Boatman (1984)

Boatman (Tikoy Aguiluz, 1984)

The first thing we see in Tikoy Aguiluz's Boatman is the gleaming revealed blade of a balisong (a switchblade knife made in the province of Batangas). A group of prepubescent boys line up to an old man carrying the blade and a stack of leaves. The bravest one presents himself as the first boy to be circumcized. Tikoy Aguiluz allows us to see the details of the ceremonial passage to manhood: the old man pulls the foreskin from the penis and attaches it to the implement before slicing it off; the kid then spits the chewed leaves before jumping into the river. Aguiluz cuts to the same river, and appearing from the river is Felipe (Ronnie Lazaro), presumably the brave kid many years later now grown into an ambitious boatman who delivers tourists from town to the waterfalls of Pagsanjan.

The tourist spot invites a lot of people including a movie crew which Felipe convinces himself as his way out of limited opportunities of Pagsanjan. Pandy (Jonas Sebastian), a gay man who is busying himself on an idea for a book on how a probinsyano (provincial man) would live in the tempting streets of the big city, eyes Felipe for his literary experiment. Felipe thus falls to Pandy's invitations and becomes a torero (live sex performer) in Manila.

Aguiluz paints the lives of the toreros with astute details. During the "practice" sessions of Felipe (his stage name is Boy Toro VI, we get a glimpse of how many have fallen into such flesh trade) and his partner Gigi (Sarsi Emmanuelle), a tinge of theatric artistry is fused with the prurient show (the several positions are shown with witty commentaries: around the world is when the girl does a 360 degree turn while fucking; more funny is the scenarios when fucking the wife of a friend who is working abroad). The partnership between Felipe and Gigi evolve into something symbiotic. Their sweaty lovemaking transcends the voyeurist qualities of their rehearsed acts. The eroticism divides the reenacted and the spontaneous.

I've always thought Boatman is a harsh critique on the Filipino macho. From the moment of circumcision to the ending, we witness a man trying to keep afloat while traversing his path to his ambitions. Observe his several relationships with his women; first, with his girlfriend (Susan Africa) in Pagsanjan who he leaves in a whim and an unassured promises of the city; second, with Gigi, whom we can observe in a quasi-marital relationship with all the intriguing quirks of a distinctly patriarchal Filipino marriage (Felipe brings home the money while Gigi spends it; more disturbing is the added value of their profession wherein Felipe is allowed to fuck around with many women but Gigi is exclusively Felipe's).

Lastly, with Emily (Suzanne Love), who is the first woman to pierce the fiction of Felipe's imagined male superiority. Felipe's ambition hinges on his relationship with Emily, and his illusion of subjecting her to his male prowess. The result is of course tragedy; and it is Felipe's simplistic view of the world that invites such tragedy.

The wrap-up the film completes Felipe's journey in the city in shocking climax. That ending succeeds in putting more disgrace in the profession wherein Felipe's primal mindset is so well-suited, and also gives the film's intro an ironic relevance to the film's themes: that it is circumcision that brings Felipe to this manly world, and a similar (although much more violent) act would completely erase his mark in the world. The punchline of the film is that Felipe is a man who thinks, acts, and earns with his prick; and thus, his significance and existence ends when his prick has lost its power to fuck.

Ang Huling Birhen sa Lupa (2003)

Ang Huling Birhen sa Lupa (Joel Lamangan, 2003)
English Title: The Last Virgin

Ang Huling Birhen sa Lupa (The Last Virgin) takes its cue from Ishmael Bernal's masterpiece Himala (Miracle, 1982). Both films have practically the same conceit: a provincial town suddenly bursting with life and commerce because of a miracle. Both writer and director of the film worked under Bernal in Himala: screenwriter Racquel Villavicencio as production designer and director Joel Lamangan as crowd director.

The biggest difference between the two films is that Lamangan's lacks a coherent direction, while Bernal's is grand in its cornered simplicity (that famous line by Nora Aunor's character "walang himala, ang himala ay nasa puso ng tao," translated in English as "There are no miracles, miracles are in the heart of men," is practically the film's lyrical cornerstone). If there's a line that probably paraphrases Lamangan's film, it would be the one spoken by Lorena (Ara Mina) in the end of the film, "ang maidudulot lang ng kasakiman ay kahamakan," or "greed only results in tragedy." It's hardly an original or interesting theme to ground your film on, and Villavicencio and Lamangan know that, as shown by the rows and rows of narrative embellishments and subplots that muddle the film.

