to find humor in the direst of situations. Curiously, the country’s definition of art, dictated by the academe and the governmental institutions, shies away from the exquisite pleasures of laughter found in the unlikeliest of events, sadly belittling the contributions of artists like Dolphy, relegating them within the realm of the slight and momentary. Reality dictates however that it is these artists’ so-called art that really reflects, without need of a trained eye or taste, the most practical dictates and effects of art to the biggest demographic in the country that requires it.

It is about time Dolphy, not for the fact that he is old, or that he is a respected icon in the industry, be proclaimed as an artist whose dedication for his craft has given him the goodwill that is now being confused as the basis for his nomination as one of the country’s official bastions of art. To do so might just be the most honest things ever done since those awards were created.

(First published in Supreme, Philippine Star, 28 April 2012 as "Why Dolphy is our National Artist.")

On Lav Diaz

On Lav Diaz

Lav Diaz, considered by many as the figurehead of what Philippine independent cinema should be, started his career as filmmaker under the auspices of Regal, one of the biggest and most prolific film studios in the country. The films he made for Regal and its subsidiaries, from Serafin Geronimo, Kriminal ng Baryo Concepcion (Serafin Geronimo, Criminal of Barrio Concepcion, 1998) to Hesus Rebolusyonaro (Hesus the Revolutionary, 2002), bear a voice that can’t simply be relegated in a passé concept of cinema as entertainment and commodity. As expected, none of the films he made for the commercial film studio made money, but it earned for the country a true artist, uncompromising even in the face of capitalist demands.

Batang West Side (West Side Avenue, 2001), about a Filipino-American investigator who wrestles with personal demons while examining the murder of another Filipino-American in New Jersey, unshackled Diaz from the restraints of commercial filmmaking. Clocking at five hours, the film pursued an aesthetic that is like no other in Philippine cinema, where the camera, mostly unmoving, demands patience and contemplation, because the film itself requires it. Diaz’s next films, Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino (Evolution of a Filipino Family, 2004), Heremias (2006), Kagadanan sa banwaan ning mga Engkanto (Death in the Land of Encantos, 2007), and Melancholia (2008), whose running times ranges from nine to twelve hours and themes explore a spectrum that begins with the very personal and ends with the political or the philosophical, reinforces Diaz’s role in cinema. He is indeed one of the most essential filmmakers to have ever come out of the Philippines.

It is indisputable that Diaz is talented. He has an innate ability of sustaining even the most stubborn of interests with just one unmoving and monochromatic image. Take any of the staggered shots in any of his post-Batang West Side films, where depth, detail, and drama are encompassed with economy of aesthetics, and one would immediately notice that Diaz’s reflexes as a filmmaker is not bound by the limitations of what can be capture onscreen. Perhaps what drives Diaz’s cinema to go beyond the cursory demands of why cinema was invented in the first place, is his faith in it, that cinema is not twenty four lies per second, as Jean-Luc Godard would put it, but is actually twenty four or more not-so-convenient truths per second. If Diaz’s faith in cinema is unburdened by cynicism, why then can’t he demand the same faith from his audience? Truth be told, Diaz’s film may be bleak and therefore taxing to Hollywood-fed sensibilities, but the reward of not just sitting through his cinema, but taking part in his cinema, is priceless.

(Written for Lav Diaz's profile as fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation.)

Palito (1934-2010)

The Lovely Bones

(With his brittle, scaffold-like frame and that hilariously horrified smile, Reynaldo “Palito” Hipolito, 75, was like a phantom from vaudeville spooking a delightful, garish milieu.)

by Francis Joseph Cruz

TWENTY years ago, Palito made me cry. I was an underweight kid and was donning a hairdo that resembled the contour of an apple. Because of that unfortunate circumstance of my distant childhood, I was frequently given names, mostly unimaginative insults such as payatot, skeleton, lampa. Having three elder brothers who have mastered the art of bullying did not help either. If anything, they enhanced the playing field, appropriating pop culture references, from Skeletor of He-Man fame to Fido Dido, into the teasing game. However, the name that I resented the most was Palito, as his very appearance, with his deathly thin face and atrophied frame, made everyone laugh. Given that I had the neurotic notion that I have become synonymous with the comedian after hearing myself being called so many times by his name, I felt that each time anybody laughed at Palito while doing his antics in his movies, they were laughing at me. I hate being made fun of and laughed at, so every time they laughed at Palito, I cannot help but cry. I imagine I was not alone in this ordeal, given the popularity of the comedian and prevalence of malnutrition in the Philippines.