An epidemic left the seaside town of San Rosario in social and moral disarray. Extremes populate the town: the pious as exemplified by Cion (Maui Taylor), who sees the Virgin Mary (depicted visually as a modern-day burning bush) regularly, her saint-muttering ill mother, and the ex-nun who teaches catechism to the children; those who have lost their faith on religion are Lorena, Cion's older sister and town whore, the town captain (Elizabeth Oropesa), who explains her lack of faith as a result of her daughter's unexplained crippled-ness. When Fr. Emman (Jay Manalo), who washed ashore one day, starts conniving with Lorena in making up a miracle to elicit a steady income from the needy faithful, greed unhealthily mixes with the affairs of the soul.

It's played out as straight melodrama with several encounters that expand on the logical limitations of human reason, like that unexplainable mutation of the priest's sexual lusting for Lorena into something so easily referred to by Lorena as love, or the relative ease that the miracle goes out of proportion (Lamangan even reprises the carnivalesque crowds, complete with journalists and television crews, furthering the implausibility of the exercise; especially since Villavicencio's story hinges on fake clergymen, corrupt low-ranking government officials, and shady crooks --- certainly, a grandiose media coverage would cause unwanted attention to an enterprise that works best if kept in an intermediate level of awareness; enough to arouse needy patrons but not large enough to create suspicion with the government and the church).

But there are the details that are unintentionally funny that counter its aims for social commentary and realism, or even its meager attempts at effective melodrama: the insanely large polyester breasts of Taylor in gratuitous display (abnormally gifted for a fifteen year old lass), or the libidous climax that seems drawn out of the many other Filipino films that require rape scenes (this time, the decision to rape seems out of place --- Mike Magat's character is supposed to be an enterprising businessman; why then would he allow himself and his gang to deflower their most prized commodity), or even the ridiculous ending that gives the film's title its meaning: an unintended conclusion that there's such a thing as hymen that remains indestructible despite a vicious gang rape (either that, or the men of San Rosario are not so well-endowed); or maybe, the hymen is really such an invaluable commodity for sanctification that divine powers are needed to preserve its intactness. Nevertheless, it's just such a silly, silly film.

Ratatouille (2007)

Ratatouille (Brad Bird, 2007)

Kitchens and rats: they are not exactly the key elements to a sumptuous dinner date. In Brad Bird's imagination though, they exactly are the ingredients, not only to a vibrantly colorful and equally tasty ratatouille (a peasant dish), but also to a lovely CGI-crafted film.

His dreamer of a rat Remy (Patton Oswalt) first discovers his heightened sense of smell which his rat colony uses to determine if the trash they're eating are poisoned or not. His dreams are bigger: armed with inspiration from chef Gusteau (Brad Garrett) and his recipe book aptly titled Anyone Can Cook, he finds his way to Paris and in the hands of talentless garbage boy Linguini (Lou Romano), who using his rodent pal, concocts delicious recipes that start bringing attention to their neglected restaurant.

The computer-manufactured visuals are spectacular. I've never thought pixels can be this mouth-watering and good enough to eat. Bird clearly takes his subject quite seriously. Food for him is not a mere gimmick (the same way fairy tales, automobiles, surfing, and the ice age are for similarly animated pics), but is one of the many cores of his film. The film's basic knowledge of the workings of a professional kitchen is more than adequate (I predict children would brush off the several classifications of chefs, and processes, and spices that the film's vocabulary is so familiar with, and just go along for the several well-directed rat rides through, under, and over the several kitchen implements). Mixed with Bird's fetish with mating the ordinary with the extraordinary (the same way he colors a kid's coming of age with the arrival of a giant robot, or suburban family woes with super powers and larger-than-life world-saving missions), Ratatouille comes out entirely magical (which makes it a far more satisfying celebration of Paris than the omnibus Paris, Je T'aime (2006)).

As with all of Bird's films, Ratatouille is clearly much more than jokes (which are almost entirely funny in the non-American sort of way; Bird's humor earns a more worthwhile laugh --- a bumbling idiot unable to declare love in front of his romantic interest is more inherently funny than any American pop culture reference) and spectacle. This film has a genuine heart. The simple yet fragile friendship between the gullible young chef and the rat is threatened by the chef's blossoming admiration for his strong-willed senior (Janeane Garofalo) and the rat's duties to his family and its natural inclinations for scavenging. Bird paints these whimsical links with gorgeous candor --- that nice brewing of pseudo-romantic fluff and Parisian wonder when the boy and his rat initiate their fated collaboration in the banks of the Seine is a sequence to behold; something that curiously belongs to the end of thousands of romances set in Paris but fits quite well in the middle of this family film.

The most poignant character, however, and the one with the most moving transformation is food critic Anton Ego (Peter O'Toole), who destroyed Gusteau's food empire with a relentless stroke of his heartless pen. Basically, he provides the film with the fuel that allowed it to transcend its genre. Instead of merely becoming a finely crafted Pixar film, Anton Ego grounds the film with a theme that is delivered in a speech (more accurately a read capsule review) emotionally delivered by O'Toole. Somehow, the fantabulously crafted relationships of the characters are overshadowed by the melting melancholy and instant coloration of the seemingly heartless critic. It took me by surprise; that accuracy (almost equal to Bird's acquired proficiency with the culinary arts) and deep understanding so succinctly spoken with admirable and timeless grace by O'Toole gives the oft-maligned critic (of all kinds, mind you) a formidable raison d'etre and a revealed heart.

I am very impressed with Bird. He is turning out to be America's best animation director. His three feature films prove that his storytelling isn't satisfied with fantastical plot outlines or characters drawn out of mere whim and blank imagination. There is always pertinent substance in his films; substance that aren't particular with social or cultural milieus (the Cold War-era America of The Iron Giant (1999) and the alternate universe corporate modernity of The Incredibles (2004)), but are completely universal. Ratatouille is an American film set in the French capital with characters ranging from an intellectual snob to a lowly sewer rat, yet its message cuts across all boundaries established by culture or species. Undoubtedly, this is the best thing that came out of this sequel-riddled and robot-infatuated summer.

The Descent (2005)

The Descent (Neil Marshall, 2005)

The initial fascination with underground rocks and dangers starts wearing off when at its thirty-minute mark, the only thing that's happened is a cave-in and a close encounter with an endless pit. Brit-director Neil Marshall makes most of his setting. His film is barely lit and succumbs to the horror film-temptation of using jarring movements to elicit a sense of confused dread. It doesn't work as the mixture of dim lighting and woozy camera movements causes visual nausea and incomprehension.

Standard items of horror chick-stupidity are in blatant display. The all-female cave exploring team includes an immature punk chick whose disregard for underground safety would cause her fatal harm. The rest seem indistinguishable from each other, especially since they are all covered with rockclimbing gear and the like; you often wonder why Marshall had to divulge useless information and trivia about the characters in its initial stages (including a life-altering trauma that supposedly fuels the main character to action, but really doesn't). It's quite obvious that these women are all cannon fodder to his pale and hungry cave-dwelling cretin.

The Descent can be read as a feminist text; the only problem there is that Marshall's portrayal of women are so facile, so superficial that despite not having a single male character in the film (if you count out the husband and several of the male monsters), it still feels overtly patriarchal. There's a sense that all these female rock climbers were given male brains. All their motivations are distinctly macho: to discover a cave and have it named for themselves --- even that act of entering the cave and witnessing for the first time its beauty is a metaphorical de-flowering.

Marshall completes the image of devirginization. He makes the invasion inherently painful and bloody; complete with a gooey pool of red blood, upon which the main character (Shauna Macdonald) reappears from completely changed into a Lara Croft-type cave raider (it's that proverbial rite of passage). Armed with determination charged by knowledge of her husband's infidelity and a will to live, she storms against the cave-dwelling, carnivorous apes to wreak violence and vengeance in an action-hero swagger. All sense of her femininity is thrown out in exchange for that vengeful, and very male-oriented dominance, that inherent need to rise above as superior.

That moment when they are stuck in the cave and the group's leader (Natalie Mendoza) reveals that the cave system is a new one and assumes responsibility, the film starts oozing extreme levels of testosterone with each of the more dominant females struggling for that top position; and when even pushed further by the threat of death, survival starts coinciding with those internal politics, jealousies and other emotions. The Descent is not a horror film that is distinctly female in its sensibilities. It is that illusion of novelty that Marshall delivers to you but truth be told, The Descent is just any other horror film out there --- there's probably a bit of sexual politics simmering underneath its faux-estrogen filled characters, but it's still quite bluntly a vastly underlit gore-fest.

Tuya's Marriage (2006)

Tuya's Marriage (Wang Quanan, 2006)
Mandarin Title: Tuya de hun shi

Berlinale-winner Tuya's Marriage is bookended with the same sequence: two boys fighting with one boy explaining that the other teased him regarding having two fathers. Tuya (Yu Nan) tries to calm the two boys to no avail, forcing her to storm into an empty tent to cry out of frustration. We hear a man calling for her; she merely looks out the window and the film blacks out.