As I outgrew my skeleton of a body and gained a lot of weight, I also eventually outgrew that hate relationship with Palito. Without the stigma of feeling laughed at and ridiculed while watching his comedies, I immediately found the humor of Palito a welcome alternative to some of our younger comedians whose good looks obscured their attempts at comedy. However, Palito has turned into a rare treat. He was already a fixture in moviedom since the Sixties (with a considerable filmography to boot) but it wasn’t until the post-Marcos material world that he hit his stride, as a sort-of updated Bayani Casimiro (who himself was still active by this time).

The best of Palito’s kitsch works, including his take on James Bond and the Rambo­-parodies No Blood, No Surrender and Rambuto, have since become urban legends because of their shameless unavailability in any of the metropolis’ video shops or television channels’ listings.

It is unfortunate that Palito is being treated as if he belongs to another era when we were a happier people. While his comedy is a million miles away from the venerated wit that we have become accustomed to, it nonetheless was effective without even resorting to excessive brain usage or verging into lewdness. His brand of comedy is inherently simple, perhaps a little bit mean-spirited because its very meat is the fact that he is obscenely meatless, and that made all the difference. He surely belongs to that era where entertainers whose self-deprecation becomes the bulk of their onscreen identities like Babalu, with his extensive chin, Zorayda Sanchez, with her distinctive facial qualities, and Mahal, with her more-than-petite body, were sellable commodities in cinema that I wish would be appreciated more today. Palito, along with those unpretentious performers, who not only gave their talents and intellect but also their very physical self just to make us laugh, deserved more from this world.

Perhaps the most popular image of Palito is of him dressed in a clean barong tagalog with cotton balls inside his nostrils laying suspiciously serene inside a coffin. His many portrayals of the dead that suddenly spring back to life, either as a zombie or as someone who was mistakenly thought of as dead, always produced the desired hilarious effect, and this, I believe, have left an indelible mark on this nation’s collective ids. The funny reaction shots of Dolphy and the many other actors who repeatedly fell for this redundant yet enchantingly enjoyable prank notwithstanding, there is simply some quiet genius in how Palito has made use of his deathly thin frame to comedic effect. Moreover, Palito, without probably even knowing it, has achieved the near-impossible. He has inflicted kneejerk humor in the very thing that all of us dread, which is death.

While he has cheated death several times in the movies, real life is something different altogether. The news broke out. Palito has died.

This time, the image of him and his fragile body lying serenely in a hospital bed did not cause endless chuckles but sincere sighs. He will be missed.

The last time I saw Palito was late last year, during the awarding ceremonies of a short film competition sponsored by an alcoholic beverage. The veritable funny man was supposedly plucked from obscurity by filmmaker Khavn De La Cruz and his gang, who aptly call themselves The Brockas, to have him play the drums in this gig. Lovingly referred to by Khavn as “No Blood Brocka”—after the Rambo variation that the comedian himself had titled—Palito introduced himself with a humility that was poignant (yet, he had never lost his exquisite timing nor that comedic value of being self-deprecating), and still, he had the crowd laughing. That night, Palito was the star. He sat behind the drums set, and with gusto that seemed unlikely with his age and frail-looking body, started beating the drums with all his heart, while the Brockas shouted and screamed expletives to the amazement of everyone. He was not only truly talented, he was legendary.

To Reynaldo “Palito” Hipolito, you made me cry, you made me laugh, and you made me cry again. For that, I shall forever be grateful.