Director Wang Quanan's decision to introduce his film with its inevitable conclusion is a brave one. It gives the director the tough duty to concretize the middle portion well enough to sustain the interest despite the preset knowledge of the ending. The film officially starts with Tuya and her herd of sheep; on her way home, she discovers her neighbor Sen'ge, unconscious beside his motorcycle. She brings him home and takes care of him while her invalid husband Bater calmly approves of her acts --- probably out of deference of his wife's heading his household, as he has lost his mobility in an accident.

Wang surrounds Tuya with these flawed men: Bater, who is practically another mouth to feed which Tuya, as loving wife and mother of their children, cannot just abandon; and Sen'ge, who we acknowledge as suspiciously too nice to Tuya despite being a willing slave to his materialistic wife. When Tuya is forced to divorce Bater because of her lumbar injury (the circumstances would leave the two children in the protection of their two invalid parents; something Tuya's sister-in-law disapproves of ), hordes of suitors start inviting Tuya to marriage. Her proposition is highly unlikely but something she cannot compromise --- that her prospective husband should take both her two children and ex-husband into their household.

That's basically the film's central dilemma. Tuya is stoic and strong-willed, hardly in need of a man's support but circumstance and society convinces her of the added securities of getting married to an able-bodied male. Tuya's courters include a timid middle-aged man who showers Tuya with gifts, Bater's wealthy brother, a retired professor who promises Tuya a wealthy life and education for her two kids, and of course, Sen'ge, who pledges to divorce his wife and dig a well to placate Tuya's need for a man.

The irony of everything is that Tuya would always transcend the promises of stability and good life her courters offer; and that marital life, as Sen'ge initially says is a mere scrap of formality, is hardly the solution to her troubles. The irony to the irony is that it seems that the men are the ones who are slaves of marriage --- Sen'ge with his submissiveness to his wife's whim; Bater with his cloaked jealousy with Tuya's hunt for an able man; and all the other men who have their respective reasons for courting Tuya to marriage. Tuya is the last person in the movie to ever need marriage; and her decision for doing hunting for one is merely for the benefit of her children and Bater.

Wang's critical address on China's rapid modernism is fleshed out by this intricately conceived tale that weaves a tinge of sarcasm upon the traditionalism of the marital ceremony (we witness the colors and the aural beauty of the ceremony) mixed with the modernist and proprietary benefits of marital union. That's why Wang insists on beginning and ending the film with Tuya's cry of frustration; and in the end do we truly know the quagmire of complexed and complicated familial relations and problems that the wedding has given birth to. That's when we sufficiently understand Tuya's frustration.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007)

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (David Yates, 2007)

Mirrors, memories and magic are the ingredients to this latest movie adaptation of J. K. Rowling's popular series of novels. Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), that boy-wizard we first saw trying to fit in Hogwarts' crew of magically-inclined professors and students, has grown up to be an angry, angry boy. His parents killed when he was a baby, his witnessing the death of a friend and the return of Voldemort (a nose-less and reptilian Ralph Fiennes), his unbearably hot summer with frequent taunting by mama's boy-turned-faux gangster cousin --- all these and more have turned Potter pale and reclusive. His return to Hogwarts doesn't help either; there, he's seen as a fraud and a rabble-rouser.

David Yates' The Order of the Phoenix is dark and dreary. There's a lot less juvenilia on display (although there are frequent fireworks and magically-propelled origami). Instead, Yates drapes the walls of Hogwarts with fascist rules and announcement; the worst of them is the institution of Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton) as Grand Inquisitor of the magic school, thus ending all forms of fun and freedom and replacing them with interrogations, painful punishments, and facile smiles and giggles.

We get a glimpse of the Ministry of Magic compound --- a fine example of urban hustle and bustle with stock-trading goblins, floo-transported witches and wizards and governmental posters in larger-than-life reproduction magically draped in the walls. The bureaucratic government starts invading on the daily grind of these beloved young wizards as response to the widespread paranoia brought about by Harry's news of Voldemort's return. Umbridge, media (utilizing the Daily Prophet, the magic community's source of news and announcements), the forming of an underground defensive army (the titular Order) against both Voldemort and the government's forced blindness --- there's something that's no longer juvenile brewing in the world of witches and wizards.

Harry spends a lot of time dreaming, remembering, and looking at himself in the mirror. The book and the film's thrust is the supposed connection between Harry and Voldemort; and this fleshes out themes of identity coinciding with Harry's awkward stage of maturity --- no longer delegated to formal ceremonies like balls, parties, and courting but more in tune with reality (misapplied hormones, emotions, and that persistent need to matter). Radcliffe does a good job in fleshing out these teenage internalizations; and he does keep up with the bevy of British thespians lending their hand in enriching these adaptations of Britain's most popular books.

It reminded me of Alfonso Cuaron's brilliant and brisk adaptation of The Prisoner of Azkaban (2004); wherein the doldrum narrative serves as the background to Cuaron's distinct understanding of the characters' dilemmas. Yates doesn't quite achieve that height of blockbuster poetry that Cuaron so easily weaves, but he comes close --- definitely closer than Chris Columbus and Mike Newell's mechanical attempts for blank spectacle. I always thought Rowling as a poor storyteller; her books get longer and more complicated to the detriment of narrative ease.

Yates and writer Michael Goldenberg (who also adapted Peter Pan (P. J. Hogan, 2003) with complete with its sexual subtleties) do a great job in compressing Rowling's tome into a two hour-plus extravaganza; with its share of inconsistent wrinkles (that subplot with the CGI-created giant) and show stopping set pieces (the final fifteen minutes are a vast improvement to Rowling's incomprehensible climax). The performances are good; standouts include Staunton (whose Umbridge is the sort of governmental dog we love to hate), Helena Bonham-Carter (whose short stint as a crazed witch is fabulous; watch out for her subtle facial nuances near the end wherein lucidity and illucidity are mixed up flawlessly), and Gary Oldman (who comes back as Sirius Black with a touch of paternal grace to his orphaned godson). Overall, this is a more than satisfying summer film --- easy on the eyes, and complex enough to be appreciated in a different level other than mere entertainment.

El (1953)

El (Luis Buñuel, 1953)
English Title: This Strange Passion

This is Luis Buñuel's monster movie; it's only difference with the likes of James Whale's Frankenstein (1931) or The Invisible Man (1933) is that it's monster is completely human --- visible, palpable and quite normal-looking. Don Francisco (Arturo de Córdova) is a very wealthy man; he preoccupies himself with a lawsuit involving a huge amount of lot he claims as his family's. Other than that, he serves the Church well enough to treat the parish priest as a good friend who gets invited to his frequent socials at his palatial home.

That's the disturbing thing about Don Francisco --- he's actually very charming and has a way with women. It's that mysterious magnetism that pushes Gloria (Delia Garcés) to him; probably an unspeakable sexuality that simmers underneath the Sunday clothes or the romantic and longful gazes that are exchanged under the solemnities of Lenten processes. The first time we see him, he piously guides the priest in washing the feet of several altar boys before his eyes are lost in a row of feet, first of the altar boys', then the public's. A gorgeous pair of feet attracts his fancy and his eyes peek at the owner's, Gloria, looking very virginal under her veil.

You instantly sense Francisco's viciousness the moment he hunts down Gloria after church services --- the way he pulls away from the parish priest and his friends (with a not so innocent white lie; the parish priest tells him that if what he's doing is that important, it mustn't be good) to chase Gloria. The next scene at his house is even more telling of his warped nature; during that moment, he fires both his attorney and his maid for reasons that aren't exactly fair (for his lawyer's honesty and for the maid's unintentional scandalous liaison with his trusted butler).

Don Francisco's master plan to woo Gloria into marrying him instead of his good friend Raul (Luis Beristáin) is disquietingly devious. When he gets his prize, he erupts into a paranoid frenzy that culminates in random acts of cruelty and torture. Successive and spontaneous pangs of jealousy, misogyny and violence are the norm in Francisco's household. That's the monster that will hold Gloria captive during the second half of El. Francisco's depraved demeanor mixed with his pitiful condition (and the fact that he practically owns everyone, and is smart enough to win the hearts of those close to Gloria) suffocates Gloria to the point of reciprocal paranoia. Despite the illogicality of maintaining a relationship with Francisco's monstrous persona, you believe their being bound together, both by Francisco's valid threats and intimidation and Gloria's own sense of being trapped and trying to salvage a love-filled yet undeniably erroneous marriage.

Buñuel gets the tone right. He precedes Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960) in depicting the very real danger of a man gone insane. He understands the choking atmosphere provided by the tight grasp of marital vows and the accompanying pull of class procedure. The damning effect of maintaining reputation, of keeping good relations with the Church, of practically living life as dictated by societal standards keep both Gloria and the already damaged Francisco on a dangerous edge. In a way, with all the effective horror and suspense Buñuel provides, it sidesteps into the area of humorous social critique --- the way he manifestly connects the errors of religious shallowness and class maintenance with the fears, paranoia and disdain of Francisco.