(First published in Philippine Free Press, 17 April 2010)

Johnny Delgado (1948-2009)

Johnny Delgado (1948-2009)

Juan Marasigan Feleo, more popularly known as Johnny Delgado, passed away on November 19, 2009. He is a hardworking actor, keeping himself preoccupied with his art even as he is battling lymphoma. The actor's last work is with the thesis film of his youngest daughter Ina Feleo (who has also proven to be a brilliant actress, giving colorful and restrained performances in Jade Castro's Endo (2007) and Milo Sogueco's Sanglaan (The Pawnshop, 2009)) entitled Labing-Labing (You and I, 2009). Labing-Labing is a modest yet heartfelt ode to her parents' relationship with each other. You can readily observe the physical manifestations of the advanced stage of Delgado's cancer, as his skin is considerably paler, his head is completely devoid of hair, and his gestures are lacking the usual physical exuberance the actor is known for. Despite that, Delgado gives an outstanding performance, showcasing an impressively articulate grasp of both comedy and drama. Delgado's wife, Laurice Guillen, who is both a magnificent actress and a very talented director, gives a magnanimous and understated performance, complimenting Delgado's joviality in the face of the fearsome disease with contemplative restraint, as if her character is shouldering all the pains and worries (the unresponsive daughter, the regular visits to the hospital) to allow her husband the benefit of normalcy (a performing libido, certain vices).

A vastly gifted character actor, Delgado has played various characters throughout his career, all of whom he has given individual lives to separate and distinct from who he is as a person. His Macario, the domineering husband to Gina Alajar's tormented provincial wife in Laurice Guillen's Salome (1981) is a fearsome monster, a character created from the suffocating patriarchal society. Delgado, however, opens cracks of humanity and vulnerability to the seemingly impenetrable exterior of Macario, and from there, we are advised of a connection to the character. As one of the rapists in Lino Brocka's revenge thriller Angela Markado (Angela the Marked One, 1980), Delgado is unrelenting and horrific, unwavering in representing the unapologetic excesses of a male-dominated society. In Mike de Leon's Kakabakaba Ka Ba? (Will Your Heart Beat Faster?, 1980), he decidedly turns a character fashioned from stereotype into a comic artifact, convincingly inflicting into the character of the grandmaster of a Japanese smuggling group with as much ridiculousness and absurdness. With his daunting frame and his expressive face, Delgado is best suited to be the quintessential macho man, portraying cruel husbands, sexual predators, crime bosses, and strict fathers with much ease and efficiency.

Gifted with both Delgado the innate physical attributes of an actor and talent, it is not surprising that he has acted for the Philippines' best filmmakers: Banaue (1975) for Gerry de Leon; Aguila (Eagle, 1980) for Eddie Romero, Init (Heat, 1979), Jaguar (1979) and Angela Markado for Lino Brocka; Kakabakaba Ka Ba?, Alpha Kappa Omega Batch '81 (1982), and Aliwan Paradise (1992) for Mike De Leon, Ang Alamat ni Julian Makabayan (The Legend of Julian Makabayan, 1979) for Celso Ad. Castillo; Brutal (1980) and Baby Tsina (1984) for Marilou Diaz-Abaya; Salome (1981), Tanging Yaman (A Change of Heart, 2000), and Santa-Santita (2004) for Guillen; and Balweg (1986) for Tikoy Aguiluz and Butch Perez. However, unfortunate as it may seem, Delgado is most popular for the roles he portrayed in the many recent blockbusters. Despite the lack of cinematic depth of these features, Delgado would often make most of the role, infusing an undeniable dramatic energy, an indefensible comic timing, or an integral fearsomeness to turn these meager features into watchable showcases of acting prowess. His serial killer in Cesar Montano's lackluster Ligalig (Anxiety, 2006) is a frightening. His mob boss in Mario Cornejo's First Day High (2006) is utterly fun to watch. His imposing fathers in Brillante Mendoza's gorgeously shot family drama Kaleldo (Summer Heat, 2006) and Rory Quintos' syrupy romance Kailangan Kita (I Need You, 2002) are so formidable that even without him onscreen, you can always feel his lingering presence. His doting father in Cathy Garcia-Molina's underwhelming You Got Me! (2007), on the other hand, is sweet, tender and in parts, quite humorous.