El is bookended by scenes that depict Buñuel's sarcastic view of the Church. He begins with the ritual of washing of the feet (a Lenten tradition wherein the priest imitates Jesus Christ's act of washing his apostles' feet, then kissing them). Buñuel's fetishistic portrayal of the ritual reaches for the absolute silliness of the proceedings wherein minds float (from feet to feet to an unbearable sexual attraction to a church patron) against the supposed piety of the Church (Buñuel furthers this theme when he sets Francisco's final outburst inside the same Church --- wherein he imagines the patrons to be laughing at him; presumably this shows his disdain and lack of real trust on the ideals of Catholicism).

The film ends with Francisco as a monk. We somewhat get a false sense of renewed piety for Buñuel's charming monster but once he opens his mouth and again alludes to his senseless accusations and suspicions, we can see that madness still simmers underneath the same Church robes (the same way, during the first time we see him underneath his prim and proper attire). He zigzags back to the monks' abode --- his walk is very telling that there's something more than meets the eye.

******
This post is my contribution to Flickhead: Luis Bunuel Blog-A-Thon.

Paraiso: Tatlong Kwento ng Pag-asa (2007)

Paraiso: Tatlong Kwento ng Pag-asa (Ricky Davao, Jun Lana & Joel Ruiz, 2007)
English Title: Paradise: Three Stories of Hope

Gawad Kalinga (its literal English translation is "to give care") is a non-profit organization whose noble goal is to build shelters and communities for millions of poor and homeless Filipinos. It has become some sort of a favorite charity for most affluent benefactors, mostly because the organization actually transmits results (in terms of completed houses and communities) and its method is very personal --- benefactors are permitted to visit the fruits of their kindness and to those who do not have the luxury of spare change, they are given the chance to share their know-how and muscles by actually building homes. To readers of this post, I suggest visiting the website to know more; or if you're really in the mood to make a difference in this world, donate money to their effort ($25,000 will create a community for several families; aptly named after the benefactor).

Paraiso: Tatlong Kwento ng Pag-asa (Paradise: Three Stories of Hope) is an omnibus film that strives to reach possible philantropists from around the world through the power of film. In the United States, the film was shown in several cities (mostly with large Filipino-American communities) to create awareness that such an organization is existing. Three short films, produced by three different film outfits, all trying to achieve an international awareness of the prevailing dilemma in the Philippines. I can't say that the three films are masterpieces, because they are not. If viewed as mere films, they are very much flawed and greatly manipulative. They are, however, very effective commercials for its singular and noble cause.

Jun Lana's Umiyak Man ang Langit (Even If the Skies Cried) begins the triptych with a tragedy: the landslide that completely covered several towns in Leyte with mud. Lana's film concerns Jocelyn (Maricel Soriano), a mother of four and one of the victims of the devastating natural calamity. It's designed to be a tearjerker, and as such, it's quite a success. What it lacks in subtlety, it compensates with pure sincerity (and believable performances by Soriano, and Noni Buencamino). It has one scene that bothered me and which I thought was completely unnecessary: Lana's team decided to recreate the landslide using miniatures. While the effort is understandable, the film could've survived without it. It's a good thing that the subsequent sequence which involves Jocelyn buried underneath the rubbles, groping her surroundings to save her daughters, was effectively heartbreaking.

The middle child of the omnibus is Joel Ruiz's Ang Kapatid Kong si Elvis (My Brother Elvis). It's undoubtedly the most interesting of the three films. The story was conceived by Michiko Yamamoto (writer of Magnifico (Maryo J. delos Reyes, 2003) and Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros (The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros, Auraeus Solito, 2005)) and Monster Jimenez (one half of the reason why Big Time (Monster Jimenez & Mario Cornejo, 2005) is so good), although based from the real experiences of Gawad Kalinga volunteers Jerome and Gina Paner (played by Michael V. and Carmi Martin) of adopting a neglected child from one of the housing projects.

The film doesn't go for a realistic portrayal of the events but instead bursts with youthful and energetic imagination. Elvis (Paulken Bustillo) eats rocks, pilfers little items, and wreaks havoc in the community before he was adopted by the couple. Of course, the newcomer doesn't really go well with the couple's only son, Pepe (Gian Bernabe). Ruiz solves the problem by giving the two siblings the opportunity to bond while traveling provincial Philippines while dragging a doghouse. It's slight, bright, and very whimsical; but beneath all the incoherent comedics (both effective and not-so-effective), is a distinguishable heart.

Marie, actor-turned-director Ricky Davao's contribution to the series, completes the trilogy. Sad to say, it's my least favorite of the bunch. It starts with the startling, and very recognizable, video of the World Trade Center collapsing before giving us a flashback of the wonderful twenty five years of the married life of Rudy (Cesar Montano) and Marie (Lexi Schultze) Abad. It's the tragic event of Marie perishing in the 9/11 tragedy that would give Rudy the inspiration to give to Gawad Kalinga, in memory of his good wife.

My problem with the film is that it lacks subtlety whatsoever. While Lana's short film bathes in melodrama, it is all worth it. Davao embellishes his film with a grandiose score; loud enough to turn the video of the twin buildings collapsing more operatic than it should be. I understand Davao's intention to make everything larger-than-life, but in a short film that should evoke sincerity and noble intentions, less is certainly more. Davao caps the film with a comparison between the colorful Gawad Kalinga homes and the dilapidated shacks on stilts in the Baseco compound. That's something Davao got right: there's still so much to do.

Nevertheless, the omnibus is still a grand success. Men and women are being recruited to fight in bloody wars when the same talents can be used to create homes; or just waste their cash on lifeless commercial efforts with films like Transformers (Michael Bay, 2007) and other loud, proud yet flat Summer flicks when the amount of money to create those films (and to spend to watch them) would be enough to create thousands of communities. The film adequately provides for something more worthwhile than being herded in this derivative life this modern world pushes us to live.

Big Bang Love, Juvenile A (2006)

Big Bang Love, Juvenile A (Takashi Miike, 2006)
Japanese Title: 46-okunen no koi

Takashi Miike has more than seventy films under his name. While most of these films are trashy fare, more commonly available in the cheap bins of Japan's DVD stores, others have crossed over to the international festival circuit. Despite his growing fanbase outside Japan, there is still little validation to the aging and prolific director. Films like the Dead or Alive Trilogy (1999, 2000 & 2002), Ichi the Killer (2001), Visitor Q (2001), and Gozu (2003) have given him god status to the quasi-pornographers of America (Eli Roth gave Miike a cameo in his Hostel (2005)), and his venture to J-Horror (the relatively interesting but very popular One Missed Call (2003)) has turned him into master of the genre (enough to give Imprint (2006) the season-ending pimp spot of the first season of the Masters of Horror television series).

Big Bang Love, Juvenile A, Miike's latest film to receive international attention, is caviar compared to his other more famous works, which are mostly delicacies of different yet plebian sorts. It's essentially a murder mystery involving inmates in what seems to be a prison by way of Lars Von Trier's Dogville (2003) and Manderlay (2005)'s chalk-drawn settings. That's the basic structure but Miike pumps the air with vibrant colors and an unhealthy dose of male pheromones; turning the prison into a literal stage for bloody brawls and homoerotic tension.

The intro has a man (Kenichi Endo) reciting from a book about light years, Earth thousands of years ago and youth, on cue of an onscreen clapper board; the camera placed still outside a room lit and colored with Chris Doyle-lusciousness (by Masahito Kaneko) with the man sitting with a stick of lighted cigarette in his hand.

The victim in Miike's murder mystery is Kazuki (Masanobu Ando), supposedly strangled to death by effeminate Ariyoshi (Ryuhei Matsuda). The two enter the penitentiary together. Their respective fates are entangled by their individual misfortunes, as both are murderers of not so identical motives (Ariyoshi was allegedly raped by his middle-aged gay patron, while Kazuki was brought up to cherish violence by an environment that is not proper in common standards). The investigation accumulates much more than the simple procedural rules of motives and reasons; but instead delivers a backdrop of something deeper; more spiritual and philosophical than mundane.

The literal translation of the Japanese title is "4.6 Billion Years of Love," alluding to the time when everything was space dust that resulted from that primordial explosion in outer space. Miike time travels to that fictional future with his prisoner boys gazing lustfully with each other, while talking about space ships and Mayan pyramids that promise of space travel and heaven, respectively.

With all the billion years of slow creation, the result is their fated attraction, made questionable by their similar sex organs, under the not-so-perfect circumstance of jealous inmates and sadistic guards. Then there's their unattractive pasts --- literal ghosts guarding their every movement. These men are literally having their hearts bleed with this cosmological mistake; the rays of a bright future literally pass through their bodies as if they weren't part of the cumulative space dust that will inevitably meet and turn into matter. And matter turns back into space dust when applied with the potent formula of death; as we see a prisoner (animated) trying to escape burst into dust as he gets electrocuted by the high-voltage wire walls.