With the variety of roles that Delgado has played, one would expect the man to also be imposing and intimidating. However, based from the reactions and stories of his immediate family, his friends, and the many mourners who have shared little moments (I have been introduced to Delgado after the birthday concert of classical soprano Ana Feleo, Delgado's eldest daughter, and he appeared to me a very gentle man, very generous to share his smile even to people he barely knew. It is the exact opposite of the several characters that have rattled and daunted me throughout my existence as a Filipino film-consuming mortal), it appears that the actor is very well-loved and that his passing is not only a loss to the Philippine cinema which he has dedicated his life to, but also to the lives of the many people he has affected through the roles he has breathed life to and the life he has lived with much passion, dignity, and humility.

Alexis Tioseco (1981-2009)

Alexis Tioseco with girlfriend, Nika Bohinc

Alexis Tioseco (1981-2009)

"Why is there so much sadness and too much sorrow in this world? Is happiness just a concept? Is living just a process to measure man's pain? Are we ever going to see each other again? I'm not afraid of death. I'm more afraid that I won't see you again." - Renato in Melancholia (Lav Diaz, 2008)

A text message from Chard Bolisay woke me up. "Oggs, Alexis was murdered." "Huh?" was my reply. I thought it was a bad joke. Alexis was young. He was just a year older than me. It is that youth that drew him respect, especially in the way he expressed his ideas with the maturity and grace of an experienced diplomat. It is also that youth that most people misunderstood, such as during the time when he drafted a manifesto against the corrupting Metro Manila Film Festival or when he was interviewed in a television show with director Carlo J. Caparas and got berated by the embattled director and comic book writer for being young and inexperienced. It is that youth that led to my disbelief that he has died. This cannot be true. He was simply too young and too promising. Alas, the text messages, facebook status messages, and emails started pouring. Alexis and his girlfriend Nika Bohinc were murdered in their house in Quezon City.

I am not personally close to Alexis. Our interactions were limited mostly to the very few times that we'd bump into each other during events, screenings, and other festivals. I would often shake his hand, as he opens up to talk, mostly about the film we're about to see, the film we just saw, or the film community in general. I remember the last time we had a lengthy chat. He got word that I had written a short film for some friends who took the summer film course under Quark Henares. He joked around and said that "I had crossed over." I became embarrassed all of a sudden, not because the film I wrote which he never got to see was to be embarrassed of, but because I am aware of that unspoken rule that film critics can never be filmmakers. This is probably because once a film critic has "crossed-over" and has experienced the difficulties of giving birth to a complete film, compassion for the fellow filmmaker is created, and a film critic can never compassionate.

However, Alexis, who is perhaps the most recognizable real film critic in Manila, is probably the most compassionate person around. He only wrote about the films he loved and kept his criticisms of bad films within private discussions. And his compassion is not limited for the filmmakers he has regarded as his closest friends, but to Philippine cinema itself. Alexis was not selfish. Perhaps one of the proudest moments in my so-called career as a film critic is when he acknowledged me, Bolisay and Dodo Dayao in one of his wishes for Philippine cinema: that the three of us, all of whom wrote about films exclusively for out obscure spaces in the internet, "get space in the broadsheets, because they're far more interesting than anyone writing regularly there today." Last year, he invited me to take part in a panel for ASEACC (Annual South East Asian Cinemas Conference), where I sat along with Dino Manrique and Ben Slater to discuss writing about film in the internet to the conference's participants. This was the first time, and probably the last time, I was given the opportunity to talk about my passion in front of an audience of like-minded individuals.

I was first introduced to Nika, Alexis' beautiful girlfriend, in Mogwai in Cubao X where Alexis jokingly teases Nika about using my review of Brillante Mendoza's Manoro without my permission for the program of a film festival in Slovenia where the said film was being screened. I didn't mind, of course. I was thrilled by the fact that for the first time, my writing was published in paper instead of online, and that I was now translated to Slovenian. From then on, like my interaction with Alexis, my interaction with Nika were limited to waves, handshakes, and sometimes, simple acknowledgments of each other's presence. It was only recently wherein I got to talk to Nika more intensely, and again, about a subject that we both were passionate about: film. It was after a screening of Pepe Diokno's Engkwentro (2009) that she asked me what I thought of the film, and I was honest about my apprehensions regarding the film. She was persistent in finding out why and there, beneath the idle talk about a random film we both saw, I discovered a thirst for perspective, an insistence to create discourse, a compassion for the cinema of this country that only became hers because her boyfriend adores it with such depth, eloquence and vigor, enough to be convinced to displace herself from her homeland and move to a faraway land where household help is commonplace.

(I feel guilty for taking the opportunity to share my thoughts with these two people for granted. I feel guilty for limiting myself to waves and handshakes when there is so much more to talk about, argue about, laugh about, and discuss. I feel guilty because you two are now gone, and all I can do is cry and reminisce on the little nuggets of moments I shared with the two of you.)

Alexis' selflessness reflects in his writing. In his piece entitled The Letter I Would Love to Read to You in Person, published in Rogue Magazine, he exposes himself a romantic, who openly professes his immense love for Nika in the same letter wherein he discloses his beautiful love affair with Philippine cinema. In his blog, Concentrated Nonsense, he further reveals about himself through his musings about cinema. Images from Gerardo de Leon and Eddie Romero's Intramuros (Walls of Hell, 1964) adorn a post entitled Leonardo. What begins as an evocative reminiscence of the underrated film starring Fernando Poe, Jr. transforms into a beautiful tribute to his late father. His writings were never bland since reading them does not only enlighten you about the particular film or filmmaker that catches his fancy, it also opens you to know him, giving you an inkling why this promising individual who can be successful in any field he chose to tackle decided to stay in Manila and be resigned to what seems to be a thankless job when he could have been elsewhere, living comfortably.

While they are predictably intelligently and beautifully written, they possess a voice that is naturally his. It is a hopeful voice, a voice makes you want to watch the films he lovingly describes in the most graceful prose. He does not stop there. Through his Fully Booked Film Series, he introduced many Filipinos to films that most probably will never be screened either in commercial cinemas or any of the popular film festivals in Metro Manila. Through Alexis' efforts, films like Marlon Fuentes' Bontoc Eulogy (1985), Kidlat Tahimik Bakit Dilaw ang Gitna ng Bahag-hari (Why is Yellow the Middle of the Rainbow, 1994), Khavn dela Cruz's Maynila sa mga Pangil ng Dilim (Manila in the Fangs of Darkness, 2008), and filmmakers like Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Edwin, Antoinette Jadaone have found an audience, if not a sizable following, in the Philippines. The results of his efforts may be mere trickles compared to the immense dream he has for Philippine cinema, but despite that, he adamantly and bravely persevered. As he introduced Raya Martin, Lav Diaz, and John Torres to the rest of the world who appreciated and continue to appreciate them as gigantic voices in cinema, he did not neglect the country he loved and managed and gave birth to these talented yet humble artists. Against the seeming disinterest that pervaded a seemingly moribund culture, he managed to ignite a fire within the local film community, a fire that would hopefully stay stroke and bright.

Alexis wrote about Philippine cinema as if he was writing for the many generations of Filipinos that neglected it, leaving important works to decay while gorging in formulaic films that only insulted the culture rather than enrich it. He wrote about the films he admired as if they were his own, and perhaps they are his own, knowing that he gave up so much for these films to be made, seen, and perpetuated. He wrote and that is all that mattered. He may have known that his mission would not be completed in a lifetime (which is probably why he created a lengthy wishlist for Philippine cinema, so that his legacy may be continued after his passing), but he strove forward, writing, inspiring, making sense out of a cinema that seemed to have lost all sense. The tragedy of everything is that we lost him to such incomparable senselessness. (To Alexis and Nika, from one of your most thankful admirers who grieves for you like he is grieving for his country's cinema, you will be missed.)