Cryptic, overly stylistic and ambitious yet, everything makes perfect sense. Miike was able to connect the metaphysics of the cosmos and the quiet yearnings of his two male characters. With Big Bang Love, Juvenile A, Miike may have made his first true art film, and I'm liking it.

That Day, on the Beach (1983)

That Day, on the Beach (Edward Yang, 1983)
Mandarin Title: Haitan de yitian

There's an impressive sequence in Edward Yang's debut feature That Day, on the Beach wherein we see Jia-li (Sylvia Chang), who is trapped in an unhappy marriage, stuck in an elevator with another woman. The woman, dressed in fiery red compared to her dull black, is the paramour of her husband De-wei (David Mao). The scene is tightly shot: Jia-Li is seen in the foreground and through the elevator's mirror, we see the paramour. The motionless scene is followed by their confrontation: the husband, who is abroad for business reasons, has switched their letters and the paramour is returning the letter to her while revealing her secret love affair with Jia-Li's husband. The confrontation retains the quaint and relaxed atmosphere. You can tell that the sequence is simmering with repressed emotions but nothing is ever let out. Life continues on, in a constant state of melancholy.

That's basically Yang's theme right there. He fills the movie with these quiet moments, dictating these moments with the clarity and importance of a historical event but none of the overstated dramatics. It is told with straightforward relevance by Jia-Li to her brother's ex-girlfriend (Teresa Hu) years after their last meeting. Yang's film is told through a series of flashbacks all relating to the titular incident in the beach wherein Jia-Li's husband was supposedly drowned to death. The body cannot be located, nor are they sure that the victim was indeed Jia-Li's husband but it is the moment wherein Jia-Li is gripped by a more palpable sense of uncertainty. All her life, she is dragged by the circumstances paved for her but at that exact moment, she's suddenly in a centerpoint in her adult life.

That Day, on the Beach is credited as the starting point of the Taiwanese New Wave and the career of Yang (it is also the first work of Christopher Doyle as cinematographer). It is easily representative of the distinct sensibilities of his nation's contemporary cinema (as continued by Yang himself, Hou Hsiao-hsien, and to a certain degree, Tsai Ming-liang). The film evokes a fathomable ache that inhabits the newly wealthy middle-class of Taipei: the way a lucrative job turns a lovely marriage into an essentially empty and torturous predicament. The film details the effects of the new-found commercialism the economic boom has provided: how designer clothes or sleeping pills are supposed to ease the lack of love in a marital relationship.

Yet above the subtle societal backdrop that Yang points out in the film, it is the empathetically portrayed story of Jia-Li that draws the most interest. Yang clearly understands Jia-Li's predisposition and dilemma. There are flashbacks within the flashbacks that show Jia-Li as a young girl and how she witnesses her mother's subdued nature against her father's sexual trysts. That quiet conversation with her brother just before she escapes from an arranged wedding conjures illusions of a promising future; yet the seduction of a free life does not deliver its supposed promises as Jia-Li furthers lower in the quagmire of shallow living.

But Yang does not dwell in melancholy (although he depicts melancholy so effectively). His interest is humanity's capacity to change which is the reason why Jia-Li's story is told in past tense rather than as a continuing experience. He understands the value of the past (how Jia-Li's decisions since she was a little girl has shaped who she is) but maintains an uncertain but more optimistic stance for the future. He reveals the scars of Jia-Li's life but assures that these wounds are either closed or closing. His confrontations are quiet, painful, and deep but in a way, they are relevant and important in letting go.

Jia-Li would conclude her tale with the death of her brother, wherein he leaves the world with a few acerbic messages on how he has led his life following his father's steps from the profession he chose to the girl he marries. It is an essential end to the never-ending questions that haunted the incomplete soul of the girl that character has abandoned for his decision to be perpetually dictated. It seals that undefinable what-if in the pianist's past, and sufficiently closes that chapter of Jia-Li's life wherein she has been subdued by the men in her life.

The act of communication and revelation releases both female characters from being imprisoned by their respective pasts and male tormentors. Yang plays doting master to his fractured characters that despite the melancholy of their scenarios, he breathes to them that human ability to heal and move on.

Edward Yang died at an early age of 59 leaving the world with films that depicted reality with brutal honesty but with tender humanism. Previous to That Day, on the Beach, I've only seen his quiet masterpiece Yi Yi (A One and a Two, 2000), a film that is so rich with nuances that it took me more than one viewing to at least appreciate his sage-like interpretation of several generations of life blossoming in slow and almost painful grandeur. His death has caused a wave of mournful odes from cinephiles worldwide. I cannot think of a greater way to mourn his sudden passing than to celebrate the feature film that began his illustrious career.